第一卷 第一章 老乔里恩家的茶会 
你可以回答这些奴隶是我们的。——《威尼斯商人》第一章老乔里恩家的茶会碰到福尔赛家有喜庆的事情，那些有资格去参加的人都曾看见过那种中上层人家的华妆盛服，不但看了开心，也增长见识。可是，在这些荣幸的人里面，如果哪一个具有心理分析能力的话（这种能力毫无金钱价值，因而照理不受到福尔赛家人的重视），就会看出这些场面不但只是好看，也说明一个没有被人注意到的社会问题。再说清楚一点，他可以从这家人家的集会里找到那使家族成为社会的有力组成部分的证据；很显然这就是社会的一个缩影；这一家人这一房和那一房之间都没有好感，没有三个人中间存在着什么同情，然而在这里他却可以找到那种神秘然而极其牢固的韧性。从这里开始，他可以隐约看出社会进化的来龙去脉，从而对宗法社会，野蛮部队的蜂集，国家的兴亡是怎么一回事，稍稍有所了解。他就象一个人亲眼看见一棵树从栽种到生长的过程——卓绝地表现了那种坚韧不拔、孤军作战的成功过程，这里面也包括无数其他不够顽强和根气虚弱的植物的死亡——将会有一天看见它变得欣欣向荣，长着芬香而肥大的叶子，开着繁花，旺盛得简直引人反感。一八八六年六月十五日那一天，约在下午四时左右，在老乔里恩-福尔赛住的斯丹奴普门家里，一个旁观者如果碰巧在场的话，就会看到福尔赛家的全盛时代。今天这个茶会是为了庆祝老乔里恩的孙女琼-福尔赛和菲力普-波辛尼先生订婚而举行的。各房的人都来了，满眼都是白手套，黄背心，羽饰和长裙，说不尽的豪华。连安姑太也来了。她住在兄弟悌摩西家里，平日绝少出门；成天坐在那间绿客厅的角落里看书做针线；屋角上面放的一只淡青花瓶，插着染色的潘巴草，就象是她的盾牌，客厅四壁挂着福尔赛三代的画像。可是今天安姑太也来了；腰杆笔挺，一张安详衰老的脸非常尊严——十足地代表了家族观念中的牢固占有意识。当一个福尔赛家的人订婚，或者结婚，或者诞生的时候，福尔赛各房的人都要到场；当一个福尔赛家的人死掉——可是到现在为止，福尔赛家的人还没有一个死掉；他们是不死的，死是和他们的主张抵触的，因此他们都小心提防着死；在这些精力高度充沛的人，这可以说是天性，因为不论什么事情，只要侵犯到他们的财产，都使他们深恶痛绝。这一天，在那些和外客周旋的福尔赛家人的身上，都有一种比平时特别整洁的派头，神色自若然而带有警惕和好奇，兴高采烈然而保持着身份，就象许多扎抹停当、严阵以待的战士一样。索米斯-福尔赛脸上那种习见的傲慢神气今天已经遍及全军；他们全在戒备着。源氏物语他们这种不自觉的敌对态度使老乔里恩家这次茶会在福尔赛家的历史上成为一个重要的转折点，也就是他们这出戏的开场。有种事情是福尔赛家人全都痛恨的，不仅他们各个人痛恨，而是作为一个福尔赛家人，就必然要痛恨；他们今天穿得那样格外整洁，对待客人特别显出大户人家那种亲热派头，故意强调自己的家世，以及那股傲慢的神气，都可以说是源自这种痛恨。你要一个社会、或者集团、或者个人露出原形，非有大敌当前不可，而今天福尔赛家人警觉到的也就是这个；警觉使他们全把盔甲拭亮了。作为一个家族，他们仿佛第一次直接意识到和什么陌生而危险的事情碰上了。一个身材魁梧的人斜倚在钢琴上面，这人是斯悦辛-福尔赛。他的阔胸脯上平时穿一件缎背心，插一根钻石别针，今天却穿了两件背心，插上一根红宝石别针；缎衣领上面一张剃过胡子的苍老的方脸，颜色象淡黄牛皮，眼睛的颜色也是淡黄，神气俨然。他和詹姆士是一对孪生子，两弟兄一肥一瘦，所以老乔里恩总是称他们胖子和瘦子。詹姆士这时正靠近窗口站着，借此多呼吸一点新鲜空气；他跟魁梧的斯悦辛一样，有六英尺来高，可是非常之瘦，好象出生以来就注定要和他兄弟对照，而且维持一个平均数字似的。他的身体永远有点伛，这时正在冷眼观看这个场面；一双灰色的眼睛好象有什么心事似地带着沉思，有时候又停止思索，把周围的实况迅速地打量一下；瘦成两条平行皱纹的两颊，和胡子剃得很干净的长长的上嘴唇，被两簇邓居莱式①的长腮须包着。他手里拿着一件瓷器翻来复去的看。离他不远是他的独生子索米斯，正在倾听一位穿褐黄衣服的女太太谈话；索米斯脸色苍白，胡子剃得光光，深棕色的头发，有点秃顶；他把下巴偏着抬起来，鼻子显出上面说过的那种傲慢的神气，象在厌恶一只明知道自己消化不了的鸡蛋似的。索米斯身后是他的堂弟，那个高个子乔治，五房罗杰-福尔赛的儿子；乔治一张胖脸带着奎尔普式①的狡狯神气，肚子里正在盘算自已的一句刻薄话。他们全都受到这次集会的特殊气氛的影响。紧挨在一起坐着的是三位老太太——安姑太，海丝特姑太（福尔赛家的两位老姑娘）和裘丽（裘丽雅的短称）姑太。这位裘丽姑太在自己年事已长的时候平空忘掉自己的身份去嫁了一个体质素弱的席普第末斯-史木尔。她守寡已有多年，现在跟她的姊妹都住在最小的六房悌摩西-福尔赛家里，就在湾水路。三位姑太太各人手里拿一把扇子，脸上各抹了一点脂粉，各自插一点引人注目的羽饰或者别针，这都说明今天集会的隆重。族长老乔里恩本人因为今天做主人，站在房子中间的灯架下面。他年已八旬，一头漂亮的白发，丰满的额头，深灰色的小眼睛，大白上须一直拖过自己强有力的下巴；他有一种族长的派头，虽则两颊瘦削，太阳穴深陷进去，仍旧象永远保持着青春似的。他身体站得笔直，一双犀利而坚定的眼睛仍旧是目光炯炯。就因为这样，他给人家的印象是没有小家子气，不会象那些人疑心这个，讨厌那个的。好多年来，他都是一意孤行惯了，所以这已经成为他应得的权利。在老乔里恩的脑子里决计不会想到对外人要摆出一副疑惑或者敌对的神气。他和今天到场的四个兄弟，詹姆士、斯悦辛、尼古拉和罗杰之间，有许多不同，也有许多相似之处。四个兄弟相互之间也很不同，然而又是一样。这五张脸上虽则眉目两样，神情两样，却可以找出一些相似之处；各人的下巴，除掉表面上有些区别而外，都表现出一种坚强的毅力。这恰恰就是氏族的标记；由于年深月久、根深蒂固的缘故，难得追溯它的来历，更没法去研究它；而福尔赛家的家业也恰恰可以由这种下巴来代表，来保证呢。小一辈的弟兄也同样带上这个标记；乔治身材高大，壮得象一条牛，亚其保尔德面色苍白、精力奋发，年青的尼古拉，试行摆出一副执拗的可爱神气；欧斯代司严肃而纨袴气地坚决，全都一样；也许不大讲得出来，但是错不了；在这一家人的灵魂里面，这是个磨灭不掉的印记。今天下午，所有这些极不相同而又极端相似的脸色，或是在这个时候，或是在那个时候，都流露出一种猜忌神情，而那位被猜忌的对象显然就是他们今天大伙儿上这里来会见的那个人。据说，菲力普-波辛尼是个没有财产的小伙子，可是福尔赛家的姑娘过去也跟这样的人订过婚，而且的确还嫁过这种人。因此，福尔赛家的人对这种人的猜忌倒也不全然为了这个。事实是关于这个小伙子，在各房之间早有了风闻，无怪猜忌的起源连他们自己也说不清楚了。不错，关于波辛尼是有过这样传说的，说他曾经戴了一顶灰色软呢帽去拜访过安姑太、裘丽姑太和海丝特姑太；这是一种应酬式的拜访，哪里可以戴了一顶灰色软呢帽？而且是一顶稀脏的旧呢帽，连个式样都没有。“真特别，亲爱的——真古怪——”。就是她们的话。海丝特姑太经过那间又小又暗的穿堂时（她本来有点近视），看见椅子上的帽子，还当作是一只下流的野猫，心里想汤米怎么会找来这么一个丢脸的朋友；她想把它嘘开，及至看见帽子一动不动，心里很不好受。一个艺术家要抓住一幕戏，或者一个城市，或者一个人的全部特点时，总是竭力去发现那些意义深长的细节；这些福尔赛家人，在潜意识里也是象艺术家一样，不期而然地都着眼在这顶帽子上；在他们看来，这就是意义深长的细节；从这上面，可以懂得这件事情的整个意义。他们每一个人都这样问过自己，“我会不会戴这样一顶帽子去作这样的拜访呢？”每一个人都回答“不会！”而且有些比较有想象力的人还会接上一句：“我想也不会想到！”乔治听了这事大笑。摆明的，这顶帽子是为了恶作剧而戴的！他自己在这方面就是能手。“很无礼！”他说，“这个莽撞的海盗！”这句“海盗”的俏皮话就此传开了去，终于成为这家人提起波辛尼时最喜欢用的称号。那次拜访之后，三位老姑太都拿这顶帽子的事情来责备琼。她们都说，“亲爱的，我们觉得你不该容他戴这种帽子！”琼回答得又轻松又蛮不讲理，仍旧是她平时的倔强派头：“哦！有什么关系？菲力从来就不知道自己戴的什么！”没想到她的回答这样荒唐。一个人会不知道自己戴的什么吗？什么话！谁都知道老乔里恩的全部财产要由琼继承；这个年青人能够跟琼订上婚，不能不佩服他的本领；可是他究竟是怎样一等人呢？不错，他是个建筑师，但是这不能成为他戴这种帽子的理由。福尔赛家人里面碰巧没有一个做建筑师的，可是有一个福尔赛却认识两位建筑师；这两位在伦敦交际季节①作礼貌上的拜访时，决计不会戴这样一顶帽子。不妙呵！不妙！琼当然见不到这一点，可是琼虽则年纪还不满十九岁，在服饰上，也总是叫人看不惯。索米斯的妻子平日总是穿得那么漂亮，可是琼不是跟她说过羽饰太俗气吗？索米斯太太果然从此不戴羽饰，她认为亲爱的琼这句话说得非常恰当！不过各房的人虽则对这婚事猜忌，这样不赞成，而且老老实实绝对不放心，但是老乔里恩家请客，却照样赶来。斯丹奴普门发请帖是件极其稀罕的事情；十二年来还是第一次；自从老乔里恩太太去世以后，老实说就没有请过客。各房从来没有到得这样整齐过；他们相互之间虽则有意见，可是仍旧神秘地团结一致，因此，当面临着共同灾难时，都能攘臂而起，就象田里的牛看见一只狗跑来，都挨肩立着准备一冲而上把侵略者踏死一样。当然，他们此来还想弄弄清楚将来应该送什么样的礼：“你送什么？”“尼古拉送一套银匙！”婚礼的问题往往就以这种方式得到解决。可是送礼大体上也要看看新郎是怎么一等人。如果新郎是个头光脸光、衣服整洁、派头十足的人，那就尤其应当送他一点象样的东西；他也指望收到这些礼品。最后，就象证券交易所的股票价钱一样，通过家人中相互的调整，就会达到一种规格，结果每人送的礼都非常适当；原来最细微的调整是在悌摩西的家里，在他湾水路那所高临海德公园的宽大红砖房子里进行的，因为安姑太、裘丽姑太、海丝特姑太都住在那边。所以单单提一下这顶帽子的故事，就有十足的理由使福尔赛家人感觉不安。这样的大户人家，只要稍微顾全这个广大的中上层阶级的体面，又怎能不感觉到不安呢；如果不感觉到，那才是荒乎其唐呢！那位造成这种不安的老兄正远远站在门口，和琼谈着心；他的鬈发看上去微有点乱，好象觉察到自己周围的情形有点特别似的。他还有种肚子里暗笑的神情。乔治和自己的兄弟欧斯代司正在私下谈着：“看上去他好象要逃走似的——这个亡命的海盗！”“这个相貌特别的人”——史木尔太太后来总是这样称呼他——是中等个子，身体非常结实；一张淡黄脸，灰黄的上须，感高颧骨，深陷的双颊；前额差不多高到头顶，而且在眼睛上面隆起一大块，就象你在动物园狮栏里看见的那种额头一样；眼睛的褐色象雪利酒①那样淡，不时有一种心不在焉的神气，使人看了很不是滋味。有一次，老乔里恩的马夫驾车子送琼和波辛尼上戏园去，回来跟管家的说：“我弄不懂他是怎么回事。看上去简直象半驯服的野豹似的。”每隔这么一会儿，就有个福尔赛家的人挨过来，张他一眼。琼站在他前面，在抵御着大伙儿这种无聊的好奇心。她看上去只有那么一点儿大；正象过去有人说的，“只剩头发和神气；”一双毫不畏惧的蓝眼睛，坚定的下巴，肤色皙白；脸和身体被那一大堆金红色的头发一衬，都显得过于瘦弱了。一个高身材女子站在那里望着这一对情人，带着隐约的微笑；这位女子曾经被一个福尔赛家的人比做希腊女神，他指的就是她的苗条身材。她戴着淡紫灰色手套的双手交叉着，庄重而迷人的面庞偏向一边，把所有近处男子的眼睛都吸引住了。她的身体有点摆动，然而又是那样凝重，就象在随风荡漾。两颊虽然温润，可是很少血色；深褐色的大眼睛望上去非常温柔。可是男人望着的却是她那嘴唇，不论在问话或者回答的时候，唇边总带着那一点隐约的微笑；这是多感的嘴唇，肉感而且甜蜜；从她的唇间发出来的气息好象和春花一样地温暖而芳香。订婚的一对男女，始终没有觉察到这样一个柔顺的女神在打量着他们。还是波辛尼首先注意到她，就问起她的名字。琼把自己的爱人领到那个身材苗条的女子面前。“伊琳是我顶要好的朋友，”她说：“我要你们两个也成为好朋友！”琼这句命令式的话引得三个人全笑了；当他们笑着时，索米斯-福尔赛不声不响从那个身材苗条的女子后面出现了；他就是这女子的丈夫。“啊！也给我介绍介绍！”他说。的确，凡是在交际场合，他很少离开伊琳的左右；便是在应酬上暂时不得不离开她的时候，你还可以看见他的眼睛盯着她转；而且眼睛里的神情总是那样古怪，就象是监视和渴望。索米斯的父亲詹姆士仍旧靠窗口在端详那件磁器上的印记。“我不懂得乔里恩为什么答应这件婚事，”他跟安姑太说。“人家告诉我，说他们还要等好多年才结得了婚。这个小波辛尼（他把重音读在第一个字上，把字母也拉长了）一个铜子也没有。当初维妮佛梨德和达尔第结婚的时候，我叫他把所有的财产都转为奁资——也幸亏如此——否则他们到现在早就一文不名了！”安姑太坐在丝绒椅子上，抬头观望。她前额上的白鬈发盘成一圈一圈的，几十年来从没有改变过，因此也使福尔赛家的人全然忘掉时光的飞逝。她为了保养自己上了年纪的喉咙，现在很少说话，所以并不答话；不过在心里有鬼的詹姆士看来，那个脸色也就等于回答了。“当然，”他说，“伊琳没有钱我有什么办法？索米斯太急；他趋奉她把人都趋奉瘦了。”他悻悻然把磁碗放在钢琴上面，眼睛又溜到门口那两对男女身上去。“我看，”他出其不意地说，“眼前这样已经很好了。”安姑太并没有要他解释这句怪话是什么意思。她知道他心里在想的什么。伊琳没有钱，就不至于做出什么丑事来，不至于蠢到那样地步；因为人家说——是人家说的——伊琳曾经要求和索米斯分房；可是索米斯当然没有——詹姆士打断了她的沉思：“可是悌摩西呢？”他问。“他没有跟她们一起来吗？安姑太紧闭的嘴唇勉强现出一丝慈祥的微笑来！“没有来，眼前白喉这样流行，他觉得不便出来；太容易过上了。”詹姆士回答：“哼，他真会保养自己，我就没有法子学他那样保养。”他这句话的主要意思是羡慕，还是妒忌，还是鄙视，很不容易肯定。悌摩西确是不大容易见到。他是老弟兄里面最小的一个，一向从事于出版事业。多年前，当市面还是很俏的时候，他便感觉到不久就要走下坡路；其实那时候衰滞并没有到来，不过大家都承认衰滞迟早是一定要来的；他在一家以宗教书籍为主的出版社里原拥有大宗股票，当时就把股票卖了一笔可观的数目，全部拿来买了年息三厘的公债。这一举动立刻使他在福尔赛家人中间陷于孤立，因为其他福尔赛家人的投资决不肯少过四厘；他这个人比起一个普通小心谨慎的人来也许还要强些，可是这种孤立状态却使他的精神逐渐地但是真正的变得颓唐起来。他差不多成为一种神话人物——一个经常出没在福尔赛宇宙的安全化身。他从不结婚，也不要孩子；结婚在他看来简直荒唐，孩子对他完全是累赘。詹姆士又开口了；他敲敲那件瓷器：最后的莫希干人“这不是真的渥斯特古瓷。我想这个小伙子的事情，乔里恩总跟你谈过一点了。就我所知，他既没有职业，也没有钱，也没有什么值得一提的亲友；不过话又说回来，我知道的太少了——他们什么事情都不告诉我。”安姑太摇摇头；那张方腮鹰鼻的老脸颤动了一下；两只手上蜘蛛一样的手指交叉在一起而且紧紧扣着，好象隐隐在加强自己的意志。在福尔赛老一辈的人里面，安姑太的年齿最长，比谁都要大好几岁，所以在他们中间享有一种特殊地位。他们都是些机会主义者和自私自利的人，谁也没有例外——不过并不比他们的邻居更糟；然而就因为这个缘故，他们看见她那金刚不坏的身形，不由得都有点畏怯，而且有机会能躲开她时，总是尽量避开！詹姆士把两条瘦长的大腿搭起来，又继续说：“乔里恩，他总是一意孤行。他没有孩子——”说到这里，他又顿住，想起老乔里恩的儿子小乔里恩来。小乔里恩，琼的父亲，自己弄得一团糟，遗弃了老婆和孩子跟那个外国女教师私奔，就这样断送了自己。“哼，”他连忙又接下去，“如果他喜欢这样做，我想在他也不算什么。你说，他要陪多少妆奁。恐怕每年要给她一千镑；他的钱除了留给她而外，更没有别人了。”他伸手和迎面来的人握手，那人穿得衣服整洁，胡子剃得光光的，几乎一根头发都没有，长而塌的鼻子，厚实的嘴唇，长方的眉毛下面一对冰冷的灰色眼睛。“怎么样，尼克，”他说，“好吗？”尼古拉-福尔赛把自已更加冰冷的指尖放在詹姆士冰冷的手心里握一下，赶快缩回来，动作象小鸟一样敏捷，而且脸上的神情仿佛是个早熟的小学生（他过去在自己当董事的那些公司里面，发了一笔大财，当然是完全合法的）。“很不好，”他嘟着嘴说——“整个星期都不好；晚上睡不着。医生也说不出所以然来。这医生是个聪明家伙，否则我也不会请他，可是除掉账单之外，我什么都得不到。”“医生！”詹姆士狠狠地说了一声；“我把伦敦所有的医生都请教过来了，不是为家里这个病，就是为那个病。这些人全不济事；他们什么鬼话都会说。你看斯悦辛。他们治好他什么？比从前更胖了；简直是大块头；他们就没法减轻他的体重。你看看他的样子！”斯悦辛-福尔赛又方又阔的高个子摇摇摆摆向他们走来；胸部穿着两件颜色鲜艳的背心，就象只斑鸠。“哎！你们好？”他说话总是那样的做作，把“好”字说得特别重——“你们好？”三弟兄里面，每一个人望着其他两人时都显出恼怒的神情，因为根据经验，其他两个准会把自己的病痛说成没有什么了不起。“我们刚谈起，”詹姆士说，“你一点没有瘦下来。”这话把斯悦辛听得两只淡黄的圆眼睛鼓了出来。“瘦下来？我倒很好，”他说，身子稍向前倾，“不象你们这样的竹竿儿！”可是他赶快又把身子缩回去，站着一动不动，怕把胸口撑得太过头了；对斯悦辛说，再没有比一个神气的外表更加可贵了。安姑太的老眼把三个人挨次看了一下；脸上的神情又是钟爱又是严厉。三弟兄也把安姑太看看，她已经有点龙钟了。真是个了不起的女人！实实足足八十六岁了；可能还要活上十年，虽然身体从来就不太好。斯悦辛和詹姆士这两个孪生兄弟不过七十五岁；尼古拉不过是七十开外一点的小弟弟。他们全都很顽健，这样一推想很令人快慰。在各式各样财产之中，他们每个人的健康当然是各人最最关心的。“我也不坏，”詹姆士接着说，“不过用脑过度。一点儿事情往往烦得要死。我得上巴市走一趟！’“巴市！”尼古拉说。“我上过一次哈罗盖特，去了毫无用处。我需要的是海空气。哪儿也比不上雅茅司。到了那边之后，我睡得——”“我的肝脏很不好，”斯悦辛缓缓地插进来。“这儿痛得厉害；”说时把手在右胁下按着。“没有运动的缘故，”詹姆士说，眼睛盯着那件瓷器；赶快又加上一句：“我这儿也痛。”斯悦辛气得脸都红了，一张上了年纪的脸怒得就象火鸡。“运动！”他说。“我运动真不少，在俱乐部里从来不坐电梯。”“我不知道，”詹姆士赶快说。“我什么人的事情都不知道；他们什么事都不告诉我。”斯悦辛瞪眼望他一下，就问：“你这儿痛怎么办呢？”詹姆士脸上高兴起来。“我，”他开始说，“配了一种药粉吃——”“爷爷你好？”是琼站在他面前，一个小个子仰起坚定的小脸望着他的大个子，手伸了出来。詹姆士脸上的高兴消失了。“你好？”他说，若有所思地望着她。“说是你明天要上威尔斯去拜望你未婚夫的几位婶娘去，是吗？那边的雨特别多。这不是真正的渥斯特古瓷。”他敲敲那只碗。“你母亲结婚时我送的那一套磁器才是真的。”琼挨次和她三位叔祖握了手，就转身朝着安姑太这边。老姑太的脸上显出很亲热的神气；她带着颤动的热情，在琼的颊上亲了个吻。“乖乖，”她说，“你要整整去一个月吗？”琼又走开了；安姑太从后面望着她瘦削的小身材。这位老姑太一双铁灰色的圆眼睛开始象鸟儿一样涌出泪水，焦虑地望着琼在骚动的人群中走动，原来客人已开始告辞；她两只手的指尖相抵着，想道自己迟早必然要离开尘世，心里又在加强意志了。“是的，”她想，“大家都待她很好；不少的人来给她道喜。她应当很快乐呢。”这时门口已经挤了一大堆人，都是衣冠楚楚的人士，有当律师的，有当医生的，有做证券交易所的，种种数不清的中上层职业的人；在这些人里面，只有五分之一左右是福尔赛家的人，可是在安姑太眼中看来，他们好象全都是福尔赛家人——这里的确没有多大分别——她眼睛里只看见自己的亲人。这个家就是她的世界，除此以外，望着琼在骚动的人群中走动，原来客人已开始告辞；她两只手的指尖相抵着，想道自己迟早必然要离开尘世，心里又在加强意志了。“是的，”她想，“大家都待她很好；不少的人来给她道喜。她应当很快乐呢。”这时门口已经挤了一大堆人，都是衣冠楚楚的人士，有当律师的，有当医生的，有做证券交易所的，种种数不清的中她就不知道有其他人家，而且从来不知道有其他人家。他们所有的心事、疾病、订婚、结婚，他们怎样混的，他们是否在赚钱，这一切她都知道——这是她的财产，她的寄托，她的生命；此外的一切都只是些模模糊糊的事实和些无关重要的人。哪一天轮到她要死时，她要放下的就是这个家；也就是这个家使她成为这样了不起，而且暗暗觉得自己了不起；否则的话，我们谁也活不了；她焦渴地抓住这个家，而且日益变得贪婪了。不管她的生命是在消逝，这个家她将永远保留到底。她想到琼的父亲小乔里恩，就是跟那个外国女孩子私奔的。唉，这对于老乔里恩和他们一家人是多么痛苦的打击。这样一个有出息的青年做出这种事情来！真是个痛苦的打击；不过总算没有公开见报，小乔里恩的妻子也没有提出离婚，真是万幸！这已是多年前的事情了。六年前，琼的母亲去世，小乔就跟那个女子结了婚，现在有两个孩子，这都是听人说的。虽说如此，他已经放弃了做一个福尔赛家人的资格，没法参加今天的盛会；安姑太那种自矜家世的心情，经他这一捣乱，未免美中不足；这样一个有出息的青年，她一向引以自豪的，现在连着看他、吻他的那种正当的乐趣也被剥夺了！想到这里，她一颗坚韧、衰老的心不由得痛苦起来，就象是老伤发作、眼睛有点湿濡濡的。她用一块细麻纱手绢偷偷把眼睛擦一下。“安姑？”她身后一个声音说。原来是索米斯-福尔赛。索米斯，塌肩膀，瘦削的两颊，瘦削的身材，脸剃得光光的，可是整个外貌看上去却有种地方很圆，很深沉；他正低头望着安姑，微偏着头，就好象从自己鼻子这一边看她似的。“你对这两个人的订婚怎么看法？”他问。安姑太的眼睛骄傲地望着他；自从小乔里恩离开这个老窝之后，索米斯是她侄辈中最年长的一个；他现在是她的宠儿，她认为索米斯能够保持福尔赛家的传统精神，而这个传统是不久就要脱离她的掌握了。“对于这个年青人是件好事，”她说；“而且他长得年轻漂亮；不过很难说他做琼的爱人是否合适。”索米斯拿手碰一下一架金漆烛台的边子。“她会驯服他的，”他说，一面偷偷舐湿指头，擦擦烛台上垒垒块块的玻璃坠子。“这是真正的古漆；现在买不到了。在乔布生拍卖行里可以拍上很大的价钱。”他讲得津津有味地，好象觉得自己在逗老姑母的欢心。他这种私心话很少跟人讲。“我自己也愿意买。”他又说；“旧漆器总是卖得上价。”“你对这些事情真是精明，”安姑太说。“伊琳好吗？”索米斯的笑容消失了。“很好，”他说，“总叽咕自己睡不着；她睡得比我好得多，”说时望望自己的妻子；伊琳这时正在门口和波辛尼谈话。安姑太叹口气。“也许，”她说，“她还是跟琼少来往一点好。琼就是那样一个直性子。”索米斯脸红了；那块红晕很快就在瘦削的两颊上消失掉，但是夹在眉心中间的一块红斑却经久不退，这是一个人内心激荡时的标志。“我不懂她看中那个碎嘴的小雌儿什么地方，”他愤愤然说，可是看见有人来了，就转身又去研究那只烛台。“他们告诉我，乔里恩又买了一所房子，”索米斯的父亲的声音在他身边说；“他的钱一定不少，一定多得自己没法办了！在蒙特贝里尔方场，他们说的；靠近索米斯那里；他们从来不告诉我——伊琳什么事都不告诉我！”“头等地点，上我那里不到两分钟，”斯悦辛的声音说，“从我的公寓坐马车上俱乐部八分钟就到了。”对于福尔赛家人，他们住宅的地点或者地位是件极端重要的事；这也不足为奇，因为福尔赛家起家的全部秘诀就在房子上面。他们的父亲原是种田出身，约在本世纪初从杜萨特州来到伦敦。“杜萨特-福尔赛大老板”——那些接近他的人都这样称呼他——过去是石工，后来逐渐升到建筑工头地位。他在晚年迁到伦敦来，继续搞建筑工程，一直到去世为止；死后葬在高门公墓。他遗有三万镑财产给十个儿女。老乔里恩有时提到他，说他是“一个严厉粗鲁的人；没有什么文雅气息。”这些福尔赛第二代的确觉得这个父亲配不上他们。他们在他的性格里所能发现的唯一贵族气息就是经常饮马地拉酒。海丝特姑太是家族史的权威，她这样形容他：“我记不起他做过什么大事业；至少在我生下来以后是如此。他是个——嗯——置房产的人，亲爱的。头发跟斯悦辛叔叔的差不多的颜色；体格相当结实，高吗？并不太高（他五英尺五英寸高，脸上有许多斑点）；气色非常之好。我记得他经常饮马地拉酒；可是你们去问安姑去。他的父亲吗？他的父亲——嗯——他得照应杜萨特州那边的田地，就在海边。”詹姆士有一次亲自下去，看看他们各房发源的老家究竟是怎样一个地方。他看见两处老农场，一条土车走的土路深深陷在淡红土里，从这条路可以通往海边的一座碾子；一座灰色小教堂，外面一道拱柱的围墙，和一座更小更灰色的小礼拜堂。用以推动碾子的那股水流分做十来道潺湲的流水流下去，水口上有许多猪在那里觅食。这一切远远望去都笼罩着一层薄雾。看上去，那些福尔赛的祖先当初就是这样两足陷在污泥里，脸朝着大海，每逢星期日怡然自得地向谷中走去，几百年来犹如一日。詹姆士是否指望获得一笔遗产，还是指望在那边找点可以夸耀的东西，我们无从得知；总之，他垂头丧气回到城里来，而且到处竭力掩饰他的这次失败。“没有什么可看的，”他说；“十足的乡下小地方，跟山岳一样古老。”可是大家觉得古老总算是一点安慰。老乔里恩有时候很老实，老实得过头，他每逢提起自己祖先时常说：“自耕农，我觉得毫不足道。”可是他却要把自耕农三个字重复一下，好象给他安慰似的。他们都混得非常之好，这些福尔赛家的子孙；可以说，都有“相当的地位”。他们全都持有各种股票，不过除掉悌摩西外，都没有买公债，因为他们认为三厘钱的利息太没有意思了。他们也收藏画；有些慈善机关，对于他们生病的佣人不无有点好处，所以他们也肯捐助。他们从自己造房子的父亲身上遗传了一种才能，对于房产特别内行。这一家人原来也许信奉什么原始宗教的，可是现在随着境况转移，都成为英格兰教会的教友，并且指使自己的老婆和孩子不时上伦敦比较时髦的教堂去做礼拜。哪个怀疑他们是否真正的基督教徒，总会引起他们的烦恼和诧异。有些在教堂里还包下座位，这在他们就算是以最最实际的行动来表示他们对基督教义的敬意了。他们的住宅都环绕着海德公园，隔开一定距离，就象许多哨兵在那里巡逻；公园是这个伦敦美人的心脏，也是他们心身的寄托；如果不这样巡逻，这颗心就会溜脱他们的掌握，使得他们看不起自己。这里有老乔里恩住在斯丹奴普门，詹姆士住在公园巷；斯悦辛住在海德公园大厦的那些橙黄和青色的公寓里，一个人享受豪华——他从来不结婚，决不！索米斯的小家离武士桥不远；罗杰一家在王子园。（罗杰在福尔赛一家人中是个了不起的人物，他主张训练自己四个儿子从事一个新的职业，而且付诸实施。“置房产——什么也比不上这个！”他总是说；“我别的什么都不来！”）再就是海曼的一家——海曼太太是福尔赛姑太太里面唯一出嫁的——高高住在坎普顿山一所房子里，房子的式样就象只麒麟，那么高，人要仰头看房子连脖子都要扭一下；尼古拉的家在拉布罗克林，房屋宽敞，而且是天大的便宜货；最后，但也不是数不上的，还有悌摩西住在湾水路，这里在他的保护下住着安姑太、裘丽姑太和海丝特姑太。可是这半天詹姆士一直都在盘算着，这时他便向做主人的老哥谈起蒙特贝里尔方场的那所房子，问他花了多少。他自己这两年来都看中这所房子，可是卖方要的价钱实在太大。老乔里恩把买房子的详细经过重说一遍。“还有二十二年吗？”詹姆士重复一句；“就是我一直想买的呀——你出的价钱太大了！”老乔里恩眉头皱起来。“并不是我要买，”詹姆士赶快说；“这样的价钱是不合我口味的。索米斯知道这所房子，嗯——他会告诉你价钱太大了——他的意见很值得听听。”“他的意见我一点不要听，”老乔里恩说。“哦，”詹姆士嗫嚅着，“你总是要照自己意思做——意见是不错的。再见！我们预备坐车子上赫林汉马球会去溜溜。他们说琼要上威尔斯去，明天你就要冷清了。你打算怎样消遣呢？还是上我们家来吃晚饭罢！”老乔里恩谢绝了。他走到大门口送他们坐进四轮马车，向他们眯着眼睛笑，早已忘记适才的肝火了——詹姆士太太正面坐，栗黄的头发，人又高又神气；她的左首坐着伊琳——詹姆士父子坐着倒座，身子向前倾出，好象期待着什么似的。老乔里恩眼望着他们，坐在弹簧垫子上连颠带跳，一声不响，随着车身的每一个动作摇晃着，就这样在日光下面走了。半路上，是詹姆士太太先开口。“从来没见过这么一大堆怪里怪气的人！”索米斯垂着眼皮望她一眼，点点头，这时他看见伊琳瞄了他一眼，眼睛里的就是她平日那种深不可测的神情。很可能，福尔赛每一房赴过老乔里恩家的茶会之后，临走时都会说这样话。老弟兄里面的老四和老五，尼古拉和罗杰，是最后离开的一批；两人一同步行着，沿着海德公园向普莱德街地道车站走去。他们跟福尔赛家所有上了年纪的人一样，都有自备马车，而且只要有法子避免，决不坐街上的出租马车。天气很晴朗，时节正是六月中旬，公园里的树木全长得青枝绿叶；这片景色，两弟兄虽则眼睛好象看不见，可是却很给他们的散步和谈话助兴。“对的，”罗杰说，“是个漂亮女子，那个索米斯的妻子。有人告诉我，他们并不融洽。”这位老五长了一个高额头，而且在福尔赛弟兄中间算是脸色最最红润的一个；一双浅灰的眼睛一路上打量着沿街的房屋，不时把手中雨伞平举起来，照他自己的说法，来测量这些房屋的高矮。“她没有钱，”尼古拉回答。尼古拉自己就是娶了一个非常有钱的老婆；那时还是已婚女子的财产法没有颁布前的黄金时代，他总算老天保佑，能够好好利用这笔钱。“她父亲是什么样人？”“叫做海隆，一个大学教授，他们告诉我的。”罗杰摇摇头。“做教授的有什么钱！”他说。“他们说她的外祖父是开水泥厂的。”罗杰的脸上露出喜色。“可是破产了，”尼古拉接口说。“唉！”罗杰叫出来，“索米斯跟她可有得气淘呢；你记着我的话，有气淘——她有种外国女人的派头。”尼古拉舐了一下嘴唇。“她是个漂亮女子呢，”他挥开一个清道夫。“他怎样追上她的？”罗杰过了一会又问。“她穿衣服准开销他不少钱！”“安姊告诉我，”尼古拉回答，“他追求她追得人简直要发疯了。她拒绝了他五次。詹姆士对这件事情很担心，我看得出来。”“唉！”罗杰又说；“詹姆士真是倒霉，达尔第也使他呕气。”舒散一下，使他脸上的气色更加好了；他甩动手中的伞柄高到自己的眼睛，而且愈来次数愈多了。尼古拉的脸上也显出高兴的样子。“脸上太没有血色，不合我的口味，”他说，“不过身腰是头等的！”罗杰没有答话。飘“我认为她的确神气，”他终于说——这在福尔赛一家的用语里算是最高的恭维。“那个小波辛尼决不会有出息。白吉特建筑公司的人说他是个搞艺术的——想要改革英国建筑；这哪里能弄到钱！我很想听听悌摩西对这件事怎样看法。”两人进了地道车站。“你坐几等？我坐二等。”“二等我决不坐，”尼古拉说；“保不定传染上什么怪病。”他买了一张头等车票上诺丁山门；罗杰买一张二等车票上南坎辛登。一分钟后车子开来，弟兄们分头走进各人的车厢。各人心里都感到不痛快，觉得对方应该改变一下平日的习惯，多陪伴自己一会儿。可是罗杰只是在心里想：“永远是个固执的浑蛋！尼克。”尼古拉也在跟自己说：“永远是个跟人合不来的家伙，罗杰！”这些福尔赛家的人极少感情用事。在这被他们征服了而且融合进去的大城市里，他们又哪有功夫来感情用事呢？

第一卷 第二章 老乔里恩上歌剧院 
第二天下午五点钟的时候，老乔里恩一个人枯坐着，嘴里衔一支雪茄，旁边桌子上放了一杯茶。他倦了，雪茄没有抽完，人已经睡去。一只苍蝇歇在他头发上；在一片困人的沉寂中，他的呼吸听上去很沉重；白胡子遮掩着的上嘴唇呼出呼进。一只夹着雪茄的手上满是青筋和皱纹，雪茄从他的手指间落在空壁炉上，自己烧光了。这是一间阴暗的小书房，书房窗子镶的全是染色玻璃，挡着窗外的景色，房内全是桃花心木的家具，上面满是雕花，背垫和坐垫都是一色深绿的丝绒。老乔里恩时常提起这套家具：“哪一天不卖上大价钱才怪。”想到一个人死后还能够在自己买的东西上赚一点钱，也是开心的事情。福尔赛家房屋的后房都有一种很特别的深褐色情调，这间书房也是如此。老乔里恩的大头和白发倒在高背椅的背垫上颇有点伦勃朗①画的人物的风度，可是那撮上须却破坏了这里的效果，使他的一张脸看上去有点军人气概。一架老钟滴搭个不停；这架钟在五十年前老乔里恩还没有结婚时就一直跟着他，这时正带着妒意替它的老主人纪录着那一去不返的分秒。老乔里恩一直不喜欢这间书房，一年到头很少进来，只是进来在屋角那口日本橱里面取雪茄烟；现在这间书房向他报复了。他的太阳穴就象茅屋顶一样斜盖着下面两个窟窿，颧骨和下巴在他睡着的时间全都突出来；这些在他的脸上就如一张供状，承认自己老了。他醒了。琼早已走了！詹姆士说过，琼走后他会冷清。詹姆士总是这样一个无聊的家伙。想起自己从詹姆士手里抢购到那幢房子，他甚为得意。活该，谁叫他不敢出价钱；这家伙脑子里只想到钱。可是，他自己的价钱是不是出得太高呢？他要好好张罗一下才能——。把琼这件婚事办完，敢说要用到他的全部现款。他绝对不应当答应这件婚事。琼是在拜因斯家里认识这个波辛尼的——就是拜因斯—毕尔地保建筑公司。拜因斯他也认识，为人有点唠叨，他就是这个小伙子的姑父。自从那次会面之后，琼就一直在追他；这孩子只要迷上什么，谁也拦阻不了。她一直就是看中那些“可怜虫”，不是这，就是那。这小子并没有钱，可是她执意要和他订婚——那人是个横冲直撞、毫不懂事的家伙，苦头有得吃呢。琼有一天就是象往常那样莽里莽撞地跑来找他，告诉他要订婚了；后来，好象给自己解嘲似的，又加上一句：“他真有趣；时常一个星期都靠吃可可过日子！”“那么他也要你靠吃可可过日子吗？”“哦，不会的；他现在慢慢出头了。”①伦勃朗，荷兰十七世纪画家。我是猫老乔里恩把白胡须下面的雪茄拿开，胡须梢上还沾了一点咖啡；他望望她，这样的一个小东西却这样抓着他的欢心。什么叫“出头”，他比自己的孙女懂得多。可是她两只手紧紧抱着他的膝盖，拿脸偎他，就象一只快乐的猫儿，发出一种呜呜的声音。老乔里恩丝毫没有她的办法；他弹掉雪茄烟灰，不由得发作起来：“你们全都是一样的；你们想什么都非弄到手决不甘心。要倒霉你活该倒霉；我可不管你的闲事。”他就是这样不管琼的闲事，只和琼讲好条件，定要波辛尼每年至少有四百镑收入时，才许结婚。“我没有法子给你很多的钱，”他跟她说；这是一句老话，琼也听惯了。“也许这位叫什么的仁兄会供给你可可吧？”自从有了这事以后，他简直和琼见不到面。真是糟糕！给她一大笔钱，让她和一个他毫不知道底细的人过着游手好闲的日子，他决计不干。这类事情他从前也看见过；决没有好结果。顶顶糟糕的是，要动摇她的决心，简直是没有指望。她就象一头骡子那样固执，从小就是如此。他看不出这件事是怎样一个了局。这两个人用钱非得有计算不可。他非要亲眼看见小波辛尼自己有了收入以后，决不让步。琼跟这家伙准会闹不好，这是洞若观火的；这家伙根本就不懂得什么叫钱，跟畜生一样。至于急急忙忙赶到威尔斯去拜访这年青人的那些婶娘，他有十足把握都是些老厌物。老乔里恩一动不动，望着墙壁；除掉一双眼睛还睁着外，他简直可以说还在睡觉.詹姆士亏他想得起来，说那个年轻的狗蛋索米斯能提供他什么意见！索米斯一直是个狗蛋，老是眼睛里没有人！他不久就会摆出一副有产业的人的派头，在乡下置一所房子！有产业的人，哼！索米斯就跟他老子一样，总想塌便宜货，一个冷酷无情的坏蛋！他起身走到那口橱面前，动手把一束新买的雪茄一支一支装进烟匣。照这样的价钱，这些烟不能算坏，可是今天你休想买到一支好雪茄；什么也比不上汉生—布里几尔烟行出的那些老牌苏宾菲诺。那才是雪茄呢！这串思绪，就象香水的幽香一样，使他回忆起当年在里西蒙①过的那些快意的夜晚；那时候晚饭一过，他就和尼古拉-特里夫莱、特拉奎尔、杰克-海林、安东尼-桑渥西那班人坐在皇家酒店的走廊上，自己抽着烟。那时候他的雪茄多美啊！可怜的老尼古拉——死了；杰克-海林呢——也死了；特拉奎尔呢——被他那个老婆折磨死了；剩下个桑渥西——简直龙钟得不象样子（以他那样的大吃大喝，难怪要如此）。在那些日子的所有交游里面，他好象是硕果仅存的一个；当然，还有斯悦辛，不过这人胖得太不象话了，跟他什么都谈不上。很难信得过这是多年以前的事情；他觉得自己还很年轻！他站在那里一面数雪茄，一面沉吟，觉得这一点最为痛切，最为难堪。虽则是一头白发，一个孤鬼，他仍旧有一颗童心。还有每逢星期六在汉普斯泰区过的那些下午，他和小乔里恩一同出去蹓跶，沿着西班牙人路走一段路到了高门山，再上齐耳山，再回到汉普斯泰，仍旧在杰克-史特劳的宫堡饭店吃晚饭——那时候他的雪茄多美啊！而且那样好的天气！现在连好天气都谈不上。还有琼五岁时开始学步的光景，平时她总是和她的母亲和祖母，两个善良的女人在一起，但是每隔一个星期的星期天，就由他带她上动物园去；两个人站在熊栏上面，用他的伞柄插上糕饼去喂她最心爱的熊；那时候他的雪茄多美啊！雪茄！这多年来，他连这点品鉴的能力也没有老掉；在五十年代时，他在香味方面的辨别力是出了名的，谁都佩服他；人家谈起他来时，都说：“福尔赛么——伦敦最好的品茶手！”要说，他靠以起家的也就是这种品茶的本领——当时两个著名的茶商，福尔赛和特里夫莱，都是在这上面发了财的；他们的茶和任何一家的茶都不同，香味俱绝，非是货真价实，决不能有这样香味。当时伦敦城里①的福尔赛—特里夫莱茶行，只要一提到，就使人联想到雄图和神秘，想到专船专运，专泊港口，专和东方人交易的一种专门生意。这生意他也真肯干！在那些年代里，人人都真肯干！这个字，眼前的这些毛头小伙子连懂也不懂得。他什么事都要详详细细研究过，什么过程他都明了，有时候为了一件事情可以熬个通宵。而且他一定要亲手来甄拔那些代办商，在这上面他一向引以自豪。他时常自命能够识人，他成功的秘密就在这里，而且在这行生意上，他唯一真正喜欢的也就是能发挥他这种甄拔人才的领袖才能。便是到现在——这家茶行已经改组为有限股份公司而且营业一天不如一天（他已经老早把股票卖掉了）——他想起那时期来还深深感到屈辱。他很可以混得好得多！他当律师准会青云直上！他当初甚至于想到竞选国会议员。尼古拉-特里夫莱不是屡次跟他谈起吗：“老乔，你如果不是自己过分小心，什么事都做得了！”老尼古拉真叫人想！这样一个好人，可是个浪荡子。这个声名狼藉的特里夫莱！他自己从来就不小心。所以他现在死了。老乔里恩用一只稳定的手数数雪茄，脑子里触起一个念头，是不是他自己过分地小心了呢。他把雪茄匣子放在上衣贴胸的口袋里，把衣服扣上，就沿着那串长楼梯上自己的卧室去，伛着身子一步一步向上爬，还扶着楼梯栏杆撑着自己。这房子太大了。等琼结了婚——如果她，如他设想的，有一天会结婚的话——他就把房子赁出去，自己去租几间公寓。养这样半打的佣人成天好吃懒做的，算什么？管家听见他按铃走进来——这个管家是个大个子，留了一撮下须，走路轻手轻脚的，而且有种保持缄默的特别本领。老乔里恩叫他把自己的晚礼服取出来；他要上俱乐部去吃晚饭。“马车送琼小姐上车站回来有多久了？两点钟就回来了吗？那么让马夫六点半来好了。”七点正，老乔里恩就上了俱乐部；这个俱乐部是中上层人士那些政治结社之一，今天说来是早已过时了。但尽管有许多人谈论它，也许就因为有人谈论它，所以看上去有一种令人沮丧的生气。人人都说散漫俱①指伦敦中心的商业区，下同。乐部快要撑不下去了，说得人都厌烦。老乔里恩嘴里也这样说，可是毫不动心，那种神气真叫一个好体质的会员看了动火。“你为什么还不退出呢？”斯悦辛时常带着一肚子闷气问他。“你为什么不加入多嘴俱乐部呢？我们的海德席克酒只卖二十先令一瓶，伦敦哪个地方吃得到；”他声音小下来，又接上一句：“现在剩下只有五千打了。我每晚都喝它，一次也不放过。”“我考虑考虑，”老乔里恩总是这样回答他；可是到了真正考虑时，总为着五十基尼的入会费在迟疑不决，而且批准入会要等上四五年之久。因此他总是考虑得没有个完。按说，他作为一个自由党员年纪已经太大了，而且他早已不相信自己俱乐部的那些政治主张了，人家还知道他曾经骂过那些政治主张都是“垃圾”；他和俱乐部的政治主张这样相反，然而照旧做一个会员，使他反而很开心。这个地方他一直就瞧不起；多年前，他们拒绝他加入什锦俱乐部，说他是个生意人，他一气就加入了这儿。真气人，他有什么地方不及那班人的！因此他对这个接受他加入做会员的散漫俱乐部天生就瞧不起。这里的会员都是些平平常常的人，多数是住在商业区的——证券经纪人，律师，拍卖商，什么都有，跟许多心性强硬可是见解不高的人一样，老乔里恩也是对于自己所属的阶级不大看得起。在社交方面或是非社交方面，他都忠实地奉行着他们的生活习惯，可是暗地里却觉得他们是“庸碌的一群”。后来上了年纪，世情也看透了些，他请求加入什锦俱乐部时受到的挫折在自己回忆中已经淡了许多；现在什锦俱乐部在他心目中简直被尊为俱乐部中的翘楚。这多年来，他早就该做了会员了，可是由于他的介绍人杰克-海林办事马虎，连俱乐部的人都弄不清楚为什么原因没有通过他加入。他们不是立刻就接受他的儿子小乔加入了吗？敢说这个孩子现在还是会员呢；八年前他收到小乔的一封信就是从那里发出的。他已经有几个月不上散漫俱乐部来了；房屋粉刷得花花绿绿，就象过了时的房屋和船只急于脱手时涂得那样。“这个吸烟间的颜色真蠢，”他心里想。“饭厅不错。”饭厅是暗巧克力色的底子，加上一点淡绿，总算投合他的心意。他叫了晚饭；二十五年前他在暑假期中，带儿子小乔上德鲁黎巷剧院看戏时，常上这儿来用饭；现在他也在当年坐的同一角落坐下——也许就是同一只台子；这个俱乐部的政治主张虽则激烈，可是各方面都没有什么进步。小乔真爱看戏，老乔里恩记得他总是和自己对面坐着，表面竭力装得若无其事，可是看得出心花怒放。老乔里恩今天叫的晚饭也是自己儿子一向喜欢叫的——汤、炸小鱼、烩肉片和果排。唉！他现在要是能坐在对面多好啊！父饭厅是暗巧克力色的底子，加上一点淡绿，总算投合他的心意。他叫了晚饭；二十五年前他在暑假期中，带儿子小乔上德鲁黎巷剧院看戏时，常上这儿来用饭；现在他也在当年坐的同一角落坐下——也许就是同一只台子；这个俱乐部的政治主张虽则激烈，可是各方面都没有什么进步。小乔真爱看戏，老乔里恩记得他总是和自己对子两个已经有十四年没有见面了。在这十四年中，老乔里恩不时想到在处理儿子的事情上是否自己也有点不对。小乔先是爱上那个迷人精丹娜伊-桑渥西，就是安东尼-桑渥西的女儿，现在叫丹娜伊-毕罗了；一场失意使小乔愤然投入琼的母亲的怀抱。也许他当初应当阻止他们不要那样急急忙忙结婚，两个年纪都太轻；可是这次失恋使他看出小乔这人感情太容易冲动，正巴不得他能够结婚。不到四年功夫，事情闹开了！要他赞成儿子的荒唐行为当然不可能；他这人平时立身处世主要是靠两方面——理智和教养；现在无论从理智方面或者从教养方面讲，这件事他都决计不能赞同，但是他的内心感到非常痛苦。事情本身是那样残酷无情，毫不顾惜人的情感。那时的琼是个红头发的小家伙，已经会在他满身爬，缠他，缠着他的心；他的心天生就是给这种照顾自己不了的小家伙玩耍的，投靠的。就同他一向看事情那样的清楚，他看出在琼和儿子之间，他必得放弃一个；这是实逼处此，没有任何调和的余地。叫人伤心的也就在此。终于那个照顾不了自己的小家伙战胜了。他不能又要孙女，又要儿子，结果只好跟儿子分开。这一分开，一直到今天都没有见面。他曾经提出每年给小乔里恩一点津贴，可是小乔里恩拒绝了；这比任何事情更加伤他的心，因为这一来他连那一点点蕴藏的慈爱都没有发泄的余地；没有比财产的转手，不论是赠与或者拒绝赠与，更能实实足足证明父子间的感情决裂了。这顿晚饭吃得一点滋味没有。那瓶香槟酒又涩又苦，哪里及得上当年的维乌克里果酒。他一面喝咖啡，一面沉吟，顿然想起看歌剧去，就在《泰晤士报》上——他对别家报纸全不大信得过——找到今晚的戏目；是《菲达里奥》。谢天谢地，幸而不是那个华格纳家伙的那种新里新气的德国哑剧。他戴上自己的老式大礼帽；帽沿已经旧得塌下来，再加上帽身很大，望上去就象过去伟大岁月的标志一样；从大衣口袋里，他掏出一副淡紫色的羊皮手套来；由于惯常和他的雪茄烟盒放在一起，有一股强烈的俄国皮味道；这样装束停当，他就踏上一部街头马车。马车闹洋洋地沿着街道驶着，老乔里恩没有想到街上这样异乎寻常的热闹。“旅馆的生意一定非常之好，”他想。几年前，这些大旅馆都还没有呢。他想想自己在这一带附近也有几处产业，感到甚为满意。这些房产的市价一定大跳特跳！交通真挤啊！可是从这上面他又陷入自己那种古怪的超然物外的冥想中去；这在一个福尔赛家的人说来，是最最稀罕的事；而他所以比其余的福尔赛家的人都要高出一筹，这也是一个潜在的因素。人是多么藐小啊，而且多么无穷无尽；他们往后将是怎样呢？他从马车里出来时绊了一下，如数付了马夫车钱，就走上售票处去买正厅的座位；他站在那里，手里拿着皮夹子；眼前许许多多年轻人都不用这劳什子了，而是散放口袋里，可是老乔里恩一直不以为然，总是把钱放在皮夹子里。售票员探头出来，就象一只老狗从狗窝里把头伸出来那样。“怎么，”那人用诧异的声音说，“乔里恩-福尔赛先生！真是的！简直看不见你，先生，好多年了。唉！现在的时世不同了。可不是！您和您的兄弟，还有那位拍卖行的——特拉奎尔先生，还有尼古拉-特里夫莱先生——你们往往每季都经常定六七个座位的。您好吗？我们都老了！”老乔里恩的眼睛显出黯然的神气；他付掉一基尼的票价。这些人还没有忘掉他。在幕前乐声中他昂然入场，就象一匹老战马上阵一样。他把大礼帽叠好坐下，照老样子脱下淡紫色手套，拿起眼镜把全场巡视了好一会；最后把眼镜掷在叠好的帽子上，两只眼睛就盯着戏幕望起来。这一巡视以后，他越发觉得自己不中用了。往日剧场里常看见的那些女人，那些漂亮的女人哪里去了？他当初期待看见那些伟大的歌星时的心情哪里去了？那种人生的陶醉和自己在尽量享受的感觉哪里去了？他这个当年最伟大的歌剧迷！现在歌剧是完了！那个华格纳家伙把什么都给毁了；没有音调可言，也没有喉咙来唱它！唉！那些绝代的歌手！全死了！他坐着看一幕幕的老戏重演，心里木然毫无感觉。从他覆在两耳上的银丝发到他穿着松紧鞋帮漆皮靴的两足的姿势，老乔里恩身上都看不出一点龙钟或者衰老的地方。他和当年每晚跑来看戏的时候一样顽健，或者几乎一样顽健；他的视力也一样好——几乎一样好。可是在心情上却是多么厌倦，多么空虚啊！他一生就是会行乐，甚至于不完美的东西——不完美的东西过去多着呢——他也能够欣赏；他不论欣赏什么都有个节制，为的是保持自己的朝气。可是现在他的欣赏力，他的人生哲学全不济事了，只剩下这种可怕的万事全体的感觉。连剧中囚徒的合唱和佛劳琳唱的歌都无力为他驱除这种落漠之感。要是有小乔和他坐在一起多好！这孩子现在总该有四十岁了。在他唯一的儿子的一生中，竟有十四年被他虚掷掉。小乔而且已经不再是为社会所不齿的人。他结了婚。老乔里恩很赞成这一举动，所以忍不住寄给儿子一张五百镑的支票，借此表明自己的态度。支票退了回来，用的什锦俱乐部的信封信纸，还附了这样几句话：最亲爱的父亲：谢谢你的厚赐，这说明你对我的看法还不太坏。我寄了回来，可是如果你认为适当的话，把这笔钱存在我的儿子（我们称他乔里①）名下，我也很愿意；这孩子和我们同名，姑且也算同姓。我掬诚祝你健康如恒。爱子小乔上。这封信写得就象这孩子的为人。他措辞总是那样温和。老乔里恩回了一封信如下：亲爱的小乔：五百镑已经拨在你儿子的名下，户名是乔里恩-福尔赛，年息五厘。我希望你过得很好。我的身体目前仍旧很好。父字。每年一月一号，老乔里恩都要在这笔账上添上一百镑和一年的利息。这笔款子已经愈来愈大——下一次元旦就要达到一千五百多镑了！他每年这样转一下账究竟有多大满足很难说，可是父子之间的通信就只此一次。他虽则深爱自己的儿子，私下里仍不免有一种不舒适之感；他有一种本能，使他不从原则上而是从成败上去判断行动的是非；这种本能一半是天生，一半也是多年来处理事情、观察事物的结果，正如他这一阶级千千万万的人一样；虽说如此，他仍旧觉得按照当时的处境，他儿子应当弄得一败涂地。在他读过的所有小说里面，在他听过的所有布道里面，在他看过的所有戏剧里面，都规定了有这一条法律。可是自从那张支票退回以后，事情好象有点不大对头了。为什么他儿子没有弄得一败涂地呢？可是话又说回来了，谁又能拿得准呢？当然，他过去也听到——事实上，他是蓄意打听出来的——小乔住在圣约翰林那边，在威斯达里亚大街有座小房子，还有个小花园；也带着自己妻子出来交际——当然和些怪里怪气的人；他们有两个孩子——那个小家伙乔儿（这名字在当时情况下听上去颇带点讽刺意味①，而老乔里恩是又害怕又不喜欢讽刺的），和一个女孩子好儿，那是结婚后生的。所以他儿子过的究竟是什么日子，谁也说不了！他把自己外公留给他的遗产收入用来投资，进了劳埃德船级协会当个保险员；他还作画——水彩画。这一点老乔里恩是知道的，因为他有一次在一家画铺橱窗里看见一张泰晤士河风景，下面签的就是他儿子的名字。这事以后，他不时就悄悄买些回来。他斯达里亚大街有座小房子，还有个小花园；也带着自己妻子觉得这些画画得很坏，而且因为上面有签名的缘故，也不拿来悬挂，都被他锁在一个抽屉里。坐在大歌剧院里，他忽然感到一种非常急切的心情，想看看自己儿子。他记得儿子小时候穿一身棕色麻纱衣服，专喜欢在他裤裆里钻来钻去；他还记得有一个时候自己随着儿子的小马跑，教他怎样骑马；也记得第一天带他上学的情景。过去这孩子真是个粘人的可爱的小东西！自从进了伊顿中学之后，他在言谈举止上也许变得太文雅了一点，不过老乔里恩知道这也是好事，而且只有在这种学校里花了大价钱才能学得到；不过这孩子一直就跟自己合得来。便在进剑桥大学之后，也一直和自己合得来——神情也许落漠一点，可是这正是剑桥教育的优点。老乔里恩对于我们的公立学校和大学的好感从来没有动摇过；这种教育制度几乎是国内最高等的教育制度，他自己过去没有这种福气享受到，所以他一方面景仰，一方面又疑虑，倒也很使人感动.现在琼既然走了，离开了，或者说事实上等于离开他了，如果可以和儿子重新见面，这对他将是多么快慰的事。老乔里恩就是一面怀着这种背叛自己家庭、自己立身之道、自己阶级的鬼胎，一面两只眼睛盯着台上的歌手望，糟糕得很——糟糕到透顶！还有那个演佛劳琳的简直瘟透了！戏完了，时下这班看戏的人真容易满足！在人群拥挤的街上，他抢上一部被一位身材魁梧、年纪轻得多的绅①乔儿原文为Jolly，可解释为“快活”。士已经叫好的马车。他回家要穿过拜尔买尔大街，可是到了街角上时，车子并不穿过绿公园，赶车的转了一个弯反而上了圣詹姆士街。老乔里恩把手伸出车外打算改正他（他不能容忍人家把他带错路），可是车子才一转弯，老乔里恩发现自己的对面就是什锦俱乐部，这一来，他这一晚上暗藏的急切的心情战胜了，他叫马夫停下车子。他要进去问问小乔是不是还是会员。他走进俱乐部。穿堂的外表和他当年同杰克-海林常来吃饭的时候一点没有变，全伦敦要算这里的厨师第一；他以一种神气而大方的派头向四面看看；在他一生中这种派头常使他额外受到人家的趋奉。“乔里恩-福尔赛先生还是会员吗？”“是的，先生；现在就在里面，先生。您贵姓呀？”这话使老乔里恩有点措手不及。“我是他父亲，”他说。说完之后，他就回到壁炉那边，找一个地方站着。小乔里恩正要离开俱乐部；他已经戴上帽子预备从穿堂出去，和看门的人迎个正着。他已经不是当年年少，头发有点花白了；一张脸跟他父亲的完全是一个模子出来，只是稍微窄一点，同样的一撮下垂的大上须——脸色看去十分憔悴。当时他的脸上变了色。经过这么多年，父子两个再见面真有点不是滋味，世界上最最令人受不了的就是这种尴尬场面。两人见面拉了手，一句话没有，后来还是父亲带着颤抖的声音说：“你好吗，孩子？”儿子也回答说：“你好吗，爹？”老乔里恩戴着淡紫色手套的手抖了起来。“你要是跟我同路的话，”他说，“我可以带你一段。”父子两个就象天天晚上携带对方回家一样，出门就上了马车。在老乔里恩看来，儿子是大了。“完完全全是大人了，”这是他的评语。在儿子的脸上，除掉那种天生的和蔼之外，还添上一层近似玩世不恭的表情，好象处在自己的生活环境中需要这种防御一样。眉眼当然是福尔赛家的，可是比较具有一个学者或者哲学家的沉思神情。显然，在这十五年中，他是逼得要时常反省自己呢！在小乔里恩的眼中，他父亲初见面时无疑地使他吓了一跳——那样子非常衰老了。可是在马车里面，他好象简直没有什么改变，仍旧是自己清楚记得的那样神态安详，仍旧是腰肢笔挺，目光炯炯。“爹爹，你的气色很好。”“马马虎虎，”老乔里恩回答。他心里非常焦急，逼得他非说出来不可。既然这样把儿子找了回来，他觉得自己非得问清楚他的经济情况不可。“小乔，”他说，“我想听听你的日子过得怎样。我想你差债吧？”他把话这样说，觉得儿子也许比较肯讲出老实话来。小乔里恩用他的讽刺的口吻回答：“不！我并不差债！”失乐园老乔里恩看出儿子生气了，就碰一碰他的手。这一着很险；可是，很值得，而且小乔是从来不跟他赌气的。车子一直赶到斯丹奴普门，两个人都没有再说什么。老头儿邀儿子进去，可是小乔里恩摇摇头。“琼不在家，”他父亲赶忙说：“今天动身去看望亲戚去了。我想你该知道她订婚了吧？”“已经订婚了吗？”小乔里恩咕了一句。老乔里恩下了马车；在付车钱时，生平第一次把一镑钱当作一先令给了马夫。马夫把钱放在嘴里，偷偷在马肚子下打上一鞭子，就匆匆赶走了。老乔里恩把钥匙在锁孔里轻轻一转，推开大门，向儿子招招手。儿子看见他严肃地挂上自己的大衣，脸上的表情就象个男孩子打算偷人家的樱桃一样。餐室的门开着，煤气灯捻得很小，桌上茶盘里一架烧着酒精的水壶发出咝咝声，紧靠着水壶旁边一只促狭相的猫儿熟睡着。老乔里恩立刻把猫嘘走。这一点小事倒使他的紧张心情松了下来；他把大礼帽拍得多响的赶着猫。“它身上有跳蚤，”他说，随着猫出了餐室。他在穿堂通往底层的门口嘘了好几声，就象帮助那只猫走开一样，终于无巧不巧，管家在楼梯下面出现了。“你可以去睡了，巴费特，”老乔里恩说。“锁门和熄灯由我来。”他重新走进餐室的时候，那只猫不幸已经在他前面进来，尾巴翘得高高的，那意思好象是宣布这件对管家的退兵之计从一开头就被它看穿了。老乔里恩一生中的家庭策略总是这样不吉利。小乔里恩不禁笑了。他本来很懂得讽刺，而今天晚上的事情，象这只猫和他自己女儿的订婚消息，都含有讽刺意味。原来不论在他女儿的事情上面或者在这只猫的事情上都同样没有他的事！这里的天理循环他觉得很有意思。“琼现在长成什么样子了？”他问。“小个儿，”老乔里恩说；“人家说她象我，可是这是瞎说。她还是象你的母亲——同样的眼睛和头发。”“哦！那么好看吗？”老乔里恩是个十足的福尔赛性格，决不信口恭维；尤其是那些他真正心爱的人。“长得不算丑——十足的福尔赛家的下巴。她出嫁后，这里要冷清了，小乔。”他脸上的神情又使小乔里恩吃了一惊，就和他们初见面时一样。“你自己打算怎么办呢，爹？我想她的心全放在未婚夫身上了。”“我自己怎么办？”老乔里恩重复了一句，声音里含有怒意。“一个人住在这里真使人受不了。我真不知道怎样一个了结。我真想.”他止住自己不说下去，接着说：“问题是，这所房子把它怎么办才对？”小乔里恩把屋内环视一下。屋子特别大，也特别乏味，挂了许多他从小就记得的无大不大的静物画——许多熟睡的狗，鼻子抵着一束束胡萝卜，和这些挂在一起的那些洋葱和葡萄，很不调和。这所房子是个累赘，可是他没法想象自己的父亲能够住得了更小一点的房子；正因为如此，使他更加感觉到这里的讽刺。在那张附有放书板的大椅子上坐着老乔里恩，他这一家族、阶级和信念的领袖人物，白头发，大额头；在生活有节制，做事按部就班，热爱财产方面都算得上一个典型；然而却是全伦敦最最寂寞的一个老人。这就是他，舒适地然而忧郁地坐在这间屋子里，然而却是那些伟大动力所玩弄的一个傀儡；这些伟大动力完全不理会什么叫家族或者阶级或者信念，只是象机器一样推动着，通过可怕的过程推往那无从推测的结局。小乔里恩感到的就是这些，因为他也有那种超然物外的看法。雪国可怜的老爹！原来这就是他的结局，他一生的生活这样有节制，落得就是如此！一个人孤零零的，一天天老下去，渴望着有个人来陪他谈话！老乔里恩也把儿子看看。他有许多事情要谈，这些事情是他多年来没法谈的。过去他就没法好好和琼商议，说他深信苏荷区的产业一定会涨价，说他对于新煤业公司的矿长毕平那样闷声不响非常感到不安，而他一直就是这家公司的董事长；说美国高尔高达公司股票一直下跌真是可恨；甚至于商量怎样用赠与的方式，来逃避他死后的遗产税。可是现在，一杯茶在手，他的劲头来了；他把手边的茶杯不停地搅下去，开始讲起来。一个新的人生远景就这样展开；在这一片天赐的谈话乐土上，他找到一处海港来抵御那些焦虑懊丧的巨浪；他可以想出种种方法救出自己的财产，使他生命里唯一的不死部分永远活下去，用自己设计的鸦片来安慰自己的灵魂。小乔里恩很耐性地听；这是他的最大长处。他两眼盯着父亲的脸望，不时问他一下。老乔里恩话还没有说完，已经敲一点钟；听见钟声，他的立身之道又回来了。他掏出怀表一看，脸上带着诧异的神情：“我得睡了，小乔，”他说。小乔里恩站起来，伸手扶父亲起身。那张老脸又显得衰朽枯槁了；两只眼睛始终避开他。“再见，孩子，自己保重。”停了一会儿，小乔里恩就转身向门口走去。他眼睛简直看不清楚，微笑的嘴唇有点抖。在这十五年中，自从他第一次发现人生不是一件简单的事情以后，从来没有想到它可以复杂到这样程度。

第一卷 第三章 斯悦辛家的晚宴 
斯悦辛那间用橙黄和淡青装饰的餐室正面临着海德公园；餐室内的圆桌上摆了十二个人的餐具。屋子中间悬了一架划边玻璃的架灯，点满了蜡烛，就象一座庞大的石钟乳垂下来；屋内的大金边穿衣镜，茶几上的大理石面和沉重的织花垫子的金椅子全被照得通亮。凡是这样的人家，能够有办法从乡下的冷僻角落混进上流社会，没有不深深爱好美术的；因此这里的一切也都表现了这种爱好。斯悦辛就是吃不消简单朴素，就是喜欢金碧辉煌，这使他在一班交游中被公认为大鉴赏家，只是太豪华一点。哪一个走进他的屋子，都会立刻看出他是个阔人；他自己也满知道这一点，因此更加踌躇满志；在他一生中，恐怕从没有象眼前的境遇更加使他心满意足了。他本来是替人家经管房产的；这个职业他一向瞧不起，尤其是房产拍卖部；自从退休之后，他就一心一意搞起这些贵族玩意儿来，在他这也是很自然的事。他晚年过的十足阔绰的生活，使他就象个苍蝇掉在糖罐子里一样；他的脑子里从早到晚不转什么念头，因此刚好成为两种极端相反感觉的接壤地带：一种是踌躇满志的感觉，觉得自己创立了家业，这是一种持久而且顽强的感觉；另一种是觉得自己这样出类拔萃的人物根本就不应让工作来玷污自己的心灵。今天他穿一件白背心站在食具橱旁边，看男仆把三瓶香槟酒的瓶颈硬塞进冰桶里去；白背心上面是金镶白玛瑙的大钮扣。硬领的尖角使他动一动就觉得刺痛，可是他决不换掉；在领子下面，下巴的白肉鼓了出来，一动不动。他的眼睛把酒瓶一只只望过去；自己心里在辩论着；下面一套话就是他跟自己说的：乔里恩喝个一杯，或者两杯吧，他非常保养自己。詹姆士，他近来喝不成酒了。尼古拉呢——凡妮跟他准会抱着水喝！索米斯算不上；这些年轻的子侄辈——索米斯三十八岁了——，还不能喝酒！可是波辛尼呢？这个陌生人有点不属于他的哲学范围，所以碰上这个名字，斯悦辛就踌躇了。他不放心起来！真难说！琼不过是个女孩子，而且正在恋爱！爱米丽（詹姆士太太）喜欢喝一杯好香槟。可怜的老裘丽会嫌这酒淡而无味，她是不懂酒的。至于海蒂-却斯曼！一想到这个老朋友就引起他一串思绪，使他原来清澈的眼睛变得有点迷惘了：她准会喝上半瓶！想到余下的一位客人时，斯悦辛上了年纪的脸不禁露出了猫儿扑鼠前的神情。索米斯太太！她也许喝得不多，可是她会赏识这酒；给她好酒喝也算一乐！一个美人——而且对他有感情！想到她就象想到香槟酒一样！请她喝好酒真是快事，这样一个年轻女子，长得漂亮，又懂得怎样穿衣服，仪态举止又那样动人，真是出色——招待她真是快事。他的头在硬领子尖角之间微微痛苦地转侧一下，今天晚上还是第一次。“阿道尔夫！”他说。“再放一瓶进去。”唐吉诃德他自己也许会喝得很多；这要感谢布列特医生那张药方，他觉得身体非常之好；他而且很当心自己，从来不吃午饭。好多星期来他都没有觉得这样好过。他把下嘴唇嘟了出来，发出最后的指示。“阿道尔夫，上火腿时只能少加一点西印度果汁。”他走进外间，在一张椅子边上坐下，两膝分开；那个高大肥硕的身材立刻变得木然不动，带着企盼的神气，又古怪，又天真。只要有人来通知一声，他立刻就会站起来。他有好几个月没有请人吃饭了。这次庆贺琼订婚的晚宴开头好象很头痛（在福尔赛家，请订婚酒的成规是象宗教一样奉行的），可是发请客帖和吩咐酒菜的苦事一完，他的豪兴倒又引起来了。他就这样坐着，手里拿着一只又厚又光的金表，就象一块压扁了的牛油球，脑子里什么都不想。一个蓄了腮须的长个子走进来；这人原是斯悦辛的男仆，可是现在开蔬果店了；他高声说：“却斯曼太太，席普第末斯-史木尔太太！”两位女太太走进来。前面的一个浑身穿红，两颊上也是同样红红的两大块，一双严厉而且尖利的眼睛。她向斯悦辛走来，伸出一只戴淡黄长手套的手：“啊，斯悦辛，”她说，“好久好久不见了。你好吗？怎么的，我的好老弟，你长得多胖啊！”斯悦辛的眼睛狠狠盯了她一下，只有这一眼揭露了他的感受。他心里涌起一阵无名怒火。长得胖俗气，谈胖也是俗气；他不过是胸口阔一点罢了。他转身望着自己的老妹，握着她的手，带着命令的口吻说：“怎么样，裘丽。”席普第末斯-史木尔太太在四姊妹中是最高的一个；一张善良而衰老的圆脸已经变得有点阴沉沉的；脸上无数凸出的肉球，满脸都是，好象一直戴着铁丝的面具，当天晚上忽然除下来，弄得脸上到处是一小撅一小撅抗拒的肉球似的。连她的眼睛都好象嘟了出来。她就是以这样方式来纪念席普第末斯-史木尔逝世的长恨。她说话算是有名的会出乱子；跟她这家人一样的坚韧，她说话出了乱子之后还要坚持下去，并且再说话再出乱子，就这样出下去。她丈夫去世之后，这种血统上的韧性和实际主义，逐渐变得荒芜了。她是个健谈的人，只要有机会让她谈话，她可以成几个钟点毫不激动地谈下去，就象史诗那样单调，叙说着命运虐待她的种种事例；她也看不出那些听她谈话的人的同情是在命运那一边，因为她的心原是善良的啊！这个可怜的灵魂曾经长时期坐在史木尔（一个体质羸弱的人）的病榻旁边，因此养成了一种习惯；她丈夫逝世之后，她有多次长期陪伴病人、儿童和其他无依无靠的人，因此她永远不能摆脱那种感觉，好象这个世界的确是一个最最忘恩负义的地方，实在过不下去。那位极端风趣的牧师汤姆-施考尔对她的影响最大，每逢星期日她都要坐在他的经坛下面听他布道，终年如此；可是她跟人家谈起时，连这也说成一种不幸，并且人家都相信她。她在福尔赛家人中已经成为话柄，任何人只要显得特别叫人头痛的时候，就被认为是“道地的裘丽”。象她这样心情的人，要不是姓福尔赛，在四十岁的时候早就会一命呜呼了；可是她却活到七十二，而且气色从没有这样好过。人家对她的印象是，她有一种自得其乐的本领，而且这种本领还没有充分得到发挥。她养了三只金丝雀，一只叫汤咪的猫和半只鹦鹉——因为跟她妹妹海丝特合养的；这些可怜的动物（悌摩西最害怕这些东西，所以她很当心总不让悌摩西撞见）跟人不同，认为她倒霉并不能怪她，所以都和她打得火热的。今天晚上她穿了一件黑条纹毛葛，青莲色的前胸开成浅浅的三角领子，上面再在细喉管下面系了一根黑丝绒带子，这身装束虽则颜色深了一点，却很华贵。晚上穿黑色和青莲色在每一个福尔赛家人都会认为是沉静的颜色。她向斯悦辛嘟着嘴说：“安姊问起你。你好久没有来看我们了！”斯悦辛两只大拇指插着背心两边，回答道：“安姊太龙钟了；她应当请医生看看！”“尼古拉-福尔赛先生和太太！”尼古拉-福尔赛竖着两道长方眉毛，脸上带着笑。他原打算从印度高山地带雇用一个部落去开锡兰的金矿，今天白天总算把事情办妥了。这是他一个很得意的计划，终于克服了许多当前的严重困难而获得解决——他当然很高兴。这样将使产量增加一倍。他自己时常和人家争论，根据一切经验都证明人是一定要死的；至于在本国穷老而死，或者在一个外国矿穴下面受到潮湿夭折，肯定都没有什么关系，只要这样改变一下自己的生活方式有利于大英帝国就行了。他的才干是无可怀疑的。他抬起自己的塌鼻子向着对方，接下去说道：“由于缺少几百个这种家伙，我们有多年没有分红了；你看看股票的价钱；我一古脑儿可以卖上十个先令。”他还上雅茅司去休养过，回来觉得自己至少年轻了十年。他抓着斯悦辛的手，兴孜孜地嚷着：“啊，我们又碰头了！”尼古拉太太，一个憔悴的妇人，也在他身后跟着苦笑，那样子又象是高兴，又象是害怕。“詹姆士-福尔赛先生，太太！索米斯-福尔赛先生，太太！”斯悦辛把脚跟一并，那种举止看上去更加神气。“啊，詹姆士，啊，爱米丽！你好吗，索米斯？你好？”他握着伊琳的手，眼睛睁得多大。她是个美丽的女子——稍为苍白一点，可是身腰、眼睛、牙齿多美！索米斯这个家伙真不配！老天给了伊琳一双深褐的眼睛和金黄的头发；这种奇异的配合最吸引男子的目光，据说也是意志薄弱的一种标志。她穿一件金色的长服，露出丰满的颈子和双肩，肤色柔和而苍白，使她的风度特别迷人。索米斯站在后面，眼睛紧盯自己妻子的颈子望。斯悦辛仍旧把表拿在手里，表上指针过了八点；晚饭时间已迟了半小时——他还没有吃午饭——心里不由涌起一阵无名的原始的焦灼。“乔里恩不大会迟到的！”他跟伊琳说，已经按捺不下自己的气愤。“我想都是琼把他耽搁了。”“恋爱的人总是迟到的，”她答。斯悦辛瞠眼望着她，两颊泛出暗橙黄的颜色。“他们没有理由迟到。无聊的时髦玩意！”在这阵发作后面，那些原始祖先不能用言语表达的愤怒好象都在咕哝着。“你说我新买的这颗星好不好，斯悦辛叔叔，”伊琳温柔地说。在她衣服胸口花边中间果然照耀着一颗五角形的星，是用十一粒钻石镶成的。斯悦辛望望那颗星。他对宝石本来很爱好。要分他的神，再没有比问他对于宝石的意见更加想得体贴了。“谁给你的？”他问。“索米斯。”她的面色一点不改，可是斯悦辛的淡黄眼睛瞪了起来，仿佛若有所悟似的。“我敢说你在家里很无聊，”他说。“随便哪一天你愿意来吃晚饭，我达的愤怒好象都在咕哝着。“你说我新买的这颗星好不好，斯悦辛叔叔，”伊琳温柔地说。在她衣服胸口都请你喝伦敦最好的酒。”“琼-福尔赛小姐——乔里恩-福尔赛先生！波—斯威尼先生！”斯悦辛摆一下胳臂，喉咙里咕了一句：“吃晚饭了——晚饭！”十日谈他带着伊琳，理由是自从她过门之后，还没有请过她。琼当然和波辛尼坐在一起，波辛尼坐在伊琳和自己未婚妻中间。琼的另一边是詹姆士和尼古拉太太，再过去是老乔里恩和詹姆士太太，尼古拉和海蒂-却斯曼，索米斯和史木尔太太，这样就接上斯悦辛形成一个圆圈。福尔赛的家族宴会都遵守某些传统。例如，冷盆是没有的。为什么不备冷盆，始终没有人知道。小一辈的人猜想大约是由于当初生蠔的价钱贵得太不成话的缘故；更可能由于这样直截了当，冷盆大都没有什么可吃的，为了肚子的实惠就索性不要了。只有詹姆士一房有时候不忠于这一传统，因为冷盆在公园巷一带差不多成为普遍的风尚，因此他们也就很难抵制得了。入座之后，接着是一种相互间无言的冷淡，几乎含有不快；中间也杂些这类的话：“汤姆又闹病了；我真弄不懂他是什么缘故！”——“我想安姊早晨是不下楼的吧？”——“凡妮，你的医生叫什么名字？斯特伯吗？一个江湖医生！”——“维妮佛梨德？她养的孩子太多了。四个，可不是？她瘦得象根木条！”——“斯悦辛，你这雪利酒什么价钱？我觉得淡而无味①！”一直到上第一道菜，都是这样的沉闷。斟上第二杯香槟之后，席间听到一片嗡嗡声；把这片嗡嗡声里面附带的杂声去掉，就发现它的主要成分是詹姆士在讲故事；故事讲了很久很久，连上了羊胛肉之后的时间也被他占用了一部分——这道菜在福尔赛家宴会上是公认的头菜。福尔赛家不论哪一房请客都没有不备羊胛肉的。羊胛肉又有滋味，又耐咬嚼，对于“有相当地位”的人士特别相宜。它有营养而且——好①这是表示男仆不熟悉波辛尼的名字。①这是史木尔太太把香槟酒当作雪利酒，认为不够香甜。吃；恰恰是那种叫人吃了不能忘怀的东西。它就象放在银行里的存款一样，有它的过去和未来；这是一样可以引起争论的菜。关于哪儿出产的羊肉最好，福尔赛各房都会各执一是，——老乔里恩矢口说达特摩尔的好，詹姆士说威尔斯的好，斯悦辛说沙斯唐的好，尼古拉说别人也许会不屑一顾，可是的确哪儿都赶不上新西兰。罗杰呢，在弟兄中原是一个“独出心裁”的人，因此逼得不得不杜撰出一个自己的地区来；他真不愧为一个能替自己儿子想出一种新职业的人，居然被他异想天开发现了一家卖德国羊肉的铺子；人家说他胡说，他就拿出一张肉店的账单来，账单上开的价钱比哪一家都大，这就证实了他的说法。老乔里恩，就在这类争辩的场合，有一次向琼发挥了他的哲学：“的的确确，福尔赛家的人都是些神经病——你年纪大一点就会懂得！”只有悌摩西没有卷入争辩，原因是，虽则他吃羊胛肉吃得津津有味，可是吃了，据他自己说，却很不放心。哪一个对福尔赛家人的心理感到有兴趣的，这种伟大的羊肉嗜好对于他将具有头等的重要性；这种嗜好不但说明这家人的韧性，包括集体的和个人的韧性，而且标志出他们在性格上和本能上都是属于那个伟大的现实阶级，他们只相信营养和口味，决不感情冲动地去羡慕什么美丽的外表。固然，大块吃肉在族中年轻一辈里，有些是不肯干的；他们比较喜欢来一只珠鸡，或者龙虾色拉——一些看上去漂亮但是营养较少的菜——可是这些都是女子；或者，即使不是女子，也是被他们的妻子、或者母亲带坏了的；那些妻子或者母亲结婚之后都是逼得一直要吃羊胛肉，因此对羊胛肉都暗暗仇视，于是在儿子的性格上也传染上这种仇视了。羊胛肉的伟大论争结束之后，就开始上土克斯布莱火腿，外加少许的西印度果汁——这样菜斯悦辛吃了好久好久，连晚餐都受到了阻碍。为了拿出全副精神来对付这道菜，他连谈话都中止了。索米斯从他靠着史木尔太太的座位上留心观看。他有他的私心要观察波辛尼，这件事和他心爱的一个建筑计划有关系。这个建筑师也许对他有用处；你看他靠在椅背上，闷闷地把面包屑摆成壁垒，很有点聪明样子。索米斯看出他的礼服式样不错，可是太小了，好象是多年前做的。他看见波辛尼转向伊琳讲了几句话，伊琳的脸色高兴起来；这种脸色他过去看见她对待许多人都用过，就是不对他用。他想听听两个人讲些什么，可是裘丽姑太正和他谈着话。这件事在索米斯看来是不是很特别？不过是上星期天，那位亲爱的施考尔先生在他布道时曾经那样冷隽，那样讽刺地说过：“‘一个人如果拯救了自己的灵魂，’他当时说，‘可是丧失了自己所有的财产，这对他有什么好处呢？’”施考尔说，这就是中等阶级的格言；你说，他这句话究竟是什么意思？当然，这也许就是指的中等阶级的信仰——她也不知道；索米斯怎么看呢？索米斯心不在焉地回答她：“我怎么会知道呢？不过施考尔是个骗子，可不是吗？”原来波辛尼这时正在把席间的人望了一遍，好象在指出这些客人里面的特别地方，索米斯弄不懂他在说些什么。从伊琳的微笑可以看出她显然同意他的话。她好象总是同意别人的意见似的。她的眼光这时转到自己身上，索米斯立刻垂下眼睛。她嘴边的微笑消失了。一个骗子？索米斯这话是什么意思？如果施考尔先生，一个牧师，会是个骗子——那么谁都可以是骗子了——真不象话！“哼，他们本来都是骗子！”索米斯说。裘丽姑太有这么半晌被他这句话惊得说不出话来，他这才听见伊琳的片段谈话，听上去好象是：“凡入此门，永坠沉沦！”①可是斯悦辛已经把火腿吃完了。“你买蘑菇上哪一家？”他问伊琳，那种口气就象宫廷人物一样；“你应当上斯尼莱包白的铺子去——他会把新鲜的给你。这些小铺子，他们总是怕麻烦！”伊琳转过身子答话，这时索米斯望见波辛尼一面瞧着她，一面一个人在微笑。这家伙笑得真古怪。一种半痴的派头，就象孩子高兴时笑得那样。想起乔治给他起的诨名——“海盗”——他觉得没有多大道理。看见波辛尼转过来找琼谈话，索米斯也笑了，不过带有讥讽的神气——他不喜欢琼，而琼这时候的脸色却不大好看。这并不奇怪，原来琼适才和詹姆士正在进行下列的谈话：“我回来半路上，在河上住了一宿，詹姆士爷爷，望见一处地方，正好造一所房子。”詹姆士一向吃得又慢又仔细，只好停止细嚼。“嗯？”他说。“那地方在哪儿？”“靠近庞本。”詹姆士送了一块火腿到嘴里，琼只好等着。“我想凭你就不会知道那块地是不是自由保有的产业①！”他终于说。“也不会知道那边的地价！”“我知道，”琼说。“我打听过了。”在她黄铜色头发下面的那张坚决的小脸显得焦急而且兴奋，简直可疑。詹姆士俨然是一个检察官的神气望着她。“怎么？你难不成想要买地吗！”他叫了出来，同时放下手中的叉子。琼见他感觉兴趣，大大鼓起勇气。她私心一直有种打算，想怂恿她几个叔祖在乡间造所别墅，这样对他们自己有好处，对波辛尼也有好处。“当然不是，”她说。“我觉得这地方给你或者——哪一个造所别墅未免太好了！”詹姆士偏着头望她，又送一块火腿到嘴里。“那边的地应当很贵呢，”他说。琼原来当做詹姆士感觉兴趣，其实他并没有；他不过是象福尔赛家所有的人一样，听见有什么想望的东西可能落到别人嘴里时，感到一种表面的起劲罢了。可是琼执意不肯错过时机，又继续申说她的理由：“你应当住到乡下去，詹姆士爷爷。我真指望有一大笔钱，那我就在伦敦一天也不多住。”詹姆士的瘦长个子深深激动了，他没有想到自己侄孙女见解这样干脆。“为什么你不到乡下去呢！”琼又说一句：“对你有很多好处！”“为什么？”詹姆士慌慌张张说。“买地——买地，造房子，你说对我有什么好处？我下的本钱连四厘钱都拿不到！”“那有什么关系？你可以呼吸到新鲜空气。”“新鲜空气，”詹姆士叫道；“我要新鲜空气做什么——”“我想谁都会喜欢新鲜空气的，”琼鄙夷地说。詹姆士用食巾把整个的嘴揩揩。“你不懂得钱的价值，”他说，避开她的目光。“不懂！而且我希望永远不懂！”可怜的琼带着无名的懊丧，咬着嘴唇，再也不响了。为什么她自己的亲戚这样有钱，而菲力却连明天买烟草的钱从哪儿来都没有准呢？为什么她的亲戚不能帮他一点忙呢？可是他们就是这样自私自利。为什么他们不造所别墅呢？她一脑门子都是这种天真的武断想法，这种想法很可怜，但有时候也会很收效。她沮丧之余，转身看看波辛尼，看见他正在和伊琳谈着话，不由得冷了半截。她的眼睛气得发瞪，就象老乔里恩遭到挫折时的眼睛一样。詹姆士也很不开心。他觉得就象有人威胁到他投资五厘的权利似的。乔里恩把她娇惯坏了。他自己的女儿敢说没有一个会说出这样话的。詹姆士对自己的儿女一直很大方，他自己也明知道，这就使他感觉到更加不开心。他闷闷不乐地盘弄着面前的一盘草莓，然后浇了许多奶油，赶快把草莓吃掉；这些草莓至少不能放过。他不开心是无足怪的。五十四年来（他从法律许可的最早的合法年龄起就当起律师）他都是做的房产押款，把资金的利息永远保持在一个很高但是安全的水准上，一切交涉都是从一个原则出发，既要尽力榨取对方，也要照顾到自己的主顾和本身不受风险；他的一切交往都是拿金钱来计算的，根据可能性的大小而决定交情的厚薄；他怎能够不终于变得一脑门子只有钱呢？钱现在是他的光明，是他的眼睛；没有钱他就老老实实什么都看不见，老老实实辨别不出什么现象；现在居然有人当着他的面向他说“我希望永远不懂得钱的价值”，这使他难堪而且恼怒。他知道这话没有道理，否则的话他就会慌张起来。世界将会变成什么样子呢？可是，忽然间他想起了小乔里恩的事情来，自己觉得好受一点，因为老子如此，女儿能变到哪里去呢！不过这一来却又把他的心思引到另一个更加不痛快的方面去。这许多关于索米斯和伊琳的闲话究竟是怎么一回事呢？正如所有爱惜声誉的人家一样，福尔赛家也有个商业中心，所有家族的秘密都在这里交换，所有家族的股票也都在这里估价。从这所福尔赛交易所里传出来的消息是伊琳对这次婚姻很懊悔。当然，没有人会赞成她。她当初就应当知道自己要不要嫁；一个稳重的女子很少这样糊涂的。詹姆士怅然盘算着：这两口子有一所漂亮的房子（稍微小一点），头号地点，没有孩子，经济上也没有困难。索米斯不大肯谈自己的境况，可是他一定混得很不错啦。原来索米斯跟他父亲一样，也是律师，就在那家有名的福尔赛-勃斯达-福尔赛律师事务所里；他的业务收入很可观，而且他一直都很把稳。不但如此，在他接受的房产抵押的案件中，有几件做得异常的成功——都是及时取消了对方的取赎权——等于中了头奖！伊琳没有理由过得不开心，可是人家说她曾经要求和索米斯分房。詹姆士知道这事将是怎样的后果。索米斯要是酗酒，那还有可说的，可是他并不酗酒。詹姆士望望自己的媳妇。他那没有被人发觉的目光显得又冷酷又迟疑；这里面含有央求和害怕，还有一种个人的不快。他为什么要这样担心呢？很可能是胡说八道；女人就是那样莫明其妙！她们先是那样说得活灵活现的，弄得你信也不好，不信也不好；后来，什么话都不告诉他了，他只好亲自去打听个明白。詹姆士又偷看伊琳一眼，再从她这边把索米斯望望。索米斯正在听裘丽姑太讲话，眨着一双眼睛向波辛尼这边望。“他是喜欢她的，我知道，”詹姆士想。“你看他总是买东西给她。”而伊琳对索米斯却总是那样厌恶，未免太不合理了；这样一想，自己觉得分外难受。更可恨的是，她是那样一个惹疼的小女人，而他，詹姆士，只要她愿意和他接近的话，就会真心真意地喜欢她。她近来跟琼很合得来；这对她没有好处，肯定对她没有好处。她慢慢变得也有自己的主张了。他不懂得她为什么要这样做。她有个好家庭，想什么就有什么，这还不够吗？他觉得她交朋友应当由别人替她选择，这样下去是危险的。的确，对于不幸的人们，琼一向就给他们撑腰，所以伊琳的心事终于被她套了出来；伊琳说了之后，她就劝她在逼不得已时只有接受不幸后果的一法，和索米斯分离。可是伊琳听了她这些劝告，始终一言不发，只是沉吟，好象她觉得这样硬起心肠斗下去有点吃不消。当时她告诉琼，说他对她决不会放手。“哪个在乎他？”琼高声说；“他要怎么做就怎么做——你只要坚持下去就行！”她而且在悌摩西家里也说了类似的话，太不小心了；这话传到詹姆士耳朵里，使他又恨又气，这也是人情之常。倘若伊琳真想得起来——他连想都不敢想——和索米斯分离呢？可是许多模糊的幻境都给唤了起来，他耳朵里闹嘈嘈、全是族中人的议论，这样一个众目所睹的事件，跟他这样接近，就发生在他的儿子身上，真是丢脸！所幸她没有钱——一年只有五十镑的一个穷鬼！他想起那个逝世的海隆教授，带着鄙视；他总算没有留给她一点遗产。他一面饮酒，一面沉吟，两条长腿在台子下面盘着；当女客离开餐室的时候，他竟没有起身。他得跟索米斯谈谈——叫他提防着些；现在既然想到可能发生变故，他们就不能再这样下去。他看见琼留下的酒杯里酒还是满满的，大不以为然。“全是这个小鬼在里面捣蛋，”他盘算着；“伊琳本人决不会想到这样。”詹姆士真是个富有想象的人。斯悦辛的声音把他从遐想中唤醒。“我花了四百镑买的，”他在说。“当然是件十足的艺术品。”“四百镑！哼！一大笔钱呢！”尼古拉附和着说。这里讲的原来是一座精雕细刻的意大利大理石像；石像放在一个高座子上（座子也是大理石的），在屋内散布出一种文化气氛。六个雕刻得极其精致的女像，全是裸体，指着一个中心的女像，也是裸体；中心的女像也指着自己；这一切都给观者一个很快乐的印象，觉得它的确极端名贵。裘丽姑太几乎就在对面坐着，这一晚她总是强制自己不去望它，但是强制不了。老乔里恩开口了；就是他引起这场辩论。“四百个屁！难道说你真正花了四百镑买这个吗？”斯悦辛夹在硬领角之间的下巴今晚上第二次痛苦地扭动了一下。“四——百——镑，英国钱；一个子儿不少。我一点不懊恼。这不是普通的英国雕刻——是真正的现代意大利雕刻！”索米斯的嘴角向上形成微笑，朝波辛尼这边望望。建筑师在抽烟，在烟雾里咧着嘴笑。现在，的确，他有点象“海盗”了。“工夫可不小，”詹姆士赶快说，他看见石像这么大，的确有点佩服，“在乔布生拍卖行里准可以卖上好价钱。”“刻这个石像的那个倒霉外国鬼子，”斯悦辛接下去说，“向我要五百镑——我给他四百。实在值八百镑。看上去快要饿死了，那个家伙！”“哎！”尼古拉突然附和着说，“都是些倒霉的穷酸家伙，那些艺术家；我不懂得他们怎样过活的。象小佛拉几阿莱第那种人，凡妮和女孩子们常常请到家里来拉拉提琴的；他一年能够赚到一百镑就是不错又不错了！”詹姆士摇摇头。“啊！”他说，“我就弄不懂他们怎样过活的！”老乔里恩这时已经站起来，嘴里衔着雪茄，凑近去把石像仔细看了一番。“我连两百镑都不会给！”他终于说。索米斯看见自己的父亲和尼古拉相互焦灼地瞄了一眼；在斯悦辛的那一边，波辛尼仍旧隐在烟雾里。“不知道他是怎样想法！”索米斯想；他满知道这群石像“过时”到不可救药的地步，完全是二十年前的，乔布生行里早已没有这种艺术品出售了。斯悦辛终于回答。“你简直不懂得雕刻。你不过有你那些画罢了！”老乔里恩回到自己的座位上，仍旧抽着雪茄。象斯悦辛这样一个固执的混蛋，头脑象骡子一样愚钝，一座石像跟一顶——草帽他都分别不出来，跟他卷入一番争论，才不值得呢。“石膏人儿！”他只说了这么一句。斯悦辛早就胖得跳不动了，所以只把拳头重重地在桌上捶了一下。“石膏人儿！我倒想看看你家里有什么东西及得上这个的一半！”他这句话后面，那些原始祖先的粗暴嗓子好象又隆隆地响起来了。还是詹姆士出来挽回这种局面。“我说，波辛尼先生，你怎么说？你是个建筑师；石像这类东西你应当很在行呢！”举座的目光都投到波辛尼身上来；全都带着古怪而疑虑的神情等待他回答。索米斯也第一次开口了。伊利亚特“对呀，波辛尼，”他问，“你怎么说？”波辛尼淡淡地回答：“是一件特别的作品。”他的话是向斯悦辛说的，眼睛却狡狯地向着老乔里恩微笑；只有索米斯仍旧不满足。“特别在哪儿呢？”“很天真。”接着是一片沉默，显然大家都懂得这里的意思了；只有斯悦辛还弄不明白他这话的意思究竟是不是恭维。

第一卷 第四章 房子的筹建 
斯悦辛家晚宴后的第四天，索米斯从自己家里绿漆大门内走出来，从方场这边回头望望；他一直觉得自己的房子需要油漆一下，现在更加证实了。他离开家时，自己的妻子正坐在客厅里长沙发上，两只手交叉放在膝上，显然在等待他出去。这并不足为奇；事实上，天天都是这种情形。他不知道她觉得他什么地方不对。如果他酗酒，那还可说！难道他欠债，或者赌博，或者说下流话吗；难道他粗暴吗？难道他的朋友太闹吗；难道他在外面过夜吗？恰恰相反。他觉得妻子对自己有种克制着的深刻厌恶；这在他是一个谜，也使他极端着恼。至于她结婚是个错误，她并不爱他，想爱他然而爱不了他，这都摆明不是理由。一个人对自己妻子同自己合不来而能想出这样古怪的原因的，就肯定不是个福尔赛了。索米斯因此逼得把整个事情归咎于自己妻子。他从没有碰见一个女子能这样使人家倾倒。两口子不论走到哪里，都看见所有的男子被她吸引过来；从那些男子的脸色、态度、声音上全看得出；尽管大家对她这样注目，她的举动仍然没有什么可以指摘的地方。其实象她这种女子——在安格鲁—撒克逊种族里并不太多——是天生要被人爱和爱人的，她这种人不爱就等于不活在世上；这在索米斯当然决计没有想到。他把她的吸引力认为是他的财产的一部分；可是他确也觉察到，她既然能得到人家的殷勤，也就可以同样对人家殷勤；而他呢，却始终得不到！“那么她为什么嫁我呢？”他一直这样想着。他已经忘掉自己求爱时期的情形；在那一年半里面，他包围着她，伺候着她，想出种种方法请她出去游宴，送她礼物，每隔一个时期就向她求婚一次，经常缠着她使其他追求她的人没法接近。那一天，他看出她深深不喜欢自己的家庭环境，就巧妙地利用了这一点，居然被他大功告成；那一天他早已忘记了。他如果还有点记得的话，就会想起当时那个黄金头发深褐眼睛的女郎对待他的不过是撒娇和使小性子。那一天她忽然屈服，说她肯嫁他时，她脸上的那种古怪、柔顺和乞怜的神情他决计不会记得。这就是书上和人们嘴里所赞许的那种真正忠实的求爱；等到精诚所至，金石为开时，男方的辛勤就获得了酬报，而当婚礼的钟声响了之后，一切都应当是幸福和快乐的了。索米斯沿着有树荫的人行道向东走去，永远是那副东张西望的神情。这房子须要修理，除非自己决定迁到乡下去造一所房子。变形记这个月里，他总有上百次把这个问题盘算过。仓促从事是不必要的。他很富裕，收入逐年都有增加，现在已接近三千镑一年了；可是他的投资也许没有他父亲设想的那样大——詹姆士总是期望自己的孩子比目前混得还要好。“我可以毫不费力筹出八千镑来，”他想，“不须要追回罗勃生或尼古尔的款子。”他半路上在一家画铺子门口停下来瞧瞧，原来索米斯一向喜欢收画，而且在蒙特贝里尔方场六十二号家里有一间小屋子，满放的画，全都靠墙堆着，因为没有那么多的地方挂。他从商业区回家就把买的画带回来，一般是在天黑以后；星期天下午他总要走进这间小屋子，成几个钟点耽下去；把这些画翻出来就着亮光看，检查画布背面的记号，偶尔也记一点下来。这些画几乎全都是风景，在近处点缀些人物；这些画标志着他对伦敦的一种无名的反抗，对那些高楼大厦和无穷无尽的街道的反抗；他的生命，他的族人和他这一阶级的生命就是在这儿度过的。偶尔他也会带上一两张画，雇上一部马车，在进城的路上顺便在乔布生行停一下。这些画他很少拿给人看；他对伊琳的眼光私下很佩服，也许就是这个缘故，他从不向她请教。伊琳很少走进这所小屋子来，偶尔进来也是为了尽主妇的责任。索米斯从不请她看这些画，她自己也从不要看。这在索米斯又是一件不痛快的事。他恨她这样骄傲，私心里却又害怕她这样骄傲。画铺的大玻璃橱窗照出他的立影，并且朝着他望。他的光泽头发压在高帽沿下面，也和帽子一样光采奕奕；两颊苍白而瘦削，胡髭剃得很光的嘴唇线条，坚定的下巴带着一片剃过胡子的淡青色，一件紧腰身的黑外褂扣得很紧，这一切仪表都衬出他是个矜持而有城府的人，心思坚定，表面却装得安详。可是一双灰色而无情的眼睛，带着紧张的神气，在眉心之间夹出一道缝，凝思地望着他，就好象知道他内心的弱点似的。他把那些画的名称和画家的姓名一一记了下来，计算一下它们的价值，可是没有象平时私下计算之后那样感到满足，就向前走去。六十二号总还可以再敷衍一年，如果他决定造房子的话。目前正是造房子的时候；多年来，头寸从来没有这样紧①；他在罗宾山看到的那块地——就是他在春天下去勘视尼古尔抵押的房产的那一趟——地点真是不能再好了！只要在海德公园三角场的十二英里方圆以内，地价准会上涨，将来卖出去准会赚钱；所以一所房子，只要式样造得好，真正的好，的确是头等的投资。至于在自己族中成为唯一在乡间拥有住宅的人，这种想法在他倒无所谓；对于一个真正的福尔赛说来，爱好，甚至于社会地位的爱好，只是一种奢侈，只有在自己追求更多的物质享受得到满足之后，才容许放任一下。把伊琳迁出伦敦，不让她有走动和拜客的机会，使她和那些向她脑子里灌输思想的朋友隔绝！这才是要紧事情！她跟琼的过从太密了！琼不喜欢他。他也不喜欢琼。两个人本来是一个血统，在这上面也是旗鼓相当。把伊琳搬出城去就会一切都解决。她会喜欢那房子，会为了装饰房子忙得很开心，她本来就有艺术眼光啊！房子的式样一定要造得好，要造得与众不同，要有把握能卖上好价钱，象巴克司最近造的那所房子，有个高楼的；不过巴克司亲口说过，①头寸紧，则市面呆滞，物价下降，建筑材料的价格自然也下降了。他那一个建筑师可把他坑死了。你跟这班人真是纠缠得没有个完；他们只要有相当的名气，就会叫你钱花得象流水一样，而且还自鸣得意。一个普通的建筑师是不行的——一想到巴克司那所房子的高楼，就打断了索米斯聘请普通建筑师的心思。就因为这个缘故，他才转到波辛尼的身上。自从那次在斯悦辛家晚宴之后，他就向人打听波辛尼；打听到的很少，但是令人兴奋：“是个新派。”“聪明吗？”“要多聪明就有多聪明，——有点——有点拿不准他！”他还没有能打听出波辛尼造了哪些房子，也不知道他收费多少。他得到的印象是条件大约可以由他来定。这个办法他越想越中意。这叫做利权不外溢；在一个福尔赛家人，这差不多是一种天然的想法；而且即使不能免费，也会得到“最惠国”的待遇——这也说得过去，因为这座房子并不是普普通通的建筑，波辛尼有这个机会，很可以大展才能。索米斯心满意足地盘算着这件准可以使这个年青人上手的工程；他跟所有福尔赛家人一样，一件事只要有利可图，都是十足的乐观主义者。波辛尼的事务所就在史龙街，和他的家近在咫尺；在建筑过程中，他可以从头到尾留意他的动静。还有，承揽这件工程的就是伊琳最要好朋友的爱人，看上去伊琳也就不会反对离开伦敦了。琼能否结婚说不定就要指望这个。伊琳不能妨碍琼的婚姻，这总讲不过去；她决不会如此，他太知道伊琳的为人了。琼也会高兴；这一点他看出对于自己也是有利的。波辛尼的样子看上去很聪明，可是也有一股子傻劲——这是他最最可爱的地方——好象不大斤斤计较得失；在金钱上面他该是一个容易对付的人。索米斯这样盘算并不是存心欺骗；这种心思是他脑子里天生就有的——任何一个做生意的好手都有这种心思；就在目前，当他穿过人群上罗得门山去时，他周围千千万万做生意的好手也都是这种心思。所以，当他带着快慰的心情盘算着，觉得波辛尼在金钱上面该是个容易对付的人时，他实在是符合他这个伟大阶级的不可理解的规律——也就是人性的规律。他在人群中挤着前进；他的眼睛平时都是注视着自己脚前的地面，这时忽然被圣保罗教堂的圆顶引得朝上望去。他对这座古老的圆顶特别感觉兴趣；每一个星期中，他不止一次，而是总有两三次在他日常进城的半路上停下来，走进教堂，在边廊上耽上五六分钟，细看那些石碑上面的名字和碑铭。这座伟大的教堂对他会有这样的吸引力真是不可理解的事，要末是这个原因，就是这样使他能把心思集中在当天的生意上面。只要他脑子里牵挂着什么特殊重要的事情，或者在办理某一件事情需要他特别精细的时候，他就会毫无例外地走进教堂，信步把一个个碑铭瞧过去，瞧得非常仔细。随后，依旧悄悄走出来，稳步向齐普赛街走去，举止上显得更加专注，好象刚被他撞见了一件他决心要买的东西一样。今天早晨他也走了进去，可是并不悄悄看那些石碑，而是抬起眼睛望那些圆柱和墙壁间的空当，而且站着一动不动。他一张仰起的脸就跟许多教堂里的人脸一样，不知不觉地显出一种凛然而深沉的表情；在那座庞大的建筑里，脸色白得就象石灰。他戴了手套的双手握着面前的伞柄，紧紧勒在一起。他把双手举起来。也许他有了什么圣洁的灵感吧！“对了，”他想，“我一定要有地方挂我那些画。”那天傍晚，他从城里回来的时候，就上波辛尼的事务所去看他。他看见那位建筑师穿了一件衬衫，抽着烟斗，正在一张图上划线。波辛尼要他来杯酒，索米斯拒绝了，立刻就谈到正题。“星期日你如果没有什么要紧事情，就跟我上罗宾山看一块地基去。”“你打算造房子吗？”牛虻“也许，”索米斯说；“可是不要说起。我只是想领教一下你的意见。”“好罢。”建筑师说。索米斯把屋子仔细看一下。“你这儿太高了一点，”他说。关于波辛尼的营业的性质和范围，只要能打听到一点点，总有好处。“眼前对于我倒还合适，”建筑师回答。“你是用惯了那些漂亮房间的。”他敲掉烟斗里的烟灰，可是仍旧把空烟斗衔在牙齿中间，大约这样可以帮助他进行谈话。索米斯留意到他的两颊一边一个凹洞，就好象是故意吸进去的。“这样一个事务所你要付多少房租呢？”他问。“不小，五十镑，”波辛尼答。这回答给索米斯的印象很满意。“我想的确是太贵了，”他说。“星期天十一点钟光景我来找你。”到了星期日他坐了自备的马车来找波辛尼，同他坐车子上火车站去。到达罗宾山之后，雇不到马车，两人就步行了一英里半路到了所说的地点。那天是八月一日——天气极好，灼人的太阳，万里无云——在那条通往小山的笔直小径上，两人脚下蹴起一片淡黄的尘土。“砂砾土，”索米斯说，从侧面把波辛尼的上褂望了一眼。上褂两边的口袋里塞了几卷子纸，一只胳臂夹着一根奇形怪状的手杖。索米斯把这些和其他古怪的地方都看在眼里。谁也不会对自己的装束这样随便，除非他是个聪明人，或者真的是个海盗；这种放荡不羁的地方虽则引起索米斯的反感，却使他相当满意，因为这些都表明这人的某些品质准会给他塌到便宜。只要这人能够造房子就行，他的衣服有什么关系呢？“我告诉过你，”他说，“我打算造所房子给家里人来一个出其不意，所以你一个字不要提起。我做事没有做好之前是从来不讲的。”波辛尼点点头。“你让女人知道你的计划，”索米斯紧接着说，“你就会弄得没法收拾！”“啊！”波辛尼说，“女人总是麻烦！”这种感觉蕴藏在索米斯心里好久了，不过从没有被他发为语言。“哦！”他说，“原来你也开始——”他停止不说，可是带着控制不着的愤慨又加上一句：“琼有她的牛脾气——一直是如此。”“一个天使有脾气也不坏。”索米斯从来没有把伊琳称做天使过。在人前夸耀她等于泄漏一项秘密，而且暴露了自己；这样做是违反自己的良心的。所以他没有答腔。两人已经走上一条穿过兔场的被人走出来的土路。一条和土路形成直角的车辙引导他们到达一处碎石坑；碎石坑那边远远望见一片茂密树林，就在林边一簇树丛中，一个村舍的烟囱耸了出来。粗糙不平的地面上长满一球球的茸草，茸草中飞出许多云雀在轻烟似的阳光中翱翔。远远在天边，凌驾在一片连绵不断的田野和篱落之上，是一列高原。索米斯向前引路，带着波辛尼一直穿到石坑对面最远的地方才停下来。这就是他挑中的地点；可是现在要把这个地点向另一个人泄漏出来，他倒变得忸怩了。“经管人就住在这村舍里，”他说；“他会给我们预备午饭——我们还是吃了午饭之后再进行这件事。”他仍旧领前向村舍走去，一个叫奥列弗的高个子男子在村舍那边迎接他们；他长了一张阴沉的脸和一部花白胡子。午饭时，索米斯简直不吃什么；他不绝地望着波辛尼，有一两次用自己的绸手帕悄悄地揩额头。饭终于吃完了，波辛尼站起来。“我敢说你有事正要谈，”他说；“我去四面瞧瞧。”他也不等索米斯回答就大踏步走了出去。索米斯是这处产业的顾问律师，所以约摸有一个钟点的时间，他都和经管人在一起，看地样，商量尼古尔和其他押款的事情；然后，就象事后想起来的一样，提起这块建筑地基的事情来。“你们这些人对我应当把价钱减些，因为我将是第一个来这里造房子的。”奥列弗摇摇头。“先生，你看中的这块地基，”他说，“是我们手里最便宜的一块，坡子上面的地还要贵得多呢。”“你记着，”索米斯说，“我还没有决定呢；很可能我干脆不造房子。地租太大了。”“我说，福尔赛先生，你放弃就太可惜了，而且我觉得是一个失着，先生。在伦敦附近没有一块地方有这样的风景的，从各方面讲，也没有比这里更便宜的了；我们只要登一个广告出去，就会引来一大堆人要它。”他们相互望望。两个人的脸色都说得很明白：“我承认你做生意的手段不错，可是要我相信你一个字那是休想。”“好罢，”索米斯又重复一下，“我还没有决定呢；这事很可能不算数！”说了这几句话之后，他就提起阳伞，把一只冰冷的手伸到经管人的手里，也不握一握对方就缩了回来，走到门外阳光下面。他一面深思，一面缓缓向那片地基走回去。他的本能告诉自己，那个经管人说的全是真话。是一块便宜地基。妙者是他知道这个经管人并不真正认为便宜；这就是说他自己的直觉仍旧胜过了对方。“不管便宜不便宜，我决定买下，”他想。许多云雀在他的脚前脚后飞起来，空中到处飞着蝴蝶，野草发出清香。从树林那边袭来凤尾草的鲜美气息，鸽子躲在树林深处咕咕叫着，远远随着暖风飘来教堂的有节奏的钟声。索米斯眼睛望着地上走着，嘴唇时张时合，好象预期有一块美肴到嘴似的。可是到达基地时，波辛尼却哪儿也看不见。等了一会儿之后，他穿过兔场向山坡的方向走去。他几乎想大声叫唤，可是又怕听到自己的喉咙。兔场上就象大草原一样寂寞，只有兔子穿进自己洞穴的簌簌声，还有云雀的歌声，打破这片沉寂。索米斯，这个伟大福尔赛军队的先锋，在他向这片荒野的文明进军中，觉得自己的兴头下去了；这片寂静，和无影无形的歌声，温暖芳香的空气使他有点悚然。当他已经开始沿着原路要走回去时，终于望见了波辛尼。那位建筑师正四仰八叉躺在一棵耸立在坡沿上的大橡树下面；树身老得已经皱裂，上面枝叶纷披，占了好大一块面积。索米斯碰一下他的肩膀，建筑师这才抬起头来。“哈！福尔赛，”他说，“你房子的地基我给你找着了，就在这里！你看！”索米斯站着望一下，然后冷冷地说：“你也许很聪明，可是这块地基又要我多花上一半的价钱呢。”“价钱滚它的，老兄。你看看景致！”几乎就从他们的脚下展开一片熟小麦，在远处没入一丛深暗的杂树中。一片田野和篱落的平原一直伸展到天边，和远处灰青的高原连接起来。从右边可以望得见泰晤士河细成一条蜿蜒的银线。天是那样的蓝，日光是那样的明媚，就象这片景色终年在被夏日的风光笼罩着。蓟草的茸花在他们四周飞上飞下，好象被大气的静谧熏醉了似的。热气在金黄麦子上跳着舞，还有，四面八方都洋溢着一种柔和的不识不知的嗡嗡声，好象是灿烂的分秒喃喃地在天与地之间举行着宴乐。索米斯凭眺着。在他的胸中不由而然涌起一串感想。住在这里，终日对着这一切景色，而且能够把这些指给自己的朋友看，而且谈论它，而且占为己有！他的两颊红晕起来。这里的温暖、明媚、光热正在透进他的感官，就如同四年前伊琳的绝色透进他的感官，使他渴想占有她一样。他偷望波辛尼一眼，波辛尼的眼睛，就是老乔里恩的马夫说的半驯服的野豹的一双眼睛，好象正在纵眺着这片风景。阳光刚好照上这个家伙脸上的那些尖角；高颧骨、尖下巴、隆起的眉峰；一张粗野、热心、而悠然自得的脸；看得索米斯心里甚为不快。柔和的微风吹过庄稼，一股热气向他们迎面扑来。“在这里给你造一所房子，可以使谁都要眼热，”波辛尼说，两人间的沉默总算打破了。“我要说，”索米斯冷冷地回答，“你不用掏腰包啊！”“大约花个八千镑，我可以给你造一座宫殿。”索米斯脸色灰白——他的内心正在挣扎着。终于眼睛垂下来，他执拗地说：“我出不起。”百年孤独随后，仍旧由他领先，东张西望地走着，带着波辛尼回到原来那块地基来。两人在这里花了相当长的时间详详细细计划房子怎么造，后来索米斯又回到经管人的村舍里去。半小时后，他走了出来，和波辛尼一起向车站出发。“哦，”他说，嘴唇差不多都不张开，“我终究买下你看中的那块地基了。”他又沉默下来，内心里糊里糊涂地辩论着，怎么这个他一向鄙视的人偏偏会逼迫他作出决定来。

第一卷 第五章 一个福尔赛家庭 
索米斯和住在这伟大伦敦城里千百个和他同一阶级同一年代的开通人士一样，都知道红丝绒椅子已经不时新，都知道近代意大利大理石人群雕像是“过时”的玩意儿；而且，都能够尽量使自己的房子赶得上时髦。这就是索米斯的房子：一个铜门环样式就非常别致，窗子已经全部改装成向外开，窗口都吊着花草箱，里面栽满了耳环草；屋子后面是一座绿砖铺的小院子（是这座房子的特色），四周放了许多绯色的八仙花，都栽在孔雀蓝的大花盆里。一张皮革颜色的大日本阳伞几乎挡着整个院子的尽头；这样子，屋子里住的人或者客人坐在伞下一面喝茶，一面从容地观看索米斯最近搜集来的小银盒子时，院子外面好奇的人们就不能窥望他们。屋内的装潢以拿破仑时代和威廉-莫里斯①为主。就面积而论，房子也相当宽敞；有无数的小角落，收拾得象许多鸟窠一样；许多小银器摆设就象下的鸟蛋。在这一般说来是十全十美的环境中，却有两种考究的心理在抵触着。女主人的考究是孤芳自赏，顶好是住在一座荒岛上；男主人的考究就好比是一种投资，是为了自身的发展而经营它，他所遵守的规律也就是商业竞争的规律。是这种商业竞争的心理使索米斯早在马罗堡中学做学生时就考究起来，他是第一个在夏天穿起白背心，冬天穿起花呢背心的人；在公共场所出现时，他决不使自己领带缩到硬领上面去；给奖日要当着一大群人朗诵莫里哀之前，非要把自己的漆皮鞋拂拭一下不可。他逐渐变得象许多伦敦人一样，一定要做到无疵可击；你决不可能想象他有一根头发弄乱，一条领子没有浆平，或者一根领带打得不直，便是相差这么八分之一的英寸也不行！不洗澡决计不能出门——洗澡也是时髦；而那些出门不洗澡的人，在他的眼中是多么可鄙视啊！名著可是伊琳，你可以想象得到，却象一些水神在路旁清流中浴着水，纯粹为了消受一下凉爽，和在水中能照见自己美丽的身体。在这遍及整幢房屋的矛盾中，女的退却了。就象当年撒克逊民族和席尔特民族继续在国内进行着斗争时一样，在气质比较容易接受外来影响的一方就逼得接受一种传统的上层建筑。因此，这座房子便变得和千百幢其他有远大目标的房屋非常相似，人家提起来都说：“索米斯-福尔赛夫妇的那座顶爱人的小房子，很别致呢，亲爱的——的确考究！”这里的索米斯-福尔赛也可以换作詹姆士-毕波第，汤姆斯-艾根和爱曼尼艾尔-斯巴几诺莱蒂；事实上对伦敦中上流人士稍稍自命风雅一点的，都用得上；虽则房屋装饰的样式不同，可是用这句话来形容却一样适当。在八月八日的傍晚——离那次远征罗宾山不过一星期之久——就在这所“很别致呢，亲爱的——的确考究”的房子的餐室内，索米斯和伊琳在坐着用晚餐。星期天的晚餐吃热菜也是这个人家以及别的许多人家共有的一点出色时髦玩意。结婚的生活一开始，索米斯就定下这一条家法：“星期天佣人一定要给我们预备热晚餐——他们除掉拉手风琴之外，并没有别的事情干。”这条家法并没有引起革命。原来佣人都忠于伊琳——这在索米斯是相当可恨的事情——伊琳本来就把一切根深蒂固的传统都不放在眼里，所以对人性喜爱清闲这个弱点好象认为他们也有权利享受一下。一对幸福的夫妇坐在那张漂亮的花梨木的餐桌那儿，并不对面坐，而是斜坐着；吃饭也不铺桌布——这也是一种出色的考究玩意——两人到现在为止，还没有说过一句话。索米斯喜欢在晚饭时谈生意，或者谈自己买了些什么；只要他有话谈，伊琳的沉默并不使他感觉不安。今天晚上他偏偏觉得讲不出口。整整一个星期来，他心里一直都盘算着造房子的事，现在打定主意要告诉她了。既要把心里话讲出来，然而又感到心神不宁，这使他深深着恼；她没来由使得他这样——夫妇是一个人。自从坐下来之后，她连望都不望他一眼；不知道这半天她肚子里究竟想些什么。一个男人象他这样地工作，给她赚钱——对了，给她赚钱，而且心里还带着创痛——而她却坐在这里，望着——就好象看见房间墙壁合拢来那样望着，这令人太难堪了；足可以气得一个男人站起身离开餐桌。粉红灯罩的灯光落在她颈子和胳臂上——索米斯喜欢她穿露肩的晚服吃饭，这给他一种莫名的优越感；多数亲友在家里吃晚饭时，他们的妻子顶多穿上自己最好的便服，或者吃茶的长服，哪有这样排场。在这片粉红色的灯光下，她的琥珀色的头发、白皮肤和深褐色的眼睛形成奇异的对照。哪一个男人能够有这样美丽的一张餐桌呢，这样色彩深厚，还放了象星星一样的娇嫩的玫瑰花，紫红颜色的玻璃杯和古色古香的银食具；哪一个男人能够有坐在桌子旁边的这个女子更美丽呢？在福尔赛家的人里面，感激并不是一件德行；他们全是一脑门子的商业竞争和常识，根本就没有功夫想到这上面来；所以索米斯这时候只感觉到一种几乎象是痛苦的气忿，觉得自己并不能真正占有她，并不能象自己权利规定的那样占有她；他不能象伸手摘下这朵玫瑰花一样，把她摘下来，嗅出她心里的真正秘密。在其他的财产方面，他的银器，他的画，他的房子，他的投资，他都能感到一种隐秘而亲切的感情；在她身上，没有。在他自己这座房子的墙上，到处写着有字①都说她天生不是他的人；他的生意经气质抗议这种神秘的警告。他娶了这个女子，使她成为自己的人，现在却说他顶多只能占有她的肉体——其实能真正占有她的肉体也好，他连这个也开始怀疑了——在他看来，这简直违反一切法律上最基本的规定——财产法。如果有人问他可要占有她的灵魂，这问题当会使他觉得幼稚可笑。可是他的确就想如此，而墙上的文字却说他永远不会做到。她永远不做声，永远那样屈从，厌恶他但表面上不露痕迹；她好象深怕自己的一言一动或者一个暗示会使他误解她喜欢他似的；所以他问自己：难道我要永远这样下去吗？他跟他这一代多数的小说读者一样（索米斯就是酷爱读小说的），人生观往往带上文学的色彩；他染上的见解是，这不过是时间问题。到后来，丈夫总会获得自己妻子的欢心的，便是在那些以悲剧结束的小说里——这类书他本来不大喜欢——那个做妻子的临死时总要说些深自忏悔的话；或者如果死掉的是丈夫的话——这种想法太丧气了——她也会悔恨交集地扑倒在他身上。他时常带伊琳去看戏，出于本能地选择了那些描写现代交际生活中夫妇问题的话剧，所幸的这些问题和真实生活中的夫妇问题并无相同之处。他发现这些戏的收梢也是一样；便是里面有个情人，结果也仍旧是大团圆。索米斯看着戏时，倒是时常同情那个情人；可是等到跟伊琳坐上马车回家，还没有到门口就被他发现这样是不行的，还幸亏那出戏有那样的收梢。当时有一种类型的丈夫很时髦，就是一种刚强，比较粗卤，然而极端正常的那种男子；这种人在剧终时特别顺利；索米斯对这种人实在不同情，如果不是因为自己的处境，甚至于会对这种人表示厌恶。可是他迫切需要做一个顺利的甚至于“刚强”的丈夫，这一点他是深深知道的，因此虽则这种厌恶的根源出于他的隐秘的残忍天性，可能由于造化的反常作用造成的，他却从不吐露出来。可是伊琳今晚却是异乎寻常地沉默。索米斯从来没有看见她脸上有过这样的表情。本来异常的东西总是引起人们恐慌，所以索米斯也着慌起来。他吃完最后的一道小吃，催促女佣用银畚箕把桌上的面包屑扫掉。女佣离开室内之后，他把杯子斟满了酒，就说：“下午有人来吗？”“琼。”名著推荐“她来想些什么？”这是福尔赛家的一种口头禅，认为人家不论到哪里，总是想些什么。“来谈她的爱人吗，我想？”伊琳没有回答。“在我看来，”索米斯接着说，“好象她待她爱人比她爱人待她好。她总是到处跟着他。”伊琳的眼光使他感觉不安起来。“你讲这种话没有道理！”她高声说。“为什么不能说？谁都可以看得出来！”“他们看不出，就是看得出来，这样讲也不成话。”索米斯再也沉不住气了。“你真是个好妻子！”他说，可是暗地里却弄不懂她的回答为什么这样激烈，这跟她平日为人不象。“你跟琼太热火了。我可以告诉你一件事：她现在擒到海盗，才不把你放在心上呢，你慢慢就会明白。可是你们将来也不会时常见面了，我们要住到乡下去。”他很高兴借一番发作把这项消息揭露出来。他指望对方会惊叫出来；可是话说出之后，伊琳仍是一声不响，他又着慌了。“你好象并不感觉兴趣，”他逼得又加上一句。“我早知道了。”他狠狠望她一眼。“谁告诉你的？”“琼。”“她怎么会知道的？”伊琳没有回答。他弄得又沮丧又不好过，就说：“这对波辛尼是件美事；可以从此出头了。我想琼全部都告诉你了吧？”“对了。”又是一阵沉寂，于是索米斯说道：“我想你是不想去的，是吗？”伊琳没有回答。“我真弄不懂你想些什么？你好象在这儿永远住得不开心。”“我开心不开心跟造房子有什么关系？”她拿起那瓶玫瑰花走了。索米斯仍旧坐着。难道他签定那张合同就为了这个么？难道他预备花上万镑左右的钱是为的这个么？波辛尼那句话他又想起来了：“女人总是麻烦！”可是没有一会，他的气就稍稍平复下来。事情可能弄得还要糟些。她可能大发其脾气。他原来指望的并不止这一点点的不快。总算是运气，有琼替他打破这个僵局。她一定是从波辛尼那里诓出来的；他早就该见到这一点了。他点起香烟。伊琳总算没有大哭大闹！她会自己转弯的——这是她最好的地方；她冷僻，可是并不别扭。那张油光刷亮的餐桌上歇着一只甲虫；他一面向甲虫喷着烟，一面冥想着那座房子。担心没有用处，过会跟她和好算了。她这时该是黑地里坐在日本阳伞下面做针线呢。好一个美丽的温暖的夜晚.事实是那天下午琼眼睛笑眯眯地跑了来，说“索米斯太好了！对菲力真是一件美事——他恰恰就需要有这样一个机会！”她看见伊琳脸上仍旧是不开心和茫然的样子，就说下去：“当然是你们在罗宾山的房子。怎么？你难道不知道吗？”伊琳原来并不知道。生命中不能承受之轻“哦！那么，我想我不该告诉你的！”她不耐烦地望着自己的好朋友，又叫道：“你看上去好象毫不关心似的。你知道，我一直巴望的就是这个——他一直要找的就是这种机会。你现在可以看看他的本领了；”这样一来，她就把事情的经过全部吐了出来。自从她订婚之后，琼好象对自己好朋友的处境已经不大感到兴趣；她跟伊琳在一起时都是谈些自己的私房话；尽管她对伊琳的身世充满怜惜，可是有时候仍旧不免在微笑中露出一点又象是怜悯、又象是瞧不起的神气，那意思好象说：这个女子在自己一生中铸成这样一件大错——这样可笑的错误。“连内部装修也由他包下来——由他一手经办。这简直——”琼大笑出来，小身体快活地颤动着；她举手击一下白纱窗帘。“你知道我甚至还求过詹姆士爷爷——”可是忽然不愿意提起那次不快的事情，她又停止不说；过了一会，看见自己的好朋友简直不大理会这件事，就起身走了。她走到人行道上时回过头来看看，伊琳仍旧站在门口。她招一下手，表示告别，可是伊琳并没有答礼，只是用手摸着额头，慢慢转过身去，把门关上.不一会，索米斯走进客厅，从窗口窥望着伊琳。她坐在日本阳伞的影子里，一动不动，雪白的肩上的花边随着她胸口的微微起伏颤动着。可是这个沉默的人儿，在黑地里坐着一动不动，好象有股温暖劲儿，一股蕴藏着的热情，就好象她整个的人都在激荡着，而且在她的内心深处正在起着某种变化。索米斯乘人没有瞧见，又溜回餐室去了。

第一卷 第六章 詹姆士细描 
索米斯决定造房子的事不久便在族中传遍了；任何跟财产有关的决定都准会在福尔赛族中引起骚动，这事也是如此。这不能怪索米斯，因为他本来决心不让一个人知道的。是琼一肚子话按捺不下去，告诉了史木尔太太，而且只许她告诉安姑太，别人都不许告诉——琼认为这样会使安姑太高兴，这个老宝贝——原来安姑太近来已经卧病多日了。史木尔太太立刻就去告诉安姑太；安姑太倚在枕头上，一面微笑，一面用她清晰而颤动的老喉咙说：“这对琼儿很好；不过我希望他们小心些子——相当危险的！”当室内重又只剩下安姑太一个人时，她紧紧皱起眉头，就象一片乌云发出明天下雨的警告似的。这多天来她躺在那里，一直都在加强着自己的意志力；这也表现在她脸上和嘴角上紧缩的动作。每天早上，女仆史密赛儿——她是从做女孩子时候就服侍安姑太的，安姑太讲起她来都说“史密赛儿，是个好丫头；可是那么慢！”——每天早上女仆史密赛儿都要为安姑太举行那古老的最后的梳妆仪式，而且极其拘谨刻板。她从雪白纸盒中把那些隐秘的花白扁发取出来——这些个人尊严的标记——安全地放在女主人的手中，然后转过身去。天天裘丽和海丝特两位姑太都要来向安姑太报告悌摩西的动静；尼古拉新近有些什么事情；琼儿有没有说服乔里恩把婚期提早些，因为波辛尼先生已经替索米斯盖房子了；小罗杰的媳妇是不是真的——有喜了；亚其开刀的结果好不好；斯悦辛在威格摩尔街的那座空房子——从前那个房客把钱用光了，而且是那样对他无礼——他怎么办的；尤其是索米斯；伊琳是不是仍旧——仍旧要分房呢？每天早上，史密赛儿都要听到这段吩咐：“今天下午我要下楼了，史密赛儿，大约两点钟光景。我要你搀着我，在床上躺了这么多天了！”史木尔太太告诉了安姑太之后，又告诉了尼古拉太太，并且叫她严守秘密；尼古拉太太为了要证实这件事，就去转问维妮佛梨德-达尔第，当然是因为她是索米斯的妹子的缘故，这件事她想来全都知道。从达尔第的嘴里慢慢又兜了过来，传到詹姆士的耳朵里。詹姆士听了很是生气。什么事情都不告诉他，他说。可是他并不径自去找索米斯本人——他有点害怕索米斯那种讳莫如深的派头——反而拿起伞跑到悌摩西家里来。他看见史木尔太太和海丝特姑太（这消息她也告诉了海丝特——她很可靠，而且向来懒得讲话），都已经心里有数，其实是急于想谈。她们觉得，索米斯肯用波辛尼先生，这在他真是好事，可是相当危险。乔治给他起的一个什么绰号？“海盗呀！”多么滑稽！可是乔治一向就是那样滑稽！不过，总还是在家里人里面，肥水没有落外人田——她们认为总得把波辛尼先生真正看做家里人，不过又觉得很古怪。詹姆士这时插嘴说：“他是怎样的谁也不晓得。我不懂得索米斯要这种年轻小伙子有什么用处。敢说是伊琳从中说了话。我要找——”“索米斯，”裘丽姑太拦住说，“告诉波辛尼说，他不愿意把这件事声张出去。他不喜欢人家谈起，这是肯定的，而且要是悌摩西知道的话，他就会很呕气，我——”詹姆士用手贴着耳朵：聊斋志异白话文“什么？”他说。“我聋得厉害。大约人家讲话都听不见了。爱米丽害脚趾头。我们要等到月底才能起身上威尔斯去。总是有事情！”他要打听的已经全部打听到，所以戴上帽子走了。下午天气晴朗，詹姆士穿过公园向索米斯家走去；他打算在索米斯家里吃晚饭，因为爱米丽害脚不能起床，莱西尔和茜席丽又往乡间探望朋友去了。他沿着罗登路靠湾水路这面一条斜径穿向武士桥的大门，路上通过一片草场；草场上的草又短又枯焦，上面散布着一些晒黑的绵羊，一对对男女在椅子上坐着，有些陌生的流浪者伏在地上，望去就象是战争浪潮刚在战场上卷过，横陈着许多尸体一样。他伛着头走得很快，两边望都不望一下。这座公园原是他一生战斗的战场；可是眼前公园里这些景色却引不起他的任何思绪或者遐想。这些从生存竞争的压迫和纷扰中投出来的尸体，这些从机械单调的日常生活中偷得片刻清福的相互偎倚的爱侣，在他心中唤不起任何幻觉；这类想象在他是老早过去了；他的鼻子就象一头绵羊的鼻子一样，只是紧紧凑着它啮食的草场。他的一个房客最近时常拖欠房租，这对于詹姆士成了一个严重问题，还是立刻把这房客撵出去呢，还是不撵，撵的话，房子可能在圣诞节前租不出去，这个风险耽不耽？斯悦辛的房子不久以前租的价钱就很坏，不过这是活该——他手里放得太久了。他一面用平稳的步伐走着，一面盘算着这件事，小心地握着阳伞的木柄，就在弯柄下面一点点，这样既可以使伞尖不碰到地，又可以不磨坏中间的伞绸。他伛着瘦削的高肩膀，两只长腿动得又快又机械地准确，就这样穿过公园；园内的太阳以它明亮的火焰照耀着许多闲散的人们，照耀着无数从园外争财夺利的无情斗争中来的人证，而他却象陆栖的鸟儿在飞越一片大海。他从亚尔勃特门出来时，觉得有人碰一下他的胳臂。原来是索米斯；他从事务所出来，走毕卡第里大街背阴的一面回家，忽然和他走上并排了。“你母亲病在床上，”詹姆士说；“我正上你家里去，不过也许对你不方便吧？”表面上，詹姆士和他这个儿子显得很冷淡，这是福尔赛家的人特别的地方；可是尽管如此，父子之间并不是没有感情。也许双方都把对方当作一种投资看待；他们相互都很关怀对方的幸福，而且也喜欢和对方碰头，这是肯定的。至于那些比较切身的生活上问题，两个人从来不吐一字；当面也不肯流露出任何深切的感情。把这父子两人紧结在一起的是一种非语言分析所能形容的东西，它深藏在国家和家族的组织里——据说血比水浓，而这父子两个都不是冷血动物。其实，拿詹姆士来说，儿女之爱目前已经成为他生存的主要目的了。有这些等于自己一部分的人，可能一朝把自己积赚下来的钱传到他们手里，这是他积钱的根本原因；一个人活到七十五岁，除掉积钱之外，还有什么事能给他快乐呢？生命的核心就是为自己的儿女积钱啊！尽管詹姆士是那样一个忧郁症患者，在全伦敦城里——伦敦是他的活动中心，他占有它那么多，而且对它抱有那么深厚的无言的爱——可再没有比他更正常的人了（如果说正常的主要征候，象人家告诉我们的，就是保存自己，不过悌摩西肯定说做得太过分了）。他具有中等阶级的那种惊人的正常性情。他比他所有的弟兄都正常：乔里恩意志虽强，但偶尔也会心软下来，来一套他的哲学；斯悦辛怪念头太多；尼古拉能力强，反而因此吃苦；罗杰是企业迷；只有詹姆士是真正的折衷派；在诸弟兄中，他的头脑和外表都最不惊人，就因为这个缘故，很可能永远活下去。詹姆士比他其余的弟兄把“家族”看得更重要，更加宝贵。他对人生的态度永远具有一种原始的温存，他爱一家人坐在炉边，他爱听闲是闲非，爱听抱怨和诉苦。他所有的主意都是从家族这个大心灵里提炼出来的，就象从牛奶桶里提炼出奶酪似的；通过自己的家族，他还汲取千百个同样性质的其他家族的心灵。他经常上悌摩西家里去；年年如此，每星期如此——坐在那间临衔的客厅里——大腿交叉着，雪白的腮须包着下巴剃得很光的嘴——看着这个家族的牛奶桶徐沸着，奶油从下面升上来；这样他离开时就会觉得有了依靠，耳目一新，心身俱泰，那种快活的感觉真是无法形容。在他自我保存本能的坚石下面，詹姆士还是有许多软心肠；上悌摩西家里跑一趟等于在母亲膝上消磨一个钟点；他自己渴望钻在家族的卵翼下得到庇护，从而也影响到他对自己儿女的感情；一想到自己的儿女在金钱上，健康上，或者名誉上直接受到社会的虐待，他就象做着恶梦一般。当初他的老友约翰-斯瑞特的儿子自愿从军时，他摇摇头大不以为然，不懂得约翰-斯瑞特怎么会答应这种事情；后来小斯瑞特被土人的标枪戳死了，他感到非常痛心，特地到处找人告诉，目的就为了说：“他早知道会是怎样结果——他对待儿女的性子太急了！”那一次他的女婿达尔第做石油股票投机失败，经济上周转不灵时，詹姆士真为这件事烦得不成样子；好象一切荣华的丧钟都敲起来似的。足足有三个月的功夫，还加上往巴顿一巴顿去休养了一趟，才使他心情恢复过来；想起来真是可怕，这一次事件，要不是他——詹姆士——拿出钱来，达尔第的名字早已上了破产的簿子了。由于他的生理组织极其健康，一碰到耳朵有点痛，他便以为自己快死了；老婆和儿女偶尔生病，他就认为这是和他个人过不去，是老天有意干扰他，要破坏他的心情宁静；可是除掉自己的至亲骨肉以外，别人有病他都丝毫不相信，每次都要再三跟他们说这是太不保养肝脏的缘故。他有一句口头禅：“他们不生这个病才怪呢。我假如不当心的话，自己也会生上！”今天傍晚他上索米斯家来的心情很坏，觉得自己过得真倒霉；爱米丽害脚，莱西尔在乡下闲荡；谁也不同情他；还有安姊，她病了——过得了过不了夏天都很难说；他已经去了三次，她都没有能和他见面！再加上索米斯忽然想到要造房子，这件事非得问一下不可。至于索米斯和伊琳搞不好，他不知道会弄出什么结果——也许会闹得不堪设想！他走进蒙特贝里尔方场六十二号时，就是这样满心准备苦恼一番。时间已经是七点半，伊琳换了晚服，正坐在客厅里。她穿的就是那件金色长袍——这件衣服已经穿过三次，一次赴宴，一次晚会，一次跳舞会，现在只好家常穿穿了——胸口被她镶上一串花边；詹姆士眼睛立刻就落在上面。“你的衣服在哪儿买的？”他带着着恼的声音说：“我从来看不见莱西尔和茜席丽穿得有一半这样漂亮过。这个玫瑰针织到要造房子，这件事非得问一下不可。至于索米斯和伊琳搞不好，他不知道会弄出什么结果——也许会闹得不堪设想！他走进蒙特贝里尔方场六十二号时，就是这样满心准备苦恼一番。时花边可不是真的吧？”伊琳向他凑近些，让他看出自己的错误。她这样恭谨柔顺，同时身上微微发出一阵醉人的香水味；使詹姆士不由得心软下来。可是自重的福尔赛家人都不肯一下就屈服；所以他只说：他不知道——大概她在服饰上可着实花一笔钱呢！锣声响了，伊琳用自己的胳臂挽着詹姆士的胳臂，领他走进餐室。她把他坐在索米斯平日的座位上，就在她左手的侧面。这里灯光柔和，他可以看不见天色逐渐暗下来而感到烦恼；她开始跟他谈起他自己的事情来。不多一会，詹姆士就觉得自己的心情起了变化，就象水果在阳光中无形中变得熟透一样；这感觉象是有人在抚爱你，赞许你，娇惯你，然而实际并没有受到任何抚爱或者听到任何赞许。他觉得吃下的东西很好受；在家里他就没有觉得这样好受过；他喝的一杯香槟酒很美，待问到牌子和价钱时，原来这种酒他自己就储藏了一大批，可是从来不能上口，这使他诧异之极；当时就发狠要找他的酒商说自己受了骗。他本来低着头吃菜，现在抬起头来说：“你们这儿的好东西真不少。这个筛糖的瓶子花了多少钱？敢说很值钱呢！”对面墙上挂的一张画就是他送给他们的；他看上去特别中意：“没有想到有这样好！”他说。饭毕，三人站起来上客厅去，詹姆士紧跟在伊琳后面。“要我说，这才是一顿少而精的晚饭呢，”他咕噜着，快活地向伊琳的肩头呼着气；“没有大鱼大肉，而且也不太法国味儿。可是在家里我就吃不到。我的厨娘一年拿我六十镑钱，可是那个女人就不会给我做这样的晚饭！”到目前为止，他还没有提起造房子的事；后来看见索米斯推说有事，自己上楼去了（就是顶上他放画的那间小屋子），他也就不提。剩下詹姆士跟媳妇对坐。那杯香槟，和饭后的一杯上等甜酒，使他仍然兴致很好。他对媳妇觉得很亲热。的确是个惹疼的孩子；听你讲，而且好象也懂得你讲的意思。詹姆士一面谈话，一面不绝留心她的身腰，从脚上青铜色的鞋子一直看到她鬈发上面那些金色的波纹。她倚在一张拿破仑时代的大圈椅上，肩头贴着椅背的上部——笔直的身体看上去仍是那样腰肢婀娜，走动时微微摇摆，就象是贴在爱人的手臂里一样。她唇边带着微笑，眼睛半睁半闭。也许是因为见她风度这样迷人而起了戒心，或者消化受到阻碍，詹姆士突然变得哑口无言了。他记得从前就没有和伊琳单独在一起过。当他眼望着她时，不由而然有一种异样感觉，就象碰上什么古怪而陌生的东西一样。她心里在想些什么呢——这样靠在那里？这一来，他重又开口时，声音就变得严厉了一点，好象刚从一个甜梦中被人唤醒一样。“你成天干些什么呢？”他说。“你从来不上公园巷来！”她好象提了些勉强的理由。詹姆士眼睛并没有朝她望；他不相信她是真要回避他们——这太叫人难堪了。“我想事实是，你抽不出空来。”他说：“你总是跟琼一起跑。我想，她跟她男朋友在一起时，你对她是有用的，总得有人带着，其他有些事情上也有用。他们告诉我，她现在从不耽在家里；你的大伯乔里恩他很不痛快，我想，弄得简直没有人陪他。他们说她永远吊着那个波辛尼小子；我敢说他每天都上这儿来。你觉得这个人怎么样？你觉得他这人头脑清楚吗？我看不成。敢说女的比男的强多啦！”伊琳的脸色红起来；詹姆士留神看她，有点儿疑心。“也许你不大了解波辛尼先生的为人，”她说。“不了解他的为人？”詹姆士冲口而出：“有什么不了解？你可以看出他就是那种搞艺术的。人家说他聪明——人家全都当作他聪明。你知道他比我清楚。”他又接上一句；怀疑的目光又盯她一下。“他在替索米斯打一所房子的图样，”伊琳轻轻地说，显然想要把事情冲淡一下。“这使我想起我正要说的话来，”詹姆士接着说；“我不懂得索米斯要这样一个年轻人有什么用；他为什么不找一个第一流的建筑师呢？”“也许波辛尼先生就是第一流呢！”詹姆士站起来，低着头打了个转身。“就是这样，”他说，“你们这些年轻人，总是站在一起；你们都自以为比别人懂得多！”他的瘦长个子横阻在她面前，竖起一个指头指着她胸口，就象对她的美貌提出控诉似的：“我只有这样一个意见，这些搞艺术的，或者不管他们自己称呼什么，这些人都极其靠不住；还有，我对你的忠告是，这种人你最好不要多搭讪！”伊琳笑了；她嘴唇的线条显出一种古怪的挑斗。适才的恭谨柔顺好象已经消失了。她胸口起伏着，好象心里很气愤；她从椅子靠手上把两只手抽回来，直到指尖抵着指尖；一双深褐的眼睛用意莫测地望着詹姆士。詹姆士忧郁地打量着地板。“我告诉你我的看法，”他说，“你可惜的是没有一个孩子；否则的话，你的心情就会有所寄托，也有事情做了！”登时，伊琳的脸色沉了下来，连詹姆士都觉察到在那件柔软的绸花边和绸衣服下面，整个身体变得坚硬起来。他觉得话不对头，自己也着慌起来；跟多数缺乏勇气的人一样，他立刻就想用压力说服对方。“你好象不大喜欢出去跑。为什么不跟我们坐马车上赫林汉马球会溜溜呢？隔个些时上上戏馆子。你这样的年纪应当对生活感觉兴趣。你还是个年轻的女子啊！”她脸上的神色更加不快了；他觉得不自在。儒林外史“哦，我是一点儿不知道，”他说；“人家什么事情都不告诉我。索米斯应当照顾得了自己。他如果照顾不了自己的话，他也休想找我——就是这样——”他咬着食指的骨节，用冷淡而严厉的眼光偷看一下媳妇。他发现她的眼睛也正在注视着自己，充满了不快和深思；两人的眼光刚好碰上；他住口不说，微微有点出汗。“哦，我得走了，”他停了一下说；一分钟后，他站起来，带点诧异，好象指望有人留他似的。他伸手给伊琳握一下，由伊琳领他到门口，把他送到街上。不，他不要叫马车，他要走走，请伊琳替他向索米斯道晚安，如果她要散心的话，那么，不管哪一天，他都可以带她坐马车上里西蒙跑一趟。他回家上了楼；爱米丽一天一夜没有能睡，刚睡着就被他叫醒；他告诉爱米丽说他有个感觉，好象索米斯家里事情弄得很糟；在这个题目上，他滔滔不绝谈了半个钟点，最后说自己今晚休想睡得着；说完翻了一个身，立刻打起鼾来。在蒙特贝里尔方场那边，索米斯已经从画室里出来；他隐在楼梯上端，站在那里望着伊琳整理当天送来的最后一批信件。她转身走进客厅；可是一分钟不到又走出来，站在那里象在倾听；后来悄悄上楼，臂上抱了一头小猫。索米斯看见她低头望着那个小动物，那东西正向着她的颈子呼气。为什么她不能这样望着他呢？忽然间她看见他了，脸上立刻变色。“有我的信吗？”“三封。”他站在一边，伊琳没有说第二句话就进了卧室。

第一卷 第七章 老乔里恩做冒失事 
就在同一天下午，老乔里恩从贵族板球场①出来。他原想跟平时一样回家去，但是汉弥尔登胡同还没有到，已经改变主意；他叫了一部马车，告诉马夫上威斯达里亚大街一个地方去。他下了决心了。这个星期里，琼简直不耽在家里；她已经有很长一段时间简直不陪他；事实上，自从和波辛尼订婚之后，就没有陪伴过。老乔里恩从来不跟她说要她陪他。他就不习惯央求人家什么！琼现在一脑门子只有一件事——波辛尼和波辛尼的事业——因此把乔里恩搁浅在自己的大房子里，领着一大堆佣人，从早到晚找不到一个人讲话。他的俱乐部在粉刷内部，暂不开放；他的董事会在休会期中；因此没有事要上商业区去。琼曾经要他出门走走，她自己却因为波辛尼在伦敦，不肯去。可是老乔里恩一个人上哪里去呢？一个人上国外去总不成；航海使他的肝脏受不了；他又不喜欢住旅馆。罗杰上了一处温泉疗养地去——他这样年纪的人可不来这一套，这些新里新气的地方全是骗人！他就是以这些诫条来掩饰自己孤寂的心情；他脸上的皱纹加深了，一张在平日是那样坚毅宁静的脸，现在却被忧郁盘据着，眼睛里的神气也一天天变得忧郁起来。因此，今天下午他就穿过圣约翰林走这一趟，这里，许多小房子前面一丛丛青绿的刺球花，剪得圆圆的，上面洒上金黄的阳光；家家小花园里夏天的太阳都象在欢宴。他看得很有意思；向来一个福尔赛家人走进这个地区没有不公开表示不以为然，然而却暗暗感到好奇的。马车在一所小房子面前停下，房子是那种特殊的钝黄色，表明已经好久没有粉刷过。房外有个门，和一条简陋的小径。他下了马车，神色极端镇静；一个大脑袋，下垂的胡子，两鬓白发，头抬得笔直，戴了一顶无大不大的礼帽；眼神坚定，微含怒意。他是实逼处此啊！“乔里恩-福尔赛太太在家吗？”“哦，在家的，先生！请问您贵姓呀，先生？”老乔里恩把自己的姓名告诉小女佣时，禁不住向她霎一下眼睛。这个小女佣看上去真是小得可笑！他随着女佣走进黑暗的穿堂，走进一间套间的客厅；室内家具都是印花布的套子；小女佣请他在一张椅子上坐下。“他们都在花园里，先生；你请坐一下，我去告诉他们。”老乔里恩在印花布套的椅子上坐下，把周围看看。在他的眼中，这地方整个儿可以说是寒伧；什么东西都有一种——他也说不出所以然来——简陋，或者说，俭约的神气。照他看来，没有一件家具值上一张五镑钱的钞票的。墙壁还是好久以前粉刷过，上面悬了些水彩画；天花板上弯弯曲曲一大条裂缝。①这座板球场属于马里尔朋板球会，各大学和两个有名中学伊顿和哈罗的球赛都在这里举行。这些小房子全都是老式的二等建筑；想来房租一年总到不了一百镑；没料到一个福尔赛家人——他的亲儿子——会住在这种地方，心里的难受简直无法形容。小女佣回来了，问他可不可以到园子里去。呼吸秋千老乔里恩从落地窗昂然走了出去。在走下台阶时，他看出这些落地窗也需要油漆一下了。小乔里恩和自己的妻子、两个小孩、小狗伯沙撒，全坐在那边一棵梨树下面。向他们这样走去，在老乔里恩一生中算是最最勇敢的行为了；可是他脸上一根肌肉也不动，举止上也不显得一点局促；一双深陷的眼睛始终注视着敌人。在这两分钟间，他十足地表现出他以及他这一阶级许多人的品质来；正常、决断、富于生命力，所有这些不自觉的品质使他们成为国家的核心力量。当年的不列颠人由于过着岛居生活，天生的与世隔绝，血液中也就渗进了个人主义，而他们在处理自己事情上做得那样不夸耀，把其他的事情全不放在眼下，也正是表现这种个人主义的精神和实质！小狗伯沙撒绕着他的裤脚乱嗅；这条友善而促狭的杂种犬原是俄国鬈毛犬和狐■犬私通的产儿，好象对不寻常的场面很是敏感。问好的僵局结束之后，老乔里恩坐进一张柳条椅子，一对孙男孙女分两面靠在他的膝边，不作声地望着他；两个小孩都从来没有见过这样老的老人。两个孩子的面貌并不相象，就好象各人出生时的环境有所不同，在相貌上也表现出来了。乔儿是罪恶的产儿，一张肥短的脸，淡黄色的头发梳向后面，颊上有一个酒涡，和蔼中带有顽强气，一双福尔赛家的眼睛；好儿是婚后所生；肤色微黄，庄重的派头，有她母亲一对沉思的灰色眼睛。小狗伯沙撒把三座小花床走了一圈之后，为了表示它对整个场面的极端鄙视起见，在老乔里恩对面也占上一个座位，一根尾巴被老天紧紧扳在背上，不住的摆动，两只眼睛瞠得多大，一■也不■。便是在园子里，老乔里恩仍不时有那种寒伧的感觉；柳条椅子被他身子压得吱吱响；那些花床望上去很“憔悴可怜”；较远的那一面，煤熏的墙下被猫儿走成一条小路。老乔里恩和两个孙男孙女就这样相互打量着，又是好奇，又是信任，这是极端年幼和极端年长之间所特有的；在这时候，小乔里恩正留神望着妻子。她有一张消瘦的鹅蛋脸，两道直眉毛，一双灰色的大眼睛，脸色渐渐涨红了。她的头发梳成许多高起的细波纹，从前额拢向后面，跟小乔里恩的头发一样，已经开始花白；这一来衬得两颊上突然变得鲜明的红晕更加可怜相，使人看了很难受。她脸上的表情充满隐愤、焦急和惧怕；他从来没有看见过她脸上有这样的表情过，要么就是她一直都隐藏着不让他看见。在微蹙的眉毛下面，一双眼睛苦苦望着；而且始终不发一言。只有乔儿不停地呱啦着；这个大胡子的朋友——满手的青筋，坐在那里就象自己父亲那样交叉着腿（这个习惯他自己也打算学）——他并不认识，可是却急于要他知道自己有许多东西；不过他年纪虽则八岁，究竟是个福尔赛，所以并没有提起他当时最心爱的一件东西——那是店家橱窗里的一套铅兵，他父亲答应给他买的。在他看来这当然太珍贵了，现在说出来恐怕要触犯天意。祖孙三代悠然自得地聚在梨树下面；梨树老早不结实了；阳光从树叶间泻下来，在这一小撮人身上跳跃着。老乔里恩满是皱纹的脸红成一块一块，据说老年人的脸被太阳一晒就红成这个模样。他把乔儿一只手抓在自己手里；乔儿就爬上他的膝盖；好儿看见这光景，也着了魔，就爬在他们两人身上，只有小狗伯沙撒抓痒的声音在有节奏地响着。忽然小乔里恩太太站起来，匆匆进屋内去了。一分钟后，她丈夫托说有事情，也跟着进去，剩下老乔里恩一个人和孙男孙女在一起。这时候老天——那个玩世不恭的怪老儿——根据自己的循环律，开始在他的心灵深处做起翻案文章了——这是老天的许多奇案之一。过去他要琼而放弃自己的儿子是由于他对孩子的慈爱，由于他对生命的萌芽有一种热爱，现在也是同样的这种感情使他放弃琼而要这些更小的孩子了。幼年，那些浑圆的小腿，多么没有忌惮，然而多么需要保护；那些小圆脸，多么说不出地庄严或者明媚；那些唧唧呱呱的小嘴巴，和尖声尖气的咯咯笑声；那些再三再四扯他的小手，和小身体抵着他大腿的感觉，一切幼年而又幼年，十足幼年的东西——幼年的火焰本来一直在他的心里烧着，所以现在他就向幼年迎上去；他的眼睛变得柔和了，他的声音，和瘦瘠得满是青筋的手变得温柔了，他的心也变得温柔了。这使他在这些小东西眼中立刻成为快乐的泉源；在这儿，他们是有恃无恐的；在这儿，他们可以拉呱、嬉笑、玩耍；终于象阳光一样，从老乔里恩的柳条椅子上，三颗心儿怒放出来了。可是小乔里恩跟着妻子走进她卧室的情形就完全两样。他看见她坐在梳妆台镜子前面一张椅子上，手蒙着脸。她的两肩随着呜咽抽搐着。他对她这种自寻痛苦的脾气，始终迷惑不解。他曾经经历过上百次这样的神经；他怎样受得了这些，连他自己也莫名其妙，因为他永远信不了这些是神经，而且认为夫妇之间还没有到决裂的地步。晚上，她准会用两只胳臂抱着他的脖子，说：“唉！乔，我多么使你痛苦啊！”她过去已经这样说过上百次了。他乘她不见，伸手把剃须刀的盒子藏在口袋里。“我不能耽在这儿，”他心里想，“我得下去！”他一句话没有说就离开卧室，回到草地上来。老乔里恩把好儿抱在腿上；她已经把老乔里恩的表拿到手里；乔儿满脸通红，正在表演他能够竖蜻蜒。小狗伯沙撒竭力挨近吃茶的桌子，眼睛盯着蛋糕。小乔里恩突然起了恶意，要打断他们的欢乐。他父亲有什么理由跑来，弄得他妻子这样难堪！事情隔了这么多年，想不到又来这一着！他应当早就了解到；他应当预先打他们一下招呼；可是哪一个福尔赛家人会想到自己的所作所为使别人难堪呢？他这种想法实在冤枉老乔里恩了。他厉声对两个孩子说，叫他们进屋子去吃茶点。两个孩子吓了一大跳，他们从没有看见父亲这样严声厉色过，所以手搀着手走了，好儿还回头望望。小乔里恩倒茶。“我妻子今天不舒服，”他说，可是他满知道自己父亲早明白她突然跑开的原因；看见老头子坐在那里泰然自若，他简直恨他。“你这个小房子很不错，”老乔里恩带着世故的派头说；“我想你长期租下了吧？”小乔里恩点点头。城市与狗“我不喜欢这里的环境，”老乔里恩说；“都是些破落户。”“对了，”小乔里恩回答：“我们就是破落户。”两个人沉默下来，只听到小狗伯沙撒抓痒的声音。老乔里恩说得很简单：“小乔，我想我不应当上这儿来的；不过我近来太寂寞了！”小乔里恩听到这两句话站起来，把手搁在自己父亲的肩头。隔壁房子里，有人在一架没有调音的钢琴上反复弹奏着《水性杨花》①；小园内暗了下来，阳光现在只齐园子尽处的墙头了；一只猫蜷伏在墙头晒太阳，黄眼睛带着睡意瞧着下面的伯沙撒。远远车马的声音传来一片催眠的嗡嗡声；园子四周的藤萝架把墙外的景色全遮起来，只看见天空、房子和梨树，梨树的高枝仍被日光染成金黄。父子两个有好半天坐在那里，很少讲话。后来老乔里恩起身走了，也没有提到下次再来的话。他走时心里很难受。多么糟糕的地方！他想起自己在斯丹奴普门空着的大房子，那才是一个福尔赛家人配往的地方；大弹子房，大客厅，可是一个星期从头到尾就没有人进去。那个女人的一张脸他从前也还喜欢，可是人未免太敏感了；她给小乔的罪可不好受，他知道！还有那些可爱的孩子！唉！这件事做得多蠢啊！他向爱基威尔路走去，两边都是一排排小房子，全都向他暗示（当然是错误的，可是一个福尔赛家人的偏见也是不容侵犯的）某种暧昧的往事。那个狗社会——一群唠叨的丑老太婆和纨袴子弟——当初群起对他的亲骨肉下了裁判！就是一群老太婆！他们竟敢放逐他的儿子，和他儿子的儿子；而他却能够在他们的身上恢复自己的青春！他把伞柄重重在地上捣一下，好象要捣进那一群人的心里似的。他使劲地捣着伞柄；然而十五年来，他自己也是追随着社会的一举一动的人——只有在今天才不忠实于它！他想到琼，和她死去的母亲，和这件事的整个经过，所有的旧恨都引起来。糟糕透了的事情！他很久才到达斯丹奴普门；天生是那副执拗的脾气，人已经极端疲倦，偏要一路走回家。他在楼下厕所里洗了手，就走进餐室等开晚饭，这是琼不在家时为①意大利歌剧作家浮尔地作曲。他使用的唯一的一间屋子——这儿寂寞得好一点。晚报还没有送到，早晨的《泰晤士报》他已经看完，因此无事可做。这间房面临一条冷僻的街道，所以一点声音也没有。他不喜欢养狗，可是，便是一条狗也算有个伴。他的目光在墙上到处转，落在一幅题目叫“落日中的荷兰渔船”上面；这是他藏画中的精品，可是看了也没有快感。他闭上眼睛。他真寂寞啊！他知道自己不应当埋怨，可是仍然免不了要埋怨：他真不济事——一直就不济事——没有种！他脑子想的就是这些。老管家进来铺桌子开晚饭；看见主人显然睡着了，动作便极其小心。这个留了下须的管家还蓄了一簇上须——这在族中许多人心里引起严重的疑问——尤其是象索米斯那样上过公立学校的人，对这类事情往往一点儿也不能讹错。这个人能真正算是管家么？调侃的人提起他来都说：“乔里恩大伯的那个不从国教者”；乔治，那个公认的滑稽家称他做：“山基”①。他在那口擦得雪亮的碗橱和擦得雪亮的大餐桌之间来回走动着，轻巧得谁也学不会。老乔里恩偷眼望他，一面假装睡着。这个家伙是个坏蛋——他一直觉得如此——什么事都不放在心上，只想乒乒乓乓把事情赶完出去赌钱，或者找女人，或者天晓得做些什么鬼事！一个懒虫！而且太胖了！哪有丝毫的心思在主人身上！可是接着不由他分说，他的那一套哲理的看法又来了；老乔里恩不同其他福尔赛家人就在这种地方。说到底，这个人又为什么要关心到别人呢？你没有给钱叫他关心，又为什么要指望呢？在这个世界上，一个人不花钱就休想找到感情。也许在死后的世界里情形两样——他不知道，也说不准——他又闭上眼睛。老管家轻手轻脚但是无情地继续操作，从碗橱各层把餐具取出来。他好象一直都是背向着老乔里恩；这一来，他当着主人的那些动作就不至于显得不合适了；不时悄悄在银器上呵口气，用一块麂皮擦擦。他把酒器小心举着，而且举得相当高，让自己的下须遮在上面，一面仔细察看里面的酒量。做完之后，他有这么一分钟站在那里望着主人，淡绿的眼珠里含有鄙视的神气：反正他这个主人是块老废料，差不多快死了！蛙他象一头雄猫一样，轻轻走到屋子那边按下铃。他早已吩咐过“七点钟开饭”。如果主人睡着怎么办呢；待一会他就会叫醒他；反正晚间有得睡呢！他自己也有事情要做，原来他八点半要上自己的俱乐部去！按过铃，一个小男仆就捧了一只盛汤的银器进来。管家从他手上接过来放在桌上，然后站在门开着的地方，象是预备领客人进来的样子，用庄严的声调说：“晚饭开好了，老爷！”老乔里恩缓缓从椅子上站起来，坐到桌子这边来吃晚饭。

第一卷 第八章 房子的图样 
一般都公认，福尔赛家所有的人都有个壳，就象那个用来做土耳其软糖的极端有用的小动物一样，换句话说，他们都有个窝；如果没有个窝，就没有人认得他们。这个窝包括礼节、财产、交游和妻子；他们经过世界上时，这些也跟着他们动着，而这个世界上还有千千万万的人也象福尔赛家人一样，都有自己的窝。一个福尔赛家人没有一个窝，就成为不可想象的事情——就象一本没有布局的小说，这种，人都知道，只能算反常状态。在福尔赛家人眼中看来，波辛尼摆明就是没有个窝的；世界上是有这等样人，一生一世就是在不属于自己的礼节、财产、交游和妻子中间度过；波辛尼就是这种稀有而不幸的人。波辛尼在史龙街的两间房——在最高一层——显然够不上福尔赛家的派头——房子外面钉了一块牌子，写着“菲力普-拜因斯-波辛尼，建筑师事务所”。事务所之外并没有一个起坐间，只用帘子隔开一大块凹进去的地方来挡起他那些生活必需的东西——一张榻子、一张沙发椅、烟斗、威士忌酒瓶、小说、拖鞋等等。事务所这一部分是一般的陈设；一口没有柜门的格子橱、一张圆橡木桌子、一个可以折起来的洗脸架、几张硬椅子、一张大写字台，上面满是图画和图样。琼曾经有两次由他的姑母陪着上这里来吃过茶。算来后面还有一间卧房。抵达之谜据福尔赛家人所能肯定得了的，波辛尼的收入不外两笔常年顾问费，二十镑一年，再加上一点零零星星的收入；此外比较谈得上来的就是他父亲遗留给他的每年一百五十镑的收入。风闻到的关于他父亲的情形就不大妙了。好象在林肯州乡下当过医生，原籍是康渥尔，外表长得很漂亮，拜伦式的脾气——事实上在当地是个有名人物。波辛尼的姑父拜因斯——就是拜因斯-毕尔地保建筑公司的那个拜因斯——虽则不姓福尔赛，倒是个福尔赛的性格；他对于自己的舅兄也觉得没有什么值得一说的。“一个怪人！”他常说：“谈起三个大儿子来，总是说‘好人，但是无聊’；这三个大儿子在印度担任公职，全都混得很好！他唯一欢喜的就是菲力普。我常听他讲些怪透的话，有一次跟我说：‘老弟，切不要让你那个糟糕的老婆知道你肚子里的事！’可是我并不听他说；不是我这样的人！他是个怪物！常跟菲力说：‘孩子，你活着象不象个上等人，没有关系，死一定要死得象样！’所以他自己下葬时就穿了一套长外褂，围了一条缎子围巾，还插上一根钻石别针。的确少见，我可以跟你们说！”谈到波辛尼本人时，拜因斯倒还抱有好感，稍微带点怜悯的口气：“他有他父亲那一点点拜伦脾气。不相信，你看他脱离我的公司，丢掉多么好的机会；带了一个背包就那样子跑出去六个月，为的什么呢？——为了研究外国建筑——外国的！他指望什么用呢？现在你看他——一个聪明的年青小伙子——一年连一百镑都赚不了！这次订婚在他是从来没有过的好事；可以有点约束，不至再胡来一气；他就是那种整天睡觉、整夜不睡的人，就因为做事没有条理；可是人并不胡搞——一点点都不胡搞。老福尔赛是个阔人啊！”在这时期，琼时常上拜因斯住在郎地司街的家里去；他对待琼极端的亲热。他总跟她说，“索米斯先生真是个做生意的好手；他这所房子叫菲力普造真是再好没有了；”“我的好小姐，目前你可不能指望跟他时常见面呢。为他的好——为他的好啊！年青人总得图个出头。我在他这样年纪的时候，日夜都工作着。我的妻子常跟我说，‘保比，不要工作过度呀，自己身体要紧；’可是我从不姑息自己！”原来琼曾经埋怨过自己的未婚夫简直没有空上斯丹奴普门来。有一次他又来了。两个人在一起还不到一刻钟，史木尔太太就到了；她就专门做这种不凑巧的事。波辛尼一听说她到，就站起来躲进小书房里去，约好等她走了再出来。“亲爱的，”裘丽姑太说，“他多瘦啊！我看见订婚的人常是这样的；可是你决不能让他这样下去。有一种巴罗牛肉汁；你斯悦辛爷爷吃了非常之好。”琼的小身体笔直地站在壁炉旁边，一张脸带着恶意地颤动着，原来她把老姑母不在时候上的拜访看成对她个人的一种侵害，所以不屑地回答道：“这是因为他忙；能够做一点象样事情的人从来不胖的！”裘丽姑太嘟起嘴；她自己一直就瘦，可是她唯一的安慰却是人瘦就可以指望自己胖一点。“我觉得，”她惋惜地说，“你不应当再让人家叫他‘海盗’了；现在他要替索米斯造房子了，顶好不要让人家觉得古怪。我真希望他注意一点；这件事对于他太重要了；索米斯很有眼光呢？”“眼光！”琼高声说，登时火冒起来；“我就不承认他这样算是有眼光，或者家里哪一个有眼光！”史木尔太太吃了一惊。“你斯悦辛爷爷，”她说，“眼光就一直很好！还有索米斯那座小房子的布置不是很雅致吗？难道说你连这个也不承认？”“哼！”琼说，“那是因为伊琳住在里面！”裘丽姑太想要说点中听的话：“伊琳住到乡下去愿意吗？”琼凝神盯着她看，那副神气就象是她自己的天良突然跃进眼睛里来似的；这神气过去了；可是代替了的却是一种更加严厉的神气，好象把自己的天良瞪得局促不安起来。她傲然说：“当然她愿意；为什么要不愿意呢？”史木尔太太慌了起来。“我不知道，”她说；“我以为她也许不愿意离开她的朋友呢。你詹姆士爷爷说她对生活不感觉兴趣。我们觉得——我是说悌摩西觉得——她应当多出去走走。我想她走了你要寂寞得多了！”琼两只手放在颈后紧紧勒着。“悌摩西爷爷，”她高声说，“顶好不要议论跟他不相干的事情！”裘丽姑太的高个子站起来，挺得笔直。钢琴教师“他从来不议论跟他不相干的事情！”她说。琼立刻变得敷衍起来；跑到裘丽姑太面前吻她一下。“对不起，姑太；可是他们最好不要管伊琳的事情。”裘丽姑太关于这件事再想不出什么适当的话来说，只好不开口。她准备走了，把黑绸披肩在胸前系好，拿起她的绿口袋：“你祖父好吗？”她在穿堂里说，“你现在全部时间都放在波辛尼先生身上，想来他一定很冷清呢。”她弯腰馋馋地吻了侄女一下，一阵碎脚步走了。眼泪涌进琼的眼眶里来，一溜烟到了小书房里；波辛尼正靠桌子坐着，在一个信封背面画着鸟儿；她在他旁边坐下，叫道：“唉，菲力！这些事情真叫人受不了！”她的心就象她头发的颜色一样热。接下去到了星期天的早晨，索米斯正在剃胡子，有人上来通报说波辛尼在楼下要见他。他打开妻子的房间说道：“波辛尼在楼下。你下去招呼一下，让我剃好胡子。我一会儿就下来。我想，大约是来谈房子图样的。”伊琳望望他，没有答话，把衣服稍稍整饰一下，就下楼去了。他弄不清楚她对这房子到底是什么想法。她从来没有说一句反对的话；至于对波辛尼，她好象还相当和气。他从自己更衣室的窗子里可以望得见他们在下面小院子里一起谈着话。他急急忙忙剃完，把下巴都割破了两处。他听见他们的笑声，自己心里想，“嗯，两个人总还合得来！”果然不出他所料，波辛尼过来就是找他去看房子图样的。他拿起帽子随他出去。图样就摊在波辛尼室内那张橡木桌子上；索米斯脸色苍白，带着一副镇定和钻研的神情，弯着腰看上大半天，一句话不说。后来他总算开口了，带着茫然的神气说：“一座很特别的房子！”是一座长方形两层的楼房，围着一个有顶篷的内院。环绕院子四周，在二楼上造了一转回廊，上面是一个玻璃顶篷，用八根柱子从地上撑起。在一个福尔赛家人的眼中看来，这的确是座特别的房子。“这里有许多地方都糟蹋掉了，”索米斯接着说。波辛尼开始踱起方步来，脸上的表情使索米斯很不喜欢。“这个房子的建筑原则，”建筑师说，“是要有地方透空气——象一个上流人士——”索米斯张开自己的食指和拇指，好象在测量他会取得的上流人士身份，答道：“哦，对了，我懂得。”波辛尼脸上显出一种特殊的神情，他的一股热劲儿算是表现在这里。“我本来打算在这里给你造一所有点气派的房子。你如果不喜欢，顶好说出来。气派的确是最最不值得考虑的事——能够多挤进一间厕所不很好，那个要讲究房子的气派呢？”他突然用指头指着中间长方形的左部：“这里比较宽敞。这是给你挂画的，可以用帘幕和院子隔开；拉开帘幕，你就可以有五十一英尺乘二十三英尺六英寸宽的地方。中间这个两面炉子——在这儿——一面朝着院子，一面朝着画室；这一面墙上全是窗子；东南面的光线从这边进来，北面的光线从院子里进来。你余下的画可以挂在楼上回廊四周，或者别的屋子里。在建筑上，”他又说下去——他虽则望着索米斯，眼睛里并没有他，这使索米斯甚为不快——“和在生活上一样，没有条理就没有气派。有人告诉你这是老式样子。反正看上去很特别；我们从来没有想到把生活上的主要原则应用到房子上去；我们在自己的房子里塞满了装饰品、烂古玩、小角落，一切使眼睛应接不暇的东西。相反地，眼睛应当休息；应当用几根强有力的线条烘托效果。整个的原则就是条理——没有条理就没有气派。”索米斯，这个不自觉的讽刺家，正盯着波辛尼的领带望，领带打得一点不直；胡子也没有剃，衣服也说不上怎么整洁。看来建筑学已经把他的生活条理耗光了。“看上去会不会象一所营房？”他问。他没有立刻得到回答。“我懂得是什么缘故了，”波辛尼说，“你要的是立都马斯特的那种房子——又好看又合用的一种，佣人住在顶楼上，前门凹下去，使你能走下去再走上来。你只管去找立都马斯特试试，你会发现他很不错，我认识他多年了！”索米斯慌起来了。这张图样的确打动他的心，不过出于本性不肯明白表示满意罢了。要他说句恭维话很不容易。他就看不起那些满口恭维的人。他发现自己正碰上一个尴尬局面，要么说一句恭维话，要么就有错过一件好东西的危险。波辛尼恰恰就是那种会一气之下把图样撕碎、拒绝替他做的人；真是一个大孩子！他觉得自己比这种大孩子气高明得多，可是这种大孩子气却在索米斯身上产生一种奇特的、几乎象催眠的效果，因为他自己从来没有这样感觉过。“嗯，”他嗫嚅说，“这——这的确是独出心裁。”他对“独出心裁”这种说的确打动他的心，不过出于本性不肯明白表示满意罢了。要他说句恭维话很不容易。他就看不起那些满口恭维的人。他发现自己正碰上一个尴尬局面，要么说一句恭维话，要么就有错过一件好东西的危险。波辛尼恰恰就是那种会一气之下把图样撕碎、拒绝替他做的人；法私下里很不信任，甚至于不喜欢，因此他觉得讲这样一句并不算是说真心话。波辛尼好象高兴起来。这类话正合这种人的口味！索米斯被自己的成功鼓舞起来。“地方——很大呢，”他说。“空间、空气、阳光，”他听见波辛尼喃喃自语，“你在立都马斯特的房子里决不能住得象个上流人士——他是替开厂的造房子的。”索米斯做了个不屑的姿势；他曾经被人看作上流人士；现在随便怎么说也不愿意被打入开厂的一流。不过他一向就不信任原则性。现在这种不信任又抬头了。空讲条理和气派有什么用？看上去这个房子一定很冷。“伊琳可受不了冷啊！”他说。“啊！”波辛尼讥讽地说。“你的太太？她不喜欢屋子冷吗？我注意一下；她决不会冷。你瞧！”他指着内院墙上隔开一定距离的四个标记。“我已经给你定制了装铝壳的热水管子；这些会给你做成很漂亮的式样。”索米斯疑虑地望着这些标记。“这些都很不错。”他说，“可是要多少钱呢？”建筑师从口袋里掏出一张纸来。“房子当然应当全用石头砌的，可是我想你不会答应，所以我勉强改用了石面和砖墙。应当是铜屋顶，可是我用了绿石板。就这样，包括金属装饰在内，还要你花八千五百镑。”“八千五百镑？”索米斯说。“怎么，我给你的最高限度是八千镑啊！”“少一个辨士也造不了，”波辛尼冷静地回答。“你要么造，要么不造！”也许这倒是跟索米斯打交道的唯一法门。他弄得进退两难。他的内心告诉自己这件事放弃算了，可是图样很好，这一点他知道——面面都想到了，而且神气；佣人间也很不错。他住在这样一所房子里会抬高身份——有这许多独有的特点，然而安排得极其妥贴。他继续研究图样，波辛尼进卧室去光脸换衣服。两人默默地走回蒙特贝里尔方场，索米斯用眼角瞄他。这“海盗”好好打扮一下倒相当漂亮——他这样想。两人进屋子时，伊琳正低着头在插花。她说派个人穿过公园把琼找来。“不要，不要，”索米斯说，“我们还有正经事要谈呢！”午饭时，他简直热诚招待，不绝地劝波辛尼加餐。他很高兴看见波辛尼这样兴高采烈，所以下午让伊琳陪他，自己仍旧按照星期日的习惯，溜上楼去看画。吃茶的时候，他又回到起坐间来，看见伊琳和波辛尼——照他自己的说法——滔滔不绝地谈着。他隐在门洞里，私下庆幸这件事情很顺手。伊琳和波辛尼合得来是一件幸事；她好象对造新房子这件事在思想上已经默许了。他在看画时静静考虑的结果使他决定万不得已时再筹出五百镑来；可是他希望波辛尼下午也许会在估价上让步一点。这件事只要波辛尼肯，是完全可以改过来的；他一定有十来种的办法可以减低造价，然而不影响效果。所以他就静等启口的机会，一直等到伊琳把第一杯茶递到建筑师手里的时候。一道阳光从帘幕花边上透进来照得她两颊红红的，在她金色的头发和温柔的眼睛里闪耀着。也许是同一的光线使波辛尼的脸色也红润了一点，在他的脸上添了一种慌张的神情。索米斯就恨阳光，所以立刻站起来把遮阳帘拉下，然后从妻子手里接过自己的茶杯，用比他原来打算的还要冷淡的口气说：“八千镑究竟能不能造得了呢？一定有很多小地方可以更动一下。”波辛尼一口把茶喝完，放下杯子，答道：“一处也不能改！”我的名字叫红索米斯看出他这样提法已经触犯了他个人虚荣里某些不可理解的部分。“哦，”他附和着说，一副废然而止的神气；“你一定要照你自己的办法，我想是。”过了几分钟，波辛尼站起身来要走，索米斯也站起来，送他出门。建筑师好象高兴得有点莫明其妙。索米斯望着他步履轻快地走去，然后闷闷地回到起坐间来；伊琳正在收拾乐谱；索米斯忽然起了一阵抑制不住的好奇心，问她道：“你觉得‘海盗’怎么样？”他眼睛望着地毯等她回答，而且等了相当一会。“不知道；”她终于说。“你觉得他漂亮吗？”伊琳笑了。索米斯觉得她在嘲笑他。“是的，”她说：“很漂亮。”

第一卷 第九章 安姑太逝世 
在九月下旬的一个早晨，安姑太再不能从史密赛儿手里接过那标志她个人尊严的假发了。他们急急忙忙把医生请来，医生看一下那张衰老的脸，就宣布福尔赛小姐已经在睡眠中故去了。裘丽和海丝特两位姑太简直震悼得不成样子。她们从来没有想到会是这样一个结局。老实说，她们很可能从来没有想到结局是必然要来的。私下里她们总觉得安姑太这样没有留一句话，没有一点儿痛苦的挣扎就离开她们，有点不近人情。这不象她的为人。也许使她们深深感触到的倒是：一个福尔赛家的人竟会对生命撒手。如果一个人会，为什么大家不会呢？她们捱了整整一个钟点才决定去告诉悌摩西。要是能够不告诉他，或者逐渐透露给他，多好！她们站在悌摩西房门外面唧哝了好久。事后，两人又在一处唧哝起来。恐怕日子久了，悌摩西会更加伤心。不过，他总算没有象意料中的那样伤心。当然，他还是不能下床！两个人分手，各自悄悄哭泣去了。修道院纪事裘丽姑太耽在自己房里，这个打击已经使她卧倒了。眼泪把脸上脂粉完全洗掉；脸上一小块一小块的驼肉，由于悲伤过度，变得肿了起来。没有了安姊，这个日子怎么过得下去呢？安姊跟她一起过了七十三年，中间只隔开短短一个时期裘丽姑太的结婚生活，这一段现在想起来简直不象是真事。每隔一会儿，她就从抽屉里紫薄荷袋下面掏出一块新手绢来。一想到安姊冷冰冰睡在那里，她的一颗温暖的心简直受不了。客厅里遮阳帘已经拉下来①；海丝特姑太独自坐着；在家里，她是个性情忍耐、沉默寡言、善于保养精神的人；开头她也哭了一会，可是悄悄地哭，而且表面也不大看得出。她的保养精神原则便在伤心时也不放弃。她坐着，身体瘦小，一动不动，打量着炉格子，两只手无所事事地放在黑绸衣的膝盖上。他们准会支配她去做些事情。好象这样有什么用处似的。再做些事情安姊也活不过来了！何必麻烦她呢？五点钟来了三位弟兄，乔里恩和詹姆士和斯悦辛；尼古拉在雅毛司，罗杰脚上风湿大发。海曼太太一个人早在白天里来过，瞻望一下遗体之后就走，留下一个条子给悌摩西——她们并没有给他看——说应当早点通知她。其实，他们全都觉得应当早点通知自己，好象错过了什么似的；詹姆士还说：“我早知道不会好了；我跟你们说过她捱不过夏天。”海丝特姑太没有回答；这时已经快十月了，可是有什么值得争辩的地方；有些人是永远不会满意的。她派人上去通知裘丽，说几个哥哥到了。史木尔太太立刻下楼来。她已经洗过脸，不过脸还肿着。斯悦辛得到消息，直接从俱乐部赶来，①西俗，家有丧事要将窗子遮上。所以穿了一条淡青裤子；史木尔太太狠狠望了斯悦辛裤子一眼，可是脸色还是比平日高兴得多；她那种闯祸的天性在这时候更加强了。五个人随即一同上楼瞻望遗体。雪白的被单下面加了一条鸭绒被，因为安姑太在这时候比平日更加需要温暖了；枕头已经拿掉，她的脊背和头部平躺着，正符合她平生那种倔强的派头；一条头巾缠着上额，两边拉下来齐着耳朵；在头巾和白被单之间露出一张几乎和被单一样白的脸，闭着眼朝着自己的弟妹；脸上神态极端静谧，也显得更加坚强；这张脸现在只剩下皮包骨头，可是一点皱纹也没有——方腮、方下巴、高颧骨、两额深陷、象雕刻出来一样的鼻子——这个不可征服的灵魂向死神投降之后遗下的堡垒，现在正盲目向上望着，好象竭力想收回那个灵魂，好重新掌握它适才放弃的保护权。斯悦辛只看了一眼，就离开房间；他后来说，那样子使他很不好受。他急急忙忙下楼，把整个房子都震得摇摇的，一把拿起帽子，爬上马车，也没有告诉马夫上哪儿去。车子把他赶到家；整整一个黄昏，他都坐在椅子上一动不动。晚饭时，他什么都吃不下，只吃点鹌鹑，和一大杯香槟酒。老乔里恩立在床下首，两手抄在前面。屋子里的人当中，他是唯一记得自己母亲死去的情景的，所以虽则眼睛望着安姑太，心里想的却是往事。安姑太是个老太婆，可是“死”终于找上了她——死要找上所有的人啊！他脸上一点不动，眼睛好象望出去很远很远。海丝特姑太站在他旁边。她现在并不哭，眼泪已经枯竭了——她的性格也不容许她再消耗一次精力，两只手盘动着，眼睛没有看着安姑太，而是左右张望，在设法避免伤神。在所有弟妹之中，詹姆士表现得最最有感情。一张瘦脸上眼泪沿着平行的皱纹滚下来；现在他去找哪一个诉苦呢？裘丽不成，海丝特更糟糕！安姊这一死比他往日想象得出的更加使他伤心；总要一连好几个星期心绪不佳。不久，海丝特姑太悄然走出去，裘丽姑太就忙起来，做些她认为“必要”的事，以至于两次撞上东西。老乔里恩正梦想着悠远的过去，这时从梦中惊醒，严厉地望了裘丽姑太一眼，就走了。只剩下詹姆士一个人站在床前；他偷偷把四面瞧一下，看见没有人注意到他，弯下自己的长个子在遗体前额上吻了一下，接着也赶快离开。在穿堂里他撞见史密赛儿，就向她问起出殡的事，看见她毫不知情，大为不满，说这些人如果再不当心，什么事都要被他们搞糟了。史密赛儿最好把索米斯先生请过来——这类事情他最在行；老爷想必很难受——要有人照应；两位姑太太全都不行——拿不出办法来！敢说她们全会病倒的。史密赛儿顶好把医生请过来；趁早吃点药。他觉得自己的安姊并没有找到好医生；如果找布兰克医生诊治，也许现在还活着呢。史密赛儿要主意时，随时都可以派人送个信到公园巷来。当然，出殡那天他的马车可以派用场。他问史密赛儿有没有一点吃的，给他一杯葡萄酒和一片饼干——他还没有吃午饭啊！出殡的前几天平静地过去了。当然，大家老早知道安姑太的少许财产是遗留给悌摩西的。因此没有一点点可以引起大惊小怪的地方。索米斯是唯一的遗嘱执行人，把一切要办的事都承揽过来，到时就向族中各个男性发出下面的讣告：——先生铁皮鼓安-福尔赛小姐之遗体将于十月一日午时安葬于高门公墓，敬请莅临。出殡马车将于十时四十五分在湾水路“巢庐”集合。鲜花谨辞。请赐复。出殡的那天早上很冷，就是伦敦常见的那种天气，高旷而阴沉。十点半的时候，第一部马车驶到，是詹姆士的。车子里面是詹姆士和他的女婿达尔第；他这女婿也算得上一表人物，阔胸脯，一件长外褂扣得紧紧的，淡黄丰满的脸，留了深黄的弯弯的两撇小胡子，和一片顽强的胡子楂，再使劲刮也刮不干净；这片胡子楂好象标出胡子主人性格上根深蒂固的一面，在做投机交易的人里面尤其显著。索米斯以遗嘱执行人的身份招待来人，因为悌摩西仍旧睡在床上；他要等出殡之后才起来；裘丽和海丝特两位姑太要等事情全部完毕之后才下楼，那时候愿意回来的人可以在这里用午饭。第二个到的是罗杰，疯湿还没有好，一拐一拐地走着，三个儿子，小罗杰，欧斯代司和汤姆士，环绕着他。余下的一个儿子乔治随后不久也雇了马车来了；他停留在穿堂里问索米斯办丧事可有油水。两个人相互都不喜欢。接着是海曼家的两位——加尔斯和吉赛——来了，穿得很考究，晚礼服的裤子特地烫出两条折印。下面老乔里恩一个人来了。下面是尼古拉，脸色健康，头和身体的每一动作都带有小心掩饰着的轻快。后面跟着一个儿子，样子很恭顺。斯悦辛和波辛尼同时到达，立在那里鞠躬如也，让对方前行，可是在进门的地方却打算并排走进去；在穿堂里，两个人又重新告罪，斯悦辛把争持中弄歪的缎衣领拉拉好，极其迂缓地走上楼梯。另外一个海曼家的人；尼古拉两个结了婚的儿子，还有狄威第曼，斯赛德，和瓦尔雷，这些都是福尔赛家和海曼家的姑爷。这时人众都已齐集，一共二十一位，除掉悌摩西和小乔里恩，族中的男子都到了。大众进了那间红绿客厅，那种色调恰好鲜明地衬出各人和往日异样的装束；每人都在局促地寻找座位，企图隐藏起自己裤子上触眼的黑色。这种黑色和手套的颜色好象有点不顺眼——一种情感的夸张。只有“海盗”没有戴手套，而且只穿了一条灰裤子；许多人都以骇异的目光向他望望，暗暗称羡。一阵低低谈话声传开来，没有人谈死者，而是在相互问讯，好象这样就是间接向死者祭奠似的；他们的光临本来就是为的这件事啊！停了一会詹姆士说：“啊，恐怕我们得动身了。”大家下了楼，按照预先通知的严格长幼次序一对一对上了马车。柩车以步行的速度出动了；马车缓缓在后面跟着。第一部马车里坐的老乔里恩和尼古拉；第二部是一对孪生弟兄，斯悦辛和詹姆士；第三部是罗杰和小罗杰；索米斯、乔治、小尼古拉和波辛尼坐的第四部。余下的车子坐了三个人或者四个人不等，一共八部车子；后面是医生的马车；再后面，隔开适当的距离，是乘载家里的管事和佣人的出租马车；最后面一部马车没有坐人，只是为了把整个行列凑成十三的数目。出殡的行列在湾水路大街上始终都保持着步行的速度，可是折入不大重要的街巷之后不久，就缓驰起来；就这样趱程前进，中间经过时髦街道时仍旧维持步行速度，直到墓地到达为止。第一部车子里面，老乔里恩和尼古拉谈着自己的遗嘱。第二部车子里面，一对孪生弟兄一度勉强交谈之后，就完全沉默下来；两个人都有点耳聋，要喊得对方听见太吃力了。詹姆士只有一次打破了沉寂：“我得往哪儿物色一块坟地去。你有什么安排没有，斯悦辛？”斯悦辛骇异地盯了他一眼，答道：“这种事情别跟我提！”在第四部车子里①，谈话断断续续在进行着，不时有人向外面张一下，看走了多少路。乔治说：“安姑老太这时候‘走’倒的确在时候上。”他就不赞成人活过七十岁。小尼古拉温和地回答，说这条规定好象在福尔赛家人身上并不适用。乔治说，他自己六十岁的时候就打算自杀。小尼古拉一面微笑，一面按按自己的长下巴，认为乔治的父亲就未必见得赞成这种说法；他六十岁后还赚了不少的钱呢。不过，七十岁是最高限度；到了那时候，乔治说，他们就应当走路，把钱留给儿子。索米斯一直都没有开口，这时也插进来；乔治刚才问他办丧事可有油水的话他还没有释怀，所以微微抬起自己厚眼皮，说这种话在从来不赚钱的人说来都很容易。他自己就预备活得越长久越好。这句话是针对乔治说的，因为他出名的穷。波辛尼心不在焉地咕着“妙，妙！”乔治打了一个呵欠，谈话就中止了。到达之后，棺柩由人抬进小教堂，送殡的人一对对跟着鱼贯而进。这一队男卫士，全都和死者有着密切的血统关系；在这座伟大的伦敦城里，这是个稀见而且动人的景象。伦敦，有着它洋溢的形形色色的生活，有着它数不尽的职业、娱乐和责任，有着它可怕的冷酷，可怕的个人主义号召。福尔赛家族的这个集会正是要征服这一切，要显示他们坚韧的团结，要光大他们这棵树所由成长的财产法则；由于这种财产法则，这棵树的树身和枝干长得欣欣向荣，枝叶纷披，全身充满着树汁，在一定时间内达到全盛时代。这个长眠的老妇人的精灵号召他们来一次示威。这是她最后一次的呼吁，呼吁他们团结，因为他们的力量就在于团结——她在这棵树还是安然无恙时逝世，正是她最后的胜利。她刚好没有能够看到它的枝干长得失去平衡，这在她总算是幸事。她没法窥见她的继承者的心理。她从一个高个子、腰杆笔挺的瘦削女子长成为一个坚强的成年妇人，再从一个成年妇人成为一个老太婆，变得瘦骨嶙峋，体力微弱，而当过去和世界接触的那种圆通全都消失以后，她就变得几乎象个女巫，个性愈来愈突出了；她一生从小到老都受的这个财产法则支配——这同一法则将在她象母亲一样看顾的族中同样支配着，而且正在支配着。她曾经看见这个家族的青春，看见它的成长；她曾经看见它壮大成熟；而在她的老眼还没有来得及或者有精力再多看一会的时候，她就死了。她很可以再多看一会儿；她也许会用她老迈的手指，她颤动的嘴唇继续保持着它的壮大和青春，哪个说得准；可是唉，便是安姑太也没法和造化抵抗啊！①原文作者错写了第三部车子，现根据上文改正。“盛极必衰！”这是造化最大的一条讽刺。福尔赛一家现在就是按照这一条规律，在他们衰落之前，集合在一起举行最后的一次盛会。他们的脸分向着左右，形成两条单人的行列，大部分都是木然望着地上，从这些脸上你决看不出各人有各人的心思；可是偶尔也会有一个仰面望望，眉心挤成一条直缝，好象在教堂的墙上看见一些使他受不了的启示，好象在留意倾听一些使他害怕的事情一样。而那些低声的应答①，同一的声调，同一的不可捉摸的那种家族情调，听上去使人毛发悚然，就仿佛是由一个人匆匆模仿着那些启示，在那里喃喃自语。小教堂里的祈祷做完了，送殡者又排队护送着遗体到坟墓那边。圹穴敞开着，在圹穴四周，许多穿黑衣的人都屏立伺候。在这片圣洁的高地上，千百个中上层人士都在长眠着；从这里，福尔赛家人的眼睛越过那片累累的冢墓朝下望去，那一边——远远现出伦敦城，上面没有太阳照着，在哀悼它丧失的女儿，跟这一家人一同哀悼他们失去的这个家族的母亲和保护人。千千万万的钟楼和第宅，裹在那片灰色的庞大财产网里显得模模糊糊，也象那些匍伏在地上祈祷的人们一样，匍伏在这座坟墓面前，这个最年长的福尔赛的坟墓。几句祷词，一抔黄土，棺柩安放下去，安姑太便得到她最后的安息！在圹穴四周，五个白发苍然的兄弟垂着头站着；他们都是死者的委托者；他们要亲眼看见安姑太走得舒舒服服的。她的少许财产只能丢下来，可是除此以外，一切能够做到的都应当做到。接着各人戴上帽子，转身来视看族人碑上新刻的墓文：安-福尔赛之墓乔里恩与安-福尔赛之女灵山一八八六年九月二十七日逝世享年八十七岁零四日也许不久又有别人须要在上面刻字了。这感觉很突兀而且令人受不了；他们始终没有想到一个福尔赛家人会死。他们全都渴望摆脱掉这种痛苦的想法，摆脱掉这个使他们想起来不好受的殡仪——赶快溜去做自己的事情，而且忘得一干二净。天气也冷；寒风象一股迟缓的摧毁的力量，向山上吹来，吹过墓地，用它冰冷的呼吸袭到他们身上；他们开始分成小组，尽快地钻进等待着的马车。斯悦辛说他想回悌摩西家去吃午饭，哪个要去的，他的马车可以带他。斯悦辛的马车并不大，跟他坐一部马车并不使大家觉得是一种优待；没有人接受，所以他一个人走了。詹姆士和罗杰紧接着也走了；两个人也要去吃午饭。余下的人慢慢散了，老乔里恩带了三个侄儿把马车坐得满满的；他需要看见这些年轻的脸。索米斯跟公墓办事处还有点零碎事情要办，所以带着波辛尼走了。他有很多的话要跟波辛尼谈；事情办完之后，两人漫步走到汉普斯泰，一同在西班牙人酒店用午膳，花了很长的时间研究跟造房子有关的细节；然后走到电车站，坐电车到马波门下车，波辛尼从这儿上斯丹奴普①这是指牧师在做祈祷，大家跟着他说。门看琼去了。索米斯到家的时候，心绪非常之好，晚饭时跟伊琳说他跟波辛尼谈了很久，这人好象实在是个懂事情的人；他们还走了一大段路，痛快之至，对他的肝脏也好——他好久没有运动了——整个说来，这一天过得极其满意。如果不是因为安姑太的缘故，他就会带她上戏院去；现在只好耽在家里消磨这个夜晚了。“‘海盗’屡次问起你，”他忽然说。忽然来了一个莫明其妙的念头，要表明他的主子身份，他从椅子上站起来在自己妻子肩头上吻了一下。

第二卷 第一章 房子动工以后 
那年冬天很暖和。市面甚形萧条；正如索米斯在决定之前所想的那样，这一向正是造房子的好机会。所以到了四月底，罗宾山那边房子的外壳已经完成了。现在他花的钱总算有点东西看得见了，所以一个星期里面他总要有一两次，甚至三次下乡来，总要在石头木屑中间张望上几个钟点，同时留心不弄脏衣服，或者在没有完工的门框里默默走动，或者绕着内院里那些大柱子兜圈子。他时常要在这些东西面前站上好多分钟，就象是仔细察看这些材料的实质似的。四月三十日那一天，他跟波辛尼约好看一下账目；在靠近那棵老橡树的地方，波辛尼替自己竖了一个小帐篷；离约定时间还差五分钟，索米斯便走进去。账目早已准备好放在一张可以折起的桌子上，索米斯点一下头就坐下看账。有好一会他才抬起头来。“我弄不懂，”他总算开口了；“这些账差不多要比原来规定的超出七百镑来？”他在波辛尼脸上瞄了一眼，赶快又说：“你只要跟这些工匠坚决不松口，他们的价钱就会下来。你要是不精明的话，他们就给你来上种种花样。你在各方面都打个九折。多出个一百来镑我倒还无所谓！”波辛尼摇摇头：女士及众生相“我能够省一个铜子的地方都省掉了！”索米斯忿然一下把桌子推开，震得账单纷纷落在地上。“那么老实不客气讲，”他怒冲冲说，“你把事情搞得一团糟！”“我跟你讲过总有十次以上，”波辛尼厉声回答，“额外的花费总要有的。我屡次三番指给你看过！”“这我知道，”索米斯咆哮说；“偶尔在哪儿多用上个十镑我是不反对的。我怎么会知道你说的‘额外花费’会到七百镑呢？”这次闹翻脸跟两个人的性格不无关系。建筑师这方面由于忠实于自己的理想，忠实于自己所创造、所信仰的这所房子的形象，弄得深怕受到障碍，或者逼得因陋就简；索米斯那方面也同样忠实于自己的理想，而且满心指望这笔钱可以买到最好的东西，要说十三个先令的东西用十二先令买不到，他是坚决不相信的。“你这房子我真懊悔接手，”波辛尼忽然说。“你下来把我头都闹昏了。人家一个钱买一个，你要买两个，现在你造的这所房子就大小来讲在乡下就没有比得上的，然而你不肯出钱。你如果愿意解约的话，我敢说这一点超出的数目我还赔得起，不过要我再替你动一下手，那我就是妈的——！”索米斯重又镇定下来。他知道波辛尼没有本钱，这句话不过是一时气愤说出的。他也看出，这一来他就会无限期地进不了这所他心爱的房子，而且正在紧要关头，这时候建筑师肯不肯多花点心思跟工程的好坏大有关系。同时，也要顾到伊琳！她最近变得很特别。他深深觉得伊琳所以对造房子还容忍得了全是因为她喜欢波辛尼的缘故。跟她再公开闹翻可不是玩意儿。“你不用这样发火呀，”他说。“只要我肯认这笔账，我看就用不着你来叫嚷。我不过是说，既然你告诉我这房子要花这么多钱，我就得——嗯，事实上，我——我就得肚里有点数。”“你听着！”波辛尼说。索米斯看见他那种狡狯的眼色又是气又是诧异。“我替你做这勾当太便宜你了。我在这所房子上费了那么大的事，花了那么多的时间，要是换上立都马斯特或者别的浑蛋的话，就要你四倍的价钱。事实上，你指望的是以四等的价钱找一个头等的人才，我恰恰就是你找到的那种人！”索米斯看出这的确是由衷之言，所以虽则自己很生气，却清楚看出闹翻之后只有对自己不利；房子完不了工，老婆发脾气，自己成为笑柄。“我们再看看，”他愠然说，“到底钱用到哪里去了。”“很好，”波辛尼同意说。“可是得快一点，你如果不见气的话。我得赶回去带琼看戏去。”索米斯偷眼瞧他一下，说：“上我们那儿和她碰头吗，我想是？”他总是上他们那儿碰头！昨天夜里下了雨——一场春雨，地上发出一阵阵青草香。和暖的风摇荡着老橡树的叶子和金黄花朵；山乌在阳光里面尽情地叫唤。就是这样一个春天日子在人们心里引起一种莫名的思慕，一种痛苦的甜蜜，一种渴望——使他站着一动不动望着树叶子或者青草，张开两臂去拥抱那他自己也不知道的什么。大地发出一阵迷醉的温暖，透过冬天给她穿上的寒冷服装。这是她修长的爱情的手指向人们发出的邀请，拉人们躺在她的怀抱里，在她身上打滚，用嘴唇去吻她的胸脯。索米斯就是在这样一个明媚的日子里求得伊琳答应他的婚事；他求婚已经有好多次了。当时，他坐在一株倒地的树身上，第二十次答应她，如果婚后不圆满，她仍可以自由行动，就跟从没有结过婚一样。“你肯发誓吗？”她当时说过。还不过几天前头，她曾向索米斯提起那个誓言。他回答：“胡说！我决不可能发过这样的誓！”现在偏偏不凑巧被他想起来了。真怪，男人为了追求女人竟会发这样的誓！为了得到她，他不论在什么时候都会发这种誓！现在，只要能够打动她的话，他也会发誓——不过没有人能够打动她，她是个冷心肠的女人！随着春风清芬的气息涌起一大串回忆——他求爱时期的回忆。一八八一年春天，他去看望自己的老同学和当事人，乔治-列佛赛基；列佛赛基原籍是布兰克生姆，为了要发展自己在朋茅斯附近的松林，就必须成立公司，这件事他交给索米斯全权去办。列佛赛基太太很识大体，举行了一个音乐茶会来款待他。索米斯原不是音乐家，对这种招待实在腻味透顶；音乐快要完毕时，被他瞧见一个穿孝服的女郎独自一个人站着。他穿一件稀薄的、紧贴着身体的黑衣服，衬出一个高高的略嫌瘦削的身材，两只戴了黑手套的手交叉着，嘴唇微启，深褐色的大眼睛把一张张的脸挨次地望过来；她的头发低到颈子，在黑衣领上面象一圈圈亮金属放着光。当索米斯站在那里望着她时，不由得感到一种多数男子时常会感到的那种心情——一种特殊的通过感官的满足，非常肯定，这在小说家和年老的女人就唤作一见钟情。索米斯一面偷眼瞧着这女郎，一面即刻向女主人那边走去，一个劲儿地站着等候音乐停下来。“那个黄头发褐色眼睛的女子是谁？”他问。“那个——哦！是伊琳-海隆。她父亲海隆教授，今年过世了。现在跟她的后母住。人不坏，长得漂亮，可是没有钱！”“请替我介绍一下，”索米斯说。万延元年的足球队他找不到什么话可谈，便是谈的那几句话她也很少答腔。可是临走时，他已经打定主意再要和她碰头。也是机缘凑巧，这目的竟而被他达到；原来伊琳的后母中午十二点到一点常到海滨道上去散步，母女两个就在海滨道上被他碰见。索米斯手段敏捷，立刻就和这位后母结识上了，而且不消多久就看出她正是自己所要物色的一个帮手。他对家庭生活的经济方面本来感觉敏锐，不久就看出这位后母在伊琳身上花的钱要超出伊琳缴给她一年五十镑的津贴；他并且看出海隆太太年纪并不大，自己也想重新嫁人。这个继女长得这样异乎寻常的美，而且正是xx瓜年纪，大大妨碍她成其好事。所以索米斯便处心积虑，定下自己的策略。他一点没有表示就离开朋茅斯；一个月后回来了，这一次并没有问女儿，而是跟继母谈了自己的心事。他说自己已经下了决心，不管等多久都行。而他的确等了很久，眼看着伊琳象一朵鲜花开出的身条由瘦削变得丰腴，刚盛的血液使她的眼神更加深郁，使她的脸色添上一层红润。每次去探望，他都向她求一次婚，每次探望完毕，他都遭到她的拒绝，满心创楚地回到伦敦来，可是象坟墓一样坚定，一样沉寂。他想法子探寻她抗拒的内在根源；只有一次被他发现一点头绪。那是在一次公开舞会上——在这些海滨水乡，男女之间唯一可以通款曲的便是举行公开舞会。他和伊琳坐在靠窗的密座里，华尔滋舞曲弄得他心荡神移。她轻摆着手中折扇，半遮着脸，望着他；他情不自禁，一把抓着她摇动的手腕，吻了她臂上的香肌。她打了一个寒噤——这个寒噤使他一直到今天都没有能够忘怀，也没有忘掉她当时对待他的那种万分厌恶的神色。一年后她屈服了。是什么缘故使她屈服他永远也弄不明白；海隆太太又是个相当世故的女子，所以从她那里也打听不到一点。结婚之后，他有一次问到她，“你是什么原因拒绝我那么多次？”她回答他的只是一种古怪的沉默。从他第一天看见她起，她在他眼中就是个谜，直到今天她仍旧是个谜.波辛尼在院子门口等着他；瘦瘠而漂亮的脸上现出一种古怪的渴望然而是快乐的神情，好象在春天的天空里，望见了幸福的预兆，在春天的空气里也嗅到幸福的来临似的。索米斯望着他在那里等候。这家伙快活成这个样子是什么道理？看他嘴角上和眼睛里那种笑意，他在盼望着什么呢？索米斯简直看不出波辛尼站在那里饱吸着充满花香的春风是在等待着什么，重又在这个他在习惯上鄙视的人面前感到着恼了。他赶快走进房子。“那些瓦的唯一颜色，”他听见波辛尼说，“是紫红夹上一点灰色，使它产生一种透明的效果。我很想问问伊琳的意见。通往这院子的门我已经定做了紫皮的门帘；你如果把客厅的墙壁糊成乳白色，望上去就会有一种幻境的感觉。你得在全部装修上着眼于托出我所谓的迷人力量！”索米斯说：“你的意思是说我的妻子迷人。”波辛尼避而不答。“在院子中间你应当种一丛鸢尾草之类。”索米斯傲慢地笑了。“哪一天我上毕几花店去看看，”他说，“看有什么合适的！”两个人之间更没有什么话可说，可是上车站去的路上，索米斯问道：“你大概觉得我的妻子很有艺术眼光吧？”“是的。”这句没头没脑的回答显然是给他一个钉子碰，那意思等于说：“你如果想谈论她的事情，可以找别人去谈！”这一下索米斯整个下午闷在肚子里的怨气又火冒起来。两人一路上再没有说什么；快到车站时，索米斯问：“你指望几时完工？”“六月底，如果你要我连内部装修也包下来的话。”索米斯点点头。“可是你总该明白，”他说，“我在这房子上花的钱远远超出原来的预算。不过我一向决心做一件事决不半途而废，否则的话，老实跟你说，我早就会洗手不干了！”波辛尼没有答话。索米斯斜睨了他一眼，显出极端厌恶的神气——原来索米斯虽则态度严峻，而且那样傲慢地、妄自尊大地沉默，他那紧闭的嘴唇和方下巴望上去和一头英国叭喇狗仍旧不无相似之处.那天晚上七点钟，琼到达蒙特贝里尔方场六十二号时，女仆贝儿生告诉她，波辛尼先生在客厅里；太太——她说——在楼上装扮，就下楼来。她上去告诉她琼小姐来了。琼当时拦着她。“好的，贝儿生，我进去好了。你不用去催太太。”她脱下外套来；贝儿生带着会意的神色，连客厅的门也不替她开，就溜下去了。那张放地毯的橡木橱上有一面老式小镜子，她在镜子前面停了一会，望望自己——一个苗条而倔强的少女身材，一张坚定的小脸，穿一件白衣服，领口开成圆的，颈子很瘦，好象经不起那一头金红的鬈发似的。她轻轻打开客厅的门，打算吓波辛尼一下。客厅里充满杜鹃花的浓香。她深深呼吸一下香气，听到波辛尼讲话的声音，不在屋子里，可是很近；他说：“啊！我有一大堆事情要谈，现在我们可没有时间了！”伊琳的声音说：“不会吃晚饭的时候谈吗？”“怎么能够谈——”琼开头想要走开，结果不但没有走，反而向对面朝着小院子的那扇落地窗走去；窗子开着，杜鹃花的香气就是从这里进来的；院子里站着她的情人和伊琳，背朝着这边，两张脸藏在绯黄的花丛里。琼默不作声，但也不感到可耻；她两颊飞红，怒目瞧着。“星期天你一个人来——我们可以一同把全部房子逛一下——”琼望见伊琳隔着一片花丛抬头望他。那神气并不是卖弄风情，而是——在琼的眼中看来，还要糟糕得多——深怕把自己内心的感情形之于色。“我已经答应斯悦辛叔叔星期天跟他出去了。”“那个胖子吗！就叫他带你去；不过十英里路——他的马正好跑得了。”“可怜的老斯悦辛叔叔！”个人的体验迎面送来一阵杜鹃花香，熏得琼头晕欲呕。“你一准去！啊！一准去！”“可是为什么呢？”“我一定要在那边见到你——我觉得你会帮我——”回答的声音在琼听来好象很轻；在花间起了一阵颤动：“我是会的！”琼从窗口走到外面。“这儿多闷气呀！”她说；“这种香味我简直受不了！”她一双眼睛带着怒意正视着，把两张脸都扫一下。“你们是在谈房子吗？要晓得我还没有看见呢——我们星期天一起下去好吗？”伊琳的脸红了起来。“那天我要跟斯悦辛叔叔出城去呢，”她答。“斯悦辛爷爷！他有什么关系？你可以扔掉他！”“我向来不喜欢扔掉哪一个！”一串脚步声：琼看见索米斯就站在她身后。“如果你们都预备吃晚饭的话，”伊琳说，带着异样的微笑把琼和索米斯挨次看一下，“晚饭已经预备好了！”

第二卷 第二章 如此良宵 
晚饭在沉默中开始；两个女子对面坐，两个男子亦然。在沉默中，一道汤吃完了——美得很，不过稍嫌稠一点；鱼送上来。在沉默中递给各人。波辛尼冒昧说了一句：“今天第一天象春天。”伊琳轻声附和说：“是的——第一天象春天。”“春天！”琼说：“闷气得连个风丝都没有！”没有人答话。鱼撤去了，可惜了一盆杜弗的新鲜板鱼。贝儿生送上香槟酒，瓶颈满是白酒沫。索米斯说：“你们会觉得酒味很正。”千只鹤稚鸡上来，每一块鸡腿子都用淡红皱纸裹着。琼不要吃，座上又沉默下来。索米斯说：“你还是要一块罢，琼，下面没有菜了。”可是琼仍旧不肯要；稚鸡拿开了。后来伊琳问：“菲力，你听见过我的山乌叫么？”波辛尼答：“当然听到——它唱的一只猎歌。我走过来时，在方场那边听见。”“它真是个宝贝！”“色拉要吗，老爷？”稚鸡撤去了。可是索米斯正在说话：“芦笋很糟。波辛尼，来一杯雪利酒跟甜食一齐吃？琼，你简直不喝酒！”琼说：“你知道我从来不喝。酒真是难吃的东西！”银盆盛了苹果饼上来。伊琳笑着说：“今年的杜鹃花开得太好了！”波辛尼接着这句话咕了一声：“太好了！特别的香！”琼说：“你怎么可以喜欢这种香味？糖，贝儿生。”糖递了给她，索米斯说：“这苹果饼不错！”苹果饼撤去了。接着是长长一段沉默。伊琳招招手，说：“把这杜鹃花拿出去，贝儿生，琼小姐受不了这香味。”“不要。放在这里，”琼说。法国橄榄和俄国鱼子酱盛在小碟子里端上来。索米斯说：“为什么没有西班牙橄榄呢？”可是没有人回答。橄榄撤去了。琼端起玻璃杯，说：“请给我一点水。”水拿了给她。送上来一个银盆，盛的德国李子。有好半天大家没有作声，全在一个动作吃李子。波辛尼把李核数起来：“今年——明年——等些时——”伊琳轻轻替他说完：“永远不会。今天的晚霞灿烂极了。天上现在还烧得通红的——太美了！”波辛尼答：“就在黑夜下面。”两个人的目光碰上，琼不屑地高声说：“伦敦的晚霞！”埃及烟盛在银盒子里送了过来。索米斯取了一支说：“你们的戏几时开场？”没有人回答，景泰蓝杯子盛着土耳其咖啡随着上来。伊琳浅笑着说：“要是能够——”“能够什么？”琼说。古都“要是能够永远是春天多好！”白兰地端上来；颜色又淡又陈。索米斯说：“波辛尼，来点白兰地。”波辛尼饮了一杯；大家全站起来。“你们要叫部马车吗？”索米斯问。琼回说：“不要。请你把我的外套拿来，贝儿生。”外套给她拿来了。伊琳从窗子口喃喃地说：“这样可爱的晚上！星儿都出来了！”索米斯接上：“希望你们两个玩得开心。”琼在门口回答：“多谢。来，菲力。”波辛尼叫：“我来了。”索米斯傲慢地笑了一笑说：“祝你好运！”在门口，伊琳望着他们走了。波辛尼叫：“晚安！”“晚安！”她轻轻地说.琼要她的爱人带自己上公共马车的上层去坐，说她要透空气；她不作声坐在上面，脸迎着风。赶车的有一两次回过头来，打算冒昧说句话，可是想想还是没有说。好一对活泼的情人！春天也钻进他的血液来了；他觉得须要一吐胸中的浊气，所以舌头咯咯作响，挥着鞭子，兜转着双马；连两匹马，可怜的东西，也闻到春天的气息，有这么短短的半小时在石板路上踏着轻快的蹄子。全城洋溢着生机；树木的枝条上面点缀一串串幼叶子，向上翘起，在等待春风带给它们什么恩泽。新点上的街灯越来越亮，强烈的光线把人群的脸照成灰白；高高在头上，大片的白云迅速地、轻盈地，驶过暗紫色天空。穿着晚礼服的人们已经敞开大衣，步履轻快地拾上俱乐部的台阶；做工的人在街上徘徊着；女人——那些在晚上这时特别孤单的女人——孤单单一个人成串地向东走去——轻摇慢摆地走着，举止上带着企望，梦想着好酒和一顿好晚饭，或者偶然有这么一分钟，梦想着出于爱情的接吻。这些无穷尽的人，在街灯和移动着的天空下面各自走各的路，全都没有例外地从春气的动荡中感到某种幸福的鼓舞；就象那些敞开大衣的俱乐部会员一样，全都没有例外地摆脱掉一些自己的阶级、信条和习尚，或是歪戴着帽子，或是步履轻快地走着，或是嬉笑，或是沉默，从这些上面表现出他们在苍天的热情笼罩下都是同类。波辛尼和琼默默走进戏院，爬上自己后楼座的座位。戏刚才开始，半明半暗的场子里，一排排的人全向一个方向注视着，望去就象一个大花园里许多花开向着太阳。琼从来没有坐过楼上后座。从十五岁起，她经常都是陪自己祖父坐的正厅，而且不是普通的正厅，是最好的座位，靠中间第三排；老乔里恩好几天前，从商业区回来，就向葛罗甘一包因票店定下了；他把戏票藏在大衣口袋里，和自己的雪茄烟匣和旧羊皮手套放在一起，交给琼留到当天晚上才取出来。祖孙两个就这样坐在前排——一个是腰杆笔挺的老头儿，一头修整的白发，一个是瘦小的身材，精力充足，心痒痒地，金红色的头发——把什么戏都看个饱；回家的路上，老乔里恩常会讲起那个演主角的：“啊，他不行得很！你要是看过小包布生就知道了！”琼本来满心欢喜地盼望着今天晚上；这是偷来的，没有长辈率领着，斯丹奴普门那边做梦也不会想到，还当作她在索米斯家里呢。她这次扯谎原是为了自己的情人的缘故，所以指望得到报酬；她指望这样一来可以冲破绵密寒冷的云层，使两人之间的关系——近来是那样令人迷惑不解，那样痛苦——重又恢复冬天以前的晴朗和单纯。她这次出来有心要谈些体己的话；她眼望着戏台，眉心里皱成一条缝，什么也看不见，两只手放在膝上紧紧勒着；心里面疑妒交集，象无数蜜蜂频频刺痛着她。波辛尼有否体贴到她的苦衷，很难说，总之他一点没有表示。幕下。第一场戏完了。“这儿太热！”姑娘说；“我想出去一下。”她脸色惨白，而且知道——这样神经一刺激，她什么都看出来了——他在感到不安和内疚。戏院后面有一座临街的凉台；她跑到凉台上去，凭栏不语，等他开口。终于她再也忍不住了。“我有句话要跟你说，菲力，”她说。“是吗？”他的声音里那种防范口气引得她两颊飞红起来，不由得脱口而出：“你简直不给我机会跟你亲热；你有好久好久没有这样了！”波辛尼瞠眼望着下面的街道。他没有回答。琼激动地说：“你知道我要为你尽我的一切——我要成为你的一切——”街上升起一片嗡嗡声，又被一声尖锐的“叮叮”声刺破：启幕的铃子响了。琼没有动。她心里正在绝望地挣扎着。她要不要把话全说出来呢？她要不要直接向那个力量，那个把他从她身边拉走的诱惑挑战呢？她天性本来好斗，所以她说：“菲力，星期天带我去看那个房子！”她嘴边带着颤抖而间歇的微笑，而且竭力——多么吃力啊——不显出自己在留意看他，搜索着他脸上的表情，看见那张脸踌躇、迟疑，看见他眉心蹙成一条缝，脸涨得通红。他回答：“星期天不行，亲爱的；改一天！”“为什么星期天不行？星期天我又不会碍事的。”他显得很是为难，勉强说道：“我有个约会。”“你打算带——”他眼睛里显出怒意；耸耸肩答道：“有个约会，所以没法子带你去看房子！”琼把自己的嘴唇咬得血都出来，一句话不说回到位子上，可是又气又愤，不由得眼泪直流。幸亏场子里这时已经熄灯，救过这一关，没有人瞧见她的狼狈情形。然而在这个福尔赛的世界里，一个人切莫要以为逃得了旁观者的眼睛。就在后面第三排，尼古拉最小的女儿尤菲米雅和她出嫁的姊姊第维地曼太太都在留神看着。她们到了悌摩西家里，就告诉大家在戏院里看见琼和她未婚夫的事情。“坐的正厅吗？”“不是，不是坐——”“哦，是楼上包厢，当然了。这在年轻人里面近来好象很时髦呢？”嗯，也不能算是包厢。是坐的——。总之，这种订婚不会长久的。她们从来没有看见一个人的样子象小琼那么气急败坏的！她们眼睛里噙着快乐的眼泪，详述琼在一幕戏演了一半时回到座位上来，怎样踢了一下人家的帽子，那个人怎样一副脸孔。尤菲米雅有名会笑不出声，最使人失望的是笑到末尾能发出一阵尖叫；这一天当史木尔太太听了这番话，双手举起来说：“天呀！踢了人家帽子吗？”尤菲米雅竟发出无数若干的尖叫来，使得人家用了嗅盐才使她清醒过来。她临走时，还跟第维地曼太太说：“‘踢了人家帽子！’啊！真把我笑死了。”拿“小琼”来说，那天晚上本来应该好好乐一下，然而却从来没有那样的败兴而回。真亏她竭力压制着心中的愤激、猜疑和妒忌！她和波辛尼在老乔里恩的门口分手，总算没有丢脸哭了出来；她一定要收服自己的爱人，是这种强烈的心情撑持着她，直到听见波辛尼离去的足声才使她真正恍悟到自己苦痛的程度。那个不声不响的“山基”来给她开门。她本想悄悄溜上楼到卧室去，可是老乔里恩听见她进来的声音，已经站在餐室门口。“进来吃你的牛奶，”他说。“给你炖着呢。很晚了。你上哪儿去的呢？”琼靠壁炉站着，一只脚踏在炭栏上，一只胳臂搭着炉板，就象她祖父那天晚上看了歌剧回来那样的做法。她已经快要垮了，所以告诉他丝毫不在乎。“我们在索米斯家里吃晚饭。”“哼！那个有产业的人！他妻子在吗——还有波辛尼？”“对了。”癌症楼老乔里恩眼睛盯着她望，在他尖锐的目光下，你休想掩饰起什么；可是她并没有望着他；当她回过脸时，老乔里恩立刻停止打量。他已经看出不少，看出太多了。他弯下腰去从炉边给她拿起那杯牛奶，自己回过身去，叽咕道：“你不应在外面耽这么晚；要把你的身体毁掉。”他这时把脸藏在报纸后面，故意把报纸弄得多响的；可是当琼上前吻他时，他说：“睡罢，孩子，”声音微颤而且出乎意料地温存，琼几乎忍不住了，赶快出了餐室回到自己房里，哭了一个通宵。门关上时，老乔里恩丢下报纸，两眼笔直，焦灼地瞪了半天。“这个混蛋！”他心里说。“我一直就知道她会和他闹不好！”他脑子里挤满了疑虑和不安；更由于感觉到自己对事情的发展无能为力，既不能制止，又不能控制，这种疑虑和不安就越发显得强烈。这家伙会不会扔掉她呢？他真想去找到他，跟他说：“你听着，先生！你打算扔掉我的孙女吗？”可是他怎么能去呢？他知道得太少了，或者简直不知道什么；然而以他的机智，敢说没有看错，肯定有事情。他疑惑波辛尼在蒙特贝里尔方场走动得太勤了。“这个家伙，”他想，“也许不是个坏蛋；一张脸也不是个坏人的样子，可是古怪得很。我就弄不清他是怎样一种人。我永远弄不清他是怎样一种人！人家告诉我，他工作得象一条牛，可是我看不出这有什么好处。他不切实际，工作没有条理。上这儿来，就象一只猴子坐在那里闷声不响。我问他喝什么酒，他总说：‘谢谢，随便什么酒。’我请他抽雪茄，他抽起来就好象抽两个辨士一支的德国雪茄一样，全不领略。我从来没有看见他看着琼的时候眼睛有那一点点情意；然而，他又不是追她的钱。只要琼有一点点表示，他第二天就会跟她解约。可是琼不肯——琼决不肯！她要钉着他！她就象命运一样执拗——决不肯放手！”老乔里恩深深叹口气，翻过报纸；也许碰巧在报栏里他能找到些安慰。楼上，琼站在自己卧室窗子口；春风在公园陶醉一番之后，从窗口进来吹凉她火热的面颊，可是却燃烧着她的胸膛。

第二卷 第三章 跟斯悦辛出游 
一个有名的老中学的唱歌课本里有一首歌，其中两行是这样写的：他的蓝长褂上的纽子多亮啊，达啦啦！他歌唱得多么美妙啊，就象只鸟儿.斯悦辛从海德公园大厦出来，打量着停在门口的两匹马时，并不完全象一只鸟儿唱着，可是心里真想哼一只歌。那天下午天气非常清和，就和六月里一样；斯悦辛事先派阿道尔夫下楼看了三次，究竟有没有一丝寒峭；肯定没有之后，才穿上一件蓝色的大礼服，连大衣都没有穿，这一来就完全象歌里那只鸟儿；长服紧紧裹着他风度翩翩的身材，就算纽子不亮，也就敷衍得过去了。他魁然站在人行道上，戴上狗皮手套；头上一顶大喇叭帽子，魁梧的身材，样子非常粗野，简直不象一个福尔赛家的人。密密一头白发，被阿道尔夫给他搽上一点头油，散发着镇定剂和雪茄的香味——雪茄是有名的斯悦辛牌子，每一百支花了他一百四十先令，可是老乔里恩忍心害理地说，这种雪茄送他抽他也不要抽；抽起来就象草！.“阿道尔夫！”“老爷！”婚姻与道德“新格子呢毯拿来！”这个家伙你再教他也漂亮不了；敢说索米斯的媳妇眼力很不差呢！“把车篷放下来；我要请一位——女太太——坐车子呢！”一个漂亮女子总要露一露自己的服装；而且，哼——他要跟一位女子同车啊！这就象已往的好日子又重新开始似的。他有好久好久没有和一位女子一同坐马车出城了。最后一次，据他想得起来的，是同裘丽一起出去；那个老废料自始至终就象只老鼠一样害怕，气得他简直冒火，到了湾水路送她下车时，他曾经说过：“我再带你出去就是个浑——！”他果真没有再带她出去，决不来！他走到马头跟前，检查一下衔铁；这并不是说他在这上面是个内行——他付给马夫六十镑一年还要他代替做马夫的事情，这决不是他的为人。老实说，他虽则以爱马著名，主要还是因为有一次在大赛马的日子被几个马场赌棍骗了钱。可是俱乐部有人看见他驾着自己两匹灰色马到俱乐部门口——他总是驾灰色马，有人认为同样花钱，但是神气得多——曾经替他起过一个名字，叫“四马手福尔赛”。这个绰号是老乔里恩死去的同伙，那个尼古拉-特里夫莱传到他耳朵里的；特里夫莱是个大骑术家，他驾马车有名的会闯祸，在国内可算数一数二；从此以后，斯悦辛就觉得总要配得上这个称号才是。这个绰号使他甚为中意，并不是因为他曾经驾过四匹马的马车，或者可能有一天这样，而是因为听上去很神气。四马手福尔赛！不坏！可惜自己出世太早，没有选个好的职业。如果晚二十年来到伦敦，他准会变做个证券经纪人，可是在当时他须要就业时，这个伟大职业还没有成为中上层阶级的主要荣誉。他事实上是被逼进拍卖行的。斯悦辛坐上驾驶座位，由人把缰绳递在他手里；阳光整个照上他苍白衰老的面颊，他眯着眼睛缓缓向周围顾盼一下。阿道尔夫已经坐在后面；戴了帽章的马夫靠着马头立定等待放辔；一切停当，只等号令。斯悦辛当时一声令下，车身向前冲去，转眼之间，车轮辘辘一声，鞭子一扬，已经停在索米斯家门口了。伊琳即时出来，上了车——事后斯悦辛在悌摩西家里形容她的动作“就象，呃，达基梨娥妮①一样轻盈，毫不麻烦你，一点不要这个、要那个的；”尤其是，“一点不害怕成那副鬼相！”斯悦辛着力形容这一点，瞪眼望着史木尔太太，弄得她甚为难堪。他向海丝特姑太描写伊琳的帽子。“全不是你那种拍拍拍的东西，张得多大的而且惹上尘土——近来女人就喜欢戴这种东西；她戴的是一顶小巧玲珑的——”说时用手划一个圆圈，“白面纱——文雅极了。”“是什么做的呢？”海丝特姑太问；她只要有人提到服装都要显出一种懒洋洋然而始终如一的兴奋。“什么做的？”斯悦辛回答；“你说我怎么会知道？”他忽然变得闷声不响，使海丝特都害怕起来，当作他晕过去了。她也没有打算摇醒他，她不习惯这样做。“顶好能有个人来，”她肚里说；“他这副模样有点儿难看！”可是突然间斯悦辛又活过来。“什么做的？”他徐徐喘气说，“应当是什么做的呢？”***他们的马车驶了还不到四英里远，斯悦辛就有个印象，觉得伊琳喜欢和他出游。一张脸罩着白面纱显得非常柔和，深褐色的眼睛在春天的阳光中发着亮光，不论什么时候斯悦辛跟她说话，她都抬起眼睛向他微笑。星期六早上索米斯看见伊琳坐在书桌那儿写一张便条给斯悦辛，回他不去了。为什么要回绝斯悦辛呢？他问。她自己娘家人她高兴回绝就回绝，他家里的人可不容她回绝！当时她凝神望着他，把便条撕掉，说了一声：“好罢！”随即她另外写了一张。他停了一会，随便张了一眼，看见便条是写给波辛尼的。“你写信给他做什么？”他问。伊琳仍旧是那样凝神地望着他，静静地说：“他托我替他办的一点事情！”“哼！”索米斯说。“托你办事！你如果搞起这种事情来，你可有得事情做呢！”他没有再说什么。斯悦辛听说上罗宾山去，惊得眼睛睁了多大；路程太远，他的马跑不了，而且他总是七点半到俱乐部，在客人开始涌到之前用饭；那个新厨师碰到人吃早晚饭总要多花点心思在上面——这个懒虫！可是，他也愿意看看那所房子。谈到房子，福尔赛家随便哪一个人都喜欢；对于一个在拍卖行做过的人，尤其喜欢。这段路究竟不能算远。当他年纪较轻的时候，他有好多年都在里希蒙租房子住，马车和马都放在那边，天天坐着马车上来下去，终年如此。他们喊他做四马手福尔赛！①马丽亚-达基梨娥妮（1804—884），欧洲有名的芭蕾舞家。他的T式马车和他的两匹马从海德公园三角场到公卿饭店都传遍了。这两匹马某公爵曾经想挖他的，愿意出他双倍的价钱，可是他不让；有了好东西，自己要懂得宝贵，可不是？他一张剃光了的衰老的方脸上显出一种不可思议的庄严而骄傲的神情来，头在竖领子里扭动着，就象一只火鸡在那里剔羽修翎。她实在是个可爱的女子！事后他向裘丽姑太把她穿的衣服叙述得淋漓尽致，听得裘丽姑太双手都举了起来。象皮肤一样裹着她身体——绷得象一面鼓一样；他就是喜欢这样的衣服，一套头，全然不是那种“憔悴可怜”骨瘦如柴的女人！他盯着史木尔太太望，原来史木尔太太跟詹姆士是一个身形——又长又瘦。“她有一种风度，”他往下说，“足可配得上一个皇帝！而且她又是那样安静！”“总之，她好象把你完全降伏了似的，”海丝特姑太坐在角落里慢声慢气说。斯悦辛在有人攻击他时听得特别清楚。“什么？”他说。“一个美—人，在我眼睛里决计逃不了，可惜的是，我就说不出我们这儿有哪个年轻小伙子配得她的；也许—你—说得出—吗，也许—你—说得出！”“噢？”海丝特姑太咕了一声，“你问裘丽！”可是远在他们抵达罗宾山之前，他已经瞌睡到了极顶，原因是他并不习惯这样出来透空气；他闭目赶着车子，全亏得他这一生在礼貌上的训练，使他那肥硕的身躯没有栽了下来。波辛尼本来在探望着，这时出来迎接他们；三个人一同走进房子；斯悦辛前行，舞弄着一根粗大的镶金手杖；他在座位上坐着不动太久了，两只膝盖早吃不消，所以阿道尔夫早就把手杖递在他手里。他把皮大衣也穿起来，好抵御空房子里的过堂风。楼梯漂亮，他认为。气派豪华！楼梯上要摆点雕像才对！走到通往内院门口那些大柱子中间时，他停了下来，带着询问的样子用手杖指指。这算是什么呢——这个堂屋，或者——反正不管叫它什么？可是瞠眼望望头上的天窗时，他神悟出来了。“哦！弹子房！”鼠疫待得人告诉他这里将是一处内院，地上铺砖，中间还要种花草，他转身向伊琳说：“种花草太糟蹋了？你听我的话，在这里放一只弹子台！”伊琳笑了。她已经揭下面纱，把来象女修士的头巾一样缠在前额上，头巾下面一双含笑的深褐色眼睛在斯悦辛看来显得更加可爱。他点点头，看得出她会采纳他的忠告的。对于客厅和餐厅他都没有什么意见，只说“很宽敞”；可是走进酒窖时，他却容许自己这样身份的人大为激赏；他由石级走下去，波辛尼点个火在前面带路。“你这儿足可以放得下，”他说，“六七百打——一个很不错的小酒窖呢！”波辛尼表示要带他们到坡下小树林那边去看这房子的远景，斯悦辛站下来。“这儿景致很不错呢，”他说；“你能不能弄到一张椅子？”椅子从波辛尼的帐篷里给他取来。“你们两个人下去！”他和和气气说；“我坐在这儿看看景致。”他在橡树旁边的阳光里坐下；坐得又正又直，一只手伸出来放在手杖头子上，另一只手按着膝盖；皮大衣敞了开来，帽边遮着那张苍白的方脸；眼睛空无所瞩地瞪着那片景色。波辛尼和伊琳下坡穿过稻田时，他向他们点点头。说实在话，扔下他一个人这样静养一会儿，他并不介意。空气真新鲜，太阳里也不太热；风景望出去很不错，难得有这样——。他的头微微倾向一边；他竖起头来，心里想：怪！嘻——啊！他们在下面向他招手！他举起手来，连招了好几下。两个人很起劲——景致很不错——，他的头倒向左边去，立刻被他竖了起来；头又倒向右边去；在右边停止不动；他睡着了。虽则睡着了，他坐在坡子上面俨然象一个哨兵统驭着这片——很不错的——风景，就象前基督教时代那些原始福尔赛人中间一个特殊艺术家所塑的一座偶像，用以记载心灵对物质的控制！当年他那些数不尽的小农祖先，每逢星期天都要手插着腰站在那里打量着自己的一小块耕地，灰色的凝注的眼睛里暗藏着那种以暴力为本的天性，那种为了自己占有而排挤掉其他一切的天性——这些数不尽的祖先仿佛也他一起坐在跟坡子上面。可是他虽则这样沉睡着，他那福尔赛的精灵却在暗中监视，并且跑出去很远很远，经历了许多荒唐的幻境；它跟着这一对青年男女，看他们在那片小树林里面做些什么——春色撩人的小树林里充满着青草味和花香，鸟声无数，风信子和各种芳草铺成一片地毯，阳光照在树顶上就象金子；它跟着这一对男女，看见他们在一条小路上紧紧靠着走，路非常之窄，所以他们的身子始终都挨在一起；它留意看伊琳的眼睛，那双眼睛就象小偷似的，把春天的心给掏了出来。他的精灵，就象一个隐身的监护人一样，跟他们一起，驻足看地下一头毛茸茸的死田鼠，死了还不到一小时，银灰色的外套和偷来的野菌都还没有被雨水或者夜露打湿；它望着伊琳伛着头，眼睛里带着怜惜的神情；望着那年轻男子的头，那样死命盯着她看，那样的古怪相。它还跟他们一起穿过那片被人樵采过的林中空地，风信子都被踩坏了，一棵树身被人从根砍断，摇摇晃晃倒了下来。它又跟他们爬过断株，到了林子边缘，从这里伸展出一片未经发见过的乡野，远远传来“快快布谷”的鸟声。它不做声跟他们站在那里，看见他们那样默默无言很不好受！真特别，真怪！然后又随他们回来，就象做了亏心事似的，穿过树林——回到那片樵采过的地方，仍旧一声不响，周围的鸟声不断，野香袭人——哼！这是什么——就象他们在食物里用的药草似的——回到那段横在小路上的断株跟前。他的福尔赛精灵继续朝下望，隐着身形，在他们头上拍着翅膀，竭力想惊动他们一下；它看见她稳坐在断株上，美丽的身体摇晃着，低头微笑望着那个仰望着她的年轻男子，男子的眼光是那样古怪，那样奕奕有神；滑了一下——呀！跌了一下，唉！滑下来了——到了他的怀抱里了；她温柔的身体被他紧紧搂着了，她的头向后仰去，躲开他的嘴唇；他吻了她；她在挣扎；他叫：“你一定知道——我爱你！”一定知道——的确，一个美——？恋爱！哈！斯悦辛醒了过来；莫不是碰上鬼了。他嘴里的滋味很不好受。他在哪儿？他妈的！他原来睡着了！他梦见一种新做的汤，吃起来带有薄荷味。那两个年轻人——他们上哪儿去了？他的左腿麻得动都动不了。“阿道尔夫！”这个混蛋不在；这个混蛋总在哪儿睡着了。他站起来，一件皮大衣穿得又高又大又臃肿，焦急地望着下面的田野；不久就看见他们来了。伊琳走在前面；那个年轻小子——他们给他起的什么绰号——“海盗”吗？——垂头丧气跟在她后面；没有话说，准是碰了她一鼻灰。这是他活该，带她这么老远去看房子！要看房子在草地上看，这才是真正合适的地方。他们望见他了。他伸出胳臂，不时招一下手催他们快走。可是两个人站住了。他们站在那儿做什么，谈话——谈话做什么？又来了。她一定使他很难堪，这一点他满有把握，而且毫不奇怪，谈这种房子——一个大怪物，跟他往常看惯的那种房子全都不象。他紧紧盯着两个人的脸望，淡黄眼睛■都不■一下。那小子的样子很古怪！“这个决计不会造得象样！”他尖刻地指指房子；”太新里新气了！”波辛尼瞠眼望着他，好象没有听见似的；事后，斯悦辛向海丝特姑太把他形容为“一个很乖僻的人——眼睛看你的神情非常古怪——坏家伙！”这种突如其来的心理是怎样引起的，他也没有说出；可能是他看不惯波辛尼的高额头、高颧骨和尖下巴，或者他脸上那副饿鬼相，因为斯悦辛眼中的十足上流人士必须有一种安详的酒醉饭饱的神气，而波辛尼恰好和他的看法格格不入。一提到喝茶，他脸上立刻高兴起来。他向来看不起喝茶——他的老兄乔里恩过去就做过茶生意；在这上面赚了不少钱——可是他现在非常口渴，而且嘴里的滋味很不好受，喝什么他都来。他渴想告诉伊琳他嘴里难受——她是非常体贴的——可是不大体统；他用舌头在四面一卷，轻轻抵着上颚嘬了一下。帐篷里阿道尔夫在远处角落里正弯着自己两撇鼠须烧开水。他立刻丢下开水去启一个中瓶香槟酒的瓶塞子。斯悦辛笑了，向波辛尼点点头，说道：“哎呀呀，你简直象基度山伯爵①呢！”这本有名的小说——他读过的半打小说之一——曾经给他极其深刻的印象，所以他记得。他从桌上拿起酒杯，举得远远的仔细看那颜色；虽说口渴，他还不至于什么乌七八糟的酒都喝！后来他把杯子引到唇边，呷了一口。“酒很不错，”他总算说话了，把来放在鼻子下面闻闻，“不能比我的海德席克！”就在这个时候他有了一个感觉，后来到了悌摩西家里被他概括地说①法国大仲马的名著《基度山伯爵》中的主角。了出来：“我有十足把握说那个建筑师家伙在爱着索米斯太太！”从这时候起，他的一双淡黄圆眼睛始终都睁得多大地望。“那个小子，”他告诉史木尔太太说，“在她后面跟来跟去，眼睛馋得就象一条狗——坏家伙！这不足为奇——她是个漂亮女人，而且，我要说，十分的庄重！”他隐隐记得伊琳身上有一种香味，就象一朵花瓣半敛、花心浓郁的花发出的幽香，所以就创造了这个印象。“可是我直到瞧见他拾她的手绢时，”他说，“我才肯定。”史木尔太太的眼睛里沸腾着兴奋。“那么他还给她没有呢？”她问。“还给她？”斯悦辛说：“我瞧见他在手绢上大吻特吻，他当作我没有看见呢！”史木尔太太倒吸进一口气——兴奋得话都说不出来。“可是她对他并不亲热，”斯悦辛接着说；他停下来，有这么一两分钟眼睛瞪得多大的，把海丝特姑太都吓坏了——原来他忽然想起坐上马车回家的时候，伊琳曾经再次把手伸给波辛尼握，而且让他握了很久.他用力打了两马一鞭子，一心要独自占有她。可是她却回过头去望，没有理会他问的第一句话；连她的脸他都没法看见——她一直都垂着头。有个地方有一张图画——这张画斯悦辛并没有见过——画着一个男子坐在礁石上，在他旁边平静的绿波中一个美人鱼仰面朝天躺着，一只手掩着自己裸露的胸脯。她脸上带着隐约的笑意——又象是无可奈何的屈服，又象是暗喜。当时坐在斯悦辛身边的伊琳可能也在这样微笑。等到他独自占有了伊琳时，他乘着酒意，把自己肚子里许多委屈全倾吐出来；谈他对俱乐部里新来的厨师多么深恶痛绝；谈他为了威格摩尔街那所房子多么的烦心；那个混蛋房客为了帮助自己的舅爷弄得破产——为了顾全别人连妻子儿女都不顾了，天下可有这种事情；还谈自己的耳朵不灵；谈自己右胁下不时疼痛。她倾听着，眼睛在眼皮下面不住地转。他认为她在为他受的这些痛苦深思，而且十分替他难受。然而当时他穿着皮大衣，胸前扣着饰纽，歪戴着礼帽，又和这样一个美丽女子同坐着马车，在他却有生以来没有感觉这样神气过。可是一个星期天带了自己的女朋友出游的水果贩子，好象也自视一样神气。这人赶着自己的驴子一路驰来，坐在那部舢舨似的驴车上，笔直的身体仿佛一座蜡像，一条大红手帕围在下巴下面，就象斯悦辛围着颈巾一样夸耀；他的女友围了一条肮脏的皮围巾，尾巴拖在颈后，模仿着一个时髦女子的派头。那个男子手里拿了一根棍子，上面扣了一根破破烂烂的绳子，也学着斯悦辛那样挥着马鞭，一圈一圈舞得非常之象，不时掉头斜睨自己的女伴一眼，和斯悦辛的原始眼神简直一模无二。开头斯悦辛并不觉得，可是不久便疑心这个下流的恶棍在嘲弄他。他在那匹牝马肚子下面打上一鞭子。可是偏偏鬼使神差，马车和驴车仍旧并排驶着。斯悦辛的黄胖脸涨得通红；他举起鞭子打算给水果贩子一鞭子，可是总算老天有眼，及时阻止了他，没有让他做出这种有失体面的事来。一部车子从人家大门里驰了出来，把斯悦辛的马车和那汉子的驴车挤在一处；轮子和轮子轧上了，小的车子甩了出去，翻了。斯悦辛并没有回头。要他停下车子来救这个恶棍，他决计不来。把头颈跌断了也是活该！可是就算他愿意的话，他也无能为力。那两匹灰色马惊了起来。马车一下歪向左边，一下倒向右边，连路人看见他们飞驰而过时，都显出惊慌的神色。斯悦辛的粗胳臂伸得笔直，用力拉着马缰；两颊鼓着，嘴唇紧闭，胖脸涨成紫红，又气又急。伊琳手抓着栏杆，车子歪侧一下，她就紧紧抓着。斯悦辛听见她问：“我们会不会出事情，斯悦辛叔叔？”他气喘吁吁回答：“不要紧；马有点怕生！”“我还从来没有碰见出事呢。”水与土“你不要动！”他看她一眼。她在微笑着，神色自若。“坐着不要动，”他又说一句。“不要害怕，我会送你回家的！”他在竭力挽救之中，听见她回答了这么一句，口气完全不象她的为人，使他听了诧异之至：“永远不回家我也不在乎！”车身大大歪了一下，斯悦辛才要惊叫出来，又咽了下去。两匹马正驰上山坡，力气已乏，这才慢了下来，终于自己停住。“当我”——斯悦辛后来在悌摩西家里叙述这件事——“勒住马时，她坐在那里就跟我一样冷静。老天有眼，她那种派头就象把头颈跌断都不在乎似的！她当时说的什么：‘永远不回家我也不在乎！’”他撑着手杖微伛着身体，喘息地说，听得史木尔太太吓了一跳：“我一点不奇怪，嫁给小索米斯这样难缠的丈夫！”至于他们走后把波辛尼一个人丢下来，他有些什么举动，斯悦辛脑子里根本没有想到；是不是如斯悦辛形容的那样，象只狗到处去跑呢？跑到那片春色仍旧撩人、布谷鸟仍在远远叫唤的小树林里；一面向树林走去，一面用她的手绢抵着嘴唇，芬香中夹着薄荷和香草味。一面走着，一面心里感到一种强烈而甜蜜的痛苦，自己在林子里都哭得出来。或者，究竟这家伙有些什么举动？事实上，斯悦辛已经把这个年轻人忘得一干二净，一直等到他到了悌摩西家里才重又想起来。

第二卷 第四章 詹姆士亲自下乡去看 
那些不了解福尔赛交易所的人，也许不会料到伊琳下去看房子会引起那么大的骚动。自从斯悦辛在悌摩西家叙述他那次郊游壮举的整个经过之后，他这番话也同样被源源本本拿来告诉了琼；告诉她完全不是出于好奇，也许有那么一丝恶作剧，但是真心还是为好。“而且这样讲多么难听啊，亲爱的！”裘丽姑太结尾说；“说她不想回家。她是什么意思？”这段经过在琼听来很是突兀。她红着脸痛苦地听着，忽然，匆匆握一下手，就离开了。“简直没有礼貌！”琼走后，史木尔太太跟海丝特姑太说。荒原狼从她听到这消息的神情举止上来推测，大家就得到一个正确的结论。她听了很烦恼。因此这里一定有什么不妙。怪吧！她跟伊琳从前还是顶顶要好呢！这事跟过去不久人家在背后的议论以及耳朵里刮到的一些话也极其符合。想起尤菲米雅在戏院里见到那一幕——还有波辛尼先生总是在索米斯家里，不都是吗？唉，真是的！是啊，当然他会去的——谈房子啊！话当然讲得绝不露骨。在福尔赛交易所里，一件事情尽管令人着恼，只要不是最了不起，最最重要，都不需要讲得那样露骨。这座机器太精密了；一点暗示，口气里微微表示一下惋惜或者怀疑，就足够使这个家族的灵魂——那样富于同情的灵魂——震动起来。谁也不打算这些震动会伤害到哪一个——远不是如此；这些震动的用意整个都是为好，是觉得族中每一个人都和这个家族的灵魂休戚相关啊。而在这些背后的议论里面，归根结蒂也还是一片好心；时常就因为有这些议论而促成慰问性的拜访，从而使那些身受痛苦的人真正得到恩惠，使那些安然无恙的人也会感觉到至少还有人在为一些和自己无关的事情难受，这也是开心的事。事实上，这无非是借此互通声气，跟新闻界精神完全一样，象詹姆士跟史木尔太太通声气，史木尔太太跟尼古拉的两个女儿通声气，尼古拉两个女儿跟哪一个通声气，等等，都是这个道理。他们所爬上的而且目前所属的这个阶级要求一定程度的坦率，和更大程度的缄默。有这两者的结合才保证了他们的阶级地位。福尔赛家许多年轻人自然会公开声称不愿意有人探听他们的私事；可是这种族中的流言就好比一股目不能见的强有力的电流，所以事事清楚在他们实在是不得已的。因此大家都觉得毫无办法可想。他们里面有一个（小罗杰）曾经为了解放下一代，把悌摩西骂做“老狐狸”，这实在是个英勇的尝试。可是报应就落到他的身上；这些话转弯抹角传到裘丽姑太的耳朵里，裘丽姑太又以震骇的口吻告诉罗杰太太，这样，这句话又回到小罗杰这里来了。说到底，感到难受的也不过是那些自己做错事的人；比如乔治，那要怪他打弹子把钱花光了；或者如小罗杰本人，那时候他险些儿跟一个，根据背后的议论，他已经发生了自然关系的女子结婚；再如伊琳，那是因为大家觉得，而不是说过，她的处境危险啊。所有这一切背后的议论不但可喜，而且也有益。它使湾水路悌摩西家里许多时光都能轻松愉快地消磨掉；要不是这样的话，这里住的三个人就会觉得时光枯寂沉闷了；而且悌摩西的家在伦敦城里也不过是千百个这样人家里的一个——这些人家的成员都是些生活无忧、无所偏倚的人，自己已经置身斗争之外，因此为了找寻生存的理由，就不得不关心到别人的斗争。如果不是因为有这些可喜的族中闲是闲非，这里就会变得非常寂寞。流言和传闻、报信、猜疑——这些可不是跟家里的小孩子一样吗？姊弟三人虽则自己的一生中没有生男育女，可是这些流言和传闻不都跟些呱呱喋喋的婴孩一样惹疼、一样宝贝吗？他们的软心肠就是渴望孩子，而谈这些闲是闲非也就几几乎等于儿女成行、儿孙绕膝了。至于悌摩西是否渴望孩子虽则还不能十分确定，但是每一次福尔赛家有一房添丁进口的时候，他都要不开心一阵，这总是无可争辩的。所以尽管小罗杰骂“老狐狸”，尽管尤菲米雅双手举起来叫：“唉！那三个人！”而且先是不出声地大笑，末了发为尖叫，这都没有用。没有用，而且也不大忠厚。事情发展到这个阶段也许有人觉得奇怪，尤其在一个福尔赛的人眼中看来，不但会觉得奇怪，甚至于还会认为“不成话”——然而根据某些事实看来，倒也并不怎样奇怪。原来有些事情是他们没有见到的。首先，在许多被不痛不痒的婚姻所栽培的安适中，人们往往忘记爱情并不是暖房的花朵，而是经过一夜春雨和片刻阳光生长出来的一棵野草；野草的种籽，被野风载着沿路吹过去；如果碰巧吹进我们花园篱笆里面，我们就称做花；如果吹在篱笆外面，我们就称做野草；但是花也罢，野草也罢，它的香味和颜色却始终是野的！还有，福尔赛家人一般都没有见到——他们各人生活的方式和内容就不容他们看见这项真理——当这株野草长出来时，那些当事的男女都不过是绕着它那淡白火焰的花朵的飞蛾而已。小乔里恩当初的越轨行为已经事隔多年——现在这个传统的戒律又受到威胁了；这条戒律是有身家的人从不翻过篱笆去摘野花；一个人在适当的时期可以染上爱情，就象传染上麻疹一样，然后也会象麻疹病人一样，靠一帖牛油和蜂蜜的合剂，在婚姻的怀抱里舒舒服服地度过难关，从此不再传染上。波辛尼和索米斯太太这段怪话传到许多人的耳朵里时，最最动心的要算詹姆士了。他老早忘记自己当年求婚时那副嘴脸，人又长又瘦，面色苍白，留了两撇栗色的腮须，总是不离爱米丽的左右。他老早忘记自己在早期结婚生活中在美菲亚近郊住的那所小房子了，或者说，他老早忘记了自己的早期结婚生活，而那所小房子倒没有忘掉，因为一个福尔赛家人从来不忘记一所房子——虽说这所房子他后来卖掉，净赚了四百镑。那些日子他早已忘记了：在那些日子里，他充满了希望和忧虑，同时怀疑这件婚事是否妥当（原来爱米丽虽则美丽，并没有钱，而他那时一年也不过勉强赚上个一千镑），可是那个女子，秀发那样齐整地盘向后面，白胳臂那样从紧紧的紧身衣里伸出来，美丽的腰肢那样庄重地套在十足宽大的裙子里，对于他真有一股奇妙的不可抵御的吸引力，使他愈陷愈深，终于使他感觉到如果不能娶到这个女子，他就非死不可；那些日子他早已忘记了！詹姆士曾经从火里过来，可是他也经过岁月的河流，把这团火淹没了；他经历了人生最最悲惨的经验——完全忘记了自己坠入爱情时的心情。忘记了！忘记了有这么久，使他甚至忘记自己已经忘记了。现在这个谣言传到他耳朵里，这个关于他媳妇的谣言；隐隐约约，象个影子，在事物可触摸和一览无遗的表面上闪避着，象鬼魂一样缥缈，一样不可理解，然而也象鬼魂一样，带来不可名状的恐怖。他打算把这件事认真考虑一下，可是没有用，这就跟把每天在晚报上看到的社会悲剧认真考虑一下同样不可能。他就是做不到。可能没有一点儿事情。全是那些人胡说一气。她或许跟索米斯过得不如意想的那么好，可是她还是个善良的小女人——善良的小女人啊！跟不少人一样，詹姆士对一些无伤大雅的风流逸事谈起来也是津津有味的，而且常会用一种实事求是的口吻，呷着嘴唇说，“是啊，是啊——她和小戴生；有人告诉我他们现在住在蒙地卡罗呢！”可是他对这类风流逸事的真正涵义——它的过去、现在和未来——却从来不曾领会到。它究竟是怎么一回事，它的形成经过些什么痛苦和欢乐，在他眼睛看得见的那些事实里——赤裸裸的事实，有时候不堪入耳，但一般听来都很有味——这些事实里到底潜伏着什么迂缓然而无从抵抗的命运，这些他都没有想过。对这类事情，他向来就不会谴责、赞美、推论或者来点发挥；他一向只是相当贪婪地听着，再把人家的话向别人重复一遍，这样做来自己觉得很受用，就好比吃饭之前喝一杯搀了苦剂的雪利酒一样受用。可是现在这样一件事情——或者说关于这件事的一点谣言，或者风闻——却和他个人发生了密切关系；他觉得如坠入五里雾中，觉得自己嘴里充满一种强烈的恶臭，连气都透不过来了。一件丑事！很可能是一件丑事！田园交响曲把这句话再三重复地说是他使自己思想集中或者使这件事可以想象得了的唯一法门。他已经忘记自己年轻时的心情，使他领会到这类事情的进展、归宿及其意义；他简直不懂得男女为了爱情竟会做出不检点的事情来。据他所知，在他熟识的许多人当中——那些人每天上商业区，在那里各自做各的生意，空闲的时间买些股票、房产，吃晚饭，打牌或者运动——这些人里面，要设想哪一个会为了爱情这样缥缈、这样泡幻的东西而做出不检点的事情来，在他看来那未免太可笑了。爱情！固然他好象也听到过，他脑子里还紧紧记得有这样一条规则，“年轻男女切不可轻易放在一起”，就象地图上刻划的平行的纬度似的（所有福尔赛家人对于铁硬的事实都很能象一个写实主义者那样欣赏）；可是除此以外——啊，他就只能通过“丑事”这句俗语来理解了。啊！可是这里并没有事实——不可能。他并不害怕；她实在是个善良的小女人。可是你脑子里仍然放不下这类事情。詹姆士又是这样一个神经质的人——一有事情就烦，一有事情就弄得忧虑重重，迟疑莫决。他深怕自己不拿个主意就要遭受损失，因此就烦得老老实实一点主意拿不出来，直到最后，他看准了自己再不拿主意，就绝对要遭受损失，这才有了主意。可是在他的一生中，有许多事情连拿主意也挨不上他的份儿，这件事也是如此。他怎么办呢？跟索米斯谈一次？这样只会把事情闹得更糟。而且，归根结蒂，这里并没有事情，这一点他是有把握的。全是那个房子。他从一开头就不放心这样做。索米斯住到乡下去为的什么呢？而且，就算他一定要花上一大笔钱给自己造所房子，为什么不找一个第一流的建筑师，为什么要找上小波辛尼这样一个没有人说得上来的人呢？他曾经告诉过他们这样要搞糟的。他而且听到索米斯在房子上花了不少的钱，远远超出他原来的预算。这件事实比任何其他事实更使詹姆士恍悟到这里的真正危险。跟这些“搞艺术的”总是这样；一个晓事的人决不应当跟他们多噜苏。他也曾警告过伊琳。你看，现在弄成什么样子！詹姆士忽然起了一个念头，觉得应当亲自下去看看。他的心神本来笼罩在彷徨不安的迷雾里，现在想起自己可以下去看看就象拨云见日一样，感到说不出的安慰。其实他觉得心里好过一点也许仅仅由于他能决定做点事情——更可能是可以看见一座房子的缘故。他觉得亲眼看见那个有嫌疑的人一手造的大房子，看见那些砖泥木石，就等于察见了这项关于伊琳的流言的真相。因此，他跟什么人都不说起，叫了一部马车上了车站，再坐火车到了罗宾山；从下火车起——原来这一带向来就没有马车——他只好步行了。他迂缓地向山上走去，弯着一双瘦腿，伛着肩头，累得几乎要叫出来，眼睛紧紧盯着脚下，然而尽管如此，外表仍然十分整洁，礼帽和大礼服收拾得光洁无尘。爱米丽很周到；当然，这样并不是说她亲自收拾——有身家的人哪有收拾别人衣服的事，而爱米丽就是有身家的人啊——不过她是关照管家收拾罢了。他不得不问了三次路；每次问路时，他都把人家告诉他的走法重说一遍，让人家再重说一遍，然后自己再重说一遍，原来他天生就是噜噜苏苏的脾气，而且一个人到了一个新地方总得格外当心才是。他再三告诉人家他要找的是所新房子；可是直到人家指给他看见树丛中露出的房顶时，他才真正放下心来，觉得人家指给他的走法并没有错到哪里去。天色阴沉沉的，就象是涂上白粉的天花板，罩得大地一片灰白。空气既不清新，也没有香味。在这样的天气，连一个英国工匠除掉做自己份内的工作外，都懒得多做了；他们都不作声地走动着，平日用以排遣劳苦的拉呱也听不见了。在那所未完工房子的空地中间，许多穿短衫的人缓缓干着活，在他们中间升起各种声响——偶尔来一下的锤击声，铜铁的磨刮声，锯木声，独轮小车沿着木板的辘辘声；不时，那只工头养的狗——被人用根绳子拴在橡树枝干上——发出一声无力的哀叫，就象水壶烧着水时发出的那种声音。新装上的窗子，每一扇窗格子中间涂上一块白灰泥，象瞎眼狗一样瞪着眼睛望着詹姆士。这片建筑的合唱持续着，在灰白的天空下面听上去又刺耳又抑郁无聊。而那些在新翻起泥土中间拣虫子吃的画眉鸟却阒静无声。詹姆士在碎石堆中取路前进——那条车道正在铺设——一直走到大门前面。他在这里停下来，抬起眼睛望。从这个角度本来望不见多少，所以一目了然；可是他在这个地方站上了好久好久，天知道他在想些什么！在他两道带有棱角的白眉毛下面，一双磁青色的眼睛一动也不动；两撇细白胡须中间一张阔嘴，长长的上嘴唇扭动这么一两下；这种焦急而出神的表情——索米斯有时脸上显出的那种尴尬神情也是从这里来的——其中含义很容易看出来。詹姆士这时很可能在跟自己说：“我也说不出——人生在世真不是一件容易事儿。”就在这个地方，波辛尼把他吓了一跳。他两只眼睛本来也许在天上搜寻什么鸟巢，这时候落到波辛尼脸上；那张脸上带有一种幽默的蔑视。“你好吗，福尔赛先生？下来亲自看看吗！”据我们知道，詹姆士下来恰恰就是为了这个，因此这句话听得他很不舒服。可是他仍然伸出手来说：“你好吗？”眼睛并不望着波辛尼。波辛尼带着讽刺的微笑给他让路。詹姆士见他这样有礼貌不由起了疑心。“我想先在外面走一转，”他说，“看看你是怎么造的！”房子外面从东南角到西南角已经用修削过的石板并好一条外面比里面略低的走廊；沿走廊是一道斜边一直伸到泥地里。泥地正准备铺上草皮。詹姆士顺着走廊领前走着。他看见走廊一直砌到角上又兜了个弯，就问，“我说这个要花多少钱呢？”“你看要花多少钱？”波辛尼反问他。“我怎么会知道？”詹姆士答，有点儿窘；“两三百镑罢，敢情是！”“一点儿不错！”詹姆士狠狠看他一眼，可是建筑师好象全不觉得，詹姆士断164定是自己听错了。到了花园门口，他站下来看看风景。“这应当砍掉，”他说，指指那棵橡树。“你觉得要砍掉吗？是不是觉得这棵树挡着风景，你的钱花得就不合算吗？”詹姆士又疑惑地看他一眼——这小子讲话好特别：“哦，”他着重地说，口气里带着迷惑和慌张，“我不懂得你要一棵树有什么用。”“明天就拿来砍掉，”波辛尼说。詹姆士慌起来。“呀，”他说，“你可不要说是我说要砍掉的！我是一点不懂的！”“不懂吗？”詹姆士狼狈地说：“怎么，我应当懂得什么？这事跟我毫不相干！你要砍，砍错了你自己负责。”“你总可以容许我提到你吧！”詹姆士愈来愈着慌了：“我不懂得你要提我的名字做什么，”他说；“你还是不要碰这棵树的好。又不是你的树！”他掏出一块手绢来揩揩额头。两人进了房子。跟斯悦辛一样，詹姆士看见那座内院甚为赞赏。他先瞠眼把那些柱子和回廊望上半天；“你在这儿一定花了好大一笔钱呢，”他说，“你说，这些柱子要多少钱才造得起来？”“我不能一下就告诉你，”波辛尼沉吟地说，“可是我知道要好大一笔呢！”“我说如何，”詹姆士说：“我说——”他和建筑师的眼光碰上，话打断了。从这时候起，他碰到什么东西想要知道价钱时，就把自己的好奇心压下去。波辛尼好象存心要使他把什么都看到，如果不是因为詹姆士生来就很精细的话，他准会被他领着把房子又兜了一转。波辛尼好象也渴望他提出问题，这使他感到非提防着不可。他开始感觉吃力了，因为他是这样一个高个子，虽则身躯顽健，终究是七十五岁的人了。他变得灰心了；他好象丝毫没有进展，这趟视察并没有使他获得他隐隐中希望得到的任何知识。他仅仅对这个小子更加不快，更加不放心；这个家伙表面那样恭敬，暗地里却捉弄得他精疲力竭，而且在态度上他现在肯定说还带有一点嘲笑。这家伙比他原来想象的还要狡猾，而且长得比他指望的还要漂亮。他有种“满不在乎”的派头；这在詹姆士这样一个把“风险”视为最最不可容忍的人，是无法欣赏的；他笑起来也很特别，在你最最想不到的时候来一下；一双眼睛也古怪。他使詹姆士——他事后说起——联想起一头饿猫来。他跟爱米丽谈到波辛尼的态度时——又特别，又气人，又温和，又阴狠，还夹着嘲笑——就至多只能用这句话来形容。终于，一切可看的都看过了，他从原来进去的那个门出来；他当时的感觉是白费了许多时间、精力和金钱，毫无所获，所以他鼓起福尔赛的勇气来，勒着双手，狠狠望着波辛尼说道：“我敢说你跟我的媳妇时常会面罢；你说她对这个房子怎样看法？可是她还没有见过吧，我想？”他说了这句话，满知道伊琳下来的一切经过——当然，这并不是那次下来就有什么事情，只不过因为她说了那句“不想回家”的怪话——还有人家告诉他琼听到这消息时的那种情形！他肚子里跟自己说，这样把问题提出来是因为他决心给这小子一个机会。波辛尼并没有立刻回答，而是眼睛盯着他望了好久，望得他很不舒服。“她见过这房子，可我没法告诉你她是怎样看法。”詹姆士弄得心慌意乱，可是偏偏不肯放手；他就是这样的人。“哦，”他说，“她见过了吗？想是索米斯带她下来的吧？”波辛尼微笑回答：“啊，不是的！”“怎么——她一个人下来的吗？”“啊，不是的！”我弥留之际“那么——谁带她下来的呢？”“我实在不知道应当不应当告诉你谁带她下来的。”詹姆士明知道是斯悦辛，所以这句话听得他简直莫明其妙。“怎么！”他呐呐地说，“你知道——”可是他忽然看出要上人家的当，所以停住不说。“好罢，”他说，“你如果不肯告诉我的话，我想我也没有办法！人家什么事情都不告诉我。”波辛尼出其不意问了他一个问题。“还有，”他说，“你府上还有什么别的人会下来吗？我很想在场恭候！”“还有谁？”詹姆士茫然问，“还会有谁呢？我可不知道还有什么人。再见。”他眼睛望着地，伸手和波辛尼碰了一下手心，就拿起阳伞，抓着伞绸上面那一截，沿着走廊走开了。在转过弯之前，他回头望望，看见波辛尼缓步随在后面——“象一只大猫，”如他跟自己说的，“沿着墙脚蹑行着。”那小子向他抬一下帽子时，他理都不理。到了车道上，人望不见时，他就走得更加慢下来。他取路向车站走去，走得极慢，瘦身躯伛得比来的时候更加厉害，又是饿，又是丧气。那个“海盗”眼看他这样垂头丧气回家，也许觉得这样对付一个年纪大的人，有点过意不去呢。

第二卷 第五章 索米斯和波辛尼之间的通信 
詹姆士跟儿子绝不提起这次下去看房子的事；可是有一天早上，他上悌摩西家里谈事情时——关于卫生当局逼着他兄弟解决的排除污水计划——他提起来了。房子不坏，他说；看得出可以派很大的用场。那个家伙有他的一套鬼聪明，可是房子完工以前到底要索米斯花多少钱，他就不敢说了。尤菲米雅-福尔赛碰巧也来了；她是过来借施考尔牧师最近出的一本小说《爱情和止痛药》的，这本书现在正风行一时；所以这时她就插进来。“昨天我在公司里看见伊琳；她跟波辛尼先生在食品部里谈得很开心呢。”她就讲了这样简简单单一句话，其实这件事给她的印象很深，而且很复杂。她上的是一家教会百货公司；由于公司经营得法，只允许靠得住的人先付钱后送货，这种商店对于福尔赛家的人是再合适不过了；那一天她匆匆忙忙上公司的绸缎部去，替她母亲配一截缎料，她母亲还在外面马车里等着。她穿过食品部时，看见一个女子漂亮的后影很是触目，也可以说很刺眼。苗条的身材，长得那么匀称，穿得那么考究，立刻惊动了尤菲米雅天生的道德观念；这种腰身，她与其说根据经验，毋宁说靠自己的直觉知道，很少跟妇道发生关系的，肯定说她脑子里就没有过，因为她自己的背形就不大容易做得合身。她的疑心幸而证实了。从药品部来了一个年轻男子一把抓下自己帽子，上前招呼这位陌生后影的女子。这时候她才看出她要对付的是谁；那女子无疑是索米斯太太，年轻男子是波辛尼先生。她赶快借买一盒突尼斯枣子为名把自己藏起来，原因是她不喜欢手里拿着大包小包时撞见熟人，顶不象样子，而且早上大家都忙；就因为这样，她就无意中成为他们这个小约会的旁观者，虽则无意却是满怀着兴奋。索米斯太太平日的面色都有点苍白，今天的双颊却是红得可爱；波辛尼先生的派头很古怪，可是也很讨喜（她觉得他是个相当漂亮的男子，乔治替他起的“海盗”绰号——这个名字就带有浪漫气息——也十分有趣）。他好象在央求什么。他们谈得很亲切——毋宁说，他谈得很亲切，因为索米斯太太并不大开口——连来往的人都要绕过他们，就象在人群中起了一个漩涡，未免太妨碍人家。一位上雪茄柜台去的老军官，弄得兜了一个大圈子；那人抬起头来，瞧见了索米斯太太的相貌，当真的把帽子除下来，一个老浑蛋！男人的确就是这样！可是尤菲米雅最不放心的还是索米斯太太的那双眼睛。她始终不望波辛尼先生一下，等到他走开了，才从后面望着他。啊呀，眼睛里那种神情！尤菲米雅对她这种神情很发了一阵愁。说重一点，那种忧郁的、恋恋不舍的柔情使她很为难受。因为看上去活象女的想要把男的拖回来，收回她刚才说的话似的。啊，她当时可没有功夫想得这么仔细，她手上还捧了那块缎料呢；可是她“很鬼——鬼得很！”她跟索米斯太太点头招呼一下，就为了让她晓得自己看见了；事后谈起这件事时，她曾经私下跟她的好朋友佛兰茜说，“她的神气可真象被人捉住一样呢！.”詹姆士对尤菲米雅这种证实他自己满腹怀疑的消息，初上来很不愿意接受，所以接口就说：“哦，他们准是商量买糊壁纸的。”尤菲米雅微微一笑。“在食品部买吗？”她轻轻地说；接着从桌上拿起《爱情和止痛药》来，又说：“好姑姑，把这个借给我罢，好吗？再见！”就走了。詹姆士紧接着也走了；就这样他已经晚了。他到了福尔赛-勃斯达-福尔赛律师事务所时，看见索米斯正坐在转椅里起草一张辩护状。儿子随便向老子说了一声你早，就从口袋里掏出一封信来说：“这封信你看了也许有点意思。”詹姆士读下去：尼尔斯骑鹅旅行记史龙街三○九号丁室五月十五日。福尔赛先生：尊屋现已完工，本人所负监工责任到此结束。至于你要我负责的内部装修事情，如果须要进行，必须由我全权作主，这一点愿你明了。过去你每次下来，总要参加些和我的计划抵触的意见。我手边有你的三封信，每一封信里都来上一条我决计梦想不到的建议。昨天下午我在下面碰见你父亲，他也提了许多宝贵的意见。因此，请你决定一下，还是要我替你装修，还是要我退出；我倒是宁愿退出。可是得声明在先，如果要我装修的话，就得由我一个人做，不得有任何干涉。一件事情要我做，我一定要做得彻底，可是必须由我全权作主。菲力普-波辛尼。这封信究竟怎样引起的，有什么近因，当然没法子说，不过波辛尼也许对索米斯和自己之间的关系突然有了反感，这也不是不可能的：这种艺术和财产之间的古老矛盾常在一项最不可缺少的现代用具背面概括得非常深刻，几乎比得上塔西佗①演说里最漂亮的句子：发明者：苏-Τ-邵罗。所有者：布特-Ｍ-巴特兰。“你预备怎样回他呢？”詹姆士问。索米斯连头也不掉一下。“我还没有决定，”他说，就继续写他的辩护状。他的一个当事人在一块不属于自己的土地上造了些房子，忽然受到①古罗马大演说家。警告，要他把房子拆掉，弄得他极其烦恼。可是，索米斯把所有事实细心研究之后，被他发见了一条对策：他的当事人在这块地上原有所谓占有权，所以地尽管不是他的，他还是有权保留，而且最好照做；他现在正根据这条对策拟定具体步骤——就如水手说的——“就这样办”。他是出名的会出主意，他出的主意全都切实可行；人家提到他时都说：“找小福尔赛去——他是个智囊！”索米斯对自己这种声誉也极其珍视。他生性沉默寡言对他很有好处；要使人家，尤其那些有产业的人（索米斯的主顾都是这些人），觉得他的为人可靠，再没有比这样沉默寡言更加靠得住的了。而且他也的确可靠。传统、习惯、教育、遗传的干练、生性的谨慎，这一切都合起来形成一种十足的职业上的诚实；这种性格天生就是害怕风险，因此决不会弄得利令智昏。他自己从灵魂深处就厌恶那种可以使人跌交的场合，因此他自己绝不会跌交——一个人站在地板上哪会跌交呢！而那些数不清的福尔赛们，在牵涉到各式各样财产（从妻子到水口权）的无数的交涉中，碰到需要一个可靠的人替他们办理时，都觉得委托索米斯去办是既不烦神而且合算的事情。他那一点点傲慢神气，加上事事要搜求成例，对他也有好处——一个人不是真正内行决不会傲慢的啊！事务所里实在是以他为主体；詹姆士虽则还是差不多天天亲来看看，可是很少做事，只不过坐在自己椅子上，盘起大腿，把已经决定了的事情胡扯一下，不久就走了；另外一个同伙布斯达很不中用，事情倒做了不少，可是他那些意见从来没有被人采纳过。索米斯就这样照常写着他的辩护状。可是如果说他这时的心情很平静那就错了。他心里正感到来日大难，这种感觉近来常常扰乱他的心情。他想要看作这是身体关系——肝脏不好——但是明知道不是这回事。他看看表。还有一刻钟的功夫，他就要赶到新煤业公司去开股东会——这是他伯父乔里恩的企业之一；在那边他将会见到乔里恩伯伯，跟他谈谈波辛尼的事情——他还没有决定谈什么话，不过总要谈谈——总之这封信要见过乔里恩伯伯之后再回复。他站起来，把辩护状的草稿顺好收起。他走进一间黑暗的小套房，捻上灯，用一块棕色的温莎肥皂洗了手，再在滚转毛巾上擦干；然后把头发梳梳，特别注意头发中间那条缝，把灯捻小，拿起帽子，说他两点半钟回来，就踏上鸡鸭街。新煤业公司的办事处就在打铁巷，并没有多远；照别家公司一般铺张的惯例，股东会都是在坎农街旅馆开的，可是新煤业公司的股东一直都是在办事处开。老乔里恩一开始就坚决反对新闻界。他的事业跟外界有什么关系，他说。索米斯准时到达，就在董事席坐下；董事们坐成一排，每人面前放一只墨水瓶，面向着股东。老乔里恩坐在一排的正当中，穿一件大礼服，紧紧扣着身体，一部白胡须，十分引人注目；他这时正躺在椅子上，指尖搭着放在一本董事会的营业报告和账目上。他的右手坐着董事会的秘书“拖尾巴”①汉明斯，人总是比平时大了一号；一双秀目含着苦凄凄的哀愁；铁灰色的下须跟他身上其他部分一样象戴着孝，使人感到下须后面是一条黑得不能再黑的领带。这次开股东会的确是件不开心的事；不过在六个星期以前，那位冶矿专家斯考雷尔受私人委托到矿地去考察，打给公司一个电报，说公司的矿长毕平自杀了；两年来他一直就异常沉默；这次自杀之前，总算勉强给董事会写了一封信。这封信现在放在桌上；当然要向股东宣读，使他们了解全部的事实。过去汉明斯时常跟索米斯谈起；他站在壁炉面前，两手把衣服的下半截分抄起来：“凡是我们股东不知道的事情都是不值得知道的。我老实告诉你，索米斯先生。”索米斯记得有一次老乔里恩在场，还为了这句话引起小小的不快。他伯父抬头严厉地看了汉明斯一眼，说道：“不要胡扯，汉明斯！你的意思是说，他们真正知道的事情都是不值得知道的！”老乔里恩就恨虚伪。汉明斯眼中含怒，象一头训练有素的鬈毛犬那样带着微笑，回答了一大串勉强敷衍的话：“是的，妙啊，先生——妙得很。令伯专喜欢开玩笑呢！”下一次见到索米斯时，汉明斯乘机跟他说：“董事长年纪太大了——多少事情没法跟他说清楚；而且性情是那样执拗——可是长了那样一个下巴，你还能指望他怎样呢？”索米斯当时点点头。布登勃洛克一家大家都对老乔里恩的下巴有点戒心。今天他虽则摆出一副股东大会的正经面孔，神情很是焦灼。索米斯心里盘算，今天一定要跟他谈谈波辛尼。老乔里恩的左首是矮小的布克先生，也是一副股东大会的正经面孔，就好象在搜索一个什么特别心软的股东似的。再过去是那位聋董事，眉头皱着；聋董事再过去是老布利但姆先生，外表很温和，而且装出一副道貌岸然的神气——他满可以装得这样，因为他明知道自己经常带到董事室来的那个黄纸包儿①已经藏在他的帽子后面了（这是一种旧式的平边礼帽，要配上大蝴蝶结，剃光的嘴唇，红润的面颊，和一撮修整的小白胡子）。开股东会索米斯总要到场；大家认为这样比较好，以防临时“出什么事情！”他带着精细而傲慢的神气把周围的墙壁望望，墙上挂着煤矿和港口的地图，还有一张大照片，照片上是一个通往开采场的矿穴入口，是自从开采以来亏累得最不象话的一个。这张照片，对于工商业的内部管理是一个永久的讽刺，可是仍然保留着它在墙上的地位，它是董事会最心爱的宠儿——的遗像。①“拖尾巴”或“尾重”在英语里原以指船尾载重貌，此处用以讥笑汉明斯走路时下身不大动的姿势。作者在《丹娜伊》一个中篇里曾提到，这是商业区的人给他取的诨名。①黄纸包儿无考，可能包的是一瓶酒。这时老乔里恩站起来报告营业情况和账目。他安详地望着那些股东；在他的心灵深处，他一直是站在董事的地位敌视着他们，可是表面上却装得象天尊一样平心静气。索米斯也望着那些股东。他们的脸他大都认识。这里面有老史克卢布索尔，是个柏油商人——照汉明斯说法，他每次来都是为了“叫人家讨厌”——一个神色不善的老家伙，红红的脸，阔腮，膝上放了一顶无大不大的扁呢帽。里面还有包姆牧师，每次都要提议向主席表示谢意，而且在提议时毫无例外地总希望董事会不要忘记提拔那些雇员；他把雇员两字故意加重了说，认为这样有力量，而且是正确的英文（他有他那牧师职业所特有的强烈帝国主义倾向）。他还有一种在散会后揪着一位董事问话的好习惯，问明年的生意好还是不好；然后根据回答的指示，在往后的半个月内或者拖进，或者抛出三股股票。这里面还有奥巴莱少校，总是要发言，便是改选查账员附议一声也好；有时候还在会场上引起严重的恐慌，原来有人事先得到一张小纸条子，请他致谢词，也可以说建议，当这位老兄正在暗自高兴的时候，却被这位少校抢先提出来了。除掉这些，另外还有四五个有实力的沉默的股东；对于这几个人索米斯都抱有好感；他们都是生意人，都喜欢亲自过问一下自己的事情，但是绝不噜苏——他们都是些忠实可靠的人，天天上商业区来，天天晚上回到他们忠实可靠的妻子身边去。忠实可靠的妻子！一想到这里，索米斯那种无名的苦闷又引起来了。他该跟他伯父说些什么呢？这封信他该给怎样一个答复呢？“.如果哪位股东有什么问题提出，我很乐于回答。”轻轻的卜达一声。老乔里恩让手中的营业报告和账目落在桌上，站在那里用拇指和食指扭动着自己的玳瑁边眼镜。索米斯脸上隐隐露出一点微笑。这些人有问题还是赶快问罢！他满知道自己伯父的那一套（理想的一套），接口就会说：“那么我提议通过营业报告和账目！”决不让他们有喘息的机会，这些股东顶顶浪费时间！一个高个子白胡须的股东站起来，一副瘦削的不满意的脸：“董事长先生，我对账目上一笔五千镑的用途提出一个问题，想来这是符合议事规程的。账目上写的是‘付给本公司已故矿长的孤孀和子女的’（他忿忿地向四周望望），而这位矿长是在公司最最需要他的服务的时候——呃——很愚蠢地（我说——愚蠢地）自杀了。你说过，他和本公司的聘约是五年为期，这个期限不幸被他亲手割断，因此服务只满一年，我——”老乔里恩做了一个不耐烦的姿势。“董事长先生，我相信我是遵照议事规程提出的，我要问董事会付给或者建议付给——呃——死者的这笔数目算什么？是不是指的如果他不自杀的话就可以为公司做许多事情，因而酬报他呢？”“这是酬报他过去的功绩；他对公司曾经有过很宝贵的贡献，这一点我们全都知道，你也一样知道。”“那样的话，先生，我只好说，既然是指过去的功绩，数目就太大了。”那个股东坐下来。老乔里恩等了一会，又说：“我现在提议通过营业报告和——”那个股东又站起来：“我请问董事会可知道这并不是他们的钱——我毫不踌躇地说，如果是他们自己的钱的话——”另一个股东，长了一副圆圆的执拗的脸，站了起来；索米斯认识他是死者的舅爷；他激动地说：“在我看来，先生，这个数目还不够！”包姆牧师这时站了起来。“我想大胆发表一点意见，”他说，“我要说，——呃——死者自杀的这件事一定使我们董事长慎重考虑过——慎重考虑过。我有把握说，他已经考虑过了，因为——我这句话代表我自己说，而且我认为也代表全体到会的人说（对啊，对啊）——他是高度得到我们的信任的。我想，我们大家都愿意慈善为怀。不过我肯定觉得，”他狠狠地把那位已故矿长的舅爷望了一眼，“他可以想法子，或者用书面形式，或者也许更好些把抚恤金削减一点，来表示我们对死者的高度不满；因为他这样一个有前途、有价值的生命，不管从他自己的利益出发或者从——恕我这样说——我们的利益出发，都迫切需要他延续下去，不应当这样违反神意从我们里面剥夺掉。这样严重的溺职行为，放弃一切人类责任和神圣责任的行为，我们是不应当——哎，我们是不宜于——表扬的。”牧师老爷坐了下去。那位已故矿长的舅爷又站起来：“我仍旧坚持我刚才讲的话，”他说，“这个数目还不够！”头一个股东这时插了进来：“我对这笔开支是否合法提出质问。我的意见认为这笔账是不合法的。公司的法律顾问在座：我根据会议程序向他提出这个问题。”全场的眼光都落到索米斯身上。果然出事情了！他站起来，嘴唇紧闭，冷冰冰地；他的心情振奋起来；他本来一心贯注在自己脑海边缘上那片隐现的疑云，这时总算扭转过来了。“这里的论点，”他说，声音又低又细，“一点不明确。由于公司今后不可能再有所受益，这一笔支出是否完全合法很难说。如果必要的话，可以申请法院解决。”那位已故矿长的舅爷眉头一皱，用讽刺的口吻说道：“我们谁都知道可以请求法院解决。我请问这位先生贵姓大名，给我们提供这样高明的意见？索米斯-福尔赛先生吗？真是！”他尖刻地望望索米斯，又望望老乔里恩。索米斯苍白的面颊一阵飞红，可是仍然维持着自己那种傲慢的神情。老乔里恩眼睛盯着那位发言人。“如果这位已故矿长的舅爷没有别的话要说，我就提议把营业报告和账目——”可是，就在这时，那五个索米斯抱有好感的、有实力的沉默的股东里面一个站了起来。他说：“我完全不赞成这里的提议。你跟我们说，这个人的妻子儿女靠死者生活，因此要我们周济。他们也许是这样情形；这我都不管。我在原则上整个反对这件事。这种温情的人道主义早就应当反对了。国内到处都泛滥着这种人道主义。我就反对把我的钱付给这些我认都不认识的人，他们做了什么事情配拿我的钱呢？我根本反对这样做；这不是生意经。我现在提议把营业报告和账目暂时保留，把这笔恤金完全划掉。”这个有实力的沉默的股东说话时，老乔里恩始终站着。这人的一大段演说在大家心里引起了共鸣；当时社会上一些清醒的人士里面已经开始了一种崇拜坚强的人、反对善举的运动，这段演说实际上也是这种思想的反映。那句“不是生意经”的话把所有的董事都打动了；私下里大家都觉得的确不是生意经。可是他们也知道董事长的脾气就是那样专断，那样执拗。董事长心里也未始不感觉到不是生意经；可是他碍于自己的建议说不出口。他会不会撤回呢？都认为不大象。全都兴奋地等待着，老乔里恩举起手来；拇指和食指捏着的玳瑁眼镜微微发抖，含有威胁的意味。他向那个坚强沉默的股东说。“先生，象你这样满知道我们已故矿长在那次煤矿爆炸事件上出的大力，你难道当真要我提出修正么？”“我要。”老乔里恩把修正案提出来。“可有哪个附议？”他问，安详的神气把四周望一下。就在这时候，索米斯望着他的伯父，感觉到这老头子的魄力。没有一个人动。老乔里恩的眼睛正视着那个坚强沉默的股东，说道：“我现在提议，‘大会接受并通过一八八六年的营业报告和账目。’你附议吗？赞成的人请依常例举手。反对的——没有。通过。第二项议程，各位先生——”索米斯笑了。乔里恩伯伯的确有他的一套！可是这时候他的心思又回到波辛尼身上来了。奇怪，这个家伙怎么时常使他想起来，便是在办事的时间里也摆脱不掉。伊琳下去看那个房子——可是这件事并没有道理，只是应该告诉他一下；可是，话又说回来了，她又有什么事情告诉过他呢？她一天天变得更加沉默，更加烦躁。他巴不得房子立刻就造好，夫妇搬进去住，离开伦敦。城市于她不相宜；她的神经受不起刺激。那个分房的荒唐要求又提出来了！这时会已经散了。就在那张亏本矿穴的照片下面，汉明斯被包姆牧师揪住了。矮小的布克先生皱着两道粗眉毛，含怒微笑；他已经快走了，还跟老史克卢布索尔吵个不停。两个人相互仇视得就象冤家。他们之间为了一件柏油合同的事情闹得很不痛快，本来是老史克卢布索尔的生意，可是布克先生跟董事会说好让他的一个侄儿接了。这话索米斯是从汉明斯嘴里听来的；汉明斯就喜欢搬弄是非，尤其是关于那些董事的事情；只有老乔里恩的事情他不敢搬，因为他害怕他。索米斯等待着时机；一直等到最后一个股东走出门时，他才走到自己的伯父跟前；老乔里恩这时正戴上帽子。“我能不能跟你谈一分钟话，大伯？”究竟索米斯指望在这次谈话中得到什么结果，谁也不清楚。福尔赛家的人一般都对老乔里恩带有某种神秘的敬畏，也许是由于他那种哲学的见解，也许是——象汉明斯准会说的——由于他长了那样一个下巴；可是除了这一点之外，在这两个长辈和晚辈之间却一直暗藏着故意。他们碰见时只淡淡地招呼一声，谈话中带到对方时大都不置可否，这些上面也隐隐看得出；拿老乔里恩说，这种敌意可能是由于他看出自己侄儿的那种沉默的坚韧性格（在他说起来当然就是“固执”），使他暗地里很怀疑这个侄儿会不会买他的账。这两个福尔赛，虽则在许多方面就象南北极一样距离得那样远，都各自具有那种坚韧而谨慎的明察事理的能力——比起族中其余的人来都要高明；这在他们这个伟大的阶级里应当是最高的造诣。两个人里面无论哪一个，如果运气好一点，机会多一点，都可以做出一番大事业来；两个人里面无论哪一个都可能成为一个好的理财家，大经纪人，或者政治家，不过老乔里恩处在某种心情之下——碰到他抽一根雪茄或者受自然感染时——却会对自己的高位，虽然不加鄙视，但肯定会加以怀疑，而索米斯，由于从来不抽雪茄，就不会了。再者，老乔里恩一直还怀有一种隐痛，觉得詹姆士的这个儿子——詹姆士他一向就看不起的——竟会一帆风顺，而他自己的儿子——！最后也还有提一下的必要，就是老乔里恩在福尔赛家人中间也不是隔绝的，族中的闲是闲非照样传到他耳朵里；他已经听到关于波辛尼的那些怪诞的，虽则不够具体，但是同样令人烦神的谣言，使他深深觉得丢脸。就和老乔里恩平日的作风一样，他不气伊琳，反而气上索米斯。想到自己的侄媳妇（为什么那个家伙不能防范得好些——唉,真要叫冤枉！好象索米斯还约束得不够似的）会勾上琼的未婚夫，简直是丢尽了脸。不过虽则觉察事情不妙，他并不象詹姆士那样闷在肚里干着急，而是无动于衷地抱着达观的态度，承认这并不是不可能；伊琳有种地方的确叫人着迷！他和索米斯一同离开董事室，走上嘈杂而扰攘的齐普赛街；索米斯要谈什么，他已经有些预感。两人并排走了好一刻没有说话，索米斯眼睛东张西望地踏着碎步子；老乔里恩身体笔直，懒洋洋地拿着阳伞当作手杖。不一会，两人转进一条相当清静的街上；老乔里恩本来是上第二家董事会去，所以他的方向是向摩尔门街走去。这时，索米斯眼睛也不抬，开口了：“我收到波辛尼一封信。你看他讲的什么话；我觉得还是告诉你一下。我在这个房子上花的钱比原来打算的多得多，所以事情要讲讲清楚。”老乔里恩勉强把这封信看了一下：“他信上讲得很清楚，”他说。“他讲要由他‘全权作主’，”索米斯回答。老乔里恩望望他。这个小子的私事开始找到他头上来了：他对这个年轻人长期压制着的忿怒和敌意发作出来。“你既然不信任他，又为什么要用他呢？”索米斯偷偷斜瞥他一眼：“事情已经老早过去了，还有什么说的，”他说，“我只是要把话说清楚，如果我让他全权作主，他可不要坑我。我觉得如果你跟他说一声，就要有力量得多！”“不行，”老乔里恩毅然说；“这个事情我不管！”两个人的讲话给对方的印象都是话里有话，而且意义重大得多；他们相互看了一眼，就好象是说双方都明白了。“好罢，”索米斯说；“我本来想，看在琼的面上，还是告诉你一下，没有别的；胡搞我可不答应，这一点我想还是告诉你一下的好！”“跟我有什么关系？”老乔里恩和他顶起来。“哦！我不知道，”索米斯说；老乔里恩的严声厉色使他着了慌，一时说不出话来。“你不要怪我事先没有告诉你，”他悻悻然又加上一句，重又神色自若起来。“告诉我！”老乔里恩说；“我不懂得你是什么意思。你拿这样一件事情来找我噜苏。你的事情我丝毫不想问；你得自己去管！”“很好，”索米斯神色不动地说，“我管好了！”“那么，再见，”老乔里恩说；两个人分手了。索米斯一步步走回去，走进了一家有名的食堂，叫了一盆熏鲑鱼和一杯夏白利酒；他中午一向吃得很少，而且大都站在那儿吃，认为这个姿势对他的肝脏有好处；其实他的肝脏很健康，可是他却要把自己所有的烦恼都记在肝脏的账上。吃完之后，他慢慢走回事务所，低着头，对人行道上拥挤的人群全然不理会，而那些行人也全然不理会他。傍晚的时分，邮差给波辛尼送来下面的复信：福尔赛-勃斯达-福尔赛律师事务所，中东区，鸡鸭街，布兰奇巷二○○一号，一八八七年五月十七日。波辛尼先生：来信奉悉，提的条件很使我诧然。我觉得本来，而且一直是由你“全权作主”的；据我的记忆所及，我不幸提的那些建议就没有一条得到你的同意。现在根据你的要求由你“全权作主”，但要跟你说明在先，就是房子完全装修好，交割的时候，全部费用，包括你的酬金在内（这是我们谈好的），不能超过壹万贰千镑——12000镑。这个数目已经足够你支配，而且你要知道远远超出我原来的预算了。索米斯-福尔赛。第二天，索米斯收到波辛尼一封短柬：菲力普-拜因斯-波辛尼，建筑师事务所，史龙街三○九号丁室，西南区，五月十八日。福尔赛先生：如果你以为我在屋内装修这种精细工作上会受到你钱数的约束，恐怕你想错了。我可以看得出你已经对这件事情，对我，都弄得乏味了，所以我还是退出的好。菲力普-拜因斯-波辛尼。索米斯对于怎样回信苦心盘算了好久；等到夜深，伊琳去睡觉以后，他在餐室里写了下面一封信：蒙特贝里尔方场六十二号，西南区，一八八七年五月十九日。波辛尼先生：有产业的人我认为半途而废对于双方都极端不利。我的意思并不是说，我信中说的数目你超出十镑二十镑甚至于五十镑的话，会在我们之间成为什么大不了的事情。有鉴于此，我希望你能重新考虑你的答复。你可以根据这封信的条件“全权作主”，我并且希望你能勉力完成屋内的装修；这种事情我知道是很难绝对准确的。索米斯-福尔赛。波辛尼的回信在第二天来了：五月二十日。福尔赛先生：行。菲-波辛尼。

第二卷 第六章 老乔里恩逛动物园 
老乔里恩草草把第二个董事会——普通的例会——对付掉。他简直不容别人分说，所以在他走后，其余的董事都窃窃私议，认为老福尔赛愈来愈专横了；决计不能再容忍下去，他们说。老乔里恩坐地道车到宝兰路车站，出站就雇了一部马车上动物园去。他在动物园里有个约会；近来他这种约会愈来愈多了；琼的事情愈来愈使他焦心，照他的说法，琼“完全变了”，因此逼得他不得不如此。她老是躲着不见人，而且一天天瘦起来。跟她说话她也不回答，不然就被她抢白一顿，再不然就是一副哭都哭得出来的神气。她变得简直完全不是她的为人，都是这个波辛尼引起的。至于她自己的事情，她是一个字也不肯告诉你！他时常坐着发呆，发上大半天，手里的报纸也不看，嘴里衔的雪茄熄掉。她从三岁孩子起就跟他形影不离！他是多么疼爱她呀！一种不顾家族、阶级、传统的力量正在冲破他的防御；他感到来日大难，但是无能为力；这种感觉就象是一层阴影罩在他头上。他一向是随心所欲惯了的，现在弄成这样，使他很气恼，然而没处发作。他正在抱怨马车走得太慢，车子已经到了动物园门口；他天生是个乐观性格，专会及时寻乐，所以当他向约会地点走去时，方才的怨气已经忘记了。他的儿子和两个孙男孙女本来站在熊池上面的石台上，这时望见老乔里恩走来，赶快跑下来引着他一同向狮栏走去。乔儿和好儿一边一个搀着他，每人搀着一只手；乔儿就跟他父亲小时候一样会捣乱，把祖父的阳伞倒拿着，想要用伞柄钩人家的腿。小乔里恩跟在后面。看他父亲跟两个孩子在一起就仿佛在看一出戏，可是这出戏虽则逗人笑乐，里面却夹有辛酸。你在白天里随便哪个时候都会看到一个老人带两个小孩一起走；可是看着老乔里恩带着乔儿和好儿在小乔里恩就象看一种特制的画片镜箱，使人窥见了我们内心深处的那些事情。那个腰杆笔直的老头儿完全听从他两边的两个小东西使唤，一种慈爱的派头简直叫人看了心痛；小乔里恩碰见任何事情都有一种机械反应，暗地里直叫天哪！天哪！福尔赛家人都是喜怒不形于色，而这幕戏却深深地感动了他，使他非常之不自在。祖孙四人就这样到了狮栏。今天早上植物园本来有个游园会，其中有一大堆福尔赛——就是一班衣冠楚楚、备有私人马车的人——事后又涌到动物园来，这样，他们花的钱，在回到罗特兰门或者白里昂斯登方场之前，就可以多捞回一点。“我们上动物园去，”他们里面说；“一定很好玩！”这一天的门票是一先令；所以不会碰到那些讨厌的下等人。那些人在一大串笼子面前一排排站着，留意看铁栏后面那些黄褐色的猛兽等待它们在二十四小时之内唯一的享受。那些畜生越饿，大家看了越有趣。可是究竟由于羡慕这些畜生的胃口好，还是更合乎人道一点，由于看见它们很快就吃到嘴，小乔里恩也弄不清楚。他耳朵里不绝地听到：“这个家伙多难看相，这只老虎！”“呀，多美啊！你看他那张小嘴！”“是啊，这个还不坏！不要靠得太近，妈。”在那些人里面，时常有一两个在自己裤子后面口袋上拍这么两下，四下望望，就好象指望小乔里恩或者什么神色自如的人把口袋里的东西替他们取出来似的。一个吃得很胖的穿白背心的人缓缓咕噜着：“全都贪嘴；它们不会饿的。怎么，它们又没有运动。”正说时，一只老虎抢了一块血淋淋的牛肝去吃，胖子哈哈大笑。他的老婆穿了一件巴黎式样的长衣，戴一副金丝夹鼻眼镜，骂他道：“你怎么笑得了呢，哈雷？太难看了！”小乔里恩眉头皱起来。孤独与深思他的一生遭遇，虽则现在想起来时已经能够无动于衷，使他对某些事情不时生出鄙视；尤其是他自己所属的阶级，马车阶级，常使他啼笑皆非。把一只狮子或者老虎关在笼子里肯定是可怕的野蛮行为。可是没有一个有教养的人会承认这一点的。比如说，他的父亲罢，他脑子里大概决计不会想到把野兽关起来是野蛮的事情；他是属于老派的人，认为把狒狒或者豹子关起来是既富有教育意义，又是人道的行为；这些东西虽则眼前悲哀，而且困顿于铁栏之下，日子久了毫无疑问就会习惯下去，而不至于那么不讲道理就死掉，给社会增加一笔补充的费用！他的看法跟所有福尔赛之流的看法一样，这些被上苍随便放任其自由走动的美丽动物，把它们关起来固然使它们不便，但是和看见它们囚禁起来的快乐一比，那就差得太远了！把这些动物一下从露天和自由行动的无数危险中移走，使它们在有保障的幽禁中行使机能，对于它们只有好处！老实说，天生野兽就是为了给人关在笼子里的啊！可是由于小乔里恩的秉性有种不偏不倚的地方，所以他认为这样把缺乏想象力污蔑为野蛮一定是不对的；由于那些抱有这种见解的人谁也没有亲身经历过那些被囚禁的动物的处境，因此就不能指望他们了解这些动物的心情！一直到他们离开动物园——乔儿和好儿快活得忘其所以的时候，老乔里恩才找到机会跟儿子谈自己的贴心话。“我简直弄不懂，”他说；“她如果照现在这样下去，往后真要不堪设想。我要她去看医生，可是她不肯。她跟我一点儿不象。完全象你的母亲。一个牛性子！她不肯做就不肯做，没有第二句话说！”小乔里恩笑了；眼睛把他父亲的下巴望望。“你们两个是一对，”他心里想，可是没有说什么。“还有，”老乔里恩又说，“这个波辛尼。我真想捶这个家伙的脑袋，可是我做不到，不过，我觉得——你未始不可以，”他没有把握地加上一句。“他犯了什么错呢？如果他们两个合不来，这样完结顶好！”老乔里恩把儿子看看。现在认真谈到两性关系的问题上来，他对儿子觉得不放心了。小乔的看法多少总是不严格的。“我不知道你是怎样看法，”他说；“敢说你反会同情他——这也不足为奇；可是我认为他的行为十分下流，哪一天跟他顶了面，我一定这样骂他。”他把话头撇开了。跟他的儿子真没法子谈波辛尼的真正毛病和这些毛病的涵义。他的儿子在十五年前不是犯过同样的毛病（只有更糟）？好象这种愚蠢行为的后果永远没有完似的！小乔里恩也没有开口；他很快就看出他父亲脑子里想些什么；照他原来的地位，他对事物的看法应当很肤浅、单纯，可是自从他从原来的高地位上跌下来之后，他的看法就变得又通达又细致了。可是十五年前他对两性关系所采取的看法跟他父亲的看法就大不相同。这条鸿沟是没法贯通的。他淡淡地说：“我想他是爱上别的女人了，是不是？”老乔里恩疑惑地望他一眼：“我也不知道，”他说；“他们这样说！”“那么，大概是真的了，”小乔里恩出其不意地说；“而且我想他们已经告诉你是哪个女人了吧？”“对的，”老乔里恩说——“是索米斯的老婆！”小乔里恩听到并不惊讶。他自己一生的遭遇使他对这种事情无法表示惊讶，可是他看看自己的父亲，脸上浮现着微笑。老乔里恩是否看见不得而知，总之他装做没有看见。“她跟琼是顶顶要好的！”他说。“可怜的小琼！”小乔里恩低低地说。他把自己的女儿还当作三岁的孩子呢。老乔里恩忽然站住。“我半个字也不相信，”他说，“完全是无稽之谈。小乔，给我叫部马车，我累死了！”他们站在街角上看有什么马车赶过来，就在同一时候，一部接一部的私人马车从动物园里载着形形色色的福尔赛之流掠过他们驶去。辔具、号衣和马衣上的金字在五月的阳光中照耀着，闪烁着；这里有活顶车，敞篷对座车，半活顶车，轻便的两人车和单马轿车，每一部车子的车轮好象骄傲地唱了出来：我和我的马和我的佣人，你知道，整个的排场真的花了不少。可是每一个辨士都花的值得。穷鬼们，现在来看看你老爷和太太多怡然自得！哈，这才叫时髦！你往何处去这种歌，人人都知道，正是一个出巡的福尔赛最适合的伴奏啊！在这些马车当中，有一部由两匹鲜明枣骝马拖着的对座敞篷车比别的马车驰得特别快。车身在装得高高的弹簧上摇摆着，把挤在车子里面的四个人晃得象在摇篮里。这部车子引起了小乔里恩的注意；忽然间，他认出那个坐在对座上的是他二叔詹姆士，虽则胡子白了许多，但是决没有错；在他对面坐着莱西尔-福尔赛和她已婚的姊姊维妮佛梨德-达尔第，用小阳伞遮着后影；两个人都打扮得无懈可击，傲然昂着头，仿佛就是他们适才在动物园里看见的两只鸟儿；和詹姆士并排斜靠着达尔第，穿了一件簇新的大礼服，紧扣在身上，十分挺刮，每只袖口都露出一大截闪光绸的衬衣。这部车子的特点是——因为额外又加上一道最上等油漆的缘故——色采特别光泽，虽则并不触眼。就象一张图画多润色上几笔，就成为一幅名作，和普通的图画迥然有别似的，这部车子看上去也和别的马车有所不同，它是作为一部典型的马车，是福尔赛王国的宝座。老乔里恩并没有看见他们过去；好儿累了，他正在逗她玩，可是马车里的人却注意到祖孙四个；两个女子的头突然偏了过来，两把小阳伞迅速地一遮一掩；詹姆士的脸天真地伸了出来，就象一只长颈鸟的头一样，嘴慢慢张开。那两把小阳伞盾牌似的动作愈来愈小，终于望不见了。小乔里恩看见已经有人认出是他，连维妮佛梨德也认出是他；当年他放弃做一个福尔赛家人的资格的时候，她顶多不过十五岁罢了。这些人并没有变到哪里去！他还记得多年前他们全家出来的那种派头，一点儿没有变：马、马夫、车子——这些现在当然全不同了——可是派头跟十五年前完全一样；同样整齐的排场，同样恰如其份的气焰——怡然自得！招摇过市的派头完全一样，小阳伞的拿法完全一样，整个的气派也完全一样。阳光中，由许多象盾牌一样的小阳伞傲慢地卫护着，一部部马车飞驰过去。“詹姆士二叔刚才过去，带着女眷，”小乔里恩说。他父亲脸上变了色。“你二叔看见我们吗？看见了？哼！他上这些地方来做什么？”这时一部空马车赶过来，老乔里恩叫住车子。“过几天再见，孩子！”他说。“我讲的小波辛尼的事你可别搁在心上——我一个字也不相信！”两个孩子还想拉着他；他吻了两个孩子，上车走了。小乔里恩已经把好儿抱在手里，站在街角上一动不动，望着马车的后影。

第二卷 第七章 悌摩西家里一个下午 
如果老乔里恩上马车的时候说：“我一个字也不愿意相信！”他就会更忠实地表达了他的心情。一想到詹姆士和他的女眷看见自己跟儿子在一起，不但在他心里唤起了那种失意时经常感到的愤懑，也唤起了弟兄之间天生的敌意；这种敌意虽则是在孩提时种下的根，有时却会随着生命的成长钻得愈坚愈深，而且，尽管表面上不露出来，却能在适当的季节使它的植物结出最毒辣的果子。在这以前，六弟兄之间也不过仅仅是暗地里我疑心你，你疑心我——其实也是自然的——深怕哪一个比哪一个阔，说不上什么恶感；等到大家死日子快到的时候——什么哪一个不如哪一个，一死还不完结——这种疑心就变本加厉，简直成了好奇心；那位替他们经管财产的人偏偏守口如瓶，决不透露一点；这人相当的精明，跟尼古拉总是说不知道詹姆士有多少，跟詹姆士总是说不知道老乔里恩有多少，跟老乔里恩总是说不知道罗杰有多少，跟罗杰总是说不知道斯悦辛有多少，只有跟斯悦辛谈起时，说尼古拉一定很有钱，真是气人。悌摩西是唯一不算在里面的人，因为他手里全是稳扎稳打的公债。可是现在，至少在两个弟兄之间又产生了一种完全不同的怀恨。从詹姆士那样无礼地刺探他的私事起——照他老兄的说法——老乔里恩就咬定不相信关于波辛尼的这些传闻。他的孙女儿受“这个家伙”家里的一个人欺负！他打定主意认为波辛尼是被人糟蹋。他背弃琼一定另有原因。琼大约跟他吵了架，或者别的什么；她的性子从来没有这样坏过。三国演义可是，他要给悌摩西一点厉害尝尝，看他还继续散布不散布流言！他而且要说做就做，立刻上悌摩西家去，好好收拾他一场，免得再为这件事跑上第二趟。他看见詹姆士的马车横在“巢庐”门前的人行道上。原来他们赶在他前面到了——肯定说，已经在呱啦呱啦讲看见他的事情了！再过去，斯悦辛的灰色马正跟詹姆士的两匹枣骝马交头接耳，好象在窃窃私议他家的事情，同时两家的马夫也坐在上面窃窃私议着。老乔里恩把帽子放在狭窄穿堂内的椅子上，过去波辛尼的帽子也就是放在这张椅子上被人误认做猫儿的；他用一只枯瘠的手在自己留了大白上须的脸上狠狠抹了一下，象是要抹掉脸上一切表情的痕迹，就走上楼梯。他看见客厅前间坐满了人。这间客厅便是在最理想的时候——没有客人的时候——没有一个人的时候——也是相当满的，原来悌摩西和他两个老姊遵照他们这一辈人的传统，认为一间屋子除非“好好”陈设一下，就算不上“漂亮”。因此这屋子里有十一张椅子，一张长沙发，三张桌子，两口橱，还有无数的小摆件和小玩意儿，和一架大钢琴的半边。这时候屋子里坐着史木尔太太、海丝特姑太、斯悦辛、詹姆士、莱西尔、维妮佛梨德、尤菲米雅（她是又跑来还那本她在午饭时读完的《爱情和止痛药》的）、尤菲米雅的好朋友佛兰茜丝（她是罗杰的女儿，是福尔赛家的音乐家，会作曲子），所以只有一张椅子没有人坐——当然，还有两张椅子是从来没有人坐的①——而那唯一可以插足的地方却被那只猫儿占着，所以被老乔里恩一脚踏个正着。这些时，悌摩西家里这样多的客人倒是常有的事。这一家人全都对安姑太十分敬畏，没有一个例外，现在她去世了，大家上“巢庐”都来得勤些，而且耽的时间也长些了。斯悦辛是头一个到的，呆呆坐在一张金背红缎椅子上，那样子比谁都要活得长久。他的确不愧波辛尼给他起的“胖子”称号，身材又高又大，满满一头白发，一张剃光的刻板的胖脸，被这间陈设考究的屋子一衬，就更加显得富于原始气息。他的谈话，跟他近来许多谈话一样，一上来就转到伊琳身上去，而且急切地向裘丽姑太和海丝特姑太表示他对于这项谣言的意见，因为他听见这话已经传开了。不会的——这是他的话——伊琳也许要跟人家调调情——一个漂亮女人总得纵情一下；可是他不相信会比这个更进一步。没有一点可招物议的地方；她极其懂得事理，也极其知道她这样地位和这样门第的人应当怎样行事！没有——他本来想要说没有“丑事”，可是这种想法太不堪了，所以他只挥一下手，那意思就是说——“算了罢！”就算斯悦辛对这件事情的看法是一种独身汉的看法——然而，老实说来，这家人家有这么多人混得这样好，而且都有相当的地位，还不是因为是门第的缘故吗？就算他过去在谈起自己祖上的时候，曾经听见人一时悲观抑郁起来用“小农”和“毫不足道”的字眼来形容，他果真相信吗？不！他私下里总是抱另一种见解，而且苦苦地把来搂在怀里；他认为在自己的世系上总有什么地方是显耀的。“一准是的，”他有一次跟小乔里恩说，那时候这孩子还没有出事情。“你看看我们，全都混得很好！我们里面一定有什么高贵的血液。”他从前很喜欢小乔里恩：这孩子上大学时交的一些同学都不错，那个老浑蛋查理-费斯特爵士的几个儿子——其中一个儿子也变了个大坏蛋——他都认识；这孩子而且有一种气派——他竟会跟那个外国女子私奔，真是太可惜了——而且是个家庭教师！他一定要私奔的话，为什么不挑个象样的女子，大家也有点面子！他现在算什么呢！在劳爱轮船公司当一名保险员；他们说他还画些画——画画！他妈的！他很可以混到乔里恩-福尔赛从男爵那样的地位，在国会里当一名议员，在乡下有一个庄子！大户人家有些人迟早总会受到某种冲动的驱使，上纹章局去打听；斯悦辛也是由于这种驱使有一次跑到纹章局去；局里的人告诉他，他跟那有名的福尔席肯定是同宗，而这个家族的族徽是“黑底红线，右边三颗带钩”；这样说当然是希望他能采用。可是斯悦辛并没有采用；不过问清楚族徽上首的徽饰是一只“原色雉鸡”和一句箴言“赐福尔席”之后，他就把雉鸡用在自己的马车上和①这两张椅子一张当是安姑太生前坐的，一张是悌摩西坐的，但是他从不下楼，所以等于没有人坐。马夫的纽扣上，在自备的信纸上印上雉鸡和那句箴言。至于那个族徽他只是藏在肚子里，一半是因为自己并没有付钱，把来画在马车上未免太招摇了，而他就恨招摇，一半也因为他跟国内任何讲究实际的人一样，对于自己不懂得的东西私心里都不喜欢而且瞧不起——他觉得这个“黑底红线，右边三颗带钩”令人太难捉摸了，谁也会如此。可是局子里人当时告诉他，只要他付费，他就有资格采用，这句话他永远记得，而且使他更加肯定自己是个士绅。不知不觉之间，族中其他的人也采用这个雉鸡起来，有几个比较认真的还采用了那句箴言；可是老乔里恩不肯用那句箴言，说是胡闹——在他看来，毫无一点意义。这个徽饰究竟是起源于哪一个伟大的历史事件，那些老一辈子的人也许心里明白；可是碰到人追问起来时，他们却慌慌张张说是斯悦辛不知怎样找来的，撒谎谁都不肯，他们都有个感觉，好象只有法国人和俄国人才撒谎。在小一辈中间，这件事情都讳莫如深，谁也不肯提；他们既不想伤长辈的心，也不想使自己显得可笑；他们只是采用了这个徽饰.“不，”斯悦辛说，“他有一次亲眼看见过；肯定说，伊琳对待那个小‘海盗’或者波辛尼——不管他叫什么——的态度和伊琳对待他自己的态度丝毫没有两样；事实上，他要说.”不幸这时候佛兰茜丝和尤菲米雅走了进来，谈话只好中止，因为这类事情当着年轻人是不宜于谈论的。不过斯悦辛虽则在自己刚讲到要紧关头时被人打断，心里微微感觉不快，不久又变得和气起来。他相当喜欢佛兰茜丝——族中人都叫她佛兰茜。她很机伶，他们告诉他，说她靠自己那些曲子还赚了不少的花粉钱呢；他说这就是她聪明的地方。他对自己对于女子采取一种开明态度相当得意，认为女子为什么不可以画点画，或者作作曲子，甚至于写本书，尤其是还能靠这上面赚点钱用用的话；完全可以——免得她们胡闹。她们又不是跟男子一样的！“小佛兰茜，”人家通常都这样带玩带笑地挖苦她，是一个重要人物；单单作为福尔赛家人艺术见解的一个常例看，她也是重要的。她其实并不“小”，个子相当的高，福尔赛家的深色头发，再加上灰色的眼睛，使她看上去颇具有所谓“凯尔特人的面孔”。她写的歌曲都是这类的名目，象《喟然的叹息》，或者《母亲，在我死之前吻我罢，母亲》，里面的叠唱就象赞美诗似的：在我死之前吻我罢，母亲；吻我罢——吻我罢，啊，母亲！吻啊！吻我罢——在——我——在我死之前吻我罢，母——母——亲！歌词都是她自己写的，此外还写些诗。高兴的时候，她还写些华尔滋舞曲，其中有一首叫《坎辛登旋舞》的在坎辛登区差不多到处都唱，里面有一个地方的顿挫很好听，是这样子：很别致的。还有她那些《给小朋友之歌》，既有教育意义，又风趣，尤其是《祖母的鲷鱼》那一首，还有那只短歌叫做《一拳把他的小眼睛打青》，简直象预言一样充满了当时新兴的帝国精神。这些歌曲哪一家出版社不要，有些杂志象《高尚生活》和《闺秀指南》都大为捧场：“又是一支佛兰茜-福尔赛小姐的轻快歌曲，珠圆玉润，荡气回肠。我们自己都感动得又是啼又是笑。福尔赛小姐肯定是有前途的。”红楼梦佛兰茜天生就是一个真正的福尔赛性格，所以一心一意只交象样的人士——那些写文章捧她的人，口头上宣传她的人，和交际场中的人——心里永远记着要在什么场合才卖弄一下风情，眼睛一直留意她歌曲的价格稳步上升的情况；这在她心目中就是代表前途。她就是这样使自己普遍受到尊重。有一次，她因属意一个人情绪有点激动——原因是罗杰一生中全力从事收集房地产的结果使自己唯一的女儿也染上收集爱情的嗜好了——就改写起伟大真实的作品来，选择了给小提琴演奏的长曲形式。这是她许多创作中唯一使福尔赛家人感到不安的一首。他们立刻就想到恐怕卖不掉。罗杰对自己有这样一个聪明的女儿相当喜欢，而且时常跟人提起她替自己赚了不少零用钱，可是听见这只提琴长曲大不高兴。“这样糟糕的东西！”他称这只曲子。原来佛兰茜向尤菲米雅借了小佛拉几阿莱第来，在王子园的客厅中演奏了一次。事实上，罗杰的话是对的。是糟糕，但是——气人的是，这种东西还卖不出去。凡是福尔赛之流都懂得，糟糕的东西只要卖得出去就一点不糟糕——谈不上是糟糕。然而，尽管这些人头脑清楚，要看卖多少价钱来定一件艺术品的价值，福尔赛家有些人却不禁替佛兰茜惋惜，觉得她写的都不是古典音乐；比如说，海丝特姑太就是一个，她一直都是喜欢音乐的。她而且觉得佛兰茜写的诗也不行；不过，诚如海丝特姑太说的，近来简直看不见有人写诗了；所有的诗都只是些“轻松的小调”。没有人能够写出象《失乐园》或者《却尔德-哈洛尔德》①之类的东西；这两首诗随便哪一首都使你感觉到真正是在读诗。不过，佛兰茜有点事情做做也是好的；别的女孩子花钱买这个买那个，她却在赚钱！所以海丝特姑太和裘丽姑太一直都欢喜听她谈最近自己作的曲子的价钱又被她抬高了。这时候她们正在听她谈，斯悦辛也在听，不过他坐着假装没有在听，因为这些年轻人讲话讲得非常之快，而且咕噜咕噜地，他简直听不出谈些什么！“我真不懂得，”史木尔太太说，“你怎么做得出来。我永远没有这样老脸厚皮！”佛兰西淡然一笑，“我宁可跟一个男子打交道，不跟一个女人。女人都太精明！”“亲爱的，”史木尔太太叫出来，“我敢说我们并不精明啊。”尤菲米雅又那样不出声地狂笑起来，最后发出那种尖叫；她象被人扼着脖子说道：“噢，你总有一天笑死我的，二姑。”斯悦辛看不出有什么好笑；他最不喜欢在自己看不出好笑的时候人家要笑。老实说，他根本就不喜欢尤菲米雅，每逢提到她时，总是说“尼古拉的女儿，她叫什么名字——那个白脸？”他险些儿做了她的教父——说实在话，如果不是因为他坚决反对她那个外国气的名字，他已经做成了。他就恨做人家的教父。有这些原因，所以斯悦辛装出正经样子向佛兰茜说：“天气很好——呃——在这种时候。”可是他过去不肯做她教父的事情尤菲米雅肚子里完全清楚，所以转向海丝特姑太，并开始告诉她，自己在教会百货公司撞见伊琳——索米斯的妻子——的经过。“那么索米斯跟她在一起吗？”海丝特姑太问，原来史木尔太太还没有机会把这件事情告诉她。“索米斯跟她在一起？当然没有！”“可是难道她单独在外面跑吗？”“哦，不是的；有波辛尼先生跟她在一起呢。她的衣服穿得真漂亮啊。”可是斯悦辛一听见提到伊琳的名字，就恶狠狠望着尤菲米雅；的确，尤菲米雅不管她不穿衣服时怎么样，穿起衣服来可从不好看，所以他说：“穿得象个贵妇，我敢说。看见她真叫人开心。”这时候有人通报詹姆士跟他的两个女儿来了。达尔第酒瘾上来，推说跟牙医生约好了，叫他们在马波门把他放下来，雇了一部马车，这时候已经坐在毕卡第里大街自己俱乐部的窗口了。他告诉他那些好友，说他妻子要带他去拜会亲友。这不是他干的——不大象。呵呵！他招呼侍役过来，叫他到外面穿堂里看看四点三十分一次赛马是哪匹马赢的。他累得不能动了，他说，这也是实情；整个下午跟他妻子坐着马车到处去“参观”。后来他坚决不干了。生活不能听人家支配。这时候，他正向那面拱窗望出去——他最喜欢这个座位，因为过路的人从这里全可以望见——不幸，也许可以说是幸而——被他瞧见索米斯从靠绿公园的那一边东张西望地穿过来，显然打算上俱乐部来，因为他也是伊昔姆俱乐部的会员。达尔第跳了起来；他一把抓起酒杯，嘴里叽咕了一句关于四点三十分赛马的话，就匆匆溜进打牌室去了；这间屋子索米斯是从不进来的，在这间打牌室里，孤独地一个人，在昏暗的灯光下面，他支配自己的生活到七点半钟；算来索米斯这时候准已经走了。要不得！只要他觉得心痒难熬，想到拱窗那边去找人拉呱的时候，他就这样再三告诉自己；他的经济是这样窘，“老头子”（詹姆士）自从那次煤油股票出事之后——其实不能怪他——又是那样不好说话，这时候随随便便跟维妮佛梨德吵起来，是绝对要不得的。要是索米斯看见他在俱乐部里，他没有去看牙医生的事就准会传到她耳朵里。没有一个人家事情会传得这样快的。他不自在地坐在那些绿呢牌桌之间，一副榄黄脸上眉头皱着，跷着穿格子呢裤子的腿，漆皮鞋在昏暗中闪耀着，坐在那里啃指头，盘算要是那匹色鬼赢不了兰卡州银杯赛的话，这笔钱又向哪儿去找。他的心思抑郁地想到那些福尔赛家的人。这班人真是少见！一点油水都榨不到他们的——即使榨到，也是极端困难的事；这么多的人里面没有一个说得上义气，要末除非是乔治。比如，那个索米斯家伙，你如果想跟他借个十镑钱，就可以使他晕倒，或者，如果不晕倒的话，就会带着他那天杀的傲慢的微笑望着你，就象你罪该万死似的，全由于你没有钱。还有他那个老婆（达尔第不由得嘴里生水了），他总想跟她亲近亲近，就如同人有个漂亮的舅嫂自然而然想亲近一下一样，可是倒霉的是这个——（他心里用了一个粗鄙字眼）——连理也不理他——她望着他那副样子就好象他是牛屎似的——然而她在这上面很有一手，他敢打赌。女人他是懂得的；这样柔媚的眼睛和身腰不是白白生的，这一点索米斯那个家伙不久就会懂得——他风闻的那个“海盗”老兄的事情不是没有影子的。达尔第从椅子上站起来，在室内打一个转，最后走到大理石炉板上头那面镜子跟前；他在镜子前面站上好半天，望着自己的影子沉吟。那副尊容——这是某些人特有的——就象在亚麻油里浸过似的，上了蜡的黑胡子，短短两撮出色的腮须；一只微微弯曲而肥大的鼻子旁边象要起一个瘰疬，这使他看了很着急。就在这时候，老乔里恩在悌摩西宽大的客厅里找到那张剩余的椅子坐下。他的到来显然打断了大家的谈话，场面弄得很僵。裘丽姑太的好心肠是出了名的，赶快设法使大家松下来。“是啊，乔里恩，”她说，“我们刚才还谈到你有好久不来了；不过我们也不必奇怪。当然，你是忙，是不是？詹姆士刚才还说一年中这个时候多么忙——”“他说的吗？”老乔里恩说，狠狠望詹姆士一眼。“只要各人管各人的事情，就决不会这样忙。”詹姆士本来坐在一张矮椅子上，膝盖竖得多高在那里呆想，这时候不自在地挪动一下自己的脚，不小心踩到那只猫；原来那猫从老乔里恩那里逃到他身边来躲难的，这叫做不智。詹姆士觉得踏上一只柔软的毛茸茸的身体，骇然把脚抽回来，带着着恼的声音说，“你看，这儿有只猫呢。”“好几只呢，”老乔里恩说，挨次地把那些人看看；“我刚才就踩到一只①。”接着是一片沉默。后来史木尔太太扭动着手指头，带着可怜相的安详向四面张一下，问道：“亲爱的琼好吗？”老乔里恩严厉的眼睛■了一■，夹有好笑的神情。这个老太婆真是妙极了，裘丽！谁也比不上她说话那样不识相！“不好，”他说；“伦敦对她不相宜——人太多，闲话也太多！”他把这些字着重地说出来，又盯着詹姆士的脸望。没有一个人说话。大家全感觉处境太危险，切不可以乱说乱动。在这间陈设考究的客①英语里的猫和中文的狐狸有同样的涵义。厅里，全都有看希腊悲剧时那种大祸临头的感觉；屋内挤满了白发苍苍、穿大礼服的老头子和衣着时髦的女子；他们全属于同一血统，在他们中间有一种说不出来的相似的地方。并不是说他们就意识到这一点——那些司命运的恶神的光临，人们只是隐隐觉得而已。后来斯悦辛站起来。坐在这里这样受罪，他决不来——他可不吃哪个的言语！所以他做出特别神气在屋子里兜了一转，跟每一个人握了手。“你告诉悌摩西说是我说的，”他说，“他保养得太过分了！”接着转身向佛兰茜——他看中佛兰茜“机伶”——又接上一句：“你哪一天上我家里来，我带你坐马车出城去玩。”可是话一出口，他就想起带伊琳出城去玩的那一次，后来引出那么多的闲话来，所以有这么半晌站着一动不动，瞪着两只眼睛望着，仿佛等着看他这句话会招致什么后果似的；后来忽然想起反正他一点不在乎，就转身向老乔里恩说：“再见，乔里恩！你不应当不穿大衣在外面跑；你会吹出风湿痛来的！”说完，他用漆皮靴的尖子轻轻踢一下那只猫，扬着自己的一身肉走了。他走了之后，大家悄悄地相互望望，看刚才那句“出城”的话给大家什么感想——这句话已经出了名，而且意义极端重大，因为在族中议论纷纷的那项隐约而怪诞的流言里面，这是唯一的一条所谓正式公报。尤菲米雅按捺不住了，发出一声短笑，说道：“幸亏斯悦辛三伯没有约我出城去。”史木尔太太一面想安慰她，一面害怕这个话题会引起什么难堪，想要斡旋一下，就答道：“亲爱的，他喜欢带穿得漂亮的人出去，使他面子上好看。我一直记得他带我出城的那一次。真是长见识！”说完，她那张胖胖的老脸暂时显出一种古怪的满足；接着嘴噘起来，眼泪涌进眼眶子里。原来她想起多年前那一次跟席普第末斯-史木尔坐马车游历的事情来了。詹姆士坐在矮椅子上，早已恢复原来那种紧张的沉思状态，这时忽然清醒过来：“斯悦辛真是个可笑的家伙，”他说，可是心不在焉。老乔里恩的沉默，和严厉的眼光，吓得大家噤不做声。他对刚才讲的那两句话自己也感到彷徨起来——他原是来攻破这项谣言的，而他这两句话反而使谣言显得更重要了；可是他还在生气。他跟他们还没有完；没有，没有，他还要收拾他们两下。他不想收拾这些侄女们，他跟她们没有难过——老乔里恩对待稍微看得过去的年轻女子总是温和的——可是詹姆士这个家伙，还有余下的这几个，也许比詹姆士好些，但是一个都不能饶过。所以他也问起悌摩西来。裘丽姑太好多感到自己的小兄弟处境危险似的，忽然问他喝不喝茶：“茶在后客厅里泡好了，”她说，“又冷又难吃，不过叫史密赛儿给你重泡一壶。”老乔里恩站起来：“谢谢，”他说，眼睛正视着詹姆士，“不过我没有功夫喝茶，也没有功夫听什么——闲是闲非，和其他的鬼话！已经是回去的时候了。再见，裘丽雅；再见，海丝特；再见，维妮佛梨德。”他跟其余的人连招呼也不招呼一声，就昂然走了出去。一上了马车，他的怒气消失了，他气起来时就是这样——发作一顿之后，气就平了。他的兴头忽然下去。这些人的嘴也许被他堵着了，可是换来什么呢！他本来打定主意不相信这些谣言，现在他知道肯定是真的了，这就是他换得来的。琼是被人遗弃了，丢掉她，找上了那个家伙的媳妇！他觉得这是真事，但是硬着头皮假装不相信；在这种决心之下，他蕴藏在心里的痛苦逐渐地然而坚决地发为一种对詹姆士父子的盲目忿恨。那间小客厅里剩下的六个女子一个男子开始谈论起来，不过经过适才一段不快之后，谈得都不怎样自如；他们里面每一个人虽则肯定自己没有搬弄是非，但是每一个人都知道其余的六个人是有份的；因此全都心里很生气，而且弄得糊里糊涂。只有詹姆士一声不响，心里激动得厉害。过一会，佛兰茜说：“我觉得乔里恩大伯这一年来老得厉害。你说怎样，三姑？”海丝特姑太微微缩一下头：“哦，你问问二姑呢！”她说；“我是一点不知道。”其他的人并不害怕同意她的看法，所以詹姆士抑然望着地板说：“他比从前差远了。”“我老早就看出来，”佛兰茜接下去说；“他老得不象样子了。”裘丽姑太摇摇头；一张脸忽然整个噘了起来。西游记“可怜的乔里恩，”她说，“他应当有人照应才是！”大家又沉默下来；后来，就象深怕被人丢下来溜单似的，五位客人不约而同站起来，告辞走了。客厅里又只剩史木尔太太，海丝特姑太和那只猫，远远关门的声音通知她们悌摩西出来了。那天晚上，海丝特姑太在她那间后卧房里——这原是裘丽姑太的，后来裘丽姑太住了安姑太的房间——刚才睡着，史木尔太太就开了房门进来，戴一顶粉红睡帽，手里拿一支蜡烛：“海丝特！”她说。“海丝特！”海丝特姑太在被里微微哆嗦一下。“海丝特，”裘丽姑太又叫一声，非要弄清楚她已经醒了没有，“我真替可怜的亲爱的乔里恩发愁。你看应当给他想点什么办法呢？”她把最后两个字重重说一下。海丝特姑太在被里又哆嗦一下，她的声音听上去微微带有讨饶的口气：“办法？我怎么知道呢？”裘丽姑太满意地转身走了，为了不惊动亲爱的海丝特，关门关得格外轻，让那扇门从手指间滑出来，“克达”一声关上。回到自己房里，她站在窗口从纱布窗帘的一条缝隙里窥望公园树木上面的月亮；窗帘拉了起来，免得被外面人看见。就这样子，一张浑圆的脸，戴着粉红色睡帽，噘着嘴，眼中含泪，她想着“亲爱的乔里恩”，这样老又这样孤零，想着自己怎样来替他想点办法；这样他就会喜欢她起来——使她自从席普第末斯-史木尔去世之后，第一次有了一个人喜欢她。

第二卷 第八章 罗杰家中的舞会 
罗杰在王子园的房子里点得通明。他们找来一大堆蜡烛，插在雕花玻璃的架灯上，星星点点的灯光在那间长套间客厅的嵌木地板上返映了出来。所有的家具全搬到楼上楼梯口去，屋子四周放了许多轻便的长凳，那些人类文明的奇异附属品，因此屋内看去十分宽敞。远远的角落里放了一架小钢琴，拿许多棕榈树围绕着，乐谱架上摊开一份坎辛登旋舞。罗杰反对要有乐队。他认为要乐队毫无道理；这笔费用他决计不出，所以完事大吉。佛兰茜（她母亲多年前就被罗杰气出了老胃病，碰到这种事情早就睡了）没有别的法子可想，只好找一个吹喇叭的小伙子来和钢琴搭配；她把棕榈树布置得很巧妙，一个人粗心一点就会当作棕榈树里藏了有好几个乐师呢。她下了决心要叫他们奏得多响的——一只喇叭只要狠命的吹，也还是很悦耳的。用一句比较文雅的美国话来说，她总算是“捱过”了——为要铺排得时髦，同时顾到福尔赛家的高度节约原则，她不得不东拼西凑，现在呕心挖胆总算捱过这一关了。她穿了一件金黄色的衣服，肩头镶上许多纱边，人虽则瘦削但是很神气。她把一处一处都转到，一面戴上手套，一面四下顾盼。她向雇来的男仆（罗杰家里是只用女佣的）吩咐酒。福尔赛先生只预备把从惠特莱酒店买来的香槟酒拿出一打来，他可懂得吗？可是如果酒喝完了（按说是不会的，女客多数当然只是喝水），可是如果酒喝完了，他一定要尽力用渗香槟的果子酒来凑付。她真不高兴跟一个男仆讲这类事情，太失身份；可是你把爹有什么办法呢？其实，罗杰虽则对于开跳舞会百般为难，可是，过一会就会下楼来，脸色红红的，额头鼓出来，就好象他是舞会的发起人似的；他会笑着脸，而且很可能把最美丽的女客带进餐室用夜餐；到了两点钟，当大家舞兴正浓的时候，他就会悄悄走到乐师面前，叫他们奏国歌①，自己走掉。佛兰茜衷心希望他玩一会就倦了，一个人溜去睡觉。呼啸山庄有三四个知心女友，留下来预备参加舞会的，跟她在楼上一间平时不用的小屋子里吃了一点茶和冷鸡腿，都是匆匆开出来的；那几个男子都被送到欧斯代司的俱乐部里去开晚饭，这些人总得请他们饱啖一顿。不迟不早刚好是九点钟的时候，史木尔太太一个人到了。她满口替悌摩西道歉，说他不能来，却绝不提起海丝特姑太，原来海丝特姑太是在最后一分钟才推说她懒得来的。佛兰茜招待得非常殷勤，请她坐在一张轻便凳子上，就走开了，剩下史木尔太太孤零零一个人穿着淡紫色缎子衣服——自从安姑太逝世之后，她还是第一次穿颜色衣服——噘着嘴坐在那里。那些知心的女友这时从各人房间里出来，就象鬼使神差似的，各人①英国一切娱乐终了时都要奏国歌。衣服的颜色都穿得不同，可是肩头和胸部全都镶上许多纱边——因为全都是一把骨头。她们全被带到史木尔太太跟前见过礼。每一个只跟她耽上分把钟就跑开，都挤在一起谈话，盘弄着手中的程序单，偷眼瞄着门口等待第一个男子出现。接着来了尼古拉家的一群人，他们一向就是准时而到——据说在他们住的拉布罗克林那边就时行这个；紧跟在后面是欧斯代司和他的男朋友，没精打采的样子，而且有一股烟草气味。这时佛兰茜的情人陆续来了三四个；是她事先逼着每一个人答应早到的。这些人全都胡子剃得很光，举止活泼，一种很特别的活泼派头，是新近才侵入坎辛登把青年人过上的；他们相互之间毫不在意，领带都打得两头鼓了出来，一律的白背心和两边绣花的袜子。全都在袖口里藏一块手绢。他们愉快地走动着，每人都装出兴高采烈的样子，象是特地跑来做一番大事业似的。他们跳舞时脸上的表情远不是英国人跳舞时那副传统的庄严神气，而是满不在乎、风趣、和蔼；他们又跳又蹦，抱着各人的舞伴大转特转，对于音乐的拍子全然不管，认为不必那样迂阔。他们看着其他跳舞的人时，脸上带一种轻快的蔑视表情——他们是“轻骑兵”，是坎辛登舞场中身经百战的壮士——要指望看到正确的风度、言笑和舞步，只能在他们身上找到。这下面涌到大批的客人；年长的监护人全被挤到迎着进门地方的墙边坐着，年轻活泼的在大房间里加进了那股跳舞的漩流。男子很少，坐冷板凳的女子都显出一种特殊的可怜相，一副耐心而酸溜溜的微笑，那意思好象说：“唷，不！不要弄错我，我知道你不是来找我的。这个我是简直不指望的！”佛兰茜时常会央求她的情人之一，或者一个初出茅庐的小伙子：“现在，你帮个忙，让我给你介绍平克小姐；人真是不错！”这样就把他带过去说，“平克小姐—这位是加萨柯尔先生。你能跟他跳个舞吗？”接着平克小姐勉强一笑，脸色微頳，回答说：“哦！我想可以的！”便遮着自己的空白纸片，在上面写上加萨柯尔的名字，就在他请求的第二次额外舞的地位热情地拼出他的名字。可是当那小伙子叽咕一声太热了，走开去以后，她就又恢复原来的绝望的企盼，带着忍耐而酸溜溜的微笑。那些做母亲的缓缓用扇子扇着脸，留神看着各人的女儿，而这些女儿的种种遭遇都可以在她们眼睛里望得出来。至于这些母亲本人接连几个小时坐了下去，坐得腰痠背痛，闷不作声，或者偶尔谈两句话——这有什么关系呢？只要这些女孩子玩得开心就行了！可是看见女儿受到冷淡，被人丢下来！啊！她们脸上笑了，可是眼睛里射出凶光，就象触怒了的天鹅眼睛一样；她们真想一把抓着小加萨柯尔的阿飞式裤管，拖到她们女儿跟前——这些小畜生！舞场譬如战场，就在这坎辛登舞会上，人生的一切残酷、辛酸和不平的遭遇，人性的妄自尊大、忘我精神和忍耐也可以看得见。也有些零零星星的情人们——不是佛兰茜的那些特殊一类的情人，只是普通情人——颤抖着，红着脸，默默无言，相互瞟上一眼，企图在纷扰的跳舞中亲近一下，也有时候在一起跳舞，他们眼中的情意使旁观者都对他们注目。十点正来了詹姆士的一家——爱米丽，莱西尔，维妮佛梨德（达尔第由于上一次在罗杰家里香槟酒喝得太多了，所以这一次没有带他），和最小的茜席丽，她这还是第一次出来交际；他们后面是索米斯和伊琳，两人先是在老家里吃的晚饭，现在坐马车跟了来。这几位女客都只用肩带，上面不缀纱边——这样更大胆地裸露着肩头，使人一望而知这些人是从更时髦的海德公园那一边来的。索米斯侧着身子后退几步，避免和跳舞的人碰上，找个地方把身子抵着墙站着。他脸上装出淡淡的笑容，在那里作壁上观。华尔滋舞一次又一次地舞起，舞落；一对对舞伴掠过去，唇边挂着微笑；或者笑出声来，片断地谈着话；或者板着一副脸，眼睛在人群中搜索着；又或者嘴唇微启，眼光相对，默默无言。宴会的气息、花香和头发的气味，和女子喜用的香水味，在夏夜的炎热中升起来，窒人呼吸。索米斯一声不响，微笑中带着讥刺，眼睛里仿佛什么都没有看见似的；可是有时眼光落在他要找寻的对象身上，就会盯着那个对象随着流动的人群转，同时嘴角上的笑意也消失了。他跟谁都不跳舞。有些人也跟自己的妻子跳舞；可是他自从结婚之后就从来不允许自己跟伊琳跳舞，认为不“得体”，至于这样做他心里是否舒服，那就只有福尔赛家的家神知道了。她舞过去了，跟别的男子跳着，她的虹彩衣服从脚下飘起来。她的舞跳得很好；他时常听见女人带着酸意的笑跟他说：“你太太跳舞跳得多美啊，索米斯先生——看她跳舞真是享受！”而他就会斜瞥一眼，回答说：“你认为这样吗！”这些话他都听厌了，也回答厌了。附近一对年轻男女轮流挥动着一把扇子，引起一阵不好受的串风。佛兰茜跟她的一个情人在近处站着。两个人在谈情。他听见身后罗杰的声音，向一个仆人吩咐夜餐。一切都是第二流！他真懊悔来的！他先问过伊琳要不要他来；她当时带着那气得死人的微笑回答说：“哦，不要呀！”他为什么偏要来呢？刚才的一刻钟里面，连她的人都看不见了。那边乔治又走过来了，永远是那副奎尔普式的狡猾的脸；现在已经来不及躲开他了。“你看见‘海盗’没有？”这位老牌滑稽问；“他在准备上阵呢——剪了头，收拾得整整齐齐！”索米斯回说没有看见；屋内跳舞歇了一下，人比较空，所以他就穿过舞池到了外面凉台上，眺望下面街道。一部马车载来些迟到的客人驶过来，大门口围着一些看热闹的人，耐心耐气地站着不肯走；伦敦街上常看见有这种被灯光或者音乐招引来的闲杂人，黑■■的身形，衣衫破旧，仰着一副苍白的脸；那种呆望的神气使索米斯看了很生气：为什么让这些人留在这里；警察为什么不叫他们走开呢？可是警察并不理会他们；他分开两只脚站在横贯人行道的那条大红地毯上；铁盔下面的一张脸也是跟他们一样的呆望的神气。在街道对面那些栏杆里面，索米斯可以望得见树木的枝条在街灯的照耀下掩映着，在风中微微动荡；再过去是公园那边高楼上的灯火，就象许多眼睛在眺望园内一片阒静的漆黑；在这一切上面是天空，伟大的伦敦天空，被千万盏灯火洒上一层闪映的尘土；这是一座在星斗间用人类欲望和幻想曲曲折折织成的穹顶——是一面无边无际、人世豪华和穷困的镜子，夜夜带着仁慈的嘲笑高照着多少英里的房屋和花园、广厦和贫民窟，高照着福尔赛家的人、警察和街上看热闹的人。索米斯转过身去，人隐在窗口，向着灯火通明的屋子里面望。外面凉快一点。他看见适才新到的客人走进来，原来是琼和她祖父。他们是什么缘故来得这样晚呢？两个人站在门口；神气很是疲倦。乔里恩大伯想得起来这么老晚跑出来！琼为什么不先上伊琳那儿跟她一起来呢，她平时不都是找伊琳带她出来的吗？这时他才猛然想起他已经很久很久没有和琼见面了。索米斯带着无聊的恶意察看着琼的脸色，看见她脸色变了，变得非常苍白，索米斯简直当做她要栽下去似的，接着脸又涨得通红。他转过头向琼看的方向看去，就看见自己的妻子搭在波辛尼的胳臂上，正从屋子那一头花房里出来；她眼睛抬起，和波辛尼的眼睛对视，象在回答他问的什么问题；波辛尼那边则是全神贯注地望着她。索米斯又把琼望望；她一只手搁在老乔里恩的胳臂上，象在恳求什么。他看见自己伯父脸上显出惊异的神情；两人转过身去，在门口消失了。乐声又起，是一支华尔滋曲；索米斯隐在窗口，静悄悄就象一座石像，在那里等待着；他脸上毫无表情，可是唇边一点微笑也没有。不一会，在离黑暗凉台一码远的地方，他妻子和波辛尼跳过去了。他闻得出她戴的栀子花的香味，看见她胸口起伏着，眼睛里含着柔情，嘴唇微启，脸上的那种神情是他从来没有见到过的。两个人随着悠扬的乐声跳过去，在他眼中好象紧紧贴在一起；他看见伊琳抬起自己又大又乌的眼睛和波辛尼的眼睛相视着，接着又垂下来。他脸色雪白，转过身来向着外面，靠在凉台上看下面的方场；那些人仍旧全神贯注地仰头望着灯光，简直无聊；那个警察也仰着脸，眼睛睁得多大；可是这些他都看不见。一部马车驶了过来，两个人爬上车，又驶走了.那天晚上琼和老乔里恩在平日一样的时间坐下来吃晚饭。琼穿的一件经常穿的高领子衣服，老乔里恩没有换礼服。早饭的时候她就谈起罗杰爷爷家里的跳舞会，她想去；她说自己真蠢，就没有想到找一个人带她去。现在可来不及了。老乔里恩一双锐利的眼睛抬了起来。琼照例是跟伊琳一起去的！所以他故意把眼光盯着她望，问她；“为什么不去找伊琳呢？”不！琼不想找伊琳；她要去的话除非她祖父肯破例去走一下——一会儿就行了！老乔里恩看见她的神情那样急切又那样憔悴，就勉强答应了。这种舞会敢说丝毫没有道理，他不懂得她是什么意思，他说；而且她这种鬼身体根本就不应当去！她需要的是海空气，等他开完寰球金矿租采公司股东大会之后，他一准带她上海边去。她不想出门吗？唉！她要把自己糟死了！老乔里恩怜惜地偷偷瞄她一眼，就继续吃自己的早饭。琼一早就跑出去，在大热天下面忙着东跑西跑。这一向她那瘦弱的身材碰到什么事情都是那样懒洋洋的，今天却象着了邪火。她要把自己打扮得极其漂亮——她打定主意要这样做。他准会来的！他是有一张请帖的，这一点她满知道。她要让他看看她并不在乎。可是在她私心里她却决心在这个晚上把他夺回来。她回到家里时满脸红光，午饭从头到尾都谈得很起劲；这些都是当着老乔里恩做的，他竟然被她骗过了。那天下午她忽然伤心得号啕大哭起来。她抵着床上的枕头把声音压下去，可是最后哭泣中止时，她在镜子里一看，一张脸肿了起来，眼睛红红的，四周都是黑圈圈。她耽在房间里一直等到天黑，到晚饭时才跑出来。她不做声地吃着晚饭，心里一直都在挣扎着。老乔里恩看见她的神气那样没精打采，一点劲儿都没有，就告诉“山基”把马车卸掉，今天晚上决不让她出去了。她应当去睡觉！她也不违抗，上楼进了自己的屋子，黑漆漆地坐着。十点钟的时候，她打铃叫女仆进来。“拿点热水来，下去告诉福尔赛先生，说我觉得人已经完全养息好了。说如果他太疲倦了，我可以一个人上舞会去。”女仆显出疑惑样子，琼就蛮不讲理起来。“走，”她说，“把热水立刻拿来！”她赴舞会穿的衣服还摊在长沙发上；她鼓着一股猛劲，小心地穿上衣服，把花拿在手里，就下楼来，又厚又重的头发下面一张小脸仰得高高的。经过老乔里恩的卧室时，她能听见他在里面走动。老乔里恩被她弄得又气又莫明其妙，正在换衣服。这时已过十点，他们总要十一点钟才到得了；这孩子简直是发疯。可是他不敢惹她——晚饭时候她脸上那种表情使他一直不能去怀。他用一把乌木刷刷头发，在灯光下面头发亮得象灿银；接着他也从阴暗的楼梯上下来。琼在楼下迎上他，两个人一句话不说，就上了马车。水浒传这段路简直象走不完似的；到达之后，两个人走进罗杰的客厅时，琼的心里又是慌张又是激动，可是脸上故意装出一副坚决的神气，来掩饰她内心的痛苦。她深怕他也许不在场，深怕见不到他，同时下了决心要把他夺回来——想法子夺回来，至于怎样夺法，她也不知道；有这些缘故，所以纵使有人说她“追他”，她也不觉得有什么难为情。一看见舞厅，和油光刷亮的地板，琼又是高兴又是得意；她就爱跳舞，跳起舞来，由于她身子非常之轻，飘飘然就象一个兴高采烈的小仙灵。他准会来请她跳舞，只要他跟她一跳舞，两个人就会和好如初了。她急切地向四周围看。这时波辛尼跟伊琳正从花房里走出来，他脸上那种古怪的心神专注的神气被琼望见，一下给了她很大的打击。她的窘态这两个人并没有看见——谁也不能看见——连她祖父都没有看见。她把手放在老乔里恩的胳臂上，很低的声音说：“我非回家不可，爷爷；我不舒服。”她祖父赶快带她走了，一面自己抱怨着他早知道会弄成这样的。可是他跟琼一句话都没有说。总算万幸那部马车还靠在门口，两个人重又上了马车；直到这时候，老乔里恩才问她：“乖乖，是什么事情？”琼痛哭起来，连整个的小身材都抽搐着，这情形使老乔里恩着实慌了起来。明天非给她请白兰克来看不可。不看也要她看。决不能让她这样.好了，好了！琼勉强抑着抽噎；她倒在车角落里，狂热地勒着他的手，用一条披肩裹着脸。她祖父只看见她一双眼睛，在黑暗中瞠目望着，一动不动；可是他一直都用自己瘦瘠的手指轻拍着她的手。

第二卷 第九章 里希蒙之夜 
除掉琼和索米斯之外，还有别的人亲眼看见“那两个”（尤菲米雅已经开始这样叫他们了）从花房里走出来；波辛尼脸上的那种神情也被别人看在眼里了。平时，自然的外表总是那样恬静闲适，可是有时候它蕴藏着的热力也会突然暴露出来——春天怒照的阳光从紫云中落在雪白的杏花上；雪覆的山峰，浴着月光，缀上一颗孤独的星，耸入火热的青穹；或者在落霞的光焰中，一棵老杉木阴森森地竖在那里，象是守卫着某些炽热的秘密；这些都是的。也有些时候，在一家画廊里，被一位午餐吃得也许比他同类更讲究的福尔赛之流撞见一幅作品；这画在不经心的旁观者眼中只是“***提香——至精品”，偏会冲破了这位福尔赛先生的一切藩篱，使他象着了魔似地沉浸在一种狂悦之中。这张画，他觉得，有种地方，嗯，真正算得上画。一种不可推究的，不讲理的东西找上了他；他企图用一个凡事只求实际的人那种准确性来肯定这东西是什么，可是这东西却躲躲闪闪的，捉摸不到，就跟他中午逐渐消失的酒意一样，剩下他一个人在生气，觉得肝脏很不好受。他觉得自己刚才太挥霍了，简直是浪费；真是碰见鬼了。这本目录上面的三个米星号表明的什么，他本来并不想看见。造化的神力，天哪，他顶好一点儿不懂得！这种东西他顶好根本不承认它的存在！一承认，你就会无法自拔？你付一个先令买张门票，接着又要付一个先令买节目单。琼看到的——以及其他福尔赛家人看到的——波辛尼脸上那种神情就象画布上面有一个洞，后面一支蜡烛动着，突然从洞里闪射出来一样——一点模糊的、摇晃不定的红光，黯淡而迷人，一下子冒出火焰。它使旁观的人恍悟到这里面包含着危险的因素。有这么一会儿，他们带着喜悦，带着兴味望着，但随即觉得自己根本不应该望。可是这却解释了琼为什么来得这样晚，然而没有跳舞就跑掉了，跟自己的未婚夫连手都不握就跑掉了。据说，她人不舒服，无怪如此。可是讲到这里，他们都怀着鬼胎相互望望。他们并不想使家丑外扬，不想恶意待人。哪个愿意如此呢？对于族外的人，他们是一个字也不吐露，无形的戒律使他们全都保持着缄默。随后就听见说，琼跟老乔里恩上海边去了。雾都孤儿老乔里恩带琼去白劳德司代尔，因为这地方近来很吃香；至于雅茅司，尽管有尼古拉捧场，它的声誉已经日趋下降，而一个福尔赛家人上海边去，如果呼吸不到一点在一个星期之内使他的性情变得乖戾的空气的话，他花的钱就不值得。当初那个福尔赛始祖喝马第拉酒的贵族习惯不幸也带有这个动机，所以后代子孙当然也容易犯这个毛病。琼就这样上海边去了。族中人只好等着看事情进一步的变化；除此没有别法。可是“那两个”究竟——究竟到了什么程度呢？他们究竟打算闹到什么程度呢？他们难道当真要闹下去吗？肯定说，不会闹出什么事情来，因为两个人都没有钱。至多是调情调情，到了适当的时候就会完结，所有这类爱情都是这样结束的。索米斯的妹妹维妮佛梨德-达尔第却嘲笑他们，认为根本没有什么事情，她住在格林街，因此染上了美菲亚区的风气，对于已结婚的人应当如何如何有着更时髦的主张，比一般流行的，例如在拉布罗克林流行的主张时髦得多。那个“小女人”——伊琳其实比她还高，她这样一直被唤作“小女人”十足地证明了一个福尔赛家人的高贵身份——那个“小女人”过得厌烦了。为什么不能寻点开心呢？索米斯这人相当腻味；至于波辛尼先生，她始终认为他很“帅”——只有乔治那样的小丑会赶着他叫“海盗”。这句评语——说波辛尼“帅”——引得舆论哗然。大家都不服。说波辛尼“还算漂亮”，这一点大家可以承认，可是以他那样的高颧骨、贼眼睛、软呢帽，要说够得上“帅”的话，那恰恰证明维妮佛梨德又来她赶时髦的老一套，她总是那样放荡不羁。那年夏天最时行放荡不羁，这在历史上是出名的；连大地都放荡不羁起来——栗树盛开，发散出浓郁的花香，在过去从没见过；家家花园里都开放着玫瑰；夜里满天的繁星，简直挤都挤不下；太阳全身披挂，天天从早到晚在公园上面挥舞着它的铜盾，人们的行为也变得古怪了，在露天底下吃午饭，吃晚饭。出租马车和私人马车川流不息地通过明媚的泰晤士河上的桥，把成千成万的中上层人士载往布西，载往里希蒙，载往开游，载往汉普登行宫，去领略一下郊外风光；那种盛况据说简直空前。差不多凡是够得上马车阶级的人家，这一年都要出城走一趟，或者上布西去看马栗花，或者上里希蒙公园在西班牙栗树林里兜风；虽则灰尘很大，他们却在自己扬起的云雾中车声辘辘一路驰来，一副时髦派头，睁着大眼睛望着大片的凤尾草长得老高，草里大驯鹿抬起它们分歧的鹿角，而这些凤尾草还得要给秋天的情人们以从未有过的荫蔽。不时，当那些栗树花和凤尾草缠绵的香气飘得太靠近时，他们里面的一个就会跟另一个说，“心肝！这味道多古怪啊！”那一年的菩提花开得也是特别盛，几乎开成蜜黄的颜色。在伦敦许多方场的角子上，太阳一下去，这些菩提花就发出一种香味，比蜜蜂采的蜜还要香——那些福尔赛和福尔赛之流，用完晚饭，在那些只有他们持有钥匙的花园附近纳凉时，闻到这种香味，就会在心里引起一种不可言述的思慕。就是这种思慕使他们滞留在那些隐约的花台中间，天色虽则逐渐暗了下来，也仍旧留连不舍；也就是这种香味使他们兜来兜去，兜去兜来，好象有情人等待着似的——等待最后的光线在绿荫下消逝掉。不知道是不是菩提花的香味在维妮佛梨德心里唤起一种模糊的同情，还是受手足之情的驱使，使她想要亲眼看一下，或者证明一下她那句“根本没有什么事情”的评语的正确；还是她仅仅由于抵制不了那一年夏天的诱惑，渴想上里希蒙跑一趟；总之，这位四个小达尔第（小蒲白里斯，伊摩根，毛第，班尼狄特）的母亲给她嫂子写了这样一张便条：亲爱的伊琳：听说索米斯明天要上汉莱，在那边过夜。我想如果约几个人一同上里希蒙去玩，一定很有意思，你约波辛尼先生，我去找小佛列巴，好不好？马车，爱米丽会借给我们（她们称呼母亲的名字——这样很“帅”）。我七点钟来接你和你的年轻朋友。维妮佛梨德-达尔第。六月三十日。双城记蒙达古认为皇家饭店的晚饭很吃得。蒙达古是达尔第第二个名字，也是大家比较熟悉的名字——他的第一个名字是摩西；达尔第恰恰就是这样一个见多识广的名流。维妮佛梨德这样仁慈的打算竟然无端碰到许多阻挠，老天真是太不应该了。首先小佛列巴回信说：亲爱的达尔第太太：非常之对不起。简直抽不出空。奥古司特司-佛列巴。这真是倒霉的事，可是已经来不及设法补救了。一个做母亲的脑子动得真快，也真会应付，她立刻就想到自己的丈夫身上。她有决断，也有度量；一个瘦长脸儿、淡黄头发、淡绿眼珠的人往往具有这种气质。她少有弄得没有办法的时候，也可以说从来没有过；便是弄得没有办法，也能够转败为胜，她一向就是这样。达尔第的兴致也很高。那匹色鬼没有跑赢兰卡州银杯赛。这匹名马尽管是跑马场的一位巨头养的，在这次比赛中老老实实就没有起脚，而那位巨头早已暗地里下了好几千镑的赌注，赌自己的马失败了。色鬼落选之后的四十八小时内，在达尔第的一生中真不是人受的。他日夜害怕詹姆士要找上他。一想到索米斯他就忿恨，同时又夹有一线的希望。星期五晚上他喝得大醉，人实在吃不消了。可是到了星期六早上，他那做交易所的天性在他心里又占了上风。他借了几百镑的债，这在他是决计还不了的，就进了城，把几百镑钱全赌在盐埠市障碍赛的那匹八音琴上。他跟斯克劳敦少校在伊昔姆俱乐部吃午饭时说：这消息是那个小犹太孩子纳生透露给他的。他什么都不在乎。反正他——过不下去啦。这一着如果不成的话——那么，他妈的，老头子只好付账！一瓶波尔罗杰香槟被他一个人灌下去，使他对詹姆士又产生了新的鄙视。果然得手了。八音琴以一颈之差勉强跑上——真是险极了。不过，照达尔第说来，这种玩意儿全靠有胆子。上里希蒙去跑一趟倒也不错。他愿意做一次东道！他对伊琳一向就倾倒，很想跟她亲近一下。五点半钟公园巷的佣人跑来说：福尔赛太太很抱歉，一匹马患了咳嗽，大车子没法来了！这又是一记打击，可是维妮佛梨德一点不丧气，立刻派小蒲白里斯（这时不过七岁）跟随着保姆上蒙特贝里尔方场去。他们都雇两人马车去，七点三刻在皇家饭店碰头。达尔第听到这个办法倒也高兴。比坐着倒座好得多啦！跟伊琳坐一部车子他倒无所谓。在他想来，他们大约是先到蒙特贝里尔方场去接那两个人，再在那边雇车子。后来晓得约好在皇家饭店碰头，而他得跟自己妻子坐一部车子下去，他就悻悻起来，说这样慢死人了！两个人七点钟动身，达尔第跟马车夫赌半个克郎，三刻钟内决计赶不到。一路上夫妇两个只交谈了两次。达尔第说：“索米斯大爷听见自己的妻子跟波辛尼先生坐一部马车，可要把鼻子都气青了！”维妮佛梨德回答：“不要胡说八道，蒙第！”“胡说八道吗！”达尔第跟着说了一句。“你不懂女人的心理，我的好太太！”另外一次他只是问一下：“我的样子怎么样？两腮有点肿吗？乔治老兄就是喜欢喝这种烈酒！”他中午是跟乔治-福尔赛在海佛斯奈克俱乐部吃的饭。波辛尼和伊琳在他们前面到了。两个人正站在临河的一面落p>一路上夫妇两个只交谈了两次。达尔第说：“索米斯大爷听见自己的妻子跟地窗跟前。那年夏天到处都开着窗子，整天开着，整夜也开着，日夜飘进来花香和树香，和青草晒出来的热气味，和浓露发出来的凉气味。达尔第眼睛很尖，在他眼中看来，这两位客人好象并不怎样热火，只是紧挨着站在那里，一句话不说。波辛尼一副饿鬼相——这家伙没有种！可是他让维妮佛梨德去招呼他们，自己忙着去张罗晚饭去了。一个福尔赛家人纵使不要吃得特别考究，总要吃得很好，但是一个达尔第可要皇家饭店把最拿手的本领使出来才行。象他这样一个钱到手就花的人，有什么好菜不配他吃的；所以他偏要吃。他喝的酒也需要慎重挑选一下；这个国家里有不少的酒都是“不配”他达尔第喝的；他一定要喝最好的酒。既然这些东西都是由别人付钱，他就没有理由刻苦自己。刻苦自己是傻子做的事，不是他达尔第。什么都要是第一流的！一个人活在世上再没有比这一条原则更正确的了；反正他的岳父进项很不少，对自己的外孙外孙女也很钟爱。从小蒲白里斯出世（这原是疏忽）的第一年起，达尔第那双精细的眼睛就看出詹姆士这个弱点；就由于看事情很清楚，所以自己很受益。现在已经有四个小达尔第了，这简直是终身保险。这顿盛馔的特色毫无问题是那道红鰡鱼。这种鲜美的鱼是从相当远的地区运来的，由于保存得好，简直和新鲜的一样；鱼先是用油煎过，然后去骨，吃的时候用冰冰着，什么卤汁都不用，只用马第拉酒和的五味酒做浇头；这种烧法只有少数几个见多识广的名流知道。此外除掉要由达尔第付账，其他也没有要交代的了。这顿饭从头到尾他都竭力和客人周旋；一双大胆而倾慕的眼光老是盯在伊琳的脸上和身上望。他不得不向自己供认，他这样看她并没有使她感到有什么异样——无论她的态度，或者她罩在乳黄色纱巾下面的双肩，看上去都没有一丝热意。他指望捉到她跟波辛尼调情；可是一点儿没有捉到，她始终都是规规矩矩的。至于那位建筑师老兄，简直象只大熊害头痛病那样地丧气相——维妮佛梨德连他的一句话都引不出来；他菜一点儿不吃，可是酒倒的确肯喝，而且脸色变得愈来愈白，眼睛里的神情也变得愈来愈古怪了。这一切都很有意思。达尔第自己兴致非常之好，简直谈笑风生，话里面也含着刺，他本来不是傻子啊。他讲了两三个不大得体的故事，在他这是迁就客人，因为他平日讲的故事还要不成体统得多。他举杯祝伊琳的健康，先来上一篇滑稽演说。没有人跟他干杯，维妮佛梨德说：“不要这样神头鬼脸的，蒙第！”她提议吃过晚饭上临河的公共走廊上去逛逛，大家就去了。“我想看看那些普通人谈恋爱，”她说，“有趣得很！”一天热了下来，有不少的人都出来乘凉散步，空气里人声嘈杂，有的声音又高又粗，有的声音温柔得就象喁喁私语。还是亏得维妮佛梨德有心眼儿——她是这行人中唯一的一个福尔赛——所以不久便被她抢到一条长凳。四个人坐成一排。一棵茂密的树在他们头上张开厚厚的伞盖，河上的暮霭逐渐暗了下来。达尔第坐在凳子的一头，在他旁边是伊琳，再过去是波辛尼，再过去是维妮佛梨德。四个人硬挤在一起，所以这位名流能够感觉到伊琳的胳臂抵着自己的胳臂；他知道伊琳不好意思把胳臂抽开，这使他觉得很有趣；他不时想法子来一个动作，跟伊琳挨得更紧一点。他心里想：“这位‘海盗’老兄一个人可霸占不了呢！挤得可真紧，的确！”远远从下面黑暗的河上传来曼多铃清脆的琴声，几个声音在唱着一支轮唱的老调子：小小一条船，向着码头开，我们过河去，寻乐开心怀，饮酒与欢笑，一杯复一杯。忽然月亮出来了，她平躺着身体从树后升起，又年轻又温柔；空气好象经她呼吸过，变得更加凉爽了，可是菩提花的温香仍旧不断从凉爽的空气中传来。达尔第一面抽着雪茄，一面掉头窥看一下波辛尼：波辛尼叉着胳臂坐着，眼睛瞪得笔直，脸上神情就象一个男子内心在痛苦着。达尔第又把坐在中间的那张脸迅速瞄上一眼，由于头上的影子很浓，那脸看上去就象是黑暗的更黑的一部分，做成形状，加上生命，温柔、神秘、逗人。嘈杂的走廊上一下变得阒然，就好象所有散步的人都在想着什么极其珍贵的秘密，不肯轻易说出口似的。于是达尔第心里想：“女人啊！”河上的夕照消逝了，歌声也停止了；新月躲向一棵树的后面去，眼前变成一片黑暗。达尔第把身体更向伊琳挨紧些。他觉得一阵颤栗通过了他接触到的肢体，同时那双眼睛里也显出一种厌烦而鄙夷的神情，可是他并不着急。他觉得她企图把身体挪开，自己笑了。这里得交代一下，这位名流酒已经喝得过量了。在他捻得很好的上须下面，两片厚嘴唇张开，一双色眼斜睨着她，脸上那种促狭的神情就象个山羊神。沿着两排树篱的顶上一条狭长的天空里，星儿涌现出来；这些星儿就象下方的人群一样，好象在移动、攒集、私语。接着走廊上的人声重又升起来，达尔第心里想：“啊！这个波辛尼是个无用的饿鬼呢！”于是他又跟伊琳挨紧点。这一动作没有达到它应有的结果。她站了起来，大家也跟着站起来。这时这位名流更加下定决心，要看看伊琳究竟是怎样一个人。沿着走廊走来，他一直紧紧挨在她身边。他肚子里已经装满不少好酒。坐马车回去有很长的一段路，很长的一段路，加上马车里温暖的黑暗和愉快的亲近——同时和世界隔绝起来，不知道哪个伟大而善良的人设计成这样的。这个饿鬼的建筑师不妨跟自己的妻子坐一部车子——但愿他跟她也乐一下。他心里明白自己的舌头已经不大灵，所以小心着不开口说话；可是厚嘴角却一直浮着微笑。四个人漫步向走廊尽头伺候着的马车走去。他的计划跟一切伟大的计划一样，简单得几乎近于粗暴——他只要紧紧跟在她身边，一等她上了马车，自己就赶快跟了进去。可是等到伊琳走到马车跟前时，她并没有上车，反而一溜烟到了马头那儿。当时达尔第的两条腿并不怎样听使唤，所以没有赶得上。她站在那里拍拍马鼻子，可气的是，波辛尼已经抢前到了她身边。她转身很快跟波辛尼讲了几句话，声音很低；达尔第只听到“那个人”几个字。他顽强地站在马车踏板旁边，等她回来。这叫做以逸待劳！在这儿灯光下面，他身上（他不过是中人身材）穿着晚上穿的白背心，显得很结实，一件夹大衣搭在手臂上，纽扣孔里插一朵粉红花，黝黑的脸上带着怡然自得的傲慢，这样子真神气极了——一个十足的名流。维妮佛梨德已经上了马车。达尔第心里正在想，波辛尼要是不赶紧一点，在车子里面的罪可不好受呢！突然间他被人猛的一推，几乎把他摔在路上。波辛尼的声音在他耳朵里轻轻地说：“我送伊琳回去；你明白吗？”他看见波辛尼一张脸气得雪白，目光闪闪望着他，就象只野猫。“呃？”他嗫嚅地说。“什么？不行！你跟我妻子坐！”“滚开！”波辛尼低声说——“不然的话，我就把你扔在路上！”达尔第身子一缩；他看得十分清楚这个家伙说得到做得到。在他让出的空当里，伊琳溜了过去，衣服还扫了一下他的腿。波辛尼也接着上了马车。“走！”他听见“海盗”叫。车夫把马打上一鞭。马向前冲去。达尔第有这么一会儿站在那儿说不出话来；随即向自己妻子坐的那部车子赶去，爬进车子。“赶上去！”他向车夫喊，“不让前面那个家伙溜掉！”他坐在自己妻子身旁，破口大骂起来。后来好容易总算使自己平静下来，又接着说：“你真是做的好事，让‘海盗’跟她坐一部马车回去；为什么你不能把‘海盗’抓着呢？他爱得都要发疯了；哪个傻瓜都看得出来！”维妮佛梨德才一回答，他又重新呼天抢地起来，把她的声音完全盖掉，一路上他把维妮佛梨德、她的父亲、她的哥哥、伊琳、波辛尼、福尔赛的一家、他自己的儿女，全都骂了过来，并且诅咒那一天他怎么会结婚的；一直到车子驶达巴恩斯镇时，他的一段伤心史才告一段落。维妮佛梨德本来是个性格坚强的女子，所以由他说去，最后他总算不响了，在那儿生闷气。一双怒目永远盯着那部马车的后影；这车子就象失去的良机一样，一直在他前面那片黑暗里闹鬼。所幸的是他并没有能听见波辛尼热情的央求——经这位名流一闹，波辛尼的热情就象洪水似的冲了出来；他没有能看见伊琳起一阵震栗，就好象衣服被人撕开似的，也没有能看见她凄戚悲痛的眼睛，就跟被人打过的小孩子的眼睛一样；他没有能听见波辛尼再三央求，一直都央求着；没有能听见伊琳忽然轻轻啜泣起来，也没有能看见那个可怜的饿鬼又是怕又是抖，战兢兢地碰一下她的手。到了蒙特贝里尔方场时，那个车夫严格遵照他的指示，忠实地跟着前面的马车停了下来。达尔第夫妇先看见波辛尼跳下车子，伊琳跟着出来，垂着头三脚两步走上石阶。她显然手里持有钥匙，所以一转眼就不见了。她有没有转身跟波辛尼讲话，也没法说。波辛尼走过他们的车子；这夫妇两个借着街上的灯光把他的脸色看得清清楚楚；脸上的神情极其激动。“再见，波辛尼先生！”维妮佛梨德叫。大卫·科波菲尔波辛尼一惊，一把抓下帽子，就匆匆走了。摆明的他已经忘记有他们在场了。“呶！”达尔第说，“你看见那个畜生的脸色吗？我怎么说的？做的好事！”他又找到机会大放厥辞了。摆明的马车里面出了事情，连维妮佛梨德也没法自圆其说了。她说：“这事还是一点不要提起罢。我看闹出去没有好处！”达尔第立刻表示同意；他把詹姆士认作他私有的园地，除掉他自己的事情，拿别人的事情去麻烦他，他都是不赞成的。“很对，”他说；“让索米斯自己照应自己去。他在这上面很行呢！”说了这话，夫妇两人就回到他们在格林街的寓所（寓所的房租是詹姆士付的），从事他们辛苦挣得来的安息。时间已是夜半，所以已经没有福尔赛家人留在外面窥察波辛尼在街上徘徊；看见他回来，靠着方场小花园的拦杆，身子隐在街灯照不到的暗处；也看不见他站在树影子里，望着那所房子；在这房子里的黑暗中藏着一个女子，他不惜一切想能和她见上一面——对于他，这个女子就是菩提花的香气，就是光明和黑暗的真谛，就是他自己心儿的跳动。

第二卷 第十章 一个福尔赛的征候 
一个福尔赛家人天生就不感觉到自己是个福尔赛；可是小乔里恩却有自知之明。他以前也不知道，但是自从采取那次坚决行动，使他成为众所唾弃的人之后，他知道了；从那次以后，他一直都有这种感觉。由于他的第二个妻子肯定不是个福尔赛，所以在和她的结合中，以及和她打的一切交道中，从头到尾他都感到自己是个福尔赛。他知道，如果不是由于自己具有高度的福尔赛性格，清楚看到自己要的什么，而且有一股韧劲抓住不放；如果不是自己具有那种财产的意识，认识到自己花了这么大的代价得来的东西再拿来糟蹋掉，乃是愚蠢的行为；如果不是这样的话，他就决计不会跟她过上十五年之久（恐怕就不会想到要留她），捱过这十五年的一切经济困难、耻笑和误解；决计不会在他前妻去世之后要求跟她结婚；决计不会把这些折磨全熬了过来，而且熬了过来之后，虽则人好象瘦了，但仍旧笑嘻嘻的。有一种中国小偶像，盘膝坐在用自己的心做的神龛里，总是带着一副怀疑的笑容在暗笑自己；小乔里恩也就是这样一种人。不过这种微笑，虽说这样亲切，这样始终如一，却并不干涉到他的行动；他的行动和他的下巴和脾气一样，是一种特殊的，温柔与决心的合制品。在作品上，他也意识到自己是个福尔赛；他在水彩画上虽说花了那么多的精力，却一直留神看着自己，好象对这样不切实际的嗜好总不能过于认真，同时也一直对自己不能在上面多赚点钱感到某种无名的不安。正由于他能意识到一个福尔赛家人是什么样子，所以当他接到下面老乔里恩的来信时，一方面抱有同感，一方面又厌恶：西尔德莱克旅馆，理智与情感白劳德司代尔，七月一日。亲爱的小乔：（老父的笔迹在这三十多年来跟他记得的简直没有什么改变。）我们来此已有两星期，整个说来天气都很好。空气很使人精神振作，可是我的肝脏却不好，巴不到能够回城里来。琼我真是说不上来，她的健康和心情都没有什么改善，以后怎么样很难说：她一句话不说，可是看得出她心心念念忘不了这件婚事，又象是订婚，又不象是订婚——真是没法说。按照目前的情形，究竟应当不应当放她回伦敦来，我真决定不了，可是她就是那样任性，可能随时心血来潮就跑了回来。说实在话，是应当有个人找波辛尼谈谈，弄清楚他是什么意思。这事我恐怕做不来，要我来做，那一准会打断他的狗腿，可是我觉得你既然在俱乐部里和他相识，不妨用一两句话试探一下，看这个家伙究竟是什么意图。当然，千万不能提到琼，不论打听到一点虚实与否，希望在几天之内得到你的回信。这情形很使我为难，晚上都烦得睡不着。乔儿和好儿在念。你的爱父，乔里恩-福尔赛。小乔里恩拿着这封信沉吟上大半天，态度很是严肃，连他的妻子都看出他有心事，就问他是什么缘故。他回答：“没有什么。”他在妻子面前决不提起琼的事情，一贯都是如此。他妻子可能会慌张起来，这底下就说不出产生怎样的怪想法；因此，他赶快脸上装出一副若无其事的样子，可是在这上面他跟他父亲做起来差不多一样不成功；他遗传了老乔里恩的坦率，在家庭之间耍点小手腕总是被家人看穿；因此小乔里恩太太一面忙着家里的杂事，嘟着嘴走动着，一面带着茫然的神情不时偷眼看他。下午他把信揣在口袋里，就动身上俱乐部去，可是自己并没有拿定主意。刺探一个人的“意图何在”在他做来特别感觉不快；虽说自己的地位和一般福尔赛家人有所不同，这种不快也并不因而减少。象这样在一个人的身上硬行施用所谓自己的权利，要把他摆布得合乎自己的意旨，真象他这一家人，以及所有他们认识的和交往的人做的事；这完全就是他们的作风，把做生意的那一套也用到亲戚关系上来！就拿信上那句“当然，千万不能提到琼”的话来说，整个的事情还不难明白吗？然而那封信上表现的私怨，对琼的关切，以及“打断他的狗腿”一类的话，这些也完全是人情之常。无怪他父亲要知道波辛尼是什么意思，也无怪他要生气。这件事很难推托！可是为什么要把这事交给他去做呢？肯定的这种做法很失身份；可是一个福尔赛家人只要能达到自己的愿望，采用什么手段都没有关系，只要面子顾到就行了。他该怎样着手呢，或者该怎样推托呢？两者好象都没有可能。唉，小乔里恩啊！他三点钟到了俱乐部，碰见的第一个人就是波辛尼本人，坐在屋角落里，瞠眼望着窗外。小乔里恩在离他不远的地方坐下，心慌意乱地重又考虑起自己的处境来。他悄悄望见波辛尼坐在那里一点不觉得。他跟他并不熟悉，这样有心打量他恐怕还是第一次；他样子很是特别，无论在衣服上，在相貌上，在态度上，和俱乐部别的会员都不象；小乔里恩自己，虽则心情和气质已经改变了许多，表面上总还一直保持着福尔赛家人的那种沉默寡言的派头。在福尔赛家人中，他是唯一不知道波辛尼那个绰号的人。他觉得这个人很特别，并不是古怪，而是特别；他样子而且很憔悴，很瘦，宽阔的高颧骨下面两颊深陷，可是看上去丝毫不是身体不好，他长得很结实，从他卷曲的头发也可以看出他的身体是强健的，而且生命力十分充沛。他的脸色和神情有一种地方使小乔里恩看了很动心。他深知道痛苦的滋味，而这个人望上去就象在痛苦着。他站起来碰一下波辛尼的胳臂。傲慢与偏见波辛尼吃了一惊，可是看见是哪一个时，并不显出任何窘态。小乔里恩坐下来。“好久没有看见你了，”他说。“我老弟的那所房子进行得怎么样了？”“再有一个星期就完工了。”“恭喜你！”“谢谢——我觉得这种事情谈不上恭喜。”“谈不上吗？”小乔里恩问；“我总以为这件事情缠在你手上好久，巴不得一旦能够脱手呢；不过我想你的心情大概跟我让掉一张画时的心情差不多——就象是自己的孩子，是吗？”他温和地望着波辛尼。“对了，”波辛尼更加和蔼地说，“它脱离你，从此完结。我还不知道你作画呢。”“只画些水彩画；还讲不到对自己的作品有信心。”“没有信心？那么你怎么能够画呢？你一定要对自己的作品有信心，否则的话，你画的就没有用处！”“妙呀，”小乔里恩说；“这的确就是我一直说的。还有，你可注意到过，碰到一个人说‘妙呀’的时候，他总要接上一句‘这的确就是我一直说的’！可是如果你问我怎样画得下去的话，我的回答是，因为我是个福尔赛。”“福尔赛！我从没有把你当作福尔赛家人看待过！”“福尔赛并不是什么稀罕的动物，”小乔里恩回答。“在这个俱乐部里就有几百个福尔赛。外面街上也有无数的福尔赛；不管你走到哪儿，你都碰得到他们！”“我请问你是怎样识别他们的呢？”波辛尼说。“看他们的财产意识。一个福尔赛对事物的看法都是根据实际，也可以说根据常识，而这种实际观点的主要根据就是财产意识。一个福尔赛，你将来会看出来，是从来不暴露自己的。”“你是说笑话吧？”小乔里恩眼睛眨了一下。“并不是什么笑话。由于我自己也是个福尔赛，本来轮不到我来说。可是我是一种纯杂种犬；至于你，那是错不了的。你我之间的差别就跟我和我二叔詹姆士之间的差别一样；而他就是福尔赛的一个十足典型。他的财产意识极其强烈，而你简直等于没有。没有我夹在中间，你们就会显得是两种不同的物种。我是衔接的一环。当然，我们全体都是财产的奴隶，我也承认不过是程度上的差别，可是我讲的‘福尔赛’却肯定地更加是一个财产的奴隶。哪样东西好，哪样东西靠得住，他全知道；而他的标志就是紧抓住财产不放，不管是老婆，还是房子，还是金钱，还是名誉。”“啊！”波辛尼咕噜着。“你该把这个名字来一个注册。”我很想，”小乔里恩说，“来一次讲演：‘福尔赛的性情和气质。这种小动物被自己同类一嘲笑，它就感觉不安，可是异类（如你和我）笑他，却独行其是，毫不在乎。他们遗传都是短视，因此只认识自己的同类和同类的巢穴，也只有在他们中间能够你争我夺地安安静静过日子。’”“你讲起他们时，”波辛尼说，“就好象他们占了英国人口的半数似的。”“他们是英国的半壁江山，”小乔里恩重复一句，“而且也是优秀的半数，可靠的半数，三厘钱的半数，有出息的半数。没有他们的财富和安全，什么事都行不通；你的艺术就行不通，文学、科学、甚至于宗教都行不通。这些福尔赛本身可不相信这些东西，他们只利用这些东西，可是没有他们，我们就站不住脚。我亲爱的先生，这些福尔赛是经纪人，是商业家，是社会的砥柱，是习俗的基石；是一切可钦佩的东西啊！”“我不知道究竟弄清楚你的意思没有，”波辛尼说，“不过我想我这个行业里也有不少你所谓的福尔赛呢。”“当然不少，”小乔里恩回答。“许许多多的建筑师，画家或者作家都是随波逐流的，就跟其余的福尔赛之流一样。艺术、文学、宗教所以能存在下去，全靠少数真正相信这些东西的傻瓜和许多利用这些做生意的福尔赛。往少里估计一下，我们的皇家美术学会会员里面总有四分之三的福尔赛，小说家里面总有八分之七，新闻界占有极大部分。科学界我说不出；宗教界简直是济济皆是；下议院里多得恐怕哪儿都比不上；贵族里面更是不言而喻。可是我并不好笑。和这种多数作对是危险的——而且是怎样的一个多数啊！”他眼睛盯着波辛尼：“不论你迷上什么都是危险的——不管是房子，是画，还是——女人！”两个人相互望望。小乔里恩说了真心话，好象觉得自己做了一件福尔赛从来不肯做的事情，立刻头缩了起来。波辛尼打破沉寂。“为什么你拿自己家里人做典型呢？”他说。“我家里的人，”小乔里恩回答，“也并不怎样突出；他们跟其他的人家一样，也有自己特殊的地方，可是有两种气质他们却达到惊人的程度，而一个人是否真正的福尔赛恰恰就看这上面：这两种气质，一个是决不为什么事情而不顾一切，另一个就是‘财产意识’。”波辛尼笑了：“那个胖子怎么样，譬如说？”“你是指斯悦辛吗？”小乔里恩问。“啊！斯悦辛身上还有点原始气息。城市和中等阶级的生活还没有消化掉他。我们家多少世纪以来种田和蛮力干活的影响都集中在他身上，而且永远盘踞在那里，尽管派头那样的神气。”波辛尼好象在沉吟。“哎，你把你的堂弟索米斯可形容得活灵活现了，”他忽然说。“他这人决不会自杀的。”小乔里恩尖锐地盯他一眼。“不会，”他说；“他决不会。所以对他可不能大意。要当心他们的毒手！嘲笑嘲笑是便当的，可是你不要以为我的用意仅是这样么样，譬如说？”“你是指斯悦辛吗？”小乔里恩问。“啊！斯悦辛身上还有。看不起一个福尔赛是很不妥当的；不管他们也是不妥当的！”“然而你自己就这样子过！”小乔里恩被他这一驳，脸上笑容消失了。“你忘了，”他带着莫名其妙的得意说，“我也能够坚持下去——我自己也是个福尔赛啊。我们全都是螳臂挡车。一个人离开家庭荫庇，就得——嗯——你懂得我的意思。我并不，”他结束时声音很低，就好象恫吓似的，“劝大家都走我的路。要看情形。”波辛尼脸涨得通红，可是一会儿就褪掉，仍旧是原先的那副苍黄脸。他发出一声短促的笑，笑完唇边还留下一种古怪的狰狞的笑意；他的眼睛嘲笑地看着小乔里恩。“多谢，”他说。“你的盛意很可感。不过并不是只有你一个人能够坚持下去。”他站起来。他走开时，小乔里恩眼睛望着他的后影，手托着头，叹了一口气。在这间沉闷的、几乎是没有人的屋子里，唯一听得见的是报纸的沙沙声和擦火柴的声音。他坐上好久好久都没有动，回忆着往事；那时候他也是一坐就是几个钟点，眼睛望着钟，等待时间消逝——在这段冗长的时间里面，他心里是充满着动荡不安，和一种强烈而甜蜜的痛苦；那个时期里迟缓的、愉快的挣扎心情和往日一样鲜明地回到他脑子里来了。他看见波辛尼那副消瘦的脸，和彷徨不安的眼睛永远朝钟上面望，在他心里引起一阵怜悯，怜悯之中还夹有一种莫名的不可抑制的羡慕。这种光景他太熟悉了。他往哪儿去呢——要碰上什么样的命运呢？是怎样的一种女人有那股磁力把他向她身边拉呢？这种磁力是什么都阻挡不了的，毁誉、是非、利害全都阻挡不了；只有一条生路，那就是溜掉。溜掉！可是波辛尼为什么要溜呢？一个人总是在害怕破坏家庭骨肉的时候，在碰到有小孩子的时候，在感觉到自己毁灭了自己的理想，破坏了什么的时候，才想到要溜。可是这儿，据他耳闻，一切不等他动手早已经破坏无余了。他自己也没有溜，即使一切重新来过，他也不会溜。可是他比波辛尼更进一步，他没有破坏别人的家庭，却破坏了自己的不幸家庭。这使他想起“命由心造”那句古话来：人都是自食其果啊！命由心造！可是果子酸甜要吃起来看——波辛尼还得吃下他的果子。他的心思转到那个女子上面；这女子他并不认识，可是却听到她身世的一个大概。一个不幸的结合！没有虐待行为——只是那种无法形容的不好受，一种可怕的病害，把世界上一切的生趣都摧毁了；就这样，日日夜夜、年复一年下去，除死方休！可是小乔里恩的旧恨已经被岁月冲淡了许多，因此也能体会到索米斯这方面的问题。象他堂弟这样充满了他本身阶级的偏见和信念的，试问怎样会具有那种真知灼见或者灵感来打开这种局面呢？这要有超脱的见解，要能将自己投入未来，跳出随着这类离异而来的不愉快的流言、耻笑和议论，跳出那种眼前没有了她所引起的暂时痛苦，跳出那些正人君子的严厉谴责。可是很少有人，尤其是索米斯这个阶级的人，能够见得这样远的。这个世界上的人虽则很多，可是见解超脱的总嫌太少！而且，天哪，在空言和实际之间是有着多大的差别啊；有多少男人，恐怕连索米斯也在内，谈起这种事情来对女子都是极其尊重，可是等到自己的鞋子夹脚的时候，便会想出什么特殊的理由来，把自己除外。还有，他的见解是否正确，连他自己也信不了。这种事情他曾经亲身经历过，他尝尽了一个不幸婚姻的痛苦，而那些态度宽容、不关痛痒的人，却是连战阵的厮杀声都没有听见过的，试问他可能够跟这些人一样见解呢？他有的是第一手经验——就跟久历疆场的兵士对于军事的经验一样，吃亏就在于把事情看得太清楚，而在一般平民看来，并不须要如此。象索米斯和伊琳这样一对夫妇，在许多人看来都会认为相当美满的；男的有钱，女的有貌；这不就扯平了吗？就算两个人感情恶劣，也不能成为混不下去的理由。各人稍稍放纵自己一点也没有关系，只要面子顾得下去就行——只要尊重婚姻的神圣和双方共有的家庭就行。上层阶级的婚姻大半都是按照这些原则办事的：不要去惹上社会，不要去惹上教会。要避免惹上这些，牺牲自己的私人情感是值得的。一个稳定的家庭有许多好处，就象许多财产一样，是看得见、摸得到的；保持现状最没有危险。破坏一个家庭至少是危险的试验，而且也是自私自利。这就是辩护状，小乔里恩叹了口气。“一切问题都系在财产上面，”他心里想，“可是有很多人不肯这样说。在他们看来，这是因为婚姻神圣不可侵犯；可是婚姻所以神圣不可侵犯是由于家庭神圣不可侵犯，而家庭所以神圣不可侵犯是由于财产神圣不可侵犯。想来这许多人都是基督徒，而基督却是从来没有财产的。怪啊！”鲁滨孙漂流记于是小乔里恩又叹了口气。“如果在我回家的路上，我随便碰上一个穷鬼就邀他同我一起吃晚饭；那样我的晚饭就会不够我吃的，或者至少不够我妻子吃的，而我的妻子却需要照顾我的健康和幸福；试想我会不会邀他呢？所以说来说去，索米斯那样行使他的权利，以他的所作所为来支持这个于我们大家有利的神圣财产法则，也许还是做的好事，当然这对于有些人是例外，那些人——反会因此吃苦。”想到这里，他离开椅子，在一大堆乱七八糟的座位中间穿了出去，拿了帽子，懒洋洋地穿过车马纷集、尘气熏人的酷热的街道，回家去了。在到达威斯达里亚大街之前，他从口袋里掏出老乔里恩的来信，小心撕成碎片，把来洒在路上尘土上面。他用钥匙开门进了屋子，就叫自己妻子的名字。可是他妻子已经带好儿和乔儿出去了，屋内没有人；小狗伯沙撒独个儿在花园里，躺在树荫下面捉苍蝇。小乔里恩也在树下坐下来，就在那棵不结梨子的梨树下面。

第二卷 第十一章 索米斯欲擒放纵 
在伊琳上里希蒙那天晚上的第二天，索米斯就从汉莱乘早车回来。他生性本就不喜欢水上运动，这次上汉莱去与其说是游览，还不如说是为了生意经，这原是一个相当重要的当事人邀他去的。他一下车就上商业区去，可是事务所里很清闲，所以三点钟就离开了，很乐于能有这样一个机会悄悄地回家。伊琳并不知道他要回来。他也没有意思要窥伺她的行动，可是这样出其不意地来观看一下风色，也没有害处。他换上公园里穿的便服，走进客厅。伊琳懒洋洋地坐在长沙发角上，这是她顶喜欢坐的座位；眼睛下面有一道黑圈，好象夜里没有睡好似的。他问：“你怎么没有出去呢？等人吗？”“对了——也不是特别在等。”“谁？”“波辛尼先生说他也许会来。”“波辛尼。他应当有他的工作。”她没有理他这句话。“哦，”索米斯说，“我要你跟我上街到公司里去一趟，之后我们上公园去。”“我不想出去；我头痛。”索米斯回答：“一碰到我要你做什么事情，你总是推头痛。出去在树底下坐坐对你有好处的。”她不回答。索米斯有这么几分钟没有说话；后来终于说：“我不懂得你对一个妻子的责任是怎样看法。我从来就不懂得！”他没有指望她会答腔，可是她回答说：“我总是尽力想顺着你的意思行事；可是做起来没有能那样高高兴兴的，这不能怪我。”“那么怪谁呢？”他眼睛瞄着他。“在我们结婚之前，你曾经许下我，如果我们的婚姻不圆满，你就放我走。现在是不是圆满呢？”索米斯眉头皱起来。简·爱“圆满，”他讷讷地说——“只要你规规矩矩的，它就会圆满！”“我已经试过了，”伊琳说。“你肯放我走吗？”索米斯背过身去。他心里很着慌，只好用蛮吵来对付。“放你走？你不晓得讲的什么话。放你走？我怎么能放你走？我们不是已经结了婚了吗？那么，你这是讲的什么话呢？看在上帝的面上，不要再来这套无聊的玩意了。把你的帽子戴上，到公园里去坐坐。”“那么，你是不放我走了？”他觉得她的眼睛里带着异样而动人的神情瞧着他。“放你走！”他说；“就算我放你走，你自己怎么办？你又没有钱！”“我总有法子对付。”他在屋子里迅速地来回走着；后来又走到她面前站住。“从现在起，”他说，“你替我永远记着，我不许你说这种话。去把你的帽子戴上！”她没有动。“我想，”索米斯说，“你是怕波辛尼来了，碰不到他！”她缓缓站起来，离开屋子；下楼来把帽子戴上。两个人出去了。公园里面，下午三四点钟的时候，本来人色最杂，外国人和其他不象样的人都坐马车游逛，可是这个时间已经过去了；当索米斯和伊琳在阿昔里斯石像下面坐下来时，公园里最好、最合适的游览时间不但早已来到，而且快要过去了。他已经有好久没有享受跟她一起上公园的乐趣了。过去，在他结婚后的头半年里面，这是他的许多享受之一，那时候在全伦敦的人面前感到自己是这个尤物的占有者简直是他最大的、不过是秘而不宣的得意事情。有多少下午他可不是都这样坐在她的身边，服装极端整洁，拿着浅灰色手套，带着淡淡的傲慢的微笑，跟熟人点头，不时抬一下帽子吗！他的浅灰色手套仍旧拿在手里，他的嘴角仍挂着讽刺的微笑，可是往日他的那些心情哪里去了？公园里的椅子很快地空了出来，可是他仍旧不起身；她默然坐在那里，脸色苍白，就好象他暗地里对她施行惩罚似的。有一两次他发表了一点意见，她低头不语，或者带着疲倦的笑容答声“是啊”。一个男子沿着栏杆急急走来，经过人家面前，人都睁大眼睛望着他的后影。“你看那个蠢货！”索米斯说；“这人准是疯了，在大热天走得这样急！”那人转过身来；伊琳起了一阵急剧的动作。“呀！”他说；“原来是我们的朋友‘海盗’呀！”他静静坐着，脸上带着轻蔑的笑容，觉得伊琳也静静坐着，带着笑容。“她会不会向他点头招呼呢？”他想。可是她没有任何表示。波辛尼走到栏杆尽头，又折回来在那些椅子中间走着，象只猎狗一样在地上东张西望。当他看见索米斯和伊琳时，他一时楞住了，接着把帽子抬一下。索米斯脸上始终微笑着；他也把帽子抬一下。波辛尼走过来，筋疲力竭的样子，就好象一个人做过剧烈运动似的；额上满是汗珠；索米斯的微笑好象说：“朋友，你吃了苦头了吧！”“你上公园来做什么？”他问。“我们当作你看不起这种鬼地方呢！”波辛尼好象没有听见似的；他的回答是向伊琳说的：“我上你那儿去了；我还指望你在家呢。”有人在索米斯背上拍一下，跟他讲话；当他回过头去跟那人交换些无味的问候时，伊琳的回答被他漏掉了；当时他下了一个决策。“我们正要回家，”他跟波辛尼说；“你还是跟我们回去吃晚饭罢。”他把这句邀请的话故意说得满不在乎，同时又非常可怜，听上去很是特别：那种神情和声调好象说，“你骗不了我，可是你看——我对你很坦然——我并不怕你！”三个人一同起身回蒙特贝里尔方场去，伊琳走在两个人中间。碰到街上人多的地方，索米斯就走在前面。他并不倾听他们的谈话；他定下的这个坦然无忌的怪决策好象连他私下的一举一动都添了生气。象一个赌徒一样，他肚子里说：“这张牌我可不能随便打——一定要充分利用它。我的把握并不大啊！”他换衣服换得很慢，听见伊琳离开卧室下楼去，自己却在更衣室内耽搁了足足有五分钟之久；后来下楼时，故意把门关得很响，表示他要下来了。他看见他们站在壁炉旁边，象在谈话，又象没有；他也说不出。夜晚很长；在这出讽刺剧里，他自始至终都扮演得很好——对待客人比从前更加亲热；波辛尼临走时，他说：“你要常来；伊琳很喜欢听你谈谈房子呢！”他的声音仍旧显得非常特别，又象满不在乎，又非常可怜；可是手却冰冰冷。为了忠守自己的决策，在他们分手时，他把身子转了过去；他背转身不去看妻子站在挂灯下面道晚安——不去看她金黄色头发在灯光下闪映着，不去看她微笑的嘴唇；也不去看波辛尼眼睛望着她的那副神情，就象只狗望着自己的主人一样。当他去睡觉时，他肯定地跟自己说波辛尼爱上他妻子了。夏天夜里很热，又热又静，尽管开着窗户，吹进来的风仍旧是热的。索米斯躺在床上很久很久，听着自己妻子的呼吸。她睡得着，可是自己却只能醒在床上。他在床上一面醒着，一面更加下定决心扮演一个平和而信任的丈夫角色。在下半夜，他从床上溜起来，走到自己更衣室里，靠着开着的窗子望。他连气都透不过来。德伯家的苔丝他想起四年前的一个晚上——就在他结婚之前两天；天气就跟今天夜里一样热，一样闷人。他还记得当时的情景，自己坐在一张长柳条椅子上，就在自己住的维多利亚街那间起坐室里，靠着窗口。下面一条旁街上，一个男子把门砰的关上，一个女子叫了出来；他记得先是一阵扭打的声音，后来是关门的声音，接着是阒静无声，这些都仿佛如在目前。随后是冲洗街道上污秽的清晨水车，在近似奇幻的、消失的灯光中走过来；这时他好象又听见它那辘辘声愈来愈近，最后走了过去，逐渐消逝。他把大半个身体伸出更衣室的窗外，下面就是那个小院子，看晨曦初吐。有这么一会儿那些黑漆漆的墙壁和屋顶的轮廓好象很模糊，随即就变得比较清晰了。他记得四年前那个夜里自己望见整个一条维多利亚街的衔灯变成淡白；自己匆匆忙忙穿上衣服，下楼到了街上，走过许多房屋和方场，到了她住的那条街上，站在那座小房子前面眺望着；小房子象死人的脸一样沉寂、一样苍白。忽然间，他脑子里起了一个念头，就象病人的幻觉一样：他在干什么呢？——这个象鬼魂附在我身上、今天晚上上这儿来的、爱上我妻子的家伙——也许潜匿在哪儿找她，就如我知道今天下午那样找她；也许这时候就在窥望着我的房子呢。他蹑手蹑脚走过楼梯口到了临街的那一边，悄悄拉开一面窗帘，推上一扇窗户。朦胧的光线罩着方场上的树木，好象被夜晚的大毛蛾用它的大翅膀扫过似的。街灯仍旧点着，光线很黯淡，可是街上没有一个行人——连猫狗都看不见！然而在这死一样的沉寂中，远远忽然传来一声惨叫，很低微，就象什么被逐出天堂的游魂的呼唤，哀啼着幸福。现在又叫了——又叫了！索米斯一面震栗，一面把窗户关上。接着他心里想：“啊，那不过是湖对面的孔雀叫唤罢。”

第二卷 第十二章 琼出来拜客 
老乔里恩站在白劳德司代尔旅馆狭窄的穿堂里，呼吸着油布和鲱鱼的气息；所有高等海滨旅馆都充满这种气息。一张磨得雪亮的皮椅子，在椅背左上角一个洞里露出马鬃来；椅上放着他的黑公事皮包。皮包里被他塞满了文件、《泰晤士报》，还有一瓶花露水。今天他在寰球金矿租采公司和新煤业公司都有董事会；这些董事会他从没有缺席过，他现在就是预备去开会的；只要缺一次席就会替他的衰老更添一项明证，这是他的疑忌的福尔赛性格断断受不了的。当他把东西装进黑皮包时，他眼睛里的神气好象随时都可以发作似的。一个小学生被一群同学围困着的时候，眼睛里也是这样冒着怒火；可是慑于众寡不敌，他却按着性子不发作。老乔里恩也在按着自己的性子；他一向有涵养，现在虽则渐渐不济了，却仍旧能对自己境遇所引起的烦恼勉强克制着。他接到儿子一封不着边际的信，信里来了一大套空理论，好象借此避免回答一个简单的问题。“我碰见过波辛尼，”他在信上说；“他并不是坏蛋。我阅历的人愈多，就愈加相信人无所谓好坏——只有可笑和可怜的分别。你大概不同意我的看法！”老乔里恩的确不同意；认为这样说话近于玩世不恭；他还没有老到那个样子；等到他真正老了，他平日那些为了实际利益而小心拥护的，但是绝不相信的假象和道理就会丧失掉，一切物质的诱惑也都会丧失掉，心灰意懒到什么希望都不存在——到了那时候，即使他是一个福尔赛，他也会冲破保守的藩篱，讲些从来没有想到敢说的话。也许他跟儿子一样不相信有所谓好坏；可是要他来说，只能是：他不知道——说不出来；这里面或许有点道理；可能对你有好处，又何必无缘无故来一个否认，给自己造成不便呢？他一直酷爱游山，过去的假日常是在瑞士度过的，不过（象一个真正的福尔赛那样）登山从来不肯涉险，或者傻干。当一番跋涉之后，一片奇景（在游览指南里也提到过——虽则辛苦，可是值得）在他眼底展开时，他无疑地也曾感觉到天地间有一种伟大庄严的真理超出人生那些浑浑噩噩的追求、那些无聊和可怜可笑的事情，就象山岳高临着下面的丘陵和溪谷一样。拿他这样一个实际性格来说，也许这点体会在他就是最最接近宗教的地方了。可是他已经有好多年不去瑞士了。自从他妻子故去之后，他曾经带着琼连续去过两季；这两次使他痛心地认识到自己过去那些爬山的日子是一去不复返了。所以当年那种从山灵获得的信念，认为宇宙间万物都由一个至高无上的真理统驭着，在他是早已生疏了。他知道自己老了，然而仍旧感觉年轻；这使他很不开心。他处世本来一直就谨慎小心，然而自己生的一个儿子和一个孙女都好象天生就是要遭受苦难似的，这位他想起来很不开心，而且迷惑不解。对于小乔他也没有什么责备——这样一个温和的孩子，哪一个能责备他！——可是他自己弄到这种地步，实在可恨，琼的这件婚事也差不多同样的糟糕。这好象是命里注定的，而凡是这类命里注定的事都是他这样性格的人所不能了解或者受得了的。他给儿子写这封信，并不真正指望有什么结果。自从罗杰家里开了那次跳舞会之后，他已经清清楚楚看出是怎么一回事了——他的结论下得比多数的人都快——他自己儿子的前例就在面前，所以在所有这些福尔赛家人当中，他比谁都知道得清楚，爱情的淡白火焰总是要把人的翅膀烧伤的，不管他们愿意不愿意。琼在订婚前一个时期，时常跟索米斯的妻子在一起，所以他跟伊琳也是常见的；那时候他就感觉到她能使男人着迷。她并不是个妖冶女子，连风骚也够不上——这些字眼都是他这一辈的人爱用的，当时那些人就喜欢用些好听然而肤泛不切的名词来说明事情——可是她却是危险的。他也说不出什么缘故。人告诉他有些女子天生有一种本领——一种连她们自己都控制不了的诱惑力！他就会回答：“胡说一气！”她是危险的，就是如此。这种事情他眼睛看不见最好。事情既然这样，那就这样罢；下面的事情他也不知道——他只想不要使琼出丑，精神上能够平静下来。他仍旧希望有一天她又能够成为一个给他安慰的人。因此他就写了那封信。回信简直说不上有什么交代。小乔里恩从那番谈话里所打听到的实际上只有一句古怪的话：“我猜他是卷在里面。”卷在里面！卷在什么里面呢？这种新里新气的讲话究竟是什么意思？他叹口气，把最后一叠文件卷起来放在皮包夹层里；他明知道是什么意思。琼从餐室里走出来，帮他穿上夏服的上装。从她的服装和那张坚决的小脸的表情，他已经知道下面是怎么一回事了。“我跟你去，”她说。巴黎圣母院“胡说，亲爱的；我是直接上商业区去的。让你到处乱闯可不行！”“我得看看史米奇老太去。”“啊，你那些宝贵的‘可怜虫’！”老乔里恩咕噜了一声。他并不相信她这种借口，可是也不再阻挡她。对她这种牛性子你有什么办法。下了维多利亚车站时，他把她送上预先替自己备好的马车——这就是他的做派，决不那样小家子气。“你听我说，乖乖，切不要把自己累坏了，”他说，说完就雇了一部马车上商业区去了。琼先到巴丁登一条偏僻的小街去，她那个“可怜虫”史米奇老太就住在这里——一位上了年纪的人，平日只是做些帮工为生；琼跟她坐了半小时，听了她经常性的那些颠来倒去的诉苦，强迫她暂时宽慰一点，就起身上斯丹奴普门去。那座大房子门窗紧闭，阴沉沉的。她下了决心无论怎样要打听出一点情况。坏就由它坏去，坏了就算了，宁可如此。她的计划是这样：先去看菲力的姑母拜因斯太太；如果打听不到什么的话，就去看伊琳本人。至于看望这些人自己究竟想打听些什么，她也不清楚。三点钟的时候，琼到了郎地司方场。她具有女子那种天性，在即将遭遇苦难的时候，反而故作镇定，穿上她最好的衣服上阵，那副勇敢的气概就跟老乔里恩一模一样；原来的战栗现在已变为急切了。当佣人替琼通禀时，波辛尼的姑母拜因斯太太（她的名字叫露伊莎）正在厨房里指挥厨师；她本是个贤妻良母，拜因斯一直都说“一顿好晚饭最有意思”。他总是在晚饭之后把事情办得最好。在坎辛登区有一排非常神气的大红高房子，足可以跟许多别的房子竞赛“伦敦最丑陋房屋”的头衔，这些就是拜因斯先生造的。拜因斯太太听说是琼，赶快就进了自己的卧房，打开一只锁好的抽屉，从一只红摩洛哥皮盒子里拿出两只大手镯来，戴在自己白白的手腕上——原来拜因斯太太也是个具有高度“财产意识”的人，而“财产意识”，我们都知道，就是福尔赛主义的试金石和好德行的基础啊。她是中人身材，长得很宽，而且接近痴肥；那口白木衣橱的穿衣镜里正照出她穿了一件自己裁制的长服，颜色不深不浅，使人联想起大旅馆过道里那些粉刷过的墙壁。她举手摸摸自己的发髻——发髻是公主式——东碰一下，西碰一下，使发髻竖得更挺括点；她眼睛望着自己，完全是一种不自觉的现实主义神情，就好象在正视人生的一件肮脏事实，并在竭力加以文饰似的。她的两颊在年轻的时候原是乳白和淡红的颜色，可是现在一到中年却变得斑斑点点了，所以当她拿一只粉扑在自己额上扑粉时，眼睛里又闪出那种冷酷丑恶的正视来。放下粉扑，她一动不动站在镜子前面，在自己又高又大的鼻梁、小下巴（她下巴本来不大，现在脖子粗了起来，就更显得小了）和下垂的嘴角之间做出一点微笑。随即，为了不使效果丧失，赶快两只手捞起裙角下楼来了。这次拜访她已经指望好久了。她侄儿和他未婚妻的关系搞得不好她早有风闻。这两个都有好几个星期不上她这儿来。她多次约菲力来吃晚饭；菲力总是回答“太忙”。在这种事情上，这位出色的女人的感觉是敏锐的，所以一听见琼来，立刻就感觉到事情不妙。她实在应当是一个福尔赛；按照小乔里恩的说法，她肯定够得上资格，而且是名副其实。她把三个女儿嫁得都很不错，照人家说来，简直是高攀，因为这些女儿都是姿色平庸，这种情形往往只在职业比较接近司法界的妇女中才见得到。多少和教会有关的善举——慈善舞会、义演、义卖——她都列名在委员会里，而且她非要事先弄清楚各事都已完全组织就绪，方才同意放上自己的名字。诚如她时常说的，她赞成事情要有个商业基础；教会、慈善事业的正确作用都是加强“社会”组织。个人施舍因此都是不道德的。唯一的办法是通过团体，有了个团体你才能肯定自己的钱不是白花的。说来说去，还是团体最重要！毫无疑问，她就是老乔里恩称做的“组织能手”——不但如此，他甚至于称她是个“骗子”。那些有她列上名字的事业都组织得非常之好，所以等到把捐款分配给那些人时，这些已经象提炼过的牛奶一样，一点人类温情的乳油都不剩了。可是她平时的话也说得很对，感情用事是要不得的。她实在是有点学院气。这位被宗教界推崇备至的伟大而善良的女人是福尔赛神庙里的女住持之一，朝夕在财产之神的坛前燃着一盏神圣的油灯，坛上写了这些感人的字句：“以无还无，六辨士还真正那么一点儿。”她走进屋子时，人们的感觉就象一大块肥肉走进来似的；她主持慈善会所以受人欢迎大约就是这个缘故。人家花了钱，总喜欢沾一点肥；所以大家都朝她望——她穿了一件制服，上面满挂些叮叮当当的饰物，高高的鼻子，肥硕的身材，被慈善跳舞会里她那些僚属围成一圈——好象她是个大将似的。她的唯一缺点是没有一个好家世。她在中上层社会里是一个势力，这个社会里有它上百个的宗派和集团，全都在慈善事业的战场上纵横交织着，而且很快乐地跟那个上层社会在这片战场上结识起来。她在这个中上层社会里是一个势力，而这正是一个更广大、更重要、更有力量的社团！在这里，拜因斯太太所代表的那些商业化的基督教的制度、教义和“立身之道”都在畅通无阻，这些是它的真正血液，真正的商业通货，不象在那些较小的上层社会脉管里流通着那些奄无生气的赝品。认识她的人都觉得她很正常，一个决不会把自己的心掏出来的正常女子，而且，只要有法子可想，也决不会把任何东西掏给人。波辛尼的父亲在世时跟她最合不来，时常拿她作为讥笑的对象，简直到了不可饶恕的程度。现在波辛尼的父亲虽已去世，她提起他来时，还是称他为“可怜的、亲爱的、没有礼貌的哥哥”。她以一种谨慎的亲热向琼问好，这在她原是拿手好戏；同时对琼有点畏惧——不过以她这样一个商界和宗教界的女名流，就是畏惧也是有限度的——因为琼虽则瘦小，却具有莫大的尊严，是她的一双无畏的眼睛给予她这种尊严。拜因斯太太还看出琼的态度虽则极端坦率，仍旧有很多地方是个福尔赛。如果她仅仅坦率和勇敢，拜因斯太太就会觉得她“神经”，而看不起她；如果她仅仅是一个福尔赛，比如说，象佛兰茜一样，拜因斯太太对她就会威风十足地摆出一副奖掖的派头；可是琼尽管个子很小——而拜因斯太太一向是重量不重质的——却给她一种不自在的感觉；所以她请琼在一张迎亮的椅子上坐下来。她敬重琼另外还有一个原因——不过拜因斯太太这样一个善良的虔诚女子，绝对不会那样世故，因此她也决计不会承认——那就是她听见自己丈夫谈到老乔里恩非常富有，而且有十足的理由对这个孙女极端钟爱。因此拜因斯太太今天的心情就跟我们读一本描写男主角有一笔遗产可得的小说时的心情相仿佛，又急又怕，深怕作者笔下一不当心，害得那位年轻人最后遗产没有到手。她的态度很亲热；她从来没有象今天这样清楚看出这个女孩子多么出众，又多么合意。她问候老乔里恩的身体可好。这样大的年纪真是了不起；这样硬朗，而且样子一点不老，他多大年纪了？八十一！她决计想不到！他们上海滨消夏！好得很；菲力想来天天都有信给琼，是不是？当她问起这个问题时，她的浅灰色眼珠睁得更大了，可是琼却毫不动容。“没有，”她说，“他从没有写过信！”拜因斯太太眼睛垂下来；她的眼睛本来没有打算垂，可是不由而然就垂了下来。但是立刻又抬起眼睛。“当然不会。这完全是菲力的为人——他总是这个样子！”“是吗？”琼说。这句简短的反问使拜因斯太太明媚的微笑僵了一下；她赶快来一个掩饰的动作，把裙子重新拉拉平，又说：“怎么，亲爱的——他是个顶顶放荡不羁的人啊；他的一切行为人家从来不放在心上的！”琼忽然悟出自己是在糟蹋时间；她便是把问题直接提出来，也不会从这个女人嘴里得到任何解答。“你见到他吗？”她问，脸红了起来。拜因斯太太前额上的汗从粉里渗出来。“对呀！我记不得他上次几时来过的了——真的，我们近来简直不大看见他。他为了你令叔的那座房子弄得简直没有空；听说就要好了。我们一定要组织一次晚宴，为这件事庆祝一下；你非来不可，就在我们家里住！”“谢谢，”琼说。她心里又想：“我徒然糟蹋时间。这个女人是什么话都不会告诉我的。”她起身要走。拜因斯太太脸上变了色。她也站起来；嘴唇动着，两只手有点没处放是好。事情显然很不对头，而她又不敢问这个女孩子——这样一个身材瘦小而挺括的女孩子，一张坚决的脸，坚定的下巴，含有敌意的眼睛，站在那儿。拜因斯太太很少因为要提问题而害怕的——一切组织都是根据提问题来的啊！可是事情太严重了，连她平日坚强的神经都大为震动；而她的丈夫就在那天早上还跟她说过：“老乔里恩的家财一定足足在十万镑以上！”然而这个女孩子却站在这里，要走——要走！机会可能就此失去——她也说不准——这个女孩子可能从此不会成为她家的人，然而她仍旧不敢开口。她的眼睛望着琼到了门口。门关上了。名利场接着拜因斯太太尖呼一声，赶上前去，肥硕的身躯摇摇晃晃地，重又把门打开。已经太迟了！她听见前门的搭一声关上，自己一动不动站着，脸上的神情又是气又是愧悔。琼以她敏捷的步伐急急沿方场走去。过去在那些比较幸福的日子里，她一向把这个女人当做心肠很好，可是现在只觉得她卑鄙了。难道她永远要这样碰人家的钉子吗，难道她逼得要永远受这种心神不宁的罪吗！她要去找波辛尼本人，问他到底是什么意思。她有权利知道。她急急向史龙街走去，最后找到了波辛尼的号数。从楼下弹簧门进去，她一溜烟上了楼梯，一颗心痛苦地跳动着。上了最后的一层时，她的脸色变得雪白。她看见门上钉着的门牌，写着他的名字。原先使她跑了这么多路的决心这时忽然蒸发掉了。现在她明白过来这样做法太不成话。她觉得浑身发烧；她的手心在手套的薄衬绸下面有点湿濡濡的。她退到楼梯口，可是并不下去。她身子倚着栏杆，想竭力克服一种透不过气来的窒息感觉；眼睛望着门，带着可怕的勇气。不！她偏不下楼。别人对她怎样想法有什么关系？他们决不会知道！如果她自己不管，就更没有人管她的事情了！她决不半途而废。这样想过，她就勉强撑起身子，拉一下门铃。没有人开门，忽然间一切羞耻和恐惧心都被她置之度外！她把铃子拉了又拉，仿佛自己能够从空屋子里拉出什么，给她这一次拜访所遭受的羞耻和畏惧找点什么补偿似的。门仍旧没有开；她停止拉铃，在楼梯上面坐下来，两手蒙着脸。不久，她悄悄下楼，走到外面。自己觉得好象生了一场大病似的，现在再没有什么心思可想，只有赶快回去了。路上碰见的人好象知道她从哪儿去了来，做过些什么事情似的；忽然，在对面街上，她望见了波辛尼，显然从蒙特贝里尔方场那边向自己的屋子走去。她转动一下身子，预备穿过街去。两人的目光碰上，波辛尼抬一下帽子。一部公共马车开过来，挡着她的视线；接着从人行道的边缘上，在马车的空隙中，她望见波辛尼向前走去。琼站立着不动，望着他的后影。

第二卷 第十三章 房子装修完成 
“一客充甲鱼清汤①，一客牛尾汤，两杯波得酒②。”詹姆士跟自己儿子正在佛兰奇饭店的楼上餐厅里坐下来同用午饭；在这儿一个福尔赛总算还可吃到很实惠的英国菜。在所有的饭馆子里，詹姆士最喜欢上这儿来；这地方的特点是不耍花样，菜烧得够味道，而且吃得饱；近年来由于逼着要学时髦，同时生活的习惯和自己日益增加的收入要配得上的缘故，口味多少变得有点刁了，可是事务所里比较清闲的时候，他仍旧酷爱吃一下早年吃的那些味道浓的肉盆子。这里侍应生是穿白围裙的头发长长的英国侍役；地板上铺的木屑，墙上比视线稍微高出的地方挂有三面金边的圆镜子。原先这里还有些小房间，你可以在里面吃你的煎羊肉，头等的排骨肉，外加山芋泥，吃的时候可以不被邻座看见，象一个上流人士那样；可是新近这些小房间也取消了。詹姆士把食巾的上角塞在背心的第三颗纽扣后面，这个习惯由于住在西区的缘故，他已经不得已在多年前就放弃了。他觉得这盆汤自己非好好享受一下不可——为了清理一个老朋友的地产，他整整忙了一个上午。他把嘴里塞满了自制的面包，面包带点酸，立刻说道：“你怎样上罗宾山去？带伊琳去吗？你还是带她去好。我觉得有不少事情需要好好看过。”索米斯眼睛也不抬，就答：“她不肯去。”“不肯去？这是什么意思？这个房子她住不住呢？”索米斯没有回答。贝姨“我真不懂得现在的女子究竟是怎么回事，”詹姆士咕噜着；“我跟女人从来就没有闹过什么别扭。她太没有约束了。太娇惯——”索米斯眼睛抬了起来：“我不愿意人说她的坏话，”他出其不意地说。两人之间现在只有詹姆士喝汤的声音听得见了。侍役送上两杯波得酒来，可是索米斯止着他。“波得酒不是这种吃法，”他说；“把这个拿开，把瓶子拿来。”詹姆士喝汤正喝得出神，这时如梦方醒，象他习惯的那样把周围的实况迅速地打量一下。“你母亲病了，”他说；“你可以坐家里马车下去。我想伊琳这样出城跑一趟一定喜欢。那个小波辛尼想来也会在那边，领你看房子，是不是？”索米斯点点头。“我很想亲自下去看看他装修得怎么样，”他接下去说。“我坐了马车来接你们两个罢。”“我预备坐火车去，”索米斯回答。“你如果愿意坐马车下去看看，伊琳也许跟你去，我可说不准。”他招呼侍役把账单拿来，詹姆士把账付掉。两人走到圣保罗教堂那儿分手，索米斯由另一条路上车站，詹姆士乘公共马车上西城去。他找到卖票员旁边角落上一个座位坐下，伸出一双长腿挡得乘客很不容易通过；哪一个经过他面前的都被他恶狠狠盯上一眼，就好象这些人没来由要占用他的空气似的。他本来打算今天下午找个机会和伊琳谈谈。在时候上的一句话要省却以后的无数唇舌。现在她既然要住到乡下去了，她正好趁此改过自新！索米斯，他看得出来，对她的那一套已经忍无可忍了！至于他说的她的“那一套”究竟指什么，他脑子里也没有想到；这话的含义很广，很含糊，正配一个福尔赛的胃口。而且，詹姆士一顿午饭之后，比平日的勇气更加来得大了。到了家，他就叫人把马车驾好，特别关照小马夫也要随着去。他要对她好，给她一切的机会。六十二号的门开了时，他能清楚听见她唱着歌，立刻就把来意说明，以防万一不放他进门。是的，索米斯太太在家，可是女仆不知道她见不见客。邦斯舅舅可是詹姆士虽则是那样个高个子，而且神情恍惚，动作却向来敏捷，所以往往使人看得诧异之至；他不等待女仆去问清楚，三脚两步就走进客厅。他看见伊琳坐在钢琴面前，两只手停留在键子上，显然在倾听穿堂里的谈话。她招呼他一下，脸上并没有笑。“你婆婆病了，”他开始说，指望一上来争得她的同情。“我把马车预备好了。你做做好事，把帽子戴上，跟我出去兜一下。对你有好处！”伊琳把他望了望，象要拒绝似的，可是仿佛又改变了主意，上了楼，戴了帽子下来。“你带我上哪儿去呢？”她问。“我们就上罗宾山去，”詹姆士说，把话说得非常之快；“这两匹马须要溜一下，我也想看看他们在那边做得怎样。”伊琳犹豫了一下，可是仍旧改变了主意，出门去上马车，詹姆士紧紧地簇拥着她，防止被她溜掉。一直到路程走了一半时，他才开口：“索米斯很喜欢你——他不愿意人家对你有任何议论；为什么你不能对他亲热一点呢？”伊琳脸红了，低声说：“我不能硬装出来。”詹姆士严厉地望她一眼；他觉得现在伊琳既已坐上自己的马车，又是自己的马，自己的佣人，老实说她就跳不出他的手掌。她既没法不理会他，也没法把事情闹开。“我不懂得你是什么心思，”他说。“他是个很好的丈夫！”伊琳回答的声音很低很低，在马车辘辘行驶声中，几乎不大听得出来。他只听出一句话：“你没有嫁给他！”“跟这个怎么说得上？你想什么他就给你什么。你要上哪儿他就带你上哪儿，现在又替你在乡下盖这所房子。如果你有什么妆奁的话，那还可说。”“是没有。”詹姆士又望望她；他弄不懂她脸上的那种表情；那样子简直象要哭出来似的，然而——“我敢说，”他赶快又说，“我们全都竭力想待你好。”伊琳的嘴唇颤动了一下；詹姆士看见她颊上流下一滴眼泪来，弄得他不知所措。他觉得自己的喉咙里好象有块东西堵着。“我们都喜欢你，”他说，“只要你”——他本来打算说“学好，”可是改口说——“只要你对待他更加象个妻子一点。”伊琳没有回答，詹姆士也就不再说话。她的沉默有点使他感觉不安；他只能说这种沉默与其表示抗拒，毋宁说对他所能说出的话表示默认。然而他仍旧觉得话还没有说完；这一点连他自己都弄不懂。可是，他没法长久沉默下去。“我想那个小波辛尼，”他说，“不久就要跟琼结婚了吧？”伊琳的脸色一变。“不知道，”她说：“你应当问琼去。”“她给你写信吗？”“没有。”“怎么会的呢？”詹姆士说。“我以为你跟她顶要好呢。”伊琳转身向着他。“你也应当问问她！”她说。“好吧，”詹姆士慌忙说，被她的脸色吓住了，“我真不懂为什么我得到的都是答非所问，可是的确就是这样。”他坐着盘算自己受到的奚落，终于忍不住说道：“我是警告过你了。是你不肯回头。索米斯他是不大说话，可是看得出他对这种事情未见得能容忍多久。那时候你只好怪自己，不好怪别人，而且，谁也不会同情你。”伊琳低下头微笑地鞠一鞠躬：“我很感谢你的盛意。”詹姆士弄得不知怎样回答是好。上午天气晴热，下午逐渐变得阴晦闷人；从南方升起一阵乌云，那种黑里带黄的颜色暗示着要有雷雨，而且升得愈来愈高了。路旁树上的枝条全都垂了下来，叶子动都不动。跑热了的马，身上发出一种轻微的胶粘的气味，在重浊的空气里久久不散；车夫和马夫僵直着身体，在前面车厢里悄悄相互低语，连头都不回一下。房子总算到了，詹姆士大大松了一口气；这个女子，他一向认为十分温柔和顺的，现在坐在他身边却变得沉默寡言，而且莫测高深，使他感到骇然。马车驶到房子门口停下，两人走进房子。厅堂里很凉快，而且阒静无声，就象走进一座坟墓似的；詹姆士一个寒噤一直通过脊梁。他赶快掀开柱子间厚重的皮门帘，走进内院。他禁不住喝一声彩。院子里的布置和装修的确十分雅致。埋在地下是一座大理石的圆盆，盆里贮满了清水，盆子四周种了许多高高的鸢尾草，围成一圈，从这里起一直到墙脚根都是暗玫瑰红的砖地，一望而知是最上等的砖料。院子一面的墙装了一座大白瓷砖的炉子，用紫皮帘子整个遮起来；这些皮帘子最使他赞赏不置。中间的天窗推开了，外面的暖空气从天窗里面一直透到屋子的中心来。他站着，手抄在后面，头在高削肩膀上面昂了起来，仔细察看那些柱子上面的花饰和楼上回廊下面牙白色墙上那些盘绕的花纹。显然的，这些都做得十分精细。完全配得上一个上流人士的住宅。他走到那些帘子面前，待发现这些帘子是怎样一回事之后，就把来拉开，这样帘子后面的画廊就露了出来，画廊的尽头是一面大窗子，把整个的墙壁都占满了。黑橡木的地板，墙壁仍旧是牙白色。他陆续把些门打开窥望。一切都布置得井井有条，立刻就可以搬进来住。他转过身来找伊琳说话，这才看见她在花园进口的地方，跟她丈夫和波辛尼站在一起。詹姆士虽说在感觉上并不特别敏锐，也立刻觉出事情不大妙。他走到三个人跟前来；心里隐隐有点着急，但是弄不清楚是怎么一回事，就设法来斡旋一下。“你好，波辛尼先生？”他说，伸出手来。“你在这些上面花的钱可着实不少啦，我要说！”索米斯转身走开了。波辛尼蹙着眉头；詹姆士把波辛尼望望，又望望伊琳，一气之下，就把心里的话说了出来：“哼，我真说不出是什么缘故。什么事情都不告诉我！”当他随在儿子后面走开时，他听见波辛尼发出一声短笑，并且说，“谢谢老天爷！你的样子——”可惜得很，下面的话没有听到。到底是什么事情呢？他回头望一下。伊琳紧挨在建筑师身边，那副脸色跟他平日熟悉的伊琳完全不象。他赶快走到儿子面前。索米斯正在画廊上踱步子。“什么缘故？”詹姆士问。“这一切究竟是怎么一回事呢？”索米斯向他望望，仍然是平日那种傲慢的安详神气，可是詹姆士清楚看出他极端愤怒。“我们的朋友，”索米斯说，“又超出了给他规定的款项，就是这样。这一次可对他不客气了。”他转身向门口方向走去。詹姆士连忙跟上去，抢在头里走。他看见伊琳把放在唇边的一只指头放下来，听见伊琳用通常的口气说了句话，自己不等走到他们面前就开始说：“要有暴雨来了。我们还是回家罢。我们能不能带你一下，波辛尼先生？嗯，恐怕不行了。那么，再见！”他伸出手来。波辛尼没有跟他握手，可是转过身哈哈一笑，说：“再见，福尔赛先生。不要碰上暴雨！”就走开了。“哼，”詹姆士说，“我不知道——”可是这时他看见伊琳的脸色，就停止不说下去。他一把抓着媳妇的肘弯，护送她向马车走去。他有把握说，绝对有把握说，这两个人刚才在约定时间会面，或者类似的事情。一个福尔赛原来计议好在一件事情上花多少钱，后来发现要花得比这个多时，在这个世界上更没有比这更使他冒火的了。这也是人情之常，因为他生活上的一切安排都是靠精密计算来的。如果他不能倚靠财产的固定价值来计算，他的罗盘就失灵了；他就等于在苦痛的大海上飘流，没有一个舵。上面说过，索米斯跟波辛尼在通信里讲定了什么条件，这事之后，脑子里就全然不想到房子的费用上去。他认为最后费用问题已经写得十分清楚，所以费用还会超出在他是根本没有想到会有可能。因此，当他听到波辛尼说到原来限定的一万二千镑的数目将要超出四百镑左右时，他简直气得浑身冰冷。他原来估计在全部房子上只花一万镑，后来逼得屡次超出预算，就时常深深责备自己不应当如此。可是，在这笔最后的费用上，波辛尼是完完全全讲不过去的。一个人怎么会蠢到使自己做出这种事情来，索米斯真不懂得；然而他偏偏做了，这一来索米斯长久以来对他怀着的仇恨和潜在的妒忌全都集中发泄在这笔最后的浪费上。过去他装扮的信任而友善的丈夫全完了。为了保全他的财产——他的妻子时，他装扮成那种样子，现在为了保全另一种财产，他的真面目就露出来了。“嗯！”他等到自己能够开口时跟波辛尼说，“我想你自己一定很引为得意呢。可是我不妨告诉你，你完全看错了人！”当时他说这两句话的时候，究竟是什么意思，他自己也不大有把握，所以吃了晚饭之后，他就把自己和波辛尼之间的通信找出来弄弄清楚。毫无疑问——这个家伙应当对这笔额外的四百镑负责，无论如何，其中的三百五十镑要由他负责，他一定得照赔。当他得到这个结论时，他望望自己妻子的脸。她正坐在长沙发上平时坐的地方，更换衣服领子上的花边。整整一晚上，她都没有跟他讲过一次话。他走到壁炉板跟前，一面向镜子里端详自己的脸，一面说：“你的朋友波辛尼硬要跟自己过不去；他只好吃苦头了！”她鄙夷地望着他，答道：“我不懂得你讲的什么话！”“你就会懂得。一点小数目，不值你的一笑——四百镑。”“难道说，你预备要他在这个可恨的房子上赔出四百镑来吗？”“就是这样。”“你知道他一个钱没有吗？”“知道。”悲惨世界“那么你比我平日想象的你更加卑鄙。”索米斯从镜子前面转过身来，不知不觉地从壁炉板上拿一只瓷杯子，两只手满满握着，就象在做祈祷。他看见伊琳胸口起伏着，眼睛里充满愤怒；他不理会她骂的话，静静地说道：“你是不是跟波辛尼吊膀子？”“不，我没有！”她的眼光跟他碰上，他眼睛望开去。她这话他也不相信，也不不相信，可是他知道自己的话问错了；她的心思他从来不知道，而且永远不会知道。看她这副心意莫测的脸，同时想起有无数的晚上都是这样柔顺的样子坐在这里，然而是那样的无法窥测、无法知晓，使他怒不可遏。“我想你是石头做的，”他说，手指使劲那么一勒，把那只脆弱的杯子竟然勒碎，碎瓷片纷纷落在炉栏里。伊琳微笑了。“你好象忘记，”她说，“这杯子并不是石头做的！”索米斯一把抓着她的胳臂。“要你明白，”他说，“只有死打一顿，”可是说完就转身走出屋子。

第二卷 第十四章 索米斯坐在楼梯上 
那天晚上，索米斯上楼时心里有个感觉，觉得做得太过头了。他准备向她解释一下自己刚才说的话。他把他们卧室外面过道里燃着的煤气灯捻熄掉；人停在门外，一只手放在门钮上，盘算着赔小心要怎样一个措辞，原因是他不打算让她看出自己心虚。可是门开不开，便是他用力地拉，把门钮紧紧地转，也还是开不了。她一定是有什么缘故把门锁上，忘记开了。他走进更衣室——更衣室里的煤气灯也仍旧点着，火头很暗——就赶快去开另一扇门。这扇门也锁着了。接着他看见自己平时偶尔用的行军床已经铺好被褥，自己的睡衣就放在床上。他用手摸摸额头，拿下时手上已经汗湿了。他这才悟出自己已经被她关在外面。他又走到外面门口，悄悄地转动门钮，叫道：“开门，你听见吗？开门！”里面一阵轻微的簌簌声，可是没有回答。幻灭“你听见吗？赶快让我进来——我非进来不可！”他能听得出近门处她呼吸的声音，就象一个动物受到生命威胁时的呼吸一样。在这种不瞅不睬的沉默中，这种无法捉到她的形势下，有种地方使人心惊胆战。他回到里面那扇门那儿，用整个身体的重量来顶门，想要把门撞开。这门原是新做的——是他亲自叫人换过，预备度过蜜月之后进宅时使用的。他一怒之下，举起脚来踢门板；接着想到这样会把佣人惊醒，便又约束住自己，这才突然感觉到自己失败了。他在更衣室里颓然坐下，拿起一本书。可是他眼睛里看见的并不是书上的字，而是他妻子的脸——金黄的头发披着裸肩，一双又大又乌的眼睛——站在那里就象困兽一样。他恍悟出她这一反抗举动的全部涵义来。她是预备永远决裂了。他简直坐不住，就又跑到门口；里面仍旧听得出她的声息，他就叫：“伊琳！伊琳！”他没有想到自己声音叫得那样可怜。里面的簌簌声停止了，就象是预示凶兆似的。他紧勒着双手站着，心里在盘算。过了一会他踮起脚尖偷偷绕到外面，突然跑到另一扇门面前，用尽力气想把门撞开。门撞得吱吱响，可是仍旧不开。他在楼梯上坐下来，两手蒙着脸。他在黑暗里坐了好久好久，月光从头上天窗里照进来，形成一条淡白的痕子，沿着楼梯逐渐向他身边伸过来。他企图来一点哲学的看法。她既然把门锁上，就没有权利再做他的妻子，他就可以在别的女人身上找安慰！过去他在这些女色上的涉猎都只是些不快的回忆——这些声色的追逐他毫无兴趣。过去也不过偶尔来一下，现在连这种嗜好都丧失了。他觉得自己在这方面的兴趣决不可能恢复。他的欲望只有他的妻子能够满足，而她这时却是不屈不挠，满怀恐惧地躲在两扇紧闭的门后面。任何别的女子都解决不了他的问题。这个结论被他在黑暗中捉摸出来，觉得特别有力。他的那套哲学完蛋了；代替了的是愤怒。她的行为是不道德的，不可原谅的，有十足的理由受到他权力范围以内的任何惩罚。他什么女人都不要，只要她，而她却拒绝他！这样看来，她一定真是恨他！他始终都相信不了。他现在还相信不了。这好象简直荒唐，他觉得自己完全丧失了判断能力似的。他一直都认为她温柔和顺，然而这样温柔和顺的女子却会采取这种断然的措置——天下还有什么事情拿得准呢？后来他重新问自己，她是不是跟波辛尼有勾搭。他不相信是这样；他就不敢相信这就是她拒绝他的理由——这种想法太叫人吃不消了。把他们夫妇之间的这种关系闹出去，使它成为公共的财产！这种想法他也受不了。目前还缺乏最最令人信服的证据，所以他仍旧坚决不相信，要他相信就等于惩罚自己，谁又愿意这样？然而自始至终在他心里面——他确实相信就是这么一回事。他拱着腰靠着楼梯的墙壁，月光在他身上照上一层灰白。波辛尼爱上了她！他真恨这个家伙，现在决不饶过他。除掉一万二千零五十镑之外——这是他们通信里讲定的最高数目——要他多付一个铜子他都不来，决计不来；或者付掉也可以，付掉之后再控诉他，叫他赔偿损失。他要委托乔布林—波尔特律师事务所替他办这件案子。叫这个穷光蛋冲家！忽然——不知道怎么被他联系得起来的——他想起伊琳也没有钱。两个人都是穷鬼。这事使他感到一种古怪的满足。眼前的沉寂被墙壁那边传来轻微的吱吱声冲破了。她终于上床了。唉！快乐和美梦！现在就是她把门大开四敞，他也不肯进去了！可是他的嘴唇，本来形成一种苦笑，这时却抽动了一下；他两只手蒙上眼睛.第二天下午，时间已经很晏，索米斯站在餐室的窗子口，忧郁地凝望着外面的方场。太阳仍旧怒照在那些筱悬树上面，树上快乐的大叶子在风中照耀，而且随着街角上一架手摇风琴的声调摇曳着。风琴正奏着华尔滋舞曲，是一首过了时的老调子，调子里的那种抑扬顿挫听上去都象是预示凶兆；它奏了又奏，可是除掉那些树叶子之外，并看不见什么东西跟着它跳舞。那个女子的样子并不十分高兴，她已经累了；那些高大的楼房上面并没有人扔铜子给她。她把风琴推走了，可是过了三家，又开始摇起来。这首华尔滋舞曲就是那次伊琳和波辛尼在罗杰家里跳舞时他们奏的那一只；伊琳当时戴的栀子花的香味又使索米斯想了起来；当时她扯着波辛尼一直不停地跳下去，就好象绕着无完无尽的舞池似的；她经过他面前时，发光闪闪，眼睛里含着柔情，一股栀子花的香味就飘了过来，就象现在随着这促狭的音乐飘过来一样。那个女人缓缓摇着风琴的柄子；她这样象推磨一样已经推了一天——在附近的史龙街推过，也许就当着波辛尼本人推过。索米斯转过身去，在雕花的盒子里取一支香烟，又回到窗口。这只曲子把他听得象中了魔，就在这时候，他望见伊琳携着折拢的小阳伞，沿着方场赶回家来，穿了一件他没有见过的柔软的桃色短外褂，两只袖子垂了下来。她在风琴面前停下，拿出手皮包，掏钱给那个女人。索米斯把身子缩了回去，在可以望得见外面穿堂的地方站着。她拿大门钥匙开了门进来，放下阳伞，站在那里照镜子。她的两颊飞红，就象在太阳下面晒过一样；笑唇微启。她把两只胳臂伸了出来，象要拥抱自己似的，同时发出一声狂笑，听上去简直就象呜咽。索米斯走出来。“美——得很呀！”他说。高老头她象中了枪弹一样急剧转过身来，意欲掠过他跑上楼。他拦着她。“这样急做什么？”他说，眼睛紧盯着她耳朵旁边拖下来的一缕秀发。他简直不认识她了。她就象烧起来一样，两颊、眼睛、嘴唇以及那件不常穿的上褂，望上去颜色都是那样的浓郁。她抬起手来，把一缕头发掠上去。她呼吸很急促，就仿佛跑了路一样，每呼吸一下，从她的发间和身上都发出一种香味，就象一朵盛开的花发出来的香味一样。“我不喜欢这件上褂，”他缓缓地说，“这东西太软，一点样式没有！”他抬起一只指头指向她胸口，可是被她挥开了。“不要碰我！”她叫。他抓着她的手腕；她摔开他。“你上哪儿去的？”他问。“上天堂去的——在这个屋子外面！”说了这话，她就一溜烟上了楼。外面，就在大门口，那个摇风琴的女人为了表示感谢，正在奏着华尔滋舞曲。索米斯僵立在那里。他为什么没有跟她上楼呢？是不是由于他深信不疑，所以他眼睛里仿佛瞧见波辛尼从史龙街的高窗子里望下来，竭力想再能瞧一眼伊琳快要望不见的身形，一面使自己烧红的脸凉下来，一面冥想方才伊琳投入他怀抱中的情景——她身上的香味和那一声仿佛呜咽似的狂笑仍旧萦绕在周围的空气里。

第三卷 第一章 马坎德太太的见证 
当然，很多的人，包括当时正在初露头角的“活体解剖激烈派”杂志的编辑在内，都会认为索米斯没有丈夫气，应当把他妻子门上的锁敲掉，把妻子痛打一顿，跟她仍旧快快活活过着结婚的生活。目前人类的残忍行为虽然不象过去那样可恨地被仁慈的意味冲淡掉，可是国内一部分温情主义的人尽可以放心，因为索米斯这类事情是全然不来的。原来在福尔赛家人中间，打骂的行为并不受欢迎；他们太小心谨慎了，而且，整个说来，心肠也太软。拿索米斯来说，他的性格里总还带有一般的自尊心，这点自尊心虽不足以使他真正做出什么慷慨的事情，却足以阻止他听任自己做出极端卑鄙的事情，除非是在他极度气愤之下。最大的理由是这个十足的福尔赛坚决不肯承认自己有什么可笑的地方。他除掉把妻子老老实实打一顿外，别无办法可想，因此他也就一声不响容忍下来了。从夏天起，一直到秋天，他照样上他的事务所，理他的藏画，并且请朋友到家里来吃晚饭。他暑天也没有出门，因为伊琳不肯离开伦敦。罗宾山的房子虽则造好了，始终还是空着，没有主儿。索米斯对“海盗”提出控诉，要求他赔偿三百五十镑的损失。一家叫佛里克—艾布的律师事务所代表波辛尼提出辩护。他们一方面承认事实，但是对索米斯的通信提出异议；这封信如果去掉一些法律名词的话，就等于这样：那句“根据这封信的条件‘全权作主’”完全是自相抵触的。也是机会凑巧——这种机会在法律界那些掌握机要的人士中虽则难得碰到，但也不是不可能的——有不少关于这项对策的消息传到索米斯耳朵里来。原来他的事务所里那位同伙勃斯达有一次往法院讼费检察官华米斯莱家中赴宴，碰巧就坐在普通法院的年青辩护士①姜克利的旁边。凡是法律界聚会，碰到妇女不在座时，总逼得要谈些所谓“本行”；就因为这个缘故，那位年轻有为的姜克利辩护士就跟他的邻座提出一个不涉及他个人利害的难题来；这位邻座的姓名他并不知道，因为勃斯达一直都是在幕后活动，外面很少人晓得他的名字。姜克利说他碰到一件案子，里面有一点“很微妙”。接着他就把索米斯这件案子里的难题讲给他听，同时小心保持着一切职业上应守的秘密。他说他跟人家谈过，那些人都认为“很微妙”。不幸的是，引起争执的数目很小，“不过对于他的当事人来说却他妈的关系很大”——华米斯莱家里的香槟酒虽则不好，可是很多——他担心法官可能会敷衍了事。他打算大大的干一下——这一点很微妙。他的邻座怎么一个看法？勃斯达为人本来极端深沉，所以什么话都没有说。可是事后他把这①英国的律师分出庭与不出庭两种，为了分别起见，在本书中把出庭律师都译作辩护士。事告诉了索米斯，有点近于恶意开玩笑，原来他这人虽则不大说话，一个普通人的爱恶还是有的；最后他还说出自己的意见，认为这一点的确“很微妙”。我们这位福尔赛根据原来的决定，已经把这件案子委托乔布林一波尔特律师事务所办理了；委托之后，立刻就懊悔没有亲自办理这件事。当他收到波辛尼方面送来的辩护书副本之后，他就上这家律师事务所来。这时乔布林律师已经故世了好几年，经手这件案子的是波尔特；波尔特告诉索米斯，在他看来，这一点相当微妙；他很想请教一下专家的意见。索米斯叫他去请教一位能手，两个人就去找到皇家法律顾问华特布克，认为他是数一数二的；华特布克把文件留在手里六个星期，然后写了下面的意见：“在我看来，这封信的真正解释跟双方的原来动机有很大关系，要看审判时双方的口供才能决定。我认为应当设法从建筑师这方面弄到一点材料，表示他承认自己知道用钱不能超出一万二千零五十镑。至于要我研究的那一句‘根据这封信的条件“全权作主”’的话，这一点很微妙；不过我觉得大体说来‘波瓦卢控诉白拉斯地德水泥公司’一案的判例是可以援用的。”他们就根据这个意见着手起来，向对方提出些质询书，但是可恨的是佛里克—艾布的回信非常之高明，信里什么都没有承认，而且也不损害到自己的权益。索米斯到十月一号才看到华特布克的意见书，就在餐室里等候用晚饭的时候。这使他心绪很是不宁；倒不完全是因为看见“波瓦卢控诉白拉斯地德水泥公司”案件的判例可以援用的缘故，而是因为这一点最近由他自己看来也显得微妙了；这里有一种非常可喜的引起争执的地方，正合法律界的口胃，好借此大显身手。他自己如此看法，现在皇家法律顾问华特布克也是如此看法，一个人怎么会不着急呢？他坐着盘算着这件事，瞠着眼睛望着空壁炉的炉栏；原来时间虽则已经是秋天，今年的天气却始终晴和，就好象仍旧是八月下旬似的。急的滋味真不好受；他恨不得一脚踩断波辛尼的脖子才痛快。自从罗宾山那天下午之后，他就没有见过波辛尼；虽说如此，他始终觉得波辛尼就在他的眼前——那张瘦削的脸上的两个高颧骨和一双热情的眼睛，他脑子里一直记得。可以说他始终没有摆脱掉那天夜里天亮时听见孔雀叫的感觉，觉得波辛尼常在这房子左近窥伺，这并不是过甚其辞。每到天晚时，他看见有什么人在门口走过，那个身形都象是“海盗”——乔治给他起的这个绰号真是再确切没有了。伊琳仍旧跟波辛尼会面，这一点他是肯定的；至于在哪里会面，或者怎样一个会面法，他不知道，也不想问；他私心里隐隐有一种顾忌，觉得事情知道多了反而不好办。这些时，好象一切都是地下活动。有时候他问起妻子上哪儿去的——这句话是所有的福尔赛都免不了要问的，因此他也照样不放过——她的样子显得很古怪。她那种镇静的派头真是了不起，可是偶然间在她那张毫无表情的面具上——尽管一直在他眼中是那样莫测高深——也会隐隐看出一种他一向不大看到的神情来。她有时连午饭也出去吃；当他问起贝儿生，太太是不是在家里吃午饭时，贝儿生的回答时常是：“没有吃，老爷。”他极端不赞成她一个人在外面闲荡，而且跟她当面说过。可是她并不理会。她不听他劝告的那种若无其事的派头有些地方使他又骇又气，然而又不禁好笑。的确，她好象心里在自鸣得意，认为把他压下去了。他站起来，把皇家法律顾问华特布克的意见书放下不看，上楼进了她的卧室，原来她白天并不锁门——他看出她总算识得体面，不让佣人瞧见笑话。她正在刷头发，这时转过身来向着他，凶狠得有点莫名其妙。“你有什么事情？”她说。“请你离开我的房间！”他答：“我要知道我们两个中间这种情形还要继续多久？我已经容忍了好久，再不能忍下去了。”“你能不能离开我的房间？”“你能不能把我当作你的丈夫？”“不能。”幽谷百合“那么，我就要逼你非叫你把我当作你丈夫不可。”“来吗！”他眼睛睁得多大的，对她回答得这样镇定，甚为骇异。她嘴唇闭成一条线；一大堆蓬松的头发覆着裸露的肩头，异样地金光灿烂，越发衬托出那双深褐的眼睛——眼睛里面燃烧着畏惧、仇恨、鄙视和那种他习见的异样的胜利感。“现在，你可以不可以离开我的房间？”他转身悻悻地走了出去。他明知道自己不打算逼她，而且看出她也知道——知道他有所忌惮。他有个习惯，经常跟她谈一天里做些什么事情：有些什么当事人上事务所来找他；怎样替巴克斯办妥一件房产押款的；那件多年不决的佛里尔对福尔赛的讼案最近的情形！这件案子的起因全由于他的叔祖尼古拉把自己的财产处置得过于慎重了，慎重得入了魔。把财产捆得牢牢的，谁也得不到手，这件案子看上去将要永远成为几个律师的衣食饭碗，直到世界末日为止。他还谈自己上乔布生行看过，谈在倍尔买尔大街达莱伦父子画廊里看见一张布齐尔的画，自己还没有来得及就被人买去了。他对布齐尔、华托和这一派的所有画家都很看得上。他有个习惯，经常拿这些事情跟她谈，甚至现在还照常跟她谈，在吃晚饭的时候一谈就谈上半天，好象这样滔滔不绝谈着时，他可以不感到内心的痛苦似的。时常，碰到两个人单独在一起，她跟他道晚安时，他总企图吻她一下。也许他暗怀一种希企，能够哪天晚上她会让他吻她；或者仅仅由于他觉得做丈夫的应当吻一下自己的妻子。就算她恨他，这个古礼无论如何总不应忽略，那样就是自己理亏了。而且她为什么要恨他呢？便是到现在他还是信不了。被人家恨的滋味真是说不上来——这种情绪太偏激了；然而他也恨波辛尼，那个“海盗”，那个窥伺的流浪汉，那个夜游神。在索米斯的心目中，他好象永远潜匿在哪里等着——永远在游荡。啊，可是他一定过得很潦倒呢！那个年青的建筑师伯吉特曾经看见他从一家三等饭馆里出来，神气非常之颓丧！时常他躺在床上睡不着时，自己盘算着这种看上去永远没有个完结的局面——除非她会忽然明白过来——他的脑子里从来没有认真想到要和自己的妻子离异过.还有福尔赛家其他的那些人！他们在索米斯这出幕后悲剧的目前阶段担任了什么角色呢？说实在话，都简直没有担任什么，因为他们都往海边去了。他们都住在旅馆里，疗养院里，或者自己租赁的房子里，天天出来洗海水浴；给自己储存起一大堆臭氧准备过冬。每一房都在自己挑选的葡萄园里，把自己最喜爱的海空气当作葡萄一样来培植，选剔，榨汁，装瓶。到了九月底才开始看见他们各自归来。他们一个个身强体壮，脸上的气色红红的，坐着小载客马车，每天从各个终点站到达家中。第二天早上就看见他们各回各的行业去了。这底下一个星期天，悌摩西家里从午饭起直到吃晚饭的时候都挤满了人。这里面谈的闲话实在太多，而且太有趣了，来不及一一细讲；在这些谈话当中，史木尔太太提到索米斯和伊琳并没有出门。另外一件有趣的事情却有待于一位比较和这件事情无关的人来补述了。有位马坎德太太是维妮佛梨德-达尔第顶要好的朋友；在九月里一个下午将近四五点钟的时候，这位马坎德太太跟小奥古斯特-菲力巴在里希蒙公园骑脚踏车锻炼身体，碰巧被她撞见伊琳和波辛尼正从凤尾草丛那边向幸恩门走去。这个可怜的小女人可能是口渴了；她在一条又干又硬的公路上骑了好长一段路，一面骑着脚踏车，一面和菲力巴讲着话，这样子——伦敦人全知道——便是最强壮的身体也是吃不消的；也可能是因为她看见清凉的凤尾草丛——“那两个”从里面走出来的——使她艳羡起来。原来山顶上那片清凉的凤尾草丛上面的橡树长得亭亭如盖，许多鸽子就在树上唱着连绵不断的合欢曲；当那些驯鹿悄悄走过时，秋天就向草丛里那些情人的耳朵里喁喁低语着。凤尾草丛啊！你是一去不返的欢乐，是天地交泰的漫漫长夜里那些金黄的时刻，是牡鹿的乐园，是山羊神的神庙——那些在夏日薄暮围着桦木女仙白银身体跳跃的山羊神！这位太太和福尔赛家所有的人都认识，上次琼订婚举行的茶会她也到场，因为一看见眼面前她要对付的是这两个人时，自己并不觉得茫然无措。她自己的婚姻可怜并不圆满，可是她心地明白，手段又高明，结果她丈夫被她逼得犯了一件大错，而她自己却从容完成了必要的离婚手续，同时并不引起舆论的谴责。由于有这些缘故，她在男女的事情上眼睛最毒；她住的那座分成许多小公寓的大厦里就聚集了有不计其数的福尔赛，这些人做了一天生意下来主要的消遣就是谈论各人之间的私事。可怜的小女人，她可能是口渴，但肯定是谈得腻味，因为菲力巴的口才太风趣了。所以在这样一个意想不到的场合碰上了“那两个”在她简直是如获至宝。碰到这个马坎德，就象全伦敦的人碰到她一样，时间老人也要驻足一观。欧也妮·葛朗台这个身材矮小然而人才出众的女人的确值得注意；她有一双无所不窥的眼睛，和一副伶牙利齿；这些，说来也许令人难以索解，都是被她用来替天行道的。她有一种久经疆场的派头，非常照顾得了自己，有时简直弄得人很局促。在摧毁当前仍在阻碍文明车轮的骑士精神这件事上，她那种做法恐怕比任何时髦女子的贡献都大。她为人行事都极端漂亮，所以人家谈起她时都亲热地称呼她“小马坎德！”她穿的衣服又紧贴又合身，而且是一个女子俱乐部的会员，不过又不是那种一心只想着妇女权利的神经不宁、神色凄惨的会员。她的那些权利都是不知不觉地享受到的，随随便便就到了她手里；她而且十分懂得一方面尽量利用这些权利，同时并不引起她所依附的那个伟大阶级的反感，不但没有反感，反而钦佩她；所以如此，倒不完全由于她对人态度和蔼，而是由于她的家世、教养和掌握了那个秘密的、可靠的尺度——财产意识。她是贝德福州一个律师的女儿，外祖父是牧师；她嫁了一个性情平和的画家，爱好自然简直爱得入魔，终于遗弃了她去搭上一个女戏子；在她这一段痛苦的结婚过程中，她始终都顾念着上流社会里的那些戒律、信念和观感；及至获得自由之后，她毫不为难就全心全意奉行起福尔赛主义来了。她经常总是那样兴高采烈的，而且“消息特别灵通”，所以到处受人欢迎。大家都觉得她完全照应得了自己，决不会上人家的当，所以当有人在莱茵河或者赛玛特山碰见她一个人，或者跟一个女子、两位男子一同旅行时，他们并不觉得诧异或者不以为然；正由于她有这种了不起的不上当的本领，所以所有福尔赛家的人都从心里喜欢她，这就使她能够一毛不拔而尽量享受别人的一切。大家都认为，如果要保存和增加我们里面最好的女性典型的话，希望就应当寄托在象马坎德太太这样的女人身上。她从来没有生过儿女。如果说世界上有什么人使她特别不能容忍的话，那就是男人唤做的那种“娇媚”的柔顺女子；尤其是索米斯太太，她一直就不喜欢。无疑的，她私心的感受是，如果“娇媚”一旦被人承认为女子的标准的话，那么精明强干就要垮台；伊琳具有的那种微妙的诱惑力偏偏使她不能熟视无睹，所以她就恨她——尤其是碰到这种所谓“娇媚”使她没法子对付时，她就更加恨得厉害。不过她说，她看不出这个女人有什么动人之处——她没有种——她决不会把持得了自己——谁都可以叫她上当，这是一望而知的——老实说，她就看不出她有什么地方使男人倾倒。马坎德太太并不真正是个坏人，不过经过那一段结婚生活的苦难之后，为要维持她当前的地位，她觉得表示“消息灵通”非常之有必要，所以对于公园里面“那两个”的事情是否应当保持缄默，她根本没有想到。她有时候上悌摩西家里来，照她平时的说法，“去给那些老骨董解解闷”；那天晚上，她刚巧在悌摩西家吃晚饭。请来的陪客永远是那几个：维妮佛梨德-达尔第和她的丈夫；还有佛兰茜——她算艺术界，因为大家知道马坎德太太常在《妇女乐园》杂志上写些妇女服装的文章；另外，如果找得到的话，还有海曼家的两个男孩子给她卖弄一下风情；这两个孩子虽则从来嘴里不说，但大家都相信他们很放纵，而且对时髦社会里一切最时新的玩意儿都十分熟悉。在七点二十五分的时候，马坎德太太关上她小小穿堂里的电灯，穿上她赴歌剧场的兔鼠领大衣，到了外面走道里，停一下看看带上大门钥匙没有。这些自成格局的小公寓甚为方便；光线和空气诚然没有，可是自己要关上就可以关上，要出去就出去。没有佣人麻烦你，无拘无束，不象从前可怜亲爱的佛莱德一天到晚阻在你眼前，失魂落魄的样子，捆得人动都不能动。可怜的亲爱的佛莱德，她跟他也没有什么深仇大恨，他是个十足的傻瓜；可是一想起那个女戏子，便是在现在，还使她嘴边露出一丝敌对的鄙薄的微笑来。她使劲带上门，在走道里一路过来，走道两边是阴沉的赭黄墙壁，一眼望去是数不尽的编了号数的棕色门。电梯正开下来；马坎德太太把大衣的高领子裹到耳朵，头上红褐色的头发一丝不乱，站着一动不动等候电梯开到自己这一层楼停下。铁栅门格郎一声开了；她走进电梯。里面已经有了三位乘客，一个穿大白背心的男子，一张光滑滑的大脸就象个吃奶的孩子，两位老太太，手上都戴着无指手套。马坎德太太向他们笑笑；她个个人都认得；这三个人本来全都不讲话，很有派头，当时立刻交谈起来。这就是马坎德太太成功的秘诀。她会逗人谈话。从五层楼一直开到底，谈话就没有断过；开电梯的背过身去，在铁栅栏中间露出一张讽刺的脸。四个人在楼下分手，穿白背心的男子欣欣然上弹子房去，两位老太太去吃晚饭，并且相互地说：“有意思的小女人！”“真是个话匣子！”马坎德太太上她的马车。当马坎德太太在悌摩西家里用晚饭的时候，席上的谈话（虽则永远没有人能劝悌摩西本人出来参加）就带上一般福尔赛中间所流行的那种比较广泛的社会名流的口吻；他在悌摩西家里所以这样受重视无疑的就是这个缘故。史木尔太太和海丝特姑太都觉得她的谈话很别致，听得非常开心；都说“要是悌摩西能跟她会会多好！”她们觉得马坎德太太对他有益处。比如说，她会告诉你查理-费斯特的儿子最近在蒙地卡罗做些什么事情；告诉你丁毛斯-艾第那本时髦小说里人人感到奇怪的女主角究竟是谁；还告诉你巴黎那边妇女穿大脚管裤子的一些事情。她而且很懂事；象尼古拉大儿子的那个叫人烦神的就业问题，她就全部清楚；事情是这样的，尼古拉的老婆要儿子进海军，尼古拉本人要儿子学会计，认为这样安全些。马坎德太太坚决不赞成小尼古拉进海军。在海军里面，你非得特别聪明或者社会关系特别好不可，否则他们就不会提拔你，就是这样卑鄙；再说，一个人进海军究竟指望些什么呢？就算你做到海军大将——还不是那一点点薪俸！一个会计师机会多得多，不过要给他找一个好厂家，开头不会出岔子的。有时候，她也会告诉她们一点证券交易所的内幕消息；不过这并不是说史木尔太太跟海丝特姑太听了就会照做。她们也没有钱投资；可是这些话却使她们接触到生活的实况，因此听得她们非常起劲。这是一件大事。要去问问悌摩西，她们说。可是她们并没有去问他，因为没有问，她们就知道这种消息悌摩西听了反而烦心。不过事后有好几个星期她们都会悄悄翻阅马坎德太太说的那家报纸——这家报纸很受她们重视，认为它真正代表当时的时髦风气——看看“布拉特红室石”或者“羊毛雨衣公司”的股票究竟是上涨还是下跌。有时候她们连公司的名字都找不到；那样她们就等到詹姆士或者罗杰，甚至于斯悦辛来到时，带着兴奋好奇的心情，连声音都显得抖了，问他们波立维亚石灰亚铅公司的股票怎样——她们在报纸上连名字都找不到。罗杰就会回答：“你们问这个做什么？废纸！你们准要跌得头青眼肿——把钱投在石灰和那些你们不懂的东西上面！哪个告诉你们的？”及至问清楚马坎德太太跟她们怎样说的，罗杰就走了，到商业区向人家打听一下，说不定在这些股票上自己也投点资。当时晚饭正吃到一半，事实上刚巧是史密赛儿端上羊胛肉的时候，马坎德太太神情活跃地环顾一下，就说：“哦！你们晓得今天我在里希蒙公园碰上哪一个？你们决计猜想不到——索米斯太太跟——波辛尼先生。他们一定是下乡看房子回来的！”维妮佛梨德咳了一声，没有一个人说话。这个见证是他们每一个人潜意识里都等待着的。说句公道话，这实在不能怪马坎德太太；她跟三个朋友结伴去游瑞士和意大利湖沼区刚回来，所以没有听到索米斯跟他的建筑师闹翻了。因此，她根本没有想到自己这句话会给听的人那样深刻的印象。她身子坐得笔直，脸色微頳，转动着两只尖锐的小眼睛把一张张脸望过来，估计她这句话产生的效果。海曼家的两个男孩子一边一个坐在她旁边，同样一张瘦削、缄默、饥饿的脸向着盆子，继续吃羊胛肉。这两个，加尔斯和吉赛，长得非常之象，而且形影不离，所以人家都把他们叫作“德罗米欧哥儿俩”①。他们从来不谈话，而且好象成天无所事事。人家通常都当作他们在准备一个重要的考试；总是看见他们在附属他们房子的公用花园里散步，帽子不戴，手里拿着书，牵着一头猎狐的短毛狼犬，相互间不说一句话，永远抽着烟，这样成几个钟点下去。每天早上，两个人各自骑一匹出租的瘠马，马腿就跟他们自己的脚一样瘦，在相隔五十码的光景，缓辔向坎普登山驰去；每天早上，约摸过了一个钟点之后，仍旧相隔五十码的光景，又看见他们缓缓驰回来。每天晚上，不管他们在哪里吃晚饭，在十点半左右总可以看见他们在阿兰布拉音乐厅站池里靠着栏杆站着。这哥儿俩从来没有看见不在一起过；他们就这样安度着岁月，显然十分满足。在这不好受的当儿，他们心里忽然被那种上流人士的情绪隐隐激动起来，所以都转身望着马坎德太太用着差不多同样的口吻问道：“你见①莎士比亚喜剧《错中错》中的两个相貌相似的孪生奴隶。到那个——？”交际花盛衰记马坎德太太没想到会这样问她，诧异得把叉子放了下来；史密赛儿正走过她眼前，当时就把盆子撤去。可是马坎德太太非常镇定，立刻说：“这羊肉真好，我还得再吃一点。”可是事后回到客厅里面，在史木尔太太旁边坐下来之后，她决心把这件事情弄个明白。她开口说：“好一个美人儿，索米斯太太；那样的多情！索米斯真是好运气！”她一心想要打听一点消息，就忘掉适当照顾福尔赛家人那种碍面子的感觉；这家人再有什么苦衷是决计不肯让外人分担的；史木尔太太整个身体呼噜一声挺起来，一副庄严的面孔，带一点抖说：“亲爱的，这件事情是我们从来不谈的！”

第三卷 第二章 公园之夜 
虽则史木尔太太凭着自己历试无误的本能，说了一句使得她的客人“只有更加迷惑”的话，可是要找一句比这更能说出真情的话，倒也不容易。这件事情便是在福尔赛家自己人中间也是不能谈起的——用索米斯自己发明的一句话来形容，这是“地下活动”。可是自从马坎德太太在里希蒙公园碰见他们之后，一个星期不到，福尔赛家的人全知道“那两个”做得太过分了；詹姆士——他每天从鸡鸭街回公园巷，从不越出家庭圈子——知道了；终日闲荡的乔治——他每天从海佛斯奈克俱乐部的大拱窗口逛到红篮子酒店的弹子房里——也知道了；只有悌摩西，大家都小心瞒着不让他知道。福尔赛家人听到时的感想以乔治的一句话比任何人都形容得确切：他跟他兄弟欧斯代司说：“‘海盗’真的‘干了’；”想来索米斯快要“吃不消”了。乔治专门会发明这类别腔别调的话，在时髦社会里到现在还流行着。人都觉得索米斯当然吃不消，可是他有什么办法呢？也许他应当闹了出来；可是闹出来又多么的不体面。除非把这件丑事公开揎出去，这个他们无论如何没法赞同，此外就很难闹出什么名堂来。处在这种僵局下面，唯一的方法还是一点不跟索米斯谈起，而且相互之间也不要谈；事实上不闻不问。摆出一副严峻而冷冰冰的面孔给伊琳看，或者会使她有点顾忌；可是现在很少看见她的人，要想故意找上她给她冷面孔看，好象也有点困难。詹姆士为了儿子这件不幸的遭遇着实感到痛苦，所以有时候关在自己卧房里的时候，就把心事向爱米丽倾吐了出来：“我真不懂，”他总是说；“把我可急死了。这非出丑不可，那就对他很不利。我不预备跟他讲什么。也许一点事情都没有。你怎么看法？人家告诉我，她很有艺术眼光。什么？唉，你真是个‘十足的裘丽’①！嗯，我不晓得；我看事情要闹得不可收拾。这都是由于没有孩子的缘故。我一开头就看出不对了。他们从来不告诉我不打算有孩子的事情——什么话都不告诉我！”他跪在床面前，烦得瞪着一双眼睛，向着被呼气。他穿了一身睡衣，脖子向前伸出来，伛着背，那样子活象一只长身白鸟。“我们的主——”他把这几个字说了又说，心里反复想着的仍旧是这件丑事恐怕要闹了出去。他也跟老乔里恩一样，私心里总怪自己的族人平空要干涉到自己的家庭生活，悲剧的起因就在这里。那班人——他脑子里开始把斯丹奴普门那一房连同小乔里恩和他女儿都看作“那班人”了——做什么要跟波辛尼这种人攀亲呢？（他已经听到乔治起的那个“海盗”的绰号，可是①这句话是回答爱米丽的。大约爱米丽说了和史木尔太太说的类似的话，叫他不要谈。弄不懂是什么意思——这个小伙子是个建筑师啊。）三剑客他本来一直敬重自己的哥哥乔里恩而且信赖他的那些见解，现在开始觉得乔里恩也不过罢了。他没有老哥的那种倔强性格，所以气得还好，倒是愁得厉害。他最大的快乐是上维妮佛梨德家里去，带她的几个孩子坐马车上坎辛登公园；在公园里那座圆池子旁边，常看见他踱着方步，眼睛焦灼地盯着小蒲白里斯-达尔第的小帆船，船上由他押上一个辨士好象肯定这只船拢不了岸似的；就在这时候，小蒲白里斯——可喜的是，詹姆士觉得，这孩子一点不象他的父亲——在他脚前脚后跳跳蹦蹦地，总要骗他再赌一个辨士，看它拢不拢岸；他自己发现这船是迟早总要拢岸的。詹姆士就打赌；而且总是他付钱——有时候一个下午要付上三四个辨士，小蒲白里斯好象对这项游戏永远玩不厌似的——在付钱的时候，詹姆士总要说：“啊，这是给你放在扑满里的。咦，你很算得上一个阔人啦！”一想到自己的外孙钱愈来愈多时，在他真是开心。可是小蒲白里斯晓得有一家糖果店，他早有妙算了。他们时常穿过公园①步行回家；詹姆士高肩膀，一张沉思而焦虑的脸，望着伊摩根和小蒲白里斯两个肥壮的小身体，执行着他那又瘦又长的保护人的职务，可怜的是他这副模样毫不引起旁人的注意。可是这些公园并不仅仅属于詹姆士。这里有福尔赛，也有流浪者，有儿童，也有情侣；他们日日夜夜在这里休息游荡，全都想摆脱掉一点工作的疲劳和街道的尘嚣。树叶子慢慢变黄了，依恋着太阳和温暖如夏的那些夜晚。十月五日是星期六，天色从早到晚都是那样的蔚蓝，日落之后，又变成紫葡萄那样的深红。晚上没有月亮，清澈的夜晚象件黑丝绒的衣服一样裹着公园里的树木；树枝上叶子已经稀了，望上去就象羽毛，在静止的温暖空气中一点也不动。全伦敦的人都拥到公园里来，从夏天的酒杯里喝掉那残剩的酒脚。一对对情侣陆陆续续从公园各个门里流进来，或者沿着小径走，或者在烤热了的草地上漫步，一个个不声不响从亮处蹑进那些疏树荫里面：那儿，裹在温柔的黑暗里，或者倚着一棵树身，或者躲在一丛灌木的荫影里，他们除掉自身以外，其余的一切全都忘怀了。小径上又来了些人，在他们眼中，这些先驱者看上去只是那片热情黑暗的一部分，从黑暗里面传来一阵奇异的喁喁声，就象是心房的忐忑跳动。可是当那阵喁喁声传到灯光下的那些情侣耳中时，他们的声音颤抖了，停止了；他们的胳臂勾搭一起，眼睛开始向黑地里找寻、窥探、搜索。忽然间，就象被一只无形的手掌拖住一样，他们也跨过栏杆，于是象影子一样在灯光下消失掉。远远的、冷酷的隆隆市声包围着这片寂静；这里面，洋溢着千百个挣扎着的渺小人类的各种情感、希望和爱慕；尽管那个大福尔赛集团——市政府——对这类事情不以为然，一直认为爱神是社会的严重威胁，仅次于阴沟的排泄问题；尽管如此，这天晚上在海德公园里，而且在千百个其他公园里，爱情仍旧在进行着；如果不是这样的话，那些千千万①坎辛登公园和海德公园接连。万的工厂、教会、商店、税局和沟渠——因为他们是这些的监护者——就要变得象没有血液的脉管，没有心脏的人一样。当这些置身度外、谈情说爱的人类天性藏身在树底下，远离开他们无情的敌人——“财产意识”——的监督，悄悄举行着欢会的时候，索米斯正从湾水路悌摩西家里一个人吃了晚饭回来；他沿着湖边走着，脑子里盘算着未来的那件讼案，这时他听见一声低笑和接吻的声音，不由得使他的血液从心里涌起来。他想第二天写封信给《泰晤士报》，请编者注意我们公园里的情形太有伤风化了。可是他后来并没有写，因为害怕看见报纸上登出自己的名字。他在爱情上虽则是个快要饿死的人，从那片寂静中传来的喁喁私基督山伯爵语，和黑暗中半隐半现的人影，对于他的作用就象是一种病态的刺激。他离开水边的小路，悄悄走到树底下，沿着一丛丛树木的浓荫走着；在这里，栗树枝上的大叶子低垂下来，形成更加黑暗的隐秘巢穴；索米斯故意绕着圈子走，想把那些抵着树身的并排椅子，那些搂抱的情侣——人家在他走近时都转动一下——偷偷窥看一下。现在他站在小丘上眺望着下面的蛇盘湖了；湖上灯光明亮，一对情侣坐在湖边一动不动，被银色的湖水衬上去就象一片黑影子，女的把脸埋在男的颈子上——望去就象一块雕刻出来的整体，象征着爱情，静静的，毫不害羞。这景象使索米斯很痛苦，所以他赶快溜进树荫的深处。他这样搜索，究竟是什么心思呢？究竟找寻什么呢？是找疗饥的粮食——还是黑暗中的光明？谁知道他在指望发现什么——是与己无关的对于男女爱悦的认识——还是他私人这出“地下”悲剧的结局——因为，话说回来，这里每一对无名的，叫不出名字的黑漆漆的情侣安见得不会是他跟她呢？可是以一个索米斯-福尔赛的妻子会象一个普通下流女子坐在公园里——他我的不可能是这种事情！这太想入非非了；然而，索米斯仍旧踏着无声的脚步，一棵棵树走过去。有一次他遭到人家咒骂；有一次那声“但愿能永久这样”的低语使他的血液涌上来，于是他耐着性子，坚决地站在那里，等着这两个起身。可是在他面前走过的只是一个瘦骨零丁的女店员，穿着一件肮脏的上褂，吊着她情人的胳臂去了。在树下那片寂静里面，无数其他的情人也在低声说着这个希望，无数其他的情人相互搂抱着。索米斯忽然感到一阵厌恶；他抖擞一下身子，回到小路上，放弃了这种自己也莫明其妙的搜寻。

第三卷 第三章 植物园中的幽会 
小乔里恩的境遇并不象一个福尔赛家人那样宽裕；水彩画家总要到乡下去走走，寻幽访胜，不这样走动一下，就不能下笔；可是这笔钱他却出不起。事实上，他时常弄得没有办法时，只好携着画盒子上植物园去；在植物园里，一张小凳子放在智利松的树荫下面，或者橡胶树背风的一面，他常会画上大半天。一位新近看过他作品的画家曾经发表过下列的意见：“你的画也可以说是很好；有几张的色调确乎表现出对自然的感受。可是，你看，这些画的题材太分散了；决不会引起人家的注意的。比如说，如果你选择一个固定的题材，象‘伦敦夜景’，或者‘水晶宫①的春天’之类，一连画上许多幅，人家一看就会知道这些画是怎么一回事。这一点非常重要，也不是几句话说得完的。所有在艺术上享盛名的，象克伦姆-斯东或者白里德，他们之所以享名都是靠避免那些人家不熟悉的题材；都是把自己作品限制在一个同样狭窄的范围里，让人家一望而知是他要买的画家。这是谁都看得出的，因为一个收藏家买一张画，总不愿意人把鼻子凑在画布上半天才看出是哪个画的；他要人家一看就能够说出，‘一张福尔赛的精品啊！’拿你来说，小心选择一个人家能够当时就能看上的题材就更加重要，因为你并没有什么特殊独创的风格。”小乔里恩站在那架小钢琴旁边听着，微带笑容；钢琴上面一只花瓶插了些干玫瑰叶子——这是园子里唯一的出产——放在褪了色的花缎上。他的妻子瘦削的脸上正在怒容满面望着这位说话的人；小乔里恩转身向妻子说：“你懂得吧，亲爱的？”“我不懂得，”她用她若断若续的声音说，里面还夹着一点外国口音；“你有你的独创风格。”那位批评家望望她，谦逊地一笑，就没有再说什么。他跟别人一样，知道他们过去有一段恩爱史。这番话对于小乔里恩的影响倒是很深；这种说法和他原来相信的一切都相反，和一切他认为是好的绘画理论都相反，可是有种古怪的内在倾向推动着他违反自己的意志，要他把这些话利用一下。由于这个缘故，所以有一天早上小乔里恩忽然起了念头，想要画一批伦敦景色的水彩画。这个念头因何而起连他自己也弄不懂；一直到第二年他把这批水彩画画完，而且卖了一笔好价钱之后，某一天碰到他丢开个人得失而随意涉想的时候，这才被他想起那位艺术批评家的话来，并且从自己的艺术造诣中又一次①一八五一年海德公园大展览会的会场，一八五四年向游人开放。整个建筑是钢骨和玻璃造的。证明了自己是个福尔赛。约翰·克里斯朵夫他决定先从植物园开始，因为他在这里已经画过不少的画了；他选中那个小人造池的地点，池上这时正飘满象秋雨一样纷纷落下的红叶和黄叶；原来那些园丁虽则想把叶子扫掉，可是他们的扫帚却勾不着。园内其他的部分都扫得相当干净，天天早上扫；大自然下的那些落叶全被他们扫了起来，扫成一堆堆，点上火徐徐烧着，升起芬芳而辛辣的烟气；春天是布谷鸟的叫唤，夏天是菩提花的香气，而秋天真正的征兆便是这些烟了。园丁们的清洁习惯容不了草地上那片金黄色、绿色、红褐色织成的图案。那些碎石子路必须是洁净无瑕，井井有条，既不反映生命的真相，也不显示自然界那种缓慢而美丽的衰谢；然而把王冠踏在脚下，在大地上星星点点铺上没落的繁华，这底下，经过季节的变迁，再从这些里面涌现出撩乱春光的，也就是这种衰谢啊！因此每一片叶子，从它振翅和树枝道别，缓缓翻飞落下时，就已经被园丁盯上了。可是在小池子上面，那些叶子却安静地浮着，用它们的各种色彩歌颂着上苍，同时日光在上面盘桓不去。小乔里恩寻到它们时就是这样。在十月中旬的一个早上，他来到园中，发现离他画架二十步光景的长椅上有人坐着，使他心里很不舒服，因为他作画时最怕被人看见。椅子上坐的是一位穿丝绒外褂的女子，眼睛盯在地上。可是在他们中间隔着有一丛正在开花的月桂树，所以小乔里恩就用月桂树做掩蔽，着手装置画架。他从容不迫地装着；正象一切真正的艺术家那样，任何事物只要可以耽搁一下自己工作的，你都要注意一下；他发觉自己在偷眼瞧那位不识面的女子。跟他父亲从前一样，他很能欣赏一张好看的脸。这张脸长得很美呢！他瞧见一个圆圆的下巴裹在乳白色的褶领里，一张娇嫩的脸，深褐色的大眼睛，温柔的嘴唇，一顶黑宽边女帽罩着头发；身子轻靠在椅背上，跷着腿；裙子下面露出一只漆皮鞋的鞋尖。在这个女子身上的确有种说不出来的娇媚的地方。可是最引小乔里恩注目的还是她脸上的表情，使他联想起自己的妻子来。望上去好象这张脸的主人受到什么巨大的压力，自己抵御不了似的。这使他看了很不好受，心里隐隐引起一阵倾慕和骑士的热肠。她是谁？她一个人在这儿干什么呢？两个年轻男子，就是我们在摄政公园常看见的那种特别的鲁莽而兼■觍的类型，上园子里来打草地网球；小乔里恩望见他们带着羡慕的眼光偷眼瞧她，心里很不以为然。一个恋恋不舍的园丁耽在那里就一丛潘巴草做些不必要的活计；他也借此来张一眼。一位老先生，从他的帽子看上去大约是园艺学教授，走这里经过三次，悄悄地上上下下打量她，打量了好久，嘴角带着异样的表情。对所有这些人，小乔里恩都暗暗感到生气。这些人她一个都不望，然而小乔里恩敢保凡是有人走这里经过，都会这样悄悄望她。有种女人可以使男人看了着魔，她的一颦一笑都给予男人一种快感，然而这个女子长的却不是那样一张脸；她也没有英国那些福尔赛始祖极端珍视的“妖冶”；也不是那种通常在巧克力糖盒子上见到的美人，按说这一种也不差；她也不是那种热情之中寓有圣洁，或者圣洁之中寓有热情的脸，这是室内装饰画和近代诗歌中所特有的；另外还有一类脸，常被戏剧家用来创造那种有趣的然而神经衰弱的，在最后一幕自杀的女性类型，可是她这张脸看上去也不大象。就脸模子和肤色来说，就那种迷人的温柔和顺，艳丽然而绝俗的派头来说，这个女子的脸都使他想起提香那张“圣洁之爱”来，他有一张复制品就挂在餐室的碗橱上面。而旦她引人的地方好象就在这种温柔和顺上面，给人以一种感觉，好象只要一施压力她就可以屈服似的。她在等什么呢，等哪一个呢，这样默默无言坐着；树上不时东一处西一处落下一片叶子，画眉鸟一个挨一个在草地上昂然走着，身上闪烁着秋霜。后来她一张娇媚的脸变得着急起来，小乔里恩四面环顾一下，看见波辛尼穿过草地大步走来，在他心里引起几乎象是情人的妒意。他怀着好奇心留神看两个人会面，会面时眼中的神情，和握手握得那样久。两个人靠在一起坐下，尽管表面上竭力做得庄重，但是身子却紧紧挨着。他听见两人叽叽咕咕讲得很快；可是听不出他们讲些什么。他自己是过来人！这种半公开的约会，等的时间那样长，会面的几分钟又不能尽情欢畅；这在违反礼教的爱人中间常感到的刑罚一样的焦急和伫盼；这些滋味他都尝到过。可是一个人只要把这两张脸看一眼，就可以看出这绝不是那种使时新男女如痴如狂的暂时事件；绝不是那种突如其来的食欲，一醒来时狼吞虎咽，六个星期不到就重又吃饱睡觉了。这是真正的爱情！这就是他自己过去碰到过的！这里什么事情都做得出来！波辛尼在那里央求，她坐着看草地，神气是那样安静、那样温柔和顺，然而绝对打动不了。这样一个娟娟弱质，这样一个绝不会为她自己采取任何行动的女子！象波辛尼这样的男子能不能把她带走呢？她已经把整个的心交给他，而且会为他死，但是可能绝对不会跟他私奔！小乔里恩好象能听得见她说：“可是，心肝，这要毁掉你的一切的！”因为他自己就亲切体验到，每一个这样女子的内心深处都怀有那种椎心的恐惧，深怕自己成为自己所爱的人的累赘。他不再窥望他们了；可是他们温柔而急剧的谈话传进他耳朵里来，同时传进他耳朵里的还有一只鸟儿期期艾艾的歌唱，象在竭力回忆它春天唱的调子：欢乐呢——还是悲剧呢？哪一个——哪一个？两个人的谈话慢慢停下来；接着是长时间的沉默。“这把索米斯置于何地呢？”小乔里恩想。“人家还当作她担心欺骗自己丈夫是犯罪的行为！他们简直不懂得女人的心理！她是饿久了，在吃东西——在她这是报复！愿上苍保佑她——因为索米斯也要报复的。”他听见一阵绸衣服的簌簌声，从月桂树后面窥望出去，看见两个人走了，暗地里手搀着手.老乔里恩在七月底就带了自己孙女儿上瑞士去；这一次上瑞士（这是他们去的最后一次），琼的健康和心情都大大的复原了。在各处旅馆里——旅馆里住的都是英国的福尔赛之流，原因是老乔里恩就是受不了“那班德国人”，他对一切外国人都这样称呼——在各处旅馆里，由于老乔里恩是那样仪表堂堂，而且显然很有钱，而她又是老乔里恩的独养孙女，人们对她都很尊敬，她并不随便跟人家交往——琼一向就不随便跟人交往——可是却结识了几个朋友，尤其是在龙河谷结识了一个肺病生得快要死的法国女孩子。琼当时就下决心不让她死；在策划和死神对抗的运动中，她自己的愁肠不觉忘了大半。老乔里恩留心看着这个新形成的亲密友谊，一面感觉宽慰，一面又不以为然；从这件事情上又一次证明琼的一生将要花在那些“可怜虫”的身上，这使他很着急。难道她永远不会交些真正于她有益的朋友，或者做些真正于她有益的事情吗？“跟一批外国人勾搭上”，这就是他的看法，可是从外面回来时，他却时常挟些葡萄或者玫瑰花，笑眯着眼睛，殷勤地把来送给这位“马姆赛儿”①。九月快完的时候，尽管琼心里不愿意，马姆赛儿维高尔在圣路可那家小旅馆里——是人家把她送去的——断了气；琼对这场失败深深感到痛心，所以老乔里恩携她上了巴黎。在巴黎看了“米罗维妮丝”雕刻和“马黛兰”教堂，琼总算排遣了愁怀，所以到了十月中旬两个人回到伦敦来时，老乔里恩认为这次疗养已经收效了。可是丧气的是，他们才在斯丹奴普门安顿下来，老乔里恩就看出她又恢复了原来的那种呆呆出神的样子。她时常坐在那里眼睛瞪得笔直，手支着下巴，就象北方神话里的小精怪，样子又是狰狞又是专注，而在她的周围，新装上的电灯把那座大客厅照得通亮；客厅里的墙壁用锦缎一直糊到画线，塞满了从拜波—布尔白里铺子里买来的家具。一面大金边镜子，镜子里面照出那些德莱斯登的瓷人儿，许多胸脯发达的女人，膝上各抚摸着一只心爱的绵羊，许多穿绑腿裤的年轻男子坐在她们脚下；这些还是老乔里恩做单身汉时买的，在那些艺术趣味低落的日子里，他对这些瓷人儿非常珍视。老乔里恩原是个思想最开通的人，在所有福尔赛家人中间，他比谁都跟得上时代，然而他永远忘记不了这些瓷人儿是他从乔布生行里买来的，而且花了一大笔钱。他时常跟琼谈起，带着一种失望之余的轻蔑说：“你这个人才不会喜欢这些瓷人儿呢！这些都不是你跟你那些朋友喜欢的破烂货，可是却花了我七十镑钱！”他就是这样一个人，当他有充足的理由认为自己的爱好是恰当时，决不随俗转移。琼回家来做的第一件事情就是上悌摩西家去。她硬跟自己说，她有责任去看看悌摩西，跟他谈谈这次旅行的见闻，给他解解闷；可是事实上，他所以上悌摩西家去是因为自己明白到只有在悌摩西家里可以在闲聊中，或者用什么转弯抹角的问题，挤出一点波辛尼的消息，除了这里没有第二个地方。她们很亲热地接待她：她祖父可好？自从五月里来过一次，还没有来看过她们。悌摩西叔祖身体很不好；那个扫烟囱的人在他的卧房里闯了一个大乱子；这个笨货把煤灰都扫下来了！这事使她叔祖很是生气。①法文Mademoiselle，意为”小姐”。琼坐在那里有大半天，深怕她们要讲起波辛尼，然而又热烈地盼望她们讲起。可是史木尔太太却莫明其妙地慎重起来，慎重得人都瘫痪了；她一个字都不透露出来，也不向琼问起波辛尼的事情。琼情急之下，终于问到索米斯和伊琳在不在伦敦——她还没有去看望他们呢。回答她的是海丝特姑太：哦，对了，他们在伦敦，根本就没有出门。好象房子出了一点小麻烦。琼当然已经听到说了！她还是问问裘丽姑太罢！琼转身望着史木尔太太；史木尔太太在椅子上坐得笔直，两只手紧握着，脸上布满无数的小肉球。琼望着她，她却老不答话，保持着一种古怪的沉默；等到她开口时，她问的却是琼住在山上那些旅馆里时穿不穿睡袜，想来夜里一定是很冷呢。琼回答说她晚上不穿，她最恨这种不透气的东西；就站起身来走了。在琼看来，史木尔太太慎重选择的沉默要比她可能讲的任何话还要其兆不祥。半个钟点不到，琼已经从郎地司方场的拜因斯太太嘴里把事实真相套了出来，索米斯为了房子装修的事情已经向波辛尼提出控诉了。古怪的是，琼听到消息不但不着急，反而心情为之一慰；好象从这场争端中望见自己的新希望似的。她探悉这件案子大约在一个月内就要开庭，波辛尼好象不大有什么指望胜诉，简直没有。“我就想不出他会有什么办法，”拜因斯太太说；“这事对他非常之糟，你知道——他没有钱——过得很窘。而且我们也帮不了他，我敢说。听说那些放款的人非要有抵押品才借钱给他，他抵押品又没有——一点儿都没有。”拜因斯太太的身体近来又更加发福了；她的秋季团体活动正忙得热闹，书桌上慈善会的节目单散得到处都是。她会意地望着琼，睁着两只鹦鹉灰的圆眼睛。多年后，拜因斯夫人（拜因斯后来因为造了那所公共艺术博物院封为从男爵；这座博物院给了那些官吏很多饭碗，可是给那些劳动阶级很少的快乐，而这所博物院本来是为了他们办的。）还时常想起这个女孩子一张年轻而专注的脸一时涨得飞红——她一定是看出眼前的事情大有希望——连笑的样子也忽然变得可爱了。这种改变，就象一朵花突然开放，或者经过漫长的冬季第一次照出阳光似的，既生动而且动人；这幕情景，以及这下面发生的一连串事情，时常在拜因斯夫人想着最要紧事情的时候，莫明其妙地而且不在时候上，闯进拜因斯夫人脑子里来。小乔里恩在植物园里撞见的那次幽会也就是在同一天下午；在同一天，老乔里恩上鸡鸭街的福尔赛-勃斯达-福尔赛律师事务所走了一趟。索米斯不在，上苏摩赛特大楼①去了；勃斯达正关在那间旁人进不去的屋子里，埋头在许多文件中间；把他放在这样一间屋子里是一个很贤明的措施，这样子他就可以指望他竭力多做些工作；可是詹姆士却坐在事务所的外间，一面啃指头，一面忧伤地翻阅着福尔赛控告波辛尼的申诉书。①苏摩赛特大楼是许多政府机关，包括税局的所在地。这位精神正常的律师对于这里的“微妙”论点仅仅感到一种额外的恐惧，觉得至多引起一些虚惊，使人看了好玩罢了；他的道地的实际头脑告诉自己，如果他本人是法官的话，他就不大会理会这一点。可是他却害怕这个波辛尼会宣告破产，那样的话，索米斯就仍旧得拿出钱来，另外还要付讼费。而在这种有形的恐惧后面，始终还存在着那种无形的烦恼，潜匿在那里，错综复杂，若隐若现，非常之丑，就象一个噩梦一样，而这件讼案只不过是这个噩梦的一个表面看得见的征象而已。老乔里恩进来时，他抬起头，说：“好吗，乔里恩？好久不看见你了。他们告诉我，你上瑞士跑了一趟。这个小波辛尼，自己把事情搞得一团糟。我早知道会是这样的！”他把文件拿出来，惶惑而忧郁的样子望着自己的老哥。老乔里恩不声不响看着文件；他看着时，詹姆士眼睛望着地板，一面啃着指头。老乔里恩看到后来把文件一掼，文件拍的一声落在一大堆“有关朋康姆，已故”的供状中间；这堆供状就是那件“佛莱尔控诉福尔赛”讼案的许多附件之一，就象一株有出息的母树分出许多枝丫来一样。“我不懂得索米斯是什么意思，”他说，“为了几百镑钱闹成这个样子。我还以为他是个有产业的人呢。”詹姆士长长的上嘴唇气得直抽；他不能容忍自己的儿子在这种地方受到人攻击。“并不是为的钱——”他说，可是眼睛正和老哥的直率、尖锐而严正的眼光碰上，就不再开口了。一阵子沉默。包法利夫人后来还是老乔里恩开了口，一面捻着胡子，“我来拿我的遗嘱的。”詹姆士的好奇心立刻引起来，在他的一生中，恐怕没有比一张遗嘱更使他兴奋的了；遗嘱是对于财产的最高处置；一个人手里有多少财产，这是最后的一张清单；他究竟有多少身价，除了这个再没有别的话可说了。他按一下电铃。“把乔里恩先生的遗嘱拿来，”他向一个神情急切、深暗头发的小职员说。“你预备修改一下吗？”同时在他的脑子里掠过一个念头：“哎，我有没有他一样多呢？”老乔里恩把遗嘱放在贴胸口袋里，詹姆士懊丧地扭动着两只长腿。“他们告诉我，你近来置了几处很好的产业呢，”他说。“你这个消息不知道从哪里得来的，”老乔里恩毫不客气地回答他。“这个案子几时开庭？下个月？我真弄不懂你们是什么意思。这是你们自己的事情，当然由你们去管；不过如果要听我说的话，我看还是在外面了结的好。再见！”他冷冷地握一下手，就走了。詹姆士一双瞠得笔直的青灰眼睛环绕着什么隐秘的焦灼的影子转，又开始啃起指头来了。老乔里恩把遗嘱带到新煤业公司，在那间没有人的董事室里坐下来从头到尾读了一遍。“拖尾巴”汉明斯看见董事长坐在那里，就把新矿长的第一个报告送进来；老乔里恩严声厉色地把他顶了回去，弄得这位秘书脸上很下不去，但仍旧庄严地退了出去；随即把那个管股票过户的小职员叫来臭骂了一顿，骂得那小职员不知怎么办是好。象他这样一个乳臭未干的小伙子到这里办事处来自封为王，可不是——他妈的——他（拖尾巴）看得惯的。他（拖尾巴）当这儿办事处头儿已经有不少年了，象他这种小伙子恐怕连数都数不过来，如果他认为自己把事情全部做完了，就可以坐在那里什么事情不做的话，那么他就不姓汉明斯（拖尾巴），诸如此类的话。在那扇绿呢门的另一面，老乔里恩坐在那张桃花心木和皮面的长桌子面前，一副粗边的玳瑁眼镜——眼镜脚已经松了——架在鼻梁上，手里的金铅笔沿着遗嘱上每一句话移动着。遗嘱的内容很简单；有些遗嘱上面常有些小笔的慈善捐款和遗赠，不但看了叫人讨厌，而且使一个人的财产化整为零，连晨报上登载的那一小段关于十万镑富翁逝世的消息都显得不够神气了；在这张遗嘱上，这些东西全没有。内容很简单。只有两万镑是赠给他儿子的，“其余任何财产，不论动产或不动产，或兼有动产与不动产性质之财产——设定信托，将属于或出于这些财产的出息，如房租、年产、红利、利息付给我上述的孙女琼-福尔赛或她的让受人，终她的生年，由她独自使用、支配等等.而自她死亡或去世之后，应如该琼-福尔赛以她的最后遗嘱和遗言证书或是属于遗嘱、遗言证书或遗言的处分书性质的任何书据，尽管她是处在有在世的丈夫保障之下的地位，悉依这种书据所载的主旨、目的、用处，一般地都尽量按照这种书据所指定的样子、办法、方式，设定信托，将上面最后提到的土地、传袭的一应产业、宅地、款项、股票、投资和担保品等，或在当时即作为财产，或即代表这些财产的东西，调度、委任、或为转让、给与以及处分之，这些书据须是她依法具立、签字和公告的。倘是项书据等.但是经常地必须.”诸如此类，一共是七张对开本大小的简明扼要的叙述。这张遗嘱是詹姆士在他事业最发达的那些年头里草拟的。他差不多把一切意外的事情都预见到了。老乔里恩坐在那里把遗嘱看上大半天；后来从格架上取了半张纸，用铅笔写下一段长长的附注；然后把遗嘱放在怀里扣上，命人给他叫好一部马车，坐马车到了林肯法学院广场的巴拿摩—海林法律事务所。杰克-海林已经去世，可是他的侄儿还在事务所里，所以老乔里恩跟他关起房门来谈了半个钟点。他把马车留在外面，出来之后，就告诉车夫上威斯达里亚大街三号去。他感到一种异样的、迟缓的满足，好象在跟詹姆士和那个有产业的人作对上打了个大胜仗似的。他们从此再没有办法刺探他的私事了；他刚才已经取消了他们保管他的遗嘱的委托；他自己的事情全部都不交给他们管，全拿来交给小海林，而且他委托他们的他那些公司里的生意也要取消。如果索米斯真正是那样一个有产业的人，一年少个千把镑应当在他也算不了什么；想到这里，老乔里恩那部大白胡子下面的嘴狰狞地笑了。他觉得自己的行事正符合公平报复的原则，完全是应该的。就象逐渐摧毁一棵老树的那种潜在的内部腐蚀作用一样；老乔里恩在自己的幸福上、意志上、个人尊严上所受到的创毒也在迟缓地、稳步地在剥蚀着那代表他的人生观的华厦。生命把他的一面逐渐磨掉，终于使他象那个他身为家长的家族一样，失掉了平衡。当他坐在车子里朝北驶向他儿子的家里时，他方才发动的这种新的处理财产办法，在他的脑子里看上去隐隐约约就象是一记惩罚，针对着那个在他看来就以詹姆士父子为代表的家族和社会。他已经把财产归还给小乔里恩，而归还给小乔里恩却给他私心渴望的报复以一种满足——他要报复时间老人，报复苦痛，报复干涉，报复这个世界在十五年中加在他独养儿子身上的一切没法计算得清的全部打击。在他看来，这种新决定正是重新贯彻自己坚强意志的一种方式；正可以逼使詹姆士，和索米斯，和自己的族人，和一切潜在的广大福尔赛——这些人是一道巨流，在冲击着他自己孤立的、顽强的堤坝——不得不承认，而且永远承认，事情要听他的。想来自己终于会使这个孩子比詹姆士那个儿子，那个有产业的人，更加有钱得多，心里真觉得好受。把钱给小乔真是好受，因为他本来爱自己的儿子啊。小乔里恩夫妇都不在家（老实说小乔里恩还没有从植物园动身呢），可是那个小女佣告诉他，说男主人就要回来了。“先生，他总是回来吃茶的，为了跟孩子玩。”老乔里恩说他等一下，就在那间褪了色的破落客厅里耐心耐气地坐下来；客厅里那些夏天用的花布椅套已经卸掉，椅子和长沙发的破烂相就全部显露出来。他巴不得把两个孩子找来；叫他们靠在自己身边，柔软的身体抵着他的膝盖；听乔儿喊：“哈罗，爷爷！”并且看他奔上来；感到好儿软绵绵的小手悄悄摸上来，碰到他的面颊。可是他不肯。他这一次来有一件庄严的事情要做，非要等做完，决不玩。他一个人涉想，怎么只要自己的笔头动那么两下就可以使这座小房子里的一切改观，恢复它原来显然缺乏的那种世家气派；他可以把这些房间，或者什么更大的房子里的别些房间，摆满了从拜波—布尔白里店里买来的艺术精品；他可以送乔儿去上哈罗中学和牛津大学（他儿子上的是伊顿中学和剑桥大学，他对这两处学校已经失去信心了）；他可以让好儿受到最好的音乐教育，这孩子在音乐方面很可以造就得。这一幕幕情景纷纷呈现在他眼面前，使他的胸怀一畅；就在这时候，他起身站在窗口，望着外面那片狭长的小园子；园内那棵梨树还没有到深秋已经叶子落尽，在秋天下午逐渐凝聚的暮霭中耸着枯瘦的枝子。小狗伯沙撒在园子的那一头走动着，尾巴翻上来，紧贴着自己黑白相杂的毛松松的脊背，一面用鼻子嗅着花草，每隔这么一会儿就用腿抵着墙壁撑一下身体。老乔里恩涉想着。现在除掉给人东西外，还有什么快乐呢？然而一定要能找到一个对象——你自己的一个亲骨肉——对你给的东西懂得感激，那样子给起来才舒服！把东西给那些跟你没有关系的人，给那些你不负任何抚养责任的人，就得不到这种满足！这样的施与是违反自己一生的信念和行事的，是辜负自己一切创业的艰难，辛勤的劳动，和平日那样省吃俭用的；是否定那个伟大而骄傲的事实，那就是：和过去千千万万的福尔赛一样，和现在千千万万的福尔赛一样，和将来千千万万的福尔赛一样，他在世界上创立了，并保持了自己的家业。而当他站在那里，望着下面月桂树蒙上煤灰的叶子，那片满是黑斑的草地，和小狗伯沙撒的动作时，这十五年来因为被剥夺掉合法享受而尝到的痛苦全想了起来；在他的心里，创痛和下面即将到来的甜蜜完全融汇在一起。小乔里恩总算回来了，对自己的作品甚是得意，而且由于在室外耽了好几个钟点的缘故，精神很好。一听见自己父亲就在客厅里，他赶快问自己妻子在不在家，听到女佣告诉他不在家时，才松一口气。他随即把画具等小心放在那张小衣橱里收好，就走进客厅。老乔里恩以他特有的那种果断派头，一上来就谈正题。“我已经把遗嘱改过，小乔，”他说。“你以后可以过得宽裕些了。我即刻拨给你一千镑一年。我死后，琼可以拿到五万镑，其余都是你的。你那只狗把花园都搞糟了。我是你的话，决不养狗！”小狗伯沙撒正坐在草地中间，检视自己的尾巴。茶花女小乔里恩望望小狗，可是望得迷迷糊糊的，原来自己的眼睛湿了。“你的一份总不会少过十万镑，孩子，”老乔里恩说；“我觉得还是让你知道的好。我这样年纪没有多久好过了。以后我也不想再提。你妻子好吗？替我问候她。”小乔里恩把一只手搁在父亲肩膀上；两个人都没有说话，这件事就算结束。把父亲送上马车之后，小乔里恩回到客厅里来，就站在刚才老乔里恩站的地方，望着外面的花园。他竭力想揣摩这件事对于他全部影响，而且，由于他也不免是个福尔赛，一片财产的远景在他脑子里开展出来；他过的这么多年的半节约生活并没有泯灭掉他的本性。他抱着极端实际的态度，想到旅行，想到给自己妻子买些什么衣服，想到两个孩子的教育，想到给好儿买匹小马，以及其他种种；可是在这样涉想当中，他仍旧想到波辛尼和他的情妇，和那只画眉鸟期期艾艾的歌唱。欢乐呢——还是悲剧呢？哪一个？哪一个？已往的那些日子又象在眼前了——那些生动的、痛苦的、热情的、神奇的日子是金钱买不到的，而且那种炙热的甜蜜是什么都换不回来的。他妻子回来时，他一直走到她眼前，把她抱在怀里；有大半天他站着不作声，眼睛闭上，紧紧搂着她；他妻子望着他，眼睛里是一副诧异、喜悦而疑惑的神情。

第三卷 第四章 赴地狱之行 
有一天夜里，索米斯总算行使了丈夫的权力，而且做了一个男子汉应当做的事；第二天早上，他只好一个人吃早饭。他点上煤气灯吃着早饭，十一月下旬的浓雾就象一条大厚被把伦敦紧紧裹着，连方场上的树木从餐室窗子里望出去都不大看得见了。他安然吃着，可是有时候会突如其来有一种感觉，就象咽不下东西似的。昨天夜里他做得对不对呢？这个女人是他法律上的而且是神圣结合的伴侣，她使他痛苦得太久了；现在他压制不了自己的饥渴，粉碎了她的抵抗，这样对不对呢？真怪，她那张脸现在还留在他脑子里；当时他看见她那副样子，曾经想要拉她的手，借此安慰她一下；在他脑子里还留下她那可怕的吞声啜泣，他从来没有听见有这样的啜泣过，而且现在耳朵里仿佛还听得见；还有，当时他凭着一支烛光站在那里望着，然后不声不响地溜掉，心里愧悔交集，这种古怪而令人受不了的感觉，现在也还是留在心里。事情是做了，然而他对自己多少感到有点诧异。两天前，在维妮佛梨德家里，他陪着马坎德太太一起吃晚饭。她跟他说，一双尖锐的淡绿眼睛直盯着他的脸望：“原来你太太是那位波辛尼先生的好朋友呢，是吗？”他不屑问她这话是什么意思，可是肚子里却在盘算。红与黑这句话在他心里引起了强烈的妒忌；这种妒忌的天性具有一种特殊的反常心理，所以又转变为更强烈的欲望。没有马坎德太太这句话一激，也许他永远不会做出昨天夜里的那种事情来。全是那么一激，再加上碰巧发现自己妻子的房门偏偏有这么一次没有锁上，这才使他趁妻子睡熟的时候出其不意地。一夜的酣睡把他的一切疑虑都解除了，可是早晨又给他带了回来。有一点还可以告慰的是，没有人会晓得——这种事情她是不会拿来跟人讲的。的确，等到他的日常事务生活的车轮——这种车轮最迫切需要的一种机油就是清醒而实际的头脑——随着阅读信件而重又转动起来的时候，这些噩梦似的疑虑就会在他脑后显得并不那样过分的重要了。这件事情实在并没有什么大不了；小说里面的女人把这种事情说成很严重，可是按照那些思想正确的人，那些见识过世面的人，或者，就他记忆所及，那些在离婚法庭上时常受到法官嘉许的人的冷静评判，他只不过是在竭力保持婚姻的神圣，防止她放弃自己的职责，而且，如果她仍旧继续和波辛尼见面的话，防止她万一——。对了，他并不懊悔。现在和好的第一步既然已经做了，余下的就会比较的——比较的——他站起来走到窗口。他的心中还有余悸。耳朵里那片吞声的啜泣又来了，再赶也赶不走。他穿上皮大衣，出门走进浓雾里；他要上商业区，所以在史龙街车站搭地道车。坐在满是上商业区人的头等车厢角落里，那片吞声的啜泣还萦绕在他脑子里，所以他把《泰晤士报》哗啦一声打开，靠这种响亮的声音把一切微弱的声音淹没掉，然后拿报纸做挡箭牌，从容不迫地看起新闻来。他看到一位审判庭长在头一天交给大陪审官一张比往常特别长的犯罪名单。他看到单子上有三起谋杀案，五起凶杀案，七起纵火案，和十一起之多的——这个数字多得惊人——强xx案，另外还有许多比较次要的犯罪，这些都要在下一次庭期中开审；他就这样从一条新闻看到另一条新闻，始终用报纸端端正正挡着自己的脸。然而，他一面看着报纸，一面脑子里仍旧记得伊琳那张满是泪痕的脸和伤心的啜泣。这一天事情很忙，除掉一般的律师事务之外，还包括上他的经纪人葛林—葛林宁股票号去了一趟，吩咐他们把自己的新煤业公司股票卖掉，说他疑心——并不是知道——这家公司的营业近来很呆滞（这个企业后来逐渐不振，最后以很少的一点钱卖给一个美国企业组合了）；另外还在皇家法律顾问华特布克的事务所里商议了很久，与会的有波尔特，年轻的法律顾问费斯克和皇家法律顾问华特布克本人。福尔赛控诉波辛尼一案明天可望开庭，由边沁法官审判。边沁法官常识丰富，但是法律知识并没有什么了不起；大家认为问这件案子大约再找不到比他更适合的人了。他是个“强”法官。皇家法律顾问华特布克对索米斯十分殷勤；他从本能上觉得，或者从耳朵里听得来的更可靠的传闻上，觉得他是一个有产业的人，同时把波尔特和费斯克丝毫不放在眼里，简直近于没有礼貌。他说这个问题大半要看审判时提出的供词而定，这跟他已经书面表示过的意见完全吻合；另外，他讲了几句很中肯的话，劝索米斯在提供证据时不要过分小心。“直率一点，福尔赛先生，直率一点；”说完哈哈大笑，接着闭拢嘴唇，在假发堆向后面露出的一部分脑袋上搔搔，那样子简直象一个乡下绅士，而他就爱人家把他看做这样一个人。在违约案件上，人都公认他差不多是头块牌子。索米斯仍旧坐地道车回家。到了史龙街车站，雾来得更浓了。望去只是静悄悄密层层的一片模糊，许多男人就在里面摸出摸进；女人很少，都把手中的网袋紧按在胸口，用手绢堵着嘴；马车淡淡的影子时隐时现，上面高高坐着车夫，就象长的一个怪瘤，在怪瘤的四周是一圈隐约的灯光，仿佛还没有能射到人行道上就被水气淹没了；从这些马车里面放出来的居民就象兔子一样各自钻进自己的巢穴。这些幢幢的人影都各自裹在自己一小块雾幔里，各不管各。在这座大兔园里，每一只兔子都只管自己钻进地道去，尤其是那些穿了较贵重的皮大衣的兔子，在下雾的日子都对马车有点戒心。可是，有一个人影子，在离索米斯不远的地方，却站在车站门口。大约是什么“海盗”或者情人，每一个福尔赛见到都这样想：“可怜的家伙！看上去心情很不好呢！”他们仁慈的心肠为这个在雾中等待着、焦急着的可怜情人动了一下；但仍旧匆匆走过，都觉得自己已经够苦了，更没有多余的时间或者金钱拿来花在别人身上。只有一个警察在慢吞吞地巡逻，不时打量一下那个等待的人；那人歪戴着帽子，帽沿遮着半边冻红的脸瘦得厉害，有时候悄悄拿手抹一抹脸，这样来消除心头的焦急，或者重申继续等待下去的决心。这个情人（如果真是情人的话）对于警察的打量神色不动，原因是他已经习惯了这一套，否则便是心里万分焦急，没有心思顾到别的。这个人是经过磨练来的，长时间的等待、焦灼的心情、大雾、寒冷，这些他都习惯不以为意，只要他的情妇终于到来就成。愚蠢的情人啊！雾季很长呢，一直要到春天；还有雨雪，哪儿都不好过；你带她出来，心里七上八下的；你叫她耽在家里，心里也是七上八下的。“活该；他应当把自己的事情安排得妥贴些！”任何一个体面的福尔赛都会这样说。然而，如果这位比较正常的人事前倾听一下这个站在浓雾和寒冷中等待的情人的心里话，他又会说：“是啊，可怜的混蛋！他的心情不好呢！”索米斯上了马车，放下玻璃窗，沿着史龙街缓缓走着，再沿着布罗姆顿路缓缓走着，这样到了家。到家的时候是五点钟。他妻子不在家；一刻钟前出去的。在这样一个夜晚出去，外面这样大的雾，是什么意思？他在餐室内炉火旁边坐下，门开着，心绪极端不宁，勉强在看着晚报。象他这样的烦恼，一本书是管不了用的，只有当天的报纸还可以麻醉一下。他从报上记载的那些经常性的事件上获得一些安慰：“女演员自杀”——“某政界要人病势严重”（就是那个一直疾病缠绵的）——“军官离婚案”——“煤矿起火事件”——这些他全看了，心里觉得宽慰了一点——开这张药方的原是最伟大的医生——就是我们自己的好恶。快到七点钟时他才听见她进来。漂亮朋友刚才看见她莫明其妙地冒了雾出去使他感到十分焦灼；在这种紧张的心情下，昨天夜里的事件早已显得不重要了。可是现在伊琳回家来，她那派伤心的啜泣重又使他想起；他有点怕和她碰面。她已经走上楼梯；灰皮大衣拖到膝盖，高高的皮领子几乎把脸部全遮起来，脸上戴了一条厚厚的面纱。她也没有掉头望他，也没有说话。便是一个幽魂或者陌生者走过时也不会这样阒静无声。贝儿生进来铺台子，告诉他太太不下来吃晚饭了；在她房里吃汤呢。索米斯这一次竟然没有“换衣服”；这在他有生以来恐怕是破题儿第一遭穿着脏袖子坐下来吃晚饭，而且连觉都不觉得，有好半天都在一面喝酒，一面呆呆出神。他命贝儿生在他放画的房间里升上一个火，过了一会，就亲自上楼去。他把煤气灯捻亮，深深叹了一口气，就好象置身在房间四周这些宝物中间使他终于获得了心情平静似的。这些宝物全都一堆堆背朝着他；他径自走到里面最名贵的一张“开门见山”的透纳跟前，拿来放在画架上，迎着灯光。市面上这些时透纳很热门，可是他还决定不了要不要卖掉。他一张颜色苍白、剃得很光的脸在翻起的硬领上面向前伸出来，站在那里大半天望着这张画，就象在做着计算似的；他的眼睛里显出沉吟的神气；大约他认为不合算吧。他从架子上取下画，预备仍旧把来面朝着墙放着；可是穿过房间时，他站住了，他耳朵里似乎又听见啜泣声。没有什么——仍旧是早上那种疑神疑鬼的作用。所以过了一会，他在烧得很旺的火炉前面放上高隔火屏，就悄悄下楼来。明天人就恢复了！他心里这样想。他好久好久才能入睡。要明了那天雾气笼罩的下午还发生了些什么事情，我们的注意力现在就得转到乔治-福尔赛的身上。他在福尔赛家原是口才最幽默的一个，人也最讲究义气；这一天他整天都耽在王子园老家里读一本小说。自从最近发生了一件个人经济危机之后，他一直就受着罗杰的暂时保释，逼着他耽在家里。快到五点钟的时候，他出了门，在南坎辛登车站—仍旧是早上那种疑神疑鬼的作用。所以过了一会，他在烧得很旺的火坐上地道车（今天大家都坐地道车）。他的打算是先吃晚饭，然后上红篮子打弹子来消磨这一晚；红篮子是一家很别致的小旅店，既不是什么俱乐部，旅馆，也不是什么上等的阔饭店。平时他大都在圣詹姆士公园下车，这一次为了上吉明街一路上有点灯光起见，就选中了在查林十字广场下车。乔治不但仪表安详，穿着时髦，而且还有一双尖锐的眼睛，所以经常都在留意着有什么可以供给他讥讽的把柄。当他走下月台时，他的眼睛就注意到一个男子从头等车厢里跳下来，与其说是走路，还不如说是摇摇晃晃向出口走去。“唷，唷，我的老兄啊！”乔治肚子里说；“怎么，不是‘海盗’吗！”他就挪动着自己的胖身体尾随在后面。再没有比一个醉鬼使他更觉得好玩的了。波辛尼歪戴着帽子，在他前面站住，打了一个转身，就向他刚才下来的那辆车厢奔回去。他已经太迟了。一个服务员抓着他的大衣；地道车已经开动了。乔治训练有素的眼睛瞥见车窗里一个穿灰皮大衣女子的脸。原来是索米斯太太——乔治觉得这件事很有趣！这时他在波辛尼后面钉得更紧了——跟他上楼梯，经过收票员面前到了街上。可是这样一路跟来，乔治的心情却起了变化；他已经不再感到奇怪和好笑，而是在替他跟着的这个可怜的人儿难受。这“海盗”并没有喝醉酒，而是看上去好象在心情极端激动之下才变成这副样子的；他正在自言自语，乔治能够听得见的只是“天哪”两个字。他好象也不知道自己在做什么，或者上哪里去；可是他就象一个神经失常的人一样走着，一下子瞠着眼睛望，一下子犹疑不决；乔治原来只打算寻寻开心，现在觉得这个家伙太可怜了，非要看到底不可。他是“受了刺激”——“受了刺激！”乔治弄不懂索米斯太太究竟说了些什么，刚才在车厢里跟他究竟说了些什么。她自己的脸色也不大好看！想到她这样满心痛苦孤零零坐在火车里面，乔治觉得很难受。他紧紧钉在波辛尼的后面——一个高大魁梧的身体，一声不响，小心翼翼地左闪右闪——跟着他一直走进大雾里。这里面有事情，决不是什么开玩笑！可佩服的，他虽则很兴奋，却保持着头脑的冷静，原因是除掉怜悯之外，他的猎奇天性已经被激发了。波辛尼一直走上大街心——街上是密层层一片漆黑，五六步外就什么都望不见；四面八方传来人声和口笛声，叫人一点辨不出方向；忽然间有些人影子缓缓地向他们身边冲过来；不时会看见一盏灯光，就象一片无边无际的黑暗大海上出现了一座隐约的岛屿。而波辛尼就这样急急忙忙地走进这片黑夜的不测深渊，而乔治也急急忙忙跟在他的后面。如果这个家伙打算把自己的脑袋撞在公共马车下面，他一定奋力上前止住他！这个被猎逐的家伙大踏步穿过街道，又大踏步走回来，并不象别人在这片黑暗中那样摸索前进，而是埋头向前直冲，就象他后面的忠心乔治在挥着鞭子赶他似的；乔治开始感觉到这样在一个被鬼迷了的人后面赶来赶去太别致、太有意思了。可是这时候事情已经有了进一步发展，甚至于乔治事后想起来时，脑子里的印象仍旧很清晰。他有一次在雾里逼得停了下来，耳朵里听到波辛尼几句话，这才使他恍然大悟。索米斯太太在火车里面跟波辛尼讲的什么话现在已经不再是一个谜了。从他那些喃喃自语中，乔治了解到索米斯对于一个变了心的、不愿同房的妻子已经行使了对于财产的最大的——最高权力。他随意涉想着这是什么一种滋味，得到的印象很深刻；他能多少揣摩出波辛尼心头的剧烈苦痛，以及性欲上的惶惑和震骇。他心里想，“对了，的确有点吃不消。难怪这个倒霉鬼要气得快要发疯了！”他捉到他的追逐物坐在特拉法尔加方场一只石狮子下面的长椅上，这只狮子是个丑怪的斯芬克斯，跟他们两个一样迷失在这黑暗的深渊里。波辛尼一声不响，呆若木鸡坐着，乔治耐心耐气站在后面，耐心中还夹有一点古怪的友爱。他这人并不是不懂得分寸——礼貌他是懂得的，所以不容许自己插入这出悲剧；他等待着，跟他头上的狮子一样不作声，皮领子紧包着耳朵，把冻得通红的两颊完全遮了起来，只露出一双眼睛，带着讥刺而怜悯的神气呆望着。许多做完一天生意回来、上俱乐部去的人不绝地打他们身边走过——他们的身形就象蚕茧一样裹上一层白雾，象鬼魂一样在眼前出现，又象鬼魂一样消失掉，后来连乔治也忍不住了，他的奎尔普式的幽默忽然冲破了自己的怜悯心，渴想拉住那些鬼的袖子说：“喂，你们这些家伙！这种好戏不是天天看得见的！这儿的一个倒霉鬼，他的情妇刚才告诉他她丈夫做的一件好事；过来，过来！你们看，他受了刺激呢！”他幻想看见那些鬼张开大嘴围着这苦痛的情人；想到其中可能有一个体面的新结婚的鬼，由自己的甜蜜心情从而体会到一点波辛尼现在心里的滋味，于是咧开嘴笑了；他觉得自己能看见他的嘴越咧越大，而雾气就一直朝他嘴里灌。原来乔治满心瞧不起的就是这些中等阶级——尤其是结了婚的中等阶级——这是他这个阶级里面那些放浪不羁、讲究义气的人最突出的地方。可是连他也腻味起来了。他原来的打算并不是这样老等下去。“反正，”他心里想，“这个家伙会对付得了的；这种事情在这个小城市里也并不是破天荒！”可是现在他的追逐物又开始骂出些恶毒愤怒的话来。乔治一时冲动，碰了一下他的肩膀。波辛尼猛地转过身来。“你是谁？你要做什么？”如果是在煤气灯的灯光下面，如果是在日常世界的光线下面——在那个日常世界里，乔治是一个十分自命的鉴赏家——他就很可以沉得着气；可是在大雾里面，一切都显得阴森虚幻，而且没有一样东西具有福尔赛平时拿来和人世联系在一起的那种实际价值；在这种时候，他不由得有点慌张起来；当他勉强使自己的眼光和这疯子的眼光触上时，他心里说：“我要是看见一个警察，就叫警察把他逮着；不能让他这样到处乱闯。”可是波辛尼没有等他回答，就大踏步走进雾里；乔治跟在后面，可能离开得稍微远一点，但是更加下定决心要把波辛尼跟到底。“他不能这样走下去，”乔治想。“如果不是上帝有灵的话，他早该被车子压死了。”他再不去转警察的念头了，一个讲究义气的人的神圣火焰重又在他心里燃烧起来了。在一片更加浓密的黑暗里，波辛尼继续向前赶去；可是他的追蹑者看出这人在疯狂之中还是有他的主意——他摆明是上西城去的。“他真的去找索米斯呢！”乔治心里说，这事使他觉得很有趣。有这样一个收获也不枉他这一场辛苦的追逐。他一直就不痛快自己的这位堂兄。一辆过路马车的车杠从他身边擦过，吓得他赶快跳开。他并不准备为了“海盗”或者任何人的缘故把性命送掉。大雾这时已经把一切都遮没了，眼前只望得见那个被猎逐的人的身影和附近朦胧月色一样的街灯，然而乔治带着自己遗传的坚韧性，仍旧追随上去。接着，乔治根据一个马路游荡者的本能，发觉自己已经到了毕卡第里大街了。这里他闭着眼睛也走得了；现在已经不怕迷失方向，心情就松了下来，他重又想到波辛尼的苦痛。这条长街给他这个高等游民积累了无数的经验；在一片污浊的、似是而非的爱情事件中，他的一个青年时期的记忆突然涌现出来。这个记忆现在还很新鲜，它把干草的香味、朦胧的月色、夏季的迷人情调给他带进这片恶臭黑暗的伦敦雾气里来——这个记忆叙述着在某一个夜晚，当他站在草地上最黑暗的阴影中时，他从一个女子的口中偷听到原来他并不是这女子的唯一占有者。有这么一会儿，乔治觉得自己已经不是在毕卡第里大街上走着，而是重又躺在那里，心里满不是滋味；白杨树遮着月亮射出长长的影子，他就躺在影子里面，脸凑着那些着露的芬芳的青草。他忽然起了一个念头，简直想一把将“海盗”抱着，说“好了，老弟。时间治疗一切。我们去喝杯酒解解闷吧！”可是这时来了一声吆喝，吓得他退后两步。一部马车从黑暗中卷了出来，又在黑暗中消失掉。突然间，乔治发现他失去了波辛尼的踪迹。他来来回回地跑，心里感到一种绝望的恐惧，这也就是浓雾卵翼下所养育着的那种阴森的恐惧。汗水从他的额上渗出来。他站着一动不动，使劲地在听。“后来我就我不到他了，”当天晚上在红篮子打弹子时乔治就这样告诉达尔第。达尔第泰然自若地捻捻自己的黑胡须。他刚刚一杆子打了二十三点，最后是一记边球落袋没有打中。“女的是谁呢？”他问。乔治不慌不忙把这位名流的胖黄脸望望，两颊上和厚眼皮的四周隐隐浮出恶意的微笑。“不行，不行，我的好人儿，”他心里想。“你我是不告诉的。”原来乔治和达尔第的踪迹虽然很密，他总觉得达尔第这人有点下流。“哦，总是什么小情人吧，”他说，一面在球杆上擦擦粉。追忆似水年华“情人！”达尔第叫出来——他采用一种更加含蓄的神情。“我断定是我们的朋友索——”“是吗？”乔治简短地说。“那吗，他妈的，你搞错了！”他一杆子没有击中。这下面他始终小心着不再提起这件事情；一直到将近十一点钟时，当他“看见杯中酒发黄”①以后——这是他自己的诗意说法——他把窗帘拉开，向街上望出去。昏沉沉的黑雾仅仅被红篮子的灯光微微照开了一点，任何生人或者东西都望不见。“我总放心不下‘海盗’，”他说。“他也许现在还在雾里游荡呢。除非他已经是死尸了，”他带着古怪的沮丧又添上一句。“死尸！”达尔第说，那一次在里希蒙的失败使他不由得火冒起来。“他一定吃醉了。十对一我跟你打赌！”乔治转身朝着他，神态十分可怕，一张大脸上带着一种忿怒的忧郁。“住嘴！”他说。“我告诉你他是‘受了刺激’的！”①套用《旧约-箴言》第二十三章三十一节：“酒发红，在杯中闪烁，你不可观看。”

第三卷 第五章 审判 
在开庭的那一天早晨，索米斯——他的案子排在第二——又只好不和伊琳见面就出门了：这样也好，因为他还拿不定主意要对她采取什么态度。通知上要他十点半到庭，以防第一件案子（一件违约案）垮掉；可是第一件案子并没有垮掉，双方都振振有辞；皇家法律顾问华特布克在这类涉讼上名气本来就大，这一次又给了他一个扬名的机会。和他对庭的是拉姆辩护士，另一位有名打违约官司的。这真是一场大斗法。一直快到中午休息的时间，庭上才宣布判决。所有的陪审员全部离开陪审席走掉，索米斯也出去找点吃的。他碰见詹姆士站在供应午餐的小酒柜那儿，长长的回廊象一片旷野，詹姆士就象旷野上的一只提壶鸟，伛着身子在吃面前的一块三明治和一杯雪利酒。父子两个站在一起，对着下面的中心大厅出神——空荡的大厅里不时看见一些戴假发穿长袍的辩护士急匆匆地穿过去，偶尔看见一个老妇人或是一个穿破旧大衣的男子走过，带着恐惧的神色朝上望，另外还有两个人，看上去要比他们同一辈的人要勇敢些，坐在靠窗的空档里在那里争论。他们的声音和一股象废井似的气味从下面升上来，再加上回廊上原有的气息，就形成一种和英国司法界密切结合在一起的气息，简直就象一块精炼的干酪发出的一样。没有多久，詹姆士就向儿子开口了。童年“你的案子几时开审？我想紧接着就开了。这个波辛尼如果说些不中听话，也不足为怪；我想他是实逼处此。官司打输了，他就要破产呢。”他把三明治咬了一大口，又呷上一大口酒。“你母亲叫你和伊琳今天晚上去吃晚饭，”他说。索米斯嘴边露出一丝冷笑，把自己父亲回看了一眼。一个人看见父子之间互视的眼光这样淡漠而且鬼鬼祟祟，决不会领会到两个人是那样心心相映，这也是可以原谅的。清姆士把雪利酒一饮而尽。“多少钱？”他问。回到法庭上，索米斯立刻坐上他在前排的法定座位，就在自己的辩护士旁边。他偷偷地斜睨了一眼，看看詹姆士坐下没有，这一眼谁都没有觉察到。詹姆士两手紧握伞柄，身子向后靠起，坐在辩护士后面那条长椅尽头出神；坐在这里，案子一完，他就可以立刻走出去。他认为波辛尼的行为无论从哪一方面说都是荒唐之极，可是他不愿意和波辛尼撞见，觉得这样会面很尴尬。这座法庭恐怕是仅次于离婚庭的一个最受人欢迎的法律中心了；毁谤案、违约案以及其他商业诉讼案件都是在这里解决。因此，后排坐了有不少和法律无关的人，楼上回廊还可以看见一两顶女帽。詹姆士前面两排的座位逐渐被戴假发的辩护士坐满了；那些人都坐在那里用铅笔记笔记、谈心或者剔牙。可是不久皇家法律顾问华特布克走了进来，绸袍的两只袖子象翅膀一样呼呼地响，一张红红的、干练的脸衬上两撇棕色的短上须；詹姆士的兴趣不久也就从那些司法界小人物移到这位皇家法律顾问身上来。詹姆士毫无保留地承认，这位大名鼎鼎的皇家法律顾问的派头简直是一个十足的盘问证人的能手。原来詹姆士虽说有多年的律师业务经验，他和华特布克以前偏偏没有会过面，而且和司法界中下层的许多福尔赛之流一样，他对一个盘问的能手非常景仰。看见华特布克以后，他两颊上的那些忧愁的长皱纹稍稍松了下来，尤其是他现在看出只有代表索米斯的辩护士是穿绸袍的①。皇家法律顾问华特布克用肘部支着身体，刚转过身去和他的帮办律师谈话，边沁法官本人就出现了——一个瘦瘦的相当委琐的人，身体微伛，雪白的假发衬托出一张胡须剃得精光的脸。华特布克和庭上其余的人一样站起来，一直等到法官就座方才坐下。詹姆士只是稍微抬一抬身子，他坐着已经很舒服，而且向来不把边沁当做什么了不起，过去在柏姆莱-汤姆家里有两次吃晚饭，都坐的和他只隔一个座位。柏姆莱-汤姆尽管那样走运，可是一个脓包。他的第一张状子就是詹姆士本人给他做的。他而且很兴奋，因为他刚才发现波辛尼并没有出庭。“他这是什么意思呢？”清姆士一直盘算着。宣布开审了；皇家法律顾问华特布克推开文件，抖一抖肩膀把绸袍套好，然后眼睛扫了一个半圆周把四下的人环顾一下，就象一个走上板球场的击球手一样，站起来向庭上讲话了。所有的事实，他说，都是没有争辩的余地的，庭上只需要了解一下他的当事人和被告之间的来往信件就行了；被告是一个建筑师，这些信件都是关于房屋内部装修的。不过，他的私见认为这封信只能有一个显明的解释。他于是把罗宾山造房子的经过以及实际花掉的建筑费用简略地叙述一下——在他的口中这房子简直被形容为一座王府——然后继续说：“我的当事人，索米斯-福尔赛先生是一位绅士，一个有产业的人；任何对他提出的要求，只要合法，他是决计不会拒绝的；可是在这座房屋的建筑上，他已经受到他的建筑师不少的累；正如庭上已经听到的，他在房屋上已经花了将近一万二千——一万二千镑，这笔数目比他原来的预计要超出许多，因此，为了正义起见——这一点我觉得非常重要——为了正义，并且为了维护其他人的利益起见，他觉得有必要提出这次控诉。被告提出的辩护理由是丝毫不值得考虑的，这一点要请庭上注意。”接着他把那封信读了一遍。他的当事人，一个有社会地位的人，现在准备出庭作证，宣誓表示他从来没有给予被告，也从来没有想到给予被告以超出一万二千零五十镑一笔最大款项的权限，这是他明白规定了的；为了不再浪费庭上时间起见，他现在就请福尔赛先生出庭作证。索米斯接着走上审讯厢。他的整个外表都非常之镇定。苍白的脸上，胡子剃得精光，眉心一条缝，嘴唇闭拢，神情傲慢得恰如其分；衣服整洁，可是并不显眼，一只手戴了手套，看上去很整齐，另一只手没有戴。回答陪审官发问时的声音稍微低一点，可是十分清晰。在审讯之下，他提出的作证听上去就象不想多说的派头。①绸袍是皇家法律顾问的服装。“他不是提到‘全权作主’这个字眼吗？”“没有。”“这是什么说法！”他用的字眼是“根据这封信的条件‘全权作主’。”“他认为这是英国话吗？”“是英国话！”母亲“他这样说是什么意思呢？”“就是这个意思！”“他难道不认为这句话是自相矛盾吗？”“不矛盾。”“他是一个爱尔兰人吧？”①“不是。”“他是个受过教育的人吗？”“是的！”“然而他坚决认为可以这样说吗？”“可以。”在这一串以及其他许多的讯问当中——问来问去总是回到那个“很微妙”的一点上来——詹姆士自始至终都坐在那里，手放在耳朵边用心听着，眼睛紧盯着自己儿子。他为他感到骄傲！他不由而然感觉到，在同样的处境，他自己就忍不住要多回答几句，可是他从心里告诉自己这种不想多说的派头正是最恰当没有了。可是，当索米斯缓缓转过身，神色不改地走下审讯厢时，他却如释重负地叹了一口气。现在轮到波辛尼的辩护士向法官申辩了；詹姆士加倍凝神起来；他在法庭里再三搜寻，看看波辛尼是不是在哪儿躲着。小姜克利开始时相当慌张；波辛尼没有到庭使他的处境很是尴尬。因此他竭力把波辛尼不出庭这件事说得对于自己有利。他非常之担心——他说——他的当事人已经出了事情。他满指望波辛尼先生出庭对质的；今天早上派人到他的事务所和他的家里找他（他明知道事务所就是家，但是觉得还是不说为妙），可是哪儿也找不到；这个征兆他认为非常不妙，因为他知道波辛尼先生急于要出庭对质的。不过，他的当事人并没有委托他申请延期，既然没有这种委托，他的职责就只有前来出庭。他有把握说，而且他的当事人，如果不是为了某些不幸的原因不能出庭，也会支持他的看法，就是象“全权作主”这种名词是不能用什么附加语加以限制、拘束或者取消的。不但如此，他还要进一步指出，从这封信里可以看出，不管福尔赛先生在供词中怎样说法，他对自己建筑师指定的或者执行的工程，事实上从来没有想到加以否认。肯定说，被告就没有料到福尔赛先生会加以否认，如果料到的话，他就决计不会，如他在信上表示的，从事于这项工程。这是一项极其精细的工程，真是小心翼翼，惨淡经营，所以如此，全为了迎合和满足福尔赛先生的苛求，因为他是个赏鉴家，同时又富有——一个有产业的人。他，姜克利自己，对这一点非常愤激，而且由于愤激，他的言词可能过于偏激，就是这件控诉案是最最不合情理，最叫人意想不到，简直是史①谓专讲自相抵触的话。无前例的。他为了职务关系，曾经亲自去看过那所漂亮房子，如果庭上也有机会去亲自勘察一下，看看他的当事人设计的那些精致的美丽的屋内装修，敢说庭上决不会容忍这种逃避法律责任的大胆企图，这样说一点不过火。他拿起索米斯通信的抄件，轻描淡写地提到“波瓦卢控诉白拉斯地德水泥公司”的案子。“很难说，”他说，“这件案子的判决是根据什么；总之，我认为，这对于我和我的对方都同样可以援引得上。”他接着就那个“很微妙”的论点详详细细驳了一通。尽管态度极端恭谨，他认为福尔赛先生这句话本身就不生效力。他的当事人并非富有，这件事情对他的关系非常之大；他是个很有才气的建筑师，他在建筑界的声名，这一来，显然要受到影响。他在结束时并且向法官呼吁——有点近于说情——要他做一个艺术爱好者，保护艺术家们，不让他们受到资本家有时候的——他说有时候——残酷的剥削。“如果有产业的人全象这位福尔赛先生，”他说，“可以随便拒绝负担，并且听其拒绝负担他们在契约上应履行的责任，艺术家还有什么保障吗？”.现在如果他的当事人最后能赶来出庭的话，就请他出来作证。庭丁把菲力普-拜因斯-波辛尼的名字叫了三遍，那声音带着异样的忧郁在法庭和回廊上回响着。这样把波辛尼的名字叫出来，而且不见有人答应，给予詹姆士一种古怪的感觉：就象在街上叫唤自己失踪的小狗似的。这人失踪了，想到这里他不由得毛骨悚然，在他的舒适感和安全感——他坐得很舒服——上面划了两下。虽则他说不出所以然，但是觉得很不好受。这时他看看钟，两点三刻！再过一刻钟就完了。这小子哪儿去了？一直到边沁法官宣布判决的时候，詹姆士纷拢的心情方才平复下来。那位饱学的法官，站在使他和一班比较平常的人隔绝的木台后面，身子向前伛着。电灯刚巧点在他的头上，灯光照上他的脸，把他雪白假发下面的脸烘上一层深橘黄色；宽大的罩袍看上去显得特别大；他的整个身材，由于法庭上光线相当黯淡，照耀得就象庄严神圣的神像似的。他清一清嗓子，喝一点水，把一支鹅毛笔的笔尖在桌上按断了，然后两只骨瘦如柴的手抄在前面，开口了。在詹姆士的眼睛里，边沁法官忽然变得特别大了，比詹姆士平日所能想象到的还要大得多。这是法律的尊严；然而在圆白光里，还可以发掘出一个在日常生活中，顶着华尔特-边沁爵士头衔走动的平平常常的福尔赛；如果一个和詹姆士那样实际性格差得很远的人，碰巧看不出这一点来，那还说得过去些。边沁法官宣读下面的判词：“本案的事实是无可争辩的。在本年五月十五日被告给原告去信，要求原告在原告房屋的内部装修上给予‘全权作主’，否则即解除合同关系。原告于五月十七日答复如下：‘现在根据你的要求，由你“全权作主”，但要跟你说明在先，就是房子完全装修好，交割的时候，全部费用，包括你的酬金在内（这是我们谈好的），不能超过壹万贰千镑。’被告在五月十八日答复这封信：‘如果你以为我在屋内装修这种精细工作上会受到你钱数的约束，恐怕你想错了。’五月十九日原告去信如下：‘我的意思并不是说，我信中说的数目你超出十镑二十镑甚至于五十镑的话，会在我们之间成为什么大不了的事情.你可以根据这封信的条件“全权作主”，我并且希望你能勉力完成屋内的装修。’五月二十日被告简短答复说：‘行。’“在完成上述装修时，被告拖欠和花费的款项使全部费用达到一万二千四百镑，此项费用已俱由原告付清。原告此次提起诉讼在于要求被告赔偿其超出一万二千零五十镑之外的三百五十镑；据原告声称，根据双方通信，全部费用以一万二千零五十镑为最高额，在此数目之外，被告即无权支付。“目前须要本法官决定的问题是被告应否赔偿原告这笔款项。在本法官看来，是应当赔偿的。“原告在信中实际上等于说：‘在屋内装修上可以由你“全权作主”，如果你在全部费用上不超过一万二千镑，你至多只能超过五十镑，否则你就不是受我的委托，我就要你赔偿。’我不大明白，如果原告根据被告的合同，拒绝偿付，根据当时的情况，会不会如愿以偿；但是他没有采取上述步骤。他偿付了，又根据被告合同上的条件向被告提出赔偿。“在本法官看来，原告是有权要求被告赔偿上述款项的。局外人“有人为被告辩护，企图证明双方通信并未限制或意图限制建筑费用。如果是这样的话，原告就没有理由在信上提到一万二千镑，嗣后又提到五十镑的数字。被告的论点如果成立，这些数字便将毫无意义。在我看来，根据被告五月二十日的去信，他显然已经同意对方一个明显的建议，因此他必须遵守建议中的条件。“根据以上理由，我判决被告赔偿上述款项，并负担讼费。”詹姆士叹了一口气，弯下腰把伞拾起来，伞是在法官那句“在信上提到”时卜笃一声掉下去的。他挣出两条长腿，迅速走出法庭，也不等待儿子，抢上一部马车（这天下午天阴，没有雾），一直就到了悌摩西家里，碰见斯悦辛也在那里；他把全部审判经过讲给斯悦辛、史木尔太太和海丝特姑太听，同时吃了两块甜饼，偶尔一面吃，一面讲。“索米斯应付得很好，”他最后说；“头脑非常镇静。乔里恩可不乐意这件事。对于那个小波辛尼这简直糟糕；敢说他要破产了。”他有这么半天不说话，心神不宁地盯着火炉望，接着又说：“他不在那里——这是为什么？”来了一阵脚步声。客厅后面出现一个胖子，一张极端健康的深红色的脸，他抬起的一只手，被黑色的燕尾服衬出一只食指。“哎，詹姆士，”他说；“我——我耽不住了。”就转身走了出去。这就是悌摩西。詹姆士从椅子上站起来。“是啊！”他说；“是啊！我早知道事情不——”他把话咽住，不声不响，瞪着眼睛里，就象是刚才看见什么不祥之兆似的。

第三卷 第六章 索米斯说出来 
离开法庭之后，索米斯并不直接回家。他从心里不想上商业区去；在胜利之余，他感到需要同情，因此不知不觉地也向湾水路的悌摩西家走来，可是走得很慢。他父亲刚才离开；史木尔太太和海丝特姑太，已经获悉全部事实，都热烈地向他致贺。出庭这么长久，敢说他一定饿了。史密赛儿得给他烤些甜饼来，他的父亲把甜饼全吃光了。他应当把腿搁在长沙发上；还应当来一杯李子白兰地。最能提神的。斯悦辛还没有走，已经比他平时耽搁得久了，原因是他自己需要运动运动。听到这句话时，他“呸”了一声。年轻人真是越来越不象话了！他自己肝脏就不好，一想到除掉他以外还有人有资格喝李子白兰地，简直使他受不了。他立刻起身离开，一面向索米斯说：“你妻子好吗？你告诉她我说的，如果她觉得闷气，可以上我家里来和我一起安静地吃顿晚饭，我准给她上好的香槟喝，平时她决计喝不到。”他盯着比他矮的索米斯看，一面勒紧自己又粗又肥又黄的拳头，就象是要把这个藐小的家伙一下勒死似的，随即挺起胸脯，缓步摇了出去。史木尔太太和海丝特姑太都觉得骇然。斯悦辛这个人太可笑了！钢铁是怎样炼成的他们心里都渴想问索米斯，伊琳听到这个判决会是怎样情形，可是她们知道决计不能问；他也许会自动谈一点出来，在这个问题上透露一点消息，这问题是眼前她们生活中最最迫切的问题，可是由于必得保持缄默的缘故，简直使她们比受刑罚还要难受；而且现在连悌摩西也知道了，这对于悌摩西的健康影响很坏，简直可怕。还有琼，她怎么办呢？这也是一件顶令人兴奋，但是同样不能碰的问题啊！她们永远忘记不了老乔里恩那一次的拜访，自从那次之后，他一次也没有来看望过她们；她们永远忘记不了那次拜访给所有在座的人那种不约而同的感觉，就是福尔赛家已经今非昔比——福尔赛家已经开始分裂了。可是索米斯一点不帮忙，他跷着大腿坐着，谈论着那些巴比松派①的画家，这是他新发现的，这些人都要上来，他说：敢说在他们身上一定可以捞上一大笔钱；他注意到一个叫柯罗②的人两张画，真不坏；如果价钱不大的话，他一准买下——他认为有一天这些画一定会卖上很大的价钱。史木尔太太和海丝特姑太没法子，只好对他的谈话表示兴趣，可是这样被他支开去，实在不大甘心。有意思——真有意思——而且索米斯真是聪明，她们有把握说，这些画如果能够赚钱的话，他一定不会比别人差；可是现在官司赢了，他现在有什么打算呢；还是立刻离开伦敦，住到乡下去，还是打算什么别的？索米斯回答说，他也不知道，他觉得不久总要搬家了。他站起来，吻了两位姑母。裘丽姑太一看到这个离开的表示，立刻脸上变了样子，就象被一股可怕的勇气侵袭上一样；他脸上每一撮老肉都象是要从一个无形的拘谨的面具里逃出来似的。她的中人以上身材现在整个直了起来，说道：“亲爱的，这件事在我脑子里好久了，如果别的人没有跟你说过，我打定主意——”海丝特姑太打断她：“记着，裘丽，你自己做的事——”她透了口气——“你自己负责！”史木尔太太就象没有听见似的继续说下去：“我觉得你应当知道，亲爱的，就是马坎德太太看见伊琳和波辛尼先生在里希蒙公园里一起散步。”海丝特姑太，本来已经站起来，重又倒进椅子里，把脸背开去。裘丽真是太——她——海丝特姑太还在房间里的时候，这种话就不应当说；她喘着气，怀着期望，等待着索米斯怎样回答。他脸红了，跟他平时一样，红得非常特别，总是集中在两眼之间；他抬起手，就象是选择了一个指头一样，细细咬着指甲；然后从紧闭的嘴唇中间慢吞吞地说出来：“马坎德太太是个狐狸！”他不等哪一个回答，就走出屋子。他上悌摩西家去的时候，已经打定主意回到家里时采取什么步骤。他预备上楼找到伊琳，跟她说：“官司是打胜了，这事就算完结！我并不打算跟波辛尼过不去；看看能不能跟他之间谈好一种付款办法，我不逼他的。现在旧事都别提了！我们把这房子租出去，离开这个雾气腾腾的伦敦罢。立刻就上罗宾山去。我——我从来没有打算对你不好！来，拉拉手——以后——”也许她就会让他吻她，过去的一切就会忘记了！当他从悌摩西家里出来的时候，他的心理可不象刚才那样简单了。几个月来闷在心里的嫉妒和疑忌，现在冒出火焰来了。这类勾当非要斩草除根不可，他决不允许她污辱他的好名好姓！如果她不能爱他，或者不愿意爱他——这是她的责任，也是他的权利——她总不应该和另外一个人开他的玩笑！他要责备她，威胁和她离婚！这一来，她就会检点起来；她决不敢接受这个，可是——可是——如果她接受呢，怎么办？他踟蹰起来；这一点他可没有想到。如果她接受，怎么办？如果她向他说了实情，怎么办？那样的话，他又怎么处？只得提出离婚！离婚！这样面对着面，两个字简直使他浑身都瘫了，和以前所有指导他生活的原则都完全拍合不上。这里的不妥协性把他吓坏了；他觉得自己就象个船主，走到船舷边，亲手把他最宝贵的货色扔到海里去。这种亲手把自己的财产扔在水里的行为在索米斯看来似乎不可思议；这会影响他的职业。他得把罗宾山的房子卖掉，而他在这房子上却花了那么多的钱，操了那么多的心——而且还得赔本。还有她！她将不再属于他了，连索米斯太太的名字都不用了！她将在他的生活中消失掉——他将永远不能再看见她！他坐在马车里，把整整一条街都走完了，可是脑子里没有想到别的，尽在想自己将永远看不到她！可是也许她并没有什么实情话要说呢，直到现在，很可能并没有什么实情。这样把事情揎得这么大，是不是太傻呢？这样使自己说不定要把说的话收回来，是不是太傻呢？这个案子的结果会使波辛尼破产；一个破产的人是不顾一切的，可是——他有什么办法呢？他也许上海外去，破产的人总是到海外去的。没有钱，他们又有什么办法——如果真是“他们”的话？还是等一下，看看苗头再说。如果必要的话，他可以雇人监视她。他的嫉妒心又使他痛苦起来（简直象牙痛发作一样）；他几乎要哭出来。可是他非得决定不可，在到家之前，决定一个对策。当马车在门口停下时，他什么也没有决定下来。他进门时，脸色苍白，两只手湿濡濡的全是汗，心里又怕碰见她，又渴想碰见她，全没有想到自己应当说什么，或者做什么。女仆贝儿生正在穿堂里；当他问他“太太哪里去了”时，她告诉他福尔赛太太在将近中午的时候出去了，带了一只箱子和一只手提包。他从女仆手里把自己皮大衣的袖子夺回来，就气汹汹的问着她：“什么？”他大声说；“你说的什么？”忽然想起自己不应当叫女仆看见他这样激动，就接下去说：“她留下什么话呢？”这时他看见女仆惊异的眼光，心里一吓。“福尔赛太太没有留话，老爷。”“没有留话；很好，谢谢你，这就行了。我今天出去吃晚饭。”女仆往楼下去了，剩下他一个人，仍旧穿着皮大衣，没精打采地翻阅瓷碗里的名片；瓷碗就放在穿堂里放地毯的雕花橡木柜上面。巴兰姆先生太太席普第末斯-史木尔太太拜因斯太太所罗门-桑握西先生我的大学拜里斯勋爵夫人赫明-拜里斯小姐维尼佛里德-拜里斯小姐爱拉-拜里斯小姐这些他妈的是些什么人？他好象把所有熟悉的事情都忘记了。那些话：“没有留话——一只箱子，一只皮包”在他脑子里忽隐忽现。他简直信不了她没有留话；虽则皮大衣还穿在身上，他两级一跨上了楼，就象一个新婚的青年人回到家里，赶到楼上妻子的房间去似的。房内一切都非常整洁，收拾得井井有条。铺着淡紫色的鸭绒绸被，放着她放睡衣的口袋，是她亲自做的而且绣了花的；床脚下放着她的拖鞋，连被单靠床头的地方都掀了开来，好象在等待她。妆台上放着镶银的刷子和瓶子，是他送给她的礼物。看上去准是搞错了。她带走了什么皮包呢？他走到揿铃前面打算把贝儿生叫进来。可是临时想起自己得装作知道伊琳上哪儿去的，把一切都看得很自然，自己去揣摩这事的意义。他锁上门，想要动脑筋，可是觉得脑子直打转；忽然眼泪在他眼眶里汪了起来。他匆匆脱下皮大衣，看看镜子里的自己。他的脸色太苍白了，整个脸上都罩上一层灰色；他倒点水，使劲地洗起脸来。她的镶银刷子微微闻得出她用来搽头发的香水味，被这香味一引，一股妒意又从他心里燃烧起来。他勉强穿上皮大衣，下了楼到了街上。不过，他总算神志清醒，当他向史龙街走去的时候，他给自己已经编了一套话，预备在波辛尼家里找不到她的时候说。可是如果找到她时怎么办？他尽管会拿主意，这一来可不行了；走到那幢房子时，他就不知道如果找到她在这里，自己应当怎么办。现在已经过了办公时间，临街的大门已经关上；那个开门的女人也说不出波辛尼先生在里面还是不在里面；那一天就没有看见他；有两三天没有看见他；她现在不伺候他了，谁也不伺侯他，他——索米斯打断她，他自己上去看看；上楼的时候，他显出一张坚决而惨白的脸。顶上面一层没有灯光，门关着，按铃没有人答应，听不见一点声音。他只好下楼来，裹着皮大衣还在打抖，心里冰凉。他叫了一部马车，告诉赶车的上公园巷。路上他竭力回忆几时给她最后的一张支票的；她身边顶多只有三四镑钱，可是还有那些首饰，他心里一阵剧烈的难受，想起这些首饰可以变卖很大的一笔钱；足够他们上国外去；足够他们过好几年！他想计算一下；马车停下来，他没有计算好就跳下马车。管家问他索米斯太太是不是在马车里，老爷告诉他，他们夫妇要来吃饭的。索米斯回说：“不在，福尔赛太太有点伤风。”管家表示遗憾。索米斯觉得管家望着他的样子有点蹊跷，这才想起自己没有穿晚礼服，就问：“有人来吃饭吗，瓦姆生？”“没有，只有达尔第先生和太太，少爷。”这时索米斯又觉得管家诧然望着他，他沉不着气了。“你望的什么？”他说，“我有什么事情，呃？”管家脸红了，把皮大衣挂上，嘴里唧哝了几句，听上去好象是：“没有，少爷，没有，少爷，”就溜之大吉。索米斯上了楼，经过客厅时，连看也不看一下，一直走进他父亲和母亲的卧室。詹姆士侧面站索米斯觉得管家望着他的样子有点蹊跷，这才想起自己没有穿晚礼服，就问：“有人来吃饭吗，瓦姆生？”“没有，只有达尔第先生和太太，少爷。”这时索米斯又觉得管家诧然望着他，他沉不着气了。“你望的什么？”他说，“我有什么事情，呃？”<着，穿着衬衫和晚礼服背心，弯弯的瘦长身材显得特别突出；他低着头，白领结的一头从一撮邓居莱式的白腮须下露出来，嘟着嘴唇在给他妻子钩上内衣上部的钩子。索米斯停下来；觉得一口气咽着，不知道是上楼太快，还是别的缘故。他——他自己的妻子从没有——从来就没有要他这样过——他听见他父亲的声音，就象嘴里含着一根针似的，说：“是哪个？哪个在这里？什么事情？”接着是她母亲说：“来，菲丽丝，来把这个钩上，你老爷再也弄不好的。”索米斯一只手按着喉咙，嗄声说：“是我——索米斯——。”他听见爱米丽诧异而亲热的声音，心里一阵感激：“哦，乖儿子？”和詹姆士放下钩子说：“什么，索米斯！你上来做什么？你不舒服吗？”他机械地回答：“我好好的，”看看这老俩口儿，好象没法把事情说了出来。詹姆士很快就惊慌起来：“你脸色不好看，”他说。“恐怕着了凉了——肝脏的毛病，没有说的。让你母亲给你点——”可是爱米丽安静地插进来：“你把伊琳带来没有？”索米斯摇摇头。“没有，”他吞吞吐吐说：“她——她离开我了！”爱米丽本来站在镜子前面，这时转过身子。当她向索米斯跑过来时，她的高大身材失去了原有的庄严，变得非常仁慈了。“乖儿子！我的乖儿子！”她用嘴唇贴着他的前额，轻轻拍他的手。詹姆士也转过身来，正面望着儿子；一张脸显得老些了。“离开你吗？”他说，“你是什么意思——离开你？你从来没有告诉过我她打算离开你？”索米斯悻悻地回答：“我怎么知道？怎么办呢？”詹姆士开始来回走起来；因为没有穿上衣，样子很怪，象只长颈鸟。“怎么办呢！”他咕噜着。“我怎么会知道怎么办？问我有什么用？什么事情都不告诉我，现在又跑来问我怎么办；我真不知道应当跟他们讲些什么！这是你母亲，她就站在这里，她什么话也不说。我要说你现在应当做的就是钉着她。”索米斯笑了；他那种古怪的傲慢的笑容再没有比现在看上去更加可怜了。“我不知道她上哪儿去了，”他说。在人间“不知道她上哪儿去了！”詹姆士说。“你是什么意思，不知道她上哪儿去了？你想她会上哪儿去呢？她是去我那个小波辛尼去了，她就是上那儿去的。我早知道会这样的。”大家都好久不作声；这时索米斯重又觉得他母亲按他的手；一切的经过就象在睡梦中过去一样；他自己的思索或者行动能力已经不灵了。他父亲一副苦脸，涨得红红的，好象要哭出来，说的话就象是从自己抽搐的灵魂里拉了出来一样。“这非出丑不可；我一直这样说的。”接着，看见他们不答话：“你们就站在这里不想个办法，你跟你的母亲？”爱米丽的声音沉着中含有轻蔑：“好了，詹姆士！索米斯会尽量想办法的。”詹姆士眼睛瞪着地板，断断续续地说：“呃，我是帮不了忙了；我老了。不要操之过急，孩子。”又是他母亲的声音：“索米斯会尽量想办法把她找回来。我们不要谈起。事情总会挽回的，我敢说。”又是詹姆士：“呃，我就看不出怎样能够挽回。如果她还没有跟小波辛尼私奔的话，你不要听她说的，钉着她，把她拖回来，这是我的忠告。”索米斯重又觉得母亲拍拍他的手，表示她也同意；索米斯就象重复什么神圣的宣誓一样，在牙齿缝里咕噜了一声：“一定！”三个人一同下楼到了客厅里；三个女孩子和达尔第都在；如果伊琳也来的话，一家人就到齐了。詹姆士坐进圈椅，除掉和达尔第冷冷寒暄一句之外，在开晚饭之前，一句话都没有说；达尔第他是又瞧不起又害怕，这个人好象永远都差钱似的。索米斯也不作声；只有爱米丽这个冷静勇敢的女人始终和维妮佛梨德谈些琐碎的事情。她在态度上和谈话中从没有象今天晚上这样镇定过。伊琳出走的事既然决定不说出来，詹姆土家其他的人，对于应当采取什么步骤当然无从发表意见；可是谈起后来的一连串事情时，福尔赛族中的人，除了个别的例外，谈话的口气毫无疑问都是赞成詹姆士的忠告的：“你不要听她说的，钉着她，把她拖回来！”不但在公园巷如此，便是在尼古拉一房，罗杰的一房，和悌摩西家里也是如此。便是那些布满伦敦的更大的福尔赛阶层，谈起时也会一样赞成，不过由于不知道有这件事情，没法参加意见罢了。因此，尽管爱米丽竭力装出若无其事的样子，瓦姆生和其他的仆人侍候的那一顿晚饭差不多是在沉默中吃的。达尔第生着闷气，有酒就喝；女孩子们很少相互谈话。詹姆士有一次问到琼现在在哪里，这些时怎么消遣的。没有人能告诉他什么。他又阴沉下来。只在维妮佛梨德告诉他小蒲白里斯把自己的一个坏辨士给一个乞丐的时候，他才高兴起来。“哈！”他说，“这才是个聪明小东西。这样下去，真是未可限量呢。我说他是个有头脑的小东西！”可是这样只有一会儿。在电灯光下面，一样菜庄严地接着一样菜送上来，灯光射在餐桌上，可是只能勉强照到墙上主要的装饰上；一张所谓透纳的海景，画的全是桅索和快要淹死的人。香槟酒送了上来，接着又是一瓶詹姆士的有名陈酒，可是就象一只冰冷的鬼手送上来一样。索米斯十点钟的时候离开，两次有人问到伊琳，两次他都推说她身体不好；他觉得已经不大能掩饰自己了。他母亲给了他一个又长又温柔的亲吻，他按一按母亲的手，颊上涨得腓红。他在冷风中走了，风声在街道转角上凄凉地呼啸着，空气清澈，天色灰青，满天的星；它们冷冷地招呼他，脚下蜷缩的篠悬木叶子簌簌作响，倒垃圾的女人穿着褴褛的皮大衣匆促走过，街角上的流浪汉冻僵着一副脸，这些他全不觉得。冬天到了！可是索米斯在急急忙忙赶到家时，全然不感觉到；他从门背面镀金丝笼里取出最后一批从门缝里塞进来的信件，两只手颤抖着。没有伊琳的来信。他进了餐室，火烧得很旺，他常坐的椅子靠近火，拖鞋好好放着，威士忌酒瓶和雕花的香烟盒放在桌上；可是他向这些东西凝视了一两分钟之后，就熄灯上楼。在他的更衣室里，火也点着，可是伊琳的房间却又黑又冷。索米斯走进伊琳的房间。他拿些蜡烛把屋子点得通亮，有好久好久都在床和房门之间来回不停走着。他简直不能使自己相信她已经真的离开他了，他开始把衣柜和抽屉一个一个打开来，就象到今天还不能理解他结婚生活的这个谜，想在里面找到什么线索，什么理由，什么真相似的。她的衣服都在——他一直都喜欢而且坚持要她穿得讲究——只带走了几件衣服；至多两三件，一个个抽屉翻过来，满是些麻纱和丝绸的内衣，一点没有动。也许她只是一时的冲动，上海边去过几天，换换空气。如果是那样的话，如果她真正能够回来，他决不再做象前天短命的夜里那样的事，决不再冒那个险——虽则这是她的责任，她做妻子的责任；尽管她是属于他的——他决不再冒这个险，她显然神经还不太正常。他弯下腰去开她藏首饰的抽屉，抽屉并没有锁着，一拉就开；首饰盒的钥匙就在上面。这使他很诧异，接着想到一定是个空盒子。他把盒子打开。完全不是空盒子。所有他给她的首饰，连她用的那只表在内，都在盒子里，分放在绿丝绒的小格子中间；在放表的格子里塞了一个叠成三角形的小纸条，写着“索米斯-福尔赛，”是伊琳的笔迹。“你和你家里人给我的东西我都没有拿。”就这一句话。他望望那些钻石和珍珠的别针和镯子，望望那只用蓝宝石镶了一颗大钻石的薄金表，望望那些项圈和戒指，每一样都安放在一个小窝里；他的眼泪涌了出来，滴在那些首饰上面。她所能做的，她过去所做的一切，没有比这件事更使他领会到她这次行动的真正意义了。至少，在当时，他几乎已经了解到一切所能了解到的——了解到她鄙视他，多年来都鄙视他，事实上他们就象生活在两个世界里的人一样，他绝对没有希望，而且从来就没有过；甚至于了解到她也很痛苦——应当可怜她。在这一刹那的情感流露间，他背叛了自己的福尔赛性格——忘记了自己，自己的利益，自己的财产——几乎什么事都能做；他已经上升到无私和脱离实际的纯洁高度了。这一刹那很快就过去。那些眼泪就好象把他的弱点洗去一样，他直起身子，把首饰盒锁上，缓慢地，几乎有点抖，把首饰盒带到自己房间里去。

第三卷 第七章 琼的胜利 
琼一直都在等待她的机会，从早到晚都查着各种报纸上那些枯燥无味的专栏，那种孜孜不倦的精神使老乔里恩开头觉得甚为诧异；等到机会来到时，她立刻采取行动，那种极端敏捷和坚决的派头完全象她的为人。那天早晨，她终于在可靠的《奉晤士报》开审案件栏里第十三庭边沁法官下面，看到福尔赛控诉波辛尼案的字样；这是她永远忘记不了的一天。就象一个赌徒一样，她早已准备好把自己所有的一切放在这次的孤注一掷上；她的天生性格使她就想不到失败上去。她怎么会知道波辛尼在这场官司上会败诉，谁也没法说，要么是一个在恋爱中的女子有一种本能会知道——可是她就依靠这种假设安排下自己的步骤，就象是绝对有把握一样。十一点半的时候，我们看见她在第十三法庭的楼厢上探望着，一直到福尔赛控诉波辛尼案件审讯完毕。波辛尼没有出场并不使她着急；她本能地觉得波辛尼不会为自己辩护。判决终了时，她急忙下楼，叫了一部马车就上他的寓所来。她走进敞开的大门和下面三层的写字间时，一直没有引起外人的注意；一直到达顶层的时候，她的困难方才开始。拉铃没有人答应；这时候她得决定，还是下楼叫底层看房子的人上来开门放她进去，等波辛尼先生回来，还是耐心地在房门外面守候着，那就要当心不要被别人上来瞧见。她决定采取后面一个步骤。一刻钟过去，她始终站在楼梯口挨着冻守望着，后来她忽然想起波辛尼习惯把房门的钥匙放在门毯下面。她翻开一看，果然就在下面。有这么一会儿，她决定不了要不要就拿钥匙开门；终于她开了门进去，把门敞开着，这时候如果有人走来的话，就会看出她是有事情来的。琼和五个月前来拜访的时候完全是两个人了；那时候她发着抖；几个月来的痛苦和克制使她变得已经不是从前那样的敏感了；这次拜访她已经考虑了好久，而且计划得那样周密，所有的威胁事前老早置之度外。这一次跑来，她决计不能失败，如果失败的话，那就谁也帮不了她的忙了。就象母兽守护自己的幼儿一样，琼的弱小而活泼的身体在屋子里从来就没有静止过；她从这边墙壁走到那边墙壁，从窗口走到门口，一会儿碰碰这个，一会儿碰碰那个。到处都是灰，屋内总有几个月没有打扫过了。任何足以鼓动她的希望的事情，她都很快就能看出来，这情形说明波辛尼为了节省开支，已经逼得把佣人辞退了。她张一张他的卧室，床上草草理了一下，就象是一个男人铺的。她竖着耳朵听，一头冲进卧室，把衣橱打开。几件衬衫，几条领带，一双污垢的皮鞋——室内连衣服都少得可怜。她悄悄回到起坐间里，这时她才注意到他平日珍爱的那些小物件全不见了。一架原来是他母亲用的钟，长沙发上挂的望远镜；两张真正宝贵的早期印的哈罗风景，是他父亲当年上学的地方，末了还有她自己送给他的那件日本陶器，也是他欢喜的。这些全不见了；没想到这个世界会对他这样残忍，她的正义感不由得怒燃起来，可是虽则如此，这些东西不见了却快乐地预示她的计划的成功。就在望着那件日本陶器原来放着的地方时，她有了一种古怪的感觉，肯定有人在望着她；她转过身来，看见伊琳站在门口。两个人默默相视了一会儿；后来琼向伊琳走去，伸出手来，伊琳没有握。琼看见她拒绝握手，就把手放在自己背后；眼睛里渐渐露出愤怒；她等待伊琳先开口；在这样等着的时候，她带着莫名的怒气，包括妒忌、疑虑和好奇心，把她朋友的面貌、衣服和身材全都仔细看在眼里。伊琳穿着她那件长灰皮大衣；头上的旅行帽在前额上留出一片金黄的鬈发。宽大而柔软的皮大衣把她一张脸衬得就象个孩儿脸一样。伊琳的脸颊和琼的脸颊不同，一点不红，而是惨白，并且好象冻得很厉害。眼睛四周一道黑圈子。一只手里拿着一束紫罗兰。她眼睛回看着琼，唇边不露一点笑意，琼被这双深褐的大眼睛盯着她看，尽管又惊又怒，重又感到一点她往日的魅力来。琼终于先开口了。毁灭“你来做什么？”可是这一问也象在问自己，接着又说：“这场糟糕的官司。我来告诉他的——他打输了。”伊琳没有说话，眼睛始终盯着琼的脸看，琼叫了出来：“你站在那儿就象石头做的呢！”伊琳大笑：“我但愿如此！”可是琼转过身去：“住嘴！”她叫，“不要告诉我！我不要听见！我不要听你来做什么。我不要听见！”接着象一个不安的灵魂一样，迅疾地来回走起来。突然又说：“我先来的。我们两个人不能在一起！”伊琳脸上浮出一点微笑，象一刹的火花就熄灭了。她并没有移动一步。琼这时才看出，这个温柔的石头人已经一切置之度外，而且是抱了极大的决心来的；这种决心什么也阻挡不了，而且很可怕。她把帽子除掉，双手按着额头，把额前一大片金黄头发朝后掠开。“你没有资格在这里！”琼狠狠地说。伊琳回答：“我在哪儿也没有资格——”“你是什么意思？”“我已经离开索米斯。你一直都劝我的！”琼两只手把耳朵堵起。“不要讲！我什么话都不要听——什么事都不要知道。跟你是没法子抵抗的！你这样站着不动做什么！你为什么不走？”伊琳嘴唇动了一动，好象是说：“我能上哪儿去呢？”琼转身向着窗外。她可以望见街那头的钟。已经快四点了。他随时都会回来！她回头看着伊琳，一脸的怒容。可是伊琳并没有移动，两只戴了手套的手不停地盘弄着那一小束紫罗兰。愤怒和失望的眼泪滚下琼的双颊。“你怎么可以来呢？”她说。“我把你当朋友，你做了对不起我的事！”伊琳又大笑起来。琼看见这一着是错了，简直控制不住自己。“你为什么来呢，”她呜咽着说。“你毁掉我的一生，现在你又要毁掉他的！”伊琳的嘴战栗了一下；她的眼睛和琼的眼睛碰上，眼睛里的神情非常之凄惨；琼看见这样时一面呜咽，一面叫：“不要，不要！”可是伊琳的头垂了下来，一直垂到胸口。她转过身，迅速走了出去，用那一小束紫罗兰掩着嘴。琼跑到门口。她听见一阵足声朝下走去。她喊：“回来，伊琳！回来！”足声消逝了.琼站在楼梯口，弄得六神无主而且激动。伊琳为什么要走掉，丢下她独霸着战场呢？这是什么意思？她难道真的把他还给她么？还是她——？在她的心里就是这样七上八下地痛苦着.波辛尼还没有回来.那天下午老乔里恩在六点钟左右的时候从威斯达里亚大街回来；现在他差不多每天都要去消磨几个钟点了，他一进门就问自己的孙女在不在楼上。佣人告诉他琼刚回家来，他就派人上去叫她下来，跟她有话说。他已经打定主意告诉她自己跟她的父亲已经和好了。将来，过去的事情就算过去了。他不预备再这样一个人，或者几几乎是一个人，住在这幢大房子里；他预备把房子卖掉，给儿子在乡间买一幢房子，大家可以全搬了去住在一起。如果琼不愿意这样做，她可以每月拿一部分津贴，自己单住。这在她是无所谓的，因为她已经好久对他没有显示任何情感了。可是琼下楼时，她脸上象受了冻，而且一副可怜相；眼睛里的神情紧张而凄恻。她照老样子在他的圈椅臂上偎靠着他；老乔里恩本来煞费苦心想了一大套又清楚、又尊严、又伤心的话要讲，可是实际讲出来的比原来准备的一套差得远了。他的心里很痛苦，就象母鸟看见幼雏飞起来伤了翅膀时那颗伟大的心里一样痛苦。他的话时常说不下去，就象是道歉似的，因为他终于离开了正义的道路，不顾一切正常的道理向自己的天性屈服了。他感觉心神不宁，唯恐说出自己的打算之后，会给孙女树立下一个坏榜样，这时他已经谈到主题，暗示如果她不愿意的话，可以一个人单住，随便她；谈到这上面时，他的措词极端委婉。“而且如果你万一，乖乖，”他说，“发现跟他们过不来的话，没有关系，我也有办法。你愿意怎样就怎样。我们可以在伦敦租一个小小的公寓，你就住起来，我也可以经常跑上来。可是那些孩子，”他接上一句，“真是惹疼的小家伙！”这一段改变政策的解释，说得相当严肃，也相当露骨；就在这时候，他的眼睛里显出笑意。“以悌摩西那样衰弱的神经，这件事准会吓坏了他。那个娇生惯养的小家伙，对这件事情一定有意见，否则就叫我傻瓜！”琼还没有开口。她原来蹲在椅子靠臂上，头比他的高，所以看不见她的脸。可是不久他感觉到她温暖的脸颊和他的脸颊贴上，心里知道她对于这件事情的态度还好，至少还没有什么叫人着慌的地方。他的胆子大了起来。“你会喜欢你的父亲的，”他说——“一个顶温和的人。从来没有什么魄力，可是很容易相处。你会发现他很懂艺术，以及其他等等。”老乔里恩想起自己一打上下的水彩画来，一直都小心谨慎地锁在自己的卧室里；从前他把这些画都看作无聊的东西，现在他儿子要成为有产业的人了，他觉得这些画也并不怎么坏呢。“至于你的——你的继母，”他说，这个字在他说来相当勉强，“我认为是个文雅的女子——有点象耿梅基太太，我要说——可是很喜欢小乔。至于那两个孩子，”他重复了一句——的确，这句话在他这一连串的庄严的自我辩护里，听上去就象音乐一样——“真是可爱的小东西！”如果琼懂得的话，他这些话就是表达了那种对小孩子，对年轻的和弱小者的爱；过去就是这种爱使他为了弱小的琼放弃了自己的儿子，现在，反转过来又把老乔里恩从她身边拉走了。可是看见她默不作声，他开始慌起来，忍不住问她：“呃，你怎么说？”琼从椅子靠臂上滑下来，偎在他的膝盖上；她也有一篇话，现在轮到她说了。她觉得一切都安排得很好；她看不出有什么困难，而且她觉得一点用不着管人家怎样看法。老乔里恩不安地扭动一下身子。哼，那么人家还是会有看法的！他起先还以为经过这么多年，那些人也许不会有了！好吧，他也没有办法！不过他很不赞成自己孙女这样的口吻——她应当重视人家的看法！可是他没有说什么。他的心情太复杂，太矛盾了，没法表达出来。用不着——琼继续说下去——她就不管；不关他们的事情，可不是？只有一件事情——这时她拿脸颊抵着老乔里恩的膝盖，老乔里恩立刻知道这事非同小可；既然他打算在乡间买房子，能不能——为了宝贝她的缘故——买下索米斯在罗宾山的那所漂亮房子呢？房子已经完工了，华丽到极顶，而且现在没有人住进去了；在那个房子里，大家一定住得很快乐！老乔里恩立刻警觉起来。这样说，难道那个“有产业的人”不预备住进自己的新房子吗？他现在提起索米斯时从不称他名字，总是用这个称号。“不住了，”——琼说——“他不去住了，我知道他不去住了！”她怎么会知道的呢？她没法告诉他，可是她知道。她差不多有十足的把握！决不可能去住；情况变了！伊琳的话还在她耳朵里：“我已经离开索米斯。我能上哪儿去呢？”可是这一点她瞒起不讲。只要她祖父肯买下那幢房子，并且把那笔毫无理由套在菲力头上的该死的债务还掉！这对大家是再好没有了，真是万事大吉。说到这里，琼就用嘴唇贴着他的额头，使劲地抵着它。可是老乔里恩挣开她的爱抚，摆出一副正经面孔，这是他办事时候的表情。他问她是什么意思？她的话里有话——难道她看过波辛尼吗？琼回答：“没有；可是我到过他的寓所。”“到过他的寓所？谁带你去的？”琼泰然望着他。“我一个人去的。他的官司打输了。我也不管谁是谁非。我要帮助他；我一定要！”老乔里恩又问：“你看见他吗？”他的目光好象从孙女儿的眼睛里一直看进她的灵魂！琼又回答：“没有；他不在家，我等了一阵子，可是他没有回来。”老乔里恩身子动了一下，放心了。琼已经站起来，低头望着他；这样瘦弱、轻盈、而且年轻，然而又这样坚决；老乔里恩虽则心绪很乱，而且着恼，眉头皱得多深的，可没法消灭她脸上那种坚决的神情。他深刻地感觉到自己打了败仗，觉得缰绳从手里滑掉，觉得自己衰老了。“啊！”他终于说，“我看你总有一天自己弄得没法开交。你什么事都是为所欲为。”他那种古怪的人生哲学又突然发作起来，他又接上一句：“你生下来就是如此；到老到死也是如此！”然而他自己过去和那些生意人，和那些董事会，和各式各样的福尔赛之流，以及那些非福尔赛之流打交道的时候，还不是一直都为所欲为吗？想到这里，他忧郁地望望自己执拗的孙女——觉得她也有这种被他不自觉地看得高于一切的质地。“你知道他们说些什么闲话吗？”他缓缓地说。琼涨红了脸。青年近卫军“我知道——也不知道——也不在乎！”她跺一下脚。“我想，”老乔里恩说，眼睛垂了下来，“他就是死了你还是要他的！”长久的沉默，接着他又说：“可是，谈到买这幢房子——你知道哪有那么容易！”琼说她知道。她知道，只要他愿意买，他就可以买下来。他只消照造价给好了。“照造价！你一点不懂得。我可不愿意去找索米斯——我决不跟那个小子再打任何交道。”“可是你用不着找他；你可以去找詹姆士爷爷。如果你买不下这幢房子，能不能付掉这笔赔偿费呢？我知道他非常之窘——我刚才看见的。你可以从我的一份钱里扣去！”老乔里恩■了一■眼睛。“从你的钱里扣去！真是好办法！那么，请问，你没有了钱怎么办呢？”可是从詹姆士和他儿子手里把这房子拿过来，这个主意却暗暗打动了他。他过去在福尔赛交易所常听到不少关于这房子的意见，有许多赞美是相当可疑的。“太艺术化了”，可是房子的确好。从那个“有产业的人”手里把他心心念念喜爱的东西拿走，将是他对于詹姆士取得的最大胜利，事实上等于表明他预备把小乔抬举做一个有产业的人，使他恢复原来的正常地位，而且永远不再动摇。对于那些胆敢把他儿子看做一个穷小子，看做一个一钱莫名的瘪三的人，这一下总算是彻底的报复了！他要看看，看看！也许根本不需要考虑；要他出一笔很大的价钱，他可不来，可是如果价钱还合式的话，怎么，说不定就买下来！而且在他内心的内心里，他知道自己是没法拒绝琼的。可是他一点不露痕迹。这事还要想过——他告诉琼。

第三卷 第八章 波辛尼之死 
老乔里恩索来不喜欢仓促从事；就象买罗宾山房子这件事，如果不是琼的脸色使他感觉到一天不进行，就休想有一天安静的日子过，很可能他会一直考虑下去。第二天早上吃早饭的时候，琼就问他什么时候替他预备马车。“马车！”他说，有点莫名其妙的样子；“做什么？我是不打算出去的！”她的回答：“你如果不早出去的话，你就不会在詹姆士爷爷上商业区之前捉住他。”“詹姆士！你詹姆士爷爷有什么事情？”“那个房子呀，”她回答，声音非常可怜，使他没法再装佯了。“我还没有决定呢，”他说。“你一定要！一定要决定！啊！爷爷——你替我想想！”老乔里恩叫起屈来：“替你想想——我总是替你着想，可是你不替自己着想，你不想想你把自己牵进去算是什么。好吧，叫马车十点钟来！”十点一刻的时候，他正在把自己的雨伞放进公园巷的伞架里——帽子和大衣他都不愿意脱掉；他告诉瓦姆生要见他的老爷，也不等瓦姆生通报，就进了书房，坐下来。詹姆士还在餐室里和索米斯谈话，索米斯是在早饭之前又跑过来的。听到是这样一个客人，他慌忙地说：“咦！他来做什么，我不懂？”接着他站起来。日瓦戈医生“我说，”他向索米斯说，“你不要仓促做任何事情。头一件事就是探出她在哪里——我是你的话，就委托斯太莫纳①去办；这一家最行，他们如果找不到的话，谁也找不到了。”忽然感到一种莫名的温情，他自言自语地说：“可怜的小女人！我可不懂得她是什么心思！”就擤着鼻子走了出去。老乔里恩看见兄弟时并不起身，只伸出手来，相互照福尔赛的派头握一握手。詹姆士靠着桌子在另一张椅子上坐下，手托着头。“你好吗？”他说。“这些时不大看见你呢！”老乔里恩不理会他这一句话。“爱米丽好吗？”他问；也不等詹姆士回答，就接下去说：“我来找你谈小波辛尼的事情。听说他造的那个房子是个累赘。”“什么累赘不累赘我可不懂，”詹姆士说，“我知道他的官司打输了，敢说他要弄得破产。”老乔里恩可不放过这个送上来的机会。“毫无疑问！”他跟着说；“而且如果他破产，那个‘有产业的人’——就是索米斯——就要破钞了。哦，我想到一件事情：他如果不预备住进去的话——”①是一家私家侦探。这时他看见詹姆士眼睛里露出诧异和疑惑，就迅速说下去：“我不想打听什么；我想伊琳是坚决不去住的——跟我没关系。不过我自己正在考虑在乡下买幢房子，不要离开伦敦太远；如果这房子合适的话，我倒不妨看看，如果有价钱可谈的话。”詹姆土带着古怪而复杂的心情倾听着这段谈话；他半信不信，心里又是疑虑，又是宽慰，逐渐转为惧怕，深怕这里面还藏有什么阴谋诡计，然而往日他对于自己这位长兄的诚实不欺和卓越眼力却一直是信赖的，现在也还存在这么一点信赖。老乔里恩究竟听到些什么话呢，他又是怎样听来的呢，这些他也急于想知道；同时又想到，如果琼和波辛尼的关系完全断绝的话，他祖父决不会显得这样急于要帮助这个小子，想到这里，心里又引起一点希望。总之，他弄得迷迷惑惑；可是他既不愿意暴露出来，也不想表示任何态度，所以就说：“他们告诉我，你把遗嘱改过，把遗产给你儿子了。”其实并没有人告诉过他。他只是看见老乔里恩跟儿子和孙男孙女在一起，看见他把遗嘱从福尔赛-勃斯达-福尔赛律师事务所里拿走，把两件事情一凑这样得到的。这一猜可猜中了。“谁告诉你的？”老乔里恩问。“我可不知道，”詹姆士说，“我不大记得人名字——总是哪一个告诉我的。索米斯在这房子上花了不少的钱，他没有好价钱，恐怕不大会让掉的。”“哦，”老乔里恩说，“他如果以为我会出一笔很大的价钱来买，那他就想错了。他好象有这么多的钱乱花，我可没有那么多的钱乱花。让他去卖卖看，弄到公开拍卖时，看他能卖到多少。我听说，那房子并不是什么人都住得起的！”詹姆士私心里也是这样想法，就回答：“那是一个上流人士的住宅。索米斯现在这儿，你要跟他谈谈吗？”“不要，”老乔里恩说，“现在还谈不到，而且可能根本不想谈，照这情形肯定也谈不起来！”詹姆士有点被吓着了；碰到一件商业交易，谈实际数目字，他是有把握的，因为那是对事，不是对人；可是象这类事前的谈判总使他紧张——他总弄不清掌握多少尺寸。“好吧，”他说，“事情我一点不清楚。索米斯从来不跟我谈；我想他是愿意卖的——就是价钱上下一点。”“哦！”老乔里恩说，“我可不要他卖什么面子！”他怒冲冲戴上帽子。门开了，索米斯走进来。“有个警察在外面，”他半笑不笑地说，“要见乔里恩大伯。”老乔里恩怒望着他。詹姆士说：“警察？我可不知道什么警察的事情。可是我想你该知道一点，”又怀着鬼胎望着老乔里恩说：“我看你还是去见见他！”在穿堂里，一位警长呆呆站在那里，一双厚眼皮的淡蓝眼睛，正在注视着那套古英国式家具，是詹姆士在那次保特门方场举行的有名的马甫罗加诺拍卖中拍来的。“请进，我的哥哥就在里面。”詹姆士说。警长恭敬地抬起几个指头碰一下尖帽子，进了书房。詹姆士带着莫名的激动望着他进去。“好了，”他向索米斯说，“恐怕我们只好等待着看有什么事情。你大伯来谈你那个房子的！”他和索米斯回到餐室里，可是静不下来。“他来做什么？”他又自言自语起来。“哪个？”索米斯回答：“警长吗？我只知道他们从斯丹奴普门那边送他来的。总是乔里恩伯伯家那个‘山基’扒了人家东西了，我想！”可是虽则他这样泰然，心里也感到不宁。十分钟过去，老乔里恩走进来。静静的顿河他一直走到桌子面前，站在那里一声不响，扯着自己的白胡须。詹姆士张着嘴仰望着他；他从来没有看见自己老兄这样的神情。老乔里恩抬起手，缓缓地说：“小波辛尼在雾里被车子撞死了。”然后低下头来，深陷的眼睛望着兄弟和侄儿：“有——人——说是——自杀，”他说。詹姆士嘴张了开来：“自杀！自杀做什么？”老乔里恩厉声说：“除掉你跟你的儿子，还有谁知道！”可是詹姆士没有答话。对于一切高年的人，甚至一切的福尔赛，人生是有其苦痛的经历的。一个过路人看见他们紧紧裹在习俗、财富和舒适的大氅里，决不会疑心到这种黑暗的阴影也曾罩上他们人生的道路。对于每一个高年的人——即如华尔特-边沁爵士本人——自杀的念头至少也曾光临过他的灵魂的接待室；就站在门口，等待着进来，只是被内房里一个什么偶然的现实，什么隐约的恐惧，什么痛苦的希望抗拒着。对于福尔赛之流来说，这种最后对财产的否定是残酷的，啊！真是残酷啊！他们很难——也许永远不能——做到；然而，某些时候，他们不也是几乎做了吗！连詹姆士也这样想！接着从纷乱的思绪中，他冲口而出：“对了，我昨天还在报上看见的：‘大雾中马车撞毙行人！’死者连名字都不知道！他心神恍惚地望望老乔里恩，又望望儿子；可是自始至终他本能地都在否定这个自杀的传说。他不敢接受这种想法，这对他自己，他的儿子，对于每一个福尔赛，都太不利了。他顽抗着；由于他的本性总是不自觉地拒绝一切他所不能放心大胆接受的东西，他逐渐地克服了这种恐惧。只是碰巧撞上的！一定是如此！老乔里恩打断了他的梦想。“是当时就毙命的。昨天整天停在医院里。他们找不到什么东西可以证明他的身份。我现在就上医院去；你和你儿子顶好也来。”没有人反对这个命令，他领头出了餐室。这一天风和日晴，老乔里恩从斯丹奴普门坐马车上公园巷时，把车篷都敞开了。那时候，他坐在软垫上，向后靠起，抽着手里的雪茄，看见这样天高气爽，街上马车和行人来来往往，觉得非常高兴——在伦敦经过一个时期的大雾或者阴雨之后，第一天放晴时，街道上往往出现这种异常活跃的、简直象是巴黎的风光。他的心情而且感觉非常舒畅；几个月来，都没有这样过。他对琼的那段自白早被他忘得干干净净；眼前他就要和儿子，尤其是他的孙男孙女聚首了——（他事先已经约好小乔今天早上在什锦俱乐部再谈这件事）；而且下面在房子问题上跟詹姆士和他的儿子还有一场交锋，一个胜仗等待着他。现在他把马车篷撑了起来；无心去看外面的欢乐景象；而且福尔赛家人携带着一位警长同车，也不雅观。在马车里，警长又谈起死者的情况：那儿的雾刚巧并不太大。车夫说那位先生一定来得及看见车子开来，他好象是看准了做的。他的经济情况好象很窘，我们在房间里找到几张当票，他的存款折子已经透支了，今天报上又登了这件案子的消息；他的冷静的蓝眼睛把车中三个福尔赛一一看了一下。老乔里恩用眼角瞄了一下，看见兄弟脸上变了色，原来深思的、焦虑的神情变得更深刻了。的确，听了警长这番话之后，詹姆士所有的疑惧都重新引起来。窘——当票——透支！这些字眼过去在他一生中只是遥远的噩梦，现在好象使这个无论如何不能接受的自杀假设变得令人神魂不定地真实了。他望望儿子的眼睛；儿子虽则目光炯炯，神色不动，一声不响，却并不回顾他一下。老乔里恩冷眼旁观，看出这两个父子之间的攻守同盟，不由得想起自己的儿子来，就象没有儿子站在自己身边，他在这次看望死者的搏斗中就要双拳难敌四手似的。还有琼，这件事情决不能牵涉到她，这件事一直在他脑子里转。詹姆士有儿子照顾他！为什么他不叫小乔来呢？他把名片袋掏出来，用铅笔写了下面几个字。“即来，派马车来接你。”下车时，他把名片交给马夫，叫他飞快赶到什锦俱乐部去，如果乔里恩-福尔赛先生在俱乐部里的话，就把名片交给他，立刻把他接来。如果不在，就一直等到他来。他跟着其余三个人慢慢走上石阶，用伞柄撑着身体，有时停一下歇歇气。警长说：“这儿就是太平间，先生。可是你不要急。”在那间墙堵萧然的屋子里，除掉一线阳光照在洁无纤尘的地板上，什么都没有，一个人躺在那里，身上盖了一条被单。警长的一只坚定的大手拿起被单的边子掀了开来。一张失去视觉的脸望着他们，三个福尔赛从这张含有敌意的失去视觉的脸的两侧低头看去；他们里面每一个人私下的感情、恐惧和各人本性发出来的怜悯升起来，又落下去，就象生命浪潮的起伏一样，可是对于波辛尼，这种生命浪潮的一直等到他来。他跟着其余三个人慢慢走上石阶，用伞柄撑着身体，有时停一下歇歇气。警长冲击被四壁白墙给他永远隔断了。在他们每一个人的心里，各个人的性情，那种使他们各自在细微的地方和别人截然不同的奇特的生命源泉，决定了他们每一个人的思想状态。他们每一个人这样站着，离开别的人很远，然而又不可理喻地接近，孤独地和死亡站在一起，沉默地垂下眼睛。警长轻声问：“你认识吗，先生？”老乔里恩抬起头来，点一下。他看看对面自己的兄弟，一个瘦长的身材望着死者发呆，一张红得发暗的脸，紧张的灰眼睛；又看看苍白而沉默的索米斯站在他父亲旁边，当着这长卧的苍白死神面前，他对这两个人的敌意一时变得烟消云散了。死——它从哪里来的，怎样来的呢？过去一切忽然倒转过来，盲目地向另一个征途出发，出发到——哪儿呢？生命的火焰忽然变得无声无息！所有的人都得挨过的一次重重的残酷的辗压，眼睛清晰而勇敢地一直保持到最后的终局！尽管他们是虫蚁一样的渺小，而且无足轻重啊！这时老乔里恩的脸色亮了一下，因为索米斯低声跟警长叽咕了一句，就轻脚溜了出去。詹姆士忽然抬起头来。他脸上疑惧而苦恼的神情带有一种特殊的表情，那意思好象说，“我知道我是敌不过你的。”他找了一块手绢，揩揩额头；他伛着身子丧气而委琐地望着死者一会儿，转过身来也赶快走了出去。老乔里恩站在那儿象死一样地安静，眼睛注视着尸体。哪个能说出他心里想些什么呢？是想自己当年吗，当时他的头发就象这个先他而死的年轻人的头发一样黄？还是想到当年自己刚开始人生战斗的时候，那个一直为他所喜爱的长期战斗，而对于这个年轻人，它几乎还没有开始就结束了？还是想着他的孙女，现在一切希望都破灭了？还是另外那个女子？事情这样离奇，又这样可叹！而结局又是这样沉痛，令人啼笑皆非，百思不得其解。公道啊！对于人是没有公道的，因为他们永远是处在愚昧的黑暗里！或者他也许又在那儿玄想：顶好把这些全摆脱掉！顶好一了百了，就象这个可怜的年轻人.有人碰碰他的肩膀。这里的黎明静悄悄眼泪涌上来，他的睫毛湿了。“我这个事情办不了。还是走吧，小乔，你事情一完就赶快上我那儿来，”说完就低着头走了。现在轮到小乔里恩守在死者的身边了；在这个倒下去的尸体四周，他好象看见所有的福尔赛匍伏在地上喘息着。这一击未免来得太快了。那些潜藏在每一出悲剧里的各种动力——这些动力不顾任何的阻挠，通过错综复杂的变化推向那个讽刺性的结局——终于集合在一起，融汇在一起，一声霹雳，扔出那个受害者，而且将他周围所有的人全都打倒在地上。至少小乔里恩是这样觉得，他好象看见他们躺在尸体的四周。他请警长把出事的经过告诉他，警长就象是抓着这个千载一时的机会，重又把获悉的事实叙述了一遍。“不过，先生，”他又说，“这是表面，事实远不止这一点。我自己并不认为是自杀，也不相信完全出于偶然。我觉得很可能由于心事重重，没有能注意后面来的车子。也许你可以说明一点真相呢。”他从口袋里掏出一个小包，放在桌上。他小心把包打开，里面是一个女子用的手帕，折起来，再用一根褪色的镀金别针别上，别针上面原来镶的宝石已经落掉。一阵干紫罗兰的香气透进小乔里恩的鼻孔。“在他贴胸的口袋里找到的，”警长说；“手帕上的名字已经剪掉了！”小乔里恩很勉强地回答：“恐怕我没法帮助你！”可是在他的眼前，一张过去他看见过的脸又清晰地浮现出来；那时候她看见波辛尼到来，脸上一亮，多么的震栗而且高兴！他现在对她比对自己的女儿还要关切，比对任何福尔赛都要关切——想到她带着忧郁而温柔的眼光，一张娇弱柔顺的脸，等待着死者，也许便在这时候还在日光中静静地耐心地等待着。他戚然离开医院，向自己父亲的房子走去，一面盘算着这次死亡将会在福尔赛族中造成分裂。这一击的确已经穿过他们的防线，钻进他们这棵大树的木头里面去了。他们也许会象从前一样繁荣着，在全伦敦的眼中保持着一个美好的外表，可是树干已经死了，被那击毙波辛尼的同一的一刹电光摧毁了。现在那些小树苗将要代替它，每一个小树苗成为新的财产意识保卫者。好一片树林啊，这家福尔赛人！小乔里恩想着——我们国土上最优秀的木材！关于致死的原因——他的族人无疑会力图否定自杀的揣测，这样太有碍家声了！他们会认为是一件偶然发生的事故，是命运的打击。在他们内心里，他们甚至会感到这是天意，天降的惩罚——波辛尼不是危害到他们两个最宝贵的财产，钱袋和家庭吗？于是他们将会谈论“小波辛尼那次不幸的事件”，不过他们可能不愿意谈——还是沉默的好！至于他自己，他认为那个车夫叙述的经过毫无价值。因为一个这样疯狂恋爱着的人，决不会因为没有钱而自杀的；而且波辛尼这样性格的人也不会把经济的困难放在心上。这样一想，他也否定了自杀的假设，因为在他的心目中，死者的一张脸他看得太清楚了。在青春的顶尖夭折掉，热情的狂潮被一个意外事件割断了——在小乔里恩看来，这样设想只有更使人为波辛尼慨叹。接着他想象到索米斯家庭目前以及今后必然会有的那种情形。那一道闪光的阴森森光线已经照出了这个家的骨胳，骨胳中间的空隙象在狞笑，那些掩饰的血肉全落掉了。在斯丹奴普门的餐室里，老乔里恩正一个人坐着。当他的儿子进来时，他坐在大圈椅里，形容甚为憔悴。他一双眼睛把墙上挂的那些静物画和那张“落日中的荷兰渔船”的名画一一看过来，就象把自己的一生，以及一生中那些希望、收获、成就一一凝视过来一样。“啊！小乔！’他说，“是你吗？我已经告诉过可怜的琼了。可是事情还没有完。你上索米斯家去吗？她是自作自受，我要说；不过我总想起来不好受——关在家里——孤孤单单的一个人。”他举起一只瘦瘠的露出青筋的手，用力勒着。

第三卷 第九章 伊琳返家 
索米斯丢下詹姆士和老乔里恩在医院太平间里，漫无目的地匆匆沿着街道走去。波辛尼死亡的悲剧把一切的面目都改变了。他现在已经不再感觉到浪费一分钟就会弄得不可收拾；在验尸手续完毕之前，他也不敢再把自己妻子逃走的事告诉任何人。那天早上他起得很早，在邮差送信之前就起来，他亲手从信箱里把第一批信件取出来。虽则里面没有伊琳的来信，他却借这个机会告诉贝儿生，说主妇上海边去了；而且说他自己大约也要下去从星期六住到星期一。这就给了他喘息的时间，在这个时间里，他总来得及到处把她找遍。可是现在波辛尼的死亡事件——真是一件稀奇的死亡事件，一想到这个就象把一块烙铁放在心口一样，就象从心上把一块重铁拿走一样——使他暂时没法采取任何步骤，他觉得这一天没有办法混过；所以他在街上东逛西逛，看看迎面来的每一张为千百种焦虑蚕食着的脸。当他游荡时，他想起那个已经结束了自己的游荡和窥伺的人；他再不会骚扰他的家庭了。时间已是下午，他看见报纸的海报上宣布死者姓名已经发现，就买下那些报纸看看报上怎样说的。如果能够的话，他真想把他们的嘴堵起来。他上商业区和布尔德商量了好久。回家的途中，大约在四点半钟时经过乔布生行门口的阶台时，他碰见了乔治-福尔赛。乔治递了一份晚报给索米斯，说：“你看！你看见那个倒霉的‘海盗’的消息吗？”索米斯冷酷地回答：“看到。”罪与罚乔治盯了他一眼。他从来就不喜欢索米斯；现在认为波辛尼之死应当由他负责。是他把波辛尼逼死的——是他那一次行使对自己妻子的权力，逼得“海盗”在那天不幸的下午象没头苍蝇乱撞的。“那个倒霉鬼，”他在想；“心里对索米斯又是妒忌，又是恨，以至于在那个可恨的大雾里一点听不见后面公共马车冲过来。”索米斯逼死了他！乔治的眼睛下了判决。“报上说是自杀，”他终于说出来。“这话站不住。”索米斯摇摇头。“车祸。”他说。乔治的拳头紧勒着报纸，把来塞在口袋里。临走之前，他忍不住再捣他一下。“哼！家里都过得好吗？小索米斯有了没有？”索米斯的脸色变得和乔布生行阶台一样白，嘴嘟得就象要咬人似的，匆匆掠过乔治走了。索米斯到了家，用钥匙开了大门走进那个光线黯淡的穿堂，一眼就看见自己妻子的镶金阳伞放在地毯柜上。他扔下皮大衣，赶快走进客厅。天晚了，窗帘已经拉上，炉架上一堆杉柴烧得很旺，他靠着火光看见伊琳坐在她平日坐的长沙发角上。他轻轻关上门，向她走去。她动也不动，而且好象没有看见他似的。“你回来了？”他说。“为什么黑地里这样坐着？”接着他看见她的脸，脸上是那样苍白，那样毫无表情，仿佛是血液已经停止流动似的；眼睛睁得多大，就象猫头鹰受了惊吓时一双又大又圆的黄眼睛。她裹着灰皮大衣靠着长沙发的软垫，非常象一只被捕获的猫头鹰，裹紧自己柔软的羽毛抵着笼子的铜丝；原来刚健婀娜的身条已经看不见了，就象经过残酷的劳动之后人垮了似的；就象自己再不需要美丽，再不需要刚健婀娜了。“你回来了？”他又说了一句。她永远不抬起头来，永远不开口，火光弄着她木然不动的身影。忽然她打算站起来，可是被他拦着；这时候他才明白过来。她就象一头受了重伤的野兽一样，不知道上哪儿去，也不知道自己在做着什么，这样才回来的。只要看见她的外表，蜷缩在皮大衣里，就够了。他这时才真正明白波辛尼是她的情人；明白她是看到他丧命的新闻——也许就象他自己一样，在一个风紧的街角上买了一份报纸看了才知道的。所以她是自动回来的，自动回到她一直要摆脱的笼子里来——他把这件事的重大涵意盘算过之后，真想叫出来：“把你可恨的身体——我爱的身体——带出我的屋子！把你的可怜的苍白的脸庞，那样残忍又那样温柔的脸庞带走——不要等我把它打烂。滚开去，不要让我再看见你！”这些话他虽则没有说出来，可是好象看见她起身走了，就象一个做着噩梦的女子似的，竭力挣扎着想清醒过来——起身走到外面的寒冷黑暗中去，一点不想到他，连他的存在都一点不觉得。接着他叫出来，和他没有说出来的话恰巧是抵触的：“不要动，坐在那里！”他转过身去，在火炉另一头自己常坐的那张椅子上坐下来。两个人不作声坐着。索米斯心里想：“这一切算什么来呢？为什么我要这样痛苦呢？我犯了什么罪呢？这不是我的过失啊！”他又看看她，象中了枪的奄奄一息的鸟儿一样蜷缩着；你望着它可怜的胸口喘息着，只见出气不见入气；它的可怜的眼睛也看着你这击中她的人，神情缓滞、温和，就象没有瞧见你似的，同时向一切美好的东西——太阳、空气和它的伴侣告别。两个人就这样靠着火坐着，一声不响，各自坐在火炉的两头。燃烧着的杉柴冒出烟气，他本来很喜欢这香味，现在好象扼着他的喉咙，使他再也忍受不下去了。他走到穿堂里，把大门打开，尽量呼吸门外透进来的冷空气，然后帽子不戴，大衣也不穿，就跑到方场上去。一只半饿着肚子的野猫沿着花园栏杆向他挨过来，索米斯心里想：“痛苦啊！我这痛苦几时才能停止呢？”在对面街上一家门口，一个他熟识的名叫路德的人正在擦着皮靴，那神气俨然说：“我是这儿的主人，”索米斯向前走去。远远从澄澈的空气里传来他和伊琳结婚的那个教堂的钟声，为了迎接基督的降生操练着，那片声音把车轮的声音全淹没了。他觉得自己急需要喝一杯烈酒，或者使自己平息下去，什么事都无动于衷，或者把自己激怒起来。只要他能够挣脱自己——从他有生以来第一次感到缠绕着他的愁绪中挣脱出来。只要他能够接受这种想法：“跟她离婚——赶她出去！她已经忘记你了。忘掉她吧！”只要他能够接受这种思想：“放她走吧——她也痛苦得够了！”只要他能接受这样的欲望：“使她做你的奴隶——她是听你摆布的！”甚至于只要他能接受这种突如其来的觉悟：“这一切算得了什么呢？”只要他能有这么一分钟忘掉自己，忘掉自己的行动有什么关系，忘掉不管他怎样做他都得有所牺牲。只要他能凭着自己的冲动去做就好了！可是他什么都忘记不了；什么思想、觉悟或者欲望他都不能接受；这事情太严重了；和他太密切了，就象一个冲不破的藩笼。远在方场的那一边，卖报的童子正在叫卖着晚报，那声音和教堂的钟声合成一片，然而又是那么刺耳，听得人毛发悚然。索米斯掩起耳朵；脑子里忽然掠过一种念头，觉得如果不是老天有眼，说不定现在压死的不是波辛尼，而是他自己，而她，不但不会倦缩在那里眼神呆滞象只中枪的鸟儿———个什么软绵绵的东西触到他的腿，原来是那只猫拿身子挨他。索米斯从胸臆间迸出一声呜咽，使他的人从头抖到脚。接着黑暗中一切又变得沉寂，那些房子好象在凝视着他，每一所房子里有它的主人和它的女主人，和它快乐的或者辛酸的秘密。突然，他望见自己的大门开着，穿堂里的火光映出一个男子的黑暗身形，背立着。他心中一惊，蹑着脚走了过去。他能望见自己的皮大衣扔在雕花的橡木椅上；望见挂在墙上的波斯地毯、银碗和一排排瓷盆，还有那个站在门口的生人。他厉声问：“你有什么事，先生？”那人转过身来。原来是小乔里恩。“大门本来开着，”他说。“我能不能见你太太谈一分钟话，有个信要带给她？”索米斯带着陌生的眼光斜看他一眼。“我妻子什么人都不见，”他执拗地说。小乔里恩温和地回答：“我不会耽搁她两分钟的。”索米斯抢过他，拦着门。白痴“她什么人都不能见，”他又说。小乔里恩的眼睛向他身后的穿堂里望去，索米斯转过身来。伊琳就站在客厅的门口，眼睛睁得很大，焦切的神情，嘴唇张开，两只手伸了出来。看见是这两个人时，她脸上的光采消失了；手垂到腰间；站在那里就象石头一样。索米斯掉转身子，恰巧和客人的眼光碰上；他看见客人眼睛里的那种神情，不由而然发出一声咆哮。嘴唇合拢时，隐隐带着微笑。“这是我的房子，”他说；“我的事情不要别人管。我告诉过你——现在再告诉你；我们不见客。”他迎着小乔里恩的脸砰的一声把大门关上。

插 曲 第一章 
残夏夏天的淹留总未免太短太短。——莎士比亚一是在九十年代的头几年中。那天是五月里的最后一天，下午六点钟光景；老乔里恩-福尔赛坐在罗宾山自己房子走廊前面那棵橡树下面。在蚊蚋来咬他之前，他决不肯放过这傍晚的风光。他一只瘦黄的、露出青筋的手捏着一截雪茄烟头，瘦削的手指，指甲留了多长的——有一只涂了油的尖指甲，是从早期维多利亚时代就被他留起来的；那时候的风气就是留指甲，什么都不碰，连指尖都不碰一碰，认为这样最神气。他戴一顶又旧又黄的巴拿马草帽，遮着西下的太阳——圆大的前额，大白上须，瘦削的双颊，长瘦的下巴。他架起大腿；神态极其悠闲，而且文雅——拿一个每天早上都要在自己的绸手绢上洒花露水的老人来说，正该是这样。在他脚下躺着一只毛茸茸的棕白二色的狗，充做朋玛兰种——这就是小狗伯沙撒，它和老乔里恩之间原始的敌意多年来已转为亲密了。靠近他的椅子，是一个秋千架，秋千板上坐着好儿的玩偶——名字叫傻瓜-爱丽丝——身子倒在大腿上，一只悲惨的鼻子埋在自己的黑裙子中间。反正它永远是被人欺负的，所以随便它怎样坐都没有关系。橡树下面的草地逐渐低成一个斜坡，一直连到那片凤尾草圃，再过去就是田野，地势更低了，直抵那座池塘和小树林，以及那片斯悦辛曾经说过“很不错，很难得”的景色——五年前，斯悦辛跟伊琳坐马车下来看房子时，也就是坐在这棵橡树下面凝望着这片景色的。老乔里恩也听说过他兄弟的这次壮举——在福尔赛交易所里，这次出城是出了名的。斯悦辛啊！想不到这家伙去年十一月就去世了，年纪不过七十九岁；自从安姑太去世之后，大家都有一个想法，究竟福尔赛家的人能不能永远不死呢？现在斯悦辛一死，这种疑虑又重新引了起来。又死了一个，只剩下老乔里恩、詹姆士、罗杰、尼古拉、悌摩西、裘丽、海丝特、苏珊！“我是八十五岁了！”老乔里恩想，“然而我并不觉得老——只是偶然这里有点儿痛罢了。”他继续搜索着往事。三年前，自从买下自己侄儿索米斯这所不祥的房子，在罗宾山这儿安居下来之后，他始终没有觉得老过。跟着儿子和孙男孙女——琼，和小乔后妻生的好儿和乔儿——在乡下过着；远离开伦敦的嘈杂和福尔赛交易所里那些七嘴八舌，不开董事会，成天悠哉游哉，没有工作，尽是玩，不少的时间都是花来把这所房子和它的二十顷地，布置得更好、更完美，或者顺着好儿和乔儿的小性子做些事情，这样把时间消磨掉。已往那一段长时间的悲剧——包括琼、索米斯、索米斯妻子伊琳、和小波辛尼——在他心里积下的郁结早已烟消云散了。连琼也终于摆脱掉抑郁——你看她现在不是随父亲和继母上西班牙旅行去了。想不到他们走后，日子显得更加安静了；悠闲，然而冷清，因为他儿子不在身边。近来小乔在他眼中真是无所不好，和他在一起时总是使人觉得安慰、开心——一个顶温和的人；可是女子——包括顶好的女子在内——不知道为什么，总有点使你嫌烦，当然只有令你倾倒的女子除外。远远的一只布谷鸟叫了；一只斑鸠在田野那边第一棵榆树上唤晴，自从上次刈草之后，那些白菀花和黄毛茛长得多快啊！风也转为西南风——多鲜美的空气，就象甘露！他把帽子向后推推，让阳光照在自己的下巴和脸颊上。今天，不知道什么缘故，他很想有个伴——有张美丽的脸儿看看就好了。人都把老年人看做什么都不需要似的。“人的需要总是没有完的！”他想，那种不时侵入他灵魂的非福尔赛哲学又发作了。“一只脚已经踏进棺材的人还是有需要，这一点我丝毫不觉得奇怪！”在这儿乡下——那些尘俗事的催逼全达不到——他的孙男孙女、花草、树木、他这个小王国里的鸟儿，更不用提照耀在这些上面的日月星辰，都日日夜夜向他说，“芝麻开门”①。而且门的确打开来了——开了多大，也许他不知道。对于他们开始叫做的“自然”，他过去一直就是能够感受的，真正地，几乎象宗教一样虔诚地感受到，不过这些东西不管多么使他感动，他在习惯上仍旧坚持那种现实的看法，夕阳就是夕阳，风景就是风景。可是这些日子里，自然的确使他感到回肠荡气，他很能领略到这种滋味。在这些安静明媚的日子里，白天逐渐来得长了，他每天都要和好儿手搀着手闲逛——小狗伯沙撒跑在他们前面，聚精会神在寻找他从来找不到的那些东西——看玫瑰开花，墙头的果子结实累累，阳光照耀着橡树叶子和小树林里的幼苗，看睡莲的叶子舒展开来，映着光，和那唯一的一片麦田里银色的新麦，倾听着椋鸟和云雀歌唱，看阿尔得尼乳牛吃草，缓缓甩动着它们蓬松的尾巴；在这些晴朗的日子里，他每天都感到那一点点回肠荡气，因为这一切他都爱，同时在他的心灵深处可能感觉到自己没有多久的时间能享受这些。想到有一天——也许十年不到，也许五年不到——眼前的这一切就会从他手里攫走，而他的精力还没有耗完，还能够爱这些；一想到这里，他觉得这简直是一件极不公平的事，就象乌云停留在他的人生天边上。就算今生之后还有来生，那也不是他喜欢的；总不是罗宾山和花儿鸟儿和美丽的脸儿——便是现在，眼前这些东西都太少了！人一年老一年，他对于虚伪的事情却更加厌恶了；在六十年代里他还摆出的一副道学面孔，就象他过去为了炫耀而留蓄的边须一样，现在早已放弃了；现在使他肃然起敬的只有三件事——美、正直的行为和财产的意识；而在目前，这些里面最伟大的还是美。他的兴趣过去一直很广，而且现在的确还能够看《泰晤士报》，可是不论什么时候只要听见一声山乌叫，他就会把报纸放下来。正直的行为——财产——这些，不知道为什么，都使人厌倦；山乌和夕阳却从不使他厌倦，只给他一种不舒适之感，觉得永远听不够、看不够似的。他凝望着眼前黄昏时的静谧的光采，和草地上金黄雪白的小花，心里有了一个想法；这种天气啊，就象《奥费俄》①里的音乐一样，那是他最近在①《天方夜谭》：《四十盗故事》里叫开宝石洞时用的咒语，此处指揭开自然的神奇。①格鲁克（1714—787）所作的歌剧，故事叙述希腊神话中善于唱歌的青年奥费俄靠自己的歌唱把自己的亡妻从阴曹地府救返阳世。古凡园歌剧院听来的。是一出好歌剧，不象买耶比尔，甚至也不全然象莫扎特，可是有那么一点味儿，也许还要可爱些；有点古典音乐和黄金时代的色采，质朴而醇厚，还有那个拉福吉里，“简直抵得上当年”——这是他所能给的最高的评价。奥费俄那样思念他丧失的美人，苦念他沦入阴曹的爱人，就象人世的爱和美的结局一样——那种通过嘹亮的音乐歌唱着、动荡着的相思，也在今天傍晚这片迟迟不去的美丽景色里动荡着。他脚下穿着软木后跟、两边有松紧的长靴，这时不由自主地用靴尖踢踢小狗伯沙撒的肋骨，把小狗踢醒了，又找起狗蝇来；虽则它身上实在没有狗蝇，它却死不相信没有。找完之后，它把搔过的地方在主人的小腿上擦擦，重又把下巴靠在那只扰人的靴面上伏下来。老乔里恩的脑子里忽然回忆起一张脸来——是他三个星期前在歌剧院里见到的——伊琳，他那宝贝侄儿——有产业的人——索米斯的妻子——自从那一次茶会之后——那还是在斯丹奴普门那所老房子里，为了庆祝他的孙女琼和小波辛尼不祥的订婚礼而举行的——他还没有见过她，虽说如此，他一看见就认识，因为他一直就欣赏她——真是个美人儿。她后来成为小波辛尼的情妇，招致了许多物议，小波辛尼死后，听说她立刻就离开了索米斯。此后是什么情形，谁也不知道。那一天看见她——不过是侧面——坐在前排，事实上是三年来唯一的消息，证明她还在人间。别人从来不提到她。不过小乔有一次告诉他一件事——使他听了非常不开心。大约小乔是从乔治-福尔赛那里听来的；原来乔治曾经在大雾里看见波辛尼，就在他被车子撞死的那一天下午；事情是索米斯对自己的妻子做了——骇人听闻的事情；从这件事情上可以想象得出波辛尼的痛苦来。小乔也看见过她——在死讯传出来的那天下午——只有片刻的时间，那样子“又疯狂又失神落魄”，小乔这句形容的话始终都印在他脑子里。第二天琼就去看她，硬抑着自己的悲痛去看她；女佣看见她来哭了，告诉她那天夜里女主人偷偷溜了出去，不见了。整个儿是一出悲剧——有一件事是肯定的——索米斯从此就没有能够染指。现在索米斯搬到白里登去住了，来往的奔波——活该，这个有产业的人！老乔里恩只要厌恶起一个人来——象他厌恶这个侄儿那样——就永远不会消释。他还记得听到伊琳失踪的消息时，心中为之一慰；头一天小乔看见她时，她一定是在街上看见那条“建筑师惨死”的消息，糊里糊涂跑回家来，就象一条受伤的野兽暂时糊里糊涂回到自己的巢穴一样；可是一想到她象个囚犯住在那所房子里，真使人受不了。那天晚上在歌剧院里看见她的那张脸时使他一惊——比他记得的她还要美，可是漠无表情，就象个面具，什么感想都藏在面具后面。年纪还很轻——大约二十八岁吧。唉，唉！很可能她现在又有个情人了。但是一想到这有乖礼教——因为结了婚的女子本来不应该谈恋爱，便是一次已经太多了——他的脚面抬起了来，伯沙撒的头也跟着抬起来。这只灵敏的小狗爬起来望着老乔里恩的脸。那意思好象说，“散步吗？”老乔里恩回答：“来吗，老东西！”麦田里的守望者他们就象平时一样，缓步穿过那片星星点点开着白菀花和黄毛茛的草地，进了凤尾草圃。这儿的凤尾草还没有生出多少；这块地方选得颇见匠心：它先是从这边草地低下去，穿过凤尾草圃再升起来，和对面草地一样高；给人以一种参差不齐的印象；在园林的布置上最最讲究这个。伯沙撒最喜爱这儿一带的石头和泥土，有时候还被它找到一只田鼠。老乔里恩故意要从这里穿过，因为虽则现在还不好看，他却指望它总有一天会长得好看，他而且总是想：“我一定要把瓦尔找下来看看；他比毕基强。”因为花草也象房屋和疾病一样，需要请教最好的好手。这儿的螺蛳最多；如果有他的孙男孙女陪着时，他就会指着一个螺蛳，把那个小男孩的故事讲给他们听：小男孩说，“妈妈，李子长脚吗？”“不长，孩子。”“那么，啊呀，我莫不是吞了一只螺蛳下去了。”这时候孩子踮着脚跳一下，紧紧抓着他的手，想着那只螺蛳沿着小男孩的“红食管”爬下去，他的眼睛就会■■笑了。从凤尾草圃出来，他拉开那扇柴门，恰好通往第一块田野；一片广阔得象公园的面积，划出一处菜园，用红砖墙砌起来。老乔里恩避开这里，因为情调不对头，下了小山向池子走去。伯沙撒知道这儿有只把水老鼠，跳跳蹦蹦在前面跑，从动作上看出已经是一只半老的狗，可是由于天天走，所以是熟路。到了池子边上，老乔里恩立了一会，看见又有一朵睡莲开了；明天他要指给好儿看，等他的“小心肝”胃病好了——她在午饭时吃了一只番茄，就发病了，小肠胃太娇嫩。现在乔儿上学去——还是第一个学期——好儿几乎成天都跟他在一起，这两爬下去，他的眼睛就会■■笑了。从凤尾草圃出来，天没有她真是冷清。他还感觉到这里痛——现在时常找上他——一点点刺痛，就在左边胁下。他回头看看小山。的确，可怜的小波辛尼把这所房子造得异常之好；如果他还活着的话，一定会混得很得意呢！他现在哪里去了？也许阴魂不散，仍旧萦绕在这里，他最后建筑的地点，也是他恋爱悲剧发生的地点。再不然，会不会菲力普-波辛尼的精神渗透这一切呢？哪个说得了！那只狗把它的腿弄上烂泥了！老乔里恩向小树林走去。前些日子这儿的风信子开成一片，再好看没有了，他想在阳光照不到的地方，总还会留些下来，开在树木中间就象落下来的一块块蓝天。他走过在这里造的一排牛房和鸡房，由一条小径走进树苗的丛密处，向一片开着风信子的地方走去。伯沙撒重又跑在他的前面，呜呜叫了一声。老乔里恩用脚碰碰它，小狗仍旧不动，刚好拦着路，蓬松脊背上当中的一条茸毛慢慢耸了起来。究竟是听见狗叫和看见狗毛竖起来的样子，还是因为人在树林子里都有那种感觉，老乔里恩也觉得有点毛骨悚然。接着小径拐了个弯，一段长满苔藓的老断株横在那里，上面坐着一个女子。她的脸掉了过去；老乔里恩正在想：“她擅入人家园地——我得竖起一块木牌子！”那张脸已经转了过来。天哪！就是他在歌剧院看见的那张脸——就是他刚才想到的那个女子！在这迷惘的一刹那，他看见的东西全模糊起来，就象看见一个幽灵似的——怪事——也许是阳光斜射在她的淡紫灰长衣上的缘故！她随即站起来，立在那里微笑，头微微偏向一边。老乔里恩心里想：“真美啊！”她没有说话，他也没有；他这才明白是什么原因，不由得相当佩服。她无疑是来凭吊往事的，因此也不想拿什么庸俗的解释替自己开脱。“不要让那只狗碰上你的衣服，”他说；“它的腿弄湿了。你过来！”可是小狗伯沙撒仍旧向客人走去，她伸出手拍拍它的头。老乔里恩赶快说：“那天晚上我在歌剧院看见你的；你没有看见我。”“哦，我看见你的！”他觉得这句话含有很微妙的奉承，好象下面还有一句：“你想一个人还会漏掉你吗？”“他们都上西班牙去了，”他猛然说。“我一个人；所以进城去听听歌剧。那个拉福吉里唱得不错。你看见那些牛房吗？”就在这样充满着神秘和类似情感的场合下，他本能地向那片产业走去，伊琳和他并排走；腰肢微摆，就象最美丽的法国女子的腰肢一样；衣服也是那种淡紫灰。他注意到她的金黄色头发已经有几根银丝，跟她那双深褐色眼睛和乳黄色的脸配在一起真是特别。突然那双丝绒般的褐色眼睛斜瞥了他一眼，使他心里一动。这一瞥就好象是来自一个遥远的地方，几乎是来自另外一个世界，至少是一个不大住在这一个世界里的人。他木然说道：“你现在住在哪儿？”“我在采尔西区租了个小公寓。”他不想知道她怎样生活，不想知道任何事情；可是那句滑边的话仍旧说出来：“一个人？”她点点头。这一来，他放心了。他忽然恍悟，如果不是那一点阴错阳差，很可能现在她是这片树林的女主人，引着他这位客人去看牛房。“全是阿尔德尼种，”他说；“出的牛奶最好。这一只是个美人儿。呜哇，雁来红！”那只赭色的乳牛，眼睛和伊琳的眼睛一样的柔和，一样的褐黄，由于挤过奶不久，站着一动不动，它从两只发亮的、温和而嘲讽的眼睛梢里打量着面前的两个人，灰色的嘴唇流出一条口涎，淌到干草里。凉爽的牛房里光线很暗，隐隐传来干草、香草和阿摩尼亚的气味；老乔里恩说：“你一定要上去跟我吃晚饭。我派马车送你回去。”他看出她内心在挣扎着；当然是感触的缘故，这也很自然。可是他想她做伴；美丽的脸庞，苗条的身材，真是个美人儿！整整一下午他都是一个人。也许他的眼睛显出苦恼神情，所以她回答：“谢谢你，乔里恩大伯。我很高兴。”他搓搓手，说：“好极了！那就上去罢！”两个人从那片田野走上去，仍旧是伯沙撒领前。这时太阳已经差不多平照到他们脸上，老乔里恩不但能够看出少许的白发，而且看出几道不深不浅的皱纹，恰好在她美丽的容颜上添上一层孤洁——好象是空谷的幽兰。“我要带她从走廊上进去，”他想：“不把她当做普通的客人。”“你整天做些什么呢？”他说。“教音乐；我还有一样兴趣。”“工作！”老乔里恩说，把玩偶从秋千上面拿起来，抹抹它的黑短裙。“什么都比不上，可不是？我现在什么都不做了。上了年纪。那是一个什么兴趣！”“想法子帮助那些苦命的女人。”老乔里恩弄不大懂。“苦命？”他跟了一句；接着就明白过来，心里这么一撞，原来她的意思和他自己碰巧用这两个字时的意思完全一样。就是帮助伦敦的那些妓女啊！多么不可思议而且骇人的兴趣！可是好奇心克服了天然的畏缩，他问：“为什么？你给她们什么帮助呢？”“没有什么。我没有钱可花。只能是同情，有时候给一点食物。”老乔里恩的手不由而然地去摸，抹抹它的黑短裙。“什么都比不上，可不是？我现在什么都不做了。上了年纪。那是一个什么兴趣！”“想法子帮助那些苦命的女人。”老乔里恩弄不大懂。“苦命？”他跟了一句；接着就明白过来，心里这么一撞，原来她的意思和他自己碰巧用这两个字时的意思完全一样。就是帮助伦敦的那些妓女啊！多么不可思议而且骇人的兴趣！可是好奇心克服了天然的畏缩，他问：“为什么？你给她们什么帮助呢？”“没有什么。我没有钱可花。只能是同情，有时自己的钱袋。他匆促地说：“你怎样找到她们的？”“我上救济医院去。”“救济医院！嘘！”马丁·伊登“我看了最难受的是这些人过去差不多全有相当的姿色。”老乔里恩把玩偶拉拉直。“姿色！”他猛然说：“哈！对了！真是可怜！”就向房子走去。他带领着她掀开还没有卷起的遮阳帘，从落地窗进去，到了他经常读《泰晤士报》的屋子里；在这间屋子里，他还看看《农业杂志》，杂志里面常有些放大的甜菜插画，刚好给好儿做图画的临本。“晚饭还有半个钟点。你要不要洗手！我带你上琼的屋子去。”他看见她急切地向周围顾盼；自从她上一次跟她丈夫，或者她情人，或者丈夫和情人，上这里来过，房子改变了多少——他不知道，也没法说得出——这一切都是秘密，他也不愿意知道。可是变化多大啊！在厅堂里，他说：“我的孩子小乔是个画家，你知道。他很懂得布置。这些都不合我的口味，当然，可是我让他去。”她站着一点不动，把厅堂和音乐室一齐看在眼里——厅堂和音乐室这时候在那扇大天窗下面，已经完全打成一片。老乔里恩看着她时有一种古怪的感觉。难道她打算从这两间珠灰和银色屋子的阴影里唤起什么幽灵吗？他自己很想采用金色；生动而实在。可是小乔却是法国人的眼光，因此把两间屋子装饰成这副虚无缥缈的模样，看上去就象这家伙成天抽香烟喷的烟气一样，偶尔一处点缀一点蓝颜色或者红颜色。这不是他的梦想！在他的脑子里，他原想在这些地方挂上他那些金框的静物画和更安静的图画，这些都是他过去视为奇货的，那时候买画只讲究多。这些画现在哪里去了？三文不值二文全卖掉了！在所有福尔赛家人中间，他是唯一能够随着时代转移的，也因为这个缘故，使他硬抑制着自己不要把这些画留下来。可是他的书房里仍旧挂着那张“落日中的荷兰渔船”。他开始和她走上楼梯，走得很慢，因为觉得左胁下有点痛。“这些是浴间，”他说，“和盥洗室。我都铺上了瓷砖。孩子们的房间在那一边。这是小乔的卧室和他妻子的卧房，两间全通。不过，我想你记得——。”伊琳点点头。两人又朝前走，上了回廊，进了一间大房间，房内一张小床，有几面窗子。“这是我的房间，”他说。墙上到处挂的孩子照片和水彩画，他接着迟疑地说：“这些都是小乔画的。这里望出去的景致最好。天气清明的时候，可以望得见爱普索姆跑马场的大看台。”这时屋子后面，太阳已经下去，那片野景上面起了一层明亮的暮霭，是这个长长的吉祥的日子残留下来的。很少什么房子望得见，可是田野和树木隐约闪映着，一直连接到一片隐现的高原。“乡下也变了，”他突然说，“可是等我们全死掉，乡下还是乡下。你看那些画眉鸟——早上这里的鸟声真好听。我真高兴跟伦敦断绝了。”她的脸紧挨着窗格，神色惨凄，使他看见心里一动。“我真希望能使她看上去快乐些！”他想。“这样美的脸，可是这样忧郁！”他拿起自己房里那罐热水走到回廊上。“这是琼的房间，”他说，把隔壁房间打开，放下罐子；“我想什么都齐了。”他给她关上门，回到自己房里；用那柄大乌木刷子刷刷头发，额上搽点花露水，就沉思起来。她来得这样突兀——简直是一种天赐，很神秘，也可以说很浪漫，就好象他盼望有个伴，盼望看见美人的心愿被哪一个满足了似的，至于满足这类事情的究竟谁且不去管他。他站在镜子面前，把仍旧笔挺的腰杆伸直，拿刷子把自己的大白胡子刷两下，眉毛上洒些花露水，就拉铃叫女佣。“我忘了关照他们有位女客跟我吃晚饭。让厨师添一点菜，并且告诉倍根在十点半钟的时候把两匹马和大马车驾好，送这位女太太回城里去。好儿小姐睡了吗？”女佣说大约没有睡。老乔里恩由回廊下楼，踮着脚向孩子房间走去，把门推开；他在房门的绞链上特别加了油，专门预备自己晚上偷偷溜进溜出，不至于把孩子惊醒。可是好儿已经睡着，躺在那里就象个雏形的圣母马利亚，是那种老式的圣母，古代画家画成之后时常分别不出究竟是圣母还是维妮丝。她的乌黑的长睫毛贴在颊上；脸上十分安静——小肠胃显然已经完全复原了。老乔里恩站在室内昏暗的灯光下欣赏她！一张小脸——这样的可爱，这样的神圣、惹疼！他特别能够在年轻孩子身上重新活着——在他真是一种福气。孩子们在他的眼中是他未来的生命——整个的未来生命；以他这样一个基本上不信宗教的正常心灵来说，这种未来的生命也许是他还能够承认的。她将来是什么都不用愁，而他的血液——一部分的血液——就在她的小血管里流着。她是他的小伴，将来他要竭尽他的一切使她幸福，使她除了爱之外什么都不知道。他很开心，轻步走了出去，不让自己的漆皮鞋发出声响。在过道里面，他忽然有了一个怪想法，试想孩子们会有一天落到伊琳帮助的那些人的地步！女人过去全都一度是孩子，跟那边睡着的那个一样！“我一定要给她一张支票！”他涉想着；“想起这些人来真不好受！”这些没有归宿的可怜人，他从来没有勇气想到她们；藏在他心里，在层层财产意识的束缚下面，有一种真正的高尚意识，一想到她们，就伤害到蕴藏在他心灵最深处的感情，伤害到他的爱美心，便在目前，一想到今天晚上将有一个美丽女子和他做伴，还能够使他的心花开放。他下楼穿过弹簧门，到了房子后部。在酒窖里，他藏有一种好克酒①，至少值两镑钱一瓶，是一种斯太因倍格秘制酒，比你吃过的任何约翰尼斯倍格的好克酒都要美；一种简直象花露的酒，象仙露桃一样香——的确就象仙露！他取出一瓶，拿在手里就象捧着婴儿一样，横擎在手里迎光看着。一层神圣的灰尘裹着它颜色深郁的细颈瓶，看了人心里十分快慰。自从城里搬下来，又存放了三年了——香味应当绝佳！这批酒是他在三十五年前买下来的——感谢老天，他还能欣赏一杯美酒，还有资格饮它。她一定会赏识这种酒；十瓶里面也尝不到一点①白葡萄酒之一种。酸味。他把瓶子揩揩，亲自把塞子拔出来，鼻子凑上去闻闻香气，就回到音乐室里。伊琳正站在钢琴旁边；她把帽子和绕在颈上的围巾拿掉，露出一头金丝和肤色惨白的头颈。她穿的一件淡紫灰衣服，衬上钢琴的花梨木，在老乔里恩眼中简直是一幅美丽图画。他把胳臂给她挽着，两个人庄严地走进餐室。餐室原来的布置可以容二十四个人舒舒服服地进餐，现在却只放了一张小圆桌子。在目前孤寂的情形下，那张大餐桌子使老乔里恩坐了怪不舒服；他叫人把桌子撤去，等儿子回来再说。平时他总是一人进餐，只有两张拉菲尔的圣母像——真正的好临本——陪伴他。在这样的暮春天气，这是一天里面他最难混过的时候。他从来吃得不多，不象那个斯悦辛大块头，也不象西尔凡勒斯-海少普，或者安东尼-桑握西，他往年的那些好友；现在一个人进餐，由两个圣母在旁边看着，简直毫无乐趣，所以他总是急急忙忙吃掉，好接上那种比较上算是精神享受的咖啡和雪茄烟。可是，今天晚上不同了！他眼睛■■地望着小餐桌对面的她，谈着意大利和瑞士，跟她讲自己在这些地方的旅行见闻，以及其他一些已经没法再告诉儿子和琼的经历，因为他们早已知道了。这位新听客对于他很是难得；有些老头子只在回忆里兜圈子，他从来就不是这等人。对于这些不晓事的人，他自己先就感到厌倦，因此他本能地也避免使别人厌倦，而且他生来对美色的倾慕使他和女子交接时特别提防到这一点。他很想逗她谈话，可是她虽则谈了两句，笑笑，而且听他谈话好象觉得很开心似的，他始终觉得她还有那种神秘的落漠神情，而她引人的地方一半也就在这上面。有些女子对你非常亲热，咭咭呱呱没有个完；有些女子强嘴薄舌，只有自己说话的份儿，比你懂得的还要多；这些人他都受不了。在女子身上，他只喜欢一个地方——就是娇媚；而且人越安静，他越喜欢。这个女子就是娇媚，就象他心爱的意大利岩谷上面的夕阳那样幽美。他而且觉得她有点遗世独立的味儿，这使她反而和自己更加接近，更成为他企求的伴侣。象他这样高年，而且事事要不了强的时候，就喜欢做事不受到年青人的威胁，因为这样他在美人的心里还是占第一位。他一面喝酒，一面留意她的嘴唇，简直觉得自己年青了。可是小狗伯沙撒也躺在那儿望着她的嘴唇，而且在他们中止谈话时，暗地里在厌恶；而且厌恶那些淡绿色的酒杯举起来，杯子里满是那种它觉得难吃的黄汤。两人回到音乐室里的时候，天刚好黑下来，老乔里恩衔着雪茄说：“替我弹几支肖邦吧。”看一个人抽的什么雪茄，喜欢的什么音乐家，你就可以知道这个人灵魂的组成。老乔里恩吃不消强烈的雪茄，吃不消华格纳的音乐。他喜欢贝多芬和莫扎特，汉得尔和格鲁克，和许曼，还喜欢买耶比尔的歌剧，究竟什么原因倒很难说；可是晚年他却迷上了肖邦，正如在油画上向波蒂奇里屈服一样。他自己也知道，这样降格以求，是违背黄金时代的标准的。这里面的诗意并不象米尔顿和拜伦和丁尼生；也不象拉菲尔和提香；也不象莫扎特和贝多芬。这里的诗意就象是隔着一层纱；它不打上你的脸，而是把指头伸进你的肋骨，一阵揉搓，弄得你回肠荡气。这样是不是健康呢，他永远说不出来，可是只要能看到波蒂奇里的一张画，或者听到肖邦的一只曲子，他就一切不管了。伊琳在钢琴前坐下，头上一盏电灯，四边垂着珠灰的缨络；老乔里恩坐在一张圈椅上——因为从这里可以看见她——跷起大腿，徐徐抽着雪茄。有这么半晌她两只手放在键子上，显然是在盘算给他弹些什么；然后就开始弹起来，同时在老乔里恩脑子里涌起一阵哀愁似的快感，和世界上任何东西都不大象。他慢慢沉入一种迷醉状态，只有那一只手，每隔这么半天，从嘴里把雪茄拿出来，又放进去，偶尔给他打断一下。这里有她，还有腹中的好克酒，和烟草味；可是这里还有一个阳光的世界，阳光又淡成月光，还有池塘里立着许多鹳鸟，上面长些青青的丛树，一片片映眼的红蔷薇，葡萄酒的红；还有淡紫色的田野，上面乳白色的牛吃着草，还有一个缥缈的女子，深褐眼睛，白颈项，微笑着，两臂伸出来；而且从浓郁得象音乐的空气里，一颗星儿落了下来，挂在牛角上。他睁开眼睛。多美的曲子；弹得也好——就象仙女的指头——他又把眼睛闭上。他觉得奇妙地哀愁而快乐，就象菩提树盛开时，人站在树下闻到那股甜香似的。并不是重返往日的生活，只是站在那里，消受一个女子眼睛里的笑意，欣赏着这束花朵！他的手挥动一下，原来是伯沙撒爬上来舐他的手。“美啊！”他说：“弹下去——再弹些肖邦！”她又弹起来。这一次他猛然发现她和肖邦之间多么相近。他注意到她走路时那种腰肢的摇摆在她的演奏里也有，而她选择的这支夜曲，和她眼睛里温柔的颜色，她头发的光采，就象是一面金黄月亮射出的月光似的。诱惑，诚然是的；可是一点不淫荡，不论是她，或者这支曲子。从他的雪茄上升起一缕青烟，又散失掉。“我们就这样消失掉！”他想。“再看不到美人！什么都没有，是吗？”伊琳又停下来。“你要不要听只格鲁克？他时常在一个充满阳光的花园里写他的乐曲，而且还放一瓶莱茵河酿制的葡萄酒在旁边。”“啊！对了。来个‘奥费俄’吧。”这时在他的四周是开着金银花朵的田野，白衣仙人在日光中摇曳着，羽毛鲜明的鸟飞来飞去。满眼的夏日风光。一阵阵缠绵的甜蜜和悔恨，就象波浪，浸没了他的灵魂。一点雪茄烟灰落下来，他取出绸手绢把烟灰掸掉，同时闻到一股象是鼻烟又象是花露水的混合味儿。“啊！”他想，“残夏啊——就是这样！”他说：“你还没有弹‘我失去攸丽狄琪”呢。”①她没有回答；也没有动。他觉得有异——什么事使她突然感触。忽然他看见她站起来，背过身去，他登时懊悔起来。你真是个蠢家伙！她，当然跟奥费俄一样，——她也是在这间充满回忆的大厅里寻找她丧失的人啊！他从椅子上站起来。这时她已经走到室内尽头那扇大窗子前面。他小心翼翼跟在后面。她两只手交叉放在胸口；他只能看见她的侧面，十分苍白。他情不自禁地说：“不要，不要，乖乖！”这话在他是冲口而出，因为好儿弄痛了时，他总是说这样的话，然而这些话立刻收到很尴尬的效果。她抬起两只胳臂遮着脸，哭了。老乔里恩站着，睁着深陷的老眼看着她。她好象对自己这样任性深深感到羞愧，和她那种端庄安静的举止太不象了，可是也看出她从来没①是《奥费俄》最后一幕里的一只歌。有在人前这样不能自持过。老人与海“不要，不要——不要，不要！”他喃喃地说；并且恭敬地伸出一只手来，碰碰她。她转过身来，把两只掩着脸的胳臂搭着他。老乔里恩站着一动不动，一只瘦手始终放在她肩上。让她哭个痛快——对她有好处！小狗伯沙撒弄得迷迷惑惑，坐起来望着他们打量。窗子还开着，窗帘也没有拉起来，窗外最后剩下的一点天光和室内隐隐透出来的灯光混在一起；一阵新割过的青草香。老年人都懂得，所以老乔里恩没有说话。便是悲痛也有哭完的时候；只有时间治疗得了悲痛——喜怒哀乐，时间全看见过，而且挨次地看见它们消逝；时间是一切的埋葬者啊！他脑子里忽然想起“就象牡鹿喘息着奔向清凉的水流”那句赞美诗来——可是这句诗对他没有用。接着，他闻到一阵紫罗兰香味，知道她在擦眼泪。他伸出下巴，用大胡子亲一亲她的前额，觉得她整个身体震栗了一下，就象一棵树抖掉身上的雨点一样。她拿起他的手吻一下，意思象是说：“现在好了！对不起！”这一吻使他充满了莫名的安慰；他领她回到原来使她那样感触的座位上。小狗伯沙撒随着，把他们刚才吃剩下的一根肉骨头放在他们脚下。为了使她忘掉适才那一阵情感的触动，他想再没有请她看磁器更适合了；他和她挨次把一口一口橱柜慢慢看过来，拿起这一件德莱斯登，那一件罗斯托夫特，那一件采尔西，一双瘦瘠而露出青筋的手把瓷器转来转去，手上的皮肤隐隐有些雀斑，望上去真是老得厉害。“这一件是我在乔布生行买的，”他说：“花了我三十镑。很旧。那只狗把骨头到处扔。这件旧‘船形碗’是我在那次那个现世宝侯爵出事后的拍卖会上弄来的。可是你记不得了。这一件采尔西很不错。你看，这一件你说是什么瓷？”这样使她很好受，同时觉得她，这样一个雅人，也真正在对这些东西感到兴趣；说实在话，再没有比一件可疑的瓷器更能使人心情安定下来了。终于听见马车轮子的辘辘声来了，他说：“你下次还要来；一定来吃午饭。那时候我可以在白天把这些拿给你看，还有我的可爱的小孙女儿——真是小宝贝。这狗好象看中你了。”原来伯沙撒感觉到她就要走了，正在拿身子擦她的腿。和她一同走到门廊里时，他说：“车夫大约一小时零一刻钟就可以送你到家。替你的那些苦人儿收下这个，”就塞了一张五十镑的支票在她手里。他看见她的眼睛一亮，听见她咕了一句：“啊呀，乔里恩伯伯！”他从心里感到一阵快乐的颤动。这话是说，有一两个可怜虫将稍济穷困，也等于说她还会再来。他把手伸到车窗口，再一次握一下她的手。马车开走了，他站着望望月亮，和树木的影子，心里想：“可爱的晚上啊！她——”

插 曲 第二章 
二下了两天雨，夏天变得更加温暖明媚了。老乔里恩成天和好儿散步，谈天。起先他觉得人高了一点，而且充满新的活力；接着感到静不下来。几乎每天下午，他们都要上小树林去，而且一直要走到那棵断株的地方。“唉，她不在！”他会想，“当然不在啊！”这时他就会觉得人矮了一点，拖着脚步爬山回去，一只手永远按着左胁。有时候，他脑子里会有这样的念头：“是她真的来了——还是我做梦呢？”于是他瞠眼呆望着，同时小狗伯沙撒也瞠眼望着他。当然她不会再来了！他拆开西班牙来信时也不大兴奋了。他们要到七月里才回来；奇怪的是他并不觉得受不了。每天吃晚饭的时候，他都要眯起眼睛看看她坐过的地方。她不在，他只好不看。到了第七天下午，他想：“我得进城去买双靴子。”他叫倍根驾上马车，就开出去。经过普尼镇到海德公园这一段时，他盘算着：“我何不上采尔西看看她去。”他喊：“你把车子赶往那天晚上你送那位女太太的地方去。”马夫的一张大红脸回过来，湿濡濡的嘴唇回答：“那位穿浅灰衣服的女太太吗？老爷。”“对，穿浅灰衣服的女太太。”还有哪位女太太？这个蠢货！马车在一幢三层小公寓前停下，公寓离河边没有多远。老乔里恩一双熟谙的眼睛一望就看出是三流房子。“看上去大约六十镑一年罢，”他默然想着；进门时，他看看住户的牌号。上面没有“福尔赛”的字样，可是二楼丙室写着：“伊琳-海隆太太。”啊！她原来恢复她的娘家姓了！不知道什么缘故，这一来倒使他高兴。他缓缓走上楼梯，觉得左胁下有点痛。他在拉铃之前，先站立一会儿，歇歇腿，使自己心跳得好些。她不会在家的！下面就是——买靴子了！想到这里真泄气。他这样大的年纪要靴子做什么？手边有的已经穿不完了。“太太在家吗？”“在家，先生。”第二十二条军规“你说乔里恩-福尔赛先生要见她。”“好的，先生，请这边来，好吗？”老乔里恩随着一个小女佣——敢说还不到十六岁——走进一间很小的客厅，客厅里的遮阳帘全拉下来。室内放了一架小钢琴，此外除掉一点香味和雅趣外，再没有什么了。他站在屋子中间，大礼帽拿在手里，心里想：“我看她过得很窘呢！”壁炉上挂一面镜子，从镜子里他看见自己的影子。一个老态龙钟的家伙！他听见一阵簌簌声；转过身来。她站得非常之近，他的大胡子几乎扫到她的额头，就在那几根银丝下面。“我坐马车上城里来，”他说。“想起来看看你；那天晚上回来没有什么吧？”看见她笑了，他立刻觉得心里一宽。也许，她真的愿意看见他呢。“你要不要戴上帽子，跟我上公园里去兜一下？”可是当她去戴帽子的时候，他眉头皱起来。公园！詹姆士和爱米丽！尼古拉的妻子，或者他这个宝贝族中其他的什么人，很可能在那儿，神气活现地跑来跑去。事后，他们就会搬弄是非，说看见他和伊琳在一起。还是不去为妙！他不想在福尔赛交易所里重新引起往日的那些流言。从扣紧的大礼眼领边上他捻掉一根白头发，一只手摸摸自己的面颊、胡子和方腮；颧骨下面陷进去很厉害。他最近的胃口不很好——还是找那个替好儿看病的、乳臭未干的小医生开点补药吃吃吧。可是她回来了，两人坐上马车时，他说：“我们还是上坎辛登公园去坐坐怎么样？”接着眼睛■了一下又说：“没有人神气活现地跑来跑去，”就象把自己心里的秘密告诉她似的。下了马车，两人走进那些幽静的去处，漫步向水边走来。“我看见你又恢复娘家姓了，”他说：“我倒赞成。”她一只手伸到他胳臂下面；“琼原谅我没有，乔里恩伯伯？”他温和地回答：“是啊——是啊；当然，为什么不原谅？”“那么你呢？”“我？我一看出事情没法挽回时，就原谅你了。”也许他当时是这样；他天生一直就是原谅美人的。她深深透口气。“我从来不懊悔——没法懊悔。你可曾爱得无法自拔过，乔里恩伯伯？”这个怪问题使老乔里恩听了眼睛睁得老大。他有过没有呢？好象记不得曾经有过。可是当着这样一个年轻女子，她的手正搭着你的胳臂，而且她的一生，由于过去有这一段悲惨的爱情，就好象是停了摆的，他可不愿意说出来。他心里想：“如果我年轻的时候碰见你，我——我也许很可能做一个荒唐鬼。”为了搪塞她，他不由而然又发挥起来。“爱情是个古怪的东西，”他说，“常常是一种劫数。希腊人——可不是吗——就把爱情说成是个女神；敢说他们是对的，不过话又说回来，他们是处在黄金时代啊。”“菲力就崇拜希腊人。”菲力！这两个字使他听了很刺耳；他本来看事情很周到，这时猛然悟出为什么她这样子敷衍他。她是要跟他谈她的情人！好吧！只要能够使她快乐一点就行。所以他说：“啊！他是有点雕刻家的味儿，我觉得。”“对了。他就爱平衡和匀称，他就爱希腊人那样把全部心血贡献在艺术上面。”平衡！根据他的回忆，那个小子根本没有平衡——心理的平衡；至于匀称——当然，身材长得很匀称；可是他那双异样的眼睛，和高颧骨——匀称吗？“你也是黄金时代的人，乔里恩伯伯。”老乔里恩转过头来望她一下。她是开他玩笑吗？不，她的眼睛还是象丝绒一样温柔。她是奉承他吗？可是如果是奉承，又为了什么？象他这样一个老头子，奉承他有什么好处呢？“菲力这样看。他常说：‘可是我从来没法告诉他我那样佩服他。’”啊！又来了。她死去的情人；仍旧是要谈他！他按一下她的胳臂，一半憎恨，一半也感激这些回忆，好象看出这些在她和自己之间是多么重要的牵线似的。“他是个很有天才的青年，”他喃喃说着。“太热了；我近来受不了热，我们坐下吧。”两人在一棵栗树下面找到两张椅子坐下，栗树的大叶子给他们遮着午后宁静的阳光。坐在这里，望着她，同时觉得她很喜欢和自己在一起，真是开心。索性让她更喜欢些，他于是又说下去：“我想他在你面前暴露的一面是我从来没有看到的。他跟你在一起时一定顶有意思。他的艺术见解稍为新了一点——对于我来说”——他把“新里新气”几个字咽下去没有说。“是啊！可是他常说你是真正懂得美的。”老乔里恩想：“这个家伙真这样说！”可是他■了一下眼睛说：“是啊，否则我就不会跟你坐在这儿。”她笑起来眼睛里的神情真爱人！“他觉得你有一颗永远不老的心。菲力的确有眼光。”这一句从记忆里挖出来的奉承话，完全由于想要谈她死去的情人，并不使他动心——一点不动心；然而听听也很不错，因为她在他的眼睛里和心里——很对，一颗永远不老的心——是这样的可爱。这是不是因为他跟她和她死去的情人都不同——从来没有不顾一切地恋爱过呢？从没有失去心理的平衡和匀称的感觉呢？也罢！总之，他到了八十五岁的高年还能够欣赏美人。他想，“如果我是个画家或者雕刻家的话！可是我是个老骨董了。还是只顾眼前罢。”一对男女挽着胳臂在他们前面的草地上走过，就在那棵栗树影子的边上。阳光无情地照上两张苍白而年轻的脸，乱头粗服，颓丧的神情。“我们都是丑陋的一群！”老乔里恩忽然说：“奇怪的是，你看——爱情战胜了丑陋。”“爱情战胜一切！”“年轻人这样想，”他咕了一句。“爱情没有年龄，没有止境，没有死亡。”她苍白的脸上红了起来，胸口起伏，眼睛睁得又大又乌又温柔，那样子就象活的维妮丝！可是这句激动的话立刻引起了反应，他眼睛一■，说：“是啊，如果有止境的话，我们就不会生出来；因为，天啊，爱情得忍受许多事情呢。”他取下大礼帽，用袖口把帽子四周揩揩。这个累赘戴得他额头很热；这些日子里，他时常觉得血涌到头上来——他的血压不象过去那样好了。她仍旧直着眼睛坐着，忽然喃喃地说：“奇怪的是我还活着。”他想起小乔那句“又疯狂又失神落魄”的话来。“啊！”他说：“我儿子见到你一下——就在那一天。”“是你儿子吗？我听见穿堂里有人；一时间我还以为是——菲力呢。”老乔里恩看见她嘴唇颤栗了一下。她一只手掩着嘴，又拿下来，静静地又说下去：“那天晚上我跑到河边：一个女人抓着我的衣服。她向我诉说了自己的身世。当一个人知道别人受苦的情形时，就感到汗颜。”“就是那些——？”喧哗与骚动她点点头；老乔里恩心里引起一阵震栗，那种从来不知道和绝望搏斗的人所感到的震栗。他几乎是违背自己的意思说：“跟我谈谈呢。”“我生死都置之度外。当你变成这样时，命运也本想杀害你了。她服侍我三天——从不离开我身边。我没有钱。我现在竭力帮助她们一点就是这个缘故。”可是老乔里恩心里想着：“没有钱！还有比这个更残酷的命运吗？什么坏运都在里面了。”“当时你来找我就好了，”他说。“为什么你没有找我呢？”伊琳不答。“大约是因为我姓福尔赛吧，我想是？还是有琼不大方便？你现在过得怎样？”他的眼睛不由自主地在她身上扫了一下。也许现在她还是——然而她并不消瘦——并不真瘦！“哦，加上我的五十镑一年，勉强够了。”这话他听了仍不放心；他不相信她。索米斯那个家伙！可是他觉得责备索米斯也不公平，所以没有骂出来。她宁死也不会再拿他一个铜子，不会。看她样子那样柔弱，一定有些地方非常之坚强，坚强而且忠贞。可是小波辛尼有什么理由把自己撞死了，丢下她这样无依无靠！“啊，你现在一定要来找我才是，”他说，“不管你短缺什么，否则我就要生气了。”他戴上帽子，站起来。“我们喝杯茶去。我告诉那个懒货带着马去溜跶一个钟点，回来到你的地方接我。我们等一下叫部马车去；我现在不象从前走得动了。”他们缓步走去，一直走到公园近坎辛登的一头出门；她讲话的声音，和眼睛里的神气，和在他身边走动着的苗条身材，都使他看了非常开心。在高街上那家鲁菲尔咖啡店的一顿茶也吃得很开心；出来的时候，他的小拇指上还吊着一大盒巧克力糖。坐在出租马车上抽着雪茄，驶回采尔西，也开心。她答应下星期天下乡来，再弹琴给他听；在他的脑子里，已经开始摘起石竹和早开的玫瑰花来，预备给她带进城。给她一点快乐真是快乐，如果象他这样一个老头子真能给人快乐的话。他们到达时，他的马车已经等在那里！就是这种不讨喜欢的家伙，要他的时候他总要迟到，不要他的时候——。老乔里恩进去片刻和她道别。公寓阴暗的小穿堂里隐隐音，和眼睛里的神气，和在他身边走动着的苗条身材，都使他看了非常开心。在高街上那家鲁菲尔咖啡店的一顿茶也吃得很开心；出来的时候，他的小拇指上还吊着一大盒巧克力糖。坐在出租马车上抽着雪茄，驶回采尔西，也开心。她答应下星期天下乡来，再弹琴给他听；在他的脑子里闻到一股不好受的薄荷香水味，靠墙的长凳上——屋内唯一的陈设——看见有个女人坐着。他听见伊琳低声说：“等一等。”在小客厅里，门关上的时候，他郑重其事地问：“你那些苦人儿吗？”“对了。现在，要谢谢你，我可以帮助她一点了。”他瞠目站着，摸着自己的方腮；他这强有力的方腮，少壮时曾经吓倒过那么许多人。想到她确实这样子和这个无依无靠的人来往，使他感到难受，并且害怕。她能帮助她们什么呢？什么都不能。恐怕只会给她自己带来玷辱和麻烦。所以他说：“孩子，自己要当心！人家对什么事情都是向顶坏的方面着想。”“我懂得。”她安静地一笑，使他不觉恧然。“那么——星期天，”他咕噜一句：“再见。”她把脸颊送上来给他吻一下。“再见，”他又说一句；“自己当心。”他出了客厅，看也不着长凳上那个人。他绕道汉穆斯密斯大道回家，以便在一家熟识的酒行停一下，叫他们拿两打最好的柏根地酒给她送去。说不定她有时需要排遣一下！只有快到里希蒙公园时他才想起自己进城是去定做靴子的，而且弄不懂自己怎么会有这样无聊的念头。

插 曲 第三章 
三老年人的岁月里总是挤满了旧日的小仙人，可是在星期天来到之前的七十小时中间，那些小仙人很少和他亲过脸，这是从来没有过的。相反地，未来的仙人，带着莫名的妩媚，却把嘴唇送上来。老乔里恩现在一点不感觉到静不下来了，也不去看那棵断株，原因是她要来吃午饭。约人吃饭有一种奇妙的肯定性；任凭天大的疑虑都消散了，因为任何人，除掉掌握不住的理由外，决不肯错过饭局的。他和好儿在草地上打了好多次板球，现在是他扔球，她击球，这样到了暑假她就可以扔给乔儿。要她扔给乔儿是因为她不是个福尔赛家的人，可是乔儿却是个福尔赛——而福尔赛家人永远是击球的，一直击到他们退休而且活到八十五岁为止。小狗伯沙撒从旁伺候着，尽量把球捉到；小厮接球，一张脸跑得就象大红缎子。由于时间越来越近，每一天比前一天显得更长，而且更加明媚了。在星期五晚上，他吞了一颗肝痛丸，因为胁下相当的痛，虽则不在肝这一边，可是再没有比肝痛丸更好了。这时候如果有人告诉他，说他找到一个生活上的新刺激，而这个刺激对他是不好的，一定会遭到他的白眼：那双深陷的铁灰色眼睛就会带着坚定而凶狠的神情望着他，意思好象说：“我自己的事情自己最理会得。”的确，他一直就是如此，而且一直会如此。星期天早晨，好儿随着她的家庭教师去做礼拜，他去看看草莓圃。到了草莓圃那边，由小狗伯沙撒陪伴着他，他把草莓一棵棵仔仔细细看过来，居然找到两打以上真正熟了的草莓。弯腰对他很不相宜，累得他头晕眼花，脸涨得通红。他把草莓放在一只盆子里，端上餐桌，就去洗手，并且用花露水擦擦前额。这时对着镜子，他发现自己瘦了一点。当他年轻的时候，他就是那样一根“竹竿子”！瘦总是好的——他最不喜欢胖子；然而他的两颊未免太瘦了一些！她要坐十二点半的火车到达，然后一路走过来，经过盖基农场，从小树林的尽头进来。他到琼的房内看看热水准备好没有，就动身去迎接她，走得不慌不忙，原因是他感到心跳。空气里有一股清香，云雀叫着，爱普索姆跑马场的大看台都望得见。天气太好了！无疑的，六年前索米斯在造房子之前，也是在这样的一天带着小波辛尼下来看地基的。是波辛尼选中了这所房子的理想地点——琼时常跟他讲起这件事。这些日子里，他时常想到那个小伙子，仿佛他的魂灵的确在萦绕着他最后手泽的左近，企图万一能看见——她。波辛尼——那个唯一占据她的心的人，而且是她狂热地把整个自己贡献给他的人！当然，到了他这样年纪，这种事情是无法体会的，可是在他的心里却引起一阵莫名其妙的模模糊糊的痛苦——仿佛是不带个人意气的妒忌阴影；另外还有一种比较忠厚的怜惜心情，想不到这段爱情这样早就完结。短短几个月的工夫全完了！唉，唉！在走进树林之前，他看看表——才十二点一刻，还要等二十五分钟！接着，小径转了个弯，他望见她了，完全和第一次见到她时一个样，坐在那棵断株上，这才明白她一定是坐上一班火车来的，一个人在这里坐着至少有两小时了。两小时和她亲近的时间——错过了！是什么旧情使得这棵断株对她这样亲密呢？她已经从他的脸色看出他在想些什么，因此脱口而出说：“对不起，乔里恩伯伯；我是在这里初次知道的。”“是啊，是啊；这儿你随时欢喜都可以来坐。你样子有点疲劳；教琴教得太多了。”想到她逼得要教琴，使他很不开心。和一群小女孩子在一起，教她们用小肥指头去敲钢琴键子！“你上哪儿去教琴呢？”他问。飘“多数是犹太人家，幸而好。”老乔里恩眼睛睁得多大；在所有福尔赛家的人看来，犹太人好象都是陌生可疑的。“他们喜欢音乐，而且心肠都很好。”“哼，他们还是这样好些！”他挽着她的胳臂——上山时他的胁下总有点痛——说：“你可曾见过这样盛开的黄毛茛？一夜的功夫就开成这样了。”她的眼睛好象的确在田野上飞翔，就象蜜蜂追求鲜花和花蜜似的。“我要你看看这些花——所以到现在还不让他们把牛放出来。”随即想起她下来是为了谈波辛尼而来的，就指指马厩上的钟楼：“我想他决不会让我加上这个——据我所能记得的，他就没有时间观念。”可是她把他的胳臂拉紧一点，反而谈起花来，他知道这样做，是为了不让他觉得她是为了自己死去的情人才下来的。“我有一朵顶美丽的花给你看，”他说，带着得意的神气，“就是我的小孙女儿。她去做礼拜就要回来了。我觉得她有些地方就象你，”其实他应当说：“我觉得你有些地方象她，”可是他对自己这样说法并不觉得特别。啊，她来了！好儿在前，后面紧紧跟着那位半老的法国女教师；二十二年前，斯特拉斯布格围城的时候，这位女教师就得了胃病。好儿在树下向他们这边赶来，可是离他们两三丈远时又停下来，拍拍伯沙撒，装作这是她脑子里唯一的一件事。老乔里恩懂得这是装的，就说：“来，乖乖，这位就是我答应给你介绍的浅灰衣服的女太太。”好儿直起身子，抬头望着。老乔里恩眼睛■■从旁望着这两个人，伊琳微笑着，好儿一本正经地问候起来，也逐渐显出羞怯的笑容，然后又转为更深刻的表情。好儿也懂得美，这个孩子——眼力不错！看这两个人接吻真是开心。“海隆太太，布斯小姐。讲道好吗，布斯小姐？”现在他已经没有多少岁月好过，他对教会仅剩的一点兴趣就是做礼拜时那唯一和现实世界有关的布道部分了。布斯小姐伸出一只戴黑羊皮手套的手，就象鸡爪子——她过去在许多大户人家耽过——瘦黄脸上一双含愁含恨的眼睛仿佛在问：“你受过教养吗？”原来每次好儿或者乔儿做了什么使她不快的事情时——这种情形时常发生——他总要跟他们说：“那些小泰洛从来不做这些事——他们是这样有教养的小孩子。”乔儿顶恨这些小泰洛，好儿简直弄不懂，她怎么会总是赶不上他们。老乔里恩觉得她是个“浅薄无聊的怪人儿，”——这就是布斯小姐。一顿午饭吃得很快意，鲜蘑菇是他从蘑菇房里亲手摘来的，草莓也是他精挑细选来的，又是一瓶斯太因倍克秘制佳酿——这些给他装满了一种芬香的灵感，和肯定明天要发湿疹的信念。午饭后，大家坐在橡树下面喝土耳其咖啡。布斯小姐的告退一点不使他抱憾。她每逢星期天都要写信给她妹妹；这个妹妹过去吞过一根针，因此一直威胁着她的未来——这件事情被她每天用来警告儿童要慢慢地吃，不要吃得不消化。好儿和小狗伯沙撒坐在平坡下面一张车毯上，互相狎弄要好；老乔里恩坐在树荫里跷着大腿，闻着浓郁的雪茄烟味，一心看着坐在秋千架上的伊琳。一个轻盈的、微微摇摆的、浅灰衣服的人儿，身上零零落落映上些太阳斑点，嘴唇微启，眼皮稍稍垂下来遮着一双温柔的深褐眼睛。她的神情很是自得；肯定说，下来看他对她有益处！老年人的自私自利总算没有真正传染上他，因为他还能从别人的快乐上面感到快乐，同时体会到自己的需要，虽则很多，可并不怎么了不起地重要。“这儿很安静，”他说；“如果你觉得单调，就不要勉强下来。不过我看见你很开心。我的小宝贝是唯一使我开心的一张脸，除掉你的。”从她的微笑中，他看出她对人家的爱慕并不以为忤，这就使他放心了。“这并不骗你，”他说。“我心里不喜欢一个女子，嘴上决不说喜欢她。老实说，我就记不起几时跟一个女子说过我喜欢她呢，除掉当年跟我的妻子；不过做妻子的都是古怪的。”他不响了，可是突然接着又说：“她时常要我说我喜欢她，不喜欢的时候也要说，这就搞不好了。”她脸上的神情有种神秘的怅惘，他怕自己说了什么使她痛苦的话，赶快又说下去：“等我的小宝贝结婚时，我希望她找个懂得女子心理的男子。我是来不及看见了，可是婚姻上面颠三倒四的事情太多了，我可不想看她吃这种苦头。”他觉得话越说越不对头。就接着说：“这只狗偏要搔痒。”接着是一阵沉默。这个一生断送了的尤物，和爱情早已绝缘，然而天生是为爱情而设的，她心里想些什么呢？有一天他去世之后，也许她另外找到一个配偶——不象那个把自己撞死的小伙子那样乱糟糟的。啊！可是她的丈夫呢？南回归线“索米斯从来不缠你吗？”他问。她摇摇头。脸色突然沉下来。尽管她这样温柔和顺，在有些事情上决无妥协的余地。老乔里恩的脑子里——那个本来属于早期维多利亚文明的头脑，比他老年的这个世界还要古老得多——从来就没有想到这类原始的两性关系上去，现在才初步体会到两住之间的仇恨会到这样恩断义绝的地步。“这总算运气，”他说。“今天你可以望得见大看台。我们要不要转一转去？”他领着她穿过花果园——园内沿着一带和外面隔界的高墙，一行行的桃树和仙露桃树曝着太阳——穿过马厩、葡萄园、蘑菇房、芦笋田、玫瑰圃、凉轩，连菜园也带她瞧瞧，看那些小绿豆儿；平时好儿最爱用小指头从豆荚里把豆子挖出来，放在小黄手心里舐掉。他带她看了许多有趣的东西，好儿和小狗伯沙撒跳跳蹦蹦在前领路，有时候回到他们身边来要大人照应一下。这是他过得最最快乐的一个下午，可是走得他很累，很乐意回到音乐室里坐下来，让她给他弄一杯茶吃。好儿来了一个小密友———个皮肤白皙的小女孩，头发短得就象男孩子。两个孩子离他们远远的一起玩耍，一会儿在楼梯下面，一会儿在楼梯上面，一会儿又上了回廊。老乔里恩请伊琳弹几支肖邦。她弹了些练习曲，波兰舞曲和华尔滋曲；后来两个孩子也蹑着脚挨近来，站在钢琴下面——一个深褐头发，一个金黄头发，都竖着耳朵在听，老乔里恩留心瞧着。“给我们跳个舞吧，你们两个！”两个孩子怯生生地跳起来，开头就错了步子。她们摆动着，旋转着，非常认真，但是不太熟练，随着华尔滋曲的起落一次又一次地掠过他的椅子。他瞧着她们，又望望那个弹琴的人掉头向着这两个小跳舞家微笑着，心里想：“多少年来没有看见这么美的图画了。”一个法国声音叫出来：“好妮！这究竟算什么？星期天跳舞！你来。”可是两个孩子都挨到老乔里恩身边来，知道他会保护她们的，盯着他那张肯定“犯了法”的脸看。“吉日无忌，布斯小姐。都是我叫她们跳的。玩去罢，孩子们，吃茶去。”两个孩子走了，小狗伯沙撒也跟了去，它是从不错过一顿的；老乔里恩望着伊琳■一下眼睛，说：“你看，就是这样子！这两个孩子可爱吗？你的学生里面有没有这么大的？”“有三个，里面两个非常可爱。”“好看吗？”“美得很！”老乔里恩叹口气；他就是喜欢小的，好象永远没有满足似的。“我的小宝贝，”他说，“非常爱好音乐；有一天一定会成为音乐家。你来听听她弹得怎样，不过我想你未见得肯吧？”“我当然肯。”“你未见得愿意——”可是他把“教她”两个字止着没有说出来。他很不爱听她教琴的事；可是如果她肯的话，他就可以经常和她见面。她离开钢琴走到他椅子面前。“我很愿意教她；不过问题是——琼。他们几时回来呢？”老乔里恩眉头一皱。“要到下月中旬以后。这有什么关系？”“你说过琼已经原谅我；可是她永远忘记不了的，乔里恩伯伯。”忘记！她非忘记不可，如果他要她忘记的话。可是就象是回答他似的，伊琳摇摇头。“你知道她忘记不了；人是不会忘记的。”永远是那个可恨的既往！他只好带着着恼的结论说：“我们再看罢。”北回归线他和她又谈了一小时多一点，谈孩子，和各种小事情，终于马车开来送她回城里去。她走了以后，老乔里恩又回到自己椅子上坐下，摩挲着脑和下巴，遐想这一天的经过。那天晚上用完晚餐之后，他走进书房，取出一张信纸。他坐了几分钟没有下笔，就起身站在那张“落日中的荷兰渔船”名画下面。他想的并不是那张画，而是自己的一生。他打算在遗嘱上面给她留点钱；再没有比这个念头更能搅乱他平静的思绪和记忆深渊了。他打算留给她一部分财富，也就是造成这财富的自己一部分理想、事业、品质、成就——总之，自己的一切；也就是留给她一部分自己循规蹈矩的一生中一切没有能享受到的。啊！他没有能享受到什么呢？“荷兰渔船”瞠然不答；他走到落地窗前面，拉开窗帘，打开窗子。一阵风刮过来，暮色中，一片被园丁扫剩下来的隔年橡树叶子，发出轻微的沙沙声，正沿着走廊卷走。除了这一点声响外，外面是一片寂静，他而且闻得出浇了水不久的向日葵香气。一只蝙蝠掠过去。一只鸟儿发出最后的啁啾。就在橡树顶上，第一颗星儿出现了。在那出歌剧里，浮士德为了重返几年的青春，把灵魂做了抵押品。荒唐的想法！这种交易是不可能的，真正的悲剧在此。一个人要重新爱过，重新活过，重新什么过，都不可能。什么都不可能，只有趁你还活在世上时可望而不可及地欣赏一下美人，并且在遗嘱上给美人留下一点来。可是留多少呢？夜色温和而轻快；就好象望着这片乡间夜景不能帮助他计算出来似的，他转身走到壁炉架前面。架上放着他心爱的小摆设——一座克丽奥佩特拉女皇的铜像，胸口钉着一条小毒蛇；一条猎犬玩弄着自己的幼犬；一个力士勒着几匹马。“他们不死！”他想着，不由得一阵心酸。他们还有一千年好活呢！“多少呢？”至少要够她过的，不至于未老先衰，尽量使那些皱纹不侵上她的脸，使那些白发不玷污她的金丝。他也许还会活上五年。那时候她该是三十以外了。“多少呢？”她和他没有一点血统关系啊！从他结婚的时候起，从他开始建立了那个神秘的东西——家——之后，四十多年来他立身处世一直没有违背那条准则，现在它提出警告来了：不属于他的血统，没有任何权利！所以，这完全是非分之想；是一种浪费，一个老年人异想天开的放纵行为，是老得昏聩糊涂时才做出来的事。他真正的生命是寄托在那些含有他血液的人身上，他死后，他将要在他们身上活下去。他从那些铜像前转过身来，望着那张他坐过并且抽过无数支雪茄烟的旧皮圈椅。忽然间，他好象看见她穿着浅灰衣服坐在椅子上，香泽微闻，温柔而文雅，深褐色的眼睛，脸向着他！为什么！她心里并没有他，说实在话，她一心想念的只是她那个死去的情人。然而不管她真假，她总是在那儿，以她的美色和风度使他感到快乐。你没有资格硬要她跟一个老头子做伴，没有资格要她下来给你弹琴，而且让你看她——没有资格这样做而不给酬劳！在这个世界上，快乐是有价钱的。“多少呢？”反正，他有的是钱；他儿子和他的三个孙男孙女短少这一点点决没有关系。这些钱都是他自己挣来的，几乎是每一辨士；他喜欢给谁就可以给谁，这一点总可以容许自己称心一下。他回到书桌面前。“我要给，”他想着，“不管他们怎么想法。我要给！”就坐了下来。“多少呢？”一万，两万——多少？只要他的钱能给自己买回一年，甚至于一个月的青春，就好了！他心里一动，就迅笔写道：海林先生：请替我在遗嘱上追加这样一条：“我赠给我的侄媳伊琳-福尔赛，闺名伊琳-海隆，也即是她现在使用的名字，一万五千镑，遗产税除外。”乔里恩-福尔赛他在信封上盖上火漆，贴上邮票之后，又回到窗口，深深透一口气。天已经黑了，可是现在许多星星都亮了起来。

插 曲 第四章 
四他在半夜里两点钟醒来；多年来的经验告诉他，在这种清夜，一切胡思乱想都会变得极端紧张起来。经验也告诉他，等到他再度在正规的八点钟醒来时，就会发现那种紧张完全是庸人自扰。今天夜里，使他越想越觉得严重的是，如果他病倒了——在他这种年纪并不是不可能——他就会见不到她。从这上面，他又进一步认识到，如果他儿子和琼从西班牙回来的话，他也会跟她断掉。这个人过去抢过——清夜里没法含糊其辞——琼的情人，他怎么说得出口要和她来往呢？固然，那个情人已经死了；可是琼是个牛性子；热心，可是象牛皮筋一样固执，而且——的确——是不大会忘记的！到了下月中旬，他们就回来了。他只剩下短短五个星期的时光来追求他在残年引起的这点兴趣。在黑暗中，他是什么一种心情反而变得更加清晰了。对美人的倾倒——喜欢人家看在眼睛里好受。真是荒唐，在他这样年纪！然而——除了这一点外，还有什么理由要求琼忍受这种痛苦的刺激，又怎样使他的儿子和媳妇不把他看作神经呢？最后他弄得只好一个人偷偷进城去看她，可是进城一趟很累；而且碰到一点小病痛，就连这个也完了。他睁着眼睛躺着，咬紧牙关面对着这个未来局面，骂自己是个老糊涂蛋，同时觉得心跳得很厉害，一会儿又好象完全停止不动。他一直到看见天色在窗隙里亮了起来，听见小鸟啁啾，鸡声四起，才重又入睡；醒来时人很累，可是头脑却清醒了。还有五个星期不用他烦心；在他这样年纪，等于一个世纪！可是夜来那种紧张多少还留下痕迹，对于一个一直是随心所欲的人，反而使他的心情更鼓舞了一点。他要尽量地和她多碰头！何不亲自进城，上他的律师那儿在遗嘱上加上一条，何必写信；她也许欢喜看一出歌剧呢！可是，坐火车去，不让那个胖子倍根在他背后暗笑。佣人都是那种蠢货，很可能，伊琳和小波辛尼的过去一段经过，他们已经全部知道——佣人是什么都懂的，而且不懂的也会疑心到那上面去。那天早上，他写了一封信给伊琳：亲爱的伊琳：我明天有事要进城。如果你想去看看歌剧的话，可以来和我一起吃一顿清静的晚饭.可是上哪儿去呢？他几十年来都没有在外面吃过饭，平时不是在俱乐部里，便在人家家里。啊！靠近古凡园的那家新里新气的大饭店.晚上七点钟在彼得蒙饭店等你。明天早上先在饭店里给我留个条子让我知道你来不来。乔里恩-福尔赛源氏物语她会明白他不过是为了使她散散心；他不愿意想她会猜到他非常急切地要看见她，这种想法使他从心里感到厌恶；人老到这样子，还这样巴巴结结去看人家，尤其是个美丽女子，总不大象样。第二天进城虽则路程很短，加上去他的律师事务所，跑得他很累。天气也热，换了衣服，他躺在卧室里长沙发上休息一会儿预备吃晚饭。他一定是人晕了过去，因为醒来时觉得很不对劲，勉强站起来按一下铃。怎么回事！已经七点钟了！他还在这里，她一定在楼下等了。突然他又头晕起来，只好重又在沙发上躺下。他听见女佣的声音说：“你叫人吗，先生？”“是啊，你来，”他看不清楚她的脸，眼睛有点花。“我人不大舒服，要一点嗅盐。”“好的，先生。”她的声音有点慌张。老乔里恩挣扎一下。“不要走。你给我送个信给我的侄媳，一位穿浅灰衣服的女太太——在楼下大厅里等着的。你说福尔赛先生不大舒服——受了暑。对不起她；如果他一时不下来，晚饭就不要等他了。”女佣走后，他有气无力地想着：“为什么我说是穿浅灰衣服的女太太呢？她也许穿别的颜色衣服。嗅盐！”他总算没有再晕过去，可是伊琳怎样上来站在他身边，拿嗅盐凑着他的鼻子，并且在他头下面塞了一个枕头，这些他全部都不觉得。他听见她焦急地说：“好乔里恩伯伯，怎么回事啊！”迷迷糊糊感觉到她的嘴唇在他手上的温暖压力；后来深深把嗅盐吸进一口，忽然力气来了，打了一个喷嚏。“哈！”他说：“没有关系。你怎样上来的？下去吃晚饭去——戏票在梳妆台上。我一会儿就好了。”他感到她一只清凉的手放在他额头上，闻到紫罗兰香，坐在那里一面感到快乐，一面又竭力挣扎起来。“怎么！你是穿的浅灰衣服啊！”他说：“扶我起来。”站在地上之后，他抖擞了一下。“这样坍台真是岂有此理！”他非常之慢地走到镜子前面。脸色就象死人一样可怕！她的声音在他身后说着：“你不能下楼，大伯；你非休息不可。”“毫无道理！一杯香槟下去就会跟好人一样。不能叫你错掉歌剧。”可是沿着过道走很吃力。这种新里新气的地方铺这么厚的地毯，叫你走一步都要绊一下！在电梯里面，他看出她的脸色非常关切，就微带笑意地说：“我这个主人真象样子。”电梯停下时，他得紧紧抓着座位，防止自己滑交；可是喝完汤和一杯香槟酒之后，他觉得人好多了，对自己的病体引起她这样殷勤关切反而觉得开心起来。“我很愿意有你这样一个女儿，”他忽然说；看见她眼睛里含着微笑，又说下去：“在你这样年龄决不可以念念不忘过去；等到你象我这样老时，尽来得及做。这件衣服不错——我喜欢这个样子。”“我自己做的。”最后的莫希干人啊！一个女子能替自己做一件漂亮衣服，对于人生还是没有忘情啊。“行乐须及时，”他说；“把这杯干掉。我要看见你脸上红一点。我们不能不爱惜流光；一定要这样。今天晚上演玛格丽特①的是个新人；希望她不要太胖。还有靡非斯特也是新的——照我想得到的，再没有比一个胖子扮魔鬼更叫人受不了的事情了。”可是他们结果并没有去看歌剧，因为吃完晚饭立起来，他又头晕了，伊琳坚持要他静养，而且早点上床睡觉。他和她在旅馆门口分手；叫车子送她到采尔西去，把车钱付掉之后，他暂时坐了下来，欣然回忆着她那句话：“你待我真好，乔里恩伯伯。”怎么！哪个不要待你好！他真巴望再住一天，带她上动物园去，可是接连两天找她一定把她缠死了！不，他只好等到下星期天；她答应下来看他。那时候就可以讲定教好儿钢琴的事，就是一个月也好。那个布斯小姐一定不赞成，可是只好由她不高兴去。他把大礼帽放在胸口压扁，向电梯走去。第二天早上，他坐了马车上滑铁卢车站，心里一直想说：“赶我上采尔西去，”可是硬抑制着没有说出口；觉得这样未免太过分了。还有，他还觉得人有点撑不住，象昨天晚上那样失去常态再来一次可不是玩意儿，而且又不在家里。好儿也在盼望他回去，和他口袋里给她带的东西。并不是说他的小宝贝对他是一套虚情假意——她的小心里整个就是爱。接着，带着老年人那种相当刻薄的世故眼光，他盘算了一下象伊琳这样敷衍他，是不是虚情假意呢。不是，她也不是那样的人。要说，她只有太不懂得什么事对她有利了，根本没有财产的观念，可怜的人儿！而且，他一个字也没有透露他在遗嘱上加的那一条，也不必透露出来——眼前这样正好。好儿坐着大马车上车站来接他，还带着小狗伯沙撒来；一路坐车子回家，看着好儿和小狗亲热玩着，真是开心。天气又晴又热，这一天余下的时间和第二天大部分时间里，他的心情都很平静，坐在树荫下面休养，看着镇日的阳光在草地上和鲜花上面落着金雨。可是到了星期四晚上一个人吃晚饭时，他又开始算起日子来；还要再等两天半的时间，六十五小时，才能到小树林去迎接她，并且陪着她沿着田野走上来。他本来打算请医生来看看他的头晕病，可是那个家伙准会坚持要他静养，不许劳神等等；他可不愿意弄得这样束手束脚的，要人家把他当做病人看待——就算真是病人的话；在他这样年纪，正碰上这样新鲜事儿，他连听都不愿意听见。他在写信给自己儿子的时候，也小心避免提到头晕的事，只会吓得他们星夜赶回来！这样不提起，有多少是体贴他们，怕影响他们的快乐，有多少是为了自己，他也懒得去想它。那天晚上坐在书房里，他抽完雪茄，打着瞌睡正要入睡时，忽然听见一阵衣服的簌簌声，鼻子里闻到一阵紫罗兰香。他睁开眼睛，看见她穿着浅灰衣服，站在壁炉旁边，两只胳臂伸了出来。奇怪的是，那两只胳臂虽则没有抱着什么，却弯得就象搂着一个人的脖子似的；她自己的脖子也仰向后面，嘴唇微启，眼睛闭上。一会儿功夫就看不见了，只看见壁炉架和架上的几只铜像。可是她在时，那些铜像和壁炉架全看不见，只有壁炉和墙壁！他心里又是骇异，又是着急，自己站了起来。“我得吃药了，”他想；“一定有病。”他的心跳得很快，觉得胸口压着，就象害气喘病那样。他走到窗口，打开窗子透透空气。远远一只狗叫着，当然是一条盖基农场养的那些狗，就在小树林过去。夜晚幽静，可是很黑。“我是睡着了，”他默想着，“就是这个缘故！可是我敢发誓眼睛是睁着的！”一声叹息传来就好象是回答。“什么？”他厉声问。“外面是谁？”他拿手按着胁下使自己心跳得好一些，一面跨到走廊上来。一个毛松松的东西在黑暗中窜了出去。“嘘！”原来是那只大灰猫。他心里说：“小波辛尼也就象只大猫啊！就是因为有他在这里，所以她——所以她——他还缠着她呢！”他走到走廊边上，朝下面黑地里望；隐隐约约能看见草地上没有割过的星星点点的白菀花！今天开着，明天谢掉！那边月亮升起来，把一切都看在眼里，年轻的，年老的，活着的，死去的，丝毫不动心！转眼就要轮到他了。只要能有一天的青春，他愿意把余年全部送掉！他转身重又向屋子走去，抬头望见孩子房间的窗口。他的小宝贝总该睡了。“希望那只狗不要惊醒她！”他想“是什么驱使我们爱，又驱使我们死呢？我要睡了。”穿过那片被月光照成淡白的走廊，他走进屋子里去。

插 曲 第五章 
五一个老年人除掉梦想自己没有虚度的岁月外，又怎样过日子呢？在回忆中，至少没有那些激荡的热情，只有暗淡的冬阳。这只壳子只能经得起记忆机器的轻微的敲击啊。他对现在应当疑惧；对未来应当回避。在浓浓的绿荫下，他应该凝望着太阳在他脚趾边蠕动。如果眼前是一片夏意，他也不要跑到日光下面去，误认做十月里的小阳春！这样，他也许会轻轻地、缓缓地、不知不觉地衰弱下去，一直到造化等得不耐烦时，在某一个清晨、世界还没有晾出来时，一把扼住他的喉咙管，使他喘息地死去，于是别人在他的墓前竖起一块墓碑来：“寿终正寝！”是啊！如果他一丝不苟地遵行着自己这些原则，一个福尔赛也许可以死后还继续活下去。老乔里恩这一切全都懂得，然而在他的性格里，却有一种远远超出福尔赛主义的地方。根据规定，一个福尔赛决不许爱美而忘掉理智；也不许随心所欲而不顾及自己的健康。在这些日子里，他心里产生了一种激荡，它的每一下振动都侵蚀到他这具愈来愈薄的壳子。他也警觉到这一点，可也同时警觉到自己没法制止这种激荡，而且就是自己要制止也没法制止。然而，如果你告诉他，说他是吃老本，他就会恶狠狠地望着你。不对，不对；一个人不能专靠吃老本；这是不行的！腐朽的陈规要比眼前的现实真实得多。而他，过去一直认为吃老本是最最可诅咒的事情的，决不能容忍把这种恶毒的语言用在自己身上。快乐是健康的；美人是值得看的；在年轻人的身上重又感到青春——他做的除了这个还有什么其他呢？跟他平生做事的派头一样，他现在把时间安排得井井有条。每星期二坐火车进城；伊琳来陪他吃晚饭，饭后去看歌剧。每星期四他坐马车进城，把那个胖马夫和马车遣开，和她在坎辛登公园碰头，和她分手之后再找上马车，赶回家时刚好来得及吃晚饭。他随口透露一句，说他在这两天有事情要上伦敦。星期三和星期六是她下来教好儿的琴。跟她在一起越觉得开心时，他就变得越谨小慎微，不苟言笑，表面上只是一个本份而友善的伯父。的确，连感情也并不多露出来——因为，说到底，他已经到了这样的年纪了。然而，如果她姗姗来迟的话，他就会烦躁得要死。如果她没有来——这样的事情发生过两次——他的眼睛就变得象老狗一样凄惨，晚上连睡觉也睡不好。就这样一个月过去了——一个月田野里的夏天，和他心里的夏天，包括这样招致来的夏日溽热和困顿。如果在几个星期前，说他一想到儿子和孙女儿回来，简直象祸事一样，哪个会相信得了！这几个星期的好天气，和这里新形成的友谊——对方是那样无求于他，而且始终有那一点不可捉摸的地方，使得她更显得神秘可亲——使他尝到自由的可爱，尝到自己成家之前过的那种逍遥自在的生活。他就象一个戒酒的人，很久的时间都在喝水，连酒对于他血液的作用，对他脑筋的刺激，都几乎忘掉了时，后来忽然又喝到一杯酒那样。花的颜色更艳了，花香和音乐和阳光全都有了生命价值——并不仅仅引起过去欢乐的回忆而已。现在生活有种值得过的地方了，而且不断地促使他企盼着。他现在是生活在这上面，而不是生活在回忆里；对于他这样大年纪的人，这里悬殊是相当大的。他生来对饮食有节制，珍肴美馔在他本来无所谓，现在越发引不起他的兴趣。他吃得很少，吃了也不知味道；人一天天变得消瘦憔悴起来；又成了一根“竹竿子”了。由于身体越来越瘦，那颗大头，两个太阳穴陷了进去，使他显得比平时更加尊严。他心里完全知道应当请医生看看，可是自由太可爱了。他不过时常透不上气，还有胁下这一点痛，不能因为这样娇惯自己，就牺牲自由。再回到这个新的乐趣跑进他生活里来之前那种状态，过着恬淡的生活，翻翻《农业杂志》里面放大的甜菜画片——决不！他抽的雪茄也超出了。过去一直是每天两支。现在抽到三支，有时四支——一个人精力活跃时往往会如此。可是他时常想：“我一定要戒掉雪茄和咖啡；也不能再这样急急忙忙赶进城。”可是他并没有改；没有人有资格来监护他，这真是无上的福气。那些佣人也许弄得莫名其妙，不过佣人是天生不讲话的。布斯小姐一心只在自己的胃病上，而且很有“教养”，决不肯涉及私人的事情。好儿还小，还看不出他的外貌有所改变；在她的眼中，他只是她的玩偶，她的天神。这样就只剩下伊琳关心他了；她总是劝他多吃些，白天热的时候多休息，吃点补药等等。可是她没有告诉他，他这样消瘦都是为的她——一个人总是看不见自己造成的损坏。一个八十五岁的人谈不上什么热情，可是由于美色引起热情，美色引起的破坏还是和过去一样，非要到死神闭上那双渴想看她的眼睛时，决不会停止。七月里第二个星期的头一天，他收到儿子从巴黎寄来的一封信，说他们在本星期五全都要回来了。这本来是比命运还要肯定的事；可是由于老年人往往只贪图目前，抱有一种可怜的心理，以为自己总可以撑持到最后一刻，他始终不大肯承认有命运这回事。现在他承认了，而且得设法挽救。他现在已经不能设想自己生活里少掉这种新的快乐，可是没有想象到的东西有时是存在的，而且福尔赛家人经常就在这上面栽交。他坐在自己的旧皮椅子上，把信折起来，用嘴唇嚼着一段没有点燃的雪茄。明天以后，他每星期二进城之举就逼得只好放弃了。也许，他还可以每星期坐马车进城一次，托辞去看他的经理人。可是便是这样也要看他的健康情况，因为现在他们将会开始为他的身体惊慌起来。还有教琴！教琴非继续下去不可！伊琳一定不能有所顾忌，琼必须把自己的感触收起来。她曾经收起过一次，就在波辛尼噩耗传来的那一天；那时候能做，现在当然也可以做。自从受到那次刺激之后，到现在为止已经有四年了——把旧恨一直保持到今天是不人道的，不论对己或者对人。琼的意志很强，可是他的意志还要强，因为他是快死的人。伊琳很柔顺，为了他的缘故一定肯做；当然会有点顾忌，但宁可委屈自己一点，决不忍心使他痛苦！琴一定要继续教下去；只要她肯继续教琴，他就把稳了。终于他把雪茄点起，开始盘算跟他们怎样一个说法，怎样解释这种古怪的亲密友谊；要研究怎样把赤裸裸的事实遮盖起来——决不能说自己要看美人，看不见美人就过不了。啊，好儿！好儿很喜欢她，也喜欢她教琴。她会帮他的——这个小宝贝！这样一想，心里就变得坦然，反而奇怪刚才为什么急成那个样子。他决不能着急，着急之后总使他感到身体非常衰弱，就象半个灵魂离开躯壳似的。那天晚上吃过晚饭，他的头晕病又发作了，不过人没有晕过去。他不愿意按铃叫人，知道全家一定会因此惊慌起来，明天进城反而更加触目。人老了，整个世界好象都暗地里在限制他的自由；这算什么呢？——只不过使他多活上几口气。他可不愿意这样牺牲自己。只有小狗伯沙撒看见他一个人慢慢挣扎起来；焦急地望着它的主人打开橱柜，倒了一杯白兰地喝掉，而没有给它一块饼干吃。等到他觉得自己能走得了那节楼梯时，他就上楼去睡了。第二天早上，虽则人还觉得有点摇晃，一想到当天晚上时自己就硬挣起来。请她吃一顿好晚饭一直使他觉得非常快意——他总觉得她一个人过的时候，吃的一定很省俭；还有，坐在歌剧院里，看见她眼睛里显出欣喜的神情，嘴边挂着不自觉的微笑，也非常开心。她平时没有什么消遣，这一次又是他能够款待她的最后一次。可是，当他收拾皮包时，他想起晚饭前还得换衣服，真累人，而且告诉她琼要回来也是一件吃力的事；没有这些麻烦多好。那天晚上的歌剧是《卡尔曼》，他在最后一次幕间休息时才把消息告诉她，不自觉地一直挨到快要启幕时才说。她听了没有作声，真是蹊跷；事实上，他还没有来得及知道她是怎样的看法，那个捣乱的音乐就奏起来，于是大家都得保持沉默。她一张脸就象戴了面具；在面具后面，有无数的思潮起伏，可是他没法看得见。当然，她要慢慢想过！他也不逼她，明天下午她反正要下乡来教琴，那时候她已经把事情想过，看她怎样。在马车里，他只跟她谈谈《卡尔曼》；从前他看过的比这个还要好，可是这个也很不错。当他握着她的手道别时，她迅速弯下腰，吻了一下他的前额。“再会，好乔里恩伯伯，你待我太好了。”失乐园“明天见吧，”他说。“晚安。睡好。”她温柔地回答一声：“睡好！”马车已经快起步时，他从车窗里望见她扭过身子向着他，一只手伸出来好象依依不舍似的。他缓步回到旅馆的自己房间里。他们从来不给他开同样的房间，这些崭新的卧房，一套套新家具，灰绿色地毯，上面满是粉红花，他顶住得不习惯。他醒着，那支恶劣的哈巴勒那曲子①一直在他头里跳动。他的法文本来懂得不多，可是这个字的意义，如果有什么意义可言的话，他却懂得；是指一个吉卜赛女人，既放荡又神秘。对了，人生的确有一种神秘的地方，使你所有的顾虑和计划都打翻掉——使男人和女人都随着它的芦管跳起舞来。他躺在床上，睁着一双深陷的眼睛凝望着那片被神秘统驭着的黑暗。你以为你已经控制着人生，可是人生却溜到你的身后，拧着你的后颈皮，逼你向东，逼你向西，然后，很可能，把你的生命轧掉！敢说，连执掌人类命运的星辰也被它这样作弄着，一会儿勒在手里，一会几又撒开去；永远开不完的玩笑。五百万人挤在这个热锅似的大城①卡尔曼向唐-约西唱的名曲。市里，全都听任生命的主宰播弄着，就象木板上许多小豆子，一拳击下去，纷纷跳了起来。唉！他自己也不会有多久好跳了——安静的长眠对他只有好！这儿楼上多热——多闹！他的前额觉得滚烫；她刚才就在他一直感到不适的前额上吻了一下；就在这儿——好象她早已知道在这个地方，想要替他吻掉似的。可是，不但没有，她的嘴唇反而留下一片异常不舒服的感觉。她说话从来没有用方才那样的声调，从来没有显出那种依依不舍的样子，或者临走时那样频频向他回顾。他从床上爬起来，拉开窗帘；窗子外面望出去是泰晤士河。空气非常沉闷，可是望见那片河水平静地、永无休止地流过时，却使他的心情为之一畅。“最要紧的事，”他想，“是不要使自己成为一个老厌物。我要想想我的小宝贝，使自己睡觉。”可是伦敦夜晚的热气和嘈杂很久很久才消逝掉。夏天清早的睡眠只有短短片刻。老乔里恩算来只闭了一下眼睛。第二天到家之后，他跑到花圃里，由好儿帮助他——她的手很轻——采了一大束石竹花。这些花，他告诉好儿，是送给“浅灰衣服太太”的——这个名字在他们之间还使用着。他把石竹放在书房一只大瓶里，预备伊琳一到就送给她，以便谈到琼和继续教琴的问题时使她让步。这些花的香味和颜色有帮助。吃了午饭之后，他觉得人很累，就去躺了一会，因为马车要到四点钟才能从车站上把她接来。可是四点钟快到时，他变得心神不定起来，自己找到那间面临车道的教室里去。好儿和布斯小姐都在教室里，遮阳帘拉了下来，给她们挡着七月里的闷热。两个人都在照料蚕子。老乔里恩生来就不喜欢这些生活上轨道的东西，蚕头和蚕身的颜色常使他想起大象来；这些蚕子把好好的绿叶子啃了无数的小洞；而且那股气味也非常之难闻。他在靠窗的一条有印花布套的长凳上坐下，从这里可以望见车道，而且勉强呼吸到一点新鲜空气；小狗伯沙撒在热天里很看上印花布，也跳上来坐在他身边。小钢琴上铺了一块淡紫色的毯子，已经变成浅灰色；上面放了一瓶早开的紫薄荷，屋子里充满紫薄荷的香味。尽管室内还算风凉，也许就是因为风凉的缘故，生命的动荡强烈地印上他衰弱的神经。每一道从窗隙里透进来的日光都恼人地耀眼；狗身上的味道也强烈；紫薄荷的香味更是浓郁；那些蚕子弓起灰绿色的脊背，好象骇人地活跃；好儿低头望着蚕子时，深棕色的头发光亮得就象绸子一样。一个人年老力衰时，生命就是那样一个神奇、残酷而有力的东西；它的形形色色和它的跳荡的活力都象在讥讽你。他有生以来从没有象最近这几个星期来感觉这样古怪，自己的一半随着生命的河流飘去，另一半却站在岸上瞧着水流一去不返。只有和伊琳在一起时，他才没有这种双重的感觉。好儿回过头来，用她的小黑拳头指指钢琴——用一个指头指东西是没有“教养”的——狡狯地说：“你看‘浅灰衣服太太’，爷爷；她今天漂亮吧①？”老乔里恩心里一动，顷刻间室内都变得迷糊起来；接着又清楚了，于是他■一下眼睛说：“哪个给它铺上的？”①指钢琴上的褪色毯子。“布斯小姐。”“好儿！不要胡闹！”这个拘谨的小法国女人！她对不让她教琴这件事到现在还没有释然。这也没有用。他的小宝贝是他们唯一的朋友。教琴是教他的小宝贝，不干别人的事。他不应当让步——无论怎样不能让步。他拍拍伯沙撒头上温暖的茸毛，听见好儿说：“妈妈回来的时候，会不会有变动呢？你知道，她是不喜欢生人的。”好儿这两句话好象把老乔里恩周围的反对空气带了来，并且揭露了所有对他这个新获得的自由的威胁。啊！他得甘心做一个全靠人家照应和爱惜的老头子，不然就得为这个新获得的珍贵友谊而奋斗；但奋斗却累得他要死。可是他的一张消瘦憔悴的脸板了下来，逐渐转为决心，使他整个的脸看上去都只剩下巴了。这是他的房子，他自己的事情；他决不能让步！他看看自己的表，跟他一样老，一样单薄；这只表已经买了有五十年了。四点钟已过！他顺便吻一下好儿的头顶，下楼到了厅堂里。他要在她上楼教琴之前先找到她。一听见车轮的声音，他就走到门廊外面，立刻看见马车里没有人。“火车到了，老爷，可是女太太没有来。”老乔里恩向马夫摆出一副严厉神情，脸朝上一抬，眼睛象是推开胖子的好奇心，而且不许他看见自己感到的极端失望。“好的，”他说，转身回到屋里。他走进书房坐下，抖得象片树叶。这是什么意思？她也许误了火车，可是他明知道不是这么一回事。“再会，乔里恩伯伯。”为什么说“再会”而不说“晚安”呢？还有那只依依不舍的手，宕在空中。还有那一吻。这是什么意思？他感到极端着急和气恼。他站起来在窗子和墙壁间的土耳其地毯上来回走着。她是打算扔掉他了！他有把握这样说——而他是一点招架没有。一个老头子要看美人！真是荒唐！年纪堵着他的嘴，使他的抵抗变得瘫痪无力。一切温暖的、有生气的东西他都没有资格去享受，什么都不能享受，只能享受回忆和愁苦。他也没法子去求她；便是一个老头子也有老头子的尊严。没有法子想！有这么一个钟点，他完全忘记身体的疲劳，来回地走着，经过那瓶石竹时，一阵阵的花香仿佛在嘲笑他。对于一个一直是随心所欲的人，在所有难堪的事情里面，最最难堪的就是自己意志受到挫折。老天把他兜在一张鱼网里，他就象一条愁苦的鱼，在网眼里转过来，游过去，东找西找，可是找不到一个洞，一处破缝。五点钟时，佣人送茶进来，另外还送上一封信。他的心里一时又引起希望。他用牛油刀把信拆开，读道：亲爱的乔里恩伯伯：我真不忍心写这封会使你失望的信，可是昨天晚上我太懦弱了，不敢跟你讲。我觉得现在琼既然要回来，我可不能再下来教好儿的琴了。有些事情的创伤太深了，使人没法忘记。也许有时你进城来我还会和你见面，不过我肯定说这样于你并不相宜；我看得出你把自己累得过分了。我认为你整个热天应当多多的静养，现在你儿子和琼都要回来，你应当过得很开心了。谢谢你待我的好处，一百个谢谢。伊琳就是如此！寻乐，做他最喜欢做的事情，都于他不相宜；设法排遣那种垂死的心情，不使自己感到一切的必然结果，感到死神悄然的簌簌的脚步声愈走愈近！于他不相宜！连她都看不出她是他的一剂延年续命汤，看不出她是一切他失去的美的化身！他的茶冷了，雪茄始终没有燃；他来回走着，又碍着面子，又舍不得放弃生命的据点，真是两难。真受不了！就这样慢慢把自己消耗掉；一句话不说就把自己交在别人手里，由他们照应备至地、爱惜备至地把你压得透不过气来；这样活下去，真受不了！他要跟她说老实话；告诉她自己是真正要看见她，并不仅仅是不舍得，这样说看行不行。他在自己的旧书桌前坐下，拿起一支笔。可是他下不了笔。要这样求人，求她以自己的美色来取悦他的眼睛，未免太不象话。等于承认自己已经老糊涂了。他决不能做。相反地，他写道：我本来指望旧日的创伤不应听其阻挡别人的——也就是我和我小孙女的快乐和利益，可是年纪大的人只好放弃妄想；他们只能如此，连活着的妄想迟早也得放弃，而且早放弃早好。乔里恩-福尔赛雪国“一股怨气，”他想，“可是没办法。我是倦了。”他封好信，丢在邮筒里好趁晚班邮件送出；听见信落到筒底时，他想：“一切的希望都完了！”那天的晚饭他简直没有吃什么，雪茄抽了一半就觉得头晕，只好丢下来，很慢地走上楼，蹑着脚走进孩子的卧室。他在靠窗的长凳上坐下。室内点着一张过夜的油灯，刚好照出好儿的小脸，一只手压在面颊下面。一只提前出世的大甲虫在糊窗格的日本纸里呼呼地响，马厩里的一匹马烦躁地跺蹄子。睡得象这孩子一样熟多好！他把木条帘拉上两级向窗外望去。月亮正升起来，颜色红得象血。他从来眼有看见过这样红的月亮。外面的树林和田野，在夏季白天最后的余辉里，也都带着睡意。美象一个幽灵在走着。“我活得很长，”他心里想，“几乎什么福都享过。我是一个不知足的家伙；年轻的时候看过了多少美人。小波辛尼说我懂得什么叫美。今天晚上的月亮真圆，就象里面有个人脸！”一只蛾子飞过，接着又是一个，又是一个。“浅灰的女子啊！”他闭上眼睛。他猛然有感，好象永远不会再睁开似的；他一任这种感觉扩大起来，一任自己沉下去；后来打了一个寒噤，硬撑开眼皮。他觉得人有点不对劲，无疑的，非常的不对劲；终究还得看医生才对。现在没有多大关系了！月光将会蹑进那片小树林里；林子里将会有许多影子，而这些影子将是唯一醒着的东西。没有鸟兽，没有花儿、虫儿；只有影子——蠕动着；“浅灰的女子！”影子会爬上那棵断株；会聚在一起喁喁谈话。是她和波辛尼吗？怪想法！而那些青蛙和小虫豸都会喁喁谈起来！这屋子里，这架钟滴滴达达多响！窗子外面完全罩在那个红月亮下面——阴森森的一片；室内也一样阴森；慢燃着的小守夜灯，钟声滴达，保姆的外套挂在屏风边上，长得就象个女子的身体。“浅灰的女子！”他忽然来了一个怪念头：“她真的活着吗？她究竟来过没有？会不会只是他过去爱过而且就要离开的一切美的化身呢？会不会只是一个淡紫灰衣服、深棕眼睛、琥珀头发的精灵，在风信子开花季节，花晨月夕出来散步的呢？”他站起来，手抓着窗櫺立了一会，使自己回到现实的世界里来，然后踮起脚向门口走去。走到床脚时停了下来；好儿，就象感到他的眼睛盯着自己在望，伸动了一下，叹口气，身子蜷得更紧了，象是畏缩。他又踮起脚走到外面黑暗的过道里；进了自己的卧房，立刻脱掉衣服，穿着睡衣在镜子面前站着。真是一把骨头——两个太阳穴凹了进去，腿多瘦！他的眼睛抗拒着自己的影子，脸上现出得意的神情。什么都联合起来要搞垮他，连镜子里自己的影子也要搞垮他，可是他还没有——垮掉！他上了床，久久不能入睡，竭力想摒除思虑，心里明知道烦恼和失望对自己的身体非常有害。早上醒来时，他觉得非常疲惫，只好把医生请来。那个小子诊视之后，脸板得铁青，叫他睡着不能起来，而且要戒烟。这也不算受罪；起来又有什么意思，而且只要他身体感到不适，烟草抽起来总是没有味道。他拉下遮阳帘，把《泰晤士报》翻来翻去，也不大看，小狗伯沙撒在床边陪他，一上午就这样懒洋洋地消磨掉。午饭时，佣人送来一份电报，上面写着：“信收到，下午下乡，四点半见。伊琳。”下乡来！总算来了！那么她的确是活着——而他并没有被人扔掉。下乡来了！一股热气透进他的四肢；两颊和额头都有点发烫。他喝完汤，把食盘推开，极其安静地躺着，等佣人把食盘收拾出去，剩下他一个人；可是他的眼睛不时要■一下。下乡来了！他的心跳得飞快，后来又好象一点不动似的。三点钟时，他坚决从床上爬起来，穿上衣服，一点声音没有。想来好儿和布斯小姐这时都在教室里，佣人吃完饭该在睡午觉。他小心地推开门，到了楼下。小狗伯沙撒孤独地躺在厅堂里；它随着老乔里恩进了书房，再由书房走到外面酷热的下午太阳里。他本想走下小山，到小树林里接她，可是立刻觉得天气太热了，自己决计去不了。他改变主意，在秋千旁边那棵橡树下面坐下来，小狗伯沙撒也觉得太热，在他旁边匍伏下来。他坐在那里微笑。多么令人陶醉的流光啊！虫吟！鸠唤！简直是夏日的良辰。真美啊！而且他是多么快乐——快乐得象个小贩，不管这句话怎么讲。她要来了；并没有扔掉他！人生的一切他都有了——只差一点力气，和一点肉——就差这一点。他就要看见她了，看见她从凤尾草圃里走出来，淡紫灰的身材，腰肢微摆，走过草地上的白菀花和蒲公英和“兵士”——戴着花盔的兵兰花。他不要起身，可是她会走到他面前来，说“好乔里恩伯伯，对不起！”就坐在秋千架上，让他看她，并且告诉她自己生了一场小病，可是现在已经好了；伯沙撒将会舐她的手。伯沙撒知道自己主人喜欢她；是一条好狗。树荫很浓；太阳晒不到他身上，只能把余下的世界照得非常明媚，连那边爱普索姆跑马场的大看台，和乳牛在田野里啃苜蓿，用尾巴扫苍蝇，他都远远望得见。他闻到菩提花和紫薄荷的香味。啊！怪不道这么一大堆的蜜蜂呢。这些蜜蜂都很兴奋——很忙，跟他的心一样忙，一样兴奋；也有点昏昏然，被花蜜和幸福弄得昏昏然和沉醉了，跟他的心一样沉醉和昏昏然。夏天——夏天——它们仍在哼着；大蜜蜂，小蜜蜂，还有苍蝇！马厩上钟楼敲了四下；半小时之内她就到了。他要打这么一下盹，他最近睡的实在太少；打完了盹，他就可以神清气爽地迎接她——神清气爽地迎接青春和美，望着她穿过日光的草地向他走来——浅灰的美人！他向椅背靠起，闭上眼睛。一点蓟茸随着微风飘上他的白胡子，比胡子还要白。他不知道；可是呼吸吹动着蓟茸，粘着了。一丝阳光透了进来，照上他的靴子。一只大蜂歇下来，在他的巴拿马草帽顶上爬着。一阵甜蜜的睡潮侵袭到草帽下面的脑子，那颗头向前摇了摇，倒在胸前。夏天——夏天！蜜蜂儿哼着。马厩的钟敲了四点半。小狗伯沙撒伸了一下懒腰，仰头望望主人。蓟茸已经不动了。小狗把下巴搁在太阳晒到的那只脚上。脚没有动。小狗迅速把下巴挪开，起来跳到老乔里恩身上，望一下他的脸，叫起来；随即跳下，屁股坐在地上，仰头望着；忽然间，发出一声长长的哀号。可是蓟茸跟死一样的静止，还有它老主人的脸——夏天——夏天——夏天！草地上传来无声的脚步！

Preface 
“The Forsyte Saga” was the title originally destined for that part of it which is called “The Man of Property”; and to adopt it for the collected chronicles of the Forsyte family has indulged the Forsytean tenacity that is in all of us. The word Saga might be objected to on the ground that it connotes the heroic and that there is little heroism in these pages. But it is used with a suitable irony; and, after all, this long tale, though it may deal with folk in frock coats, furbelows, and a gilt-edged period, is not devoid of the essential heat of conflict. Discounting for the gigantic stature and blood-thirstiness of old days, as they have come down to us in fairy-tale and legend, the folk of the old Sagas were Forsytes, assuredly, in their possessive instincts, and as little proof against the inroads of beauty and passion as Swithin, Soames, or even Young Jolyon. And if heroic figures, in days that never were, seem to startle out from their surroundings in fashion unbecoming to a Forsyte of the Victorian era, we may be sure that tribal instinct was even then the prime force, and that “family” and the sense of home and property counted as they do to this day, for all the recent efforts to “talk them out.”So many people have written and claimed that their families were the originals of the Forsytes that one has been almost encouraged to believe in the typicality of an imagined species. Manners change and modes evolve, and “Timothy’s on the Bayswater Road” becomes a nest of the unbelievable in all except essentials; we shall not look upon its like again, nor perhaps on such a one as James or Old Jolyon. And yet the figures of Insurance Societies and the utterances of Judges reassure us daily that our earthly paradise is still a rich preserve, where the wild raiders, Beauty and Passion, come stealing in, filching security from beneath our noses. As surely as a dog will bark at a brass band, so will the essential Soames in human nature ever rise up uneasily against the dissolution which hovers round the folds of ownership.“Let the dead Past bury its dead” would be a better saying if the Past ever died. The persistence of the Past is one of those tragi-comic blessings which each new age denies, coming cocksure on to the stage to mouth its claim to a perfect novelty.But no Age is so new as that! Human Nature, under its changing pretensions and clothes, is and ever will be very much of a Forsyte, and might, after all, be a much worse animal.Looking back on the Victorian era, whose ripeness, decline, and ‘fall-of’ is in some sort pictured in “The Forsyte Saga,” we see now that we have but jumped out of a frying-pan into a fire. It would be difficult to substantiate a claim that the case of England was better in 1913 than it was in 1886, when the Forsytes assembled at Old Jolyon’s to celebrate the engagement of June to Philip Bosinney. And in 1920, when again the clan gathered to bless the marriage of Fleur with Michael Mont, the state of England is as surely too molten and bankrupt as in the eighties it was too congealed and low-percented. If these chronicles had been a really scientific study of transition one would have dwelt probably on such factors as the invention of bicycle, motor-car, and flying-machine; the arrival of a cheap Press; the decline of country life and increase of the towns; the birth of the Cinema. Men are, in fact, quite unable to control their own inventions; they at best develop adaptability to the new conditions those inventions create.But this long tale is no scientific study of a period; it is rather an intimate incarnation of the disturbance that Beauty effects in the lives of men.The figure of Irene, never, as the reader may possibly have observed, present, except through the senses of other characters, is a concretion of disturbing Beauty impinging on a possessive world.One has noticed that readers, as they wade on through the salt waters of the Saga, are inclined more and more to pity Soames, and to think that in doing so they are in revolt against the mood of his creator. Far from it! He, too, pities Soames, the tragedy of whose life is the very simple, uncontrollable tragedy of being unlovable, without quite a thick enough skin to be thoroughly unconscious of the fact. Not even Fleur loves Soames as he feels he ought to be loved. But in pitying Soames, readers incline, perhaps, to animus against Irene: After all, they think, he wasn’t a bad fellow, it wasn’t his fault; she ought to have forgiven him, and so on!And, taking sides, they lose perception of the simple truth, which underlies the whole story, that where sex attraction is utterly and definitely lacking in one partner to a union, no amount of pity, or reason, or duty, or what not, can overcome a repulsion implicit in Nature. Whether it ought to, or no, is beside the point; because in fact it never does. And where Irene seems hard and cruel, as in the Bois de Boulogne, or the Goupenor Gallery, she is but wisely realistic — knowing that the least concession is the inch which precedes the impossible, the repulsive ell.A criticism one might pass on the last phase of the Saga is the complaint that Irene and Jolyon those rebels against property — claim spiritual property in their son Jon. But it would be hypercriticism, as the tale is told. No father and mother could have let the boy marry Fleur without knowledge of the facts; and the facts determine Jon, not the persuasion of his parents. Moreover, Jolyon’s persuasion is not on his own account, but on Irene’s, and Irene’s persuasion becomes a reiterated: “Don’t think of me, think of yourself!” That Jon, knowing the facts, can realise his mother’s feelings, will hardly with justice be held proof that she is, after all, a Forsyte.But though the impingement of Beauty and the claims of Freedom on a possessive world are the main prepossessions of the Forsyte Saga, it cannot be absolved from the charge of embalming the upper-middle class. As the old Egyptians placed around their mummies the necessaries of a future existence, so I have endeavoured to lay beside the, figures of Aunts Ann and Juley and Hester, of Timothy and Swithin, of Old Jolyon and James, and of their sons, that which shall guarantee them a little life here-after, a little balm in the hurried Gilead of a dissolving “Progress.”If the upper-middle class, with other classes, is destined to “move on” into amorphism, here, pickled in these pages, it lies under glass for strollers in the wide and ill-arranged museum of Letters. Here it rests, preserved in its own juice: The Sense of Property.1922.“. . . . . . . . You will answer The slaves are ours . . . . .”— Merchant of Venice.TO EDWARD GARNETT

Part I Chapter 1 ‘At Home’ at Old Jolyon’s 
Those privileged to be present at a family festival of the Forsytes have seen that charming and instructive sight — an upper middle-class family in full plumage. But whosoever of these favoured persons has possessed the gift of psychological analysis (a talent without monetary value and properly ignored by the Forsytes), has witnessed a spectacle, not only delightful in itself, but illustrative of an obscure human problem. In plainer words, he has gleaned from a gathering of this family — no branch of which had a liking for the other, between no three members of whom existed anything worthy of the name of sympathy — evidence of that mysterious concrete tenacity which renders a family so formidable a unit of society, so clear a reproduction of society in miniature. He has been admitted to a vision of the dim roads of social progress, has understood something of patriarchal life, of the swarmings of savage hordes, of the rise and fall of nations. He is like one who, having watched a tree grow from its planting — a paragon of tenacity, insulation, and success, amidst the deaths of a hundred other plants less fibrous, sappy, and persistent — one day will see it flourishing with bland, full foliage, in an almost repugnant prosperity, at the summit of its efflorescence.On June 15, eighteen eighty-six, about four of the afternoon, the observer who chanced to be present at the house of old Jolyon Forsyte in Stanhope Gate, might have seen the highest efflorescence of the Forsytes.This was the occasion of an ‘at home’ to celebrate the engagement of Miss June Forsyte, old Jolyon’s granddaughter, to Mr. Philip Bosinney. In the bravery of light gloves, buff waistcoats, feathers and frocks, the family were present, even Aunt Ann, who now but seldom left the corner of her brother Timothy’s green drawing-room, where, under the aegis of a plume of dyed pampas grass in a light blue vase, she sat all day reading and knitting, surrounded by the effigies of three generations of Forsytes. Even Aunt Ann was there; her inflexible back, and the dignity of her calm old face personifying the rigid possessiveness of the family idea.When a Forsyte was engaged, married, or born, the Forsytes were present; when a Forsyte died — but no Forsyte had as yet died; they did not die; death being contrary to their principles, they took precautions against it, the instinctive precautions of highly vitalized persons who resent encroachments on their property.About the Forsytes mingling that day with the crowd of other guests, there was a more than ordinarily groomed look, an alert, inquisitive assurance, a brilliant respectability, as though they were attired in defiance of something. The habitual sniff on the face of Soames Forsyte had spread through their ranks; they were on their guard.The subconscious offensiveness of their attitude has constituted old Jolyon’s ‘home’ the psychological moment of the family history, made it the prelude of their drama.The Forsytes were resentful of something, not individually, but as a family; this resentment expressed itself in an added perfection of raiment, an exuberance of family cordiality, an exaggeration of family importance, and — the sniff. Danger — so indispensable in bringing out the fundamental quality of any society, group, or individual — was what the Forsytes scented; the premonition of danger put a burnish on their armour. For the first time, as a family, they appeared to have an instinct of being in contact, with some strange and unsafe thing.Over against the piano a man of bulk and stature was wearing two waistcoats on his wide chest, two waistcoats and a ruby pin, instead of the single satin waistcoat and diamond pin of more usual occasions, and his shaven, square, old face, the colour of pale leather, with pale eyes, had its most dignified look, above his satin stock. This was Swithin Forsyte. Close to the window, where he could get more than his fair share of fresh air, the other twin, James — the fat and the lean of it, old Jolyon called these brothers — like the bulky Swithin, over six feet in height, but very lean, as though destined from his birth to strike a balance and maintain an average, brooded over the scene with his permanent stoop; his grey eyes had an air of fixed absorption in some secret worry, broken at intervals by a rapid, shifting scrutiny of surrounding facts; his cheeks, thinned by two parallel folds, and a long, clean-shaven upper lip, were framed within Dundreary whiskers. In his hands he turned and turned a piece of china. Not far off, listening to a lady in brown, his only son Soames, pale and well-shaved, dark-haired, rather bald, had poked his chin up sideways, carrying his nose with that aforesaid appearance of ‘sniff,’ as though despising an egg which he knew he could not digest. Behind him his cousin, the tall George, son of the fifth Forsyte, Roger, had a Quilpish look on his fleshy face, pondering one of his sardonic jests. Something inherent to the occasion had affected them all.Seated in a row close to one another were three ladies — Aunts Ann, Hester (the two Forsyte maids), and Juley (short for Julia), who not in first youth had so far forgotten herself as to marry Septimus Small, a man of poor constitution. She had survived him for many years. With her elder and younger sister she lived now in the house of Timothy, her sixth and youngest brother, on the Bayswater Road. Each of these ladies held fans in their hands, and each with some touch of colour, some emphatic feather or brooch, testified to the solemnity of the opportunity.In the centre of the room, under the chandelier, as became a host, stood the head of the family, old Jolyon himself. Eighty years of age, with his fine, white hair, his dome-like forehead, his little, dark grey eyes, and an immense white moustache, which drooped and spread below the level of his strong jaw, he had a patriarchal look, and in spite of lean cheeks and hollows at his temples, seemed master of perennial youth. He held himself extremely upright, and his shrewd, steady eyes had lost none of their clear shining. Thus he gave an impression of superiority to the doubts and dislikes of smaller men. Having had his own way for innumerable years, he had earned a prescriptive right to it. It would never have occurred to old Jolyon that it was necessary to wear a look of doubt or of defiance.Between him and the four other brothers who were present, James, Swithin, Nicholas, and Roger, there was much difference, much similarity. In turn, each of these four brothers was very different from the other, yet they, too, were alike.Through the varying features and expression of those five faces could be marked a certain steadfastness of chin, underlying surface distinctions, marking a racial stamp, too prehistoric to trace, too remote and permanent to discuss — the very hall-mark and guarantee of the family fortunes.Among the younger generation, in the tall, bull-like George, in pallid strenuous Archibald, in young Nicholas with his sweet and tentative obstinacy, in the grave and foppishly determined Eustace, there was this same stamp — less meaningful perhaps, but unmistakable — a sign of something ineradicable in the family soul. At one time or another during the afternoon, all these faces, so dissimilar and so alike, had worn an expression of distrust, the object of which was undoubtedly the man whose acquaintance they were thus assembled to make. Philip Bosinney was known to be a young man without fortune, but Forsyte girls had become engaged to such before, and had actually married them. It was not altogether for this reason, therefore, that the minds of the Forsytes misgave them. They could not have explained the origin of a misgiving obscured by the mist of family gossip. A story was undoubtedly told that he had paid his duty call to Aunts Ann, Juley, and Hester, in a soft grey hat — a soft grey hat, not even a new one — a dusty thing with a shapeless crown. “So, extraordinary, my dear — so odd,” Aunt Hester, passing through the little, dark hall (she was rather short-sighted), had tried to ‘shoo’ it off a chair, taking it for a strange, disreputable cat — Tommy had such disgraceful friends! She was disturbed when it did not move.Like an artist for ever seeking to discover the significant trifle which embodies the whole character of a scene, or place, or person, so those unconscious artists — the Forsytes had fastened by intuition on this hat; it was their significant trifle, the detail in which was embedded the meaning of the whole matter; for each had asked himself: “Come, now, should I have paid that visit in that hat?” and each had answered “No!” and some, with more imagination than others, had added: “It would never have come into my head!”George, on hearing the story, grinned. The hat had obviously been worn as a practical joke! He himself was a connoisseur of such. “Very haughty!” he said, “the wild Buccaneer.”And this mot, the ‘Buccaneer,’ was bandied from mouth to mouth, till it became the favourite mode of alluding to Bosinney.Her aunts reproached June afterwards about the hat.“We don’t think you ought to let him, dear!” they had said.June had answered in her imperious brisk way, like the little embodiment of will she was: “Oh! what does it matter? Phil never knows what he’s got on!”No one had credited an answer so outrageous. A man not to know what he had on? No, no! What indeed was this young man, who, in becoming engaged to June, old Jolyon’s acknowledged heiress, had done so well for himself? He was an architect, not in itself a sufficient reason for wearing such a hat. None of the Forsytes happened to be architects, but one of them knew two architects who would never have worn such a hat upon a call of ceremony in the London season.Dangerous — ah, dangerous! June, of course, had not seen this, but, though not yet nineteen, she was notorious. Had she not said to Mrs. Soames — who was always so beautifully dressed — that feathers were vulgar? Mrs. Soames had actually given up wearing feathers, so dreadfully downright was dear June!These misgivings, this disapproval, and perfectly genuine distrust, did not prevent the Forsytes from gathering to old Jolyon’s invitation. An ‘At Home’ at Stanhope Gate was a great rarity; none had been held for twelve years, not indeed, since old Mrs. Jolyon had died.Never had there been so full an assembly, for, mysteriously united in spite of all their differences, they had taken arms against a common peril. Like cattle when a dog comes into the field, they stood head to head and shoulder to shoulder, prepared to run upon and trample the invader to death. They had come, too, no doubt, to get some notion of what sort of presents they would ultimately be expected to give; for though the question of wedding gifts was usually graduated in this way: ‘What are you givin’? Nicholas is givin’ spoons!’— so very much depended on the bridegroom. If he were sleek, well-brushed, prosperous-looking, it was more necessary to give him nice things; he would expect them. In the end each gave exactly what was right and proper, by a species of family adjustment arrived at as prices are arrived at on the Stock Exchange — the exact niceties being regulated at Timothy’s commodious, red-brick residence in Bayswater, overlooking the Park, where dwelt Aunts Ann, Juley, and Hester.The uneasiness of the Forsyte family has been justified by the simple mention of the hat. How impossible and wrong would it have been for any family, with the regard for appearances which should ever characterize the great upper middle-class, to feel otherwise than uneasy!The author of the uneasiness stood talking to June by the further door; his curly hair had a rumpled appearance, as though he found what was going on around him unusual. He had an air, too, of having a joke all to himself. George, speaking aside to his brother, Eustace, said:“Looks as if he might make a bolt of it — the dashing Buccaneer!”This ‘very singular-looking man,’ as Mrs. Small afterwards called him, was of medium height and strong build, with a pale, brown face, a dust-coloured moustache, very prominent cheek-bones, and hollow checks. His forehead sloped back towards the crown of his head, and bulged out in bumps over the eyes, like foreheads seen in the Lion-house at the Zoo. He had sherry-coloured eyes, disconcertingly inattentive at times. Old Jolyon’s coachman, after driving June and Bosinney to the theatre, had remarked to the butler:“I dunno what to make of ’im. Looks to me for all the world like an ‘alf-tame leopard.” And every now and then a Forsyte would come up, sidle round, and take a look at him.June stood in front, fending off this idle curiosity — a little bit of a thing, as somebody once said, ‘all hair and spirit,’ with fearless blue eyes, a firm jaw, and a bright colour, whose face and body seemed too slender for her crown of red-gold hair.A tall woman, with a beautiful figure, which some member of the family had once compared to a heathen goddess, stood looking at these two with a shadowy smile.Her hands, gloved in French grey, were crossed one over the other, her grave, charming face held to one side, and the eyes of all men near were fastened on it. Her figure swayed, so balanced that the very air seemed to set it moving. There was warmth, but little colour, in her cheeks; her large, dark eyes were soft.But it was at her lips — asking a question, giving an answer, with that shadowy smile — that men looked; they were sensitive lips, sensuous and sweet, and through them seemed to come warmth and perfume like the warmth and perfume of a flower.The engaged couple thus scrutinized were unconscious of this passive goddess. It was Bosinney who first noticed her, and asked her name.June took her lover up to the woman with the beautiful figure.“Irene is my greatest chum,” she said: “Please be good friends, you two!”At the little lady’s command they all three smiled; and while they were smiling, Soames Forsyte, silently appearing from behind the woman with the beautiful figure, who was his wife, said:“Ah! introduce me too!”He was seldom, indeed, far from Irene’s side at public functions, and even when separated by the exigencies of social intercourse, could be seen following her about with his eyes, in which were strange expressions of watchfulness and longing.At the window his father, James, was still scrutinizing the marks on the piece of china.“I wonder at Jolyon’s allowing this engagement,” he said to Aunt Ann. “They tell me there’s no chance of their getting married for years. This young Bosinney” (he made the word a dactyl in opposition to general usage of a short o) “has got nothing. When Winifred married Dartie, I made him bring every penny into settlement — lucky thing, too — they’d ha’ had nothing by this time!”Aunt Ann looked up from her velvet chair. Grey curls banded her forehead, curls that, unchanged for decades, had extinguished in the family all sense of time. She made no reply, for she rarely spoke, husbanding her aged voice; but to James, uneasy of conscience, her look was as good as an answer.“Well,” he said, “I couldn’t help Irene’s having no money. Soames was in such a hurry; he got quite thin dancing attendance on her.”Putting the bowl pettishly down on the piano, he let his eyes wander to the group by the door.“It’s my opinion,” he said unexpectedly, “that it’s just as well as it is.”Aunt Ann did not ask him to explain this strange utterance. She knew what he was thinking. If Irene had no money she would not be so foolish as to do anything wrong; for they said — they said — she had been asking for a separate room; but, of course, Soames had not. . . .James interrupted her reverie:“But where,” he asked, “was Timothy? Hadn’t he come with them?”Through Aunt Ann’s compressed lips a tender smile forced its way:“No, he didn’t think it wise, with so much of this diphtheria about; and he so liable to take things.”James answered:“Well, HE takes good care of himself. I can’t afford to take the care of myself that he does.”Nor was it easy to say which, of admiration, envy, or contempt, was dominant in that remark.Timothy, indeed, was seldom seen. The baby of the family, a publisher by profession, he had some years before, when business was at full tide, scented out the stagnation which, indeed, had not yet come, but which ultimately, as all agreed, was bound to set in, and, selling his share in a firm engaged mainly in the production of religious books, had invested the quite conspicuous proceeds in three per cent. consols. By this act he had at once assumed an isolated position, no other Forsyte being content with less than four per cent. for his money; and this isolation had slowly and surely undermined a spirit perhaps better than commonly endowed with caution. He had become almost a myth — a kind of incarnation of security haunting the background of the Forsyte universe. He had never committed the imprudence of marrying, or encumbering himself in any way with children.James resumed, tapping the piece of china:“This isn’t real old Worcester. I s’pose Jolyon’s told you something about the young man. From all I can learn, he’s got no business, no income, and no connection worth speaking of; but then, I know nothing — nobody tells me anything.”Aunt Ann shook her head. Over her square-chinned, aquiline old face a trembling passed; the spidery fingers of her hands pressed against each other and interlaced, as though she were subtly recharging her will.The eldest by some years of all the Forsytes, she held a peculiar position amongst them. Opportunists and egotists one and all — though not, indeed, more so than their neighbours — they quailed before her incorruptible figure, and, when opportunities were too strong, what could they do but avoid her!Twisting his long, thin legs, James went on:“Jolyon, he will have his own way. He’s got no children”— and stopped, recollecting the continued existence of old Jolyon’s son, young Jolyon, June’s father, who had made such a mess of it, and done for himself by deserting his wife and child and running away with that foreign governess. “Well,” he resumed hastily, “if he likes to do these things, I s’pose he can afford to. Now, what’s he going to give her? I s’pose he’ll give her a thousand a year; he’s got nobody else to leave his money to.”He stretched out his hand to meet that of a dapper, clean-shaven man, with hardly a hair on his head, a long, broken nose, full lips, and cold grey eyes under rectangular brows.“Well, Nick,” he muttered, “how are you?”Nicholas Forsyte, with his bird-like rapidity and the look of a preternaturally sage schoolboy (he had made a large fortune, quite legitimately, out of the companies of which he was a director), placed within that cold palm the tips of his still colder fingers and hastily withdrew them.“I’m bad,” he said, pouting —“been bad all the week; don’t sleep at night. The doctor can’t tell why. He’s a clever fellow, or I shouldn’t have him, but I get nothing out of him but bills.”“Doctors!” said James, coming down sharp on his words: “I’ve had all the doctors in London for one or another of us. There’s no satisfaction to be got out of them; they’ll tell you anything. There’s Swithin, now. What good have they done him? There he is; he’s bigger than ever; he’s enormous; they can’t get his weight down. Look at him!”Swithin Forsyte, tall, square, and broad, with a chest like a pouter pigeon’s in its plumage of bright waistcoats, came strutting towards them.“Er — how are you?” he said in his dandified way, aspirating the ‘h’ strongly (this difficult letter was almost absolutely safe in his keeping)—“how are you?”Each brother wore an air of aggravation as he looked at the other two, knowing by experience that they would try to eclipse his ailments.“We were just saying,” said James, “that you don’t get any thinner.”Swithin protruded his pale round eyes with the effort of hearing.“Thinner? I’m in good case,” he said, leaning a little forward, “not one of your thread-papers like you!”But, afraid of losing the expansion of his chest, he leaned back again into a state of immobility, for he prized nothing so highly as a distinguished appearance.Aunt Ann turned her old eyes from one to the other. Indulgent and severe was her look. In turn the three brothers looked at Ann. She was getting shaky. Wonderful woman! Eighty-six if a day; might live another ten years, and had never been strong. Swithin and James, the twins, were only seventy-five, Nicholas a mere baby of seventy or so. All were strong, and the inference was comforting. Of all forms of property their respective healths naturally concerned them most.“I’m very well in myself,” proceeded James, “but my nerves are out of order. The least thing worries me to death. I shall have to go to Bath.”“Bath!” said Nicholas. “I’ve tried Harrogate. That’s no good. What I want is sea air. There’s nothing like Yarmouth. Now, when I go there I sleep. . . . ”“My liver’s very bad,” interrupted Swithin slowly. “Dreadful pain here;” and he placed his hand on his right side.“Want of exercise,” muttered James, his eyes on the china. He quickly added: “I get a pain there, too.”Swithin reddened, a resemblance to a turkey-cock coming upon his old face.“Exercise!” he said. “I take plenty: I never use the lift at the Club.”“I didn’t know,” James hurried out. “I know nothing about anybody; nobody tells me anything. . . . ”Swithin fixed him with a stare:“What do you do for a pain there?”James brightened.“I take a compound. . . . ”“How are you, uncle?”June stood before him, her resolute small face raised from her little height to his great height, and her hand outheld.The brightness faded from James’s visage.“How are you?” he said, brooding over her. “So you’re going to Wales to-morrow to visit your young man’s aunts? You’ll have a lot of rain there. This isn’t real old Worcester.” He tapped the bowl. “Now, that set I gave your mother when she married was the genuine thing.”June shook hands one by one with her three great-uncles, and turned to Aunt Ann. A very sweet look had come into the old lady’s face, she kissed the girl’s check with trembling fervour.“Well, my dear,” she said, “and so you’re going for a whole month!”The girl passed on, and Aunt Ann looked after her slim little figure. The old lady’s round, steel grey eyes, over which a film like a bird’s was beginning to come, followed her wistfully amongst the bustling crowd, for people were beginning to say good-bye; and her finger-tips, pressing and pressing against each other, were busy again with the recharging of her will against that inevitable ultimate departure of her own.‘Yes,’ she thought, ‘everybody’s been most kind; quite a lot of people come to congratulate her. She ought to be very happy.’ Amongst the throng of people by the door, the well-dressed throng drawn from the families of lawyers and doctors, from the Stock Exchange, and all the innumerable avocations of the upper-middle class — there were only some twenty percent of Forsytes; but to Aunt Ann they seemed all Forsytes — and certainly there was not much difference — she saw only her own flesh and blood. It was her world, this family, and she knew no other, had never perhaps known any other. All their little secrets, illnesses, engagements, and marriages, how they were getting on, and whether they were making money — all this was her property, her delight, her life; beyond this only a vague, shadowy mist of facts and persons of no real significance. This it was that she would have to lay down when it came to her turn to die; this which gave to her that importance, that secret self-importance, without which none of us can bear to live; and to this she clung wistfully, with a greed that grew each day! If life were slipping away from her, this she would retain to the end.She thought of June’s father, young Jolyon, who had run away with that foreign girl. And what a sad blow to his father and to them all. Such a promising young fellow! A sad blow, though there had been no public scandal, most fortunately, Jo’s wife seeking for no divorce! A long time ago! And when June’s mother died, six years ago, Jo had married that woman, and they had two children now, so she had heard. Still, he had forfeited his right to be there, had cheated her of the complete fulfilment of her family pride, deprived her of the rightful pleasure of seeing and kissing him of whom she had been so proud, such a promising young fellow! The thought rankled with the bitterness of a long-inflicted injury in her tenacious old heart. A little water stood in her eyes. With a handkerchief of the finpleasure of seeing and kissing him of whom she had been so proud, such a promising young fellow! The thought rest lawn she wiped them stealthily.“Well, Aunt Ann?” said a voice behind.Soames Forsyte, flat-shouldered, clean-shaven, flat-cheeked, flat-waisted, yet with something round and secret about his whole appearance, looked downwards and aslant at Aunt Ann, as though trying to see through the side of his own nose.“And what do you think of the engagement?” he asked.Aunt Ann’s eyes rested on him proudly; of all the nephews since young Jolyon’s departure from the family nest, he was now her favourite, for she recognised in him a sure trustee of the family soul that must so soon slip beyond her keeping.“Very nice for the young man,” she said; “and he’s a good-looking young fellow; but I doubt if he’s quite the right lover for dear June.”Soames touched the edge of a gold-lacquered lustre.“She’ll tame him,” he said, stealthily wetting his finger and rubbing it on the knobby bulbs. “That’s genuine old lacquer; you can’t get it nowadays. It’d do well in a sale at Jobson’s.” He spoke with relish, as though he felt that he was cheering up his old aunt. It was seldom he was so confidential. “I wouldn’t mind having it myself,” he added; “you can always get your price for old lacquer.”“You’re so clever with all those things,” said Aunt Ann. “And how is dear Irene?”Soames’s smile died.“Pretty well,” he said. “Complains she can’t sleep; she sleeps a great deal better than I do,” and he looked at his wife, who was talking to Bosinney by the door.Aunt Ann sighed.“Perhaps,” she said, “it will be just as well for her not to see so much of June. She’s such a decided character, dear June!”Soames flushed; his flushes passed rapidly over his flat cheeks and centered between his eyes, where they remained, the stamp of disturbing thoughts.“I don’t know what she sees in that little flibbertigibbet,” he burst out, but noticing that they were no longer alone, he turned and again began examining the lustre.“They tell me Jolyon’s bought another house,” said his father’s voice close by; “he must have a lot of money — he must have more money than he knows what to do with! Montpellier Square, they say; close to Soames! They never told me, Irene never tells me anything!”“Capital position, not two minutes from me,” said the voice of Swithin, “and from my rooms I can drive to the Club in eight.”The position of their houses was of vital importance to the Forsytes, nor was this remarkable, since the whole spirit of their success was embodied therein.Their father, of farming stock, had come from Dorsetshire near the beginning of the century.‘Superior Dosset Forsyte, as he was called by his intimates, had been a stonemason by trade, and risen to the position of a master-builder.Towards the end of his life he moved to London, where, building on until he died, he was buried at Highgate. He left over thirty thousand pounds between his ten children. Old Jolyon alluded to him, if at all, as ‘A hard, thick sort of man; not much refinement about him.’ The second generation of Forsytes felt indeed that he was not greatly to their credit. The only aristocratic trait they could find in his character was a habit of drinking Madeira.Aunt Hester, an authority on family history, described him thus: “I don’t recollect that he ever did anything; at least, not in my time. He was er — an owner of houses, my dear. His hair about your Uncle Swithin’s colour; rather a square build. Tall? No — not very tall” (he had been five feet five, with a mottled face); “a fresh-coloured man. I remember he used to drink Madeira; but ask your Aunt Ann. What was his father? He — er — had to do with the land down in Dorsetshire, by the sea.”James once went down to see for himself what sort of place this was that they had come from. He found two old farms, with a cart track rutted into the pink earth, leading down to a mill by the beach; a little grey church with a buttressed outer wall, and a smaller and greyer chapel. The stream which worked the mill came bubbling down in a dozen rivulets, and pigs were hunting round that estuary. A haze hovered over the prospect. Down this hollow, with their feet deep in the mud and their faces towards the sea, it appeared that the primeval Forsytes had been content to walk Sunday after Sunday for hundreds of years.Whether or no James had cherished hopes of an inheritance, or of something rather distinguished to be found down there, he came back to town in a poor way, and went about with a pathetic attempt at making the best of a bad job.“There’s very little to be had out of that,” he said; “regular country little place, old as the hills. . . . ”Its age was felt to be a comfort. Old Jolyon, in whom a desperate honesty welled up at times, would allude to his ancestors as: “Yeomen — I suppose very small beer.” Yet he would repeat the word ‘yeomen’ as if it afforded him consolation.They had all done so well for themselves, these Forsytes, that they were all what is called ‘of a certain position.’ They had shares in all sorts of things, not as yet — with the exception of Timothy — in consols, for they had no dread in life like that of 3 per cent. for their money. They collected pictures, too, and were supporters of such charitable institutions as might be beneficial to their sick domestics. From their father, the builder, they inherited a talent for bricks and mortar. Originally, perhaps, members of some primitive sect, they were now in the natural course of things members of the Church of England, and caused their wives and children to attend with some regularity the more fashionable churches of the Metropolis. To have doubted their Christianity would have caused them both pain and surprise. Some of them paid for pews, thus expressing in the most practical form their sympathy with the teachings of Christ.Their residences, placed at stated intervals round the park, watched like sentinels, lest the fair heart of this London, where their desires were fixed, should slip from their clutches, and leave them lower in their own estimations.There was old Jolyon in Stanhope Place; the Jameses in Park Lane; Swithin in the lonely glory of orange and blue chambers in Hyde Park Mansions — he had never married, not he — the Soamses in their nest off Knightsbridge; the Rogers in Prince’s Gardens (Roger was that remarkable Forsyte who had conceived and carried out the notion of bringing up his four sons to a new profession. “Collect house property, nothing like it,” he would say; “I never did anything else”).The Haymans again — Mrs. Hayman was the one married Forsyte sister — in a house high up on Campden Hill, shaped like a giraffe, and so tall that it gave the observer a crick in the neck; the Nicholases in Ladbroke Grove, a spacious abode and a great bargain; and last, but not least, Timothy’s on the Bayswater Road, where Ann, and Juley, and Hester, lived under his protection.But all this time James was musing, and now he inquired of his host and brother what he had given for that house in Montpellier Square. He himself had had his eye on a house there for the last two years, but they wanted such a price.Old Jolyon recounted the details of his purchase.“Twenty-two years to run?” repeated James; “The very house I was after — you’ve given too much for it!”Old Jolyon frowned.“It’s not that I want it,” said James hastily; it wouldn’t suit my purpose at that price. Soames knows the house, well — he’ll tell you it’s too dear — his opinion’s worth having.”“I don’t,” said old Jolyon, “care a fig for his opinion.”“Well,” murmured James, “you will have your own way — it’s a good opinion. Good-bye! We’re going to drive down to Hurlingham. They tell me June’s going to Wales. You’ll be lonely tomorrow. What’ll you do with yourself? You’d better come and dine with us!”Old Jolyon refused. He went down to the front door and saw them into their barouche, and twinkled at them, having already forgotten his spleen — Mrs. James facing the horses, tall and majestic with auburn hair; on her left, Irene — the two husbands, father and son, sitting forward, as though they expected something, opposite their wives. Bobbing and bounding upon the spring cushions, silent, swaying to each motion of their chariot, old Jolyon watched them drive away under the sunlight.During the drive the silence was broken by Mrs. James.“Did you ever see such a collection of rumty-too people?”Soames, glancing at her beneath his eyelids, nodded, and he saw Irene steal at him one of her unfathomable looks. It is likely enough that each branch of the Forsyte family made that remark as they drove away from old Jolyon’s ‘At Home!’Amongst the last of the departing guests the fourth and fifth brothers, Nicholas and Roger, walked away together, directing their steps alongside Hyde Park towards the Praed Street Station of the Underground. Like all other Forsytes of a certain age they kept carriages of their own, and never took cabs if by any means they could avoid it.The day was bright, the trees of the Park in the full beauty of mid-June foliage; the brothers did not seem to notice phenomena, which contributed, nevertheless, to the jauntiness of promenade and conversation.“Yes,” said Roger, “she’s a good-lookin’ woman, that wife of Soames’s. I’m told they don’t get on.”This brother had a high forehead, and the freshest colour of any of the Forsytes; his light grey eyes measured the street frontage of the houses by the way, and now and then he would level his, umbrella and take a ‘lunar,’ as he expressed it, of the varying heights.“She’d no money,” replied Nicholas.He himself had married a good deal of money, of which, it being then the golden age before the Married Women’s Property Act, he had mercifully been enabled to make a successful use.“What was her father?”“Heron was his name, a Professor, so they tell me.”Roger shook his head.“There’s no money in that,” he said.“They say her mother’s father was cement.”Roger’s face brightened.“But he went bankrupt,” went on Nicholas.“Ah!” exclaimed Roger, “Soames will have trouble with her; you mark my words, he’ll have trouble — she’s got a foreign look.”Nicholas licked his lips.“She’s a pretty woman,” and he waved aside a crossing-sweeper.“How did he get hold of her?” asked Roger presently. “She must cost him a pretty penny in dress!”“Ann tells me,” replied Nicholas, “he was half-cracked about her. She refused him five times. James, he’s nervous about it, I can see.”“Ah!” said Roger again; “I’m sorry for James; he had trouble with Dartie.” His pleasant colour was heightened by exercise, he swung his umbrella to the level of his eye more frequently than ever. Nicholas’s face also wore a pleasant look.“Too pale for me,” he said, “but her figures capital!”Roger made no reply.“I call her distinguished-looking,” he said at last — it was the highest praise in the Forsyte vocabulary. “That young Bosinney will never do any good for himself. They say at Burkitt’s he’s one of these artistic chaps — got an idea of improving English architecture; there’s no money in that! I should like to hear what Timothy would say to it.”They entered the station.“What class are you going? I go second.”“No second for me,” said Nicholas; —“you never know what you may catch.”He took a first-class ticket to Notting Hill Gate; Roger a second to South Kensington. The train coming in a minute later, the two brothers parted and entered their respective compartments. Each felt aggrieved that the other had not modified his habits to secure his society a little longer; but as Roger voiced it in his thoughts:‘Always a stubborn beggar, Nick!’And as Nicholas expressed it to himself:‘Cantankerous chap Roger — always was!’There was little sentimentality about the Forsytes. In that great London, which they had conquered and become merged in, what time had they to be sentimental?

Chapter 2 Old Jolyon Goes to the Opera 
At five o’clock the following day old Jolyon sat alone, a cigar between his lips, and on a table by his side a cup of tea. He was tired, and before he had finished his cigar he fell asleep. A fly settled on his hair, his breathing sounded heavy in the drowsy silence, his upper lip under the white moustache puffed in and out. From between the fingers of his veined and wrinkled hand the cigar, dropping on the empty hearth, burned itself out.The gloomy little study, with windows of stained glass to exclude the view, was full of dark green velvet and heavily-carved mahogany — a suite of which old Jolyon was wont to say: ‘Shouldn’t wonder if it made a big price some day!’It was pleasant to think that in the after life he could get more for things than he had given.In the rich brown atmosphere peculiar to back rooms in the mansion of a Forsyte, the Rembrandtesque effect of his great head, with its white hair, against the cushion of his high-backed seat, was spoiled by the moustache, which imparted a somewhat military look to his face. An old clock that had been with him since before his marriage forty years ago kept with its ticking a jealous record of the seconds slipping away forever from its old master.He had never cared for this room, hardly going into it from one year’s end to another, except to take cigars from the Japanese cabinet in the corner, and the room now had its revenge.His temples, curving like thatches over the hollows beneath, his cheek-bones and chin, all were sharpened in his sleep, and there had come upon his face the confession that he was an old man.He woke. June had gone! James had said he would be lonely. James had always been a poor thing. He recollected with satisfaction that he had bought that house over James’s head.Serve him right for sticking at the price; the only thing the fellow thought of was money. Had he given too much, though? It wanted a lot of doing to — He dared say he would want all his money before he had done with this affair of June’s. He ought never to have allowed the engagement. She had met this Bosinney at the house of Baynes, Baynes and Bildeboy, the architects. He believed that Baynes, whom he knew — a bit of an old woman — was the young man’s uncle by marriage. After that she’d been always running after him; and when she took a thing into her head there was no stopping her. She was continually taking up with ‘lame ducks’ of one sort or another. This fellow had no money, but she must needs become engaged to him — a harumscarum, unpractical chap, who would get himself into no end of difficulties.She had come to him one day in her slap-dash way and told him; and, as if it were any consolation, she had added:“He’s so splendid; he’s often lived on cocoa for a week!”“And he wants you to live on cocoa too?”“Oh no; he is getting into the swim now.”Old Jolyon had taken his cigar from under his white moustaches, stained by coffee at the edge, and looked at her, that little slip of a thing who had got such a grip of his heart. He knew more about ‘swims’ than his granddaughter. But she, having clasped her hands on his knees, rubbed her chin against him, making a sound like a purring cat. And, knocking the ash off his cigar, he had exploded in nervous desperation:“You’re all alike: you won’t be satisfied till you’ve got what you want. If you must come to grief, you must; I wash my hands of it.”So, he had washed his hands of it, making the condition that they should not marry until Bosinney had at least four hundred a year.“I shan’t be able to give you very much,” he had said, a formula to which June was not unaccustomed. “Perhaps this What’s-his-name will provide the cocoa.”He had hardly seen anything of her since it began. A bad business! He had no notion of giving her a lot of money to enable a fellow he knew nothing about to live on in idleness. He had seen that sort of thing before; no good ever came of it. Worst of all, he had no hope of shaking her resolution; she was as obstinate as a mule, always had been from a child. He didn’t see where it was to end. They must cut their coat according to their cloth. He would not give way till he saw young Bosinney with an income of his own. That June would have trouble with the fellow was as plain as a pikestaff; he had no more idea of money than a cow. As to this rushing down to Wales to visit the young man’s aunts, he fully expected they were old cats.And, motionless, old Jolyon stared at the wall; but for his open eyes, he might have been asleep. . . . The idea of supposing that young cub Soames could give him advice! He had always been a cub, with his nose in the air! He would be setting up as a man of property next, with a place in the country! A man of property! H’mph! Like his father, he was always nosing out bargains, a cold-blooded young beggar!He rose, and, going to the cabinet, began methodically stocking his cigar-case from a bundle fresh in. They were not bad at the price, but you couldn’t get a good cigar, nowadays, nothing to hold a candle to those old Superfinos of Hanson and Bridger’s. That was a cigar!The thought, like some stealing perfume, carried him back to those wonderful nights at Richmond when after dinner he sat smoking on the terrace of the Crown and Sceptre with Nicholas Treffry and Traquair and Jack Herring and Anthony Thornworthy. How good his cigars were then! Poor old Nick! — dead, and Jack Herring — dead, and Traquair — dead of that wife of his, and Thornworthy — awfully shaky (no wonder, with his appetite).Of all the company of those days he himself alone seemed left, except Swithin, of course, and he so outrageously big there was no doing anything with him.Difficult to believe it was so long ago; he felt young still! Of all his thoughts, as he stood there counting his cigars, this was the most poignant, the most bitter. With his white head and his loneliness he had remained young and green at heart. And those Sunday afternoons on Hampstead Heath, when young Jolyon and he went for a stretch along the Spaniard’s Road to Highgate, to Child’s Hill, and back over the Heath again to dine at Jack Straw’s Castle — how delicious his cigars were then! And such weather! There was no weather now.When June was a toddler of five, and every other Sunday he took her to the Zoo, away from the society of those two good women, her mother and her grandmother, and at the top of the bear den baited his umbrella with buns for her favourite bears, how sweet his cigars were then!Cigars! He had not even succeeded in out-living his palate — the famous palate that in the fifties men swore by, and speaking of him, said: “Forsyte’s the best palate in London!” The palate that in a sense had made his fortune — the fortune of the celebrated tea men, Forsyte and Treffry, whose tea, like no other man’s tea, had a romantic aroma, the charm of a quite singular genuineness. About the house of Forsyte and Treffry in the City had clung an air of enterprise and mystery, of special dealings in special ships, at special ports, with special Orientals.He had worked at that business! Men did work in those days! these young pups hardly knew the meaning of the word. He had gone into every detail, known everything that went on, sometimes sat up all night over it. And he had always chosen his agents himself, prided himself on it. His eye for men, he used to say, had been the secret of his success, and the exercise of this masterful power of selection had been the only part of it all that he had really liked. Not a career for a man of his ability. Even now, when the business had been turned into a Limited Liability Company, and was declining (he had got out of his shares long ago), he felt a sharp chagrin in thinking of that time. How much better he might have done! He would have succeeded splendidly at the Bar! He had even thought of standing for Parliament. How often had not Nicholas Treffry said to him:“You could do anything, Jo, if you weren’t so d-damned careful of yourself!” Dear old Nick! Such a good fellow, but a racketty chap! The notorious Treffry! He had never taken any care of himself. So he was dead. Old Jolyon counted his cigars with a steady hand, and it came into his mind to wonder if perhaps he had been too careful of himself.He put the cigar-case in the breast of his coat, buttoned it in, and walked up the long flights to his bedroom, leaning on one foot and the other, and helping himself by the bannister. The house was too big. After June was married, if she ever did marry this fellow, as he supposed she would, he would let it and go into rooms. What was the use of keeping half a dozen servants eating their heads off?The butler came to the ring of his bell — a large man with a beard, a soft tread, and a peculiar capacity for silence. Old Jolyon told him to put his dress clothes out; he was going to dine at the Club.How long had the carriage been back from taking Miss June to the station? Since two? Then let him come round at half-past six!The Club which old Jolyon entered on the stroke of seven was one of those political institutions of the upper middle class which have seen better days. In spite of being talked about, perhaps in consequence of being talked about, it betrayed a disappointing vitality. People had grown tired of saying that the ‘Disunion’ was on its last legs. Old Jolyon would say it, too, yet disregarded the fact in a manner truly irritating to well-constituted Clubmen.“Why do you keep your name on?” Swithin often asked him with profound vexation. “Why don’t you join the ‘Polyglot’? You can’t get a wine like our Heidsieck under twenty shillin’ a bottle anywhere in London;” and, dropping his voice, he added: “There’s only five hundred dozen left. I drink it every night of my life.”“I’ll think of it,” old Jolyon would answer; but when he did think of it there was always the question of fifty guineas entrance fee, and it would take him four or five years to get in. He continued to think of it.He was too old to be a Liberal, had long ceased to believe in the political doctrines of his Club, had even been known to allude to them as ‘wretched stuff,’ and it afforded him pleasure to continue a member in the teeth of principles so opposed to his own. He had always had a contempt for the place, having joined it many years ago when they refused to have him at the ‘Hotch Potch’ owing to his being ‘in trade.’ As if he were not as good as any of them! He naturally despised the Club that did take him. The members were a poor lot, many of them in the City — stockbrokers, solicitors, auctioneers — what not! Like most men of strong character but not too much originality, old Jolyon set small store by the class to which he belonged. Faithfully he followed their customs, social and otherwise, and secretly he thought them ‘a common lot.’Years and philosophy, of which he had his share, had dimmed the recollection of his defeat at the ‘Hotch Potch’; and now in his thoughts it was enshrined as the Queen of Clubs. He would have been a member all these years himself, but, owing to the slipshod way his proposer, Jack Herring, had gone to work, they had not known what they were doing in keeping him out. Why! they had taken his son Jo at once, and he believed the boy was still a member; he had received a letter dated from there eight years ago.He had not been near the ‘Disunion’ for months, and the house had undergone the piebald decoration which people bestow on old houses and old ships when anxious to sell them.‘Beastly colour, the smoking-room!’ he thought. ‘The dining-room is good!’Its gloomy chocolate, picked out with light green, took his fancy.He ordered dinner, and sat down in the very corner, at the very table perhaps! (things did not progress much at the ‘Disunion,’ a Club of almost Radical principles) at which he and young Jolyon used to sit twenty-five years ago, when he was taking the latter to Drury Lane, during his holidays.The boy had loved the theatre, and old Jolyon recalled how he used to sit opposite, concealing his excitement under a careful but transparent nonchalance.He ordered himself, too, the very dinner the boy had always chosen-soup, whitebait, cutlets, and a tart. Ah! if he were only opposite now!The two had not met for fourteen years. And not for the first time during those fourteen years old Jolyon wondered whether he had been a little to blame in the matter of his son. An unfortunate love-affair with that precious flirt Danae Thornworthy (now Danae Pellew), Anthony Thornworthy’s daughter, had thrown him on the rebound into the arms of June’s mother. He ought perhaps to have put a spoke in the wheel of their marriage; they were too young; but after that experience of Jo’s susceptibility he had been only too anxious to see him married. And in four years the crash had come! To have approved his son’s conduct in that crash was, of course, impossible; reason and training — that combination of potent factors which stood for his principles — told him of this impossibility, and his heart cried out. The grim remorselessness of that business had no pity for hearts. There was June, the atom with flaming hair, who had climbed all over him, twined and twisted herself about him — about his heart that was made to be the plaything and beloved resort of tiny, helpless things. With characteristic insight he saw he must part with one or with the other; no half-measures could serve in such a situation. In that lay its tragedy. And the tiny, helpless thing prevailed. He would not run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, and so to his son he said good-bye.That good-bye had lasted until now.He had proposed to continue a reduced allowance to young Jolyon, but this had been refused, and perhaps that refusal had hurt him more than anything, for with it had gone the last outlet of his penned-in affection; and there had come such tangible and solid proof of rupture as only a transaction in property, a bestowal or refusal of such, could supply.His dinner tasted flat. His pint of champagne was dry and bitter stuff, not like the Veuve Clicquots of old days.Over his cup of coffee, he bethought him that he would go to the opera. In the Times, therefore — he had a distrust of other papers — he read the announcement for the evening. It was ‘Fidelio.’Mercifully not one of those new-fangled German pantomimes by that fellow Wagner.Putting on his ancient opera hat, which, with its brim flattened by use, and huge capacity, looked like an emblem of greater days, and, pulling out an old pair of very thin lavender kid gloves smelling strongly of Russia leather, from habitual proximity to the cigar-case in the pocket of his overcoat, he stepped into a hansom.The cab rattled gaily along the streets, and old Jolyon was struck by their unwonted animation.‘The hotels must be doing a tremendous business,’ he thought. A few years ago there had been none of these big hotels. He made a satisfactory reflection on some property he had in the neighbourhood. It must be going up in value by leaps and bounds! What traffic!But from that he began indulging in one of those strange impersonal speculations, so uncharacteristic of a Forsyte, wherein lay, in part, the secret of his supremacy amongst them. What atoms men were, and what a lot of them! And what would become of them all?He stumbled as he got out of the cab, gave the man his exact fare, walked up to the ticket office to take his stall, and stood there with his purse in his hand — he always carried his money in a purse, never having approved of that habit of carrying it loosely in the pockets, as so many young men did nowadays. The official leaned out, like an old dog from a kennel.“Why,” he said in a surprised voice, “it’s Mr. Jolyon Forsyte! So it is! Haven’t seen you, sir, for years. Dear me! Times aren’t what they were. Why! you and your brother, and that auctioneer — Mr. Traquair, and Mr. Nicholas Treffry — you used to have six or seven stalls here regular every season. And how are you, sir? We don’t get younger!”The colour in old Jolyon’s eyes deepened; he paid his guinea. They had not forgotten him. He marched in, to the sounds of the overture, like an old war-horse to battle.Folding his opera hat, he sat down, drew out his lavender gloves in the old way, and took up his glasses for a long look round the house. Dropping them at last on his folded hat, he fixed his eyes on the curtain. More poignantly than ever he felt that it was all over and done with him. Where were all the women, the pretty women, the house used to be so full of? Where was that old feeling in the heart as he waited for one of those great singers? Where that sensation of the intoxication of life and of his own power to enjoy it all?The greatest opera-goer of his day! There was no opera now! That fellow Wagner had ruined everything; no melody left, nor any voices to sing it. Ah! the wonderful singers! Gone! He sat watching the old scenes acted, a numb feeling at his heart.From the curl of silver over his ear to the pose of his foot in its elastic-sided patent boot, there was nothing clumsy or weak about old Jolyon. He was as upright — very nearly — as in those old times when he came every night; his sight was as good — almost as good. But what a feeling of weariness and disillusion!He had been in the habit all his life of enjoying things, even imperfect things — and there had been many imperfect things — he had enjoyed them all with moderation, so as to keep himself young. But now he was deserted by his power of enjoyment, by his philosophy, and left with this dreadful feeling that it was all done with. Not even the Prisoners’ Chorus, nor Florian’s Song, had the power to dispel the gloom of his loneliness.If Jo were only with him! The boy must be forty by now. He had wasted fourteen years out of the life of his only son. And Jo was no longer a social pariah. He was married. Old Jolyon had been unable to refrain from marking his appreciation of the action by enclosing his son a cheque for L500. The cheque had been returned in a letter from the ‘Hotch Potch,’ couched in these words.‘MY DEAREST FATHER,‘Your generous gift was welcome as a sign that you might think worse of me. I return it, but should you think fit to invest it for the benefit of the little chap (we call him Jolly), who bears our Christian and, by courtesy, our surname, I shall be very glad.‘I hope with all my heart that your health is as good as ever.‘Your loving son,‘Jo.’The letter was like the boy. He had always been an amiable chap. Old Jolyon had sent this reply:‘MY DEAR JO,‘The sum (L500) stands in my books for the benefit of your boy, under the name of Jolyon Forsyte, and will be duly-credited with interest at 5 per cent. I hope that you are doing well. My health remains good at present.‘With love, I am, ‘Your affectionate Father, ‘JOLYON FORSYTE.’And every year on the 1st of January he had added a hundred and the interest. The sum was mounting up — next New Year’s Day it would be fifteen hundred and odd pounds! And it is difficult to say how much satisfaction he had got out of that yearly transaction. But the correspondence had ended.In spite of his love for his son, in spite of an instinct, partly constitutional, partly the result, as in thousands of his class, of the continual handling and watching of affairs, prompting him to judge conduct by results rather than by principle, there was at the bottom of his heart a sort of uneasiness. His son ought, under the circumstances, to have gone to the dogs; that law was laid down in all the novels, sermons, and plays he had ever read, heard, or witnessed.After receiving the cheque back there seemed to him to be something wrong somewhere. Why had his son not gone to the dogs? But, then, who could tell?He had heard, of course — in fact, he had made it his business to find out — that Jo lived in St. John’s Wood, that he had a little house in Wistaria Avenue with a garden, and took his wife about with him into society — a queer sort of society, no doubt — and that they had two children — the little chap they called Jolly (considering the circumstances the name struck him as cynical, and old Jolyon both feared and disliked cynicism), and a girl called Holly, born since the marriage. Who could tell what his son’s circumstances really were? He had capitalized the income he had inherited from his mother’s father and joined Lloyd’s as an underwriter; he painted pictures, too — water-colours. Old Jolyon knew this, for he had surreptitiously bought them from time to time, after chancing to see his son’s name signed at the bottom of a representation of the river Thames in a dealer’s window. He thought them bad, and did not hang them because of the signature; he kept them locked up in a drawer.In the great opera-house a terrible yearning came on him to see his son. He remembered the days when he had been wont to slide him, in a brown holland suit, to and fro under the arch of his legs; the times when he ran beside the boy’s pony, teaching him to ride; the day he first took him to school. He had been a loving, lovable little chap! After he went to Eton he had acquired, perhaps, a little too much of that desirable manner which old Jolyon knew was only to be obtained at such places and at great expense; but he had always been companionable. Always a companion, even after Cambridge — a little far off, perhaps, owing to the advantages he had received. Old Jolyon’s feeling towards our public schools and ‘Varsities never wavered, and he retained touchingly his attitude of admiration and mistrust towards a system appropriate to the highest in the land, of which he had not himself been privileged to partake. . . . Now that June had gone and left, or as good as left him, it would have been a comfort to see his son again. Guilty of this treason to his family, his principles, his class, old Jolyon fixed his eyes on the singer. A poor thing — a wretched poor thing! And the Florian a perfect stick!It was over. They were easily pleased nowadays!In the crowded street he snapped up a cab under the very nose of a stout and much younger gentleman, who had already assumed it to be his own. His route lay through Pall Mall, and at the corner, instead of going through the Green Park, the cabman turned to drive up St. James’s Street. Old Jolyon put his hand through the trap (he could not bear being taken out of his way); in turning, however, he found himself opposite the ‘Hotch Potch,’ and the yearning that had been secretly with him the whole evening prevailed. He called to the driver to stop. He would go in and ask if Jo still belonged there.He went in. The hall looked exactly as it did when he used to dine there with Jack Herring, and they had the best cook in London; and he looked round with the shrewd, straight glance that had caused him all his life to be better served than most men.“Mr. Jolyon Forsyte still a member here?”“Yes, sir; in the Club now, sir. What name?”Old Jolyon was taken aback.“His father,” he said.And having spoken, he took his stand, back to the fireplace.Young Jolyon, on the point of leaving the Club, had put on his hat, and was in the act of crossing the hall, as the porter met him. He was no longer young, with hair going grey, and face — a narrower replica of his father’s, with the same large drooping moustache — decidedly worn. He turned pale. This meeting was terrible after all those years, for nothing in the world was so terrible as a scene. They met and crossed hands without a word. Then, with a quaver in his voice, the father said:“How are you, my boy?”The son answered:“How are you, Dad?”Old Jolyon’s hand trembled in its thin lavender glove.“If you’re going my way,” he said, “I can give you a lift.”And as though in the habit of taking each other home every night they went out and stepped into the cab.To old Jolyon it seemed that his son had grown. ‘More of a man altogether,’ was his comment. Over the natural amiability of that son’s face had come a rather sardonic mask, as though he had found in the circumstances of his life the necessity for armour. The features were certainly those of a Forsyte, but the expression was more the introspective look of a student or philosopher. He had no doubt been obliged to look into himself a good deal in the course of those fifteen years.To young Jolyon the first sight of his father was undoubtedly a shock — he looked so worn and old. But in the cab he seemed hardly to have changed, still having the calm look so well remembered, still being upright and keen-eyed.“You look well, Dad.”“Middling,” old Jolyon answered.He was the prey of an anxiety that he found he must put into words. Having got his son back like this, he felt he must know what was his financial position.“Jo,” he said, “I should like to hear what sort of water you’re in. I suppose you’re in debt?”He put it this way that his son might find it easier to confess.Young Jolyon answered in his ironical voice:“No! I’m not in debt!”Old Jolyon saw that he was angry, and touched his hand. He had run a risk. It was worth it, however, and Jo had never been sulky with him. They drove on, without speaking again, to Stanhope Gate. Old Jolyon invited him in, but young Jolyon shook his head.“June’s not here,” said his father hastily: “went of to-day on a visit. I suppose you know that she’s engaged to be married?”“Already?” murmured young Jolyon’.Old Jolyon stepped out, and, in paying the cab fare, for the first time in his life gave the driver a sovereign in mistake for a shilling.Placing the coin in his mouth, the cabman whipped his horse secretly on the underneath and hurried away.Old Jolyon turned the key softly in the lock, pushed open the door, and beckoned. His son saw him gravely hanging up his coat, with an expression on his face like that of a boy who intends to steal cherries.The door of the dining-room was open, the gas turned low; a spirit-urn hissed on a tea-tray, and close to it a cynical looking cat had fallen asleep on the dining-table. Old Jolyon ‘shoo’d’ her off at once. The incident was a relief to his feelings; he rattled his opera hat behind the animal.“She’s got fleas,” he said, following her out of the room. Through the door in the hall leading to the basement he called “Hssst!” several times, as though assisting the cat’s departure, till by some strange coincidence the butler appeared below.“You can go to bed, Parfitt,” said old Jolyon. “I will lock up and put out.”When he again entered the dining-room the cat unfortunately preceded him, with her tail in the air, proclaiming that she had seen through this manouevre for suppressing the butler from the first. . . .A fatality had dogged old Jolyon’s domestic stratagems all his life.Young Jolyon could not help smiling. He was very well versed in irony, and everything that evening seemed to him ironical. The episode of the cat; the announcement of his own daughter’s engagement. So he had no more part or parcel in her than he had in the Puss! And the poetical justice of this appealed to him.“What is June like now?” he asked.“She’s a little thing,” returned old Jolyon; they say she’s like me, but that’s their folly. She’s more like your mother — the same eyes and hair.”“Ah! and she is pretty?”Old Jolyon was too much of a Forsyte to praise anything freely; especially anything for which he had a genuine admiration.“Not bad looking — a regular Forsyte chin. It’ll be lonely here when she’s gone, Jo.”The look on his face again gave young Jolyon the shock he had felt on first seeing his father.“What will you do with yourself, Dad? I suppose she’s wrapped up in him?”“Do with myself?” repeated old Jolyon with an angry break in his voice. “It’ll be miserable work living here alone. I don’t know how it’s to end. I wish to goodness. . . . ” He checked himself, and added: “The question is, what had I better do with this house?”Young Jolyon looked round the room. It was peculiarly vast and dreary, decorated with the enormous pictures of still life that he remembered as a boy — sleeping dogs with their noses resting on bunches of carrots, together with onions and grapes lying side by side in mild surprise. The house was a white elephant, but he could not conceive of his father living in a smaller place; and all the more did it all seem ironical.In his great chair with the book-rest sat old Jolyon, the figurehead of his family and class and creed, with his white head and dome-like forehead, the representative of moderation, and order, and love of property. As lonely an old man as there was in London.There he sat in the gloomy comfort of the room, a puppet in the power of great forces that cared nothing for family or class or creed, but moved, machine-like, with dread processes to inscrutable ends. This was how it struck young Jolyon, who had the impersonal eye.The poor old Dad! So this was the end, the purpose to which he had lived with such magnificent moderation! To be lonely, and grow older and older, yearning for a soul to speak to!In his turn old Jolyon looked back at his son. He wanted to talk about many things that he had been unable to talk about all these years. It had been impossible to seriously confide in June his conviction that property in the Soho quarter would go up in value; his uneasiness about that tremendous silence of Pippin, the superintendent of the New Colliery Company, of which he had so long been chairman; his disgust at the steady fall in American Golgothas, or even to discuss how, by some sort of settlement, he could best avoid the payment of those death duties which would follow his decease. Under the influence, however, of a cup of tea, which he seemed to stir indefinitely, he began to speak at last. A new vista of life was thus opened up, a promised land of talk, where he could find a harbour against the waves of anticipation and regret; where he could soothe his soul with the opium of devising how to round off his property and make eternal the only part of him that was to remain alive.Young Jolyon was a good listener; it was his great quality. He kept his eyes fixed on his father’s face, putting a question now and then.The clock struck one before old Jolyon had finished, and at the sound of its striking his principles came back. He took out his watch with a look of surprise:“I must go to bed, Jo,” he said.Young Jolyon rose and held out his hand to help his father up. The old face looked worn and hollow again; the eyes were steadily averted.“Good-bye, my boy; take care of yourself.”A moment passed, and young Jolyon, turning on his, heel, marched out at the door. He could hardly see; his smile quavered. Never in all the fifteen years since he had first found out that life was no simple business, had he found it so singularly complicated.

Chapter 3 
In Swithin’s orange and light-blue dining-room, facing the Park, the round table was laid for twelve.A cut-glass chandelier filled with lighted candles hung like a giant stalactite above its centre, radiating over large gilt-framed mirrors, slabs of marble on the tops of side-tables, and heavy gold chairs with crewel worked seats. Everything betokened that love of beauty so deeply implanted in each family which has had its own way to make into Society, out of the more vulgar heart of Nature. Swithin had indeed an impatience of simplicity, a love of ormolu, which had always stamped him amongst his associates as a man of great, if somewhat luxurious taste; and out of the knowledge that no one could possibly enter his rooms without perceiving him to be a man of wealth, he had derived a solid and prolonged happiness such as perhaps no other circumstance in life had afforded him.Since his retirement from land agency, a profession deplorable in his estimation, especially as to its auctioneering department, he had abandoned himself to naturally aristocratic tastes.The perfect luxury of his latter days had embedded him like a fly in sugar; and his mind, where very little took place from morning till night, was the junction of two curiously opposite emotions, a lingering and sturdy satisfaction that he had made his own way and his own fortune, and a sense that a man of his distinction should never have been allowed to soil his mind with work.He stood at the sideboard in a white waistcoat with large gold and onyx buttons, watching his valet screw the necks of three champagne bottles deeper into ice-pails. Between the points of his stand-up collar, which — though it hurt him to move — he would on no account have had altered, the pale flesh of his under chin remained immovable. His eyes roved from bottle to bottle. He was debating, and he argued like this: Jolyon drinks a glass, perhaps two, he’s so careful of himself. James, he can’t take his wine nowadays. Nicholas — Fanny and he would swill water he shouldn’t wonder! Soames didn’t count; these young nephews — Soames was thirty-one — couldn’t drink! But Bosinney?Encountering in the name of this stranger something outside the range of his philosophy, Swithin paused. A misgiving arose within him! It was impossible to tell! June was only a girl, in love too! Emily (Mrs. James) liked a good glass of champagne. It was too dry for Juley, poor old soul, she had no palate. As to Hatty Chessman! The thought of this old friend caused a cloud of thought to obscure the perfect glassiness of his eyes: He shouldn’t wonder if she drank half a bottle!But in thinking of his remaining guest, an expression like that of a cat who is just going to purr stole over his old face: Mrs. Soames! She mightn’t take much, but she would appreciate what she drank; it was a pleasure to give her good wine! A pretty woman — and sympathetic to him!The thought of her was like champagne itself! A pleasure to give a good wine to a young woman who looked so well, who knew how to dress, with charming manners, quite distinguished — a pleasure to entertain her. Between the points of his collar he gave his head the first small, painful oscillation of the evening.“Adolf!” he said. “Put in another bottle.”He himself might drink a good deal, for, thanks to that prescription of Blight’s, he found himself extremely well, and he had been careful to take no lunch. He had not felt so well for weeks. Puffing out his lower lip, he gave his last instructions:“Adolf, the least touch of the West India when you come to the ham.”Passing into the anteroom, he sat down on the edge of a chair, with his knees apart; and his tall, bulky form was wrapped at once in an expectant, strange, primeval immobility. He was ready to rise at a moment’s notice. He had not given a dinner-party for months. This dinner in honour of June’s engagement had seemed a bore at first (among Forsytes the custom of solemnizing engagements by feasts was religiously observed), but the labours of sending invitations and ordering the repast over, he felt pleasantly stimulated.And thus sitting, a watch in his hand, fat, and smooth, and golden, like a flattened globe of butter, he thought of nothing.A long man, with side whiskers, who had once been in Swithin’s service, but was now a greengrocer, entered and proclaimed:“Mrs. Chessman, Mrs. Septimus Small!”Two ladies advanced. The one in front, habited entirely in red, had large, settled patches of the same colour in her cheeks, and a hard, dashing eye. She walked at Swithin, holding out a hand cased in a long, primrose-coloured glove:“Well! Swithin,” she said, “I haven’t seen you for ages. How are you? Why, my dear boy, how stout you’re getting!”The fixity of Swithin’s eye alone betrayed emotion. A dumb and grumbling anger swelled his bosom. It was vulgar to be stout, to talk of being stout; he had a chest, nothing more. Turning to his sister, he grasped her hand, and said in a tone of command:“Well, Juley.”Mrs. Septimus Small was the tallest of the four sisters; her good, round old face had gone a little sour; an innumerable pout clung all over it, as if it had been encased in an iron wire mask up to that evening, which, being suddenly removed, left little rolls of mutinous flesh all over her countenance. Even her eyes were pouting. It was thus that she recorded her permanent resentment at the loss of Septimus Small.She had quite a reputation for saying the wrong thing, and, tenacious like all her breed, she would hold to it when she had said it, and add to it another wrong thing, and so on. With the decease of her husband the family tenacity, the family matter-of-factness, had gone sterile within her. A great talker, when allowed, she would converse without the faintest animation for hours together, relating, with epic monotony, the innumerable occasions on which Fortune had misused her; nor did she ever perceive that her hearers sympathized with Fortune, for her heart was kind.Having sat, poor soul, long by the bedside of Small (a man of poor constitution), she had acquired, the habit, and there were countless subsequent occasions when she had sat immense periods of time to amuse sick people, children, and other helpless persons, and she could never divest herself of the feeling that the world was the most ungrateful place anybody could live in. Sunday after Sunday she sat at the feet of that extremely witty preacher, the Rev. Thomas Scoles, who exercised a great influence over her; but she succeeded in convincing everybody that even this was a misfortune. She had passed into a proverb in the family, and when anybody was observed to be peculiarly distressing, he was known as a regular ‘Juley.’ The habit of her mind would have killed anybody but a Forsyte at forty; but she was seventy-two, and had never looked better. And one felt that there were capacities for enjoyment about her which might yet come out. She owned three canaries, the cat Tommy, and half a parrot — in common with her sister Hester; — and these poor creatures (kept carefully out of Timothy’s way — he was nervous about animals), unlike human beings, recognising that she could not help being blighted, attached themselves to her passionately.She was sombrely magnificent this evening in black bombazine, with a mauve front cut in a shy triangle, and crowned with a black velvet ribbon round the base of her thin throat; black and mauve for evening wear was esteemed very chaste by nearly every Forsyte.Pouting at Swithin, she said:“Ann has been asking for you. You haven’t been near us for an age!”Swithin put his thumbs within the armholes of his waistcoat, and replied:“Ann’s getting very shaky; she ought to have a doctor!”“Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Forsyte!”Nicholas Forsyte, cocking his rectangular eyebrows, wore a smile. He had succeeded during the day in bringing to fruition a scheme for the employment of a tribe from Upper India in the gold-mines of Ceylon. A pet plan, carried at last in the teeth of great difficulties — he was justly pleased. It would double the output of his mines, and, as he had often forcibly argued, all experience tended to show that a man must die; and whether he died of a miserable old age in his own country, or prematurely of damp in the bottom of a foreign mine, was surely of little consequence, provided that by a change in his mode of life he benefited the British Empire.His ability was undoubted. Raising his broken nose towards his listener, he would add:“For want of a few hundred of these fellows we haven’t paid a dividend for years, and look at the price of the shares. I can’t get ten shillings for them.”He had been at Yarmouth, too, and had come back feeling that he had added at least ten years to his own life. He grasped Swithin’s hand, exclaiming in a jocular voice:“Well, so here we are again!”Mrs. Nicholas, an effete woman, smiled a smile of frightened jollity behind his back.“Mr. and Mrs. James Forsyte! Mr. and Mrs. Soames Forsyte!”Swithin drew his heels together, his deportment ever admirable.“Well, James, well Emily! How are you, Soames? How do you do?”His hand enclosed Irene’s, and his eyes swelled. She was a pretty woman — a little too pale, but her figure, her eyes, her teeth! Too good for that chap Soames!The gods had given Irene dark brown eyes and golden hair, that strange combination, provocative of men’s glances, which is said to be the mark of a weak character. And the full, soft pallor of her neck and shoulders, above a gold-coloured frock, gave to her personality an alluring strangeness.Soames stood behind, his eyes fastened on his wife’s neck. The hands of Swithin’s watch, which he still held open in his hand, had left eight behind; it was half an hour beyond his dinner-time — he had had no lunch — and a strange primeval impatience surged up within him.“It’s not like Jolyon to be late!” he said to Irene, with uncontrollable vexation. “I suppose it’ll be June keeping him!”“People in love are always late,” she answered.Swithin stared at her; a dusky orange dyed his cheeks.“They’ve no business to be. Some fashionable nonsense!”And behind this outburst the inarticulate violence of primitive generations seemed to mutter and grumble.“Tell me what you think of my new star, Uncle Swithin,” said Irene softly.Among the lace in the bosom of her dress was shining a five-pointed star, made of eleven diamonds. Swithin looked at the star. He had a pretty taste in stones; no question could have been more sympathetically devised to distract his attention.“Who gave you that?” he asked.“Soames.”There was no change in her face, but Swithin’s pale eyes bulged as though he might suddenly have been afflicted with insight.“I dare say you’re dull at home,” he said. “Any day you like to come and dine with me, I’ll give you as good a bottle of wine as you’ll get in London.”“Miss June Forsyte — Mr. Jolyon Forsyte! . . . Mr. Boswainey! . . . ”Swithin moved his arm, and said in a rumbling voice:“Dinner, now — dinner!”He took in Irene, on the ground that he had not entertained her since she was a bride. June was the portion of Bosinney, who was placed between Irene and his fiancee. On the other side of June was James with Mrs. Nicholas, then old Jolyon with Mrs. James, Nicholas with Hatty Chessman, Soames with Mrs. Small, completing, the circle to Swithin again.Family dinners of the Forsytes observe certain traditions. There are, for instance, no hors d’oeuvre. The reason for this is unknown. Theory among the younger members traces it to the disgraceful price of oysters; it is more probably due to a desire to come to the point, to a good practical sense deciding at once that hors d’oeuvre are but poor things. The Jameses alone, unable to withstand a custom almost universal in Park Lane, are now and then unfaithful.A silent, almost morose, inattention to each other succeeds to the subsidence into their seats, lasting till well into the first entree, but interspersed with remarks such as, “Tom’s bad again; I can’t tell what’s the matter with him!” “I suppose Ann doesn’t come down in the mornings?”—“What’s the name of your doctor, Fanny?” “Stubbs?” “He’s a quack!”—“Winifred? She’s got too many children. Four, isn’t it? She’s as thin as a lath!”—“What d’you give for this sherry, Swithin? Too dry for me!”With the second glass of champagne, a kind of hum makes itself heard, which, when divested of casual accessories and resolved into its primal element, is found to be James telling a story, and this goes on for a long time, encroaching sometimes even upon what must universally be recognised as the crowning point of a Forsyte feast —‘the saddle of mutton.’No Forsyte has given a dinner without providing a saddle of mutton. There is something in its succulent solidity which makes it suitable to people ‘of a certain position.’ It is nourishing and tasty; the sort of thing a man remembers eating. It has a past and a future, like a deposit paid into a bank; and it is something that can be argued about.Each branch of the family tenaciously held to a particular locality — old Jolyon swearing by Dartmoor, James by Welsh, Swithin by Southdown, Nicholas maintaining that people might sneer, but there was nothing like New Zealand! As for Roger, the ‘original’ of the brothers, he had been obliged to invent a locality of his own, and with an ingenuity worthy of a man who had devised a new profession for his sons, he had discovered a shop where they sold German; on being remonstrated with, he had proved his point by producing a butcher’s bill, which showed that he paid more than any of the others. It was on this occasion that old Jolyon, turning to June, had said in one of his bursts of philosophy:“You may depend upon it, they’re a cranky lot, the Forsytes — and you’ll find it out, as you grow older!”Timothy alone held apart, for though he ate saddle of mutton heartily, he was, he said, afraid of it.To anyone interested psychologically in Forsytes, this great saddle-of-mutton trait is of prime importance; not only does it illustrate their tenacity, both collectively and as individuals, but it marks them as belonging in fibre and instincts to that great class which believes in nourishment and flavour, and yields to no sentimental craving for beauty.Younger members of the family indeed would have done without a joint altogether, preferring guinea-fowl, or lobster salad — something which appealed to the imagination, and had less nourishment — but these were females; or, if not, had been corrupted by their wives, or by mothers, who having been forced to eat saddle of mutton throughout their married lives, had passed a secret hostility towards it into the fibre of their sons.The great saddle-of-mutton controversy at an end, a Tewkesbury ham commenced, together with the least touch of West Indian — Swithin was so long over this course that he caused a block in the progress of the dinner. To devote himself to it with better heart, he paused in his conversation.From his seat by Mrs. Septimus Small Soames was watching. He had a reason of his own connected with a pet building scheme, for observing Bosinney. The architect might do for his purpose; he looked clever, as he sat leaning back in his chair, moodily making little ramparts with bread-crumbs. Soames noted his dress clothes to be well cut, but too small, as though made many years ago.He saw him turn to Irene and say something and her face sparkle as he often saw it sparkle at other people — never at himself. He tried to catch what they were saying, but Aunt Juley was speaking.Hadn’t that always seemed very extraordinary to Soames? Only last Sunday dear Mr. Scole, had been so witty in his sermon, so sarcastic, “For what,” he had said, “shall it profit a man if he gain his own soul, but lose all his property?” That, he had said, was the motto of the middle-class; now, what had he meant by that? Of course, it might be what middle-class people believed — she didn’t know; what did Soames think?He answered abstractedly: “How should I know? Scoles is a humbug, though, isn’t he?” For Bosinney was looking round the table, as if pointing out the peculiarities of the guests, and Soames wondered what he was saying. By her smile Irene was evidently agreeing with his remarks. She seemed always to agree with other people.Her eyes were turned on himself; Soames dropped his glance at once. The smile had died off her lips.A humbug? But what did Soames mean? If Mr. Scoles was a humbug, a clergyman — then anybody might be — it was frightful!“Well, and so they are!” said Soames.During Aunt Juley’s momentary and horrified silence he caught some words of Irene’s that sounded like: ‘Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!’But Swithin had finished his ham.“Where do you go for your mushrooms?” he was saying to Irene in a voice like a courtier’s; “you ought to go to Smileybob’s — he’ll give ’em you fresh. These little men, they won’t take the trouble!”Irene turned to answer him, and Soames saw Bosinney watching her and smiling to himself. A curious smile the fellow had. A half-simple arrangement, like a child who smiles when he is pleased. As for George’s nickname —‘The Buccaneer’— he did not think much of that. And, seeing Bosinney turn to June, Soames smiled too, but sardonically — he did not like June, who was not looking too pleased.This was not surprising, for she had just held the following conversation with James:“I stayed on the river on my way home, Uncle James, and saw a beautiful site for a house.”James, a slow and thorough eater, stopped the process of mastication.“Eh?” he said. “Now, where was that?”“Close to Pangbourne.”James placed a piece of ham in his mouth, and June waited.“I suppose you wouldn’t know whether the land about there was freehold?” he asked at last. “You wouldn’t know anything about the price of land about there?”“Yes,” said June; “I made inquiries.” Her little resolute face under its copper crown was suspiciously eager and aglow.James regarded her with the air of an inquisitor.“What? You’re not thinking of buying land!” he ejaculated, dropping his fork.June was greatly encouraged by his interest. It had long been her pet plan that her uncles should benefit themselves and Bosinney by building country-houses.“Of course not,” she said. “I thought it would be such a splendid place for — you or — someone to build a country-house!”James looked at her sideways, and placed a second piece of ham in his mouth. . . .“Land ought to be very dear about there,” he said.What June had taken for personal interest was only the impersonal excitement of every Forsyte who hears of something eligible in danger of passing into other hands. But she refused to see the disappearance of her chance, and continued to press her point.“You ought to go into the country, Uncle James. I wish I had a lot of money, I wouldn’t live another day in London.”James was stirred to the depths of his long thin figure; he had no idea his niece held such downright views.“Why don’t you go into the country?” repeated June; “it would do you a lot of good.”“Why?” began James in a fluster. “Buying land — what good d’you suppose I can do buying land, building houses? — I couldn’t get four per cent. for my money!”“What does that matter? You’d get fresh air.”“Fresh air!” exclaimed James; “what should I do with fresh air,”“I should have thought anybody liked to have fresh air,” said June scornfully.James wiped his napkin all over his mouth.“You don’t know the value of money,” he said, avoiding her eye.“No! and I hope I never shall!” and, biting her lip with inexpressible mortification, poor June was silent.Why were her own relations so rich, and Phil never knew where the money was coming from for to-morrow’s tobacco. Why couldn’t they do something for him? But they were so selfish. Why couldn’t they build country-houses? She had all that naive dogmatism which is so pathetic, and sometimes achieves such great results. Bosinney, to whom she turned in her discomfiture, was talking to Irene, and a chill fell on June’s spirit. Her eyes grew steady with anger, like old Jolyon’s when his will was crossed.James, too, was much disturbed. He felt as though someone had threatened his right to invest his money at five per cent. Jolyon had spoiled her. None of his girls would have said such a thing. James had always been exceedingly liberal to his children, and the consciousness of this made him feel it all the more deeply. He trifled moodily with his strawberries, then, deluging them with cream, he ate them quickly; they, at all events, should not escape him.No wonder he was upset. Engaged for fifty-four years (he had been admitted a solicitor on the earliest day sanctioned by the law) in arranging mortgages, preserving investments at a dead level of high and safe interest, conducting negotiations on the principle of securing the utmost possible out of other people compatible with safety to his clients and himself, in calculations as to the exact pecuniary possibilities of all the relations of life, he had come at last to think purely in terms of money. Money was now his light, his medium for seeing, that without which he was really unable to see, really not cognisant of phenomena; and to have this thing, “I hope I shall never know the value of money!” said to his face, saddened and exasperated him. He knew it to be nonsense, or it would have frightened him. What was the world coming to! Suddenly recollecting the story of young Jolyon, however, he felt a little comforted, for what could you expect with a father like that! This turned his thoughts into a channel still less pleasant. What was all this talk about Soames and Irene?As in all self-respecting families, an emporium had been established where family secrets were bartered, and family stock priced. It was known on Forsyte ‘Change that Irene regretted her marriage. Her regret was disapproved of. She ought to have known her own mind; no dependable woman made these mistakes.James reflected sourly that they had a nice house (rather small) in an excellent position, no children, and no money troubles. Soames was reserved about his affairs, but he must be getting a very warm man. He had a capital income from the business — for Soames, like his father, was a member of that well-known firm of solicitors, Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte — and had always been very careful. He had done quite unusually well with some mortgages he had taken up, too — a little timely foreclosure — most lucky hits!There was no reason why Irene should not be happy, yet they said she’d been asking for a separate room. He knew where that ended. It wasn’t as if Soames drank.James looked at his daughter-in-law. That unseen glance of his was cold and dubious. Appeal and fear were in it, and a sense of personal grievance. Why should he be worried like this? It was very likely all nonsense; women were funny things! They exaggerated so, you didn’t know what to believe; and then, nobody told him anything, he had to find out everything for himself. Again he looked furtively at Irene, and across from her to Soames. The latter, listening to Aunt Juley, was looking up, under his brows in the direction of Bosinney.‘He’s fond of her, I know,’ thought James. ‘Look at the way he’s always giving her things.’And the extraordinary unreasonableness of her disaffection struck him with increased force.It was a pity, too, she was a taking little thing, and he, James, would be really quite fond of her if she’d only let him. She had taken up lately with June; that was doing her no good, that was certainly doing her no good. She was getting to have opinions of her own. He didn’t know what she wanted with anything of the sort. She’d a good home, and everything she could wish for. He felt that her friends ought to be chosen for her. To go on like this was dangerous.June, indeed, with her habit of championing the unfortunate, had dragged from Irene a confession, and, in return, had preached the necessity of facing the evil, by separation, if need be. But in the face of these exhortations, Irene had kept a brooding silence, as though she found terrible the thought of this struggle carried through in cold blood. He would never give her up, she had said to June.“Who cares?” June cried; “let him do what he likes — you’ve only to stick to it!” And she had not scrupled to say something of this sort at Timothy’s; James, when he heard of it, had felt a natural indignation and horror.What if Irene were to take it into her head to — he could hardly frame the thought — to leave Soames? But he felt this thought so unbearable that he at once put it away; the shady visions it conjured up, the sound of family tongues buzzing in his ears, the horror of the conspicuous happening so close to him, to one of his own children! Luckily, she had no money — a beggarly fifty pound a year! And he thought of the deceased Heron, who had had nothing to leave her, with contempt. Brooding over his glass, his long legs twisted under the table, he quite omitted to rise when the ladies left the room. He would have to speak to Soames — would have to put him on his guard; they could not go on like this, now that such a contingency had occurred to him. And he noticed with sour disfavour that June had left her wine-glasses full of wine.‘That little, thing’s at the bottom of it all,’ he mused; ‘Irene’d never have thought of it herself.’ James was a man of imagination.The voice of Swithin roused him from his reverie.“I gave four hundred pounds for it,” he was saying. “Of course it’s a regular work of art.”“Four hundred! H’m! that’s a lot of money!” chimed in Nicholas.The object alluded to was an elaborate group of statuary in Italian marble, which, placed upon a lofty stand (also of marble), diffused an atmosphere of culture throughout the room. The subsidiary figures, of which there were six, female, nude, and of highly ornate workmanship, were all pointing towards the central figure, also nude, and female, who was pointing at herself; and all this gave the observer a very pleasant sense of her extreme value. Aunt Juley, nearly opposite, had had the greatest difficulty in not looking at it all the evening.Old Jolyon spoke; it was he who had started the discussion.“Four hundred fiddlesticks! Don’t tell me you gave four hundred for that?”Between the points of his collar Swithin’s chin made the second painful oscillatory movement of the evening.“Four-hundred-pounds, of English money; not a farthing less. I don’t regret it. It’s not common English — it’s genuine modern Italian!”Soames raised the corner of his lip in a smile, and looked across at Bosinney. The architect was grinning behind the fumes of his cigarette. Now, indeed, he looked more like a buccaneer.“There’s a lot of work about it,” remarked James hastily, who was really moved by the size of the group. “It’d sell well at Jobson’s.”“The poor foreign dey-vil that made it,” went on Swithin, “asked me five hundred — I gave him four. It’s worth eight. Looked half-starved, poor dey-vil!”“Ah!” chimed in Nicholas suddenly, “poor, seedy-lookin’ chaps, these artists; it’s a wonder to me how they live. Now, there’s young Flageoletti, that Fanny and the girls are always hav’in’ in, to play the fiddle; if he makes a hundred a year it’s as much as ever he does!”James shook his head. “Ah!” he said, “I don’t know how they live!”Old Jolyon had risen, and, cigar in mouth, went to inspect the group at close quarters.“Wouldn’t have given two for it!” he pronounced at last.Soames saw his father and Nicholas glance at each other anxiously; and, on the other side of Swithin, Bosinney, still shrouded in smoke.‘I wonder what he thinks of it?’ thought Soames, who knew well enough that this group was hopelessly vieux jeu; hopelessly of the last generation. There was no longer any sale at Jobson’s for such works of art.Swithin’s answer came at last. “You never knew anything about a statue. You’ve got your pictures, and that’s all!”Old Jolyon walked back to his seat, puffing his cigar. It was not likely that he was going to be drawn into an argument with an obstinate beggar like Swithin, pig-headed as a mule, who had never known a statue from a —-straw hat.“Stucco!” was all he said.It had long been physically impossible for Swithin to start; his fist came down on the table.“Stucco! I should like to see anything you’ve got in your house half as good!”And behind his speech seemed to sound again that rumbling violence of primitive generations.It was James who saved the situation.“Now, what do you say, Mr. Bosinney? You’re an architect; you ought to know all about statues and things!”Every eye was turned upon Bosinney; all waited with a strange, suspicious look for his answer.And Soames, speaking for the first time, asked:“Yes, Bosinney, what do you say?”Bosinney replied coolly:“The work is a remarkable one.”His words were addressed to Swithin, his eyes smiled slyly at old Jolyon; only Soames remained unsatisfied.“Remarkable for what?”“For its naivete”The answer was followed by an impressive silence; Swithin alone was not sure whether a compliment was intended.

Chapter 4 Projection of the House 
Soames Forsyte walked out of his green-painted front door three days after the dinner at Swithin’s, and looking back from across the Square, confirmed his impression that the house wanted painting.He had left his wife sitting on the sofa in the drawing-room, her hands crossed in her lap, manifestly waiting for him to go out. This was not unusual. It happened, in fact, every day.He could not understand what she found wrong with him. It was not as if he drank! Did he run into debt, or gamble, or swear; was he violent; were his friends rackety; did he stay out at night? On the contrary.The profound, subdued aversion which he felt in his wife was a mystery to him, and a source of the most terrible irritation. That she had made a mistake, and did not love him, had tried to love him and could not love him, was obviously no reason.He that could imagine so outlandish a cause for his wife’s not getting on with him was certainly no Forsyte.Soames was forced, therefore, to set the blame entirely down to his wife. He had never met a woman so capable of inspiring affection. They could not go anywhere without his seeing how all the men were attracted by her; their looks, manners, voices, betrayed it; her behaviour under this attention had been beyond reproach. That she was one of those women — not too common in the Anglo-Saxon race — born to be loved and to love, who when not loving are not living, had certainly never even occurred to him. Her power of attraction, he regarded as part of her value as his property; but it made him, indeed, suspect that she could give as well as receive; and she gave him nothing! ‘Then why did she marry me?’ was his continual thought. He had, forgotten his courtship; that year and a half when he had besieged and lain in wait for her, devising schemes for her entertainment, giving her presents, proposing to her periodically, and keeping her other admirers away with his perpetual presence. He had forgotten the day when, adroitly taking advantage of an acute phase of her dislike to her home surroundings, he crowned his labours with success. If he remembered anything, it was the dainty capriciousness with which the gold-haired, dark-eyed girl had treated him. He certainly did not remember the look on her face — strange, passive, appealing — when suddenly one day she had yielded, and said that she would marry him.It had been one of those real devoted wooings which books and people praise, when the lover is at length rewarded for hammering the iron till it is malleable, and all must be happy ever after as the wedding bells.Soames walked eastwards, mousing doggedly along on the shady side.The house wanted doing, up, unless he decided to move into the country, and build.For the hundredth time that month he turned over this problem. There was no use in rushing into things! He was very comfortably off, with an increasing income getting on for three thousand a year; but his invested capital was not perhaps so large as his father believed — James had a tendency to expect that his children should be better off than they were. ‘I can manage eight thousand easily enough,’ he thought, ‘without calling in either Robertson’s or Nicholl’s.’He had stopped to look in at a picture shop, for Soames was an ‘amateur’ of pictures, and had a little-room in No. 62, Montpellier Square, full of canvases, stacked against the wall, which he had no room to hang. He brought them home with him on his way back from the City, generally after dark, and would enter this room on Sunday afternoons, to spend hours turning the pictures to the light, examining the marks on their backs, and occasionally making notes.They were nearly all landscapes with figures in the foreground, a sign of some mysterious revolt against London, its tall houses, its interminable streets, where his life and the lives of his breed and class were passed. Every now and then he would take one or two pictures away with him in a cab, and stop at Jobson’s on his way into the City.He rarely showed them to anyone; Irene, whose opinion he secretly respected and perhaps for that reason never solicited, had only been into the room on rare occasions, in discharge of some wifely duty. She was not asked to look at the pictures, and she never did. To Soames this was another grievance. He hated that pride of hers, and secretly dreaded it.In the plate-glass window of the picture shop his image stood and looked at him.His sleek hair under the brim of the tall hat had a sheen like the hat itself; his cheeks, pale and flat, the line of his clean-shaven lips, his firm chin with its greyish shaven tinge, and the buttoned strictness of his black cut-away coat, conveyed an appearance of reserve and secrecy, of imperturbable, enforced composure; but his eyes, cold — grey, strained — looking, with a line in the brow between them, examined him wistfully, as if they knew of a secret weakness.He noted the subjects of the pictures, the names of the painters, made a calculation of their values, but without the satisfaction he usually derived from this inward appraisement, and walked on.No. 62 would do well enough for another year, if he decided to build! The times were good for building, money had not been so dear for years; and the site he had seen at Robin Hill, when he had gone down there in the spring to inspect the Nicholl mortgage — what could be better! Within twelve miles of Hyde Park Corner, the value of the land certain to go up, would always fetch more than he gave for it; so that a house, if built in really good style, was a first-class investment.The notion of being the one member of his family with a country house weighed but little with him; for to a true Forsyte, sentiment, even the sentiment of social position, was a luxury only to be indulged in after his appetite for more material pleasure had been satisfied.To get Irene out of London, away from opportunities of going about and seeing people, away from her friends and those who put ideas into her head! That was the thing! She was too thick with June! June disliked him. He returned the sentiment. They were of the same blood.It would be everything to get Irene out of town. The house would please her she would enjoy messing about with the decoration, she was very artistic!The house must be in good style, something that would always be certain to command a price, something unique, like that last house of Parkes, which had a tower; but Parkes had himself said that his architect was ruinous. You never knew where you were with those fellows; if they had a name they ran you into no end of expense and were conceited into the bargain.And a common architect was no good — the memory of Parkes’ tower precluded the employment of a common architect:This was why he had thought of Bosinney. Since the dinner at Swithin’s he had made enquiries, the result of which had been meagre, but encouraging: “One of the new school.”“Clever?”“As clever as you like — a bit — a bit up in the air!”He had not been able to discover what houses Bosinney had built, nor what his charges were. The impression he gathered was that he would be able to make his own terms. The more he reflected on the idea, the more he liked it. It would be keeping the thing in the family, with Forsytes almost an instinct; and he would be able to get ‘favoured-nation,’ if not nominal terms — only fair, considering the chance to Bosinney of displaying his talents, for this house must be no common edifice.Soames reflected complacently on the work it would be sure to bring the young man; for, like every Forsyte, he could be a thorough optimist when there was anything to be had out of it.Bosinney’s office was in Sloane Street, close at, hand, so that he would be able to keep his eye continually on the plans.Again, Irene would not be to likely to object to leave London if her greatest friend’s lover were given the job. June’s marriage might depend on it. Irene could not decently stand in the way of June’s marriage; she would never do that, he knew her too well. And June would be pleased; of this he saw the advantage.Bosinney looked clever, but he had also — and — it was one of his great attractions — an air as if he did not quite know on which side his bread were buttered; he should be easy to deal with in money matters. Soames made this reflection in no defrauding spirit; it was the natural attitude of his mind — of the mind of any good business man — of all those thousands of good business men through whom he was threading his way up Ludgate Hill.Thus he fulfilled the inscrutable laws of his great class — of human nature itself — when he reflected, with a sense of comfort, that Bosinney would be easy to deal with in money matters.While he elbowed his way on, his eyes, which he usually kept fixed on the ground before his feet, were attracted upwards by the dome of St. Paul’s. It had a peculiar fascination for him, that old dome, and not once, but twice or three times a week, would he halt in his daily pilgrimage to enter beneath and stop in the side aisles for five or ten minutes, scrutinizing the names and epitaphs on the monuments. The attraction for him of this great church was inexplicable, unless it enabled him to concentrate his thoughts on the business of the day. If any affair of particular moment, or demanding peculiar acuteness, was weighing on his mind, he invariably went in, to wander with mouse-like attention from epitaph to epitaph. Then retiring in the same noiseless way, he would hold steadily on up Cheapside, a thought more of dogged purpose in his gait, as though he had seen something which he had made up his mind to buy.He went in this morning, but, instead of stealing from monument to monument, turned his eyes upwards to the columns and spacings of the walls, and remained motionless.His uplifted face, with the awed and wistful look which faces take on themselves in church, was whitened to a chalky hue in the vast building. His gloved hands were clasped in front over the handle of his umbrella. He lifted them. Some sacred inspiration perhaps had come to him.‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘I must have room to hang my pictures.That evening, on his return from the City, he called at Bosinney’s office. He found the architect in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a pipe, and ruling off lines on a plan. Soames refused a drink, and came at once to the point.“If you’ve nothing better to do on Sunday, come down with me to Robin Hill, and give me your opinion on a building site.”“Are you going to build?”“Perhaps,” said Soames; “but don’t speak of it. I just want your opinion.”“Quite so,” said the architect.Soames peered about the room.“You’re rather high up here,” he remarked.Any information he could gather about the nature and scope of Bosinney’s business would be all to the good.“It does well enough for me so far,” answered the architect. “You’re accustomed to the swells.”He knocked out his pipe, but replaced it empty between his teeth; it assisted him perhaps to carry on the conversation. Soames noted a hollow in each cheek, made as it were by suction.“What do you pay for an office like this?” said he.“Fifty too much,” replied Bosinney.This answer impressed Soames favourably.“I suppose it is dear,” he said. “I’ll call for you — on Sunday about eleven.”The following Sunday therefore he called for Bosinney in a hansom, and drove him to the station. On arriving at Robin Hill, they found no cab, and started to walk the mile and a half to the site.It was the 1st of August — a perfect day, with a burning sun and cloudless sky — and in the straight, narrow road leading up the hill their feet kicked up a yellow dust.“Gravel soil,” remarked Soames, and sideways he glanced at the coat Bosinney wore. Into the side-pockets of this coat were thrust bundles of papers, and under one arm was carried a queer-looking stick. Soames noted these and other peculiarities.No one but a clever man, or, indeed, a buccaneer, would have taken such liberties with his appearance; and though these eccentricities were revolting to Soames, he derived a certain satisfaction from them, as evidence of qualities by which he must inevitably profit. If the fellow could build houses, what did his clothes matter?“I told you,” he said, “that I want this house to be a surprise, so don’t say anything about it. I never talk of my affairs until they’re carried through.”Bosinney nodded.“Let women into your plans,” pursued Soames, “and you never know where it’ll end.”“Ah!” Said Bosinney, “women are the devil!”This feeling had long been at the — bottom of Soames’s heart; he had never, however, put it into words.“Oh!” he Muttered, “so you’re beginning to. . . . ” He stopped, but added, with an uncontrollable burst of spite: “June’s got a temper of her own — always had.”“A temper’s not a bad thing in an angel.”Soames had never called Irene an angel. He could not so have violated his best instincts, letting other people into the secret of her value, and giving himself away. He made no reply.They had struck into a half-made road across a warren. A cart-track led at right-angles to a gravel pit, beyond which the chimneys of a cottage rose amongst a clump of trees at the border of a thick wood. Tussocks of feathery grass covered the rough surface of the ground, and out of these the larks soared into the hate of sunshine. On the far horizon, over a countless succession of fields and hedges, rose a line of downs.Soames led till they had crossed to the far side, and there he stopped. It was the chosen site; but now that he was about to divulge the spot to another he had become uneasy.“The agent lives in that cottage,” he said; “he’ll give us some lunch — we’d better have lunch before we go into this matter.”He again took the lead to the cottage, where the agent, a tall man named Oliver, with a heavy face and grizzled beard, welcomed them. During lunch, which Soames hardly touched, he kept looking at Bosinney, and once or twice passed his silk handkerchief stealthily over his forehead. The meal came to an end at last, and Bosinney rose.“I dare say you’ve got business to talk over,” he said; “I’ll just go and nose about a bit.” Without waiting for a reply he strolled out.Soames was solicitor to this estate, and he spent nearly an hour in the agent’s company, looking at ground-plans and discussing the Nicholl and other mortgages; it was as it were by an afterthought that he brought up the question of the building site.“Your people,” he said, “ought to come down in their price to me, considering that I shall be the first to build.”Oliver shook his head.The site you’ve fixed on, Sir, he said, “is the cheapest we’ve got. Sites at the top of the slope are dearer by a good bit.”“Mind,” said Soames, “I’ve not decided; it’s quite possible I shan’t build at all. The ground rent’s very high.”“Well, Mr. Forsyte, I shall be sorry if you go off, and I think you’ll make a mistake, Sir. There’s not a bit of land near London with such a view as this, nor one that’s cheaper, all things considered; we’ve only to advertise, to get a mob of people after it.”They looked at each other. Their faces said very plainly: ‘I respect you as a man of business; and you can’t expect me to believe a word you say.’Well, repeated Soames, “I haven’t made up my mind; the thing will very likely go off!” With these words, taking up his umbrella, he put his chilly hand into the agent’s, withdrew it without the faintest pressure, and went out into the sun.He walked slowly back towards the site in deep thought. His instinct told him that what the agent had said was true. A cheap site. And the beauty of it was, that he knew the agent did not really think it cheap; so that his own intuitive knowledge was a victory over the agent’s.‘Cheap or not, I mean to have it,’ he thought.The larks sprang up in front of his feet, the air was full of butterflies, a sweet fragrance rose from the wild grasses. The sappy scent of the bracken stole forth from the wood, where, hidden in the depths, pigeons were cooing, and from afar on the warm breeze, came the rhythmic chiming of church bells.Soames walked with his eyes on the ground, his lips opening and closing as though in anticipation of a delicious morsel. But when he arrived at the site, Bosinney was nowhere to be seen. After waiting some little time, he crossed the warren in the direction of the slope. He would have shouted, but dreaded the sound of his voice.The warren was as lonely as a prairie, its silence only broken by the rustle of rabbits bolting to their holes, and the song of the larks.Soames, the pioneer-leader of the great Forsyte army advancing to the civilization of this wilderness, felt his spirit daunted by the loneliness, by the invisible singing, and the hot, sweet air. He had begun to retrace his steps when he at last caught sight of Bosinney.The architect was sprawling under a large oak tree, whose trunk, with a huge spread of bough and foliage, ragged with age, stood on the verge of the rise.Soames had to touch him on the shoulder before he looked up.“Hallo! Forsyte,” he said, “I’ve found the very place for your house! Look here!”Soames stood and looked, then he said, coldly:“You may be very clever, but this site will cost me half as much again.”“Hang the cost, man. Look at the view!”Almost from their feet stretched ripe corn, dipping to a small dark copse beyond. A plain of fields and hedges spread to the distant grey-bluedowns. In a silver streak to the right could be seen the line of the river.The sky was so blue, and the sun so bright, that an eternal summer seemed to reign over this prospect. Thistledown floated round them, enraptured by the serenity, of the ether. The heat danced over the corn, and, pervading all, was a soft, insensible hum, like the murmur of bright minutes holding revel between earth and heaven.Soames looked. In spite of himself, something swelled in his breast. To live here in sight of all this, to be able to point it out to his friends, to talk of it, to possess it! His cheeks flushed. The warmth, the radiance, the glow, were sinking into his senses as, four years before, Irene’s beauty had sunk into his senses and made him long for her. He stole a glance at Bosinney, whose eyes, the eyes of the coachman’s ‘half-tame leopard,’ seemed running wild over the landscape. The sunlight had caught the promontories of the fellow’s face, the bumpy cheekbones, the point of his chin, the vertical ridges above his brow; and Soames watched this rugged, enthusiastic, careless face with an unpleasant feeling.A long, soft ripple of wind flowed over the corn, and brought a puff of warm air into their faces.“I could build you a teaser here,” said Bosinney, breaking the silence at last.“I dare say,” replied Soames, drily. “You haven’t got to pay for it.”“For about eight thousand I could build you a palace.”Soames had become very pale — a struggle was going on within him. He dropped his eyes, and said stubbornly:“I can’t afford it.”And slowly, with his mousing walk, he led the way back to the first site.They spent some time there going into particulars of the projected house, and then Soames returned to the agent’s cottage.He came out in about half an hour, and, joining Bosinney, started for the station.“Well,” he said, hardly opening his lips, “I’ve taken that site of yours, after all.”And again he was silent, confusedly debating how it was that this fellow, whom by habit he despised, should have overborne his own decision.

Chapter 5 A Forsyte Menage 
Like the enlightened thousands of his class and generation in this great city of London, who no longer believe in red velvet chairs, and know that groups of modern Italian marble are ‘vieux jeu,’ Soames Forsyte inhabited a house which did what it could. It owned a copper door knocker of individual design, windows which had been altered to open outwards, hanging flower boxes filled with fuchsias, and at the back (a great feature) a little court tiled with jade-green tiles, and surrounded by pink hydrangeas in peacock-blue tubs. Here, under a parchment-coloured Japanese sunshade covering the whole end, inhabitants or visitors could be screened from the eyes of the curious while they drank tea and examined at their leisure the latest of Soames’s little silver boxes.The inner decoration favoured the First Empire and William Morris. For its size, the house was commodious; there were countless nooks resembling birds’ nests, and little things made of silver were deposited like eggs.In this general perfection two kinds of fastidiousness were at war. There lived here a mistress who would have dwelt daintily on a desert island; a master whose daintiness was, as it were, an investment, cultivated by the owner for his advancement, in accordance with the laws of competition. This competitive daintiness had caused Soames in his Marlborough days to be the first boy into white waistcoats in summer, and corduroy waistcoats in winter, had prevented him from ever appearing in public with his tie climbing up his collar, and induced him to dust his patent leather boots before a great multitude assembled on Speech Day to hear him recite Moliere.Skin-like immaculateness had grown over Soames, as over many Londoners; impossible to conceive of him with a hair out of place, a tie deviating one-eighth of an inch from the perpendicular, a collar unglossed! He would not have gone without a bath for worlds — it was the fashion to take baths; and how bitter was his scorn of people who omitted them!But Irene could be imagined, like some nymph, bathing in wayside streams, for the joy of the freshness and of seeing her own fair body.In this conflict throughout the house the woman had gone to the wall. As in the struggle between Saxon and Celt still going on within the nation, the more impressionable and receptive temperament had had forced on it a conventional superstructure.Thus the house had acquired a close resemblance to hundreds of other houses with the same high aspirations, having become: ‘That very charming little house of the Soames Forsytes, quite individual, my dear — really elegant.’For Soames Forsyte — read James Peabody, Thomas Atkins, or Emmanuel Spagnoletti, the name in fact of any upper-middle class Englishman in London with any pretensions to taste; and though the decoration be different, the phrase is just.On the evening of August 8, a week after the expedition to Robin Hill, in the dining-room of this house —‘quite individual, my dear — really elegant’— Soames and Irene were seated at dinner. A hot dinner on Sundays was a little distinguishing elegance common to this house and many others. Early in married life Soames had laid down the rule: ‘The servants must give us hot dinner on Sundays — they’ve nothing to do but play the concertina.’The custom had produced no revolution. For — to Soames a rather deplorable sign — servants were devoted to Irene, who, in defiance of all safe tradition, appeared to recognise their right to a share in the weaknesses of human nature.The happy pair were seated, not opposite each other, but rectangularly, at the handsome rosewood table; they dined without a cloth — a distinguishing elegance — and so far had not spoken a word.Soames liked to talk during dinner about business, or what he had been buying, and so long as he talked Irene’s silence did not distress him. This evening he had found it impossible to talk. The decision to build had been weighing on his mind all the week, and he had made up his mind to tell her.His nervousness about this disclosure irritated him profoundly; she had no business to make him feel like that — a wife and a husband being one person. She had not looked at him once since they sat down; and he wondered what on earth she had been thinking about all the time. It was hard, when a man worked as he did, making money for her — yes, and with an ache in his heart — that she should sit there, looking — looking as if she saw the walls of the room closing in. It was enough to make a man get up and leave the table.The light from the rose-shaded lamp fell on her neck and arms — Soames liked her to dine in a low dress, it gave him an inexpressible feeling of superiority to the majority of his acquaintance, whose wives were contented with their best high frocks or with tea-gowns, when they dined at home. Under that rosy light her amber-coloured hair and fair skin made strange contrast with her dark brown eyes.Could a man own anything prettier than this dining-table with its deep tints, the starry, soft-petalled roses, the ruby-coloured glass, and quaint silver furnishing; could a man own anything prettier than the woman who sat at it? Gratitude was no virtue among Forsytes, who, competitive, and full of common-sense, had no occasion for it; and Soames only experienced a sense of exasperation amounting to pain, that he did not own her as it was his right to own her, that he could not, as by stretching out his hand to that rose, pluck her and sniff the very secrets of her heart.Out of his other property, out of all the things he had collected, his silver, his pictures, his houses, his investments, he got a secret and intimate feeling; out of her he got none.In this house of his there was writing on every wall. His business-like temperament protested against a mysterious warning that she was not made for him. He had married this woman, conquered her, made her his own, and it seemed to him contrary to the most fundamental of all laws, the law of possession, that he could do no more than own her body — if indeed he could do that, which he was beginning to doubt. If any one had asked him if he wanted to own her soul, the question would have seemed to him both ridiculous and sentimental. But he did so want, and the writing said he never would.She was ever silent, passive, gracefully averse; as though terrified lest by word, motion, or sign she might lead him to believe that she was fond of him; and he asked himself: Must I always go on like this?Like most novel readers of his generation (and Soames was a great novel reader), literature coloured his view of life; and he had imbibed the belief that it was only a question of time.In the end the husband always gained the affection of his wife. Even in those cases — a class of book he was not very fond of — which ended in tragedy, the wife always died with poignant regrets on her lips, or if it were the husband who died — unpleasant thought — threw herself on his body in an agony of remorse.He often took Irene to the theatre, instinctively choosing the modern Society Plays with the modern Society conjugal problem, so fortunately different from any conjugal problem in real life. He found that they too always ended in the same way, even when there was a lover in the case. While he was watching the play Soames often sympathized with the lover; but before he reached home again, driving with Irene in a hansom, he saw that this would not do, and he was glad the play had ended as it had. There was one class of husband that had just then come into fashion, the strong, rather rough, but extremely sound man, who was peculiarly successful at the end of the play; with this person Soames was really not in sympathy, and had it not been for his own position, would have expressed his disgust with the fellow. But he was so conscious of how vital to himself was the necessity for being a successful, even a ‘strong,’ husband, that he never spoke of a distaste born perhaps by the perverse processes of Nature out of a secret fund of brutality in himself.But Irene’s silence this evening was exceptional. He had never before seen such an expression on her face. And since it is always the unusual which alarms, Soames was alarmed. He ate his savoury, and hurried the maid as she swept off the crumbs with the silver sweeper. When she had left the room, he filled his glass with wine and said:“Anybody been here this afternoon?”“June.”“What did she want?” It was an axiom with the Forsytes that people did not go anywhere unless they wanted something. “Came to talk about her lover, I suppose?”Irene made no reply.“It looks to me,” continued Soames, “as if she were sweeter on him than he is on her. She’s always following him about.”Irene’s eyes made him feel uncomfortable.“You’ve no business to say such a thing!” she exclaimed.“Why not? Anybody can see it.”“They cannot. And if they could, it’s disgraceful to say so.”Soames’s composure gave way.“You’re a pretty wife!” he said. But secretly he wondered at the heat of her reply; it was unlike her. “You’re cracked about June! I can tell you one thing: now that she has the Buccaneer in tow, she doesn’t care twopence about you, and, you’ll find it out. But you won’t see so much of her in future; we’re going to live in the country.”He had been glad to get his news out under cover of this burst of irritation. He had expected a cry of dismay; the silence with which his pronouncement was received alarmed him.“You don’t seem interested,” he was obliged to add.“I knew it already.”He looked at her sharply.“Who told you?”“June.”“How did she know?”Irene did not answer. Baffled and uncomfortable, he said:“It’s a fine thing for Bosinney, it’ll be the making of him. I suppose she’s told you all about it?”“Yes.”There was another pause, and then Soames said:“I suppose you don’t want to, go?”Irene made no reply.“Well, I can’t tell what you want. You never seem contented here.”“Have my wishes anything to do with it?”She took the vase of roses and left the room. Soames remained seated. Was it for this that he had signed that contract? Was it for this that he was going to spend some ten thousand pounds? Bosinney’s phrase came back to him: “Women are the devil!”But presently he grew calmer. It might have, been worse. She might have flared up. He had expected something more than this. It was lucky, after all, that June had broken the ice for him. She must have wormed it out of Bosinney; he might have known she would.He lighted his cigarette. After all, Irene had not made a scene! She would come round — that was the best of her; she was cold, but not sulky. And, puffing the cigarette smoke at a lady-bird on the shining table, he plunged into a reverie about the house. It was no good worrying; he would go and make it up presently. She would be sitting out there in the dark, under the Japanese sunshade, knitting. A beautiful, warm night. . . .In truth, June had come in that afternoon with shining eyes, and the words: “Soames is a brick! It’s splendid for Phil — the very thing for him!”Irene’s face remaining dark and puzzled, she went on:“Your new house at Robin Hill, of course. What? Don’t you know?”Irene did not know.“Oh! then, I suppose I oughtn’t to have told you!” Looking impatiently at her friend, she cried: “You look as if you didn’t care. Don’t you see, it’s what I’ve’ been praying for — the very chance he’s been wanting all this time. Now you’ll see what he can do;” and thereupon she poured out the whole story.Since her own engagement she had not seemed much interested in her friend’s position; the hours she spent with Irene were given to confidences of her own; and at times, for all her affectionate pity, it was impossible to keep out of her smile a trace of compassionate contempt for the woman who had made such a mistake in her life — such a vast, ridiculous mistake.“He’s to have all the decorations as well — a free hand. It’s perfect —” June broke into laughter, her little figure quivered gleefully; she raised her hand, and struck a blow at a muslin curtain. “Do you, know I even asked Uncle James. . . . ” But, with a sudden dislike to mentioning that incident, she stopped; and presently, finding her friend so unresponsive, went away. She looked back from the pavement, and Irene was still standing in the doorway. In response to her farewell wave, Irene put her hand to her brow, and, turning slowly, shut the door. . . .Soames went to the drawing-room presently, and peered at her through the window.Out in the shadow of the Japanese sunshade she was sitting very still, the lace on her white shoulders stirring with the soft rise and fall of her bosom.But about this silent creature sitting there so motionless, in the dark, there seemed a warmth, a hidden fervour of feeling, as if the whole of her being had been stirred, and some change were taking place in its very depths.He stole back to the dining-room unnoticed.

Chapter 6 James at Large 
It was not long before Soames’s determination to build went the round of the family, and created the flutter that any decision connected with property should make among Forsytes.It was not his fault, for he had been determined that no one should know. June, in the fulness of her heart, had told Mrs. Small, giving her leave only to tell Aunt Ann — she thought it would cheer her, the poor old sweet! for Aunt Ann had kept her room now for many days.Mrs. Small told Aunt Ann at once, who, smiling as she lay back on her pillows, said in her distinct, trembling old voice:“It’s very nice for dear June; but I hope they will be careful — it’s rather dangerous!”When she was left alone again, a frown, like a cloud presaging a rainy morrow, crossed her face.While she was lying there so many days the process of recharging her will went on all the time; it spread to her face, too, and tightening movements were always in action at the corners of her lips.The maid Smither, who had been in her service since girlhood, and was spoken of as “Smither — a good girl — but so slow!”— the maid Smither performed every morning with extreme punctiliousness the crowning ceremony of that ancient toilet. Taking from the recesses of their pure white band-box those flat, grey curls, the insignia of personal dignity, she placed them securely in her mistress’s hands, and turned her back.And every day Aunts Juley and Hester were required to come and report on Timothy; what news there was of Nicholas; whether dear June had succeeded in getting Jolyon to shorten the engagement, now that Mr. Bosinney was building Soames a house; whether young Roger’s wife was really — expecting; how the operation on Archie had succeeded; and what Swithin had done about that empty house in Wigmore Street, where the tenant had lost all his money and treated him so badly; above all, about Soames; was Irene still — still asking for a separate room? And every morning Smither was told: “I shall be coming down this afternoon, Smither, about two o’clock. I shall want your arm, after all these days in bed!”After telling Aunt Ann, Mrs. Small had spoken of the house in the strictest confidence to Mrs. Nicholas, who in her turn had asked Winifred Dartie for confirmation, supposing, of course, that, being Soames’s sister, she would know all about it. Through her it had in due course come round to the ears of James. He had been a good deal agitated.“Nobody,” he said, “told him anything.” And, rather than go direct to Soames himself, of whose taciturnity he was afraid, he took his umbrella and went round to Timothy’s.He found Mrs. Septimus and Hester (who had been told — she was so safe, she found it tiring to talk) ready, and indeed eager, to discuss the news. It was very good of dear Soames, they thought, to employ Mr. Bosinney, but rather risky. What had George named him? ‘The Buccaneer’ How droll! But George was always droll! However, it would be all in the family they supposed they must really look upon Mr. Bosinney as belonging to the family, though it seemed strange.James here broke in:“Nobody knows anything about him. I don’t see what Soames wants with a young man like that. I shouldn’t be surprised if Irene had put her oar in. I shall speak to. . . . ”“Soames,” interposed Aunt Juley, “told Mr. Bosinney that he didn’t wish it mentioned. He wouldn’t like it to be talked about, I’m sure, and if Timothy knew he would be very vexed, I. . . . ”James put his hand behind his ear:“What?” he said. “I’m getting very deaf. I suppose I don’t hear people. Emily’s got a bad toe. We shan’t be able to start for Wales till the end of the month. There’ s always something!” And, having got what he wanted, he took his hat and went away.It was a fine afternoon, and he walked across the Park towards Soames’s, where he intended to dine, for Emily’s toe kept her in bed, and Rachel and Cicely were on a visit to the country. He took the slanting path from the Bayswater side of the Row to the Knightsbridge Gate, across a pasture of short, burnt grass, dotted with blackened sheep, strewn with seated couples and strange waifs; lying prone on their faces, like corpses on a field over which the wave of battle has rolled.He walked rapidly, his head bent, looking neither to right nor, left. The appearance of this park, the centre of his own battle-field, where he had all his life been fighting, excited no thought or speculation in his mind. These corpses flung down, there, from out the press and turmoil of the struggle, these pairs of lovers sitting cheek by jowl for an hour of idle Elysium snatched from the monotony of their treadmill, awakened no fancies in his mind; he had outlived that kind of imagination; his nose, like the nose of a sheep, was fastened to the pastures on which he browsed.One of his tenants had lately shown a disposition to be behind-hand in his rent, and it had become a grave question whether he had not better turn him out at once, and so run the risk of not re-letting before Christmas. Swithin had just been let in very badly, but it had served him right — he had held on too long.He pondered this as he walked steadily, holding his umbrella carefully by the wood, just below the crook of the handle, so as to keep the ferule off the ground, and not fray the silk in the middle. And, with his thin, high shoulders stooped, his long legs moving with swift mechanical precision, this passage through the Park, where the sun shone with a clear flame on so much idleness — on so many human evidences of the remorseless battle of Property, raging beyond its ring — was like the flight of some land bird across the sea.He felt a — touch on the arm as he came out at Albert Gate.It was Soames, who, crossing from the shady side of Piccadilly, where he had been walking home from the office, had suddenly appeared alongside.“Your mother’s in bed,” said James; “I was, just coming to you, but I suppose I shall be in the way.”The outward relations between James and his son were marked by a lack of sentiment peculiarly Forsytean, but for all that the two were by no means unattached. Perhaps they regarded one another as an investment; certainly they were solicitous of each other’s welfare, glad of each other’s company. They had never exchanged two words upon the more intimate problems of life, or revealed in each other’s presence the existence of any deep feeling.Something beyond the power of word-analysis bound them together, something hidden deep in the fibre of nations and families — for blood, they say, is thicker than water — and neither of them was a cold-blooded man. Indeed, in James love of his children was now the prime motive of his existence. To have creatures who were parts of himself, to whom he might transmit the money he saved, was at the root of his saving; and, at seventy-five, what was left that could give him pleasure, but — saving? The kernel of life was in this saving for his children.Than James Forsyte, notwithstanding all his ‘Jonah-isms,’ there was no saner man (if the leading symptom of sanity, as we are told, is self-preservation, though without doubt Timothy went too far) in all this London, of which he owned so much, and loved with such a dumb love, as the centre of his opportunities. He had the marvellous instinctive sanity of the middle class. In him — more than in Jolyon, with his masterful will and his moments of tenderness and philosophy — more than in Swithin, the martyr to crankiness — Nicholas, the sufferer from ability — and Roger, the victim of enterprise — beat the true pulse of compromise; of all the brothers he was least remarkable in mind and person, and for that reason more likely to live for ever.To James, more than to any of the others, was “the family” significant and dear. There had always been something primitive and cosy in his attitude towards life; he loved the family hearth, he loved gossip, and he loved grumbling. All his decisions were formed of a cream which he skimmed off the family mind; and, through that family, off the minds of thousands of other families of similar fibre. Year after year, week after week, he went to Timothy’s, and in his brother’s front drawing-room — his legs twisted, his long white whiskers framing his clean-shaven mouth — would sit watching the family pot simmer, the cream rising to the top; and he would go away sheltered, refreshed, comforted, with an indefinable sense of comfort.Beneath the adamant of his self-preserving instinct there was much real softness in James; a visit to Timothy’s was like an hour spent in the lap of a mother; and the deep craving he himself had for the protection of the family wing reacted in turn on his feelings towards his own children; it was a nightmare to him to think of them exposed to the treatment of the world, in money, health, or reputation. When his old friend John Street’s son volunteered for special service, he shook his head querulously, and wondered what John Street was about to allow it; and when young Street was assagaied, he took it so much to heart that he made a point of calling everywhere with the special object of saying: He knew how it would be — he’d no patience with them!When his son-in-law Dartie had that financial crisis, due to speculation in Oil Shares, James made himself ill worrying over it; the knell of all prosperity seemed to have sounded. It took him three months and a visit to Baden-Baden to get better; there was something terrible in the idea that but for his, James’s, money, Dartie’s name might have appeared in the Bankruptcy List.Composed of a physiological mixture so sound that if he had an earache he thought he was dying, he regarded the occasional ailments of his wife and children as in the nature of personal grievances, special interventions of Providence for the purpose of destroying his peace of mind; but he did not believe at all in the ailments of people outside his own immediate family, affirming them in every case to be due to neglected liver.His universal comment was: “What can they expect? I have it myself, if I’m not careful!”When he went to Soames’s that evening he felt that life was hard on him: There was Emily with a bad toe, and Rachel gadding about in the country; he got no sympathy from anybody; and Ann, she was ill — he did not believe she would last through the summer; he had called there three times now without her being able to see him! And this idea of Soames’s, building a house, that would have to be looked into. As to the trouble with Irene, he didn’t know what was to come of that — anything might come of it!He entered 62, Montpellier Square with the fullest intentions of being miserable. It was already half-past seven, and Irene, dressed for dinner, was seated in the drawing-room. She was wearing her gold-coloured frock — for, having been displayed at a dinner-party, a soiree, and a dance, it was now to be worn at home — and she had adorned the bosom with a cascade of lace, on which James’s eyes riveted themselves at once.“Where do you get your things?” he said in an aggravated voice. “I never see Rachel and Cicely looking half so well. That rose-point, now — that’s not real!”Irene came close, to prove to him that he was in error.And, in spite of himself, James felt the influence of her deference, of the faint seductive perfume exhaling from her. No self-respecting Forsyte surrendered at a blow; so he merely said: He didn’t know — he expected she was spending a pretty penny on dress.The gong sounded, and, putting her white arm within his, Irene took him into the dining-room. She seated him in Soames’s usual place, round the corner on her left. The light fell softly there, so that he would not be worried by the gradual dying of the day; and she began to talk to him about himself.Presently, over James came a change, like the mellowing that steals upon a fruit in the, sun; a sense of being caressed, and praised, and petted, and all without the bestowal of a single caress or word of praise. He felt that what he was eating was agreeing with him; he could not get that feeling at home; he did not know when he had enjoyed a glass of champagne so much, and, on inquiring the brand and price, was surprised to find that it was one of which he had a large stock himself, but could never drink; he instantly formed the resolution to let his wine merchant know that he had been swindled.Looking up from his food, he remarked:“You’ve a lot of nice things about the place. Now, what did you give for that sugar-sifter? Shouldn’t wonder if it was worth money!”He was particularly pleased with the appearance of a picture, on the wall opposite, which he himself had given them:“I’d no idea it was so good!” he said.They rose to go into the drawing-room, and James followed Irene closely.“That’s what I call a capital little dinner,” he murmured, breathing pleasantly down on her shoulder; “nothing heavy — and not too Frenchified. But I can’t get it at home. I pay my cook sixty pounds a year, but she can’t give me a dinner like that!”He had as yet made no allusion to the building of the house, nor did he when Soames, pleading the excuse of business, betook himself to the room at the top, where he kept his pictures.James was left alone with his daughter-in-law. The glow of the wine, and of an excellent liqueur, was still within him. He felt quite warm towards her. She was really a taking little thing; she listened to you, and seemed to understand what you were saying; and, while talking, he kept examining her figure, from her bronze-coloured shoes to the waved gold of her hair. She was leaning back in an Empire chair, her shoulders poised against the top — her body, flexibly straight and unsupported from the hips, swaying when she moved, as though giving to the arms of a lover. Her lips were smiling, her eyes half-closed.It may have been a recognition of danger in the very charm of her attitude, or a twang of digestion, that caused a sudden dumbness to fall on James. He did not remember ever having been quite alone with Irene before. And, as he looked at her, an odd feeling crept over him, as though he had come across something strange and foreign.Now what was she thinking about — sitting back like that?Thus when he spoke it was in a sharper voice, as if he had been awakened from a pleasant dream.“What d’you do with yourself all day?” he said. “You never come round to Park Lane!”She seemed to be making very lame excuses, and James did not look at her. He did not want to believe that she was really avoiding them — it would mean too much.“I expect the fact is, you haven’t time,” he said; “You’re always about with June. I expect you’re useful to her with her young man, chaperoning, and one thing and another. They tell me she’s never at home now; your Uncle Jolyon he doesn’t like it, I fancy, being left so much alone as he is. They tell me she’s always hanging about for this young Bosinney; I suppose he comes here every day. Now, what do you think of him? D’you think he knows his own mind? He seems to me a poor thing. I should say the grey mare was the better horse!”The colour deepened in Irene’s face; and James watched her suspiciously.“Perhaps you don’t quite understand Mr. Bosinney,” she said.“Don’t understand him!” James hummed out: “Why not? — you can see he’s one of these artistic chaps. They say he’s clever — they all think they’re clever. You know more about him than I do,” he added; and again his suspicious glance rested on her.“He is designing a house for Soames,” she said softly, evidently trying to smooth things over.“That brings me to what I was going to say,” continued James; “I don’t know what Soames wants with a young man like that; why doesn’t he go to a first-rate man?”“Perhaps Mr. Bosinney is first-rate!”James rose, and took a turn with bent head.“That’s it’,” he said, “you young people, you all stick together; you all think you know best!”Halting his tall, lank figure before her, he raised a finger, and levelled it at her bosom, as though bringing an indictment against her beauty:“All I can say is, these artistic people, or whatever they call themselves, they’re as unreliable as they can be; and my advice to you is, don’t you have too much to do with him!”Irene smiled; and in the curve of her lips was a strange provocation. She seemed to have lost her deference. Her breast rose and fell as though with secret anger; she drew her hands inwards from their rest on the arms of her chair until the tips of her fingers met, and her dark eyes looked unfathomably at James.The latter gloomily scrutinized the floor.“I tell you my opinion,” he said, “it’s a pity you haven’t got a child to think about, and occupy you!”A brooding look came instantly on Irene’s face, and even James became conscious of the rigidity that took possession of her whole figure beneath the softness of its silk and lace clothing.He was frightened by the effect he had produced, and like most men with but little courage, he sought at once to justify himself by bullying.“You don’t seem to care about going about. Why don’t you drive down to Hurlingham with us? And go to the theatre now and then. At your time of life you ought to take an interest in things. You’re a young woman!”The brooding look darkened on her face; he grew nervous.“Well, I know nothing about it,” he said; “nobody tells me anything. Soames ought to be able to take care of himself. If he can’t take care of himself he mustn’t look to me — that’s all.”Biting the corner of his forefinger he stole a cold, sharp look at his daughter-in-law.He encountered her eyes fixed on his own, so dark and deep, that he stopped, and broke into a gentle perspiration.“Well, I must be going,” he said after a short pause, and a minute later rose, with a slight appearance of surprise, as though he had expected to be asked to stop. Giving his hand to Irene, he allowed himself to be conducted to the door, and let out into the street. He would not have a cab, he would walk, Irene was to say good-night to Soames for him, and if she wanted a little gaiety, well, he would drive her down to Richmond any day.He walked home, and going upstairs, woke Emily out of the first sleep she had had for four and twenty hours, to tell her that it was his impression things were in a bad way at Soames’s; on this theme he descanted for half an hour, until at last, saying that he would not sleep a wink, he turned on his side and instantly began to snore.In Montpellier Square Soames, who had come from the picture room, stood invisible at the top of the stairs, watching Irene sort the letters brought by the last post. She turned back into the drawing-room; but in a minute came out, and stood as if listening. Then she came stealing up the stairs, with a kitten in her arms. He could see her face bent over the little beast, which was purring against her neck. Why couldn’t she look at him like that?Suddenly she saw him, and her face changed.“Any letters for me?” he said.“Three.”He stood aside, and without another word she passed on into the bedroom.

Chapter 7 Old Jolyon’s Peccadillo 
Old Jolyon came out of Lord’s cricket ground that same afternoon with the intention of going home. He had not reached Hamilton Terrace before he changed his mind, and hailing a cab, gave the driver an address in Wistaria Avenue. He had taken a resolution.June had hardly been at home at all that week; she had given him nothing of her company for a long time past, not, in fact, since she had become engaged to Bosinney. He never asked her for her company. It was not his habit to ask people for things! She had just that one idea now — Bosinney and his affairs — and she left him stranded in his great house, with a parcel of servants, and not a soul to speak to from morning to night. His Club was closed for cleaning; his Boards in recess; there was nothing, therefore, to take him into the City. June had wanted him to go away; she would not go herself, because Bosinney was in London.But where was he to go by himself? He could not go abroad alone; the sea upset his liver; he hated hotels. Roger went to a hydropathic — he was not going to begin that at his time of life, those new-fangled places we’re all humbug!With such formulas he clothed to himself the desolation of his spirit; the lines down his face deepening, his eyes day by day looking forth with the melancholy which sat so strangely on a face wont to be strong and serene.And so that afternoon he took this journey through St. John’s Wood, in the golden-light that sprinkled the rounded green bushes of the acacia’s before the little houses, in the summer sunshine that seemed holding a revel over the little gardens; and he looked about him with interest; for this was a district which no Forsyte entered without open disapproval and secret curiosity.His cab stopped in front of a small house of that peculiar buff colour which implies a long immunity from paint. It had an outer gate, and a rustic approach.He stepped out, his bearing extremely composed; his massive head, with its drooping moustache and wings of white hair, very upright, under an excessively large top hat; his glance firm, a little angry. He had been driven into this!“Mrs. Jolyon Forsyte at home?”“Oh, yes sir! — what name shall I say, if you please, sir?”Old Jolyon could not help twinkling at the little maid as he gave his name. She seemed to him such a funny little toad!And he followed her through the dark hall, into a small double, drawing-room, where the furniture was covered in chintz, and the little maid placed him in a chair.“They’re all in the garden, sir; if you’ll kindly take a seat, I’ll tell them.”Old Jolyon sat down in the chintz-covered chair, and looked around him. The whole place seemed to him, as he would have expressed it, pokey; there was a certain — he could not tell exactly what — air of shabbiness, or rather of making two ends meet, about everything. As far as he could see, not a single piece of furniture was worth a five-pound note. The walls, distempered rather a long time ago, were decorated with water-colour sketches; across the ceiling meandered a long crack.These little houses were all old, second-rate concerns; he should hope the rent was under a hundred a year; it hurt him more than he could have said, to think of a Forsyte — his own son living in such a place.The little maid came back. Would he please to go down into the garden?Old Jolyon marched out through the French windows. In descending the steps he noticed that they wanted painting.Young Jolyon, his wife, his two children, and his dog Balthasar, were all out there under a pear-tree.This walk towards them was the most courageous act of old Jolyon’s life; but no muscle of his face moved, no nervous gesture betrayed him. He kept his deep-set eyes steadily on the enemy.In those two minutes he demonstrated to perfection all that unconscious soundness, balance, and vitality of fibre that made, of him and so many others of his class the core of the nation. In the unostentatious conduct of their own affairs, to the neglect of everything else, they typified the essential individualism, born in the Briton from the natural isolation of his country’s life.The dog Balthasar sniffed round the edges of his trousers; this friendly and cynical mongrel — offspring of a liaison between a Russian poodle and a fox-terrier — had a nose for the unusual.The strange greetings over, old Jolyon seated himself in a wicker chair, and his two grandchildren, one on each side of his knees, looked at him silently, never having seen so old a man.They were unlike, as though recognising the difference set between them by the circumstances of their births. Jolly, the child of sin, pudgy-faced, with his tow-coloured hair brushed off his forehead, and a dimple in his chin, had an air of stubborn amiability, and the eyes of a Forsyte; little Holly, the child of wedlock, was a dark-skinned, solemn soul, with her mother’s, grey and wistful eyes.The dog Balthasar, having walked round the three small flower-beds, to show his extreme contempt for things at large, had also taken a seat in front of old Jolyon, and, oscillating a tail curled by Nature tightly over his back, was staring up with eyes that did not blink.Even in the garden, that sense of things being pokey haunted old Jolyon; the wicker chair creaked under his weight; the garden-beds looked ‘daverdy’; on the far side, under the smut-stained wall, cats had made a path.While he and his grandchildren thus regarded each other with the peculiar scrutiny, curious yet trustful, that passes between the very young and the very old, young Jolyon watched his wife.The colour had deepened in her thin, oval face, with its straight brows, and large, grey eyes. Her hair, brushed in fine, high curves back from her forehead, was going grey, like his own, and this greyness made the sudden vivid colour in her cheeks painfully pathetic.The look on her face, such as he had never seen there before, such as she had always hidden from him, was full of secret resentments, and longings, and fears. Her eyes, under their twitching brows, stared painfully. And she was silent.Jolly alone sustained the conversation; he had many possessions, and was anxious that his unknown friend with extremely large moustaches, and hands all covered with blue veins, who sat with legs crossed like his own father (a habit he was himself trying to acquire), should know it; but being a Forsyte, though not yet quite eight years old, he made no mention of the thing at the moment dearest to his heart — a camp of soldiers in a shop-window, which his father had promised to buy. No doubt it seemed to him too precious; a tempting of Providence to mention it yet.And the sunlight played through the leaves on that little party of the three generations grouped tranquilly under the pear-tree, which had long borne no fruit.Old Jolyon’s furrowed face was reddening patchily, as old men’s faces redden in the sun. He took one of Jolly’s hands in his own; the boy climbed on to his knee; and little Holly, mesmerized by this sight, crept up to them; the sound of the dog Balthasar’s scratching arose rhythmically.Suddenly young Mrs. Jolyon got up and hurried indoors. A minute later her husband muttered an excuse, and followed. Old Jolyon was left alone with his grandchildren.And Nature with her quaint irony began working in him one of her strange revolutions, following her cyclic laws into the depths of his heart. And that tenderness for little children, that passion for the beginnings of life which had once made him forsake his son and follow June, now worked in him to forsake June and follow these littler things. Youth, like a flame, burned ever in his breast, and to youth he turned, to the round little limbs, so reckless, that wanted care, to the small round faces so unreasonably solemn or bright, to the treble tongues, and the shrill, chuckling laughter, to the insistent tugging hands, and the feel of small bodies against his legs, to all that was young and young, and once more young. And his eyes grew soft, his voice, and thin-veined hands soft, and soft his heart within him. And to those small creatures he became at once a place of pleasure, a place where they were secure, and could talk and laugh and play; till, like sunshine, there radiated from old Jolyon’s wicker chair the perfect gaiety of three hearts.But with young Jolyon following to his wife’s room it was different.He found her seated on a chair before her dressing-glass, with her hands before her face.Her shoulders were shaking with sobs. This passion of hers for suffering was mysterious to him. He had been through a hundred of these moods; how he had survived them he never knew, for he could never believe they were moods, and that the last hour of his partnership had not struck.In the night she would be sure to throw her arms round his neck and say: “Oh! Jo, how I make you suffer!” as she had done a hundred times before.He reached out his hand, and, unseen, slipped his razor-case into his pocket. ‘I cannot stay here,’ he thought, ‘I must go down!’ Without a word he left the room, and went back to the lawn.Old Jolyon had little Holly on his knee; she had taken possession of his watch; Jolly, very red in the face, was trying to show that he could stand on his head. The dog Balthasar, as close as he might be to the tea-table, had fixed his eyes on the cake.Young Jolyon felt a malicious desire to cut their enjoyment short.What business had his father to come and upset his wife like this? It was a shock, after all these years! He ought to have known; he ought to have given them warning; but when did a Forsyte ever imagine that his conduct could upset anybody! And in his thoughts he did old Jolyon wrong.He spoke sharply to the children, and told them to go in to their tea. Greatly surprised, for they had never heard their father speak sharply before, they went off, hand in hand, little Holly looking back over her shoulder.Young Jolyon poured out the tea.“My wife’s not the thing today,” he said, but he knew well enough that his father had penetrated the cause of that sudden withdrawal, and almost hated the old man for sitting there so calmly.“You’ve got a nice little house here,” said old Jolyon with a shrewd look; “I suppose you’ve taken a lease of it!”Young Jolyon nodded.“I don’t like the neighbourhood,” said old Jolyon; “a ramshackle lot.”Young Jolyon replied: “Yes, we’re a ramshackle lot.”’The silence was now only broken by the sound of the dog Balthasar’s scratching.Old Jolyon said simply: “I suppose I oughtn’t to have come here, Jo; but I get so lonely!”At these words young Jolyon got up and put his hand on his father’s shoulder.In the next house someone was playing over and over again: ‘La Donna mobile’ on an untuned piano; and the little garden had fallen into shade, the sun now only reached the wall at the end, whereon basked a crouching cat, her yellow eyes turned sleepily down on the dog Balthasar. There was a drowsy hum of very distant traffic; the creepered trellis round the garden shut out everything but sky, and house, and pear-tree, with its top branches still gilded by the sun.For some time they sat there, talking but little. Then old Jolyon rose to go, and not a word was said about his coming again.He walked away very sadly. What a poor miserable place; and he thought of the great, empty house in Stanhope Gate, fit residence for a Forsyte, with its huge billiard-room and drawing-room that no one entered from one week’s end to another.That woman, whose face he had rather liked, was too thin-skinned by half; she gave Jo a bad time he knew! And those sweet children! Ah! what a piece of awful folly!He walked towards the Edgware Road, between rows of little houses, all suggesting to him (erroneously no doubt, but the prejudices of a Forsyte are sacred) shady histories of some sort or kind.Society, forsooth, the chattering hags and jackanapes — had set themselves up to pass judgment on his flesh and blood! A parcel of old women! He stumped his umbrella on the ground, as though to drive it into the heart of that unfortunate body, which had dared to ostracize his son and his son’s son, in whom he could have lived again!He stumped his umbrella fiercely; yet he himself had followed Society’s behaviour for fifteen years — had only today been false to it!He thought of June, and her dead mother, and the whole story, with all his old bitterness. A wretched business!He was a long time reaching Stanhope Gate, for, with native perversity, being extremely tired, he walked the whole way.After washing his hands in the lavatory downstairs, he went to the dining-room to wait for dinner, the only room he used when June was out — it was less lonely so. The evening paper had not yet come; he had finished the Times, there was therefore nothing to do.The room faced the backwater of traffic, and was very silent. He disliked dogs, but a dog even would have been company. His gaze, travelling round the walls, rested on a picture entitled: ‘Group of Dutch fishing boats at sunset’; the chef d’oeuvre of his collection. It gave him no pleasure. He closed his eyes. He was lonely! He oughtn’t to complain, he knew, but he couldn’t help it: He was a poor thing — had always been a poor thing — no pluck! Such was his thought.The butler came to lay the table for dinner, and seeing his master apparently asleep, exercised extreme caution in his movements. This bearded man also wore a moustache, which had given rise to grave doubts in the minds of many members — of the family — especially those who, like Soames, had been to public schools, and were accustomed to niceness in such matters. Could he really be considered a butler? Playful spirits alluded to him as: ‘Uncle Jolyon’s Nonconformist’; George, the acknowledged wag, had named him: ‘Sankey.’He moved to and fro between the great polished sideboard and the great polished table inimitably sleek and soft.Old Jolyon watched him, feigning sleep. The fellow was a sneak — he had always thought so — who cared about nothing but rattling through his work, and getting out to his betting or his woman or goodness knew what! A slug! Fat too! And didn’t care a pin about his master!But then against his will, came one of those moments of philosophy which made old Jolyon different from other Forsytes:After all why should the man care? He wasn’t paid to care, and why expect it? In this world people couldn’t look for affection unless they paid for it. It might be different in the next — he didn’t know — couldn’t tell! And again he shut his eyes.Relentless and stealthy, the butler pursued his labours, taking things from the various compartments of the sideboard. His back seemed always turned to old Jolyon; thus, he robbed his operations of the unseemliness of being carried on in his master’s presence; now and then he furtively breathed on the silver, and wiped it with a piece of chamois leather. He appeared to pore over the quantities of wine in the decanters, which he carried carefully and rather high, letting his heard droop over them protectingly. When he had finished, he stood for over a minute watching his master, and in his greenish eyes there was a look of contempt:After all, this master of his was an old buffer, who hadn’t much left in him!Soft as a tom-cat, he crossed the room to press the bell. His orders were ‘dinner at seven.’ What if his master were asleep; he would soon have him out of that; there was the night to sleep in! He had himself to think of, for he was due at his Club at half-past eight!In answer to the ring, appeared a page boy with a silver soup tureen. The butler took it from his hands and placed it on the table, then, standing by the open door, as though about to usher company into the room, he said in a solemn voice:“Dinner is on the table, sir!”Slowly old Jolyon got up out of his chair, and sat down at the table to eat his dinner.

Chapter 8 Plans of the House 
Forsytes, as is generally admitted, have shells, like that extremely useful little animal which is made into Turkish delight, in other words, they are never seen, or if seen would not be recognised, without habitats, composed of circumstance, property, acquaintances, and wives, which seem to move along with them in their passage through a world composed of thousands of other Forsytes with their habitats. Without a habitat a Forsyte is inconceivable — he would be like a novel without a plot, which is well-known to be an anomaly.To Forsyte eyes Bosinney appeared to have no habitat, he seemed one of those rare and unfortunate men who go through life surrounded by circumstance, property, acquaintances, and wives that do not belong to them.His rooms in Sloane Street, on the top floor, outside which, on a plate, was his name, ‘Philip Baynes Bosinney, Architect,’ were not those of a Forsyte. — He had no sitting-room apart from his office, but a large recess had been screened off to conceal the necessaries of life — a couch, an easy chair, his pipes, spirit case, novels and slippers. The business part of the room had the usual furniture; an open cupboard with pigeon-holes, a round oak table, a folding wash-stand, some hard chairs, a standing desk of large dimensions covered with drawings and designs. June had twice been to tea there under the chaperonage of his aunt.He was believed to have a bedroom at the back.As far as the family had been able to ascertain his income, it consisted of two consulting appointments at twenty pounds a year, together with an odd fee once in a way, and — more worthy item — a private annuity under his father’s will of one hundred and fifty pounds a year.What had transpired concerning that father was not so reassuring. It appeared that he had been a Lincolnshire country doctor of Cornish extraction, striking appearance, and Byronic tendencies — a well-known figure, in fact, in his county. Bosinney’s uncle by marriage, Baynes, of Baynes and Bildeboy, a Forsyte in instincts if not in name, had but little that was worthy to relate of his brother-in-law.“An odd fellow!’ he would say: ‘always spoke of his three eldest boys as ‘good creatures, but so dull’; they’re all doing capitally in the Indian Civil! Philip was the only one he liked. I’ve heard him talk in the queerest way; he once said to me: ‘My dear fellow, never let your poor wife know what you’re thinking of! But I didn’t follow his advice; not I! An eccentric man! He would say to Phil: ‘Whether you live like a gentleman or not, my boy, be sure you die like one! and he had himself embalmed in a frock coat suit, with a satin cravat and a diamond pin. Oh, quite an original, I can assure you!”Of Bosinney himself Baynes would speak warmly, with a certain compassion: “He’s got a streak of his father’s Byronism. Why, look at the way he threw up his chances when he left my office; going off like that for six months with a knapsack, and all for what? — to study foreign architecture — foreign! What could he expect? And there he is — a clever young fellow — doesn’t make his hundred a year! Now this engagement is the best thing that could have happened — keep him steady; he’s one of those that go to bed all day and stay up all night, simply because they’ve no method; but no vice about him — not an ounce of vice. Old Forsyte’s a rich man!”Mr. Baynes made himself extremely pleasant to June, who frequently visited his house in Lowndes Square at this period.“This house of your cousin’s — what a capital man of business — is the very thing for Philip,” he would say to her; “you mustn’t expect to see too much of him just now, my dear young lady. The good cause — the good cause! The young man must make his way. When I was his age I was at work day and night. My dear wife used to say to me, ‘Bobby, don’t work too hard, think of your health’; but I never spared myself!”June had complained that her lover found no time to come to Stanhope Gate.The first time he came again they had not been together a quarter of an hour before, by one of those coincidences of which she was a mistress, Mrs. Septimus Small arrived. Thereon Bosinney rose and hid himself, according to previous arrangement, in the little study, to wait for her departure.“My dear,” said Aunt Juley, “how thin he is! I’ve often noticed it with engaged people; but you mustn’t let it get worse. There’s Barlow’s extract of veal; it did your Uncle Swithin a lot of good.”June, her little figure erect before the hearth, her small face quivering grimly, for she regarded her aunt’s untimely visit in the light of a personal injury, replied with scorn:“It’s because he’s busy; people who can do anything worth doing are never fat!”Aunt Juley pouted; she herself had always been thin, but the only pleasure she derived from the fact was the opportunity of longing to be stouter.“I don’t think,” she said mournfully, “that you ought to let them call him ‘The Buccaneer’; people might think it odd, now that he’s going to build a house for Soames. I do hope he will be careful; it’s so important for him. Soames has such good taste!”“Taste!” cried June, flaring up at once; “wouldn’t give that for his taste, or any of the family’s!”Mrs. Small was taken aback.“Your Uncle Swithin,” she said, “always had beautiful taste! And Soames’s little house is lovely; you don’t mean to say you don’t think so!”“H’mph!” said June, “that’s only because Irene’s there!”Aunt Juley tried to say something pleasant:“And how will dear Irene like living in the country?”June gazed at her intently, with a look in her eyes as if her conscience had suddenly leaped up into them; it passed; and an even more intent look took its place, as if she had stared that conscience out of countenance. She replied imperiously:“Of course she’ll like it; why shouldn’t she?”Mrs. Small grew nervous.“I didn’t know,” she said; “I thought she mightn’t like to leave her friends. Your Uncle James says she doesn’t take enough interest in life. We think — I mean Timothy thinks — she ought to go out more. I expect you’ll miss her very much!”June clasped her hands behind her neck.“I do wish,” she cried, “Uncle Timothy wouldn’t talk about what doesn’t concern him!”Aunt Juley rose to the full height of her tall figure.“He never talks about what doesn’t concern him,” she said.June was instantly compunctious; she ran to her aunt and kissed her.“I’m very sorry, auntie; but I wish they’d let Irene alone.”Aunt Juley, unable to think of anything further on the subject that would be suitable, was silent; she prepared for departure, hooking her black silk cape across her chest, and, taking up her green reticule:“And how is your dear grandfather?” she asked in the hall, “I expect he’s very lonely now that all your time is taken up with Mr. Bosinney.”She bent and kissed her niece hungrily, and with little, mincing steps passed away.The tears sprang up in June’s eyes; running into the little study, where Bosinney was sitting at the table drawing birds on the back of an envelope, she sank down by his side and cried:“Oh, Phil! it’s all so horrid!” Her heart was as warm as the colour of her hair.On the following Sunday morning, while Soames was shaving, a message was brought him to the effect that Mr. Bosinney was below, and would be glad to see him. Opening the door into his wife’s room, he said:“Bosinney’s downstairs. Just go and entertain him while I finish shaving. I’ll be down in a minute. It’s about the plans, I expect.”Irene looked at him, without reply, put the finishing touch to her dress and went downstairs. He could not make her out about this house. She had said nothing against it, and, as far as Bosinney was concerned, seemed friendly enough.From the window of his dressing-room he could see them talking together in the little court below. He hurried on with his shaving, cutting his chin twice. He heard them laugh, and thought to himself: “Well, they get on all right, anyway!”As he expected, Bosinney had come round to fetch him to look at the plans.He took his hat and went over.The plans were spread on the oak table in the architect’s room; and pale, imperturbable, inquiring, Soames bent over them for a long time without speaking.He said at last in a puzzled voice:“It’s an odd sort of house!”A rectangular house of two stories was designed in a quadrangle round a covered-in court. This court, encircled by a gallery on the upper floor, was roofed with a glass roof, supported by eight columns running up from the ground.It was indeed, to Forsyte eyes, an odd house.“There’s a lot of room cut to waste,” pursued Soames.Bosinney began to walk about, and Soames did not like the expression on his face.“The principle of this house,” said the architect, “was that you should have room to breathe — like a gentleman!”Soames extended his finger and thumb, as if measuring the extent of the distinction he should acquire; and replied:“Oh! yes; I see.”The peculiar look came into Bosinney’s face which marked all his enthusiasms.“I’ve tried to plan you a house here with some self-respect of its own. If you don’t like it, you’d better say so. It’s certainly the last thing to be considered — who wants self-respect in a house, when you can squeeze in an extra lavatory?” He put his finger suddenly down on the left division of the centre oblong: “You can swing a cat here. This is for your pictures, divided from this court by curtains; draw them back and you’ll have a space of fifty-one by twenty-three six. This double-faced stove in the centre, here, looks one way towards the court, one way towards the picture room; this end wall is all window; You’ve a southeast light from that, a north light from the court. The rest of your pictures you can hang round the gallery upstairs, or in the other rooms.” “In architecture,” he went on — and though looking at Soames he did not seem to see him, which gave Soames an unpleasant feeling —“as in life, you’ll get no self-respect without regularity. Fellows tell you that’s old fashioned. It appears to be peculiar any way; it never occurs to us to embody the main principle of life in our buildings; we load our houses with decoration, gimcracks, corners, anything to distract the eye. On the contrary the eye should rest; get your effects with a few strong lines. The whole thing is regularity there’s no self-respect without it.”Soames, the unconscious ironist, fixed his gaze on Bosinney’s tie, which was far from being in the perpendicular; he was unshaven too, and his dress not remarkable for order. Architecture appeared to have exhausted his regularity.“Won’t it look like a barrack?” he inquired.He did not at once receive a reply.“I can see what it is,” said Bosinney, “you want one of Littlemaster’s houses — one of the pretty and commodious sort, where the servants will live in garrets, and the front door be sunk so that you may come up again. By all means try Littlemaster, you’ll find him a capital fellow, I’ve known him all my life!”Soames was alarmed. He had really been struck by the plans, and the concealment of his satisfaction had been merely instinctive. It was difficult for him to pay a compliment. He despised people who were lavish with their praises.He found himself now in the embarrassing position of one who must pay a compliment or run the risk of losing a good thing. Bosinney was just the fellow who might tear up the plans and refuse to act for him; a kind of grown-up child!This grown-up childishness, to which he felt so superior, exercised a peculiar and almost mesmeric effect on Soames, for he had never felt anything like it in himself.“Well,” he stammered at last, “it’s — it’s, certainly original.”He had such a private distrust and even dislike of the word ‘original’ that he felt he had not really given himself away by this remark.Bosinney seemed pleased. It was the sort of thing that would please a fellow like that! And his success encouraged Soames.“It’s — a big place,” he said.“Space, air, light,” he heard Bosinney murmur, “you can’t live like a gentleman in one of Littlemaster’s — he builds for manufacturers.”Soames made a deprecating movement; he had been identified with a gentleman; not for a good deal of money now would he be classed with manufacturers. But his innate distrust of general principles revived. What the deuce was the good of talking about regularity and self-respect? It looked to him as if the house would be cold.“Irene can’t stand the cold!” he said.“Ah!” said Bosinney sarcastically. “Your wife? She doesn’t like the cold? I’ll see to that; she shan’t be cold. Look here!” he pointed, to four marks at regular intervals on the walls of the court. “I’ve given you hot-water pipes in aluminium casings; you can get them with very good designs.”Soames looked suspiciously at these marks.“It’s all very well, all this,” he said, “but what’s it going to cost?”The architect took a sheet of paper from his pocket:“The house, of course, should be built entirely of stone, but, as I thought you wouldn’t stand that, I’ve compromised for a facing. It ought to have a copper roof, but I’ve made it green slate. As it is, including metal work, it’ll cost you eight thousand five hundred.”“Eight thousand five hundred?” said Soames. “Why, I gave you an outside limit of eight!”“Can’t be done for a penny less,” replied Bosinney coolly.“You must take it or leave it!”It was the only way, probably, that such a proposition could have been made to Soames. He was nonplussed. Conscience told him to throw the whole thing up. But the design was good, and he knew it — there was completeness about it, and dignity; the servants’ apartments were excellent too. He would gain credit by living in a house like that — with such individual features, yet perfectly well-arranged.He continued poring over the plans, while Bosinney went into his bedroom to shave and dress.The two walked back to Montpellier Square in silence, Soames watching him out of the corner of his eye.The Buccaneer was rather a good-looking fellow — so he thought — when he was properly got up.Irene was bending over her flowers when the two men came in.She spoke of sending across the Park to fetch June.“No, no,” said Soames, “we’ve still got business to talk over!”At lunch he was almost cordial, and kept pressing Bosinney to eat. He was pleased to see the architect in such high spirits, and left him to spend the afternoon with Irene, while he stole off to his pictures, after his Sunday habit. At tea-time he came down to the drawing-room, and found them talking, as he expressed it, nineteen to the dozen.Unobserved in the doorway, he congratulated himself that things were taking the right turn. It was lucky she and Bosinney got on; she seemed to be falling into line with the idea of the new house.Quiet meditation among his pictures had decided him to spring the five hundred if necessary; but he hoped that the afternoon might have softened Bosinney’s estimates. It was so purely a matter which Bosinney could remedy if he liked; there must be a dozen ways in which he could cheapen the production of a house without spoiling the effect.He awaited, therefore, his opportunity till Irene was handing the architect his first cup of tea. A chink of sunshine through the lace of the blinds warmed her cheek, shone in the gold of her hair, and in her soft eyes. Possibly the same gleam deepened Bosinney’s colour, gave the rather startled look to his face.Soames hated sunshine, and he at once got up, to draw the blind. Then he took his own cup of tea from his wife, and said, more coldly than he had intended:“Can’t you see your way to do it for eight thousand after all? There must be a lot of little things you could alter.”Bosinney drank off his tea at a gulp, put down his cup, and answered:“Not one!”Soames saw that his suggestion had touched some unintelligible point of personal vanity.“Well,” he agreed, with sulky resignation; “you must have it your own way, I suppose.”A few minutes later Bosinney rose to go, and Soames rose too, to see him off the premises. The architect seemed in absurdly high spirits. After watching him walk away at a swinging pace, Soames returned moodily to the drawing-room, where Irene was putting away the music, and, moved by an uncontrollable spasm of curiosity, he asked:“Well, what do you think of ‘The Buccaneer’?”He looked at the carpet while waiting for her answer, and he had to wait some time.“I don’t know,” she said at last.“Do you think he’s good-looking?”Irene smiled. And it seemed to Soames that she was mocking him.“Yes,” she answered; “very.”

Chapter 9 Death of Aunt Ann 
There came a morning at the end of September when Aunt Ann was unable to take from Smither’s hands the insignia of personal dignity. After one look at the old face, the doctor, hurriedly sent for, announced that Miss Forsyte had passed away in her sleep.Aunts Juley and Hester were overwhelmed by the shock. They had never imagined such an ending. Indeed, it is doubtful whether they had ever realized that an ending was bound to come. Secretly they felt it unreasonable of Ann to have left them like this without a word, without even a struggle. It was unlike her.Perhaps what really affected them so profoundly was the thought that a Forsyte should have let go her grasp on life. If one, then why not all!It was a full hour before they could make up their minds to tell Timothy. If only it could be kept from him! If only it could be broken to him by degrees!And long they stood outside his door whispering together. And when it was over they whispered together again.He would feel it more, they were afraid, as time went on. Still, he had taken it better than could have been expected. He would keep his bed, of course!They separated, crying quietly.Aunt Juley stayed in her room, prostrated by the blow. Her face, discoloured by tears, was divided into compartments by the little ridges of pouting flesh which had swollen with emotion. It was impossible to conceive of life without Ann, who had lived with her for seventy-three years, broken only by the short interregnum of her married life, which seemed now so unreal. At fixed intervals she went to her drawer, and took from beneath the lavender bags a fresh pocket-handkerchief. Her warm heart could not bear the thought that Ann was lying there so cold.Aunt Hester, the silent, the patient, that backwater of the family energy, sat in the drawing-room, where the blinds were drawn; and she, too, had wept at first, but quietly, without visible effect. Her guiding principle, the conservation of energy, did not abandon her in sorrow. She sat, slim, motionless, studying the grate, her hands idle in the lap of her black silk dress. They would want to rouse her into doing something, no doubt. As if there were any good in that! Doing something would not bring back Ann! Why worry her?Five o’clock brought three of the brothers, Jolyon and James and Swithin; Nicholas was at Yarmouth, and Roger had a bad attack of gout. Mrs. Hayman had been by herself earlier in the day, and, after seeing Ann, had gone away, leaving a message for Timothy — which was kept from him — that she ought to have been told sooner. In fact, there was a feeling amongst them all that they ought to have been told sooner, as though they had missed something; and James said:“I knew how it’d be; I told you she wouldn’t last through the summer.”Aunt Hester made no reply; it was nearly October, but what was the good of arguing; some people were never satisfied.She sent up to tell her sister that the brothers were there. Mrs. Small came down at once. She had bathed her face, which was still swollen, and though she looked severely at Swithin’s trousers, for they were of light blue — he had come straight from the club, where the news had reached him — she wore a more cheerful expression than usual, the instinct for doing the wrong thing being even now too strong for her.Presently all five went up to look at the body. Under the pure white sheet a quilted counter-pane had been placed, for now, more than ever, Aunt Ann had need of warmth; and, the pillows removed, her spine and head rested flat, with the semblance of their life-long inflexibility; the coif banding the top of her brow was drawn on either side to the level of the ears, and between it and the sheet her face, almost as white, was turned with closed eyes to the faces of her brothers and sisters. In its extraordinary peace the face was stronger than ever, nearly all bone now under the scarce-wrinkled parchment of skin — square jaw and chin, cheekbones, forehead with hollow temples, chiselled nose — the fortress of an unconquerable spirit that had yielded to death, and in its upward sightlessness seemed trying to regain that spirit, to regain the guardianship it had just laid down.Swithin took but one look at the face, and left the room; the sight, he said afterwards, made him very queer. He went downstairs shaking the whole house, and, seizing his hat, clambered into his brougham, without giving any directions to the coachman. He was driven home, and all the evening sat in his chair without moving.He could take nothing for dinner but a partridge, with an imperial pint of champagne. . . .Old Jolyon stood at the bottom of the bed, his hands folded in front of him. He alone of those in the room remembered the death of his mother, and though he looked at Ann, it was of that he was thinking. Ann was an old woman, but death had come to her at last — death came to all! His face did not move, his gaze seemed travelling from very far.Aunt Hester stood beside him. She did not cry now, tears were exhausted — her nature refused to permit a further escape of force; she twisted her hands, looking not at Ann, but from side to side, seeking some way of escaping the effort of realization.Of all the brothers and sisters James manifested the most emotion. Tears rolled down the parallel furrows of his thin face; where he should go now to tell his troubles he did not know; Juley was no good, Hester worse than useless! He felt Ann’s death more than he had ever thought he should; this would upset him for weeks!Presently Aunt Hester stole out, and Aunt Juley began moving about, doing ‘what was necessary,’ so that twice she knocked against something. Old Jolyon, roused from his reverie, that reverie of the long, long past, looked sternly at her, and went away. James alone was left by the bedside; glancing stealthily round, to see that he was not observed, he twisted his long body down, placed a kiss on the dead forehead, then he, too, hastily left the room. Encountering Smither in the hall, he began to ask her about the funeral, and, finding that she knew nothing, complained bitterly that, if they didn’t take care, everything would go wrong. She had better send for Mr. Soames — he knew all about that sort of thing; her master was very much upset, he supposed — he would want looking after; as for her mistresses, they were no good — they had no gumption! They would be ill too, he shouldn’t wonder. She had better send for the doctor; it was best to take things in time. He didn’t think his sister Ann had had the best opinion; if she’d had Blank she would have been alive now. Smither might send to Park Lane any time she wanted advice. Of course, his carriage was at their service for the funeral. He supposed she hadn’t such a thing as a glass of claret and a biscuit — he had had no lunch!The days before the funeral passed quietly. It had long been known, of course, that Aunt Ann had left her little property to Timothy. There was, therefore, no reason for the slightest agitation. Soames, who was sole executor, took charge of all arrangements, and in due course sent out the following invitation to every male member of the family:To. . . . . . . . . . .Your presence is requested at the funeral of Miss Ann Forsyte, in Highgate Cemetery, at noon of Oct. 1st. Carriages will meet at “The Bower,” Bayswater Road, at 10.45. No flowers by request. ‘R.S.V.P.’The morning came, cold, with a high, grey, London sky, and at half-past ten the first carriage, that of James, drove up. It contained James and his son-in-law Dartie, a fine man, with a square chest, buttoned very tightly into a frock coat, and a sallow, fattish face adorned with dark, well-curled moustaches, and that incorrigible commencement of whisker which, eluding the strictest attempts at shaving, seems the mark of something deeply ingrained in the personality of the shaver, being especially noticeable in men who speculate.Soames, in his capacity of executor, received the guests, for Timothy still kept his bed; he would get up after the funeral; and Aunts Juley and Hester would not be coming down till all was over, when it was understood there would be lunch for anyone who cared to come back. The next to arrive was Roger, still limping from the gout, and encircled by three of his sons — young Roger, Eustace, and Thomas. George, the remaining son, arrived almost immediately afterwards in a hansom, and paused in the hall to ask Soames how he found undertaking pay.They disliked each other.Then came two Haymans — Giles and Jesse perfectly silent, and very well dressed, with special creases down their evening trousers. Then old Jolyon alone. Next, Nicholas, with a healthy colour in his face, and a carefully veiled sprightliness in every movement of his head and body. One of his sons followed him, meek and subdued. Swithin Forsyte, and Bosinney arrived at the same moment — and stood — bowing precedence to each other — but on the door opening they tried to enter together; they renewed their apologies in the hall, and, Swithin, settling his stock, which had become disarranged in the struggle, very slowly mounted the stairs. The other Hayman; two married sons of Nicholas, together with Tweetyman, Spender, and Warry, the husbands of married Forsyte and Hayman daughters. The company was then complete, twenty-one in all, not a male member of the family being absent but Timothy and young Jolyon.Entering the scarlet and green drawing-room, whose apparel made so vivid a setting for their unaccustomed costumes, each tried nervously to find a seat, desirous of hiding the emphatic blackness of his trousers. There seemed a sort of indecency in that blackness and in the colour of their gloves — a sort of exaggeration of the feelings; and many cast shocked looks of secret envy at ‘the Buccaneer,’ who had no gloves, and was wearing grey trousers. A subdued hum of conversation rose, no one speaking of the departed, but each asking after the other, as though thereby casting an indirect libation to this event, which they had come to honour.And presently James said:“Well, I think we ought to be starting.”They went downstairs, and, two and two, as they had been told off in strict precedence, mounted the carriages.The hearse started at a foot’s pace; the carriages moved slowly after. In the first went old Jolyon with Nicholas; in the second, the twins, Swithin and James; in the third, Roger and young Roger; Soames, young Nicholas, George, and Bosinney followed in the fourth. Each of the other carriages, eight in all, held three or four of the family; behind them came the doctor’s brougham; then, at a decent interval, cabs containing family clerks and servants; and at the very end, one containing nobody at all, but bringing the total cortege up to the number of thirteen.So long as the procession kept to the highway of the Bayswater Road, it retained the foot’s-pace, but, turning into less important thorough-fares, it soon broke into a trot, and so proceeded, with intervals of walking in the more fashionable streets, until it arrived. In the first carriage old Jolyon and Nicholas were talking of their wills. In the second the twins, after a single attempt, had lapsed into complete silence; both were rather deaf, and the exertion of making themselves heard was too great. Only once James broke this silence:“I shall have to be looking about for some ground somewhere. What arrangements have you made, Swithin?”And Swithin, fixing him with a dreadful stare, answered:“Don’t talk to me about such things!”In the third carriage a disjointed conversation was carried on in the intervals of looking out to see how far they had got, George remarking, “Well, it was really time that the poor old lady went.” He didn’t believe in people living beyond seventy, Young Nicholas replied mildly that the rule didn’t seem to apply to the Forsytes. George said he himself intended to commit suicide at sixty. Young Nicholas, smiling and stroking a long chin, didn’t think his father would like that theory; he had made a lot of money since he was sixty. Well, seventy was the outside limit; it was then time, George said, for them to go and leave their money to their children. Soames, hitherto silent, here joined in; he had not forgotten the remark about the ‘undertaking,’ and, lifting his eyelids almost imperceptibly, said it was all very well for people who never made money to talk. He himself intended to live as long as he could. This was a hit at George, who was notoriously hard up. Bosinney muttered abstractedly “Hear, hear!” and, George yawning, the conversation dropped.Upon arriving, the coffin was borne into the chapel, and, two by two, the mourners filed in behind it. This guard of men, all attached to the dead by the bond of kinship, was an impressive and singular sight in the great city of London, with its overwhelming diversity of life, its innumerable vocations, pleasures, duties, its terrible hardness, its terrible call to individualism.The family had gathered to triumph over all this, to give a show of tenacious unity, to illustrate gloriously that law of property underlying the growth of their tree, by which it had thriven and spread, trunk and branches, the sap flowing through all, the full growth reached at the appointed time. The spirit of the old woman lying in her last sleep had called them to this demonstration. It was her final appeal to that unity which had been their strength — it was her final triumph that she had died while the tree was yet whole.She was spared the watching of the branches jut out beyond the point of balance. She could not look into the hearts of her followers. The same law that had worked in her, bringing her up from a tall, straight-backed slip of a girl to a woman strong and grown, from a woman grown to a woman old, angular, feeble, almost witchlike, with individuality all sharpened and sharpened, as all rounding from the world’s contact fell off from her — that same law would work, was working, in the family she had watched like a mother.She had seen it young, and growing, she had seen it strong and grown, and before her old eyes had time or strength to see any more, she died. She would have tried, and who knows but she might have kept it young and strong, with her old fingers, her trembling kisses — a little longer; alas! not even Aunt Ann could fight with Nature.‘Pride comes before a fall!’ In accordance with this, the greatest of Nature’s ironies, the Forsyte family had gathered for a last proud pageant before they fell. Their faces to right and left, in single lines, were turned for the most part impassively toward the ground, guardians of their thoughts; but here and there, one looking upward, with a line between his brows, searched to see some sight on the chapel walls too much for him, to be listening to something that appalled. And the responses, low-muttered, in voices through which rose the same tone, the same unseizable family ring, sounded weird, as though murmured in hurried duplication by a single person.The service in the chapel over, the mourners filed up again to guard the body to the tomb. The vault stood open, and, round it, men in black were waiting.From that high and sacred field, where thousands of the upper middle class lay in their last sleep, the eyes of the Forsytes travelled down across the flocks of graves. There — spreading to the distance, lay London, with no sun over it, mourning the loss of its daughter, mourning with this family, so dear, the loss of her who was mother and guardian. A hundred thousand spires and houses, blurred in the great grey web of property, lay there like prostrate worshippers before the grave of this, the oldest Forsyte of them all.A few words, a sprinkle of earth, the thrusting of the coffin home, and Aunt Ann had passed to her last rest.Round the vault, trustees of that passing, the five brothers stood, with white heads bowed; they would see that Ann was comfortable where she was going. Her little property must stay behind, but otherwise, all that could be should be done. . . .Then severally, each stood aside, and putting on his hat, turned back to inspect the new inscription on the marble of the family vault:SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF ANN FORSYTE, THE DAUGHTER OF THE ABOVE JOLYON AND ANN FORSYTE, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE THE 27TH DAY OF SEPTEMBER, 1886, AGED EIGHTY-SEVEN YEARS AND FOUR DAYSSoon perhaps, someone else would be wanting an inscription. It was strange and intolerable, for they had not thought somehow, that Forsytes could die. And one and all they had a longing to get away from this painfulness, this ceremony which had reminded them of things they could not bear to think about — to get away quickly and go about their business and forget.It was cold, too; the wind, like some slow, disintegrating force, blowing up the hill over the graves, struck them with its chilly breath; they began to split into groups, and as quickly as possible to fill the waiting carriages.Swithin said he should go back to lunch at Timothy’s, and he offered to take anybody with him in his brougham. It was considered a doubtful privilege to drive with Swithin in his brougham, which was not a large one; nobody accepted, and he went off alone. James and Roger followed immediately after; they also would drop in to lunch. The others gradually melted away, Old Jolyon taking three nephews to fill up his carriage; he had a want of those young faces.Soames, who had to arrange some details in the cemetery office, walked away with Bosinney. He had much to talk over with him, and, having finished his business, they strolled to Hampstead, lunched together at the Spaniard’s Inn, and spent a long time in going into practical details connected with the building of the house; they then proceeded to the tram-line, and came as far as the Marble Arch, where Bosinney went off to Stanhope Gate to see June.Soames felt in excellent spirits when he arrived home, and confided to Irene at dinner that he had had a good talk with Bosinney, who really seemed a sensible fellow; they had had a capital walk too, which had done his liver good — he had been short of exercise for a long time — and altogether a very satisfactory day. If only it hadn’t been for poor Aunt Ann, he would have taken her to the theatre; as it was, they must make the best of an evening at home.“The Buccaneer asked after you more than once,” he said suddenly. And moved by some inexplicable desire to assert his proprietorship, he rose from his chair and planted a kiss on his wife’s shoulder.

Part II Chapter 10 Progress of the House 
The winter had been an open one. Things in the trade were slack; and as Soames had reflected before making up his mind, it had been a good time for building. The shell of the house at Robin Hill was thus completed by the end of April.Now that there was something to be seen for his money, he had been coming down once, twice, even three times a week, and would mouse about among the debris for hours, careful never to soil his clothes, moving silently through the unfinished brickwork of doorways, or circling round the columns in the central court.And he would stand before them for minutes’ together, as though peering into the real quality of their substance.On April 30 he had an appointment with Bosinney to go over the accounts, and five minutes before the proper time he entered the tent which the architect had pitched for himself close to the old oak tree.The accounts were already prepared on a folding table, and with a nod Soames sat down to study them. It was some time before he raised his head.“I can’t make them out,” he said at last; “they come to nearly seven hundred more than they ought”After a glance at Bosinney’s face he went on quickly:“If you only make a firm stand against these builder chaps you’ll get them down. They stick you with everything if you don’t look sharp. . . . Take ten per cent. off all round. I shan’t mind it’s coming out a hundred or so over the mark!”Bosinney shook his head:“I’ve taken off every farthing I can!”Soames pushed back the table with a movement of anger, which sent the account sheets fluttering to the ground.“Then all I can say is,” he flustered out, “you’ve made a pretty mess of it!”“I’ve told you a dozen times,” Bosinney answered sharply, “that there’d be extras. I’ve pointed them out to you over and over again!”“I know that,” growled Soames: “I shouldn’t have objected to a ten pound note here and there. How was I to know that by ‘extras’ you meant seven hundred pounds?”The qualities of both men had contributed to this not-inconsiderable discrepancy. On the one hand, the architect’s devotion to his idea, to the image of a house which he had created and believed in — had made him nervous of being stopped, or forced to the use of makeshifts; on the other, Soames’ not less true and wholehearted devotion to the very best article that could be obtained for the money, had rendered him averse to believing that things worth thirteen shillings could not be bought with twelve.“I wish I’d never undertaken your house,” said Bosinney suddenly. “You come down here worrying me out of my life. You want double the value for your money anybody else would, and now that you’ve got a house that for its size is not to be beaten in the county, you don’t want to pay for it. If you’re anxious to be off your bargain, I daresay I can find the balance above the estimates myself, but I’m d —— d if I do another stroke of work for you!”Soames regained his composure. Knowing that Bosinney had no capital, he regarded this as a wild suggestion. He saw, too, that he would be kept indefinitely out of this house on which he had set his heart, and just at the crucial point when the architect’s personal care made all the difference. In the meantime there was Irene to be thought of! She had been very queer lately. He really believed it was only because she had taken to Bosinney that she tolerated the idea of the house at all. It would not do to make an open breach with her.“You needn’t get into a rage,” he said. “If I’m willing to put up with it, I suppose you needn’t cry out. All I meant was that when you tell me a thing is going to cost so much, I like to — well, in fact, I— like to know where I am.”“Look here!” said Bosinney, and Soames was both annoyed and surprised by the shrewdness of his glance. “You’ve got my services dirt cheap. For the kind of work I’ve put into this house, and the amount of time I’ve given to it, you’d have had to pay Littlemaster or some other fool four times as much. What you want, in fact, is a first-rate man for a fourth-rate fee, and that’s exactly what you’ve got!”Soames saw that he really meant what he said, and, angry though he was, the consequences of a row rose before him too vividly. He saw his house unfinished, his wife rebellious, himself a laughingstock.“Let’s go over it,” he said sulkily, “and see how the money’s gone.”“Very well,” assented Bosinney. “But we’ll hurry up, if you don’t mind. I have to get back in time to take June to the theatre.”Soames cast a stealthy look at him, and said: “Coming to our place, I suppose to meet her?” He was always coming to their place!There had been rain the night before-a spring rain, and the earth smelt of sap and wild grasses. The warm, soft breeze swung the leaves and the golden buds of the old oak tree, and in the sunshine the blackbirds were whistling their hearts out.It was such a spring day as breathes into a man an ineffable yearning, a painful sweetness, a longing that makes him stand motionless, looking at the leaves or grass, and fling out his arms to embrace he knows not what. The earth gave forth a fainting warmth, stealing up through the chilly garment in which winter had wrapped her. It was her long caress of invitation, to draw men down to lie within her arms, to roll their bodies on her, and put their lips to her breast.On just such a day as this Soames had got from Irene the promise he had asked her for so often. Seated on the fallen trunk of a tree, he had promised for the twentieth time that if their marriage were not a success, she should be as free as if she had never married him!“Do you swear it?” she had said. A few days back she had reminded him of that oath. He had answered: “Nonsense! I couldn’t have sworn any such thing!” By some awkward fatality he remembered it now. What queer things men would swear for the sake of women! He would have sworn it at any time to gain her! He would swear it now, if thereby he could touch her — but nobody could touch her, she was cold-hearted!And memories crowded on him with the fresh, sweet savour of the spring wind-memories of his courtship.In the spring of the year 1881 he was visiting his old school-fellow and client, George Liversedge, of Branksome, who, with the view of developing his pine-woods in the neighbourhood of Bournemouth, had placed the formation of the company necessary to the scheme in Soames’s hands. Mrs. Liversedge, with a sense of the fitness of things, had given a musical tea in his honour. Later in the course of this function, which Soames, no musician, had regarded as an unmitigated bore, his eye had been caught by the face of a girl dressed in mourning, standing by herself. The lines of her tall, as yet rather thin figure, showed through the wispy, clinging stuff of her black dress, her black-gloved hands were crossed in front of her, her lips slightly parted, and her large, dark eyes wandered from face to face. Her hair, done low on her neck, seemed to gleam above her black collar like coils of shining metal. And as Soames stood looking at her, the sensation that most men have felt at one time or another went stealing through him — a peculiar satisfaction of the senses, a peculiar certainty, which novelists and old ladies call love at first sight. Still stealthily watching her, he at once made his way to his hostess, and stood doggedly waiting for the music to cease.“Who is that girl with yellow hair and dark eyes?” he asked.“That — oh! Irene Heron. Her father, Professor Heron, died this year. She lives with her stepmother. She’s a nice girl, a pretty girl, but no money!”“Introduce me, please,” said Soames.It was very little that he found to say, nor did he find her responsive to that little. But he went away with the resolution to see her again. He effected his object by chance, meeting her on the pier with her stepmother, who had the habit of walking there from twelve to one of a forenoon. Soames made this lady’s acquaintance with alacrity, nor was it long before he perceived in her the ally he was looking for. His keen scent for the commercial side of family life soon told him that Irene cost her stepmother more than the fifty pounds a year she brought her; it also told him that Mrs. Heron, a woman yet in the prime of life, desired to be married again. The strange ripening beauty of her stepdaughter stood in the way of this desirable consummation. And Soames, in his stealthy tenacity, laid his plans.He left Bournemouth without having given himself away, but in a month’s time came back, and this time he spoke, not to the girl, but to her stepmother. He had made up his mind, he said; he would wait any time. And he had long to wait, watching Irene bloom, the lines of her young figure softening, the stronger blood deepening the gleam of her eyes, and warming her face to a creamy glow; and at each visit he proposed to her, and when that visit was at an end, took her refusal away with him, back to London, sore at heart, but steadfast and silent as the grave. He tried to come at the secret springs of her resistance; only once had he a gleam of light. It was at one of those assembly dances, which afford the only outlet to the passions of the population of seaside watering-places. He was sitting with her in an embrasure, his senses tingling with the contact of the waltz. She had looked at him over her, slowly waving fan; and he had lost his head. Seizing that moving wrist, he pressed his lips to the flesh of her arm. And she had shuddered — to this day he had not forgotten that shudder — nor the look so passionately averse she had given him.A year after that she had yielded. What had made her yield he could never make out; and from Mrs. Heron, a woman of some diplomatic talent, he learnt nothing. Once after they were married he asked her, “What made you refuse me so often?” She had answered by a strange silence. An enigma to him from the day that he first saw her, she was an enigma to him still. . . .Bosinney was waiting for him at the door; and on his rugged, good-looking, face was a queer, yearning, yet happy look, as though he too saw a promise of bliss in the spring sky, sniffed a coming happiness in the spring air. Soames looked at him waiting there. What was the matter with the fellow that he looked so happy? What was he waiting for with that smile on his lips and in his eyes? Soames could not see that for which Bosinney was waiting as he stood there drinking in the flower-scented wind. And once more he felt baffled in the presence of this man whom by habit he despised. He hastened on to the house.“The only colour for those tiles,” he heard Bosinney say — “is ruby with a grey tint in the stuff, to give a transparent effect. I should like Irene’s opinion. I’m ordering the purple leather curtains for the doorway of this court; and if you distemper the drawing-room ivory cream over paper, you’ll get an illusive look. You want to aim all through the decorations at what I call charm.”Soames said: “You mean that my wife has charm!”Bosinney evaded the question.“You should have a clump of iris plants in the centre of that court.”Soames smiled superciliously.“I’ll look into Beech’s some time,” he said, “and see what’s appropriate!”They found little else to say to each other, but on the way to the Station Soames asked:“I suppose you find Irene very artistic.”“Yes.” The abrupt answer was as distinct a snub as saying: “If you want to discuss her you can do it with someone else!”And the slow, sulky anger Soames had felt all the afternoon burned the brighter within him.Neither spoke again till they were close to the Station, then Soames asked:“When do you expect to have finished?”“By the end of June, if you really wish me to decorate as well.”Soames nodded. “But you quite understand,” he said, “that the house is costing me a lot beyond what I contemplated. I may as well tell you that I should have thrown it up, only I’m not in the habit of giving up what I’ve set my mind on.”Bosinney made no reply. And Soames gave him askance a look of dogged dislike — for in spite of his fastidious air and that supercilious, dandified taciturnity, Soames, with his set lips and squared chin, was not unlike a bulldog. . . .When, at seven o’clock that evening, June arrived at 62, Montpellier Square, the maid Bilson told her that Mr. Bosinney was in the drawing-room; the mistress — she said — was dressing, and would be down in a minute. She would tell her that Miss June was here.June stopped her at once.“All right, Bilson,” she said, “I’ll just go in. You, needn’t hurry Mrs. Soames.”She took off her cloak, and Bilson, with an understanding look, did not even open the drawing-room door for her, but ran downstairs.June paused for a moment to look at herself in the little old-fashioned silver mirror above the oaken rug chest — a slim, imperious young figure, with a small resolute face, in a white frock, cut moon-shaped at the base of a neck too slender for her crown of twisted red-gold hair.She opened the drawing-room door softly, meaning to take him by surprise. The room was filled with a sweet hot scent of flowering azaleas.She took a long breath of the perfume, and heard Bosinney’s voice, not in the room, but quite close, saying.“Ah! there were such heaps of things I wanted to talk about, and now we shan’t have time!”Irene’s voice answered: “Why not at dinner?”“How can one talk. . . . ”June’s first thought was to go away, but instead she crossed to the long window opening on the little court. It was from there that the scent of the azaleas came, and, standing with their backs to her, their faces buried in the golden-pink blossoms, stood her lover and Irene.Silent but unashamed, with flaming cheeks and angry eyes, the girl watched.“Come on Sunday by yourself — We can go over the house together.”June saw Irene look up at him through her screen of blossoms. It was not the look of a coquette, but — far worse to the watching girl — of a woman fearful lest that look should say too much.“I’ve promised to go for a drive with Uncle. . . . ”“The big one! Make him bring you; it’s only ten miles — the very thing for his horses.”“Poor old Uncle Swithin!”A wave of the azalea scent drifted into June’s face; she felt sick and dizzy.“Do! ah! do!”“But why?”“I must see you there — I thought you’d like to help me. . . . ”The answer seemed to the girl to come softly with a tremble from amongst the blossoms: “So I do!”And she stepped into the open space of the window.“How stuffy it is here!” she said; “I can’t bear this scent!”Her eyes, so angry and direct, swept both their faces.“Were you talking about the house? I haven’t seen it yet, you know — shall we all go on Sunday?”’From Irene’s face the colour had flown.“I am going for a drive that day with Uncle Swithin,” she answered.“Uncle Swithin! What does he matter? You can throw him over!”“I am not in the habit of throwing people over!”There was a sound of footsteps and June saw Soames standing just behind her.“Well! if you are all ready,” said Irene, looking from one to the other with a strange smile, “dinner is too!”

Chapter 11 June’s Treat 
Dinner began in silence; the women facing one another, and the men.In silence the soup was finished — excellent, if a little thick; and fish was brought. In silence it was handed.Bosinney ventured: “It’s the first spring day.”Irene echoed softly: “Yes — the first spring day.”“Spring!” said June: “there isn’t a breath of air!” No one replied.The fish was taken away, a fine fresh sole from Dover. And Bilson brought champagne, a bottle swathed around the neck with white. . . .Soames said: “You’ll find it dry.”Cutlets were handed, each pink-frilled about the legs. They were refused by June, and silence fell.Soames said: “You’d better take a cutlet, June; there’s nothing coming.”But June again refused, so they were borne away. And then Irene asked: “Phil, have you heard my blackbird?”Bosinney answered: “Rather — he’s got a hunting-song. As I came round I heard him in the Square.”“He’s such a darling!”“Salad, sir?” Spring chicken was removed.But Soames was speaking: “The asparagus is very poor. Bosinney, glass of sherry with your sweet? June, you’re drinking nothing!”June said: “You know I never do. Wine’s such horrid stuff!”An apple charlotte came upon a silver dish, and smilingly Irene said: “The azaleas are so wonderful this year!”To this Bosinney murmured: “Wonderful! The scent’s extraordinary!”June said: “How can you like the scent? Sugar, please, Bilson.”Sugar was handed her, and Soames remarked: “This charlottes good!”The charlotte was removed. Long silence followed. Irene, beckoning, said: “Take out the azalea, Bilson. Miss June can’t bear the scent.”“No; let it stay,” said June.Olives from France, with Russian caviare, were placed on little plates. And Soames remarked: “Why can’t we have the Spanish?” But no one answered.The olives were removed. Lifting her tumbler June demanded: “Give me some water, please.” Water was given her. A silver tray was brought, with German plums. There was a lengthy pause. In perfect harmony all were eating them.Bosinney counted up the stones: “This year — next year — some time.”Irene finished softly: “Never! There was such a glorious sunset. The sky’s all ruby still — so beautiful!”He answered: “Underneath the dark.”Their eyes had met, and June cried scornfully: “A London sunset!”Egyptian cigarettes were handed in a silver box. Soames, taking one, remarked: “What time’s your play begin?”No one replied, and Turkish coffee followed in enamelled cups.Irene, smiling quietly, said: “If only. . . . ”“Only what?” said June.“If only it could always be the spring!”Brandy was handed; it was pale and old.Soames said: “Bosinney, better take some brandy.”Bosinney took a glass; they all arose.“You want a cab?” asked Soames.June answered: “No! My cloaks please, Bilson.” Her cloak was brought.Irene, from the window, murmured: “Such a lovely night! The stars are coming out!”Soames added: “Well, I hope you’ll both enjoy yourselves.”From the door June answered: “Thanks. Come, Phil.”Bosinney cried: “I’m coming.”Soames smiled a sneering smile, and said: “I wish you luck!”And at the door Irene watched them go.Bosinney called: “Good night!”“Good night!” she answered softly. . . .June made her lover take her on the top of a ‘bus, saying she wanted air, and there sat silent, with her face to the breeze.The driver turned once or twice, with the intention of venturing a remark, but thought better of it. They were a lively couple! The spring had got into his blood, too; he felt the need for letting steam escape, and clucked his tongue, flourishing his whip, wheeling his horses, and even they, poor things, had smelled the spring, and for a brief half-hour spurned the pavement with happy hoofs.The whole town was alive; the boughs, curled upward with their decking of young leaves, awaited some gift the breeze could bring. New-lighted lamps were gaining mastery, and the faces of the crowd showed pale under that glare, while on high the great white clouds slid swiftly, softly, over the purple sky.Men in, evening dress had thrown back overcoats, stepping jauntily up the steps of Clubs; working folk loitered; and women — those women who at that time of night are solitary — solitary and moving eastward in a stream — swung slowly along, with expectation in their gait, dreaming of good wine and a good supper, or — for an unwonted minute, of kisses given for love.Those countless figures, going their ways under the lamps and the moving-sky, had one and all received some restless blessing from the stir of spring. And one and all, like those clubmen with their opened coats, had shed something of caste, and creed, and custom, and by the cock of their hats, the pace of their walk, their laughter, or their silence, revealed their common kinship under the passionate heavens.Bosinney and June entered the theatre in silence, and mounted to their seats in the upper boxes. The piece had just begun, and the half-darkened house, with its rows of creatures peering all one way, resembled a great garden of flowers turning their faces to the sun.June had never before been in the upper boxes. From the age of fifteen she had habitually accompanied her grandfather to the stalls, and not common stalls, but the best seats in the house, towards the centre of the third row, booked by old Jolyon, at Grogan and Boyne’s, on his way home from the City, long before the day; carried in his overcoat pocket, together with his cigar-case and his old kid gloves, and handed to June to keep till the appointed night. And in those stalls — an erect old figure with a serene white head, a little figure, strenuous and eager, with a red-gold head — they would sit through every kind of play, and on the way home old Jolyon would say of the principal actor: “Oh, he’s a poor stick! You should have seen little Bobson!”She had looked forward to this evening with keen delight; it was stolen, chaperone-less, undreamed of at Stanhope Gate, where she was supposed to be at Soames’. She had expected reward for her subterfuge, planned for her lover’s sake; she had expected it to break up the thick, chilly cloud, and make the relations between them which of late had been so puzzling, so tormenting — sunny and simple again as they had been before the winter. She had come with the intention of saying something definite; and she looked at the stage with a furrow between her brows, seeing nothing, her hands squeezed together in her lap. A swarm of jealous suspicions stung and stung her.If Bosinney was conscious of her trouble he made no sign.The curtain dropped. The first act had come to an end.“It’s awfully hot here!” said the girl; “I should like to go out.”She was very white, and she knew — for with her nerves thus sharpened she saw everything — that he was both uneasy and compunctious.At the back of the theatre an open balcony hung over the street; she took possession of this, and stood leaning there without a word, waiting for him to begin.At last she could bear it no longer.“I want to say something to you, Phil,” she said.“Yes?”The defensive tone of his voice brought the colour flying to her cheek, the words flying to her lips: “You don’t give me a chance to be nice to you; you haven’t for ages now!”Bosinney stared down at the street. He made no answer. . . .June cried passionately: “You know I want to do everything for you — that I want to be everything to you. . . . ”A hum rose from the street, and, piercing it with a sharp ‘ping,’ the bell sounded for the raising of the curtain. June did not stir. A desperate struggle was going on within her. Should she put everything to the proof? Should she challenge directly that influence, that attraction which was driving him away from her? It was her nature to challenge, and she said: “Phil, take me to see the house on Sunday!”With a smile quivering and breaking on her lips, and trying, how hard, not to show that she was watching, she searched his face, saw it waver and hesitate, saw a troubled line come between his brows, the blood rush into his face. He answered: “Not Sunday, dear; some other day!”“Why not Sunday? I shouldn’t be in the way on Sunday.”He made an evident effort, and said: “I have an engagement.”“You are going to take. . . . ”His eyes grew angry; he shrugged his shoulders, and answered: “An engagement that will prevent my taking you to see the house!”June bit her lip till the blood came, and walked back to her seat without another word, but she could not help the tears of rage rolling down her face. The house had been mercifully darkened for a crisis, and no one could see her trouble.Yet in this world of Forsytes let no man think himself immune from observation.In the third row behind, Euphemia, Nicholas’s youngest daughter, with her married-sister, Mrs. Tweetyman, were watching.They reported at Timothy’s, how they had seen June and her fiance at the theatre.“In the stalls?” “No, not in the. . . . ” “Oh! in the dress circle, of course. That seemed to be quite fashionable nowadays with young people!”Well — not exactly. In the. . . . Anyway, that engagement wouldn’t last long. They had never seen anyone look so thunder and lightningy as that little June! With tears of enjoyment in their eyes, they related how she had kicked a man’s hat as she returned to her seat in the middle of an act, and how the man had looked. Euphemia had a noted, silent laugh, terminating most disappointingly in squeaks; and when Mrs. Small, holding up her hands, said: “My dear! Kicked a ha-at?” she let out such a number of these that she had to be recovered with smelling-salts. As she went away she said to Mrs. Tweetyman:“Kicked a — ha-at! Oh! I shall die.”For ‘that little June’ this evening, that was to have been ‘her treat,’ was the most miserable she had ever spent. God knows she tried to stifle her pride, her suspicion, her jealousy!She parted from Bosinney at old Jolyon’s door without breaking down; the feeling that her lover must be conquered was strong enough to sustain her till his retiring footsteps brought home the true extent of her wretchedness.The noiseless ‘Sankey’ let her in. She would have slipped up to her own room, but old Jolyon, who had heard her entrance, was in the dining-room doorway.“Come in and have your milk,” he said. “It’s been kept hot for you. You’re very late. Where have you been?”June stood at the fireplace, with a foot on the fender and an arm on the mantelpiece, as her grandfather had done when he came in that night of the opera. She was too near a breakdown to care what she told him.“We dined at Soames’s.”“H’m! the man of property! His wife there and Bosinney?”“Yes.”Old Jolyon’s glance was fixed on her with the penetrating gaze from which it was difficult to hide; but she was not looking at him, and when she turned her face, he dropped his scrutiny at once. He had seen enough, and too much. He bent down to lift the cup of milk for her from the hearth, and, turning away, grumbled: “You oughtn’t to stay out so late; it makes you fit for nothing.”He was invisible now behind his paper, which he turned with a vicious crackle; but when June came up to kiss him, he said: “Good-night, my darling,” in a tone so tremulous and unexpected, that it was all the girl could do to get out of the room without breaking into the fit of sobbing which lasted her well on into the night.When the door was closed, old Jolyon dropped his paper, and stared long and anxiously in front of him.‘The beggar!’ he thought. ‘I always knew she’d have trouble with him!’Uneasy doubts and suspicions, the more poignant that he felt himself powerless to check or control the march of events, came crowding upon him.Was the fellow going to jilt her? He longed to go and say to him: “Look here, you sir! Are you going to jilt my grand-daughter?” But how could he? Knowing little or nothing, he was yet certain, with his unerring astuteness, that there was something going on. He suspected Bosinney of being too much at Montpellier Square.‘This fellow,’ he thought, ‘may not be a scamp; his face is not a bad one, but he’s a queer fish. I don’t know what to make of him. I shall never know what to make of him! They tell me he works like a nigger, but I see no good coming of it. He’s unpractical, he has no method. When he comes here, he sits as glum as a monkey. If I ask him what wine he’ll have, he says: “Thanks, any wine.” If I offer him a cigar, he smokes it as if it were a twopenny German thing. I never see him looking at June as he ought to look at her; and yet, he’s not after her money. If she were to make a sign, he’d be off his bargain to-morrow. But she won’t — not she! She’ll stick to him! She’s as obstinate as fate — She’ll never let go!’Sighing deeply, he turned the paper; in its columns, perchance he might find consolation.And upstairs in her room June sat at her open window, where the spring wind came, after its revel across the Park, to cool her hot cheeks and burn her heart.

Chapter 12 Drive with Swithin 
Two lines of a certain song in a certain famous old school’s songbook run as follows:‘How the buttons on his blue frock shone, tra-la-la! How he carolled and he sang, like a bird!. . . . ’Swithin did not exactly carol and sing like a bird, but he felt almost like endeavouring to hum a tune, as he stepped out of Hyde Park Mansions, and contemplated his horses drawn up before the door.The afternoon was as balmy as a day in June, and to complete the simile of the old song, he had put on a blue frock-coat, dispensing with an overcoat, after sending Adolf down three times to make sure that there was not the least suspicion of east in the wind; and the frock-coat was buttoned so tightly around his personable form, that, if the buttons did not shine, they might pardonably have done so. Majestic on the pavement he fitted on a pair of dog-skin gloves; with his large bell-shaped top hat, and his great stature and bulk he looked too primeval for a Forsyte. His thick white hair, on which Adolf had bestowed a touch of pomatum, exhaled the fragrance of opoponax and cigars — the celebrated Swithin brand, for which he paid one hundred and forty shillings the hundred, and of which old Jolyon had unkindly said, he wouldn’t smoke them as a gift; they wanted the stomach of a horse!“Adolf!”“Sare!”“The new plaid rug!”He would never teach that fellow to look smart; and Mrs. Soames he felt sure, had an eye!“The phaeton hood down; I am going — to — drive — a — lady!”A pretty woman would want to show off her frock; and well — he was going to drive a lady! It was like a new beginning to the good old days.Ages since he had driven a woman! The last time, if he remembered, it had been Juley; the poor old soul had been as nervous as a cat the whole time, and so put him out of patience that, as he dropped her in the Bayswater Road, he had said: “Well I’m d —-d if I ever drive you again!” And he never had, not he!Going up to his horses’ heads, he examined their bits; not that he knew anything about bits — he didn’t pay his coachman sixty pounds a year to do his work for him, that had never been his principle. Indeed, his reputation as a horsey man rested mainly on the fact that once, on Derby Day, he had been welshed by some thimble-riggers. But someone at the Club, after seeing him drive his greys up to the door — he always drove grey horses, you got more style for the money, some thought — had called him ‘Four-in-hand Forsyte.’ The name having reached his ears through that fellow Nicholas Treffry, old Jolyon’s dead partner, the great driving man notorious for more carriage accidents than any man in the kingdom — Swithin had ever after conceived it right to act up to it. The name had taken his fancy, not because he had ever driven four-in-hand, or was ever likely to, but because of something distinguished in the sound. Four-in-hand Forsyte! Not bad! Born too soon, Swithin had missed his vocation. Coming upon London twenty years later, he could not have failed to have become a stockbroker, but at the time when he was obliged to select, this great profession had not as yet became the chief glory of the upper-middle class. He had literally been forced into land agency.Once in the driving seat, with the reins handed to him, and blinking over his pale old cheeks in the full sunlight, he took a slow look round — Adolf was already up behind; the cockaded groom at the horses’ heads stood ready to let go; everything was prepared for the signal, and Swithin gave it. The equipage dashed forward, and before you could say Jack Robinson, with a rattle and flourish drew up at Soames’ door.Irene came out at once, and stepped in — he afterward described it at Timothy’s —“as light as — er — Taglioni, no fuss about it, no wanting this or wanting that;” and above all, Swithin dwelt on this, staring at Mrs. Septimus in a way that disconcerted her a good deal, “no silly nervousness!” To Aunt Hester he portrayed Irene’s hat. “Not one of your great flopping things, sprawling about, and catching the dust, that women are so fond of nowadays, but a neat little —” he made a circular motion of his hand, “white veil — capital taste.”“What was it made of?” inquired Aunt Hester, who manifested a languid but permanent excitement at any mention of dress.“Made of?” returned Swithin; “now how should I know?”He sank into silence so profound that Aunt Hester began to be afraid he had fallen into a trance. She did not try to rouse him herself, it not being her custom.‘I wish somebody would come,’ she thought; ‘I don’t like the look of him!’But suddenly Swithin returned to life. “Made of” he wheezed out slowly, “what should it be made of?”They had not gone four miles before Swithin received the impression that Irene liked driving with him. Her face was so soft behind that white veil, and her dark eyes shone so in the spring light, and whenever he spoke she raised them to him and smiled.On Saturday morning Soames had found her at her writing-table with a note written to Swithin, putting him off. Why did she want to put him off? he asked. She might put her own people off when she liked, he would not have her putting off his people!She had looked at him intently, had torn up the note, and said: “Very well!”And then she began writing another. He took a casual glance presently, and saw that it was addressed to Bosinney.“What are you writing to him about?” he asked.Irene, looking at him again with that intent look, said quietly: “Something he wanted me to do for him!”“Humph!” said Soames — “Commissions!”“You’ll have your work cut out if you begin that sort of thing!” He said no more.Swithin opened his eyes at the mention of Robin Hill; it was a long way for his horses, and he always dined at half-past seven, before the rush at the Club began; the new chef took more trouble with an early dinner — a lazy rascal!He would like to have a look at the house, however. A house appealed to any Forsyte, and especially to one who had been an auctioneer. After all he said the distance was nothing. When he was a younger man he had had rooms at Richmond for many years, kept his carriage and pair there, and drove them up and down to business every day of his life.Four-in-hand Forsyte they called him! His T-cart, his horses had been known from Hyde Park Corner to the Star and Garter. The Duke of Z. . . . wanted to get hold of them, would have given him double the money, but he had kept them; know a good thing when you have it, eh? A look of solemn pride came portentously on his shaven square old face, he rolled his head in his stand-up collar, like a turkey-cock preening himself.She was really — a charming woman! He enlarged upon her frock afterwards to Aunt Juley, who held up her hands at his way of putting it.Fitted her like a skin — tight as a drum; that was how he liked ’em, all of a piece, none of your daverdy, scarecrow women! He gazed at Mrs. Septimus Small, who took after James — long and thin.“There’s style about her,” he went on, “fit for a king! And she’s so quiet with it too!”“She seems to have made quite a conquest of you, any way,” drawled Aunt Hester from her corner.Swithin heard extremely well when anybody attacked him.“What’s that?” he said. “I know a — pretty — woman when I see one, and all I can say is, I don’t see the young man about that’s fit for her; but perhaps — you — do, come, perhaps — you-do!”“Oh?” murmured Aunt Hester, “ask Juley!”Long before they reached Robin Hill, however, the unaccustomed airing had made him terribly sleepy; he drove with his eyes closed, a life-time of deportment alone keeping his tall and bulky form from falling askew.Bosinney, who was watching, came out to meet them, and all three entered the house together; Swithin in front making play with a stout gold-mounted Malacca cane, put into his hand by Adolf, for his knees were feeling the effects of their long stay in the same position. He had assumed his fur coat, to guard against the draughts of the unfinished house.The staircase — he said — was handsome! the baronial style! They would want some statuary about! He came to a standstill between the columns of the doorway into the inner court, and held out his cane inquiringly.What was this to be — this vestibule, or whatever they called it? But gazing at the skylight, inspiration came to him.“Ah! the billiard-room!”When told it was to be a tiled court with plants in the centre, he turned to Irene:“Waste this on plants? You take my advice and have a billiard table here!”Irene smiled. She had lifted her veil, banding it like a nun’s coif across her forehead, and the smile of her dark eyes below this seemed to Swithin more charming than ever. He nodded. She would take his advice he saw.He had little to say of the drawing or dining-rooms, which he described as “spacious”; but fell into such raptures as he permitted to a man of his dignity, in the wine-cellar, to which he descended by stone steps, Bosinney going first with a light.“You’ll have room here,” he said, “for six or seven hundred dozen — a very pooty little cellar!”Bosinney having expressed the wish to show them the house from the copse below, Swithin came to a stop.“There’s a fine view from here,” he remarked; “you haven’t such a thing as a chair?”A chair was brought him from Bosinney’s tent.“You go down,” he said blandly; “you two! I’ll sit here and look at the view.”He sat down by the oak tree, in the sun; square and upright, with one hand stretched out, resting on the nob of his cane, the other planted on his knee; his fur coat thrown open, his hat, roofing with its flat top the pale square of his face; his stare, very blank, fixed on the landscape.He nodded to them as they went off down through the fields. He was, indeed, not sorry to be left thus for a quiet moment of reflection. The air was balmy, not too much heat in the sun; the prospect a fine one, a remarka. . . . His head fell a little to one side; he jerked it up and thought: Odd! He — ah! They were waving to him from the bottom! He put up his hand, and moved it more than once. They were active — the prospect was remar. . . . His head fell to the left, he jerked it up at once; it fell to the right. It remained there; he was asleep.And asleep, a sentinel on the — top of the rise, he appeared to rule over this prospect — remarkable — like some image blocked out by the special artist, of primeval Forsytes in pagan days, to record the domination of mind over matter!And all the unnumbered generations of his yeoman ancestors, wont of a Sunday to stand akimbo surveying their little plots of land, their grey unmoving eyes hiding their instinct with its hidden roots of violence, their instinct for possession to the exclusion of all the world — all these unnumbered generations seemed to sit there with him on the top of the rise.But from him, thus slumbering, his jealous Forsyte spirit travelled far, into God-knows-what jungle of fancies; with those two young people, to see what they were doing down there in the copse — in the copse where the spring was running riot with the scent of sap and bursting buds, the song of birds innumerable, a carpet of bluebells and sweet growing things, and the sun caught like gold in the tops of the trees; to see what they were doing, walking along there so close together on the path that was too narrow; walking along there so close that they were always touching; to watch Irene’s eyes, like dark thieves, stealing the heart out of the spring. And a great unseen chaperon, his spirit was there, stopping with them to look at the little furry corpse of a mole, not dead an hour, with his mushroom-and-silver coat untouched by the rain or dew; watching over Irene’s bent head, and the soft look of her pitying eyes; and over that young man’s head, gazing at her so hard, so strangely. Walking on with them, too, across the open space where a wood-cutter had been at work, where the bluebells were trampled down, and a trunk had swayed and staggered down from its gashed stump. Climbing it with them, over, and on to the very edge of the copse, whence there stretched an undiscovered country, from far away in which came the sounds, ‘Cuckoo-cuckoo!’Silent, standing with them there, and uneasy at their silence! Very queer, very strange!Then back again, as though guilty, through the wood — back to the cutting, still silent, amongst the songs of birds that never ceased, and the wild scent — hum! what was it — like that herb they put in — back to the log across the path. . . .And then unseen, uneasy, flapping above them, trying to make noises, his Forsyte spirit watched her balanced on the log, her pretty figure swaying, smiling down at that young man gazing up with such strange, shining eyes, slipping now — a — ah! falling, o — oh! sliding — down his breast; her soft, warm body clutched, her head bent back from his lips; his kiss; her recoil; his cry: “You must know — I love you!” Must know — indeed, a pretty . . .? Love! Hah!Swithin awoke; virtue had gone out of him. He had a taste in his mouth. Where was he?Damme! He had been asleep!He had dreamed something about a new soup, with a taste of mint in it.Those young people — where had they got to? His left leg had pins and needles.“Adolf!” The rascal was not there; the rascal was asleep somewhere.He stood up, tall, square, bulky in his fur, looking anxiously down over the fields, and presently he saw them coming.Irene was in front; that young fellow — what had they nicknamed him —‘The Buccaneer?’ looked precious hangdog there behind her; had got a flea in his ear, he shouldn’t wonder. Serve him right, taking her down all that way to look at the house! The proper place to look at a house from was the lawn.They saw him. He extended his arm, and moved it spasmodically to encourage them. But they had stopped. What were they standing there for, talking — talking? They came on again. She had been, giving him a rub, he had not the least doubt of it, and no wonder, over a house like that — a great ugly thing, not the sort of house he was accustomed to.He looked intently at their faces, with his pale, immovable stare. That young man looked very queer!“You’ll never make anything of this!” he said tartly, pointing at the mansion; —“too newfangled!”Bosinney gazed at him as though he had not heard; and Swithin afterwards described him to Aunt Hester as “an extravagant sort of fellow very odd way of looking at you — a bumpy beggar!”What gave rise to this sudden piece of psychology he did not state; possibly Bosinney’s, prominent forehead and cheekbones and chin, or something hungry in his face, which quarrelled with Swithin’s conception of the calm satiety that should characterize the perfect gentleman.He brightened up at the mention of tea. He had a contempt for tea — his brother Jolyon had been in tea; made a lot of money by it — but he was so thirsty, and had such a taste in his mouth, that he was prepared to drink anything. He longed to inform Irene of the taste in his mouth — she was so sympathetic — but it would not be a distinguished thing to do; he rolled his tongue round, and faintly smacked it against his palate.In a far corner of the tent Adolf was bending his cat-like moustaches over a kettle. He left it at once to draw the cork of a pint-bottle of champagne. Swithin smiled, and, nodding at Bosinney, said: “Why, you’re quite a Monte Cristo!” This celebrated novel — one of the half-dozen he had read — had produced an extraordinary impression on his mind.Taking his glass from the table, he held it away from him to scrutinize the colour; thirsty as he was, it was not likely that he was going to drink trash! Then, placing it to his lips, he took a sip.“A very nice wine,” he said at last, passing it before his nose; “not the equal of my Heidsieck!”It was at this moment that the idea came to him which he afterwards imparted at Timothy’s in this nutshell: “I shouldn’t wonder a bit if that architect chap were sweet upon Mrs. Soames!”And from this moment his pale, round eyes never ceased to bulge with the interest of his discovery.“The fellow,” he said to Mrs. Septimus, “follows her about with his eyes like a dog — the bumpy beggar! I don’t wonder at it — she’s a very charming woman, and, I should say, the pink of discretion!” A vague consciousness of perfume caging about Irene, like that from a flower with half-closed petals and a passionate heart, moved him to the creation of this image. “But I wasn’t sure of it,” he said, “till I saw him pick up her handkerchief.”Mrs. Small’s eyes boiled with excitement.“And did he give it her back?” she asked.“Give it back?” said Swithin: “I saw him slobber on it when he thought I wasn’t looking!”Mrs. Small gasped — too interested to speak.“But she gave him no encouragement,” went on Swithin; he stopped, and stared for a minute or two in the way that alarmed Aunt Hester so — he had suddenly recollected that, as they were starting back in the phaeton, she had given Bosinney her hand a second time, and let it stay there too. . . . He had touched his horses smartly with the whip, anxious to get her all to himself. But she had looked back, and she had not answered his first question; neither had he been able to see her face — she had kept it hanging down.There is somewhere a picture, which Swithin has not seen, of a man sitting on a rock, and by him, immersed in the still, green water, a sea-nymph lying on her back, with her hand on her naked breast. She has a half-smile on her face — a smile of hopeless surrender and of secret joy.Seated by Swithin’s side, Irene may have been smiling like that.When, warmed by champagne, he had her all to himself, he unbosomed himself of his wrongs; of his smothered resentment against the new chef at the club; his worry over the house in Wigmore Street, where the rascally tenant had gone bankrupt through helping his brother-in-law as if charity did not begin at home; of his deafness, too, and that pain he sometimes got in his right side. She listened, her eyes swimming under their lids. He thought she was thinking deeply of his troubles, and pitied himself terribly. Yet in his fur coat, with frogs across the breast, his top hat aslant, driving this beautiful woman, he had never felt more distinguished.A coster, however, taking his girl for a Sunday airing, seemed to have the same impression about himself. This person had flogged his donkey into a gallop alongside, and sat, upright as a waxwork, in his shallopy chariot, his chin settled pompously on a red handkerchief, like Swithin’s on his full cravat; while his girl, with the ends of a fly-blown boa floating out behind, aped a woman of fashion. Her swain moved a stick with a ragged bit of string dangling from the end, reproducing with strange fidelity the circular flourish of Swithin’s whip, and rolled his head at his lady with a leer that had a weird likeness to Swithin’s primeval stare.Though for a time unconscious of the lowly ruffian’s presence, Swithin presently took it into his head that he was being guyed. He laid his whip-lash across the mares flank. The two chariots, however, by some unfortunate fatality continued abreast. Swithin’s yellow, puffy face grew red; he raised his whip to lash the costermonger, but was saved from so far forgetting his dignity by a special intervention of Providence. A carriage driving out through a gate forced phaeton and donkey-cart into proximity; the wheels grated, the lighter vehicle skidded, and was overturned.Swithin did not look round. On no account would he have pulled up to help the ruffian. Serve him right if he had broken his neck!But he could not if he would. The greys had taken alarm. The phaeton swung from side to side, and people raised frightened faces as they went dashing past. Swithin’s great arms, stretched at full length, tugged at the reins. His cheeks were puffed, his lips compressed, his swollen face was of a dull, angry red.Irene had her hand on the rail, and at every lurch she gripped it tightly. Swithin heard her ask:“Are we going to have an accident, Uncle Swithin?”He gasped out between his pants: “It’s nothing; a — little fresh!”“I’ve never been in an accident.”“Don’t you move!” He took a look at her. She was smiling, perfectly calm. “Sit still,” he repeated. “Never fear, I’ll get you home!”And in the midst of all his terrible efforts, he was surprised to hear her answer in a voice not like her own:“I don’t care if I never get home!”The carriage giving a terrific lurch, Swithin’s exclamation was jerked back into his throat. The horses, winded by the rise of a hill, now steadied to a trot, and finally stopped of their own accord.“When”— Swithin described it at Timothy’s —“I pulled ’em up, there she was as cool as myself. God bless my soul! she behaved as if she didn’t care whether she broke her neck or not! What was it she said: ‘I don’t care if I never get home?” Leaning over the handle of his cane, he wheezed out, to Mrs. Small’s terror: “And I’m not altogether surprised, with a finickin’ feller like young Soames for a husband!”It did not occur to him to wonder what Bosinney had done after they had left him there alone; whether he had gone wandering about like the dog to which Swithin had compared him; wandering down to that copse where the spring was still in riot, the cuckoo still calling from afar; gone down there with her handkerchief pressed to lips, its fragrance mingling with the scent of mint and thyme. Gone down there with such a wild, exquisite pain in his heart that he could have cried out among the trees. Or what, indeed, the fellow had done. In fact, till he came to Timothy’s, Swithin had forgotten all about him.

Chapter 13 James Goes to See for Himself 
James said nothing to his son of this visit to the house; but, having occasion to go to Timothy’s on morning on a matter connected with a drainage scheme which was being forced by the sanitary authorities on his brother, he mentioned it there.It was not, he said, a bad house. He could see that a good deal could be made of it. The fellow was clever in his way, though what it was going to cost Soames before it was done with he didn’t know.Euphemia Forsyte, who happened to be in the room — she had come round to borrow the Rev. Mr. Scoles’ last novel, ‘Passion and Paregoric’, which was having such a vogue — chimed in.“I saw Irene yesterday at the Stores; she and Mr. Bosinney were having a nice little chat in the Groceries.”It was thus, simply, that she recorded a scene which had really made a deep and complicated impression on her. She had been hurrying to the silk department of the Church and Commercial Stores — that Institution than which, with its admirable system, admitting only guaranteed persons on a basis of payment before delivery, no emporium can be more highly recommended to Forsytes — to match a piece of prunella silk for her mother, who was waiting in the carriage outside.Passing through the Groceries her eye was unpleasantly attracted by the back view of a very beautiful figure. It was so charmingly proportioned, so balanced, and so well clothed, that Euphemia’s instinctive propriety was at once alarmed; such figures, she knew, by intuition rather than experience, were rarely connected with virtue — certainly never in her mind, for her own back was somewhat difficult to fit.Her suspicions were fortunately confirmed. A young man coming from the Drugs had snatched off his hat, and was accosting the lady with the unknown back.It was then that she saw with whom she had to deal; the lady was undoubtedly Mrs. Soames, the young man Mr. Bosinney. Concealing herself rapidly over the purchase of a box of Tunisian dates, for she was impatient of awkwardly meeting people with parcels in her hands, and at the busy time of the morning, she was quite unintentionally an interested observer of their little interview.Mrs. Soames, usually somewhat pale, had a delightful colour in her cheeks; and Mr. Bosinney’s manner was strange, though attractive (she thought him rather a distinguished-looking man, and George’s name for him, ‘The Buccaneer’— about which there was something romantic — quite charming). He seemed to be pleading. Indeed, they talked so earnestly — or, rather, he talked so earnestly, for Mrs. Soames did not say much — that they caused, inconsiderately, an eddy in the traffic. One nice old General, going towards Cigars, was obliged to step quite out of the way, and chancing to look up and see Mrs. Soames’ face, he actually took off his hat, the old fool! So like a man!But it was Mrs. Soames’ eyes that worried Euphemia. She never once looked at Mr. Bosinney until he moved on, and then she looked after him. And, oh, that look!On that look Euphemia had spent much anxious thought. It is not too much to say that it had hurt her with its dark, lingering softness, for all the world as though the woman wanted to drag him back, and unsay something she had been saying.Ah, well, she had had no time to go deeply into the matter just then, with that prunella silk on her hands; but she was ‘very intriguee’— very! She had just nodded to Mrs. Soames, to show her that she had seen; and, as she confided, in talking it over afterwards, to her chum Francie (Roger’s daughter), “Didn’t she look caught out just? . . . . ”James, most averse at the first blush to accepting any news confirmatory of his own poignant suspicions, took her up at once.“Oh” he said, “they’d be after wall-papers no doubt.”Euphemia smiled. “In the Groceries?” she said softly; and, taking ‘Passion and Paregoric’ from the table, added: “And so you’ll lend me this, dear Auntie? Good-bye!” and went away.James left almost immediately after; he was late as it was.When he reached the office of Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte, he found Soames, sitting in his revolving, chair, drawing up a defence. The latter greeted his father with a curt good-morning, and, taking an envelope from his pocket, said:“It may interest you to look through this.”James read as follows:309D, SLOANE STREET, May 15. ‘DEAR FORSYTE,‘The construction of your house being now completed, my duties as architect have come to an end. If I am to go on with the business of decoration, which at your request I undertook, I should like you to clearly understand that I must have a free hand.‘You never come down without suggesting something that goes counter to my scheme. I have here three letters from you, each of which recommends an article I should never dream of putting in. I had your father here yesterday afternoon, who made further valuable suggestions.‘Please make up your mind, therefore, whether you want me to decorate for you, or to retire which on the whole I should prefer to do.‘But understand that, if I decorate, I decorate alone, without interference of any sort.If I do the thing, I will do it thoroughly, but I must have a free hand.‘Yours truly, ‘PHILIP BOSINNEY.’The exact and immediate cause of this letter cannot, of course, be told, though it is not improbable that Bosinney may have been moved by some sudden revolt against his position towards Soames — that eternal position of Art towards Property — which is so admirably summed up, on the back of the most indispensable of modern appliances, in a sentence comparable to the very finest in Tacitus:THOS. T. SORROW, Inventor. BERT M. PADLAND, Proprietor.“What are you going to say to him?” James asked.Soames did not even turn his head. “I haven’t made up my mind,” he said, and went on with his defence.A client of his, having put some buildings on a piece of ground that did not belong to him, had been suddenly and most irritatingly warned to take them off again. After carefully going into the facts, however, Soames had seen his way to advise that his client had what was known as a title by possession, and that, though undoubtedly the ground did not belong to him, he was entitled to keep it, and had better do so; and he was now following up this advice by taking steps to — as the sailors say —‘make it so.’He had a distinct reputation for sound advice; people saying of him: “Go to young Forsyte — a long-headed fellow!” and he prized this reputation highly.His natural taciturnity was in his favour; nothing could be more calculated to give people, especially people with property (Soames had no other clients), the impression that he was a safe man. And he was safe. Tradition, habit, education, inherited aptitude, native caution, all joined to form a solid professional honesty, superior to temptation — from the very fact that it was built on an innate avoidance of risk. How could he fall, when his soul abhorred circumstances which render a fall possible — a man cannot fall off the floor!And those countless Forsytes, who, in the course of innumerable transactions concerned with property of all sorts (from wives to water rights), had occasion for the services of a safe man, found it both reposeful and profitable to confide in Soames. That slight superciliousness of his, combined with an air of mousing amongst precedents, was in his favour too — a man would not be supercilious unless he knew!He was really at the head of the business, for though James still came nearly every day to, see for himself, he did little now but sit in his chair, twist his legs, slightly confuse things already decided, and presently go away again, and the other partner, Bustard, was a poor thing, who did a great deal of work, but whose opinion was never taken.So Soames went steadily on with his defence. Yet it would be idle to say that his mind was at ease. He was suffering from a sense of impending trouble, that had haunted him for some time past. He tried to think it physical — a condition of his liver — but knew that it was not.He looked at his watch. In a quarter of an hour he was due at the General Meeting of the New Colliery Company — one of Uncle Jolyon’s concerns; he should see Uncle Jolyon there, and say something to him about Bosinney — he had not made up his mind what, but something — in any case he should not answer this letter until he had seen Uncle Jolyon. He got up and methodically put away the draft of his defence. Going into a dark little cupboard, he turned up the light, washed his hands with a piece of brown Windsor soap, and dried them on a roller towel. Then he brushed his hair, paying strict attention to the parting, turned down the light, took his hat, and saying he would be back at half-past two, stepped into the Poultry.It was not far to the Offices of the New Colliery Company in Ironmonger Lane, where, and not at the Cannon Street Hotel, in accordance with the more ambitious practice of other companies, the General Meeting was always held. Old Jolyon had from the first set his face against the Press. What business — he said — had the Public with his concerns!Soames arrived on the stroke of time, and took his seat alongside the Board, who, in a row, each Director behind his own ink-pot, faced their Shareholders.In the centre of this row old Jolyon, conspicuous in his black, tightly-buttoned frock-coat and his white moustaches, was leaning back with finger tips crossed on a copy of the Directors’ report and accounts.On his right hand, always a little larger than life, sat the Secretary, ‘Down-by-the-starn’ Hemmings; an all-too-sad sadness beaming in his fine eyes; his iron-grey beard, in mourning like the rest of him, giving the feeling of an all-too-black tie behind it.The occasion indeed was a melancholy one, only six weeks having elapsed since that telegram had come from Scorrier, the mining expert, on a private mission to the Mines, informing them that Pippin, their Superintendent, had committed suicide in endeavouring, after his extraordinary two years’ silence, to write a letter to his Board. That letter was on the table now; it would be read to the Shareholders, who would of course be put into possession of all the facts.Hemmings had often said to Soames, standing with his coat-tails divided before the fireplace:“What our Shareholders don’t know about our affairs isn’t worth knowing. You may take that from me, Mr. Soames.”On one occasion, old Jolyon being present, Soames recollected a little unpleasantness. His uncle had looked up sharply and said: “Don’t talk nonsense, Hemmings! You mean that what they do know isn’t worth knowing!” Old Jolyon detested humbug.Hemmings, angry-eyed, and wearing a smile like that of a trained poodle, had replied in an outburst of artificial applause: “Come, now, that’s good, sir — that’s very good. Your uncle will have his joke!”The next time he had seen Soames he had taken the opportunity of saying to him: “The chairman’s getting very old! — I can’t get him to understand things; and he’s so wilful — but what can you expect, with a chin like his?”Soames had nodded.Everyone knew that Uncle Jolyon’s chin was a caution. He was looking worried to-day, in spite of his General Meeting look; he (Soames) should certainly speak to him about Bosinney.Beyond old Jolyon on the left was little Mr. Booker, and he, too, wore his General Meeting look, as though searching for some particularly tender shareholder. And next him was the deaf director, with a frown; and beyond the deaf director, again, was old Mr. Bleedham, very bland, and having an air of conscious virtue — as well he might, knowing that the brown-paper parcel he always brought to the Board-room was concealed behind his hat (one of that old-fashioned class, of flat-brimmed top-hats which go with very large bow ties, clean-shaven lips, fresh cheeks, and neat little, white whiskers).Soames always attended the General Meeting; it was considered better that he should do so, in case ‘anything should arise!’ He glanced round with his close, supercilious air at the walls of the room, where hung plans of the mine and harbour, together with a large photograph of a shaft leading to a working which had proved quite remarkably unprofitable. This photograph — a witness to the eternal irony underlying commercial enterprise till retained its position on the — wall, an effigy of the directors’ pet, but dead, lamb.And now old Jolyon rose, to present the report and accounts.Veiling under a Jove-like serenity that perpetual antagonism deep-seated in the bosom of a director towards his shareholders, he faced them calmly. Soames faced them too. He knew most of them by sight. There was old Scrubsole, a tar man, who always came, as Hemmings would say, ‘to make himself nasty,’ a cantankerous-looking old fellow with a red face, a jowl, and an enormous low-crowned hat reposing on his knee. And the Rev. Mr. Boms, who always proposed a vote of thanks to the chairman, in which he invariably expressed the hope that the Board would not forget to elevate their employees, using the word with a double e, as being more vigorous and Anglo-Saxon (he had the strong Imperialistic tendencies of his cloth). It was his salutary custom to buttonhole a director afterwards, and ask him whether he thought the coming year would be good or bad; and, according to the trend of the answer, to buy or sell three shares within the ensuing fortnight.And there was that military man, Major O’Bally, who could not help speaking, if only to second the re-election of the auditor, and who sometimes caused serious consternation by taking toasts — proposals rather — out of the hands of persons who had been flattered with little slips of paper, entrusting the said proposals to their care.These made up the lot, together with four or five strong, silent shareholders, with whom Soames could sympathize — men of business, who liked to keep an eye on their affairs for themselves, without being fussy — good, solid men, who came to the City every day and went back in the evening to good, solid wives.Good, solid wives! There was something in that thought which roused the nameless uneasiness in Soames again.What should he say to his uncle? What answer should he make to this letter?. . . . “If any shareholder has any question to put, I shall be glad to answer it.” A soft thump. Old Jolyon had let the report and accounts fall, and stood twisting his tortoise-shell glasses between thumb and forefinger.The ghost of a smile appeared on Soames’ face. They had better hurry up with their questions! He well knew his uncle’s method (the ideal one) of at once saying: “I propose, then, that the report and accounts be adopted!” Never let them get their wind — shareholders were notoriously wasteful of time!A tall, white-bearded man, with a gaunt, dissatisfied face, arose:“I believe I am in order, Mr. Chairman, in raising a question on this figure of L5000 in the accounts. ‘To the widow and family”’ (he looked sourly round), “‘of our late superintendent,’ who so — er — ill-advisedly (I say — ill-advisedly) committed suicide, at a time when his services were of the utmost value to this Company. You have stated that the agreement which he has so unfortunately cut short with his own hand was for a period of five years, of which one only had expired — I—”Old Jolyon made a gesture of impatience.“I believe I am in order, Mr. Chairman — I ask whether this amount paid, or proposed to be paid, by the Board to the er — deceased — is for services which might have been rendered to the Company — had he not committed suicide?”“It is in recognition of past services, which we all know — you as well as any of us — to have been of vital value.”“Then, sir, all I have to say is that the services being past, the amount is too much.”The shareholder sat down.Old Jolyon waited a second and said: “I now propose that the report and —”The shareholder rose again: “May I ask if the Board realizes that it is not their money which — I don’t hesitate to say that if it were their money. . . . ”A second shareholder, with a round, dogged face, whom Soames recognised as the late superintendent’s brother-in-law, got up and said warmly: “In my opinion, sir, the sum is not enough!”The Rev. Mr. Boms now rose to his feet. “If I may venture to express myself,” he said, “I should say that the fact of the — er — deceased having committed suicide should weigh very heavily — very heavily with our worthy chairman. I have no doubt it has weighed with him, for — I say this for myself and I think for everyone present (hear, hear)— he enjoys our confidence in a high degree. We all desire, I should hope, to be charitable. But I feel sure” (he-looked severely at the late superintendent’s brother-in-law) “that he will in some way, by some written expression, or better perhaps by reducing the amount, record our grave disapproval that so promising and valuable a life should have been thus impiously removed from a sphere where both its own interests and — if I may say so — our interests so imperatively demanded its continuance. We should not — nay, we may not — countenance so grave a dereliction of all duty, both human and divine.”The reverend gentleman resumed his seat. The late superintendent’s brother-in-law again rose: “What I have said I stick to,” he said; “the amount is not enough!”The first shareholder struck in: “I challenge the legality of the payment. In my opinion this payment is not legal. The Company’s solicitor is present; I believe I am in order in asking him the question.”All eyes were now turned upon Soames. Something had arisen!He stood up, close-lipped and cold; his nerves inwardly fluttered, his attention tweaked away at last from contemplation of that cloud looming on the horizon of his mind.“The point,” he said in a low, thin voice, “is by no means clear. As there is no possibility of future consideration being received, it is doubtful whether the payment is strictly legal. If it is desired, the opinion of the court could be taken.”The superintendent’s brother-in-law frowned, and said in a meaning tone: “We have no doubt the opinion of the court could be taken. May I ask the name of the gentleman who has given us that striking piece of information? Mr. Soames Forsyte? Indeed!” He looked from Soames to old Jolyon in a pointed manner.A flush coloured Soames’ pale cheeks, but his superciliousness did not waver. Old Jolyon fixed his eyes on the speaker.“If,” he said, “the late superintendents brother-in-law has nothing more to say, I propose that the report and accounts. . . . ”At this moment, however, there rose one of those five silent, stolid shareholders, who had excited Soames’ sympathy. He said:“I deprecate the proposal altogether. We are expected to give charity to this man’s wife and children, who, you tell us, were dependent on him. They may have been; I do not care whether they were or not. I object to the whole thing on principle. It is high time a stand was made against this sentimental humanitarianism. The country is eaten up with it. I object to my money being paid to these people of whom I know nothing, who have done nothing to earn it. I object in toto; it is not business. I now move that the report and accounts be put back, and amended by striking out the grant altogether.”Old Jolyon had remained standing while the strong, silent man was speaking. The speech awoke an echo in all hearts, voicing, as it did, the worship of strong men, the movement against generosity, which had at that time already commenced among the saner members of the community.The words ‘it is not business’ had moved even the Board; privately everyone felt that indeed it was not. But they knew also the chairman’s domineering temper and tenacity. He, too, at heart must feel that it was not business; but he was committed to his own proposition. Would he go back upon it? It was thought to be unlikely.All waited with interest. Old Jolyon held up his hand; dark-rimmed glasses depending between his finger and thumb quivered slightly with a suggestion of menace.He addressed the strong, silent shareholder.“Knowing, as you do, the efforts of our late superintendent upon the occasion of the explosion at the mines, do you seriously wish me to put that amendment, sir?”“I do.”Old Jolyon put the amendment.“Does anyone second this?” he asked, looking calmly round.And it was then that Soames, looking at his uncle, felt the power of will that was in that old man. No one stirred. Looking straight into the eyes of the strong, silent shareholder, old Jolyon said:“I now move, ‘That the report and accounts for the year 1886 be received and adopted.’ You second that? Those in favour signify the same in the usual way. Contrary — no. Carried. The next business, gentlemen. . . . ”Soames smiled. Certainly Uncle Jolyon had a way with him!But now his attention relapsed upon Bosinney.Odd how that fellow haunted his thoughts, even in business hours.Irene’s visit to the house — but there was nothing in that, except that she might have told him; but then, again, she never did tell him anything. She was more silent, more touchy, every day. He wished to God the house were finished, and they were in it, away from London. Town did not suit her; her nerves were not strong enough. That nonsense of the separate room had cropped up again!The meeting was breaking up now. Underneath the photograph of the lost shaft Hemmings was buttonholed by the Rev. Mr. Boms. Little Mr. Booker, his bristling eyebrows wreathed in angry smiles, was having a parting turn-up with old Scrubsole. The two hated each other like poison. There was some matter of a tar-contract between them, little Mr. Booker having secured it from the Board for a nephew of his, over old Scrubsole’s head. Soames had heard that from Hemmings, who liked a gossip, more especially about his directors, except, indeed, old Jolyon, of whom he was afraid.Soames awaited his opportunity. The last shareholder was vanishing through the door, when he approached his uncle, who was putting on his hat.“Can I speak to you for a minute, Uncle Jolyon?”It is uncertain what Soames expected to get out of this interview.Apart from that somewhat mysterious awe in which Forsytes in general held old Jolyon, due to his philosophic twist, or perhaps — as Hemmings would doubtless have said — to his chin, there was, and always had been, a subtle antagonism between the younger man and the old. It had lurked under their dry manner of greeting, under their non-committal allusions to each other, and arose perhaps from old Jolyon’s perception of the quiet tenacity (‘obstinacy,’ he rather naturally called it) of the young man, of a secret doubt whether he could get his own way with him.Both these Forsytes, wide asunder as the poles in many respects, possessed in their different ways — to a greater degree than the rest of the family — that essential quality of tenacious and prudent insight into ‘affairs,’ which is the highwater mark of their great class. Either of them, with a little luck and opportunity, was equal to a lofty career; either of them would have made a good financier, a great contractor, a statesman, though old Jolyon, in certain of his moods when under the influence of a cigar or of Nature — would have been capable of, not perhaps despising, but certainly of questioning, his own high position, while Soames, who never smoked cigars, would not.Then, too, in old Jolyon’s mind there was always the secret ache, that the son of James — of James, whom he had always thought such a poor thing, should be pursuing the paths of success, while his own son . . .!And last, not least — for he was no more outside the radiation of family gossip than any other Forsyte — he had now heard the sinister, indefinite, but none the less disturbing rumour about Bosinney, and his pride was wounded to the quick.Characteristically, his irritation turned not against Irene but against Soames. The idea that his nephew’s wife (why couldn’t the fellow take better care of her — Oh! quaint injustice! as though Soames could possibly take more care!)— should be drawing to herself June’s lover, was intolerably humiliating. And seeing the danger, he did not, like James, hide it away in sheer nervousness, but owned with the dispassion of his broader outlook, that it was not unlikely; there was something very attractive about Irene!He had a presentiment on the subject of Soames’ communication as they left the Board Room together, and went out into the noise and hurry of Cheapside. They walked together a good minute without speaking, Soames with his mousing, mincing step, and old Jolyon upright and using his umbrella languidly as a walking-stick.They turned presently into comparative quiet, for old Jolyon’s way to a second Board led him in the direction of Moorage Street.Then Soames, without lifting his eyes, began: “I’ve had this letter from Bosinney. You see what he says; I thought I’d let you know. I’ve spent a lot more than I intended on this house, and I want the position to be clear.”Old Jolyon ran his eyes unwillingly over the letter: “What he says is clear enough,” he said.“He talks about ‘a free hand,’” replied Soames.Old Jolyon looked at him. The long-suppressed irritation and antagonism towards this young fellow, whose affairs were beginning to intrude upon his own, burst from him.“Well, if you don’t trust him, why do you employ him?”Soames stole a sideway look: “It’s much too late to go into that,” he said, “I only want it to be quite understood that if I give him a free hand, he doesn’t let me in. I thought if you were to speak to him, it would carry more weight!”“No,” said old Jolyon abruptly; “I’ll have nothing to do with it!”The words of both uncle and nephew gave the impression of unspoken meanings, far more important, behind. And the look they interchanged was like a revelation of this consciousness.“Well,” said Soames; “I thought, for June’s sake, I’d tell you, that’s all; I thought you’d better know I shan’t stand any nonsense!”“What is that to me?” old Jolyon took him up.“Oh! I don’t know,” said Soames, and flurried by that sharp look he was unable to say more. “Don’t say I didn’t tell you,” he added sulkily, recovering his composure.“Tell me!” said old Jolyon; “I don’t know what you mean. You come worrying me about a thing like this. I don’t want to hear about your affairs; you must manage them yourself!”“Very well,” said Soames immovably, “I will!”“Good-morning, then,” said old Jolyon, and they parted.Soames retraced his steps, and going into a celebrated eating-house, asked for a plate of smoked salmon and a glass of Chablis; he seldom ate much in the middle of the day, and generally ate standing, finding the position beneficial to his liver, which was very sound, but to which he desired to put down all his troubles.When he had finished he went slowly back to his office, with bent head, taking no notice of the swarming thousands on the pavements, who in their turn took no notice of him.The evening post carried the following reply to Bosinney:‘FORSYTE, BUSTARD AND FORSYTE, ‘Commissioners for Oaths, ‘92001, BRANCH LANE, POULTRY, E.C.,‘May 17, 1887. ‘DEAR BOSINNEY,‘I have, received your letter, the terms of which not a little surprise me. I was under the impression that you had, and have had all along, a “free hand”; for I do not recollect that any suggestions I have been so unfortunate as to make have met with your approval. In giving you, in accordance with your request, this “free hand,” I wish you to clearly understand that the total cost of the house as handed over to me completely decorated, inclusive of your fee (as arranged between us), must not exceed twelve thousand pounds — L12,000. This gives you an ample margin, and, as you know, is far more than I originally contemplated.‘I am, ‘Yours truly,‘SOAMES FORSYTE.’On the following day he received a note from Bosinney:‘PHILIP BAYNES BOSINNEY, ‘Architect, ‘309D, SLOANE STREET, S.W., ‘May 18. ‘DEAR FORSYTE,‘If you think that in such a delicate matter as decoration I can bind myself to the exact pound, I am afraid you are mistaken. I can see that you are tired of the arrangement, and of me, and I had better, therefore, resign.‘Yours faithfully, ‘PHILIP BAYNES BOSINNEY.’Soames pondered long and painfully over his answer, and late at night in the dining-room, when Irene had gone to bed, he composed the following:‘62, MONTPELLIER SQUARE, S.W., ‘May 19, 1887. ‘DEAR BOSINNEY,‘I think that in both our interests it would be extremely undesirable that matters should be so left at this stage. I did not mean to say that if you should exceed the sum named in my letter to you by ten or twenty or even fifty pounds, there would be any difficulty between us. This being so, I should like you to reconsider your answer. You have a “free hand” in the terms of this correspondence, and I hope you will see your way to completing the decorations, in the matter of which I know it is difficult to be absolutely exact.‘Yours truly, ‘SOAMES FORSYTE.’Bosinney’s answer, which came in the course of the next day, was:‘May 20. ‘DEAR FORSYTE,‘Very well. ‘PH. BOSINNEY.’

Chapter 14 Soames and Bosinney Correspond 
James said nothing to his son of this visit to the house; but, having occasion to go to Timothy’s on morning on a matter connected with a drainage scheme which was being forced by the sanitary authorities on his brother, he mentioned it there.It was not, he said, a bad house. He could see that a good deal could be made of it. The fellow was clever in his way, though what it was going to cost Soames before it was done with he didn’t know.Euphemia Forsyte, who happened to be in the room — she had come round to borrow the Rev. Mr. Scoles’ last novel, ‘Passion and Paregoric’, which was having such a vogue — chimed in.“I saw Irene yesterday at the Stores; she and Mr. Bosinney were having a nice little chat in the Groceries.”It was thus, simply, that she recorded a scene which had really made a deep and complicated impression on her. She had been hurrying to the silk department of the Church and Commercial Stores — that Institution than which, with its admirable system, admitting only guaranteed persons on a basis of payment before delivery, no emporium can be more highly recommended to Forsytes — to match a piece of prunella silk for her mother, who was waiting in the carriage outside.Passing through the Groceries her eye was unpleasantly attracted by the back view of a very beautiful figure. It was so charmingly proportioned, so balanced, and so well clothed, that Euphemia’s instinctive propriety was at once alarmed; such figures, she knew, by intuition rather than experience, were rarely connected with virtue — certainly never in her mind, for her own back was somewhat difficult to fit.Her suspicions were fortunately confirmed. A young man coming from the Drugs had snatched off his hat, and was accosting the lady with the unknown back.It was then that she saw with whom she had to deal; the lady was undoubtedly Mrs. Soames, the young man Mr. Bosinney. Concealing herself rapidly over the purchase of a box of Tunisian dates, for she was impatient of awkwardly meeting people with parcels in her hands, and at the busy time of the morning, she was quite unintentionally an interested observer of their little interview.Mrs. Soames, usually somewhat pale, had a delightful colour in her cheeks; and Mr. Bosinney’s manner was strange, though attractive (she thought him rather a distinguished-looking man, and George’s name for him, ‘The Buccaneer’— about which there was something romantic — quite charming). He seemed to be pleading. Indeed, they talked so earnestly — or, rather, he talked so earnestly, for Mrs. Soames did not say much — that they caused, inconsiderately, an eddy in the traffic. One nice old General, going towards Cigars, was obliged to step quite out of the way, and chancing to look up and see Mrs. Soames’ face, he actually took off his hat, the old fool! So like a man!But it was Mrs. Soames’ eyes that worried Euphemia. She never once looked at Mr. Bosinney until he moved on, and then she looked after him. And, oh, that look!On that look Euphemia had spent much anxious thought. It is not too much to say that it had hurt her with its dark, lingering softness, for all the world as though the woman wanted to drag him back, and unsay something she had been saying.Ah, well, she had had no time to go deeply into the matter just then, with that prunella silk on her hands; but she was ‘very intriguee’— very! She had just nodded to Mrs. Soames, to show her that she had seen; and, as she confided, in talking it over afterwards, to her chum Francie (Roger’s daughter), “Didn’t she look caught out just? . . . . ”James, most averse at the first blush to accepting any news confirmatory of his own poignant suspicions, took her up at once.“Oh” he said, “they’d be after wall-papers no doubt.”Euphemia smiled. “In the Groceries?” she said softly; and, taking ‘Passion and Paregoric’ from the table, added: “And so you’ll lend me this, dear Auntie? Good-bye!” and went away.James left almost immediately after; he was late as it was.When he reached the office of Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte, he found Soames, sitting in his revolving, chair, drawing up a defence. The latter greeted his father with a curt good-morning, and, taking an envelope from his pocket, said:“It may interest you to look through this.”James read as follows:309D, SLOANE STREET, May 15. ‘DEAR FORSYTE,‘The construction of your house being now completed, my duties as architect have come to an end. If I am to go on with the business of decoration, which at your request I undertook, I should like you to clearly understand that I must have a free hand.‘You never come down without suggesting something that goes counter to my scheme. I have here three letters from you, each of which recommends an article I should never dream of putting in. I had your father here yesterday afternoon, who made further valuable suggestions.‘Please make up your mind, therefore, whether you want me to decorate for you, or to retire which on the whole I should prefer to do.‘But understand that, if I decorate, I decorate alone, without interference of any sort.If I do the thing, I will do it thoroughly, but I must have a free hand.‘Yours truly, ‘PHILIP BOSINNEY.’The exact and immediate cause of this letter cannot, of course, be told, though it is not improbable that Bosinney may have been moved by some sudden revolt against his position towards Soames — that eternal position of Art towards Property — which is so admirably summed up, on the back of the most indispensable of modern appliances, in a sentence comparable to the very finest in Tacitus:THOS. T. SORROW, Inventor. BERT M. PADLAND, Proprietor.“What are you going to say to him?” James asked.Soames did not even turn his head. “I haven’t made up my mind,” he said, and went on with his defence.A client of his, having put some buildings on a piece of ground that did not belong to him, had been suddenly and most irritatingly warned to take them off again. After carefully going into the facts, however, Soames had seen his way to advise that his client had what was known as a title by possession, and that, though undoubtedly the ground did not belong to him, he was entitled to keep it, and had better do so; and he was now following up this advice by taking steps to — as the sailors say —‘make it so.’He had a distinct reputation for sound advice; people saying of him: “Go to young Forsyte — a long-headed fellow!” and he prized this reputation highly.His natural taciturnity was in his favour; nothing could be more calculated to give people, especially people with property (Soames had no other clients), the impression that he was a safe man. And he was safe. Tradition, habit, education, inherited aptitude, native caution, all joined to form a solid professional honesty, superior to temptation — from the very fact that it was built on an innate avoidance of risk. How could he fall, when his soul abhorred circumstances which render a fall possible — a man cannot fall off the floor!And those countless Forsytes, who, in the course of innumerable transactions concerned with property of all sorts (from wives to water rights), had occasion for the services of a safe man, found it both reposeful and profitable to confide in Soames. That slight superciliousness of his, combined with an air of mousing amongst precedents, was in his favour too — a man would not be supercilious unless he knew!He was really at the head of the business, for though James still came nearly every day to, see for himself, he did little now but sit in his chair, twist his legs, slightly confuse things already decided, and presently go away again, and the other partner, Bustard, was a poor thing, who did a great deal of work, but whose opinion was never taken.So Soames went steadily on with his defence. Yet it would be idle to say that his mind was at ease. He was suffering from a sense of impending trouble, that had haunted him for some time past. He tried to think it physical — a condition of his liver — but knew that it was not.He looked at his watch. In a quarter of an hour he was due at the General Meeting of the New Colliery Company — one of Uncle Jolyon’s concerns; he should see Uncle Jolyon there, and say something to him about Bosinney — he had not made up his mind what, but something — in any case he should not answer this letter until he had seen Uncle Jolyon. He got up and methodically put away the draft of his defence. Going into a dark little cupboard, he turned up the light, washed his hands with a piece of brown Windsor soap, and dried them on a roller towel. Then he brushed his hair, paying strict attention to the parting, turned down the light, took his hat, and saying he would be back at half-past two, stepped into the Poultry.It was not far to the Offices of the New Colliery Company in Ironmonger Lane, where, and not at the Cannon Street Hotel, in accordance with the more ambitious practice of other companies, the General Meeting was always held. Old Jolyon had from the first set his face against the Press. What business — he said — had the Public with his concerns!Soames arrived on the stroke of time, and took his seat alongside the Board, who, in a row, each Director behind his own ink-pot, faced their Shareholders.In the centre of this row old Jolyon, conspicuous in his black, tightly-buttoned frock-coat and his white moustaches, was leaning back with finger tips crossed on a copy of the Directors’ report and accounts.On his right hand, always a little larger than life, sat the Secretary, ‘Down-by-the-starn’ Hemmings; an all-too-sad sadness beaming in his fine eyes; his iron-grey beard, in mourning like the rest of him, giving the feeling of an all-too-black tie behind it.The occasion indeed was a melancholy one, only six weeks having elapsed since that telegram had come from Scorrier, the mining expert, on a private mission to the Mines, informing them that Pippin, their Superintendent, had committed suicide in endeavouring, after his extraordinary two years’ silence, to write a letter to his Board. That letter was on the table now; it would be read to the Shareholders, who would of course be put into possession of all the facts.Hemmings had often said to Soames, standing with his coat-tails divided before the fireplace:“What our Shareholders don’t know about our affairs isn’t worth knowing. You may take that from me, Mr. Soames.”On one occasion, old Jolyon being present, Soames recollected a little unpleasantness. His uncle had looked up sharply and said: “Don’t talk nonsense, Hemmings! You mean that what they do know isn’t worth knowing!” Old Jolyon detested humbug.Hemmings, angry-eyed, and wearing a smile like that of a trained poodle, had replied in an outburst of artificial applause: “Come, now, that’s good, sir — that’s very good. Your uncle will have his joke!”The next time he had seen Soames he had taken the opportunity of saying to him: “The chairman’s getting very old! — I can’t get him to understand things; and he’s so wilful — but what can you expect, with a chin like his?”Soames had nodded.Everyone knew that Uncle Jolyon’s chin was a caution. He was looking worried to-day, in spite of his General Meeting look; he (Soames) should certainly speak to him about Bosinney.Beyond old Jolyon on the left was little Mr. Booker, and he, too, wore his General Meeting look, as though searching for some particularly tender shareholder. And next him was the deaf director, with a frown; and beyond the deaf director, again, was old Mr. Bleedham, very bland, and having an air of conscious virtue — as well he might, knowing that the brown-paper parcel he always brought to the Board-room was concealed behind his hat (one of that old-fashioned class, of flat-brimmed top-hats which go with very large bow ties, clean-shaven lips, fresh cheeks, and neat little, white whiskers).Soames always attended the General Meeting; it was considered better that he should do so, in case ‘anything should arise!’ He glanced round with his close, supercilious air at the walls of the room, where hung plans of the mine and harbour, together with a large photograph of a shaft leading to a working which had proved quite remarkably unprofitable. This photograph — a witness to the eternal irony underlying commercial enterprise till retained its position on the — wall, an effigy of the directors’ pet, but dead, lamb.And now old Jolyon rose, to present the report and accounts.Veiling under a Jove-like serenity that perpetual antagonism deep-seated in the bosom of a director towards his shareholders, he faced them calmly. Soames faced them too. He knew most of them by sight. There was old Scrubsole, a tar man, who always came, as Hemmings would say, ‘to make himself nasty,’ a cantankerous-looking old fellow with a red face, a jowl, and an enormous low-crowned hat reposing on his knee. And the Rev. Mr. Boms, who always proposed a vote of thanks to the chairman, in which he invariably expressed the hope that the Board would not forget to elevate their employees, using the word with a double e, as being more vigorous and Anglo-Saxon (he had the strong Imperialistic tendencies of his cloth). It was his salutary custom to buttonhole a director afterwards, and ask him whether he thought the coming year would be good or bad; and, according to the trend of the answer, to buy or sell three shares within the ensuing fortnight.And there was that military man, Major O’Bally, who could not help speaking, if only to second the re-election of the auditor, and who sometimes caused serious consternation by taking toasts — proposals rather — out of the hands of persons who had been flattered with little slips of paper, entrusting the said proposals to their care.These made up the lot, together with four or five strong, silent shareholders, with whom Soames could sympathize — men of business, who liked to keep an eye on their affairs for themselves, without being fussy — good, solid men, who came to the City every day and went back in the evening to good, solid wives.Good, solid wives! There was something in that thought which roused the nameless uneasiness in Soames again.What should he say to his uncle? What answer should he make to this letter?. . . . “If any shareholder has any question to put, I shall be glad to answer it.” A soft thump. Old Jolyon had let the report and accounts fall, and stood twisting his tortoise-shell glasses between thumb and forefinger.The ghost of a smile appeared on Soames’ face. They had better hurry up with their questions! He well knew his uncle’s method (the ideal one) of at once saying: “I propose, then, that the report and accounts be adopted!” Never let them get their wind — shareholders were notoriously wasteful of time!A tall, white-bearded man, with a gaunt, dissatisfied face, arose:“I believe I am in order, Mr. Chairman, in raising a question on this figure of L5000 in the accounts. ‘To the widow and family”’ (he looked sourly round), “‘of our late superintendent,’ who so — er — ill-advisedly (I say — ill-advisedly) committed suicide, at a time when his services were of the utmost value to this Company. You have stated that the agreement which he has so unfortunately cut short with his own hand was for a period of five years, of which one only had expired — I—”Old Jolyon made a gesture of impatience.“I believe I am in order, Mr. Chairman — I ask whether this amount paid, or proposed to be paid, by the Board to the er — deceased — is for services which might have been rendered to the Company — had he not committed suicide?”“It is in recognition of past services, which we all know — you as well as any of us — to have been of vital value.”“Then, sir, all I have to say is that the services being past, the amount is too much.”The shareholder sat down.Old Jolyon waited a second and said: “I now propose that the report and —”The shareholder rose again: “May I ask if the Board realizes that it is not their money which — I don’t hesitate to say that if it were their money. . . . ”A second shareholder, with a round, dogged face, whom Soames recognised as the late superintendent’s brother-in-law, got up and said warmly: “In my opinion, sir, the sum is not enough!”The Rev. Mr. Boms now rose to his feet. “If I may venture to express myself,” he said, “I should say that the fact of the — er — deceased having committed suicide should weigh very heavily — very heavily with our worthy chairman. I have no doubt it has weighed with him, for — I say this for myself and I think for everyone present (hear, hear)— he enjoys our confidence in a high degree. We all desire, I should hope, to be charitable. But I feel sure” (he-looked severely at the late superintendent’s brother-in-law) “that he will in some way, by some written expression, or better perhaps by reducing the amount, record our grave disapproval that so promising and valuable a life should have been thus impiously removed from a sphere where both its own interests and — if I may say so — our interests so imperatively demanded its continuance. We should not — nay, we may not — countenance so grave a dereliction of all duty, both human and divine.”The reverend gentleman resumed his seat. The late superintendent’s brother-in-law again rose: “What I have said I stick to,” he said; “the amount is not enough!”The first shareholder struck in: “I challenge the legality of the payment. In my opinion this payment is not legal. The Company’s solicitor is present; I believe I am in order in asking him the question.”All eyes were now turned upon Soames. Something had arisen!He stood up, close-lipped and cold; his nerves inwardly fluttered, his attention tweaked away at last from contemplation of that cloud looming on the horizon of his mind.“The point,” he said in a low, thin voice, “is by no means clear. As there is no possibility of future consideration being received, it is doubtful whether the payment is strictly legal. If it is desired, the opinion of the court could be taken.”The superintendent’s brother-in-law frowned, and said in a meaning tone: “We have no doubt the opinion of the court could be taken. May I ask the name of the gentleman who has given us that striking piece of information? Mr. Soames Forsyte? Indeed!” He looked from Soames to old Jolyon in a pointed manner.A flush coloured Soames’ pale cheeks, but his superciliousness did not waver. Old Jolyon fixed his eyes on the speaker.“If,” he said, “the late superintendents brother-in-law has nothing more to say, I propose that the report and accounts. . . . ”At this moment, however, there rose one of those five silent, stolid shareholders, who had excited Soames’ sympathy. He said:“I deprecate the proposal altogether. We are expected to give charity to this man’s wife and children, who, you tell us, were dependent on him. They may have been; I do not care whether they were or not. I object to the whole thing on principle. It is high time a stand was made against this sentimental humanitarianism. The country is eaten up with it. I object to my money being paid to these people of whom I know nothing, who have done nothing to earn it. I object in toto; it is not business. I now move that the report and accounts be put back, and amended by striking out the grant altogether.”Old Jolyon had remained standing while the strong, silent man was speaking. The speech awoke an echo in all hearts, voicing, as it did, the worship of strong men, the movement against generosity, which had at that time already commenced among the saner members of the community.The words ‘it is not business’ had moved even the Board; privately everyone felt that indeed it was not. But they knew also the chairman’s domineering temper and tenacity. He, too, at heart must feel that it was not business; but he was committed to his own proposition. Would he go back upon it? It was thought to be unlikely.All waited with interest. Old Jolyon held up his hand; dark-rimmed glasses depending between his finger and thumb quivered slightly with a suggestion of menace.He addressed the strong, silent shareholder.“Knowing, as you do, the efforts of our late superintendent upon the occasion of the explosion at the mines, do you seriously wish me to put that amendment, sir?”“I do.”Old Jolyon put the amendment.“Does anyone second this?” he asked, looking calmly round.And it was then that Soames, looking at his uncle, felt the power of will that was in that old man. No one stirred. Looking straight into the eyes of the strong, silent shareholder, old Jolyon said:“I now move, ‘That the report and accounts for the year 1886 be received and adopted.’ You second that? Those in favour signify the same in the usual way. Contrary — no. Carried. The next business, gentlemen. . . . ”Soames smiled. Certainly Uncle Jolyon had a way with him!But now his attention relapsed upon Bosinney.Odd how that fellow haunted his thoughts, even in business hours.Irene’s visit to the house — but there was nothing in that, except that she might have told him; but then, again, she never did tell him anything. She was more silent, more touchy, every day. He wished to God the house were finished, and they were in it, away from London. Town did not suit her; her nerves were not strong enough. That nonsense of the separate room had cropped up again!The meeting was breaking up now. Underneath the photograph of the lost shaft Hemmings was buttonholed by the Rev. Mr. Boms. Little Mr. Booker, his bristling eyebrows wreathed in angry smiles, was having a parting turn-up with old Scrubsole. The two hated each other like poison. There was some matter of a tar-contract between them, little Mr. Booker having secured it from the Board for a nephew of his, over old Scrubsole’s head. Soames had heard that from Hemmings, who liked a gossip, more especially about his directors, except, indeed, old Jolyon, of whom he was afraid.Soames awaited his opportunity. The last shareholder was vanishing through the door, when he approached his uncle, who was putting on his hat.“Can I speak to you for a minute, Uncle Jolyon?”It is uncertain what Soames expected to get out of this interview.Apart from that somewhat mysterious awe in which Forsytes in general held old Jolyon, due to his philosophic twist, or perhaps — as Hemmings would doubtless have said — to his chin, there was, and always had been, a subtle antagonism between the younger man and the old. It had lurked under their dry manner of greeting, under their non-committal allusions to each other, and arose perhaps from old Jolyon’s perception of the quiet tenacity (‘obstinacy,’ he rather naturally called it) of the young man, of a secret doubt whether he could get his own way with him.Both these Forsytes, wide asunder as the poles in many respects, possessed in their different ways — to a greater degree than the rest of the family — that essential quality of tenacious and prudent insight into ‘affairs,’ which is the highwater mark of their great class. Either of them, with a little luck and opportunity, was equal to a lofty career; either of them would have made a good financier, a great contractor, a statesman, though old Jolyon, in certain of his moods when under the influence of a cigar or of Nature — would have been capable of, not perhaps despising, but certainly of questioning, his own high position, while Soames, who never smoked cigars, would not.Then, too, in old Jolyon’s mind there was always the secret ache, that the son of James — of James, whom he had always thought such a poor thing, should be pursuing the paths of success, while his own son . . .!And last, not least — for he was no more outside the radiation of family gossip than any other Forsyte — he had now heard the sinister, indefinite, but none the less disturbing rumour about Bosinney, and his pride was wounded to the quick.Characteristically, his irritation turned not against Irene but against Soames. The idea that his nephew’s wife (why couldn’t the fellow take better care of her — Oh! quaint injustice! as though Soames could possibly take more care!)— should be drawing to herself June’s lover, was intolerably humiliating. And seeing the danger, he did not, like James, hide it away in sheer nervousness, but owned with the dispassion of his broader outlook, that it was not unlikely; there was something very attractive about Irene!He had a presentiment on the subject of Soames’ communication as they left the Board Room together, and went out into the noise and hurry of Cheapside. They walked together a good minute without speaking, Soames with his mousing, mincing step, and old Jolyon upright and using his umbrella languidly as a walking-stick.They turned presently into comparative quiet, for old Jolyon’s way to a second Board led him in the direction of Moorage Street.Then Soames, without lifting his eyes, began: “I’ve had this letter from Bosinney. You see what he says; I thought I’d let you know. I’ve spent a lot more than I intended on this house, and I want the position to be clear.”Old Jolyon ran his eyes unwillingly over the letter: “What he says is clear enough,” he said.“He talks about ‘a free hand,’” replied Soames.Old Jolyon looked at him. The long-suppressed irritation and antagonism towards this young fellow, whose affairs were beginning to intrude upon his own, burst from him.“Well, if you don’t trust him, why do you employ him?”Soames stole a sideway look: “It’s much too late to go into that,” he said, “I only want it to be quite understood that if I give him a free hand, he doesn’t let me in. I thought if you were to speak to him, it would carry more weight!”“No,” said old Jolyon abruptly; “I’ll have nothing to do with it!”The words of both uncle and nephew gave the impression of unspoken meanings, far more important, behind. And the look they interchanged was like a revelation of this consciousness.“Well,” said Soames; “I thought, for June’s sake, I’d tell you, that’s all; I thought you’d better know I shan’t stand any nonsense!”“What is that to me?” old Jolyon took him up.“Oh! I don’t know,” said Soames, and flurried by that sharp look he was unable to say more. “Don’t say I didn’t tell you,” he added sulkily, recovering his composure.“Tell me!” said old Jolyon; “I don’t know what you mean. You come worrying me about a thing like this. I don’t want to hear about your affairs; you must manage them yourself!”“Very well,” said Soames immovably, “I will!”“Good-morning, then,” said old Jolyon, and they parted.Soames retraced his steps, and going into a celebrated eating-house, asked for a plate of smoked salmon and a glass of Chablis; he seldom ate much in the middle of the day, and generally ate standing, finding the position beneficial to his liver, which was very sound, but to which he desired to put down all his troubles.When he had finished he went slowly back to his office, with bent head, taking no notice of the swarming thousands on the pavements, who in their turn took no notice of him.The evening post carried the following reply to Bosinney:‘FORSYTE, BUSTARD AND FORSYTE, ‘Commissioners for Oaths, ‘92001, BRANCH LANE, POULTRY, E.C.,‘May 17, 1887. ‘DEAR BOSINNEY,‘I have, received your letter, the terms of which not a little surprise me. I was under the impression that you had, and have had all along, a “free hand”; for I do not recollect that any suggestions I have been so unfortunate as to make have met with your approval. In giving you, in accordance with your request, this “free hand,” I wish you to clearly understand that the total cost of the house as handed over to me completely decorated, inclusive of your fee (as arranged between us), must not exceed twelve thousand pounds — L12,000. This gives you an ample margin, and, as you know, is far more than I originally contemplated.‘I am, ‘Yours truly,‘SOAMES FORSYTE.’On the following day he received a note from Bosinney:‘PHILIP BAYNES BOSINNEY, ‘Architect, ‘309D, SLOANE STREET, S.W., ‘May 18. ‘DEAR FORSYTE,‘If you think that in such a delicate matter as decoration I can bind myself to the exact pound, I am afraid you are mistaken. I can see that you are tired of the arrangement, and of me, and I had better, therefore, resign.‘Yours faithfully, ‘PHILIP BAYNES BOSINNEY.’Soames pondered long and painfully over his answer, and late at night in the dining-room, when Irene had gone to bed, he composed the following:‘62, MONTPELLIER SQUARE, S.W., ‘May 19, 1887. ‘DEAR BOSINNEY,‘I think that in both our interests it would be extremely undesirable that matters should be so left at this stage. I did not mean to say that if you should exceed the sum named in my letter to you by ten or twenty or even fifty pounds, there would be any difficulty between us. This being so, I should like you to reconsider your answer. You have a “free hand” in the terms of this correspondence, and I hope you will see your way to completing the decorations, in the matter of which I know it is difficult to be absolutely exact.‘Yours truly, ‘SOAMES FORSYTE.’Bosinney’s answer, which came in the course of the next day, was:‘May 20. ‘DEAR FORSYTE,‘Very well. ‘PH. BOSINNEY.’

Chapter 15 Old Jolyon at the Zoo 
Old Jolyon disposed of his second Meeting — an ordinary Board — summarily. He was so dictatorial that his fellow directors were left in cabal over the increasing domineeringness of old Forsyte, which they were far from intending to stand much longer, they said.He went out by Underground to Portland Road Station, whence he took a cab and drove to the Zoo.He had an assignation there, one of those assignations that had lately been growing more frequent, to which his increasing uneasiness about June and the ‘change in her,’ as he expressed it, was driving him.She buried herself away, and was growing thin; if he spoke to her he got no answer, or had his head snapped off, or she looked as if she would burst into tears. She was as changed as she could be, all through this Bosinney. As for telling him about anything, not a bit of it!And he would sit for long spells brooding, his paper unread before him, a cigar extinct between his lips. She had been such a companion to him ever since she was three years old! And he loved her so!Forces regardless of family or class or custom were beating down his guard; impending events over which he had no control threw their shadows on his head. The irritation of one accustomed to have his way was roused against he knew not what.Chafing at the slowness of his cab, he reached the Zoo door; but, with his sunny instinct for seizing the good of each moment, he forgot his vexation as he walked towards the tryst.From the stone terrace above the bear-pit his son and his two grandchildren came hastening down when they saw old Jolyon coming, and led him away towards the lion-house. They supported him on either side, holding one to each of his hands — whilst Jolly, perverse like his father, carried his grandfather’s umbrella in such a way as to catch people’s legs with the crutch of the handle.Young Jolyon followed.It was as good as a play to see his father with the children, but such a play as brings smiles with tears behind. An old man and two small children walking together can be seen at any hour of the day; but the sight of old Jolyon, with Jolly and Holly seemed to young Jolyon a special peep-show of the things that lie at the bottom of our hearts. The complete surrender of that erect old figure to those little figures on either hand was too poignantly tender, and, being a man of an habitual reflex action, young Jolyon swore softly under his breath. The show affected him in a way unbecoming to a Forsyte, who is nothing if not undemonstrative.Thus they reached the lion-house.There had been a morning fete at the Botanical Gardens, and a large number of Forsy . . . ’— that is, of well-dressed people who kept carriages had brought them on to the Zoo, so as to have more, if possible, for their money, before going back to Rutland Gate or Bryanston Square.“Let’s go on to the Zoo,” they had said to each other; “it’ll be great fun!” It was a shilling day; and there would not be all those horrid common people.In front of the long line of cages they were collected in rows, watching the tawny, ravenous beasts behind the bars await their only pleasure of the four-and-twenty hours. The hungrier the beast, the greater the fascination. But whether because the spectators envied his appetite, or, more humanely, because it was so soon to be satisfied, young Jolyon could not tell. Remarks kept falling on his ears: “That’s a nasty-looking brute, that tiger!” “Oh, what a love! Look at his little mouth!” “Yes, he’s rather nice! Don’t go too near, mother.”And frequently, with little pats, one or another would clap their hands to their pockets behind and look round, as though expecting young Jolyon or some disinterested-looking person to relieve them of the contents.A well-fed man in a white waistcoat said slowly through his teeth: “It’s all greed; they can’t be hungry. Why, they take no exercise.” At these words a tiger snatched a piece of bleeding liver, and the fat man laughed. His wife, in a Paris model frock and gold nose-nippers, reproved him: “How can you laugh, Harry? Such a horrid sight!”Young Jolyon frowned.The circumstances of his life, though he had ceased to take a too personal view of them, had left him subject to an intermittent contempt; and the class to which he had belonged — the carriage class — especially excited his sarcasm.To shut up a lion or tiger in confinement was surely a horrible barbarity. But no cultivated person would admit this.The idea of its being barbarous to confine wild animals had probably never even occurred to his father for instance; he belonged to the old school, who considered it at once humanizing and educational to confine baboons and panthers, holding the view, no doubt, that in course of time they might induce these creatures not so unreasonably to die of misery and heart-sickness against the bars of their cages, and put the society to the expense of getting others! In his eyes, as in the eyes of all Forsytes, the pleasure of seeing these beautiful creatures in a state of captivity far outweighed the inconvenience of imprisonment to beasts whom God had so improvidently placed in a state of freedom! It was for the animals good, removing them at once from the countless dangers of open air and exercise, and enabling them to exercise their functions in the guaranteed seclusion of a private compartment! Indeed, it was doubtful what wild animals were made for but to be shut up in cages!But as young Jolyon had in his constitution the elements of impartiality, he reflected that to stigmatize as barbarity that which was merely lack of imagination must be wrong; for none who held these views had been placed in a similar position to the animals they caged, and could not, therefore, be expected to enter into their sensations. It was not until they were leaving the gardens — Jolly and Holly in a state of blissful delirium — that old Jolyon found an opportunity of speaking to his son on the matter next his heart. “I don’t know what to make of it,” he said; “if she’s to go on as she’s going on now, I can’t tell what’s to come. I wanted her to see the doctor, but she won’t. She’s not a bit like me. She’s your mother all over. Obstinate as a mule! If she doesn’t want to do a thing, she won’t, and there’s an end of it!”Young Jolyon smiled; his eyes had wandered to his father’s chin. ‘A pair of you,’ he thought, but he said nothing.“And then,” went on old Jolyon, “there’s this Bosinney. I should like to punch the fellow’s head, but I can’t, I suppose, though — I don’t see why you shouldn’t,” he added doubtfully.“What has he done? Far better that it should come to an end, if they don’t hit it off!”Old Jolyon looked at his son. Now they had actually come to discuss a subject connected with the relations between the sexes he felt distrustful. Jo would be sure to hold some loose view or other.“Well, I don’t know what you think,” he said; “I dare say your sympathy’s with him — shouldn’t be surprised; but I think he’s behaving precious badly, and if he comes my way I shall tell him so.” He dropped the subject.It was impossible to discuss with his son the true nature and meaning of Bosinney’s defection. Had not his son done the very same thing (worse, if possible) fifteen years ago? There seemed no end to the consequences of that piece of folly.Young Jolyon also was silent; he had quickly penetrated his father’s thought, for, dethroned from the high seat of an obvious and uncomplicated view of things, he had become both perceptive and subtle.The attitude he had adopted towards sexual matters fifteen years before, however, was too different from his father’s. There was no bridging the gulf.He said coolly: “I suppose he’s fallen in love with some other woman?”Old Jolyon gave him a dubious look: “I can’t tell,” he said; “they say so!”“Then, it’s probably true,” remarked young Jolyon unexpectedly; “and I suppose they’ve told you who she is?”“Yes,” said old Jolyon, “Soames’s wife!”Young Jolyon did not whistle: The circumstances of his own life had rendered him incapable of whistling on such a subject, but he looked at his father, while the ghost of a smile hovered over his face.If old Jolyon saw, he took no notice.“She and June were bosom friends!” he muttered.“Poor little June!” said young Jolyon softly. He thought of his daughter still as a babe of three.Old Jolyon came to a sudden halt.“I don’t believe a word of it,” he said, “it’s some old woman’s tale. Get me a cab, Jo, I’m tired to death!”They stood at a corner to see if an empty cab would come along, while carriage after carriage drove past, bearing Forsytes of all descriptions from the Zoo. The harness, the liveries, the gloss on the horses’ coats, shone and glittered in the May sunlight, and each equipage, landau, sociable, barouche, Victoria, or brougham, seemed to roll out proudly from its wheels:‘I and my horses and my men you know,’ Indeed the whole turn-out have cost a pot. But we were worth it every penny. Look At Master and at Missis now, the dawgs! Ease with security — ah! that’s the ticket!And such, as everyone knows, is fit accompaniment for a perambulating Forsyte.Amongst these carriages was a barouche coming at a greater pace than the others, drawn by a pair of bright bay horses. It swung on its high springs, and the four people who filled it seemed rocked as in a cradle.This chariot attracted young Jolyon’s attention; and suddenly, on the back seat, he recognised his Uncle James, unmistakable in spite of the increased whiteness of his whiskers; opposite, their backs defended by sunshades, Rachel Forsyte and her elder but married sister, Winifred Dartie, in irreproachable toilettes, had posed their heads haughtily, like two of the birds they had been seeing at the Zoo; while by James’ side reclined Dartie, in a brand-new frock-coat buttoned tight and square, with a large expanse of carefully shot linen protruding below each wristband.An extra, if subdued, sparkle, an added touch of the best gloss or varnish characterized this vehicle, and seemed to distinguish it from all the others, as though by some happy extravagance — like that which marks out the real ‘work of art’ from the ordinary ‘picture’— it were designated as the typical car, the very throne of Forsytedom.Old Jolyon did not see them pass; he was petting poor Holly who was tired, but those in the carriage had taken in the little group; the ladies’ heads tilted suddenly, there was a spasmodic screening movement of parasols; James’ face protruded naively, like the head of a long bird, his mouth slowly opening. The shield-like rounds of the parasols grew smaller and smaller, and vanished.Young Jolyon saw that he had been recognised, even by Winifred, who could not have been more than fifteen when he had forfeited the right to be considered a Forsyte.There was not much change in them! He remembered the exact look of their turn-out all that time ago: Horses, men, carriage — all different now, no doubt — but of the precise stamp of fifteen years before; the same neat display, the same nicely calculated arrogance ease with security! The swing exact, the pose of the sunshades exact, exact the spirit of the whole thing.And in the sunlight, defended by the haughty shields of parasols, carriage after carriage went by.“Uncle James has just passed, with his female folk,” said young Jolyon.His father looked black. “Did your uncle see us? Yes? Hmph! What’s he want, coming down into these parts?”An empty cab drove up at this moment, and old Jolyon stopped it.“I shall see you again before long, my boy!” he said. “Don’t you go paying any attention to what I’ve been saying about young Bosinney — I don’t believe a word of it!”Kissing the children, who tried to detain him, he stepped in and was borne away.Young Jolyon, who had taken Holly up in his arms, stood motionless at the corner, looking after the cab.

Chapter 16 Afternoon at Timothy’s 
If old Jolyon, as he got into his cab, had said: ‘I won’t believe a word of it!’ he would more truthfully have expressed his sentiments.The notion that James and his womankind had seen him in the company of his son had awakened in him not only the impatience he always felt when crossed, but that secret hostility natural between brothers, the roots of which — little nursery rivalries — sometimes toughen and deepen as life goes on, and, all hidden, support a plant capable of producing in season the bitterest fruits.Hitherto there had been between these six brothers no more unfriendly feeling than that caused by the secret and natural doubt that the others might be richer than themselves; a feeling increased to the pitch of curiosity by the approach of death — that end of all handicaps — and the great ‘closeness’ of their man of business, who, with some sagacity, would profess to Nicholas ignorance of James’ income, to James ignorance of old Jolyon’s, to Jolyon ignorance of Roger’s, to Roger ignorance of Swithin’s, while to Swithin he would say most irritatingly that Nicholas must be a rich man. Timothy alone was exempt, being in gilt-edged securities.But now, between two of them at least, had arisen a very different sense of injury. From the moment when James had the impertinence to pry into his affairs — as he put it — old Jolyon no longer chose to credit this story about Bosinney. His grand-daughter slighted through a member of ‘that fellow’s’ family! He made up his mind that Bosinney was maligned. There must be some other reason for his defection.June had flown out at him, or something; she was as touchy as she could be!He would, however, let Timothy have a bit of his mind, and see if he would go on dropping hints! And he would not let the grass grow under his feet either, he would go there at once, and take very good care that he didn’t have to go again on the same errand.He saw James’ carriage blocking the pavement in front of ‘The Bower.’ So they had got there before him — cackling about having seen him, he dared say! And further on, Swithin’s greys were turning their noses towards the noses of James’ bays, as though in conclave over the family, while their coachmen were in conclave above.Old Jolyon, depositing his hat on the chair in the narrow hall, where that hat of Bosinney’s had so long ago been mistaken for a cat, passed his thin hand grimly over his face with its great drooping white moustaches, as though to remove all traces of expression, and made his way upstairs.He found the front drawing-room full. It was full enough at the best of times — without visitors — without any one in it — for Timothy and his sisters, following the tradition of their generation, considered that a room was not quite ‘nice’ unless it was ‘properly’ furnished. It held, therefore, eleven chairs, a sofa, three tables, two cabinets, innumerable knicknacks, and part of a large grand piano. And now, occupied by Mrs. Small, Aunt Hester, by Swithin, James, Rachel, Winifred, Euphemia, who had come in again to return ‘Passion and Paregoric’ which she had read at lunch, and her chum Frances, Roger’s daughter (the musical Forsyte, the one who composed songs), there was only one chair left unoccupied, except, of course, the two that nobody ever sat on — and the only standing room was occupied by the cat, on whom old Jolyon promptly stepped.In these days it was by no means unusual for Timothy to have so many visitors. The family had always, one and all, had a real respect for Aunt Ann, and now that she was gone, they were coming far more frequently to The Bower, and staying longer.Swithin had been the first to arrive, and seated torpid in a red satin chair with a gilt back, he gave every appearance of lasting the others out. And symbolizing Bosinney’s name ‘the big one,’ with his great stature and bulk, his thick white hair, his puffy immovable shaven face, he looked more primeval than ever in the highly upholstered room.His conversation, as usual of late, had turned at once upon Irene, and he had lost no time in giving Aunts Juley and Hester his opinion with regard to this rumour he heard was going about. No — as he said — she might want a bit of flirtation — a pretty woman must have her fling; but more than that he did not believe. Nothing open; she had too much good sense, too much proper appreciation of what was due to her position, and to the family! No sc . . ., he was going to say ‘scandal’ but the very idea was so preposterous that he waved his hand as though to say —‘but let that pass!’Granted that Swithin took a bachelor’s view of the situation — still what indeed was not due to that family in which so many had done so well for themselves, had attained a certain position? If he had heard in dark, pessimistic moments the words ‘yeomen’ and ‘very small beer’ used in connection with his origin, did he believe them?No! he cherished, hugging it pathetically to his bosom the secret theory that there was something distinguished somewhere in his ancestry.“Must be,” he once said to young Jolyon, before the latter went to the bad. “Look at us, we’ve got on! There must be good blood in us somewhere.”He had been fond of young Jolyon: the boy had been in a good set at College, had known that old ruffian Sir Charles Fiste’s sons — a pretty rascal one of them had turned out, too; and there was style about him — it was a thousand pities he had run off with that half-foreign governess! If he must go off like that why couldn’t he have chosen someone who would have done them credit! And what was he now? — an underwriter at Lloyd’s; they said he even painted pictures — pictures! Damme! he might have ended as Sir Jolyon Forsyte, Bart., with a seat in Parliament, and a place in the country!It was Swithin who, following the impulse which sooner or later urges thereto some member of every great family, went to the Heralds’ Office, where they assured him that he was undoubtedly of the same family as the well-known Forsites with an ‘i,’ whose arms were ‘three dexter buckles on a sable ground gules,’ hoping no doubt to get him to take them up.Swithin, however, did not do this, but having ascertained that the crest was a ‘pheasant proper,’ and the motto ‘For Forsite,’ he had the pheasant proper placed upon his carriage and the buttons of his coachman, and both crest and motto on his writing-paper. The arms he hugged to himself, partly because, not having paid for them, he thought it would look ostentatious to put them on his carriage, and he hated ostentation, and partly because he, like any practical man all over the country, had a secret dislike and contempt for things he could not understand he found it hard, as anyone might, to swallow ‘three dexter buckles on a sable ground gules.’He never forgot, however, their having told him that if he paid for them he would be entitled to use them, and it strengthened his conviction that he was a gentleman. Imperceptibly the rest of the family absorbed the ‘pheasant proper,’ and some, more serious than others, adopted the motto; old Jolyon, however, refused to use the latter, saying that it was humbug meaning nothing, so far as he could see.Among the older generation it was perhaps known at bottom from what great historical event they derived their crest; and if pressed on the subject, sooner than tell a lie — they did not like telling lies, having an impression that only Frenchmen and Russians told them — they would confess hurriedly that Swithin had got hold of it somehow.Among the younger generation the matter was wrapped in a discretion proper. They did not want to hurt the feelings of their elders, nor to feel ridiculous themselves; they simply used the crest. . . .“No,” said Swithin, “he had had an opportunity of seeing for himself, and what he should say was, that there was nothing in her manner to that young Buccaneer or Bosinney or whatever his name was, different from her manner to himself; in fact, he should rather say. . . . ” But here the entrance of Frances and Euphemia put an unfortunate stop to the conversation, for this was not a subject which could be discussed before young people.And though Swithin was somewhat upset at being stopped like this on the point of saying something important, he soon recovered his affability. He was rather fond of Frances — Francie, as she was called in the family. She was so smart, and they told him she made a pretty little pot of pin-money by her songs; he called it very clever of her.He rather prided himself indeed on a liberal attitude towards women, not seeing any reason why they shouldn’t paint pictures, or write tunes, or books even, for the matter of that, especially if they could turn a useful penny by it; not at all — kept them out of mischief. It was not as if they were men!‘Little Francie,’ as she was usually called with good-natured contempt, was an important personage, if only as a standing illustration of the attitude of Forsytes towards the Arts. She was not really ‘little,’ but rather tall, with dark hair for a Forsyte, which, together with a grey eye, gave her what was called ‘a Celtic appearance.’ She wrote songs with titles like ‘Breathing Sighs,’ or ‘Kiss me, Mother, ere I die,’ with a refrain like an anthem:‘Kiss me, Mother, ere I die;Kiss me-kiss me, Mother, ah!Kiss, ah! kiss me e-ere I—Kiss me, Mother, ere I d-d-die!’She wrote the words to them herself, and other poems. In lighter moments she wrote waltzes, one of which, the ‘Kensington Coil,’ was almost national to Kensington, having a sweet dip in it.It was very original. Then there were her ‘Songs for Little People,’ at once educational and witty, especially ‘Gran’ma’s Porgie,’ and that ditty, almost prophetically imbued with the coming Imperial spirit, entitled ‘Black Him In His Little Eye.’Any publisher would take these, and reviews like ‘High Living,’ and the ‘Ladies’ Genteel Guide’ went into raptures over: ‘Another of Miss Francie Forsyte’s spirited ditties, sparkling and pathetic. We ourselves were moved to tears and laughter. Miss Forsyte should go far.’With the true instinct of her breed, Francie had made a point of knowing the right people — people who would write about her, and talk about her, and people in Society, too — keeping a mental register of just where to exert her fascinations, and an eye on that steady scale of rising prices, which in her mind’s eye represented the future. In this way she caused herself to be universally respected.Once, at a time when her emotions were whipped by an attachment — for the tenor of Roger’s life, with its whole-hearted collection of house property, had induced in his only daughter a tendency towards passion — she turned to great and sincere work, choosing the sonata form, for the violin. This was the only one of her productions that troubled the Forsytes. They felt at once that it would not sell.Roger, who liked having a clever daughter well enough, and often alluded to the amount of pocket-money she made for herself, was upset by this violin sonata.“Rubbish like that!” he called it. Francie had borrowed young Flageoletti from Euphemia, to play it in the drawing-room at Prince’s Gardens.As a matter of fact Roger was right. It was rubbish, but — annoying! the sort of rubbish that wouldn’t sell. As every Forsyte knows, rubbish that sells is not rubbish at all — far from it.And yet, in spite of the sound common sense which fixed the worth of art at what it would fetch, some of the Forsytes — Aunt Hester, for instance, who had always been musical — could not help regretting that Francie’s music was not ‘classical’; the same with her poems. But then, as Aunt Hester said, they didn’t see any poetry nowadays, all the poems were ‘little light things.’There was nobody who could write a poem like ‘Paradise Lost,’ or ‘Childe Harold’; either of which made you feel that you really had read something. Still, it was nice for Francie to have something to occupy her; while other girls were spending money shopping she was making it!And both Aunt Hester and Aunt Juley were always ready to listen to the latest story of how Francie had got her price increased.They listened now, together with Swithin, who sat pretending not to, for these young people talked so fast and mumbled so, he never could catch what they said.“And I can’t think,” said Mrs. Septimus, “how you do it. I should never have the audacity!”Francie smiled lightly. “I’d much rather deal with a man than a woman. Women are so sharp!”“My dear,” cried Mrs. Small, “I’m sure we’re not.”Euphemia went off into her silent laugh, and, ending with the squeak, said, as though being strangled: “Oh, you’ll kill me some day, auntie.”Swithin saw no necessity to laugh; he detested people laughing when he himself perceived no joke. Indeed, he detested Euphemia altogether, to whom he always alluded as ‘Nick’s daughter, what’s she called — the pale one?’ He had just missed being her god-father — indeed, would have been, had he not taken a firm stand against her outlandish name. He hated becoming a godfather. Swithin then said to Francie with dignity: “It’s a fine day — er — for the time of year.” But Euphemia, who knew perfectly well that he had refused to be her godfather, turned to Aunt Hester, and began telling her how she had seen Irene — Mrs. Soames — at the Church and Commercial Stores.“And Soames was with her?” said Aunt Hester, to whom Mrs. Small had as yet had no opportunity of relating the incident.“Soames with her? Of course not!”“But was she all alone in London?”“Oh, no; there was Mr. Bosinney with her. She was perfectly dressed.”But Swithin, hearing the name Irene, looked severely at Euphemia, who, it is true, never did look well in a dress, whatever she may have done on other occasions, and said:“Dressed like a lady, I’ve no doubt. It’s a pleasure to see her.”At this moment James and his daughters were announced. Dartie, feeling badly in want of a drink, had pleaded an appointment with his dentist, and, being put down at the Marble Arch, had got into a hansom, and was already seated in the window of his club in Piccadilly.His wife, he told his cronies, had wanted to take him to pay some calls. It was not in his line — not exactly. Haw!Hailing the waiter, he sent him out to the hall to see what had won the 4.30 race. He was dog-tired, he said, and that was a fact; had been drivin’ about with his wife to ‘shows’ all the afternoon. Had put his foot down at last. A fellow must live his own life.At this moment, glancing out of the bay window — for he loved this seat whence he could see everybody pass — his eye unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, chanced to light on the figure of Soames, who was mousing across the road from the Green Park-side, with the evident intention of coming in, for he, too, belonged to ‘The Iseeum.’Dartie sprang to his feet; grasping his glass, he muttered something about ‘that 4.30 race,’ and swiftly withdrew to the card-room, where Soames never came. Here, in complete isolation and a dim light, he lived his own life till half past seven, by which hour he knew Soames must certainly have left the club.It would not do, as he kept repeating to himself whenever he felt the impulse to join the gossips in the bay-window getting too strong for him — it absolutely would not do, with finances as low as his, and the ‘old man’ (James) rusty ever since that business over the oil shares, which was no fault of his, to risk a row with Winifred.If Soames were to see him in the club it would be sure to come round to her that he wasn’t at the dentist’s at all. He never knew a family where things ‘came round’ so. Uneasily, amongst the green baize card-tables, a frown on his olive coloured face, his check trousers crossed, and patent-leather boots shining through the gloom, he sat biting his forefinger, and wondering where the deuce he was to get the money if Erotic failed to win the Lancashire Cup.His thoughts turned gloomily to the Forsytes. What a set they were! There was no getting anything out of them — at least, it was a matter of extreme difficulty. They were so d —-d particular about money matters; not a sportsman amongst the lot, unless it were George. That fellow Soames, for instance, would have a ft if you tried to borrow a tenner from him, or, if he didn’t have a fit, he looked at you with his cursed supercilious smile, as if you were a lost soul because you were in want of money.And that wife of his (Dartie’s mouth watered involuntarily), he had tried to be on good terms with her, as one naturally would with any pretty sister-in-law, but he would be cursed if the (he mentally used a coarse word)— would have anything to say to him — she looked at him, indeed, as if he were dirt — and yet she could go far enough, he wouldn’t mind betting. He knew women; they weren’t made with soft eyes and figures like that for nothing, as that fellow Soames would jolly soon find out, if there were anything in what he had heard about this Buccaneer Johnny.Rising from his chair, Dartie took a turn across the room, ending in front of the looking-glass over the marble chimney-piece; and there he stood for a long time contemplating in the glass the reflection of his face. It had that look, peculiar to some men, of having been steeped in linseed oil, with its waxed dark moustaches and the little distinguished commencements of side whiskers; and concernedly he felt the promise of a pimple on the side of his slightly curved and fattish nose.In the meantime old Jolyon had found the remaining chair in Timothy’s commodious drawing-room. His advent had obviously put a stop to the conversation, decided awkwardness having set in. Aunt Juley, with her well-known kindheartedness, hastened to set people at their ease again.“Yes, Jolyon,” she said, “we were just saying that you haven’t been here for a long time; but we mustn’t be surprised. You’re busy, of course? James was just saying what a busy time of year. . . . ”“Was he?” said old Jolyon, looking hard at James. “It wouldn’t be half so busy if everybody minded their own business.”James, brooding in a small chair from which his knees ran uphill, shifted his feet uneasily, and put one of them down on the cat, which had unwisely taken refuge from old Jolyon beside him.“Here, you’ve got a cat here,” he said in an injured voice, withdrawing his foot nervously as he felt it squeezing into the soft, furry body.“Several,” said old Jolyon, looking at one face and another; “I trod on one just now.”A silence followed.Then Mrs. Small, twisting her fingers and gazing round with ‘pathetic calm’, asked: “And how is dear June?”A twinkle of humour shot through the sternness of old Jolyon’s eyes. Extraordinary old woman, Juley! No one quite like her for saying the wrong thing!“Bad!” he said; “London don’t agree with her — too many people about, too much clatter and chatter by half.” He laid emphasis on the words, and again looked James in the face.Nobody spoke.A feeling of its being too dangerous to take a step in any direction, or hazard any remark, had fallen on them all. Something of the sense of the impending, that comes over the spectator of a Greek tragedy, had entered that upholstered room, filled with those white-haired, frock-coated old men, and fashionably attired women, who were all of the same blood, between all of whom existed an unseizable resemblance.Not that they were conscious of it — the visits of such fateful, bitter spirits are only felt.Then Swithin rose. He would not sit there, feeling like that — he was not to be put down by anyone! And, manoeuvring round the room with added pomp, he shook hands with each separately.“You tell Timothy from me,” he said, “that he coddles himself too much!” Then, turning to Francie, whom he considered ‘smart,’ he added: “You come with me for a drive one of these days.” But this conjured up the vision of that other eventful drive which had been so much talked about, and he stood quite still for a second, with glassy eyes, as though waiting to catch up with the significance of what he himself had said; then, suddenly recollecting that he didn’t care a damn, he turned to old Jolyon: “Well, good-bye, Jolyon! You shouldn’t go about without an overcoat; you’ll be getting sciatica or something!” And, kicking the cat slightly with the pointed tip of his patent leather boot, he took his huge form away.When he had gone everyone looked secretly at the others, to see how they had taken the mention of the word ‘drive’— the word which had become famous, and acquired an overwhelming importance, as the only official — so to speak — news in connection with the vague and sinister rumour clinging to the family tongue.Euphemia, yielding to an impulse, said with a short laugh: “I’m glad Uncle Swithin doesn’t ask me to go for drives.”Mrs. Small, to reassure her and smooth over any little awkwardness the subject might have, replied: “My dear, he likes to take somebody well dressed, who will do him a little credit. I shall never forget the drive he took me. It was an experience!” And her chubby round old face was spread for a moment with a strange contentment; then broke into pouts, and tears came into her eyes. She was thinking of that long ago driving tour she had once taken with Septimus Small.James, who had relapsed into his nervous brooding in the little chair, suddenly roused himself: “He’s a funny fellow, Swithin,” he said, but in a half-hearted way.Old Jolyon’s silence, his stern eyes, held them all in a kind of paralysis. He was disconcerted himself by the effect of his own words — an effect which seemed to deepen the importance of the very rumour he had come to scotch; but he was still angry.He had not done with them yet — No, no — he would give them another rub or two.He did not wish to rub his nieces, he had no quarrel with them — a young and presentable female always appealed to old Jolyon’s clemency — but that fellow James, and, in a less degree perhaps, those others, deserved all they would get. And he, too, asked for Timothy.As though feeling that some danger threatened her younger brother, Aunt Juley suddenly offered him tea: “There it is,” she said, “all cold and nasty, waiting for you in the back drawing room, but Smither shall make you some fresh.”Old Jolyon rose: “Thank you,” he said, looking straight at James, “but I’ve no time for tea, and — scandal, and the rest of it! It’s time I was at home. Good-bye, Julia; good-bye, Hester; good-bye, Winifred.”Without more ceremonious adieux, he marched out.Once again in his cab, his anger evaporated, for so it ever was with his wrath — when he had rapped out, it was gone. Sadness came over his spirit. He had stopped their mouths, maybe, but at what a cost! At the cost of certain knowledge that the rumour he had been resolved not to believe was true. June was abandoned, and for the wife of that fellow’s son! He felt it was true, and hardened himself to treat it as if it were not; but the pain he hid beneath this resolution began slowly, surely, to vent itself in a blind resentment against James and his son.The six women and one man left behind in the little drawing-room began talking as easily as might be after such an occurrence, for though each one of them knew for a fact that he or she never talked scandal, each one of them also knew that the other six did; all were therefore angry and at a loss. James only was silent, disturbed, to the bottom of his soul.Presently Francie said: “Do you know, I think Uncle Jolyon is terribly changed this last year. What do you think, Aunt Hester?”Aunt Hester made a little movement of recoil: “Oh, ask your Aunt Julia!” she said; “I know nothing about it.”No one else was afraid of assenting, and James muttered gloomily at the floor: “He’s not half the man he was.”“I’ve noticed it a long time,” went on Francie; “he’s aged tremendously.”Aunt Juley shook her head; her face seemed suddenly to have become one immense pout.“Poor dear Jolyon,” she said, “somebody ought to see to it for him!”There was again silence; then, as though in terror of being left solitarily behind, all five visitors rose simultaneously, and took their departure.Mrs. Small, Aunt Hester, and their cat were left once more alone, the sound of a door closing in the distance announced the approach of Timothy.That evening, when Aunt Hester had just got off to sleep in the back bedroom that used to be Aunt Juley’s before Aunt Juley took Aunt Ann’s, her door was opened, and Mrs. Small, in a pink night-cap, a candle in her hand, entered: “Hester!” she said. “Hester!”Aunt Hester faintly rustled the sheet.“Hester,” repeated Aunt Juley, to make quite sure that she had awakened her, “I am quite troubled about poor dear Jolyon. What,” Aunt Juley dwelt on the word, “do you think ought to be done?”Aunt Hester again rustled the sheet, her voice was heard faintly pleading: “Done? How should I know?”Aunt Juley turned away satisfied, and closing the door with extra gentleness so as not to disturb dear Hester, let it slip through her fingers and fall to with a ‘crack.’Back in her own room, she stood at the window gazing at the moon over the trees in the Park, through a chink in the muslin curtains, close drawn lest anyone should see. And there, with her face all round and pouting in its pink cap, and her eyes wet, she thought of ‘dear Jolyon,’ so old and so lonely, and how she could be of some use to him; and how he would come to love her, as she had never been loved since — since poor Septimus went away.

Chapter 17 Dance at Roger’s 
Roger’s house in Prince’s Gardens was brilliantly alight. Large numbers of wax candles had been collected and placed in cut-glass chandeliers, and the parquet floor of the long, double drawing-room reflected these constellations. An appearance of real spaciousness had been secured by moving out all the furniture on to the upper landings, and enclosing the room with those strange appendages of civilization known as ‘rout’ seats. In a remote corner, embowered in palms, was a cottage piano, with a copy of the ‘Kensington Coil’ open on the music-stand.Roger had objected to a band. He didn’t see in the least what they wanted with a band; he wouldn’t go to the expense, and there was an end of it. Francie (her mother, whom Roger had long since reduced to chronic dyspepsia, went to bed on such occasions), had been obliged to content herself with supplementing the piano by a young man who played the cornet, and she so arranged with palms that anyone who did not look into the heart of things might imagine there were several musicians secreted there. She made up her mind to tell them to play loud — there was a lot of music in a cornet, if the man would only put his soul into it.In the more cultivated American tongue, she was ‘through’ at last — through that tortuous labyrinth of make-shifts, which must be traversed before fashionable display can be combined with the sound economy of a Forsyte. Thin but brilliant, in her maize-coloured frock with much tulle about the shoulders, she went from place to place, fitting on her gloves, and casting her eye over it all.To the hired butler (for Roger only kept maids) she spoke about the wine. Did he quite understand that Mr. Forsyte wished a dozen bottles of the champagne from Whiteley’s to be put out? But if that were finished (she did not suppose it would be, most of the ladies would drink water, no doubt), but if it were, there was the champagne cup, and he must do the best he could with that.She hated having to say this sort of thing to a butler, it was so infra dig.; but what could you do with father? Roger, indeed, after making himself consistently disagreeable about the dance, would come down presently, with his fresh colour and bumpy forehead, as though he had been its promoter; and he would smile, and probably take the prettiest woman in to supper; and at two o’clock, just as they were getting into the swing, he would go up secretly to the musicians and tell them to play ‘God Save the Queen,’ and go away.Francie devoutly hoped he might soon get tired, and slip off to bed.The three or four devoted girl friends who were staying in the house for this dance had partaken with her, in a small, abandoned room upstairs, of tea and cold chicken-legs, hurriedly served; the men had been sent out to dine at Eustace’s Club, it being felt that they must be fed up.Punctually on the stroke of nine arrived Mrs. Small alone. She made elaborate apologies for the absence of Timothy, omitting all mention of Aunt Hester, who, at the last minute, had said she could not be bothered. Francie received her effusively, and placed her on a rout seat, where she left her, pouting and solitary in lavender-coloured satin — the first time she had worn colour since Aunt Ann’s death.The devoted maiden friends came now from their rooms, each by magic arrangement in a differently coloured frock, but all with the same liberal allowance of tulle on the shoulders and at the bosom — for they were, by some fatality, lean to a girl. They were all taken up to Mrs. Small. None stayed with her more than a few seconds, but clustering together talked and twisted their programmes, looking secretly at the door for the first appearance of a man.Then arrived in a group a number of Nicholases, always punctual — the fashion up Ladbroke Grove way; and close behind them Eustace and his men, gloomy and smelling rather of smoke.Three or four of Francie’s lovers now appeared, one after the other; she had made each promise to come early. They were all clean-shaven and sprightly, with that peculiar kind of young-man sprightliness which had recently invaded Kensington; they did not seem to mind each other’s presence in the least, and wore their ties bunching out at the ends, white waistcoats, and socks with clocks. All had handkerchiefs concealed in their cuffs. They moved buoyantly, each armoured in professional gaiety, as though he had come to do great deeds. Their faces when they danced, far from wearing the traditional solemn look of the dancing Englishman, were irresponsible, charming, suave; they bounded, twirling their partners at great pace, without pedantic attention to the rhythm of the music.At other dancers they looked with a kind of airy scorn — they, the light brigade, the heroes of a hundred Kensington ‘hops’— from whom alone could the right manner and smile and step be hoped.After this the stream came fast; chaperones silting up along the wall facing the entrance, the volatile element swelling the eddy in the larger room.Men were scarce, and wallflowers wore their peculiar, pathetic expression, a patient, sourish smile which seemed to say: “Oh, no! don’t mistake me, I know you are not coming up to me. I can hardly expect that!” And Francie would plead with one of her lovers, or with some callow youth: “Now, to please me, do let me introduce you to Miss Pink; such a nice girl, really!” and she would bring him up, and say: “Miss Pink — Mr. Gathercole. Can you spare him a dance?” Then Miss Pink, smiling her forced smile, colouring a little, answered: “Oh! I think so!” and screening her empty card, wrote on it the name of Gathercole, spelling it passionately in the district that he proposed, about the second extra.But when the youth had murmured that it was hot, and passed, she relapsed into her attitude of hopeless expectation, into her patient, sourish smile.Mothers, slowly fanning their faces, watched their daughters, and in their eyes could be read all the story of those daughters’ fortunes. As for themselves, to sit hour after hour, dead tired, silent, or talking spasmodically — what did it matter, so long as the girls were having a good time! But to see them neglected and passed by! Ah! they smiled, but their eyes stabbed like the eyes of an offended swan; they longed to pluck young Gathercole by the slack of his dandified breeches, and drag him to their daughters — the jackanapes!And all the cruelties and hardness of life, its pathos and unequal chances, its conceit, self-forgetfulness, and patience, were presented on the battle-field of this Kensington ball-room.Here and there, too, lovers — not lovers like Francie’s, a peculiar breed, but simply lovers — trembling, blushing, silent, sought each other by flying glances, sought to meet and touch in the mazes of the dance, and now and again dancing together, struck some beholder by the light in their eyes.Not a second before ten o’clock came the Jameses — Emily, Rachel, Winifred (Dartie had been left behind, having on a former occasion drunk too much of Roger’s champagne), and Cicely, the youngest, making her debut; behind them, following in a hansom from the paternal mansion where they had dined, Soames and Irene.All these ladies had shoulder-straps and no tulle — thus showing at once, by a bolder exposure of flesh, that they came from the more fashionable side of the Park.Soames, sidling back from the contact of the dancers, took up a position against the wall. Guarding himself with his pale smile, he stood watching. Waltz after waltz began and ended, couple after couple brushed by with smiling lips, laughter, and snatches of talk; or with set lips, and eyes searching the throng; or again, with silent, parted lips, and eyes on each other. And the scent of festivity, the odour of flowers, and hair, of essences that women love, rose suffocatingly in the heat of the summer night.Silent, with something of scorn in his smile, Soames seemed to notice nothing; but now and again his eyes, finding that which they sought, would fix themselves on a point in the shifting throng, and the smile die off his lips.He danced with no one. Some fellows danced with their wives; his sense of ‘form’ had never permitted him to dance with Irene since their marriage, and the God of the Forsytes alone can tell whether this was a relief to him or not.She passed, dancing with other men, her dress, iris-coloured, floating away from her feet. She danced well; he was tired of hearing women say with an acid smile: “How beautifully your wife dances, Mr. Forsyte — it’s quite a pleasure to watch her!” Tired of answering them with his sidelong glance: “You think so?”A young couple close by flirted a fan by turns, making an unpleasant draught. Francie and one of her lovers stood near. They were talking of love.He heard Roger’s voice behind, giving an order about supper to a servant. Everything was very second-class! He wished that he had not come! He had asked Irene whether she wanted him; she had answered with that maddening smile of hers “Oh, no!”Why had he come? For the last quarter of an hour he had not even seen her. Here was George advancing with his Quilpish face; it was too late to get out of his way.“Have you seen ‘The Buccaneer’?” said this licensed wag; “he’s on the warpath — hair cut and everything!”Soames said he had not, and crossing the room, half-empty in an interval of the dance, he went out on the balcony, and looked down into the street.A carriage had driven up with late arrivals, and round the door hung some of those patient watchers of the London streets who spring up to the call of light or music; their faces, pale and upturned above their black and rusty figures, had an air of stolid watching that annoyed Soames. Why were they allowed to hang about; why didn’t the bobby move them on?But the policeman took no notice of them; his feet were planted apart on the strip of crimson carpet stretched across the pavement; his face, under the helmet, wore the same stolid, watching look as theirs.Across the road, through the railings, Soames could see the branches of trees shining, faintly stirring in the breeze, by the gleam of the street lamps; beyond, again, the upper lights of the houses on the other side, so many eyes looking down on the quiet blackness of the garden; and over all, the sky, that wonderful London sky, dusted with the innumerable reflection of countless lamps; a dome woven over between its stars with the refraction of human needs and human fancies — immense mirror of pomp and misery that night after night stretches its kindly mocking over miles of houses and gardens, mansions and squalor, over Forsytes, policemen, and patient watchers in the streets.Soames turned away, and, hidden in the recess, gazed into the lighted room. It was cooler out there. He saw the new arrivals, June and her grandfather, enter. What had made them so late? They stood by the doorway. They looked fagged. Fancy Uncle Jolyon turning out at this time of night! Why hadn’t June come to Irene, as she usually did, and it occurred to him suddenly that he had seen nothing of June for a long time now.Watching her face with idle malice, he saw it change, grow so pale that he thought she would drop, then flame out crimson. Turning to see at what she was looking, he saw his wife on Bosinney’s arm, coming from the conservatory at the end of the room. Her eyes were raised to his, as though answering some question he had asked, and he was gazing at her intently.Soames looked again at June. Her hand rested on old Jolyon’s arm; she seemed to be making a request. He saw a surprised look on his uncle’s face; they turned and passed through the door out of his sight.The music began again — a waltz — and, still as a statue in the recess of the window, his face unmoved, but no smile on his lips, Soames waited. Presently, within a yard of the dark balcony, his wife and Bosinney passed. He caught the perfume of the gardenias that she wore, saw the rise and fall of her bosom, the languor in her eyes, her parted lips, and a look on her face that he did not know. To the slow, swinging measure they danced by, and it seemed to him that they clung to each other; he saw her raise her eyes, soft and dark, to Bosinney’s, and drop them again.Very white, he turned back to the balcony, and leaning on it, gazed down on the Square; the figures were still there looking up at the light with dull persistency, the policeman’s face, too, upturned, and staring, but he saw nothing of them. Below, a carriage drew up, two figures got in, and drove away. . . .That evening June and old Jolyon sat down to dinner at the usual hour. The girl was in her customary high-necked frock, old Jolyon had not dressed.At breakfast she had spoken of the dance at Uncle Roger’s, she wanted to go; she had been stupid enough, she said, not to think of asking anyone to take her. It was too late now.Old Jolyon lifted his keen eyes. June was used to go to dances with Irene as a matter of course! and deliberately fixing his gaze on her, he asked: “Why don’t you get Irene?”No! June did not want to ask Irene; she would only go if — if her grandfather wouldn’t mind just for once for a little time!At her look, so eager and so worn, old Jolyon had grumblingly consented. He did not know what she wanted, he said, with going to a dance like this, a poor affair, he would wager; and she no more fit for it than a cat! What she wanted was sea air, and after his general meeting of the Globular Gold Concessions he was ready to take her. She didn’t want to go away? Ah! she would knock herself up! Stealing a mournful look at her, he went on with his breakfast.June went out early, and wandered restlessly about in the heat. Her little light figure that lately had moved so languidly about its business, was all on fire. She bought herself some flowers. She wanted — she meant to look her best. He would be there! She knew well enough that he had a card. She would show him that she did not care. But deep down in her heart she resolved that evening to win him back. She came in flushed, and talked brightly all lunch; old Jolyon was there, and he was deceived.In the afternoon she was overtaken by a desperate fit of sobbing. She strangled the noise against the pillows of her bed, but when at last it ceased she saw in the glass a swollen face with reddened eyes, and violet circles round them. She stayed in the darkened room till dinner time.All through that silent meal the struggle went on within her.She looked so shadowy and exhausted that old Jolyon told ‘Sankey’ to countermand the carriage, he would not have her going out. . . . She was to go to bed! She made no resistance. She went up to her room, and sat in the dark. At ten o’clock she rang for her maid.“Bring some hot water, and go down and tell Mr. Forsyte that I feel perfectly rested. Say that if he’s too tired I can go to the dance by myself.”The maid looked askance, and June turned on her imperiously. “Go,” she said, “bring the hot water at once!”Her ball-dress still lay on the sofa, and with a sort of fierce care she arrayed herself, took the flowers in her hand, and went down, her small face carried high under its burden of hair. She could hear old Jolyon in his room as she passed.Bewildered and vexed, he was dressing. It was past ten, they would not get there till eleven; the girl was mad. But he dared not cross her — the expression of her face at dinner haunted him.With great ebony brushes he smoothed his hair till it shone like silver under the light; then he, too, came out on the gloomy staircase.June met him below, and, without a word, they went to the carriage.When, after that drive which seemed to last for ever, she entered Roger’s drawing-room, she disguised under a mask of resolution a very torment of nervousness and emotion. The feeling of shame at what might be called ‘running after him’ was smothered by the dread that he might not be there, that she might not see him after all, and by that dogged resolve — somehow, she did not know how — to win him back.The sight of the ballroom, with its gleaming floor, gave her a feeling of joy, of triumph, for she loved dancing, and when dancing she floated, so light was she, like a strenuous, eager little spirit. He would surely ask her to dance, and if he danced with her it would all be as it was before. She looked about her eagerly.The sight of Bosinney coming with Irene from the conservatory, with that strange look of utter absorption on his face, struck her too suddenly. They had not seen — no one should see — her distress, not even her grandfather.She put her hand on Jolyon’s arm, and said very low:“I must go home, Gran; I feel ill.”He hurried her away, grumbling to himself that he had known how it would be.To her he said nothing; only when they were once more in the carriage, which by some fortunate chance had lingered near the door, he asked her: “What is it, my darling?”Feeling her whole slender body shaken by sobs, he was terribly alarmed. She must have Blank to-morrow. He would insist upon it. He could not have her like this. . . . There, there!June mastered her sobs, and squeezing his hand feverishly, she lay back in her corner, her face muffled in a shawl.He could only see her eyes, fixed and staring in the dark, but he did not cease to stroke her hand with his thin fingers.

Chapter 18 Evening at Richmond 
Other eyes besides the eyes of June and of Soames had seen ‘those two’ (as Euphemia had already begun to call them) coming from the conservatory; other eyes had noticed the look on Bosinney’s face.There are moments when Nature reveals the passion hidden beneath the careless calm of her ordinary moods — violent spring flashing white on almond-blossom through the purple clouds; a snowy, moonlit peak, with its single star, soaring up to the passionate blue; or against the flames of sunset, an old yew-tree standing dark guardian of some fiery secret.There are moments, too, when in a picture-gallery, a work, noted by the casual spectator as ‘. . . . ..Titian — remarkably fine,’ breaks through the defences of some Forsyte better lunched perhaps than his fellows, and holds him spellbound in a kind of ecstasy. There are things, he feels — there are things here which — well, which are things. Something unreasoning, unreasonable, is upon him; when he tries to define it with the precision of a practical man, it eludes him, slips away, as the glow of the wine he has drunk is slipping away, leaving him cross, and conscious of his liver. He feels that he has been extravagant, prodigal of something; virtue has gone out of him. He did not desire this glimpse of what lay under the three stars of his catalogue. God forbid that he should know anything about the forces of Nature! God forbid that he should admit for a moment that there are such things! Once admit that, and where was he? One paid a shilling for entrance, and another for the programme.The look which June had seen, which other Forsytes had seen, was like the sudden flashing of a candle through a hole in some imaginary canvas, behind which it was being moved — the sudden flaming-out of a vague, erratic glow, shadowy and enticing. It brought home to onlookers the consciousness that dangerous forces were at work. For a moment they noticed it with pleasure, with interest, then felt they must not notice it at all.It supplied, however, the reason of June’s coming so late and disappearing again without dancing, without even shaking hands with her lover. She was ill, it was said, and no wonder.But here they looked at each other guiltily. They had no desire to spread scandal, no desire to be ill-natured. Who would have? And to outsiders no word was breathed, unwritten law keeping them silent.Then came the news that June had gone to the seaside with old Jolyon.He had carried her off to Broadstairs, for which place there was just then a feeling, Yarmouth having lost caste, in spite of Nicholas, and no Forsyte going to the sea without intending to have an air for his money such as would render him bilious in a week. That fatally aristocratic tendency of the first Forsyte to drink Madeira had left his descendants undoubtedly accessible.So June went to the sea. The family awaited developments; there was nothing else to do.But how far — how far had ‘those two’ gone? How far were they going to go? Could they really be going at all? Nothing could surely come of it, for neither of them had any money. At the most a flirtation, ending, as all such attachments should, at the proper time.Soames’ sister, Winifred Dartie, who had imbibed with the breezes of Mayfair — she lived in Green Street — more fashionable principles in regard to matrimonial behaviour than were current, for instance, in Ladbroke Grove, laughed at the idea of there being anything in it. The ‘little thing’— Irene was taller than herself, and it was real testimony to the solid worth of a Forsyte that she should always thus be a ‘little thing’— the little thing was bored. Why shouldn’t she amuse herself? Soames was rather tiring; and as to Mr. Bosinney — only that buffoon George would have called him the Buccaneer — she maintained that he was very chic.This dictum — that Bosinney was chic — caused quit a sensation. It failed to convince. That he was ‘good-looking in a way’ they were prepared to admit, but that anyone could call a man with his pronounced cheekbones, curious eyes, and soft felt hats chic was only another instance of Winifred’s extravagant way of running after something new.It was that famous summer when extravagance was fashionable, when the very earth was extravagant, chestnut-trees spread with blossom, and flowers drenched in perfume, as they had never been before; when roses blew in every garden; and for the swarming stars the nights had hardly space; when every day and all day long the sun, in full armour, swung his brazen shield above the Park, and people did strange things, lunching and dining in the open air. Unprecedented was the tale of cabs and carriages that streamed across the bridges of the shining river, bearing the upper-middle class in thousands to the green glories of Bushey, Richmond, Kew, and Hampton Court. Almost every family with any pretensions to be of the carriage-class paid one visit that year to the horse-chestnuts at Bushey, or took one drive amongst the Spanish chestnuts of Richmond Park. Bowling smoothly, if dustily, along, in a cloud of their own creation, they would stare fashionably at the antlered heads which the great slow deer raised out of a forest of bracken that promised to autumn lovers such cover as was never seen before. And now and again, as the amorous perfume of chestnut flowers and of fern was drifted too near, one would say to the other: “My dear! What a peculiar scent!”And the lime-flowers that year were of rare prime, near honey-coloured. At the corners of London squares they gave out, as the sun went down, a perfume sweeter than the honey bees had taken — a perfume that stirred a yearning unnamable in the hearts of Forsytes and their peers, taking the cool after dinner in the precincts of those gardens to which they alone had keys.And that yearning made them linger amidst the dim shapes of flower-beds in the failing daylight, made them turn, and turn, and turn again, as though lovers were waiting for them — waiting for the last light to die away under the shadow of the branches.Some vague sympathy evoked by the scent of the limes, some sisterly desire to see for herself, some idea of demonstrating the soundness of her dictum that there was ‘nothing in it’; or merely the craving to drive down to Richmond, irresistible that summer, moved the mother of the little Darties (of little Publius, of Imogen, Maud, and Benedict) to write the following note to her sister-in-law:‘DEAR IRENE, ‘June 30.‘I hear that Soames is going to Henley tomorrow for the night. I thought it would be great fun if we made up a little party and drove down to, Richmond. Will you ask Mr. Bosinney, and I will get young Flippard.‘Emily (they called their mother Emily — it was so chic) will lend us the carriage. I will call for you and your young man at seven o’clock.‘Your affectionate sister, ‘WINIFRED DARTIE.‘Montague believes the dinner at the Crown and Sceptre to be quite eatable.’Montague was Dartie’s second and better known name — his first being Moses; for he was nothing if not a man of the world.Her plan met with more opposition from Providence than so benevolent a scheme deserved. In the first place young Flippard wrote:‘DEAR Mrs. DARTIE,‘Awfully sorry. Engaged two deep.‘Yours, ‘AUGUSTUS FLIPPARD.’It was late to send into the by-ways and hedges to remedy this misfortune. With the promptitude and conduct of a mother, Winifred fell back on her husband. She had, indeed, the decided but tolerant temperament that goes with a good deal of profile, fair hair, and greenish eyes. She was seldom or never at a loss; or if at a loss, was always able to convert it into a gain.Dartie, too, was in good feather. Erotic had failed to win the Lancashire Cup. Indeed, that celebrated animal, owned as he was by a pillar of the turf, who had secretly laid many thousands against him, had not even started. The forty-eight hours that followed his scratching were among the darkest in Dartie’s life.Visions of James haunted him day and night. Black thoughts about Soames mingled with the faintest hopes. On the Friday night he got drunk, so greatly was he affected. But on Saturday morning the true Stock Exchange instinct triumphed within him. Owing some hundreds, which by no possibility could he pay, he went into town and put them all on Concertina for the Saltown Borough Handicap.As he said to Major Scrotton, with whom he lunched at the Iseeum: “That little Jew boy, Nathans, had given him the tip. He didn’t care a cursh. He wash in — a mucker. If it didn’t come up — well then, damme, the old man would have to pay!”A bottle of Pol Roger to his own cheek had given him a new contempt for James.It came up. Concertina was squeezed home by her neck — a terrible squeak! But, as Dartie said: There was nothing like pluck!He was by no means averse to the expedition to Richmond. He would ‘stand’ it himself! He cherished an admiration for Irene, and wished to be on more playful terms with her.At half-past five the Park Lane footman came round to say: Mrs. Forsyte was very sorry, but one of the horses was coughing!Undaunted by this further blow, Winifred at once despatched little Publius (now aged seven) with the nursery governess to Montpellier Square.They would go down in hansoms and meet at the Crown and Sceptre at 7.45.Dartie, on being told, was pleased enough. It was better than going down with your back to the horses! He had no objection to driving down with Irene. He supposed they would pick up the others at Montpellier Square, and swop hansoms there?Informed that the meet was at the Crown and Sceptre, and that he would have to drive with his wife, he turned sulky, and said it was d —-d slow!At seven o’clock they started, Dartie offering to bet the driver half-a-crown he didn’t do it in the three-quarters of an hour.Twice only did husband and wife exchange remarks on the way.Dartie said: “It’ll put Master Soames’s nose out of joint to hear his wife’s been drivin’ in a hansom with Master Bosinney!”Winifred replied: “Don’t talk such nonsense, Monty!”“Nonsense!” repeated Dartie. “You don’t know women, my fine lady!”On the other occasion he merely asked: “How am I looking? A bit puffy about the gills? That fizz old George is so fond of is a windy wine!”He had been lunching with George Forsyte at the Haversnake.Bosinney and Irene had arrived before them. They were standing in one of the long French windows overlooking the river.Windows that summer were open all day long, and all night too, and day and night the scents of flowers and trees came in, the hot scent of parching grass, and the cool scent of the heavy dews.To the eye of the observant Dartie his two guests did not appear to be making much running, standing there close together, without a word. Bosinney was a hungry-looking creature — not much go about him.He left them to Winifred, however, and busied himself to order the dinner.A Forsyte will require good, if not delicate feeding, but a Dartie will tax the resources of a Crown and Sceptre. Living as he does, from hand to mouth, nothing is too good for him to eat; and he will eat it. His drink, too, will need to be carefully provided; there is much drink in this country ‘not good enough’ for a Dartie; he will have the best. Paying for things vicariously, there is no reason why he should stint himself. To stint yourself is the mark of a fool, not of a Dartie.The best of everything! No sounder principle on which a man can base his life, whose father-in-law has a very considerable income, and a partiality for his grandchildren.With his not unable eye Dartie had spotted this weakness in James the very first year after little Publius’s arrival (an error); he had profited by his perspicacity. Four little Darties were now a sort of perpetual insurance.The feature of the feast was unquestionably the red mullet. This delectable fish, brought from a considerable distance in a state of almost perfect preservation, was first fried, then boned, then served in ice, with Madeira punch in place of sauce, according to a recipe known to a few men of the world.Nothing else calls for remark except the payment of the bill by Dartie.He had made himself extremely agreeable throughout the meal; his bold, admiring stare seldom abandoning Irene’s face and figure. As he was obliged to confess to himself, he got no change out of her — she was cool enough, as cool as her shoulders looked under their veil of creamy lace. He expected to have caught her out in some little game with Bosinney; but not a bit of it, she kept up her end remarkably well. As for that architect chap, he was as glum as a bear with a sore head — Winifred could barely get a word out of him; he ate nothing, but he certainly took his liquor, and his face kept getting whiter, and his eyes looked queer.It was all very amusing.For Dartie himself was in capital form, and talked freely, with a certain poignancy, being no fool. He told two or three stories verging on the improper, a concession to the company, for his stories were not used to verging. He proposed Irene’s health in a mock speech. Nobody drank it, and Winifred said: “Don’t be such a clown, Monty!”At her suggestion they went after dinner to the public terrace overlooking the river.“I should like to see the common people making love,” she said, “it’s such fun!”There were numbers of them walking in the cool, after the day’s heat, and the air was alive with the sound of voices, coarse and loud, or soft as though murmuring secrets.It was not long before Winifred’s better sense — she was the only Forsyte present — secured them an empty bench. They sat down in a row. A heavy tree spread a thick canopy above their heads, and the haze darkened slowly over the river.Dartie sat at the end, next to him Irene, then Bosinney, then Winifred. There was hardly room for four, and the man of the world could feel Irene’s arm crushed against his own; he knew that she could not withdraw it without seeming rude, and this amused him; he devised every now and again a movement that would bring her closer still. He thought: ‘That Buccaneer Johnny shan’t have it all to himself! It’s a pretty tight fit, certainly!’From far down below on the dark river came drifting the tinkle of a mandoline, and voices singing the old round:‘A boat, a boat, unto the ferry, For we’ll go over and be merry; And laugh, and quaff, and drink brown sherry!’And suddenly the moon appeared, young and tender, floating up on her back from behind a tree; and as though she had breathed, the air was cooler, but down that cooler air came always the warm odour of the limes.Over his cigar Dartie peered round at Bosinney, who was sitting with his arms crossed, staring straight in front of him, and on his face the look of a man being tortured.And Dartie shot a glance at the face between, so veiled by the overhanging shadow that it was but like a darker piece of the darkness shaped and breathed on; soft, mysterious, enticing.A hush had fallen on the noisy terrace, as if all the strollers were thinking secrets too precious to be spoken.And Dartie thought: ‘Women!’The glow died above the river, the singing ceased; the young moon hid behind a tree, and all was dark. He pressed himself against Irene.He was not alarmed at the shuddering that ran through the limbs he touched, or at the troubled, scornful look of her eyes. He felt her trying to draw herself away, and smiled.It must be confessed that the man of the world had drunk quite as much as was good for him.With thick lips parted under his well-curled moustaches, and his bold eyes aslant upon her, he had the malicious look of a satyr.Along the pathway of sky between the hedges of the tree tops the stars clustered forth; like mortals beneath, they seemed to shift and swarm and whisper. Then on the terrace the buzz broke out once more, and Dartie thought: ‘Ah! he’s a poor, hungry-looking devil, that Bosinney!’ and again he pressed himself against Irene.The movement deserved a better success. She rose, and they all followed her.The man of the world was more than ever determined to see what she was made of. Along the terrace he kept close at her elbow. He had within him much good wine. There was the long drive home, the long drive and the warm dark and the pleasant closeness of the hansom cab — with its insulation from the world devised by some great and good man. That hungry architect chap might drive with his wife — he wished him joy of her! And, conscious that his voice was not too steady, he was careful not to speak; but a smile had become fixed on his thick lips.They strolled along toward the cabs awaiting them at the farther end. His plan had the merit of all great plans, an almost brutal simplicity he would merely keep at her elbow till she got in, and get in quickly after her.But when Irene reached the cab she did not get in; she slipped, instead, to the horse’s head. Dartie was not at the moment sufficiently master of his legs to follow. She stood stroking the horse’s nose, and, to his annoyance, Bosinney was at her side first. She turned and spoke to him rapidly, in a low voice; the words ‘That man’ reached Dartie. He stood stubbornly by the cab step, waiting for her to come back. He knew a trick worth two of that!Here, in the lamp-light, his figure (no more than medium height), well squared in its white evening waistcoat, his light overcoat flung over his arm, a pink flower in his button-hole, and on his dark face that look of confident, good-humoured insolence, he was at his best — a thorough man of the world.Winifred was already in her cab. Dartie reflected that Bosinney would have a poorish time in that cab if he didn’t look sharp! Suddenly he received a push which nearly overturned him in the road. Bosinney’s voice hissed in his ear: “I am taking Irene back; do you understand?” He saw a face white with passion, and eyes that glared at him like a wild cat’s.“Eh?” he stammered. “What? Not a bit. You take my wife!”“Get away!” hissed Bosinney —“or I’ll throw you into the road!”Dartie recoiled; he saw as plainly as possible that the fellow meant it. In the space he made Irene had slipped by, her dress brushed his legs. Bosinney stepped in after her.“Go on!” he heard the Buccaneer cry. The cabman flicked his horse. It sprang forward.Dartie stood for a moment dumbfounded; then, dashing at the cab where his wife sat, he scrambled in.“Drive on!” he shouted to the driver, “and don’t you lose sight of that fellow in front!”Seated by his wife’s side, he burst into imprecations. Calming himself at last with a supreme effort, he added: “A pretty mess you’ve made of it, to let the Buccaneer drive home with her; why on earth couldn’t you keep hold of him? He’s mad with love; any fool can see that!”He drowned Winifred’s rejoinder with fresh calls to the Almighty; nor was it until they reached Barnes that he ceased a Jeremiad, in the course of which he had abused her, her father, her brother, Irene, Bosinney, the name of Forsyte, his own children, and cursed the day when he had ever married.Winifred, a woman of strong character, let him have his say, at the end of which he lapsed into sulky silence. His angry eyes never deserted the back of that cab, which, like a lost chance, haunted the darkness in front of him.Fortunately he could not hear Bosinney’s passionate pleading — that pleading which the man of the world’s conduct had let loose like a flood; he could not see Irene shivering, as though some garment had been torn from her, nor her eyes, black and mournful, like the eyes of a beaten child. He could not hear Bosinney entreating, entreating, always entreating; could not hear her sudden, soft weeping, nor see that poor, hungry-looking devil, awed and trembling, humbly touching her hand.In Montpellier Square their cabman, following his instructions to the letter, faithfully drew up behind the cab in front. The Darties saw Bosinney spring out, and Irene follow, and hasten up the steps with bent head. She evidently had her key in her hand, for she disappeared at once. It was impossible to tell whether she had turned to speak to Bosinney.The latter came walking past their cab; both husband and wife had an admirable view of his face in the light of a street lamp. It was working with violent emotion.“Good-night, Mr. Bosinney!” called Winifred.Bosinney started, clawed off his hat, and hurried on. He had obviously forgotten their existence.“There!” said Dartie, “did you see the beast’s face? What did I say? Fine games!” He improved the occasion.There had so clearly been a crisis in the cab that Winifred was unable to defend her theory.She said: “I shall say nothing about it. I don’t see any use in making a fuss!”With that view Dartie at once concurred; looking upon James as a private preserve, he disapproved of his being disturbed by the troubles of others.“Quite right,” he said; “let Soames look after himself. He’s jolly well able to!”Thus speaking, the Darties entered their habitat in Green Street, the rent of which was paid by James, and sought a well-earned rest. The hour was midnight, and no Forsytes remained abroad in the streets to spy out Bosinney’s wanderings; to see him return and stand against the rails of the Square garden, back from the glow of the street lamp; to see him stand there in the shadow of trees, watching the house where in the dark was hidden she whom he would have given the world to see for a single minute — she who was now to him the breath of the lime-trees, the meaning of the light and the darkness, the very beating of his own heart.

Chapter 19 Diagnosis of a Forsyte 
It is in the nature of a Forsyte to be ignorant that he is a Forsyte; but young Jolyon was well aware of being one. He had not known it till after the decisive step which had made him an outcast; since then the knowledge had been with him continually. He felt it throughout his alliance, throughout all his dealings with his second wife, who was emphatically not a Forsyte.He knew that if he had not possessed in great measure the eye for what he wanted, the tenacity to hold on to it, the sense of the folly of wasting that for which he had given so big a price — in other words, the ‘sense of property’ he could never have retained her (perhaps never would have desired to retain her) with him through all the financial troubles, slights, and misconstructions of those fifteen years; never have induced her to marry him on the death of his first wife; never have lived it all through, and come up, as it were, thin, but smiling.He was one of those men who, seated cross-legged like miniature Chinese idols in the cages of their own hearts, are ever smiling at themselves a doubting smile. Not that this smile, so intimate and eternal, interfered with his actions, which, like his chin and his temperament, were quite a peculiar blend of softness and determination.He was conscious, too, of being a Forsyte in his work, that painting of water-colours to which he devoted so much energy, always with an eye on himself, as though he could not take so unpractical a pursuit quite seriously, and always with a certain queer uneasiness that he did not make more money at it.It was, then, this consciousness of what it meant to be a Forsyte, that made him receive the following letter from old Jolyon, with a mixture of sympathy and disgust:‘SHELDRAKE HOUSE,‘BROADSTAIRS,‘July 1. ‘MY DEAR JO,’(The Dad’s handwriting had altered very little in the thirty odd years that he remembered it.)‘We have been here now a fortnight, and have had good weather on the whole. The air is bracing, but my liver is out of order, and I shall be glad enough to get back to town. I cannot say much for June, her health and spirits are very indifferent, and I don’t see what is to come of it. She says nothing, but it is clear that she is harping on this engagement, which is an engagement and no engagement, and — goodness knows what. I have grave doubts whether she ought to be allowed to return to London in the present state of affairs, but she is so self-willed that she might take it into her head to come up at any moment. The fact is someone ought to speak to Bosinney and ascertain what he means. I’m afraid of this myself, for I should certainly rap him over the knuckles, but I thought that you, knowing him at the Club, might put in a word, and get to ascertain what the fellow is about. You will of course in no way commit June. I shall be glad to hear from you in the course of a few days whether you have succeeded in gaining any information. The situation is very distressing to me, I worry about it at night.With my love to Jolly and Holly. ‘I am,‘Your affect. father,‘JOLYON FORSYTE.’Young Jolyon pondered this letter so long and seriously that his wife noticed his preoccupation, and asked him what was the matter. He replied: “Nothing.”It was a fixed principle with him never to allude to June. She might take alarm, he did not know what she might think; he hastened, therefore, to banish from his manner all traces of absorption, but in this he was about as successful as his father would have been, for he had inherited all old Jolyon’s transparency in matters of domestic finesse; and young Mrs. Jolyon, busying herself over the affairs of the house, went about with tightened lips, stealing at him unfathomable looks.He started for the Club in the afternoon with the letter in his pocket, and without having made up his mind.To sound a man as to ‘his intentions’ was peculiarly unpleasant to him; nor did his own anomalous position diminish this unpleasantness. It was so like his family, so like all the people they knew and mixed with, to enforce what they called their rights over a man, to bring him up to the mark; so like them to carry their business principles into their private relations.And how that phrase in the letter —‘You will, of course, in no way commit June’— gave the whole thing away.Yet the letter, with the personal grievance, the concern for June, the ‘rap over the knuckles,’ was all so natural. No wonder his father wanted to know what Bosinney meant, no wonder he was angry.It was difficult to refuse! But why give the thing to him to do? That was surely quite unbecoming; but so long as a Forsyte got what he was after, he was not too particular about the means, provided appearances were saved.How should he set about it, or how refuse? Both seemed impossible. So, young Jolyon!He arrived at the Club at three o’clock, and the first person he saw was Bosinney himself, seated in a corner, staring out of the window.Young Jolyon sat down not far off, and began nervously to reconsider his position. He looked covertly at Bosinney sitting there unconscious. He did not know him very well, and studied him attentively for perhaps the first time; an unusual looking man, unlike in dress, face, and manner to most of the other members of the Club — young Jolyon himself, however different he had become in mood and temper, had always retained the neat reticence of Forsyte appearance. He alone among Forsytes was ignorant of Bosinney’s nickname. The man was unusual, not eccentric, but unusual; he looked worn, too, haggard, hollow in the cheeks beneath those broad, high cheekbones, though without any appearance of ill-health, for he was strongly built, with curly hair that seemed to show all the vitality of a fine constitution.Something in his face and attitude touched young Jolyon. He knew what suffering was like, and this man looked as if he were suffering.He got up and touched his arm.Bosinney started, but exhibited no sign of embarrassment on seeing who it was.Young Jolyon sat down.“I haven’t seen you for a long time,” he said. “How are you getting on with my cousin’s house?”“It’ll be finished in about a week.”“I congratulate you!”“Thanks — I don’t know that it’s much of a subject for congratulation.”“No?” queried young Jolyon; “I should have thought you’d be glad to get a long job like that off your hands; but I suppose you feel it much as I do when I part with a picture — a sort of child?”He looked kindly at Bosinney.“Yes,” said the latter more cordially, “it goes out from you and there’s an end of it. I didn’t know you painted.”“Only water-colours; I can’t say I believe in my work.”“Don’t believe in it? There — how can you do it? Work’s no use unless you believe in it!”“Good,” said young Jolyon; “it’s exactly what I’ve always said. By-the-bye, have you noticed that whenever one says ‘Good,’ one always adds ‘it’s exactly what I’ve always said’! But if you ask me how I do it, I answer, because I’m a Forsyte.”“A Forsyte! I never thought of you as one!”“A Forsyte,” replied young Jolyon, “is not an uncommon animal. There are hundreds among the members of this Club. Hundreds out there in the streets; you meet them wherever you go!”“And how do you tell them, may I ask?” said Bosinney.“By their sense of property. A Forsyte takes a practical — one might say a commonsense — view of things, and a practical view of things is based fundamentally on a sense of property. A Forsyte, you will notice, never gives himself away.”“Joking?”Young Jolyon’s eye twinkled.“Not much. As a Forsyte myself, I have no business to talk. But I’m a kind of thoroughbred mongrel; now, there’s no mistaking you: You’re as different from me as I am from my Uncle James, who is the perfect specimen of a Forsyte. His sense of property is extreme, while you have practically none. Without me in between, you would seem like a different species. I’m the missing link. We are, of course, all of us the slaves of property, and I admit that it’s a question of degree, but what I call a ‘Forsyte’ is a man who is decidedly more than less a slave of property. He knows a good thing, he knows a safe thing, and his grip on property — it doesn’t matter whether it be wives, houses, money, or reputation — is his hall-mark.”“Ah!” murmured Bosinney. “You should patent the word.”“I should like,” said young Jolyon, “to lecture on it:“Properties and quality of a Forsyte: This little animal, disturbed by the ridicule of his own sort, is unaffected in his motions by the laughter of strange creatures (you or I). Hereditarily disposed to myopia, he recognises only the persons of his own species, amongst which he passes an existence of competitive tranquillity.”“You talk of them,” said Bosinney, “as if they were half England.”“They are,” repeated young Jolyon, “half England, and the better half, too, the safe half, the three per cent. half, the half that counts. It’s their wealth and security that makes everything possible; makes your art possible, makes literature, science, even religion, possible. Without Forsytes, who believe in none of these things, and habitats but turn them all to use, where should we be? My dear sir, the Forsytes are the middlemen, the commercials, the pillars of society, the cornerstones of convention; everything that is admirable!”“I don’t know whether I catch your drift,” said Bosinney, “but I fancy there are plenty of Forsytes, as you call them, in my profession.”“Certainly,” replied young Jolyon. “The great majority of architects, painters, or writers have no principles, like any other Forsytes. Art, literature, religion, survive by virtue of the few cranks who really believe in such things, and the many Forsytes who make a commercial use of them. At a low estimate, three-fourths of our Royal Academicians are Forsytes, seven-eighths of our novelists, a large proportion of the press. Of science I can’t speak; they are magnificently represented in religion; in the House of Commons perhaps more numerous than anywhere; the aristocracy speaks for itself. But I’m not laughing. It is dangerous to go against the majority and what a majority!” He fixed his eyes on Bosinney: “It’s dangerous to let anything carry you away — a house, a picture, a — woman!”They looked at each other. — And, as though he had done that which no Forsyte did — given himself away, young Jolyon drew into his shell. Bosinney broke the silence.“Why do you take your own people as the type?” said he.“My people,” replied young Jolyon, “are not very extreme, and they have their own private peculiarities, like every other family, but they possess in a remarkable degree those two qualities which are the real tests of a Forsyte — the power of never being able to give yourself up to anything soul and body, and the ‘sense of property’.”Bosinney smiled: “How about the big one, for instance?”“Do you mean Swithin?” asked young Jolyon. “Ah! in Swithin there’s something primeval still. The town and middle-class life haven’t digested him yet. All the old centuries of farm work and brute force have settled in him, and there they’ve stuck, for all he’s so distinguished.”Bosinney seemed to ponder. “Well, you’ve hit your cousin Soames off to the life,” he said suddenly. “He’ll never blow his brains out.”Young Jolyon shot at him a penetrating glance.“No,” he said; “he won’t. That’s why he’s to be reckoned with. Look out for their grip! It’s easy to laugh, but don’t mistake me. It doesn’t do to despise a Forsyte; it doesn’t do to disregard them!”“Yet you’ve done it yourself!”Young Jolyon acknowledged the hit by losing his smile.“You forget,” he said with a queer pride, “I can hold on, too — I’m a Forsyte myself. We’re all in the path of great forces. The man who leaves the shelter of the wall — well — you know what I mean. I don’t,” he ended very low, as though uttering a threat, “recommend every man to-go-my-way. It depends.”The colour rushed into Bosinney’s face, but soon receded, leaving it sallow-brown as before. He gave a short laugh, that left his lips fixed in a queer, fierce smile; his eyes mocked young Jolyon.“Thanks,” he said. “It’s deuced kind of you. But you’re not the only chaps that can hold on.” He rose.Young Jolyon looked after him as he walked away, and, resting his head on his hand, sighed.In the drowsy, almost empty room the only sounds were the rustle of newspapers, the scraping of matches being struck. He stayed a long time without moving, living over again those days when he, too, had sat long hours watching the clock, waiting for the minutes to pass — long hours full of the torments of uncertainty, and of a fierce, sweet aching; and the slow, delicious agony of that season came back to him with its old poignancy. The sight of Bosinney, with his haggard face, and his restless eyes always wandering to the clock, had roused in him a pity, with which was mingled strange, irresistible envy.He knew the signs so well. Whither was he going — to what sort of fate? What kind of woman was it who was drawing him to her by that magnetic force which no consideration of honour, no principle, no interest could withstand; from which the only escape was flight.Flight! But why should Bosinney fly? A man fled when he was in danger of destroying hearth and home, when there were children, when he felt himself trampling down ideals, breaking something. But here, so he had heard, it was all broken to his hand.He himself had not fled, nor would he fly if it were all to come over again. Yet he had gone further than Bosinney, had broken up his own unhappy home, not someone else’s: And the old saying came back to him: ‘A man’s fate lies in his own heart.’In his own heart! The proof of the pudding was in the eating — Bosinney had still to eat his pudding.His thoughts passed to the woman, the woman whom he did not know, but the outlisaying came back to him: ‘A man’s fate lies in his own heart.’In his own heart! The proof of the pudding was in the eating — Bosinney had still to eat his pne of whose story he had heard.An unhappy marriage! No ill-treatment — only that indefinable malaise, that terrible blight which killed all sweetness under Heaven; and so from day to day, from night to night, from week to week, from year to year, till death should end it.But young Jolyon, the bitterness of whose own feelings time had assuaged, saw Soames’ side of the question too. Whence should a man like his cousin, saturated with all the prejudices and beliefs of his class, draw the insight or inspiration necessary to break up this life? It was a question of imagination, of projecting himself into the future beyond the unpleasant gossip, sneers, and tattle that followed on such separations, beyond the passing pangs that the lack of the sight of her would cause, beyond the grave disapproval of the worthy. But few men, and especially few men of Soames’ class, had imagination enough for that. A deal of mortals in this world, and not enough imagination to go round! And sweet Heaven, what a difference between theory and practice; many a man, perhaps even Soames, held chivalrous views on such matters, who when the shoe pinched found a distinguishing factor that made of himself an exception.Then, too, he distrusted his judgment. He had been through the experience himself, had tasted too the dregs the bitterness of an unhappy marriage, and how could he take the wide and dispassionate view of those who had never been within sound of the battle? His evidence was too first-hand — like the evidence on military matters of a soldier who has been through much active service, against that of civilians who have not suffered the disadvantage of seeing things too close. Most people would consider such a marriage as that of Soames and Irene quite fairly successful; he had money, she had beauty; it was a case for compromise. There was no reason why they should not jog along, even if they hated each other. It would not matter if they went their own ways a little so long as the decencies were observed — the sanctity of the marriage tie, of the common home, respected. Half the marriages of the upper classes were conducted on these lines: Do not offend the susceptibilities of Society; do not offend the susceptibilities of the Church. To avoid offending these is worth the sacrifice of any private feelings. The advantages of the stable home are visible, tangible, so many pieces of property; there is no risk in the statu quo. To break up a home is at the best a dangerous experiment, and selfish into the bargain.This was the case for the defence, and young Jolyon sighed.‘The core of it all,’ he thought, ‘is property, but there are many people who would not like it put that way. To them it is “the sanctity of the marriage tie”; but the sanctity of the marriage tie is dependent on the sanctity of the family, and the sanctity of the family is dependent on the sanctity of property. And yet I imagine all these people are followers of One who never owned anything. It is curious!And again young Jolyon sighed.‘Am I going on my way home to ask any poor devils I meet to share my dinner, which will then be too little for myself, or, at all events, for my wife, who is necessary to my health and happiness? It may be that after all Soames does well to exercise his rights and support by his practice the sacred principle of property which benefits us all, with the exception of those who suffer by the process.’And so he left his chair, threaded his way through the maze of seats, took his hat, and languidly up the hot streets crowded with carriages, reeking with dusty odours, wended his way home.Before reaching Wistaria Avenue he removed old Jolyon’s letter from his pocket, and tearing it carefully into tiny pieces, scattered them in the dust of the road.He let himself in with his key, and called his wife’s name. But she had gone out, taking Jolly and Holly, and the house was empty; alone in the garden the dog Balthasar lay in the shade snapping at flies.Young Jolyon took his seat there, too, under the pear-tree that bore no fruit.

Chapter 20 Bosinney on Parole 
The day after the evening at Richmond Soames returned from Henley by a morning train. Not constitutionally interested in amphibious sports, his visit had been one of business rather than pleasure, a client of some importance having asked him down.He went straight to the City, but finding things slack, he left at three o’clock, glad of this chance to get home quietly. Irene did not expect him. Not that he had any desire to spy on her actions, but there was no harm in thus unexpectedly surveying the scene.After changing to Park clothes he went into the drawing-room. She was sitting idly in the corner of the sofa, her favourite seat; and there were circles under her eyes, as though she had not slept.He asked: “How is it you’re in? Are you expecting somebody?”“Yes that is, not particularly.”“Who?”“Mr. Bosinney said he might come.”“Bosinney. He ought to be at work.”To this she made no answer.“Well,” said Soames, “I want you to come out to the Stores with me, and after that we’ll go to the Park.”“I don’t want to go out; I have a headache.”Soames replied: “If ever I want you to do anything, you’ve always got a headache. It’ll do you good to come and sit under the trees.”She did not answer.Soames was silent for some minutes; at last he said: “I don’t know what your idea of a wife’s duty is. I never have known!”He had not expected her to reply, but she did.“I have tried to do what you want; it’s not my fault that I haven’t been able to put my heart into it.”“Whose fault is it, then?” He watched her askance.“Before we were married you promised to let me go if our marriage was not a success. Is it a success?”Soames frowned.“Success,” he stammered —“it would be a success if you behaved yourself properly!”“I have tried,” said Irene. “Will you let me go?”Soames turned away. Secretly alarmed, he took refuge in bluster.“Let you go? You don’t know what you’re talking about. Let you go? How can I let you go? We’re married, aren’t we? Then, what are you talking about? For God’s sake, don’t let’s have any of this sort of nonsense! Get your hat on, and come and sit in the Park.”“Then, you won’t let me go?”He felt her eyes resting on him with a strange, touching look.“Let you go!” he said; “and what on earth would you do with yourself if I did? You’ve got no money!”“I could manage somehow.”He took a swift turn up and down the room; then came and stood before her.“Understand,” he said, “once and for all, I won’t have you say this sort of thing. Go and get your hat on!”She did not move.“I suppose,” said Soames, “you don’t want to miss Bosinney if he comes!”Irene got up slowly and left the room. She came down with her hat on.They went out.In the Park, the motley hour of mid-afternoon, when foreigners and other pathetic folk drive, thinking themselves to be in fashion, had passed; the right, the proper, hour had come, was nearly gone, before Soames and Irene seated themselves under the Achilles statue.It was some time since he had enjoyed her company in the Park. That was one of the past delights of the first two seasons of his married life, when to feel himself the possessor of this gracious creature before all London had been his greatest, though secret, pride. How many afternoons had he not sat beside her, extremely neat, with light grey gloves and faint, supercilious smile, nodding to acquaintances, and now and again removing his hat.His light grey gloves were still on his hands, and on his lips his smile sardonic, but where the feeling in his heart?The seats were emptying fast, but still he kept her there, silent and pale, as though to work out a secret punishment. Once or twice he made some comment, and she bent her head, or answered “Yes” with a tired smile.Along the rails a man was walking so fast that people stared after him when he passed.“Look at that ass!” said Soames; “he must be mad to walk like that in this heat!”He turned; Irene had made a rapid movement.“Hallo!” he said: “it’s our friend the Buccaneer!”And he sat still, with his sneering smile, conscious that Irene was sitting still, and smiling too.“Will she bow to him?” he thought.But she made no sign.Bosinney reached the end of the rails, and came walking back amongst the chairs, quartering his ground like a pointer. When he saw them he stopped dead, and raised his hat.The smile never left Soames’ face; he also took off his hat.Bosinney came up, looking exhausted, like a man after hard physical exercise; the sweat stood in drops on his brow, and Soames’ smile seemed to say: “You’ve had a trying time, my friend . . . . ..What are you doing in the Park?” he asked. “We thought you despised such frivolity!”Bosinney did not seem to hear; he made his answer to Irene: “I’ve been round to your place; I hoped I should find you in.”Somebody tapped Soames on the back, and spoke to him; and in the exchange of those platitudes over his shoulder, he missed her answer, and took a resolution.“We’re just going in,” he said to Bosinney; “you’d better come back to dinner with us.” Into that invitation he put a strange bravado, a stranger pathos: “You, can’t deceive me,” his look and voice seemed saying, “but see — I trust you — I’m not afraid of you!”They started back to Montpellier Square together, Irene between them. In the crowded streets Soames went on in front. He did not listen to their conversation; the strange resolution of trustfulness he had taken seemed to animate even his secret conduct. Like a gambler, he said to himself: ‘It’s a card I dare not throw away — I must play it for what it’s worth. I have not too many chances.’He dressed slowly, heard her leave her room and go downstairs, and, for full five minutes after, dawdled about in his dressing-room. Then he went down, purposely shutting the door loudly to show that he was coming. He found them standing by the hearth, perhaps talking, perhaps not; he could not say.He played his part out in the farce, the long evening through — his manner to his guest more friendly than it had ever been before; and when at last Bosinney went, he said: “You must come again soon; Irene likes to have you to talk about the house!” Again his voice had the strange bravado and the stranger pathos; but his hand was cold as ice.Loyal to his resolution, he turned away from their parting, turned away from his wife as she stood under the hanging lamp to say good-night — away from the sight of her golden head shining so under the light, of her smiling mournful lips; away from the sight of Bosinney’s eyes looking at her, so like a dog’s looking at its master.And he went to bed with the certainty that Bosinney was in love with his wife.The summer night was hot, so hot and still that through every opened window came in but hotter air. For long hours he lay listening to her breathing.She could sleep, but he must lie awake. And, lying awake, he hardened himself to play the part of the serene and trusting husband.In the small hours he slipped out of bed, and passing into his dressing-room, leaned by the open window.He could hardly breathe.A night four years ago came back to him — the night but one before his marriage; as hot and stifling as this.He remembered how he had lain in a long cane chair in the window of his sitting-room off Victoria Street. Down below in a side street a man had banged at a door, a woman had cried out; he remembered, as though it were now, the sound of the scuffle, the slam of the door, the dead silence that followed. And then the early water-cart, cleansing the reek of the streets, had approached through the strange-seeming, useless lamp-light; he seemed to hear again its rumble, nearer and nearer, till it passed and slowly died away.He leaned far out of the dressing-room window over the little court below, and saw the first light spread. The outlines of dark walls and roofs were blurred for a moment, then came out sharper than before.He remembered how that other night he had watched the lamps paling all the length of Victoria Street; how he had hurried on his clothes and gone down into the street, down past houses and squares, to the street where she was staying, and there had stood and looked at the front of the little house, as still and grey as the face of a dead man.And suddenly it shot through his mind; like a sick man’s fancy: What’s he doing? — that fellow who haunts me, who was here this evening, who’s in love with my wife — prowling out there, perhaps, looking for her as I know he was looking for her this afternoon; watching my house now, for all I can tell!He stole across the landing to the front of the house, stealthily drew aside a blind, and raised a window.The grey light clung about the trees of the square, as though Night, like a great downy moth, had brushed them with her wings. The lamps were still alight, all pale, but not a soul stirred — no living thing in sight.Yet suddenly, very faint, far off in the deathly stillness, he heard a cry writhing, like the voice of some wandering soul barred out of heaven, and crying for its happiness. There it was again — again! Soames shut the window, shuddering.Then he thought: ‘Ah! it’s only the peacocks, across the water.’

Chapter 21 June Pays Some Calls 
Jolyon stood in the narrow hall at Broadstairs, inhaling that odour of oilcloth and herrings which permeates all respectable seaside lodging-houses. On a chair — a shiny leather chair, displaying its horsehair through a hole in the top left-hand corner — stood a black despatch case. This he was filling with papers, with the Times, and a bottle of Eau-de Cologne. He had meetings that day of the ‘Globular Gold Concessions’ and the ‘New Colliery Company, Limited,’ to which he was going up, for he never missed a Board; to ‘miss a Board’ would be one more piece of evidence that he was growing old, and this his jealous Forsyte spirit could not bear.His eyes, as he filled that black despatch case, looked as if at any moment they might blaze up with anger. So gleams the eye of a schoolboy, baited by a ring of his companions; but he controls himself, deterred by the fearful odds against him. And old Jolyon controlled himself, keeping down, with his masterful restraint now slowly wearing out, the irritation fostered in him by the conditions of his life.He had received from his son an unpractical letter, in which by rambling generalities the boy seemed trying to get out of answering a plain question. ‘I’ve seen Bosinney,’ he said; ‘he is not a criminal. The more I see of people the more I am convinced that they are never good or bad — merely comic, or pathetic. You probably don’t agree with me!’Old Jolyon did not; he considered it cynical to so express oneself; he had not yet reached that point of old age when even Forsytes, bereft of those illusions and principles which they have cherished carefully for practical purposes but never believed in, bereft of all corporeal enjoyment, stricken to the very heart by having nothing left to hope for — break through the barriers of reserve and say things they would never have believed themselves capable of saying.Perhaps he did not believe in ‘goodness’ and ‘badness’ any more than his son; but as he would have said: He didn’t know — couldn’t tell; there might be something in it; and why, by an unnecessary expression of disbelief, deprive yourself of possible advantage?Accustomed to spend his holidays among the mountains, though (like a true Forsyte) he had never attempted anything too adventurous or too foolhardy, he had been passionately fond of them. And when the wonderful view (mentioned in Baedeker —‘fatiguing but repaying’)— was disclosed to him after the effort of the climb, he had doubtless felt the existence of some great, dignified principle crowning the chaotic strivings, the petty precipices, and ironic little dark chasms of life. This was as near to religion, perhaps, as his practical spirit had ever gone.But it was many years since he had been to the mountains. He had taken June there two seasons running, after his wife died, and had realized bitterly that his walking days were over.To that old mountain — given confidence in a supreme order of things he had long been a stranger.He knew himself to be old, yet he felt young; and this troubled him. It troubled and puzzled him, too, to think that he, who had always been so careful, should be father and grandfather to such as seemed born to disaster. He had nothing to say against Jo — who could say anything against the boy, an amiable chap? — but his position was deplorable, and this business of June’s nearly as bad. It seemed like a fatality, and a fatality was one of those things no man of his character could either understand or put up with.In writing to his son he did not really hope that anything would come of it. Since the ball at Roger’s he had seen too clearly how the land lay — he could put two and two together quicker than most men — and, with the example of his own son before his eyes, knew better than any Forsyte of them all that the pale flame singes men’s wings whether they will or no.In the days before June’s engagement, when she and Mrs. Soames were always together, he had seen enough of Irene to feel the spell she cast over men. She was not a flirt, not even a coquette — words dear to the heart of his generation, which loved to define things by a good, broad, inadequate word — but she was dangerous. He could not say why. Tell him of a quality innate in some women — a seductive power beyond their own control! He would but answer: ‘Humbug!’ She was dangerous, and there was an end of it. He wanted to close his eyes to that affair. If it was, it was; he did not want to hear any more about it — he only wanted to save June’s position and her peace of mind. He still hoped she might once more become a comfort to himself.And so he had written. He got little enough out of the answer. As to what young Jolyon had made of the interview, there was practically only the queer sentence: ‘I gather that he’s in the stream.’ The stream! What stream? What was this new-fangled way of talking?He sighed, and folded the last of the papers under the flap of the bag; he knew well enough what was meant.June came out of the dining-room, and helped him on with his summer coat. From her costume, and the expression of her little resolute face, he saw at once what was coming.“I’m going with you,” she said.“Nonsense, my dear; I go straight into the City. I can’t have you racketting about!”“I must see old Mrs. Smeech.”“Oh, your precious ‘lame ducks!” grumbled out old Jolyon. He did not believe her excuse, but ceased his opposition. There was no doing anything with that pertinacity of hers.At Victoria he put her into the carriage which had been ordered for himself — a characteristic action, for he had no petty selfishnesses.“Now, don’t you go tiring yourself, my darling,” he said, and took a cab on into the city.June went first to a back-street in Paddington, where Mrs. Smeech, her ‘lame duck,’ lived — an aged person, connected with the charring interest; but after half an hour spent in hearing her habitually lamentable recital, and dragooning her into temporary comfort, she went on to Stanhope Gate. The great house was closed and dark.She had decided to learn something at all costs. It was better to face the worst, and have it over. And this was her plan: To go first to Phil’s aunt, Mrs. Baynes, and, failing information there, to Irene herself. She had no clear notion of what she would gain by these visits.At three o’clock she was in Lowndes Square. With a woman’s instinct when trouble is to be faced, she had put on her best frock, and went to the battle with a glance as courageous as old Jolyon’s itself. Her tremors had passed into eagerness.Mrs. Baynes, Bosinney’s aunt (Louisa was her name), was in her kitchen when June was announced, organizing the cook, for she was an excellent housewife, and, as Baynes always said, there was ‘a lot in a good dinner.’ He did his best work after dinner. It was Baynes who built that remarkably fine row of tall crimson houses in Kensington which compete with so many others for the title of ‘the ugliest in London.’On hearing June’s name, she went hurriedly to her bedroom, and, taking two large bracelets from a red morocco case in a locked drawer, put them on her white wrists — for she possessed in a remarkable degree that ‘sense of property,’ which, as we know, is the touchstone of Forsyteism, and the foundation of good morality.Her figure, of medium height and broad build, with a tendency to embonpoint, was reflected by the mirror of her whitewood wardrobe, in a gown made under her own organization, of one of those half-tints, reminiscent of the distempered walls of corridors in large hotels. She raised her hands to her hair, which she wore a la Princesse de Galles, and touched it here and there, settling it more firmly on her head, and her eyes were full of an unconscious realism, as though she were looking in the face one of life’s sordid facts, and making the best of it. In youth her cheeks had been of cream and roses, but they were mottled now by middle-age, and again that hard, ugly directness came into her eyes as she dabbed a powder-puff across her forehead. Putting the puff down, she stood quite still before the glass, arranging a smile over her high, important nose, her, chin, (never large, and now growing smaller with the increase of her neck), her thin-lipped, down-drooping mouth. Quickly, not to lose the effect, she grasped her skirts strongly in both hands, and went downstairs.She had been hoping for this visit for some time past. Whispers had reached her that things were not all right between her nephew and his fiancee. Neither of them had been near her for weeks. She had asked Phil to dinner many times; his invariable answer had been ‘Too busy.’Her instinct was alarmed, and the instinct in such matters of this excellent woman was keen. She ought to have been a Forsyte; in young Jolyon’s sense of the word, she certainly had that privilege, and merits description as such.She had married off her three daughters in a way that people said was beyond their deserts, for they had the professional plainness only to be found, as a rule, among the female kind of the more legal callings. Her name was upon the committees of numberless charities connected with the Church-dances, theatricals, or bazaars — and she never lent her name unless sure beforehand that everything had been thoroughly organized.She believed, as she often said, in putting things on a commercial basis; the proper function of the Church, of charity, indeed, of everything, was to strengthen the fabric of ‘Society.’ Individual action, therefore, she considered immoral. Organization was the only thing, for by organization alone could you feel sure that you were getting a return for your money. Organization — and again, organization! And there is no doubt that she was what old Jolyon called her —“a ‘dab’ at that”— he went further, he called her “a humbug.”The enterprises to which she lent her name were organized so admirably that by the time the takings were handed over, they were indeed skim milk divested of all cream of human kindness. But as she often justly remarked, sentiment was to be deprecated. She was, in fact, a little academic.This great and good woman, so highly thought of in ecclesiastical circles, was one of the principal priestesses in the temple of Forsyteism, keeping alive day and night a sacred flame to the God of Property, whose altar is inscribed with those inspiring words: ‘Nothing for nothing, and really remarkably little for sixpence.’When she entered a room it was felt that something substantial had come in, which was probably the reason of her popularity as a patroness. People liked something substantial when they had paid money for it; and they would look at her — surrounded by her staff in charity ballrooms, with her high nose and her broad, square figure, attired in an uniform covered with sequins — as though she were a general.The only thing against her was that she had not a double name. She was a power in upper middle-class society, with its hundred sets and circles, all intersecting on the common battlefield of charity functions, and on that battlefield brushing skirts so pleasantly with the skirts of Society with the capital ‘S.’ She was a power in society with the smaller ‘s,’ that larger, more significant, and more powerful body, where the commercially Christian institutions, maxims, and ‘principle,’ which Mrs. Baynes embodied, were real life-blood, circulating freely, real business currency, not merely the sterilized imitation that flowed in the veins of smaller Society with the larger ‘S.’ People who knew her felt her to be sound — a sound woman, who never gave herself away, nor anything else, if she could possibly help it.She had been on the worst sort of terms with Bosinney’s father, who had not infrequently made her the object of an unpardonable ridicule. She alluded to him now that he was gone as her ‘poor, dear, irreverend brother.’She greeted June with the careful effusion of which she was a mistress, a little afraid of her as far as a woman of her eminence in the commercial and Christian world could be afraid — for so slight a girl June had a great dignity, the fearlessness of her eyes gave her that. And Mrs. Baynes, too, shrewdly recognized that behind the uncompromising frankness of June’s manner there was much of the Forsyte. If the girl had been merely frank and courageous, Mrs. Baynes would have thought her ‘cranky,’ and despised her; if she had been merely a Forsyte, like Francie — let us say — she would have patronized her from sheer weight of metal; but June, small though she was — Mrs. Baynes habitually admired quantity — gave her an uneasy feeling; and she placed her in a chair opposite the light.There was another reason for her respect which Mrs. Baynes, too good a churchwoman to be worldly, would have been the last to admit — she often heard her husband describe old Jolyon as extremely well off, and was biassed towards his granddaughter for the soundest of all reasons. To-day she felt the emotion with which we read a novel describing a hero and an inheritance, nervously anxious lest, by some frightful lapse of the novelist, the young man should be left without it at the end.Her manner was warm; she had never seen so clearly before how distinguished and desirable a girl this was. She asked after old Jolyon’s health. A wonderful man for his age; so upright, and young looking, and how old was he? Eighty-one! She would never have thought it! They were at the sea! Very nice for them; she supposed June heard from Phil every day? Her light grey eyes became more prominent as she asked this question; but the girl met the glance without flinching.“No,” she said, “he never writes!”Mrs. Baynes’s eyes dropped; they had no intention of doing so, but they did. They recovered immediately.“Of course not. That’s Phil all over — he was always like that!”“Was he?” said June.The brevity of the answer caused Mrs. Baynes’s bright smile a moment’s hesitation; she disguised it by a quick movement, and spreading her skirts afresh, said: “Why, my dear — he’s quite the most harum-scarum person; one never pays the slightest attention to what he does!”The conviction came suddenly to June that she was wasting her time; even were she to put a question point-blank, she would never get anything out of this woman.‘Do you see him?’ she asked, her face crimsoning.The perspiration broke out on Mrs. Baynes’ forehead beneath the powder.“Oh, yes! I don’t remember when he was here last — indeed, we haven’t seen much of him lately. He’s so busy with your cousin’s house; I’m told it’ll be finished directly. We must organize a little dinner to celebrate the event; do come and stay the night with us!”“Thank you,” said June. Again she thought: ‘I’m only wasting my time. This woman will tell me nothing.’She got up to go. A change came over Mrs. Baynes. She rose too; her lips twitched, she fidgeted her hands. Something was evidently very wrong, and she did not dare to ask this girl, who stood there, a slim, straight little figure, with her decided face, her set jaw, and resentful eyes. She was not accustomed to be afraid of asking question’s — all organization was based on the asking of questions!But the issue was so grave that her nerve, normally strong, was fairly shaken; only that morning her husband had said: “Old Mr. Forsyte must be worth well over a hundred thousand pounds!”And this girl stood there, holding out her hand — holding out her hand!The chance might be slipping away — she couldn’t tell — the chance of keeping her in the family, and yet she dared not speak.Her eyes followed June to the door.It closed.Then with an exclamation Mrs. Baynes ran forward, wobbling her bulky frame from side to side, and opened it again.Too late! She heard the front door click, and stood still, an expression of real anger and mortification on her face.June went along the Square with her bird-like quickness. She detested that woman now whom in happier days she had been accustomed to think so kind. Was she always to be put off thus, and forced to undergo this torturing suspense?She would go to Phil himself, and ask him what he meant. She had the right to know. She hurried on down Sloane Street till she came to Bosinney’s number. Passing the swing-door at the bottom, she ran up the stairs, her heart thumping painfully.At the top of the third flight she paused for breath, and holding on to the bannisters, stood listening. No sound came from above.With a very white face she mounted the last flight. She saw the door, with his name on the plate. And the resolution that had brought her so far evaporated.The full meaning of her conduct came to her. She felt hot all over; the palms of her hands were moist beneath the thin silk covering of her gloves.She drew back to the stairs, but did not descend. Leaning against the rail she tried to get rid of a feeling of being choked; and she gazed at the door with a sort of dreadful courage. No! she refused to go down. Did it matter what people thought of her? They would never know! No one would help her if she did not help herself! She would go through with it.Forcing herself, therefore, to leave the support of the wall, she rang the bell. The door did not open, and all her shame and fear suddenly abandoned her; she rang again and again, as though in spite of its emptiness she could drag some response out of that closed room, some recompense for the shame and fear that visit had cost her. It did not open; she left off ringing, and, sitting down at the top of the stairs, buried her face in her hands.Presently she stole down, out into the air. She felt as though she had passed through a bad illness, and had no desire now but to get home as quickly as she could. The people she met seemed to know where she had been, what she had been doing; and suddenly — over on the opposite side, going towards his rooms from the direction of Montpellier Square — she saw Bosinney himself.She made a movement to cross into the traffic. Their eyes met, and he raised his hat. An omnibus passed, obscuring her view; then, from the edge of the pavement, through a gap in the traffic, she saw him walking on.And June stood motionless, looking after him.

Chapter 22 Perfection of the House 
‘One mockturtle, clear; one oxtail; two glasses of port.’In the upper room at French’s, where a Forsyte could still get heavy English food, James and his son were sitting down to lunch.Of all eating-places James liked best to come here; there was something unpretentious, well-flavoured, and filling about it, and though he had been to a certain extent corrupted by the necessity for being fashionable, and the trend of habits keeping pace with an income that would increase, he still hankered in quiet City moments after the tasty fleshpots of his earlier days. Here you were served by hairy English waiters in aprons; there was sawdust on the floor, and three round gilt looking-glasses hung just above the line of sight. They had only recently done away with the cubicles, too, in which you could have your chop, prime chump, with a floury-potato, without seeing your neighbours, like a gentleman.He tucked the top corner of his napkin behind the third button of his waistcoat, a practice he had been obliged to abandon years ago in the West End. He felt that he should relish his soup — the entire morning had been given to winding up the estate of an old friend.After filling his mouth with household bread, stale, he at once began: “How are you going down to Robin Hill? You going to take Irene? You’d better take her. I should think there’ll be a lot that’ll want seeing to.”Without looking up, Soames answered: “She won’t go.”“Won’t go? What’s the meaning of that? She’s going to live in the house, isn’t she?”Soames made no reply.“I don’t know what’s coming to women nowadays,” mumbled James; “I never used to have any trouble with them. She’s had too much liberty. She’s spoiled. . . . ”Soames lifted his eyes: “I won’t have anything said against her,” he said unexpectedly.The silence was only broken now by the supping of James’s soup.The waiter brought the two glasses of port, but Soames stopped him.“That’s not the way to serve port,” he said; “take them away, and bring the bottle.”Rousing himself from his reverie over the soup, James took one of his rapid shifting surveys of surrounding facts.“Your mother’s in bed,” he said; “you can have the carriage to take you down. I should think Irene’d like the drive. This young Bosinney’ll be there, I suppose, to show you over”Soames nodded.“I should like to go and see for myself what sort of a job he’s made finishing off,” pursued James. “I’ll just drive round and pick you both up.”“I am going down by train,” replied Soames. “If you like to drive round and see, Irene might go with you, I can’t tell.”He signed to the waiter to bring the bill, which James paid.They parted at St. Paul’s, Soames branching off to the station, James taking his omnibus westwards.He had secured the corner seat next the conductor, where his long legs made it difficult for anyone to get in, and at all who passed him he looked resentfully, as if they had no business to be using up his air.He intended to take an opportunity this afternoon of speaking to Irene. A word in time saved nine; and now that she was going to live in the country there was a chance for her to turn over a new leaf! He could see that Soames wouldn’t stand very much more of her goings on!It did not occur to him to define what he meant by her ‘goings on’; the expression was wide, vague, and suited to a Forsyte. And James had more than his common share of courage after lunch.On reaching home, he ordered out the barouche, with special instructions that the groom was to go too. He wished to be kind to her, and to give her every chance.When the door of No.62 was opened he could distinctly hear her singing, and said so at once, to prevent any chance of being denied entrance.Yes, Mrs. Soames was in, but the maid did not know if she was seeing people.James, moving with the rapidity that ever astonished the observers of his long figure and absorbed expression, went forthwith into the drawing-room without permitting this to be ascertained. He found Irene seated at the piano with her hands arrested on the keys, evidently listening to the voices in the hall. She greeted him without smiling.“Your mother-in-law’s in bed,” he began, hoping at once to enlist her sympathy. “I’ve got the carriage here. Now, be a good girl, and put on your hat and come with me for a drive. It’ll do you good!”Irene looked at him as though about to refuse, but, seeming to change her mind, went upstairs, and came down again with her hat on.“Where are you going to take me?” she asked.“We’ll just go down to Robin Hill,” said James, spluttering out his words very quick; “the horses want exercise, and I should like to see what they’ve been doing down there.”Irene hung back, but again changed her mind, and went out to the carriage, James brooding over her closely, to make quite sure.It was not before he had got her more than half way that he began: “Soames is very fond of you — he won’t have anything said against you; why don’t you show him more affection?”Irene flushed, and said in a low voice: “I can’t show what I haven’t got.”James looked at her sharply; he felt that now he had her in his own carriage, with his own horses and servants, he was really in command of the situation. She could not put him off; nor would she make a scene in public.“I can’t think what you’re about,” he said. “He’s a very good husband!”Irene’s answer was so low as to be almost inaudible among the sounds of traffic. He caught the words: “You are not married to him!”“What’s that got to do with it? He’s given you everything you want. He’s always ready to take you anywhere, and now he’s built you this house in the country. It’s not as if you had anything of your own.”“No.”Again James looked at her; he could not make out the expression on her face. She looked almost as if she were going to cry, and yet. . . .“I’m sure,” he muttered hastily, “we’ve all tried to be kind to you.”Irene’s lips quivered; to his dismay James saw a tear steal down her cheek. He felt a choke rise in his own throat.“We’re all fond of you,” he said, “if you’d only”— he was going to say, “behave yourself,” but changed it to —“if you’d only be more of a wife to him.”Irene did not answer, and James, too, ceased speaking. There was something in her silence which disconcerted him; it was not the silence of obstinacy, rather that of acquiescence in all that he could find to say. And yet he felt as if he had not had the last word. He could not understand this.He was unable, however, to long keep silence.“I suppose that young Bosinney,” he said, “will be getting married to June now?”Irene’s face changed. “I don’t know,” she said; “you should ask her.”“Does she write to you?” No.“How’s that?” said James. “I thought you and she were such great friends.”Irene turned on him. “Again,” she said, “you should ask her!”“Well,” flustered James, frightened by her look, “it’s very odd that I can’t get a plain answer to a plain question, but there it is.”He sat ruminating over his rebuff, and burst out at last:“Well, I’ve warned you. You won’t look ahead. Soames he doesn’t say much, but I can see he won’t stand a great deal more of this sort of thing. You’ll have nobody but yourself to blame, and, what’s more, you’ll get no sympathy from anybody.”Irene bent her head with a little smiling bow. “I am very much obliged to you.”James did not know what on earth to answer.The bright hot morning had changed slowly to a grey, oppressive afternoon; a heavy bank of clouds, with the yellow tinge of coming thunder, had risen in the south, and was creeping up.The branches of the trees dropped motionless across the road without the smallest stir of foliage. A faint odour of glue from the heated horses clung in the thick air; the coachman and groom, rigid and unbending, exchanged stealthy murmurs on the box, without ever turning their heads.To James’ great relief they reached the house at last; the silence and impenetrability of this woman by his side, whom he had always thought so soft and mild, alarmed him.The carriage put them down at the door, and they entered.The hall was cool, and so still that it was like passing into a tomb; a shudder ran down James’s spine. He quickly lifted the heavy leather curtains between the columns into the inner court.He could not restrain an exclamation of approval.The decoration was really in excellent taste. The dull ruby tiles that extended from the foot of the walls to the verge of a circular clump of tall iris plants, surrounding in turn a sunken basin of white marble filled with water, were obviously of the best quality. He admired extremely the purple leather curtains drawn along one entire side, framing a huge white-tiled stove. The central partitions of the skylight had been slid back, and the warm air from outside penetrated into the very heart of the house.He stood, his hands behind him, his head bent back on his high, narrow shoulders, spying the tracery on the columns and the pattern of the frieze which ran round the ivory-coloured walls under the gallery. Evidently, no pains had been spared. It was quite the house of a gentleman. He went up to the curtains, and, having discovered how they were worked, drew them asunder and disclosed the picture-gallery, ending in a great window taking up the whole end of the room. It had a black oak floor, and its walls, again, were of ivory white. He went on throwing open doors, and peeping in. Everything was in apple-pie order, ready for immediate occupation.He turned round at last to speak to Irene, and saw her standing over in the garden entrance, with her husband and Bosinney.Though not remarkable for sensibility, James felt at once that something was wrong. He went up to them, and, vaguely alarmed, ignorant of the nature of the trouble, made an attempt to smooth things over.“How are you, Mr. Bosinney?” he said, holding out his hand. “You’ve been spending money pretty freely down here, I should say!”Soames turned his back, and walked away.James looked from Bosinney’s frowning face to Irene, and, in his agitation, spoke his thoughts aloud: “Well, I can’t tell what’s the matter. Nobody tells me anything!” And, making off after his son, he heard Bosinney’s short laugh, and his “Well, thank God! You look so. . . . ” Most unfortunately he lost the rest.What had happened? He glanced back. Irene was very close to the architect, and her face not like the face he knew of her. He hastened up to his son.Soames was pacing the picture-gallery.“What’s the matter?” said James. “What’s all this?”Soames looked at him with his supercilious calm unbroken, but James knew well enough that he was violently angry.“Our friend,” he said, “has exceeded his instructions again, that’s all. So much the worse for him this time.”He turned round and walked back towards the door. James followed hurriedly, edging himself in front. He saw Irene take her finger from before her lips, heard her say something in her ordinary voice, and began to speak before he reached them.“There’s a storm coming on. We’d better get home. We can’t take you, I suppose, Mr. Bosinney? No, I suppose not. Then, good-bye!” He held out his hand. Bosinney did not take it, but, turning with a laugh, said:“Good-bye, Mr. Forsyte. Don’t get caught in the storm!” and walked away.“Well,” began James, “I don’t know. . . . ”But the ‘sight of Irene’s face stopped him. Taking hold of his daughter-in-law by the elbow, he escorted her towards the carriage. He felt certain, quite certain, they had been making some appointment or other. . . .Nothing in this world is more sure to upset a Forsyte than the discovery that something on which he has stipulated to spend a certain sum has cost more. And this is reasonable, for upon the accuracy of his estimates the whole policy of his life is ordered. If he cannot rely on definite values of property, his compass is amiss; he is adrift upon bitter waters without a helm.After writing to Bosinney in the terms that have already been chronicled, Soames had dismissed the cost of the house from his mind. He believed that he had made the matter of the final cost so very plain that the possibility of its being again exceeded had really never entered his head. On hearing from Bosinney that his limit of twelve thousand pounds would be exceeded by something like four hundred, he had grown white with anger. His original estimate of the cost of the house completed had been ten thousand pounds, and he had often blamed himself severely for allowing himself to be led into repeated excesses. Over this last expenditure, however, Bosinney had put himself completely in the wrong. How on earth a fellow could make such an ass of himself Soames could not conceive; but he had done so, and all the rancour and hidden jealousy that had been burning against him for so long was now focussed in rage at this crowning piece of extravagance. The attitude of the confident and friendly husband was gone. To preserve property — his wife — he had assumed it, to preserve property of another kind he lost it now.“Ah!” he had said to Bosinney when he could speak, “and I suppose you’re perfectly contented with yourself. But I may as well tell you that you’ve altogether mistaken your man!”What he meant by those words he did not quite know at the time, but after dinner he looked up the correspondence between himself and Bosinney to make quite sure. There could be no two opinions about it — the fellow had made himself liable for that extra four hundred, or, at all events, for three hundred and fifty of it, and he would have to make it good.He was looking at his wife’s face when he came to this conclusion. Seated in her usual seat on the sofa, she was altering the lace on a collar. She had not once spoken to him all the evening.He went up to the mantelpiece, and contemplating his face in the mirror said: “Your friend the Buccaneer has made a fool of himself; he will have to pay for it!”She looked at him scornfully, and answered: “I don’t know what you are talking about!”“You soon will. A mere trifle, quite beneath your contempt — four hundred pounds.”“Do you mean that you are going to make him pay that towards this hateful, house?”“I do.”“And you know he’s got nothing?”“Yes.”“Then you are meaner than I thought you.”Soames turned from the mirror, and unconsciously taking a china cup from the mantelpiece, clasped his hands around it as though praying. He saw her bosom rise and fall, her eyes darkening with anger, and taking no notice of the taunt, he asked quietly:“Are you carrying on a flirtation with Bosinney?”“No, I am not!”Her eyes met his, and he looked away. He neither believed nor disbelieved her, but he knew that he had made a mistake in asking; he never had known, never would know, what she was thinking. The sight of her inscrutable face, the thought of all the hundreds of evenings he had seen her sitting there like that soft and passive, but unreadable, unknown, enraged him beyond measure.“I believe you are made of stone,” he said, clenching his fingers so hard that he broke the fragile cup. The pieces fell into the grate. And Irene smiled.“You seem to forget,” she said, “that cup is not!”Soames gripped her arm. “A good beating,” he said, “is the only thing that would bring you to your senses,” but turning on his heel, he left the room.

Chapter 23 Soames Sits on the Stairs 
Soames went upstairs that night that he had gone too far. He was prepared to offer excuses for his words.He turned out the gas still burning in the passage outside their room. Pausing, with his hand on the knob of the door, he tried to shape his apology, for he had no intention of letting her see that he was nervous.But the door did not open, nor when he pulled it and turned the handle firmly. She must have locked it for some reason, and forgotten.Entering his dressing-room where the gas was also light and burning low, he went quickly to the other door. That too was locked. Then he noticed that the camp bed which he occasionally used was prepared, and his sleeping-suit laid out upon it. He put his hand up to his forehead, and brought it away wet. It dawned on him that he was barred out.He went back to the door, and rattling the handle stealthily, called: “Unlock the door, do you hear? Unlock the door!”There was a faint rustling, but no answer.“Do you hear? Let me in at once — I insist on being let in!”He could catch the sound of her breathing close to the door, like the breathing of a creature threatened by danger.There was something terrifying in this inexorable silence, in the impossibility of getting at her. He went back to the other door, and putting his whole weight against it, tried to burst it open. The door was a new one — he had had them renewed himself, in readiness for their coming in after the honeymoon. In a rage he lifted his foot to kick in the panel; the thought of the servants restrained him, and he felt suddenly that he was beaten.Flinging himself down in the dressing-room, he took up a book.But instead of the print he seemed to see his wife — with her yellow hair flowing over her bare shoulders, and her great dark eyes — standing like an animal at bay. And the whole meaning of her act of revolt came to him. She meant it to be for good.He could not sit still, and went to the door again. He could still hear her, and he called: “Irene! Irene!”He did not mean to make his voice pathetic.In ominous answer, the faint sounds ceased. He stood with clenched hands, thinking.Presently he stole round on tiptoe, and running suddenly at the other door, made a supreme effort to break it open. It creaked, but did not yield. He sat down on the stairs and buried his face in his hands.For a long time he sat there in the dark, the moon through the skylight above laying a pale smear which lengthened slowly towards him down the stairway. He tried to be philosophical.Since she had locked her doors she had no further claim as a wife, and he would console himself with other women.It was but a spectral journey he made among such delights — he had no appetite for these exploits. He had never had much, and he had lost the habit. He felt that he could never recover it. His hunger could only be appeased by his wife, inexorable and frightened, behind these shut doors. No other woman could help him.This conviction came to him with terrible force out there in the dark.His philosophy left him; and surly anger took its place. Her conduct was immoral, inexcusable, worthy of any punishment within his power. He desired no one but her, and she refused him!She must really hate him, then! He had never believed it yet. He did not believe it now. It seemed to him incredible. He felt as though he had lost for ever his power of judgment. If she, so soft and yielding as he had always judged her, could take this decided step — what could not happen?Then he asked himself again if she were carrying on an intrigue with Bosinney. He did not believe that she was; he could not afford to believe such a reason for her conduct — the thought was not to be faced.It would be unbearable to contemplate the necessity of making his marital relations public property. Short of the most convincing proofs he must still refuse to believe, for he did not wish to punish himself. And all the time at heart — he did believe.The moonlight cast a greyish tinge over his figure, hunched against the staircase wall.Bosinney was in love with her! He hated the fellow, and would not spare him now. He could and would refuse to pay a penny piece over twelve thousand and fifty pounds — the extreme limit fixed in the correspondence; or rather he would pay, he would pay and sue him for damages. He would go to Jobling and Boulter and put the matter in their hands. He would ruin the impecunious beggar! And suddenly — though what connection between the thoughts? — he reflected that Irene had no money either. They were both beggars. This gave him a strange satisfaction.The silence was broken by a faint creaking through the wall. She was going to bed at last. Ah! Joy and pleasant dreams! If she threw the door open wide he would not go in now!But his lips, that were twisted in a bitter smile, twitched; he covered his eyes with his hands. . . .It was late the following afternoon when Soames stood in the dining-room window gazing gloomily into the Square.The sunlight still showered on the plane-trees, and in the breeze their gay broad leaves shone and swung in rhyme to a barrel organ at the corner. It was playing a waltz, an old waltz that was out of fashion, with a fateful rhythm in the notes; and it went on and on, though nothing indeed but leaves danced to the tune.The woman did not look too gay, for she was tired; and from the tall houses no one threw her down coppers. She moved the organ on, and three doors off began again.It was the waltz they had played at Roger’s when Irene had danced with Bosinney; and the perfume of the gardenias she had worn came back to Soames, drifted by the malicious music, as it had been drifted to him then, when she passed, her hair glistening, her eyes so soft, drawing Bosinney on and on down an endless ballroom.The organ woman plied her handle slowly; she had been grinding her tune all day-grinding it in Sloane Street hard by, grinding it perhaps to Bosinney himself.Soames turned, took a cigarette from the carven box, and walked back to the window. The tune had mesmerized him, and there came into his view Irene, her sunshade furled, hastening homewards down the Square, in a soft, rose-coloured blouse with drooping sleeves, that he did not know. She stopped before the organ, took out her purse, and gave the woman money.Soames shrank back and stood where he could see into the hall.She came in with her latch-key, put down her sunshade, and stood looking at herself in the glass. Her cheeks were flushed as if the sun had burned them; her lips were parted in a smile. She stretched her arms out as though to embrace herself, with a laugh that for all the world was like a sob.Soames stepped forward.“Very-pretty!” he said.But as though shot she spun round, and would have passed him up the stairs. He barred the way.“Why such a hurry?” he said, and his eyes fastened on a curl of hair fallen loose across her ear. . . .He hardly recognised her. She seemed on fire, so deep and rich the colour of her cheeks, her eyes, her lips, and of the unusual blouse she wore.She put up her hand and smoothed back the curl. She was breathing fast and deep, as though she had been running, and with every breath perfume seemed to come from her hair, and from her body, like perfume from an opening flower.“I don’t like that blouse,” he said slowly, “it’s a soft, shapeless thing!”He lifted his finger towards her breast, but she dashed his hand aside.“Don’t touch me!” she cried.He caught her wrist; she wrenched it away.“And where may you have been?” he asked.“In heaven — out of this house!” With those words she fled upstairs.Outside — in thanksgiving — at the very door, the organ-grinder was playing the waltz.And Soames stood motionless. What prevented him from following her?Was it that, with the eyes of faith, he saw Bosinney looking down from that high window in Sloane Street, straining his eyes for yet another glimpse of Irene’s vanished figure, cooling his flushed face, dreaming of the moment when she flung herself on his breast — the scent of her still in the air around, and the sound of her laugh that was like a sob?

Part III Chapter 24 Mrs. Macander’s Evidence 
Many people, no doubt, including the editor of the ‘Ultra Vivisectionist,’ then in the bloom of its first youth, would say that Soames was less than a man not to have removed the locks from his wife’s doors, and, after beating her soundly, resumed wedded happiness.Brutality is not so deplorably diluted by humaneness as it used to be, yet a sentimental segment of the population may still be relieved to learn that he did none of these things. For active brutality is not popular with Forsytes; they are too circumspect, and, on the whole, too softhearted. And in Soames there was some common pride, not sufficient to make him do a really generous action, but enough to prevent his indulging in an extremely mean one, except, perhaps, in very hot blood. Above all this a true Forsyte refused to feel himself ridiculous. Short of actually beating his wife, he perceived nothing to be done; he therefore accepted the situation without another word.Throughout the summer and autumn he continued to go to the office, to sort his pictures, and ask his friends to dinner.He did not leave town; Irene refused to go away. The house at Robin Hill, finished though it was, remained empty and ownerless. Soames had brought a suit against the Buccaneer, in which he claimed from him the sum of three hundred and fifty pounds.A firm of solicitors, Messrs. Freak and Able, had put in a defence on Bosinney’s behalf. Admitting the facts, they raised a point on the correspondence which, divested of legal phraseology, amounted to this: To speak of ‘a free hand in the terms of this correspondence’ is an Irish bull.By a chance, fortuitous but not improbable in the close borough of legal circles, a good deal of information came to Soames’ ear anent this line of policy, the working partner in his firm, Bustard, happening to sit next at dinner at Walmisley’s, the Taxing Master, to young Chankery, of the Common Law Bar.The necessity for talking what is known as ‘shop,’ which comes on all lawyers with the removal of the ladies, caused Chankery, a young and promising advocate, to propound an impersonal conundrum to his neighbour, whose name he did not know, for, seated as he permanently was in the background, Bustard had practically no name.He had, said Chankery, a case coming on with a ‘very nice point.’ He then explained, preserving every professional discretion, the riddle in Soames’ case. Everyone, he said, to whom he had spoken, thought it a nice point. The issue was small unfortunately, ‘though d —— d serious for his client he believed’— Walmisley’s champagne was bad but plentiful. A Judge would make short work of it, he was afraid. He intended to make a big effort — the point was a nice one. What did his neighbour say?Bustard, a model of secrecy, said nothing. He related the incident to Soames however with some malice, for this quiet man was capable of human feeling, ending with his own opinion that the point was ‘a very nice one.’In accordance with his resolve, our Forsyte had put his interests into the hands of Jobling and Boulter. From the moment of doing so he regretted that he had not acted for himself. On receiving a copy of Bosinney’s defence he went over to their offices.Boulter, who had the matter in hand, Jobling having died some years before, told him that in his opinion it was rather a nice point; he would like counsel’s opinion on it.Soames told him to go to a good man, and they went to Waterbuck, Q.C., marking him ten and one, who kept the papers six weeks and then wrote as follows:‘In my opinion the true interpretation of this correspondence depends very much on the intention of the parties, and will turn upon the evidence given at the trial. I am of opinion that an attempt should be made to secure from the architect an admission that he understood he was not to spend at the outside more than twelve thousand and fifty pounds. With regard to the expression, “a free hand in the terms of this correspondence,” to which my attention is directed, the point is a nice one; but I am of opinion that upon the whole the ruling in “Boileau v. The Blasted Cement Co., Ltd.,” will apply.’Upon this opinion they acted, administering interrogatories, but to their annoyance Messrs. Freak and Able answered these in so masterly a fashion that nothing whatever was admitted and that without prejudice.It was on October 1 that Soames read Waterbuck’s opinion, in the dining-room before dinner.It made him nervous; not so much because of the case of ‘Boileau v. The Blasted Cement Co., Ltd.,’ as that the point had lately begun to seem to him, too, a nice one; there was about it just that pleasant flavour of subtlety so attractive to the best legal appetites. To have his own impression confirmed by Waterbuck, Q.C., would have disturbed any man.He sat thinking it over, and staring at the empty grate, for though autumn had come, the weather kept as gloriously fine that jubilee year as if it were still high August. It was not pleasant to be disturbed; he desired too passionately to set his foot on Bosinney’s neck.Though he had not seen the architect since the last afternoon at Robin Hill, he was never free from the sense of his presence — never free from the memory of his worn face with its high cheek bones and enthusiastic eyes. It would not be too much to say that he had never got rid of the feeling of that night when he heard the peacock’s cry at dawn — the feeling that Bosinney haunted the house. And every man’s shape that he saw in the dark evenings walking past, seemed that of him whom George had so appropriately named the Buccaneer.Irene still met him, he was certain; where, or how, he neither knew, nor asked; deterred by a vague and secret dread of too much knowledge. It all seemed subterranean nowadays.Sometimes when he questioned his wife as to where she had been, which he still made a point of doing, as every Forsyte should, she looked very strange. Her self-possession was wonderful, but there were moments when, behind the mask of her face, inscrutable as it had always been to him, lurked an expression he had never been used to see there.She had taken to lunching out too; when he asked Bilson if her mistress had been in to lunch, as often as not she would answer: “No, sir.”He strongly disapproved of her gadding about by herself, and told her so. But she took no notice. There was something that angered, amazed, yet almost amused him about the calm way in which she disregarded his wishes. It was really as if she were hugging to herself the thought of a triumph over him.He rose from the perusal of Waterbuck, Q.C.‘s opinion, and, going upstairs, entered her room, for she did not lock her doors till bed-time — she had the decency, he found, to save the feelings of the servants. She was brushing her hair, and turned to him with strange fierceness.“What do you want?” she said. “Please leave my room!”He answered: “I want to know how long this state of things between us is to last? I have put up with it long enough.”“Will you please leave my room?”“Will you treat me as your husband?”“No.”“Then, I shall take steps to make you.”“Do!”He stared, amazed at the calmness of her answer. Her lips were compressed in a thin line; her hair lay in fluffy masses on her bare shoulders, in all its strange golden contrast to her dark eyes — those eyes alive with the emotions of fear, hate, contempt, and odd, haunting triumph.“Now, please, will you leave my room?” He turned round, and went sulkily out.He knew very well that he had no intention of taking steps, and he saw that she knew too — knew that he was afraid to.It was a habit with him to tell her the doings of his day: how such and such clients had called; how he had arranged a mortgage for Parkes; how that long-standing suit of Fryer v. Forsyte was getting on, which, arising in the preternaturally careful disposition of his property by his great uncle Nicholas, who had tied it up so that no one could get at it at all, seemed likely to remain a source of income for several solicitors till the Day of Judgment.And how he had called in at Jobson’s, and seen a Boucher sold, which he had just missed buying of Talleyrand and Sons in Pall Mall.He had an admiration for Boucher, Watteau, and all that school. It was a habit with him to tell her all these matters, and he continued to do it even now, talking for long spells at dinner, as though by the volubility of words he could conceal from himself the ache in his heart.Often, if they were alone, he made an attempt to kiss her when she said good-night. He may have had some vague notion that some night she would let him; or perhaps only the feeling that a husband ought to kiss his wife. Even if she hated him, he at all events ought not to put himself in the wrong by neglecting this ancient rite.And why did she hate him? Even now he could not altogether believe it. It was strange to be hated! — the emotion was too extreme; yet he hated Bosinney, that Buccaneer, that prowling vagabond, that night-wanderer. For in his thoughts Soames always saw him lying in wait — wandering. Ah, but he must be in very low water! Young Burkitt, the architect, had seen him coming out of a third-rate restaurant, looking terribly down in the mouth!During all the hours he lay awake, thinking over the situation, which seemed to have no end — unless she should suddenly come to her senses — never once did the thought of separating from his wife seriously enter his head. . . .And the Forsytes! What part did they play in this stage of Soames’ subterranean tragedy?Truth to say, little or none, for they were at the sea.From hotels, hydropathics, or lodging-houses, they were bathing daily; laying in a stock of ozone to last them through the winter.Each section, in the vineyard of its own choosing, grew and culled and pressed and bottled the grapes of a pet sea-air.The end of September began to witness their several returns.In rude health and small omnibuses, with considerable colour in their cheeks, they arrived daily from the various termini. The following morning saw them back at their vocations.On the next Sunday Timothy’s was thronged from lunch till dinner.Amongst other gossip, too numerous and interesting to relate, Mrs. Septimus Small mentioned that Soames and Irene had not been away.It remained for a comparative outsider to supply the next evidence of interest.It chanced that one afternoon late in September, Mrs. MacAnder, Winifred Dartie’s greatest friend, taking a constitutional, with young Augustus Flippard, on her bicycle in Richmond Park, passed Irene and Bosinney walking from the bracken towards the Sheen Gate.Perhaps the poor little woman was thirsty, for she had ridden long on a hard, dry road, and, as all London knows, to ride a bicycle and talk to young Flippard will try the toughest constitution; or perhaps the sight of the cool bracken grove, whence ‘those two’ were coming down, excited her envy. The cool bracken grove on the top of the hill, with the oak boughs for roof, where the pigeons were raising an endless wedding hymn, and the autumn, humming, whispered to the ears of lovers in the fern, while the deer stole by. The bracken grove of irretrievable delights, of golden minutes in the long marriage of heaven and earth! The bracken grove, sacred to stags, to strange tree-stump fauns leaping around the silver whiteness of a birch-tree nymph at summer dusk.This lady knew all the Forsytes, and having been at June’s ‘at home,’ was not at a loss to see with whom she had to deal. Her own marriage, poor thing, had not been successful, but having had the good sense and ability to force her husband into pronounced error, she herself had passed through the necessary divorce proceedings without incurring censure.She was therefore a judge of all that sort of thing, and lived in one of those large buildings, where in small sets of apartments, are gathered incredible quantities of Forsytes, whose chief recreation out of business hours is the discussion of each other’s affairs.Poor little woman, perhaps she was thirsty, certainly she was bored, for Flippard was a wit. To see ‘those two’ in so unlikely a spot was quite a merciful ‘pick-me-up.’At the MacAnder, like all London, Time pauses.This small but remarkable woman merits attention; her all-seeing eye and shrewd tongue were inscrutably the means of furthering the ends of Providence.With an air of being in at the death, she had an almost distressing power of taking care of herself. She had done more, perhaps, in her way than any woman about town to destroy the sense of chivalry which still clogs the wheel of civilization. So smart she was, and spoken of endearingly as ‘the little MacAnder!’Dressing tightly and well, she belonged to a Woman’s Club, but was by no means the neurotic and dismal type of member who was always thinking of her rights. She took her rights unconsciously, they came natural to her, and she knew exactly how to make the most of them without exciting anything but admiration amongst that great class to whom she was affiliated, not precisely perhaps by manner, but by birth, breeding, and the true, the secret gauge, a sense of property.The daughter of a Bedfordshire solicitor, by the daughter of a clergyman, she had never, through all the painful experience of being married to a very mild painter with a cranky love of Nature, who had deserted her for an actress, lost touch with the requirements, beliefs, and inner feeling of Society; and, on attaining her liberty, she placed herself without effort in the very van of Forsyteism.Always in good spirits, and ‘full of information,’ she was universally welcomed. She excited neither surprise nor disapprobation when encountered on the Rhine or at Zermatt, either alone, or travelling with a lady and two gentlemen; it was felt that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself; and the hearts of all Forsytes warmed to that wonderful instinct, which enabled her to enjoy everything without giving anything away. It was generally felt that to such women as Mrs. MacAnder should we look for the perpetuation and increase of our best type of woman. She had never had any children.If there was one thing more than another that she could not stand it was one of those soft women with what men called ‘charm’ about them, and for Mrs. Soames she always had an especial dislike.Obscurely, no doubt, she felt that if charm were once admitted as the criterion, smartness and capability must go to the wall; and she hated — with a hatred the deeper that at times this so-called charm seemed to disturb all calculations — the subtle seductiveness which she could not altogether overlook in Irene.She said, however, that she could see nothing in the woman — there was no ‘go’ about her — she would never be able to stand up for herself — anyone could take advantage of her, that was plain — she could not see in fact what men found to admire!She was not really ill-natured, but, in maintaining her position after the trying circumstances of her married life, she had found it so necessary to be ‘full of information,’ that the idea of holding her tongue about ‘those two’ in the Park never occurred to her.And it so happened that she was dining that very evening at Timothy’s, where she went sometimes to ‘cheer the old things up,’ as she was wont to put it. The same people were always asked to meet her: Winifred Dartie and her husband; Francie, because she belonged to the artistic circles, for Mrs. MacAnder was known to contribute articles on dress to ‘The Ladies Kingdom Come’; and for her to flirt with, provided they could be obtained, two of the Hayman boys, who, though they never said anything, were believed to be fast and thoroughly intimate with all that was latest in smart Society.At twenty-five minutes past seven she turned out the electric light in her little hall, and wrapped in her opera cloak with the chinchilla collar, came out into the corridor, pausing a moment to make sure she had her latch-key. These little self-contained flats were convenient; to be sure, she had no light and no air, but she could shut it up whenever she liked and go away. There was no bother with servants, and she never felt tied as she used to when poor, dear Fred was always about, in his mooney way. She retained no rancour against poor, dear Fred, he was such a fool; but the thought of that actress drew from her, even now, a little, bitter, derisive smile.Firmly snapping the door to, she crossed the corridor, with its gloomy, yellow-ochre walls, and its infinite vista of brown, numbered doors. The lift was going down; and wrapped to the ears in the high cloak, with every one of her auburn hairs in its place, she waited motionless for it to stop at her floor. The iron gates clanked open; she entered. There were already three occupants, a man in a great white waistcoat, with a large, smooth face like a baby’s, and two old ladies in black, with mittened hands.Mrs. MacAnder smiled at them; she knew everybody; and all these three, who had been admirably silent before, began to talk at once. This was Mrs. MacAnder’s successful secret. She provoked conversation.Throughout a descent of five stories the conversation continued, the lift boy standing with his back turned, his cynical face protruding through the bars.At the bottom they separated, the man in the white waistcoat sentimentally to the billiard room, the old ladies to dine and say to each other: “A dear little woman!” “Such a rattle!” and Mrs. MacAnder to her cab.When Mrs. MacAnder dined at Timothy’s, the conversation (although Timothy himself could never be induced to be present) took that wider, man-of-the-world tone current among Forsytes at large, and this, no doubt, was what put her at a premium there.Mrs. Small and Aunt Hester found it an exhilarating change. “If only,” they said, “Timothy would meet her!” It was felt that she would do him good. She could tell you, for instance, the latest story of Sir Charles Fiste’s son at Monte Carlo; who was the real heroine of Tynemouth Eddy’s fashionable novel that everyone was holding up their hands over, and what they were doing in Paris about wearing bloomers. She was so sensible, too, knowing all about that vexed question, whether to send young Nicholas’ eldest into the navy as his mother wished, or make him an accountant as his father thought would be safer. She strongly deprecated the navy. If you were not exceptionally brilliant or exceptionally well connected, they passed you over so disgracefully, and what was it after all to look forward to, even if you became an admiral — a pittance! An accountant had many more chances, but let him be put with a good firm, where there was no risk at starting!Sometimes she would give them a tip on the Stock Exchange; not that Mrs. Small or Aunt Hester ever took it. They had indeed no money to invest; but it seemed to bring them into such exciting touch with the realities of life. It was an event. They would ask Timothy, they said. But they never did, knowing in advance that it would upset him. Surreptitiously, however, for weeks after they would look in that paper, which they took with respect on account of its really fashionable proclivities, to see whether ‘Bright’s Rubies’ or ‘The Woollen Mackintosh Company’ were up or down. Sometimes they could not find the name of the company at all; and they would wait until James or Roger or even Swithin came in, and ask them in voices trembling with curiosity how that ‘Bolivia Lime and Speltrate’ was doing — they could not find it in the paper.And Roger would answer: “What do you want to know for? Some trash! You’ll go burning your fingers — investing your money in lime, and things you know nothing about! Who told you?” and ascertaining what they had been told, he would go away, and, making inquiries in the City, would perhaps invest some of his own money in the concern.It was about the middle of dinner, just in fact as the saddle of mutton had been brought in by Smither, that Mrs. MacAnder, looking airily round, said: “Oh! and whom do you think I passed to-day in Richmond Park? You’ll never guess — Mrs. Soames and — Mr. Bosinney. They must have been down to look at the house!”Winifred Dartie coughed, and no one said a word. It was the piece of evidence they had all unconsciously been waiting for.To do Mrs. MacAnder justice, she had been to Switzerland and the Italian lakes with a party of three, and had not heard of Soames’ rupture with his architect. She could not tell, therefore, the profound impression her words would make.Upright and a little flushed, she moved her small, shrewd eyes from face to face, trying to gauge the effect of her words. On either side of her a Hayman boy, his lean, taciturn, hungry face turned towards his plate, ate his mutton steadily.These two, Giles and Jesse, were so alike and so inseparable that they were known as the Dromios. They never talked, and seemed always completely occupied in doing nothing. It was popularly supposed that they were cramming for an important examination. They walked without hats for long hours in the Gardens attached to their house, books in their hands, a fox-terrier at their heels, never saying a word, and smoking all the time. Every morning, about fifty yards apart, they trotted down Campden Hill on two lean hacks, with legs as long as their own, and every morning about an hour later, still fifty yards apart, they cantered up again. Every evening, wherever they had dined, they might be observed about half-past ten, leaning over the balustrade of the Alhambra promenade.They were never seen otherwise than together; in this way passing their lives, apparently perfectly content.Inspired by some dumb stirring within them of the feelings of gentlemen, they turned at this painful moment to Mrs. MacAnder, and said in precisely the same voice: “Have you seen the . . .?”Such was her surprise at being thus addressed that she put down her fork; and Smither, who was passing, promptly removed her plate. Mrs. MacAnder, however, with presence of mind, said instantly: “I must have a little more of that nice mutton.”But afterwards in the drawing — room she sat down by Mrs. Small, determined to get to the bottom of the matter. And she began:“What a charming woman, Mrs. Soames; such a sympathetic temperament! Soames is a really lucky man!”Her anxiety for information had not made sufficient allowance for that inner Forsyte skin which refuses to share its troubles with outsiders.Mrs. Septimus Small, drawing herself up with a creak and rustle of her whole person, said, shivering in her dignity:“My dear, it is a subject we do not talk about!”

Chapter 25 Night in the Park 
Although with her infallible instinct Mrs. Small had said the very thing to make her guest ‘more intriguee than ever,’ it is difficult to see how else she could truthfully have spoken.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 ‘subterranean.’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 Poultry 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 accurately 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 impasse, 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 dignified 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 artistic, 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 fixed with worry, he would breathe into the counterpane. Clad in his nightshirt, his neck poked 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 eldest 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 pall 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 robust 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 reek and turmoil 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 velvety garment, was wrapped around the trees, whose thinned branches, resembling plumes, 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, blotted against some trunk, or under the shadow of shrubs, they were lost to all but themselves in the heart of the soft darkness.To fresh-comers along the paths, these forerunners formed but part of that passionate dusk, whence only a strange murmur, like the confused beating of hearts, came forth. 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 drawn 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 myriad passions, hopes, and loves of multitudes of struggling human atoms; for in spite of the disapproval 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 custodians, were as arteries 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 revel, 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 lawsuit, 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 morbid stimulant. He left the path along the water and stole under the trees, along the deep shadow of little plantations, where the boughs of chestnut trees hung their great leaves low, and there was blacker refuge, shaping his course in circles which had for their object a stealthy inspection 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 Serpentine, 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 emblem 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 — impersonal 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.

Chapter 26 Meeting at the Botanical 
Young Jolyon, whose circumstances were not those of a Forsyte, found at times a difficulty in sparing the money needful for those country jaunts and researches into Nature, without having prosecuted which no watercolour artist ever puts brush to paper.He was frequently, in fact, obliged to take his colour-box into the Botanical Gardens, and there, on his stool, in the shade of a monkey-puzzler or in the lee of some India-rubber plant, he would spend long hours sketching.An Art critic who had recently been looking at his work had delivered himself as follows:“In a way your drawings are very good; tone and colour, in some of them certainly quite a feeling for Nature. But, you see, they’re so scattered; you’ll never get the public to look at them. Now, if you’d taken a definite subject, such as ‘London by Night,’ or ‘The Crystal Palace in the Spring,’ and made a regular series, the public would have known at once what they were looking at. I can’t lay too much stress upon that. All the men who are making great names in Art, like Crum Stone or Bleeder, are making them by avoiding the unexpected; by specializing and putting their works all in the same pigeon-hole, so that the public know pat once where to go. And this stands to reason, for if a man’s a collector he doesn’t want people to smell at the canvas to find out whom his pictures are by; he wants them to be able to say at once, ‘A capital Forsyte!’ It is all the more important for you to be careful to choose a subject that they can lay hold of on the spot, since there’s no very marked originality in your style.”Young Jolyon, standing by the little piano, where a bowl of dried rose leaves, the only produce of the garden, was deposited on a bit of faded damask, listened with his dim smile.Turning to his wife, who was looking at the speaker with an angry expression on her thin face, he said:“You see, dear?”“I do not,” she answered in her staccato voice, that still had a little foreign accent; “your style has originality.”The critic looked at her, smiled’ deferentially, and said no more. Like everyone else, he knew their history.The words bore good fruit with young Jolyon; they were contrary to all that he believed in, to all that he theoretically held good in his Art, but some strange, deep instinct moved him against his will to turn them to profit.He discovered therefore one morning that an idea had come to him for making a series of watercolour drawings of London. How the idea had arisen he could not tell; and it was not till the following year, when he had completed and sold them at a very fair price, that in one of his impersonal moods, he found himself able to recollect the Art critic, and to discover in his own achievement another proof that he was a Forsyte.He decided to commence with the Botanical Gardens, where he had already made so many studies, and chose the little artificial pond, sprinkled now with an autumn shower of red and yellow leaves, for though the gardeners longed to sweep them off, they could not reach them with their brooms. The rest of the gardens they swept bare enough, removing every morning Nature’s rain of leaves; piling them in heaps, whence from slow fires rose the sweet, acrid smoke that, like the cuckoo’s note for spring, the scent of lime trees for the summer, is the true emblem of the fall. The gardeners’ tidy souls could not abide the gold and green and russet pattern on the grass. The gravel paths must lie unstained, ordered, methodical, without knowledge of the realities of life, nor of that slow and beautiful decay which flings crowns underfoot to star the earth with fallen glories, whence, as the cycle rolls, will leap again wild spring.Thus each leaf that fell was marked from the moment when it fluttered a good-bye and dropped, slow turning, from its twig.But on that little pond the leaves floated in peace, and praised Heaven with their hues, the sunlight haunting over them.And so young Jolyon found them.Coming there one morning in the middle of October, he was disconcerted to find a bench about twenty paces from his stand occupied, for he had a proper horror of anyone seeing him at work.A lady in a velvet jacket was sitting there, with her eyes fixed on the ground. A flowering laurel, however, stood between, and, taking shelter behind this, young Jolyon prepared his easel.His preparations were leisurely; he caught, as every true artist should, at anything that might delay for a moment the effort of his work, and he found himself looking furtively at this unknown dame.Like his father before him, he had an eye for a face. This face was charming!He saw a rounded chin nestling in a cream ruffle, a delicate face with large dark eyes and soft lips. A black ‘picture’ hat concealed the hair; her figure was lightly poised against the back of the bench, her knees were crossed; the tip of a patent-leather shoe emerged beneath her skirt. There was something, indeed, inexpressibly dainty about the person of this lady, but young Jolyon’s attention was chiefly riveted by the look on her face, which reminded him of his wife. It was as though its owner had come into contact with forces too strong for her. It troubled him, arousing vague feelings of attraction and chivalry. Who was she? And what doing there, alone?Two young gentlemen of that peculiar breed, at once forward and shy, found in the Regent’s Park, came by on their way to lawn tennis, and he noted with disapproval their furtive stares of admiration. A loitering gardener halted to do something unnecessary to a clump of pampas grass; he, too, wanted an excuse for peeping. A gentleman, old, and, by his hat, a professor of horticulture, passed three times to scrutinize her long and stealthily, a queer expression about his lips.With all these men young Jolyon felt the same vague irritation. She looked at none of them, yet was he certain that every man who passed would look at her like that.Her face was not the face of a sorceress, who in every look holds out to men the offer of pleasure; it had none of the ‘devil’s beauty’ so highly prized among the first Forsytes of the land; neither was it of that type, no less adorable, associated with the box of chocolate; it was not of the spiritually passionate, or passionately spiritual order, peculiar to house-decoration and modern poetry; nor did it seem to promise to the playwright material for the production of the interesting and neurasthenic figure, who commits suicide in the last act.In shape and colouring, in its soft persuasive passivity, its sensuous purity, this woman’s face reminded him of Titian’s ‘Heavenly Love,’ a reproduction of which hung over the sideboard in his dining-room. And her attraction seemed to be in this soft passivity, in the feeling she gave that to pressure she must yield.For what or whom was she waiting, in the silence, with the trees dropping here and there a leaf, and the thrushes strutting close on grass, touched with the sparkle of the autumn rime? Then her charming face grew eager, and, glancing round, with almost a lover’s jealousy, young Jolyon saw Bosinney striding across the grass.Curiously he watched the meeting, the look in their eyes, the long clasp of their hands. They sat down close together, linked for all their outward discretion. He heard the rapid murmur of their talk; but what they said he could not catch.He had rowed in the galley himself! He knew the long hours of waiting and the lean minutes of a half-public meeting; the tortures of suspense that haunt the unhallowed lover.It required, however, but a glance at their two faces to see that this was none of those affairs of a season that distract men and women about town; none of those sudden appetites that wake up ravening, and are surfeited and asleep again in six weeks. This was the real thing! This was what had happened to himself! Out of this anything might come!Bosinney was pleading, and she so quiet, so soft, yet immovable in her passivity, sat looking over the grass.Was he the man to carry her off, that tender, passive being, who would never stir a step for herself? Who had given him all herself, and would die for him, but perhaps would never run away with him!It seemed to young Jolyon that he could hear her saying: “But, darling, it would ruin you!” For he himself had experienced to the full the gnawing fear at the bottom of each woman’s heart that she is a drag on the man she loves.And he peeped at them no more; but their soft, rapid talk came to his ears, with the stuttering song of some bird who seemed trying to remember the notes of spring: Joy — tragedy? Which — which?And gradually their talk ceased; long silence followed.‘And where does Soames come in?’ young Jolyon thought. ‘People think she is concerned about the sin of deceiving her husband! Little they know of women! She’s eating, after starvation — taking her revenge! And Heaven help her — for he’ll take his.’He heard the swish of silk, and, spying round the laurel, saw them walking away, their hands stealthily joined. . . .At the end of July old Jolyon had taken his grand-daughter to the mountains; and on that visit (the last they ever paid) June recovered to a great extent her health and spirits. In the hotels, filled with British Forsytes — for old Jolyon could not bear a ‘set of Germans,’ as he called all foreigners — she was looked upon with respect — the only grand-daughter of that fine-looking, and evidently wealthy, old Mr. Forsyte. She did not mix freely with people — to mix freely with people was not June’s habit — but she formed some friendships, and notably one in the Rhone Valley, with a French girl who was dying of consumption.Determining at once that her friend should not die, she forgot, in the institution of a campaign against Death, much of her own trouble.Old Jolyon watched the new intimacy with relief and disapproval; for this additional proof that her life was to be passed amongst ‘lame ducks’ worried him. Would she never make a friendship or take an interest in something that would be of real benefit to her?‘Taking up with a parcel of foreigners,’ he called it. He often, however, brought home grapes or roses, and presented them to ‘Mam’zelle’ with an ingratiating twinkle.Towards the end of September, in spite of June’s disapproval, Mademoiselle Vigor breathed her last in the little hotel at St. Luc, to which they had moved her; and June took her defeat so deeply to heart that old Jolyon carried her away to Paris. Here, in contemplation of the ‘Venus de Milo’ and the ‘Madeleine,’ she shook off her depression, and when, towards the middle of October, they returned to town, her grandfather believed that he had effected a cure.No sooner, however, had they established themselves in Stanhope Gate than he perceived to his dismay a return of her old absorbed and brooding manner. She would sit, staring in front of her, her chin on her hand, like a little Norse spirit, grim and intent, while all around in the electric light, then just installed, shone the great, drawing-room brocaded up to the frieze, full of furniture from Baple and Pullbred’s. And in the huge gilt mirror were reflected those Dresden china groups of young men in tight knee breeches, at the feet of full-bosomed ladies nursing on their laps pet lambs, which old Jolyon had bought when he was a bachelor and thought so highly of in these days of degenerate taste. He was a man of most open mind, who, more than any Forsyte of them all, had moved with the times, but he could never forget that he had bought these groups at Jobson’s, and given a lot of money for them. He often said to June, with a sort of disillusioned contempt:“You don’t care about them! They’re not the gimcrack things you and your friends like, but they cost me seventy pounds!” He was not a man who allowed his taste to be warped when he knew for solid reasons that it was sound.One of the first things that June did on getting home was to go round to Timothy’s. She persuaded herself that it was her duty to call there, and cheer him with an account of all her travels; but in reality she went because she knew of no other place where, by some random speech, or roundabout question, she could glean news of Bosinney.They received her most cordially: And how was her dear grandfather? He had not been to see them since May. Her Uncle Timothy was very poorly, he had had a lot of trouble with the chimney-sweep in his bedroom; the stupid man had let the soot down the chimney! It had quite upset her uncle.June sat there a long time, dreading, yet passionately hoping, that they would speak of Bosinney.But paralyzed by unaccountable discretion, Mrs. Septimus Small let fall no word, neither did she question June about him. In desperation the girl asked at last whether Soames and Irene were in town — she had not yet been to see anyone.It was Aunt Hester who replied: Oh, yes, they were in town, they had not been away at all. There was some little difficulty about the house, she believed. June had heard, no doubt! She had better ask her Aunt Juley!June turned to Mrs. Small, who sat upright in her chair, her hands clasped, her face covered with innumerable pouts. In answer to the girl’s look she maintained a strange silence, and when she spoke it was to ask June whether she had worn night-socks up in those high hotels where it must be so cold of a night.June answered that she had not, she hated the stuffy things; and rose to leave.Mrs. Small’s infallibly chosen silence was far more ominous to her than anything that could have been said.Before half an hour was over she had dragged the truth from Mrs. Baynes in Lowndes Square, that Soames was bringing an action against Bosinney over the decoration of the house.Instead of disturbing her, the news had a strangely calming effect; as though she saw in the prospect of this struggle new hope for herself. She learnt that the case was expected to come on in about a month, and there seemed little or no prospect of Bosinney’s success.“And whatever he’ll do I can’t think,” said Mrs. Baynes; “it’s very dreadful for him, you know — he’s got no money — he’s very hard up. And we can’t help him, I’m sure. I’m told the money-lenders won’t lend if you have no security, and he has none — none at all.”Her embonpoint had increased of late; she was in the full swing of autumn organization, her writing-table literally strewn with the menus of charity functions. She looked meaningly at June, with her round eyes of parrot-grey.The sudden flush that rose on the girl’s intent young face — she must have seen spring up before her a great hope — the sudden sweetness of her smile, often came back to Lady Baynes in after years (Baynes was knighted when he built that public Museum of Art which has given so much employment to officials, and so little pleasure to those working classes for whom it was designed).The memory of that change, vivid and touching, like the breaking open of a flower, or the first sun after long winter, the memory, too, of all that came after, often intruded itself, unaccountably, inopportunely on Lady Baynes, when her mind was set upon the most important things.This was the very afternoon of the day that young Jolyon witnessed the meeting in the Botanical Gardens, and on this day, too, old Jolyon paid a visit to his solicitors, Forsyte, Bustard, and Forsyte, in the Poultry. Soames was not in, he had gone down to Somerset House; Bustard was buried up to the hilt in papers and that inaccessible apartment, where he was judiciously placed, in order that he might do as much work as possible; but James was in the front office, biting a finger, and lugubriously turning over the pleadings in Forsyte v. Bosinney.This sound lawyer had only a sort of luxurious dread of the ‘nice point,’ enough to set up a pleasurable feeling of fuss; for his good practical sense told him that if he himself were on the Bench he would not pay much attention to it. But he was afraid that this Bosinney would go bankrupt and Soames would have to find the money after all, and costs into the bargain. And behind this tangible dread there was always that intangible trouble, lurking in the background, intricate, dim, scandalous, like a bad dream, and of which this action was but an outward and visible sign.He raised his head as old Jolyon came in, and muttered: “How are you, Jolyon? Haven’t seen you for an age. You’ve been to Switzerland, they tell me. This young Bosinney, he’s got himself into a mess. I knew how it would be!” He held out the papers, regarding his elder brother with nervous gloom.Old Jolyon read them in silence, and while he read them James looked at the floor, biting his fingers the while.Old Jolyon pitched them down at last, and they fell with a thump amongst a mass of affidavits in ‘re Buncombe, deceased,’ one of the many branches of that parent and profitable tree, ‘Fryer v. Forsyte.’“I don’t know what Soames is about,” he said, “to make a fuss over a few hundred pounds. I thought he was a man of property.”James’ long upper lip twitched angrily; he could not bear his son to be attacked in such a spot.“It’s not the money,” he began, but meeting his brother’s glance, direct, shrewd, judicial, he stopped.There was a silence.“I’ve come in for my Will,” said old Jolyon at last, tugging at his moustache.James’ curiosity was roused at once. Perhaps nothing in this life was more stimulating to him than a Will; it was the supreme deal with property, the final inventory of a man’s belongings, the last word on what he was worth. He sounded the bell.“Bring in Mr. Jolyon’s Will,” he said to an anxious, dark-haired clerk.“You going to make some alterations?” And through his mind there flashed the thought: ‘Now, am I worth as much as he?’Old Jolyon put the Will in his breast pocket, and James twisted his long legs regretfully.“You’ve made some nice purchases lately, they tell me,” he said.“I don’t know where you get your information from,” answered old Jolyon sharply. “When’s this action coming on? Next month? I can’t tell what you’ve got in your minds. You must manage your own affairs; but if you take my advice, you’ll settle it out of Court. Good-bye!” With a cold handshake he was gone.James, his fixed grey-blue eye corkscrewing round some secret anxious image, began again to bite his finger.Old Jolyon took his Will to the offices of the New Colliery Company, and sat down in the empty Board Room to read it through. He answered ‘Down-by-the-starn’ Hemmings so tartly when the latter, seeing his Chairman seated there, entered with the new Superintendent’s first report, that the Secretary withdrew with regretful dignity; and sending for the transfer clerk, blew him up till the poor youth knew not where to look.It was not — by George — as he (Down-by-the-starn) would have him know, for a whippersnapper of a young fellow like him, to come down to that office, and think that he was God Almighty. He (Down-by-the-starn) had been head of that office for more years than a boy like him could count, and if he thought that when he had finished all his work, he could sit there doing nothing, he did not know him, Hemmings (Down-by-the-starn), and so forth.On the other side of the green baize door old Jolyon sat at the long, mahogany-and-leather board table, his thick, loose-jointed, tortoiseshell eye-glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his gold pencil moving down the clauses of his Will.It was a simple affair, for there were none of those vexatious little legacies and donations to charities, which fritter away a man’s possessions, and damage the majestic effect of that little paragraph in the morning papers accorded to Forsytes who die with a hundred thousand pounds.A simple affair. Just a bequest to his son of twenty thousand, and ‘as to the residue of my property of whatsoever kind whether realty or personalty, or partaking of the nature of either — upon trust to pay the proceeds rents annual produce dividends or interest thereof and thereon to my said grand-daughter June Forsyte or her assigns during her life to be for her sole use and benefit and without, etc . . . and from and after her death or decease upon trust to convey assign transfer or make over the said last-mentioned lands hereditaments premises trust moneys stocks funds investments and securities or such as shall then stand for and represent the same unto such person or persons whether one or more for such intents purposes and uses and generally in such manner way and form in all respects as the said June Forsyte notwithstanding coverture shall by her last Will and Testament or any writing or writings in the nature of a Will testament or testamentary disposition to be by her duly made signed and published direct appoint or make over give and dispose of the same And in default etc. . . . Provided always . . . ’ and so on, in seven folios of brief and simple phraseology.The Will had been drawn by James in his palmy days. He had foreseen almost every contingency.Old Jolyon sat a long time reading this Will; at last he took half a sheet of paper from the rack, and made a prolonged pencil note; then buttoning up the Will, he caused a cab to be called and drove to the offices of Paramor and Herring, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Jack Herring was dead, but his nephew was still in the firm, and old Jolyon was closeted with him for half an hour.He had kept the hansom, and on coming out, gave the driver the address — 3, Wistaria Avenue.He felt a strange, slow satisfaction, as though he had scored a victory over James and the man of property. They should not poke their noses into his affairs any more; he had just cancelled their trusteeships of his Will; he would take the whole of his business out of their hands, and put it into the hands of young Herring, and he would move the business of his Companies too. If that young Soames were such a man of property, he would never miss a thousand a year or so; and under his great white moustache old Jolyon grimly smiled. He felt that what he was doing was in the nature of retributive justice, richly deserved.Slowly, surely, with the secret inner process that works the destruction of an old tree, the poison of the wounds to his happiness, his will, his pride, had corroded the comely edifice of his philosophy. Life had worn him down on one side, till, like that family of which he was the head, he had lost balance.To him, borne northwards towards his son’s house, the thought of the new disposition of property, which he had just set in motion, appeared vaguely in the light of a stroke of punishment, levelled at that family and that Society, of which James and his son seemed to him the representatives. He had made a restitution to young Jolyon, and restitution to young Jolyon satisfied his secret craving for revenge-revenge against Time, sorrow, and interference, against all that incalculable sum of disapproval that had been bestowed by the world for fifteen years on his only son. It presented itself as the one possible way of asserting once more the domination of his will; of forcing James, and Soames, and the family, and all those hidden masses of Forsytes — a great stream rolling against the single dam of his obstinacy — to recognise once and for all that he would be master. It was sweet to think that at last he was going to make the boy a richer man by far than that son of James, that ‘man of property.’ And it was sweet to give to Jo, for he loved his son.Neither young Jolyon nor his wife were in (young Jolyon indeed was not back from the Botanical), but the little maid told him that she expected the master at any moment:“He’s always at ‘ome to tea, sir, to play with the children.”Old Jolyon said he would wait; and sat down patiently enough in the faded, shabby drawing room, where, now that the summer chintzes were removed, the old chairs and sofas revealed all their threadbare deficiencies. He longed to send for the children; to have them there beside him, their supple bodies against his knees; to hear Jolly’s: “Hallo, Gran!” and see his rush; and feel Holly’s soft little hand stealing up against his cheek. But he would not. There was solemnity in what he had come to do, and until it was over he would not play. He amused himself by thinking how with two strokes of his pen he was going to restore the look of caste so conspicuously absent from everything in that little house; how he could fill these rooms, or others in some larger mansion, with triumphs of art from Baple and Pullbred’s; how he could send little Jolly to Harrow and Oxford (he no longer had faith in Eton and Cambridge, for his son had been there); how he could procure little Holly the best musical instruction, the child had a remarkable aptitude.As these visions crowded before him, causing emotion to swell his heart, he rose, and stood at the window, looking down into the little walled strip of garden, where the pear-tree, bare of leaves before its time, stood with gaunt branches in the slow-gathering mist of the autumn afternoon. The dog Balthasar, his tail curled tightly over a piebald, furry back, was walking at the farther end, sniffing at the plants, and at intervals placing his leg for support against the wall.And old Jolyon mused.What pleasure was there left but to give? It was pleasant to give, when you could find one who would be thankful for what you gave — one of your own flesh and blood! There was no such satisfaction to be had out of giving to those who did not belong to you, to those who had no claim on you! Such giving as that was a betrayal of the individualistic convictions and actions of his life, of all his enterprise, his labour, and his moderation, of the great and proud fact that, like tens of thousands of Forsytes before him, tens of thousands in the present, tens of thousands in the future, he had always made his own, and held his own, in the world.And, while he stood there looking down on the smut-covered foliage of the laurels, the black-stained grass-plot, the progress of the dog Balthasar, all the suffering of the fifteen years during which he had been baulked of legitimate enjoyment mingled its gall with the sweetness of the approaching moment.Young Jolyon came at last, pleased with his work, and fresh from long hours in the open air. On hearing that his father was in the drawing room, he inquired hurriedly whether Mrs. Forsyte was at home, and being informed that she was not, heaved a sigh of relief. Then putting his painting materials carefully in the little coat-closet out of sight, he went in.With characteristic decision old Jolyon came at once to the point. “I’ve been altering my arrangements, Jo,” he said. “You can cut your coat a bit longer in the future — I’m settling a thousand a year on you at once. June will have fifty thousand at my death; and you the rest. That dog of yours is spoiling the garden. I shouldn’t keep a dog, if I were you!”The dog Balthasar, seated in the centre of the lawn, was examining his tail.Young Jolyon looked at the animal, but saw him dimly, for his eyes were misty.“Yours won’t come short of a hundred thousand, my boy,” said old Jolyon; “I thought you’d better know. I haven’t much longer to live at my age. I shan’t allude to it again. How’s your wife? And — give her my love.”Young Jolyon put his hand on his father’s shoulder, and, as neither spoke, the episode closed.Having seen his father into a hansom, young Jolyon came back to the drawing-room and stood, where old Jolyon had stood, looking down on the little garden. He tried to realize all that this meant to him, and, Forsyte that he was, vistas of property were opened out in his brain; the years of half rations through which he had passed had not sapped his natural instincts. In extremely practical form, he thought of travel, of his wife’s costume, the children’s education, a pony for Jolly, a thousand things; but in the midst of all he thought, too, of Bosinney and his mistress, and the broken song of the thrush. Joy — tragedy! Which? Which?The old past — the poignant, suffering, passionate, wonderful past, that no money could buy, that nothing could restore in all its burning sweetness — had come back before him.When his wife came in he went straight up to her and took her in his arms; and for a long time he stood without speaking, his eyes closed, pressing her to him, while she looked at him with a wondering, adoring, doubting look in her eyes.

Chapter 27 Voyage into the Inferno 
The morning after a certain night on which Soames at last asserted his rights and acted like a man, he breakfasted alone.He breakfasted by gaslight, the fog of late November wrapping the town as in some monstrous blanket till the trees of the Square even were barely visible from the dining-room window.He ate steadily, but at times a sensation as though he could not swallow attacked him. Had he been right to yield to his overmastering hunger of the night before, and break down the resistance which he had suffered now too long from this woman who was his lawful and solemnly constituted helpmate?He was strangely haunted by the recollection of her face, from before which, to soothe her, he had tried to pull her hands — of her terrible smothered sobbing, the like of which he had never heard, and still seemed to hear; and he was still haunted by the odd, intolerable feeling of remorse and shame he had felt, as he stood looking at her by the flame of the single candle, before silently slinking away.And somehow, now that he had acted like this, he was surprised at himself.Two nights before, at Winifred Dartie’s, he had taken Mrs. MacAnder into dinner. She had said to him, looking in his face with her sharp, greenish eyes: “And so your wife is a great friend of that Mr. Bosinney’s?”Not deigning to ask what she meant, he had brooded over her words.They had roused in him a fierce jealousy, which, with the peculiar perversion of this instinct, had turned to fiercer desire.Without the incentive of Mrs. MacAnder’s words he might never have done what he had done. Without their incentive and the accident of finding his wife’s door for once unlocked, which had enabled him to steal upon her asleep.Slumber had removed his doubts, but the morning brought them again. One thought comforted him: No one would know — it was not the sort of thing that she would speak about.And, indeed, when the vehicle of his daily business life, which needed so imperatively the grease of clear and practical thought, started rolling once more with the reading of his letters, those nightmare-like doubts began to assume less extravagant importance at the back of his mind. The incident was really not of great moment; women made a fuss about it in books; but in the cool judgment of right-thinking men, of men of the world, of such as he recollected often received praise in the Divorce Court, he had but done his best to sustain the sanctity of marriage, to prevent her from abandoning her duty, possibly, if she were still seeing Bosinney, from. . . .No, he did not regret it.Now that the first step towards reconciliation had been taken, the rest would be comparatively — comparatively. . . .He, rose and walked to the window. His nerve had been shaken. The sound of smothered sobbing was in his ears again. He could not get rid of it.He put on his fur coat, and went out into the fog; having to go into the City, he took the underground railway from Sloane Square station.In his corner of the first-class compartment filled with City men the smothered sobbing still haunted him, so he opened the Times with the rich crackle that drowns all lesser sounds, and, barricaded behind it, set himself steadily to con the news.He read that a Recorder had charged a grand jury on the previous day with a more than usually long list of offences. He read of three murders, five manslaughters, seven arsons, and as many as eleven rapes — a surprisingly high number — in addition to many less conspicuous crimes, to be tried during a coming Sessions; and from one piece of news he went on to another, keeping the paper well before his face.And still, inseparable from his reading, was the memory of Irene’s tear-stained face, and the sounds from her broken heart.The day was a busy one, including, in addition to the ordinary affairs of his practice, a visit to his brokers, Messrs. Grin and Grinning, to give them instructions to sell his shares in the New Colliery Co., Ltd., whose business he suspected, rather than knew, was stagnating (this enterprise afterwards slowly declined, and was ultimately sold for a song to an American syndicate); and a long conference at Waterbuck, Q.C.‘s chambers, attended by Boulter, by Fiske, the junior counsel, and Waterbuck, Q.C., himself.The case of Forsyte v. Bosinney was expected to be reached on the morrow, before Mr. Justice Bentham.Mr. Justice Bentham, a man of common-sense rather than too great legal knowledge, was considered to be about the best man they could have to try the action. He was a ‘strong’ Judge.Waterbuck, Q.C., in pleasing conjunction with an almost rude neglect of Boulter and Fiske paid to Soames a good deal of attention, by instinct or the sounder evidence of rumour, feeling him to be a man of property.He held with remarkable consistency to the opinion he had already expressed in writing, that the issue would depend to a great extent on the evidence given at the trial, and in a few well directed remarks he advised Soames not to be too careful in giving that evidence. “A little bluffness, Mr. Forsyte,” he said, “a little bluffness,” and after he had spoken he laughed firmly, closed his lips tight, and scratched his head just below where he had pushed his wig back, for all the world like the gentleman-farmer for whom he loved to be taken. He was considered perhaps the leading man in breach of promise cases.Soames used the underground again in going home.The fog was worse than ever at Sloane Square station. Through the still, thick blur, men groped in and out; women, very few, grasped their reticules to their bosoms and handkerchiefs to their mouths; crowned with the weird excrescence of the driver, haloed by a vague glow of lamp-light that seemed to drown in vapour before it reached the pavement, cabs loomed dim-shaped ever and again, and discharged citizens, bolting like rabbits to their burrows.And these shadowy figures, wrapped each in his own little shroud of fog, took no notice of each other. In the great warren, each rabbit for himself, especially those clothed in the more expensive fur, who, afraid of carriages on foggy days, are driven underground.One figure, however, not far from Soames, waited at the station door.Some buccaneer or lover, of whom each Forsyte thought: ‘Poor devil! looks as if he were having a bad time!’ Their kind hearts beat a stroke faster for that poor, waiting, anxious lover in the fog; but they hurried by, well knowing that they had neither time nor money to spare for any suffering but their own.Only a policeman, patrolling slowly and at intervals, took an interest in that waiting figure, the brim of whose slouch hat half hid a face reddened by the cold, all thin, and haggard, over which a hand stole now and again to smooth away anxiety, or renew the resolution that kept him waiting there. But the waiting lover (if lover he were) was used to policemen’s scrutiny, or too absorbed in his anxiety, for he never flinched. A hardened case, accustomed to long trysts, to anxiety, and fog, and cold, if only his mistress came at last. Foolish lover! Fogs last until the spring; there is also snow and rain, no comfort anywhere; gnawing fear if you bring her out, gnawing fear if you bid her stay at home!“Serve him right; he should arrange his affairs better!”So any respectable Forsyte. Yet, if that sounder citizen could have listened at the waiting lover’s heart, out there in the fog and the cold, he would have said again: “Yes, poor devil he’s having a bad time!”Soames got into his cab, and, with the glass down, crept along Sloane Street, and so along the Brompton Road, and home. He reached his house at five.His wife was not in. She had gone out a quarter of an hour before. Out at such a time of night, into this terrible fog! What was the meaning of that?He sat by the dining-room fire, with the door open, disturbed to the soul, trying to read the evening paper. A book was no good — in daily papers alone was any narcotic to such worry as his. From the customary events recorded in the journal he drew some comfort. ‘Suicide of an actress’—‘Grave indisposition of a Statesman’ (that chronic sufferer)—‘Divorce of an army officer’—‘Fire in a colliery’— he read them all. They helped him a little — prescribed by the greatest of all doctors, our natural taste.It was nearly seven when he heard her come in.The incident of the night before had long lost its importance under stress of anxiety at her strange sortie into the fog. But now that Irene was home, the memory of her broken-hearted sobbing came back to him, and he felt nervous at the thought of facing her.She was already on the stairs; her grey fur coat hung to her knees, its high collar almost hid her face, she wore a thick veil.She neither turned to look at him nor spoke. No ghost or stranger could have passed more silently.Bilson came to lay dinner, and told him that Mrs. Forsyte was not coming down; she was having the soup in her room.For once Soames did not ‘change’; it was, perhaps, the first time in his life that he had sat down to dinner with soiled cuffs, and, not even noticing them, he brooded long over his wine. He sent Bilson to light a fire in his picture-room, and presently went up there himself.Turning on the gas, he heaved a deep sigh, as though amongst these treasures, the backs of which confronted him in stacks, around the little room, he had found at length his peace of mind. He went straight up to the greatest treasure of them all, an undoubted Turner, and, carrying it to the easel, turned its face to the light. There had been a movement in Turners, but he had not been able to make up his mind to part with it. He stood for a long time, his pale, clean-shaven face poked forward above his stand-up collar, looking at the picture as though he were adding it up; a wistful expression came into his eyes; he found, perhaps, that it came to too little. He took it down from the easel to put it back against the wall; but, in crossing the room, stopped, for he seemed to hear sobbing.It was nothing — only the sort of thing that had been bothering him in the morning. And soon after, putting the high guard before the blazing fire, he stole downstairs.Fresh for the morrow! was his thought. It was long before he went to sleep. . . .It is now to George Forsyte that the mind must turn for light on the events of that fog-engulfed afternoon.The wittiest and most sportsmanlike of the Forsytes had passed the day reading a novel in the paternal mansion at Princes’ Gardens. Since a recent crisis in his financial affairs he had been kept on parole by Roger, and compelled to reside ‘at home.’Towards five o’clock he went out, and took train at South Kensington Station (for everyone to-day went Underground). His intention was to dine, and pass the evening playing billiards at the Red Pottle — that unique hostel, neither club, hotel, nor good gilt restaurant.He got out at Charing Cross, choosing it in preference to his more usual St. James’s Park, that he might reach Jermyn Street by better lighted ways.On the platform his eyes — for in combination with a composed and fashionable appearance, George had sharp eyes, and was always on the look-out for fillips to his sardonic humour — his eyes were attracted by a man, who, leaping from a first-class compartment, staggered rather than walked towards the exit.‘So ho, my bird!’ said George to himself; ‘why, it’s “the Buccaneer!”’ and he put his big figure on the trail. Nothing afforded him greater amusement than a drunken man.Bosinney, who wore a slouch hat, stopped in front of him, spun around, and rushed back towards the carriage he had just left. He was too late. A porter caught him by the coat; the train was already moving on.George’s practised glance caught sight of the face of a lady clad in a grey fur coat at the carriage window. It was Mrs. Soames — and George felt that this was interesting!And now he followed Bosinney more closely than ever — up the stairs, past the ticket collector into the street. In that progress, however, his feelings underwent a change; no longer merely curious and amused, he felt sorry for the poor fellow he was shadowing. ‘The Buccaneer’ was not drunk, but seemed to be acting under the stress of violent emotion; he was talking to himself, and all that George could catch were the words “Oh, God!” Nor did he appear to know what he was doing, or where going; but stared, hesitated, moved like a man out of his mind; and from being merely a joker in search of amusement, George felt that he must see the poor chap through.He had ‘taken the knock’—‘taken the knock!’ And he wondered what on earth Mrs. Soames had been saying, what on earth she had been telling him in the railway carriage. She had looked bad enough herself! It made George sorry to think of her travelling on with her trouble all alone.He followed close behind Bosinney’s elbow — tall, burly figure, saying nothing, dodging warily — and shadowed him out into the fog.There was something here beyond a jest! He kept his head admirably, in spite of some excitement, for in addition to compassion, the instincts of the chase were roused within him.Bosinney walked right out into the thoroughfare — a vast muffled blackness, where a man could not see six paces before him; where, all around, voices or whistles mocked the sense of direction; and sudden shapes came rolling slow upon them; and now and then a light showed like a dim island in an infinite dark sea.And fast into this perilous gulf of night walked Bosinney, and fast after him walked George. If the fellow meant to put his ‘twopenny’ under a ‘bus, he would stop it if he could! Across the street and back the hunted creature strode, not groping as other men were groping in that gloom, but driven forward as though the faithful George behind wielded a knout; and this chase after a haunted man began to have for George the strangest fascination.But it was now that the affair developed in a way which ever afterwards caused it to remain green in his mind. Brought to a stand-still in the fog, he heard words which threw a sudden light on these proceedings. What Mrs. Soames had said to Bosinney in the train was now no longer dark. George understood from those mutterings that Soames had exercised his rights over an estranged and unwilling wife in the greatest — the supreme act of property.His fancy wandered in the fields of this situation; it impressed him; he guessed something of the anguish, the sexual confusion and horror in Bosinney’s heart. And he thought: ‘Yes, it’s a bit thick! I don’t wonder the poor fellow is half-cracked!’He had run his quarry to earth on a bench under one of the lions in Trafalgar Square, a monster sphynx astray like themselves in that gulf of darkness. Here, rigid and silent, sat Bosinney, and George, in whose patience was a touch of strange brotherliness, took his stand behind. He was not lacking in a certain delicacy — a sense of form — that did not permit him to intrude upon this tragedy, and he waited, quiet as the lion above, his fur collar hitched above his ears concealing the fleshy redness of his cheeks, concealing all but his eyes with their sardonic, compassionate stare. And men kept passing back from business on the way to their clubs — men whose figures shrouded in cocoons of fog came into view like spectres, and like spectres vanished. Then even in his compassion George’s Quilpish humour broke forth in a sudden longing to pluck these spectres by the sleeve, and say:“Hi, you Johnnies! You don’t often see a show like this! Here’s a poor devil whose mistress has just been telling him a pretty little story of her husband; walk up, walk up! He’s taken the knock, you see.”In fancy he saw them gaping round the tortured lover; and grinned as he thought of some respectable, newly-married spectre enabled by the state of his own affections to catch an inkling of what was going on within Bosinney; he fancied he could see his mouth getting wider and wider, and the fog going down and down. For in George was all that contempt of the of the married middle-class — peculiar to the wild and sportsmanlike spirits in its ranks.But he began to be bored. Waiting was not what he had bargained for.‘After all,’ he thought, ‘the poor chap will get over it; not the first time such a thing has happened in this little city!’ But now his quarry again began muttering words of violent hate and anger. And following a sudden impulse George touched him on the shoulder.Bosinney spun round.“Who are you? What do you want?”George could have stood it well enough in the light of the gas lamps, in the light of that everyday world of which he was so hardy a connoisseur; but in this fog, where all was gloomy and unreal, where nothing had that matter-of-fact value associated by Forsytes with earth, he was a victim to strange qualms, and as he tried to stare back into the eyes of this maniac, he thought:‘If I see a bobby, I’ll hand him over; he’s not fit to be at large.’But waiting for no answer, Bosinney strode off into the fog, and George followed, keeping perhaps a little further off, yet more than ever set on tracking him down.‘He can’t go on long like this,’ he thought. ‘It’s God’s own miracle he’s not been run over already.’ He brooded no more on policemen, a sportsman’s sacred fire alive again within him.Into a denser gloom than ever Bosinney held on at a furious pace; but his pursuer perceived more method in his madness — he was clearly making his way westwards.‘He’s really going for Soames!’ thought George. The idea was attractive. It would be a sporting end to such a chase. He had always disliked his cousin.The shaft of a passing cab brushed against his shoulder and made him leap aside. He did not intend to be killed for the Buccaneer, or anyone. Yet, with hereditary tenacity, he stuck to the trail through vapour that blotted out everything but the shadow of the hunted man and the dim moon of the nearest lamp.Then suddenly, with the instinct of a town-stroller, George knew himself to be in Piccadilly. Here he could find his way blindfold; and freed from the strain of geographical uncertainty, his mind returned to Bosinney’s trouble.Down the long avenue of his man-about-town experience, bursting, as it were, through a smirch of doubtful amours, there stalked to him a memory of his youth. A memory, poignant still, that brought the scent of hay, the gleam of moonlight, a summer magic, into the reek and blackness of this London fog — the memory of a night when in the darkest shadow of a lawn he had overheard from a woman’s lips that he was not her sole possessor. And for a moment George walked no longer in black Piccadilly, but lay again, with hell in his heart, and his face to the sweet-smelling, dewy grass, in the long shadow of poplars that hid the moon.A longing seized him to throw his arm round the Buccaneer, and say, “Come, old boy. Time cures all. Let’s go and drink it off!”But a voice yelled at him, and he started back. A cab rolled out of blackness, and into blackness disappeared. And suddenly George perceived that he had lost Bosinney. He ran forward and back, felt his heart clutched by a sickening fear, the dark fear which lives in the wings of the fog. Perspiration started out on his brow. He stood quite still, listening with all his might.“And then,” as he confided to Dartie the same evening in the course of a game of billiards at the Red Pottle, “I lost him.”Dartie twirled complacently at his dark moustache. He had just put together a neat break of twenty-three — failing at a ‘Jenny.’ “And who was she?” he asked.George looked slowly at the ‘man of the world’s’ fattish, sallow face, and a little grim smile lurked about the curves of his cheeks and his heavy-lidded eyes.‘No, no, my fine fellow,’ he thought, ‘I’m not going to tell you.’ For though he mixed with Dartie a good deal, he thought him a bit of a cad.“Oh, some little love-lady or other,” he said, and chalked his cue.“A love-lady!” exclaimed Dartie — he used a more figurative expression. “I made sure it was our friend Soa. . . . ”“Did you?” said George curtly. “Then damme you’ve made an error.”He missed his shot. He was careful not to allude to the subject again till, towards eleven o’clock, having, in his poetic phraseology, ‘looked upon the drink when it was yellow,’ he drew aside the blind, and gazed out into the street. The murky blackness of the fog was but faintly broken by the lamps of the ‘Red Pottle,’ and no shape of mortal man or thing was in sight.“I can’t help thinking of that poor Buccaneer,” he said. “He may be wandering out there now in that fog. If he’s not a corpse,” he added with strange dejection.“Corpse!” said Dartie, in whom the recollection of his defeat at Richmond flared up. “He’s all right. Ten to one if he wasn’t tight!”George turned on him, looking really formidable, with a sort of savage gloom on his big face.“Dry up!” he said. “Don’t I tell you he’s ‘taken the knock!”’

Chapter 28 The Trial 
In the morning of his case, which was second in the list, Soames was again obliged to start without seeing Irene, and it was just as well, for he had not as yet made up his mind what attitude to adopt towards her.He had been requested to be in court by half-past ten, to provide against the event of the first action (a breach of promise) collapsing, which however it did not, both sides showing a courage that afforded Waterbuck, Q.C., an opportunity for improving his already great reputation in this class of case. He was opposed by Ram, the other celebrated breach of promise man. It was a battle of giants.The court delivered judgment just before the luncheon interval. The jury left the box for good, and Soames went out to get something to eat. He met James standing at the little luncheon-bar, like a pelican in the wilderness of the galleries, bent over a sandwich with a glass of sherry before him. The spacious emptiness of the great central hall, over which father and son brooded as they stood together, was marred now and then for a fleeting moment by barristers in wig and gown hurriedly bolting across, by an occasional old lady or rusty-coated man, looking up in a frightened way, and by two persons, bolder than their generation, seated in an embrasure arguing. The sound of their voices arose, together with a scent as of neglected wells, which, mingling with the odour of the galleries, combined to form the savour, like nothing but the emanation of a refined cheese, so indissolubly connected with the administration of British Justice.It was not long before James addressed his son.“When’s your case coming on? I suppose it’ll be on directly. I shouldn’t wonder if this Bosinney’d say anything; I should think he’d have to. He’ll go bankrupt if it goes against him.” He took a large bite at his sandwich and a mouthful of sherry. “Your mother,” he said, “wants you and Irene to come and dine to-night.”A chill smile played round Soames’ lips; he looked back at his father. Anyone who had seen the look, cold and furtive, thus interchanged, might have been pardoned for not appreciating the real understanding between them. James finished his sherry at a draught.“How much?” he asked.On returning to the court Soames took at once his rightful seat on the front bench beside his solicitor. He ascertained where his father was seated with a glance so sidelong as to commit nobody.James, sitting back with his hands clasped over the handle of his umbrella, was brooding on the end of the bench immediately behind counsel, whence he could get away at once when the case was over. He considered Bosinney’s conduct in every way outrageous, but he did not wish to run up against him, feeling that the meeting would be awkward.Next to the Divorce Court, this court was, perhaps, the favourite emporium of justice, libel, breach of promise, and other commercial actions being frequently decided there. Quite a sprinkling of persons unconnected with the law occupied the back benches, and the hat of a woman or two could be seen in the gallery.The two rows of seats immediately in front of James were gradually filled by barristers in wigs, who sat down to make pencil notes, chat, and attend to their teeth; but his interest was soon diverted from these lesser lights of justice by the entrance of Waterbuck, Q.C., with the wings of his silk gown rustling, and his red, capable face supported by two short, brown whiskers. The famous Q.C. looked, as James freely admitted, the very picture of a man who could heckle a witness.For all his experience, it so happened that he had never seen Waterbuck, Q.C., before, and, like many Forsytes in the lower branch of the profession, he had an extreme admiration for a good cross-examiner. The long, lugubrious folds in his cheeks relaxed somewhat after seeing him, especially as he now perceived that Soames alone was represented by silk.Waterbuck, Q.C., had barely screwed round on his elbow to chat with his Junior before Mr. Justice Bentham himself appeared — a thin, rather hen-like man, with a little stoop, clean-shaven under his snowy wig. Like all the rest of the court, Waterbuck rose, and remained on his feet until the judge was seated. James rose but slightly; he was already comfortable, and had no opinion of Bentham, having sat next but one to him at dinner twice at the Bumley Tomms’. Bumley Tomm was rather a poor thing, though he had been so successful. James himself had given him his first brief. He was excited, too, for he had just found out that Bosinney was not in court.‘Now, what’s he mean by that?’ he kept on thinking.The case having been called on, Waterbuck, Q.C., pushing back his papers, hitched his gown on his shoulder, and, with a semi-circular look around him, like a man who is going to bat, arose and addressed the Court.The facts, he said, were not in dispute, and all that his Lordship would be asked was to interpret the correspondence which had taken place between his client and the defendant, an architect, with reference to the decoration of a house. He would, however, submit that this correspondence could only mean one very plain thing. After briefly reciting the history of the house at Robin Hill, which he described as a mansion, and the actual facts of expenditure, he went on as follows:“My client, Mr. Soames Forsyte, is a gentleman, a man of property, who would be the last to dispute any legitimate claim that might be made against him, but he has met with such treatment from his architect in the matter of this house, over which he has, as your lordship has heard, already spent some twelve — some twelve thousand pounds, a sum considerably in advance of the amount he had originally contemplated, that as a matter of principle — and this I cannot too strongly emphasize — as a matter of principle, and in the interests of others, he has felt himself compelled to bring this action. The point put forward in defence by the architect I will suggest to your lordship is not worthy of a moment’s serious consideration.” He then read the correspondence.His client, “a man of recognised position,” was prepared to go into the box, and to swear that he never did authorize, that it was never in his mind to authorize, the expenditure of any money beyond the extreme limit of twelve thousand and fifty pounds, which he had clearly fixed; and not further to waste the time of the court, he would at once call Mr. Forsyte.Soames then went into the box. His whole appearance was striking in its composure. His face, just supercilious enough, pale and clean-shaven, with a little line between the eyes, and compressed lips; his dress in unostentatious order, one hand neatly gloved, the other bare. He answered the questions put to him in a somewhat low, but distinct voice. His evidence under cross-examination savoured of taciturnity.Had he not used the expression, “a free hand”? No.“Come, come!”The expression he had used was ‘a free hand in the terms of this correspondence.’“Would you tell the Court that that was English?”“Yes!”“What do you say it means?”“What it says!”“Are you prepared to deny that it is a contradiction in terms?”“Yes.”“You are not an Irishman?”“No.”“Are you a well-educated man?”“Yes.”“And yet you persist in that statement?”“Yes.”Throughout this and much more cross-examination, which turned again and again around the ‘nice point,’ James sat with his hand behind his ear, his eyes fixed upon his son.He was proud of him! He could not but feel that in similar circumstances he himself would have been tempted to enlarge his replies, but his instinct told him that this taciturnity was the very thing. He sighed with relief, however, when Soames, slowly turning, and without any change of expression, descended from the box.When it came to the turn of Bosinney’s Counsel to address the Judge, James redoubled his attention, and he searched the Court again and again to see if Bosinney were not somewhere concealed.Young Chankery began nervously; he was placed by Bosinney’s absence in an awkward position. He therefore did his best to turn that absence to account.He could not but fear — he said — that his client had met with an accident. He had fully expected him there to give evidence; they had sent round that morning both to Mr. Bosinney’s office and to his rooms (though he knew they were one and the same, he thought it was as well not to say so), but it was not known where he was, and this he considered to be ominous, knowing how anxious Mr. Bosinney had been to give his evidence. He had not, however, been instructed to apply for an adjournment, and in default of such instruction he conceived it his duty to go on. The plea on which he somewhat confidently relied, and which his client, had he not unfortunately been prevented in some way from attending, would have supported by his evidence, was that such an expression as a ‘free hand’ could not be limited, fettered, and rendered unmeaning, by any verbiage which might follow it. He would go further and say that the correspondence showed that whatever he might have said in his evidence, Mr. Forsyte had in fact never contemplated repudiating liability on any of the work ordered or executed by his architect. The defendant had certainly never contemplated such a contingency, or, as was demonstrated by his letters, he would never have proceeded with the work — a work of extreme delicacy, carried out with great care and efficiency, to meet and satisfy the fastidious taste of a connoisseur, a rich man, a man of property. He felt strongly on this point, and feeling strongly he used, perhaps, rather strong words when he said that this action was of a most unjustifiable, unexpected, indeed — unprecedented character. If his Lordship had had the opportunity that he himself had made it his duty to take, to go over this very fine house and see the great delicacy and beauty of the decorations executed by his client — an artist in his most honourable profession — he felt convinced that not for one moment would his Lordship tolerate this, he would use no stronger word than daring attempt to evade legitimate responsibility.Taking the text of Soames’ letters, he lightly touched on ‘Boileau v. The Blasted Cement Company, Limited.’ “It is doubtful,” he said, “what that authority has decided; in any case I would submit that it is just as much in my favour as in my friend’s.” He then argued the ‘nice point’ closely. With all due deference he submitted that Mr. Forsyte’s expression nullified itself. His client not being a rich man, the matter was a serious one for him; he was a very talented architect, whose professional reputation was undoubtedly somewhat at stake. He concluded with a perhaps too personal appeal to the Judge, as a lover of the arts, to show himself the protector of artists, from what was occasionally — he said occasionally — the too iron hand of capital. “What,” he said, “will be the position of the artistic professions, if men of property like this Mr. Forsyte refuse, and are allowed to refuse, to carry out the obligations of the commissions which they have given.” He would now call his client, in case he should at the last moment have found himself able to be present.The name Philip Baynes Bosinney was called three times by the Ushers, and the sound of the calling echoed with strange melancholy throughout the Court and Galleries.The crying of this name, to which no answer was returned, had upon James a curious effect: it was like calling for your lost dog about the streets. And the creepy feeling that it gave him, of a man missing, grated on his sense of comfort and security-on his cosiness. Though he could not have said why, it made him feel uneasy.He looked now at the clock — a quarter to three! It would be all over in a quarter of an hour. Where could the young fellow be?It was only when Mr. Justice Bentham delivered judgment that he got over the turn he had received.Behind the wooden erection, by which he was fenced from more ordinary mortals, the learned Judge leaned forward. The electric light, just turned on above his head, fell on his face, and mellowed it to an orange hue beneath the snowy crown of his wig; the amplitude of his robes grew before the eye; his whole figure, facing the comparative dusk of the Court, radiated like some majestic and sacred body. He cleared his throat, took a sip of water, broke the nib of a quill against the desk, and, folding his bony hands before him, began.To James he suddenly loomed much larger than he had ever thought Bentham would loom. It was the majesty of the law; and a person endowed with a nature far less matter-of-fact than that of James might have been excused for failing to pierce this halo, and disinter therefrom the somewhat ordinary Forsyte, who walked and talked in every-day life under the name of Sir Walter Bentham.He delivered judgment in the following words:“The facts in this case are not in dispute. On May 15 last the defendant wrote to the plaintiff, requesting to be allowed to withdraw from his professional position in regard to the decoration of the plaintiff’s house, unless he were given ‘a free hand.’ The plaintiff, on May 17, wrote back as follows: ‘In giving you, in accordance with your request, this free hand, I wish you to clearly understand that the total cost of the house as handed over to me completely decorated, inclusive of your fee (as arranged between us) must not exceed twelve thousand pounds.’ To this letter the defendant replied on May 18: ‘If you think that in such a delicate matter as decoration I can bind myself to the exact pound, I am afraid you are mistaken.’ On May 19 the plaintiff wrote as follows: ‘I did not mean to say that if you should exceed the sum named in my letter to you by ten or twenty or even fifty pounds there would be any difficulty between us. You have a free hand in the terms of this correspondence, and I hope you will see your way to completing the decorations.’ On May 20 the defendant replied thus shortly: ‘Very well.’“In completing these decorations, the defendant incurred liabilities and expenses which brought the total cost of this house up to the sum of twelve thousand four hundred pounds, all of which expenditure has been defrayed by the plaintiff. This action has been brought by the plaintiff to recover from the defendant the sum of three hundred and fifty pounds expended by him in excess of a sum of twelve thousand and fifty pounds, alleged by the plaintiff to have been fixed by this correspondence as the maximum sum that the defendant had authority to expend.“The question for me to decide is whether or no the defendant is liable to refund to the plaintiff this sum. In my judgment he is so liable.“What in effect the plaintiff has said is this ‘I give you a free hand to complete these decorations, provided that you keep within a total cost to me of twelve thousand pounds. If you exceed that sum by as much as fifty pounds, I will not hold you responsible; beyond that point you are no agent of mine, and I shall repudiate liability.’ It is not quite clear to me whether, had the plaintiff in fact repudiated liability under his agent’s contracts, he would, under all the circumstances, have been successful in so doing; but he has not adopted this course. He has accepted liability, and fallen back upon his rights against the defendant under the terms of the latter’s engagement.“In my judgment the plaintiff is entitled to recover this sum from the defendant.“It has been sought, on behalf of the defendant, to show that no limit of expenditure was fixed or intended to be fixed by this correspondence. If this were so, I can find no reason for the plaintiff’s importation into the correspondence of the figures of twelve thousand pounds and subsequently of fifty pounds. The defendant’s contention would render these figures meaningless. It is manifest to me that by his letter of May 20 he assented to a very clear proposition, by the terms of which he must be held to be bound.“For these reasons there will be judgment for the plaintiff for the amount claimed with costs.”James sighed, and stooping, picked up his umbrella which had fallen with a rattle at the words ‘importation into this correspondence.’Untangling his legs, he rapidly left the Court; without waiting for his son, he snapped up a hansom cab (it was a clear, grey afternoon) and drove straight to Timothy’s where he found Swithin; and to him, Mrs. Septimus Small, and Aunt Hester, he recounted the whole proceedings, eating two muffins not altogether in the intervals of speech.“Soames did very well,” he ended; “he’s got his head screwed on the right way. This won’t please Jolyon. It’s a bad business for that young Bosinney; he’ll go bankrupt, I shouldn’t wonder,” and then after a long pause, during which he had stared disquietly into the fire, he added:“He wasn’t there — now why?”There was a sound of footsteps. The figure of a thick-set man, with the ruddy brown face of robust health, was seen in the back drawing-room. The forefinger of his upraised hand was outlined against the black of his frock coat. He spoke in a grudging voice.“Well, James,” he said, “I can’t — I can’t stop,” and turning round, he walked out.It was Timothy.James rose from his chair. “There!” he said, “there! I knew there was something wro. . . . ” He checked himself, and was silent, staring before him, as though he had seen a portent.

Chapter 29 Soames Breaks the News 
In leaving the Court Soames did not go straight home. He felt disinclined for the City, and drawn by need for sympathy in his triumph, he, too, made his way, but slowly and on foot, to Timothy’s in the Bayswater Road.His father had just left; Mrs. Small and Aunt Hester, in possession of the whole story, greeted him warmly. They were sure he was hungry after all that evidence. Smither should toast him some more muffins, his dear father had eaten them all. He must put his legs up on the sofa; and he must have a glass of prune brandy too. It was so strengthening.Swithin was still present, having lingered later than his wont, for he felt in want of exercise. On hearing this suggestion, he ‘pished.’ A pretty pass young men were coming to! His own liver was out of order, and he could not bear the thought of anyone else drinking prune brandy.He went away almost immediately, saying to Soames: “And how’s your wife? You tell her from me that if she’s dull, and likes to come and dine with me quietly, I’ll give her such a bottle of champagne as she doesn’t get every day.” Staring down from his height on Soames he contracted his thick, puffy, yellow hand as though squeezing within it all this small fry, and throwing out his chest he waddled slowly away.Mrs. Small and Aunt Hester were left horrified. Swithin was so droll!They themselves were longing to ask Soames how Irene would take the result, yet knew that they must not; he would perhaps say something of his own accord, to throw some light on this, the present burning question in their lives, the question that from necessity of silence tortured them almost beyond bearing; for even Timothy had now been told, and the effect on his health was little short of alarming. And what, too, would June do? This, also, was a most exciting, if dangerous speculation!They had never forgotten old Jolyon’s visit, since when he had not once been to see them; they had never forgotten the feeling it gave all who were present, that the family was no longer what it had been — that the family was breaking up.But Soames gave them no help, sitting with his knees crossed, talking of the Barbizon school of painters, whom he had just discovered. These were the coming men, he said; he should not wonder if a lot of money were made over them; he had his eye on two pictures by a man called Corot, charming things; if he could get them at a reasonable price he was going to buy them — they would, he thought, fetch a big price some day.Interested as they could not but be, neither Mrs. Septimus Small nor Aunt Hester could entirely acquiesce in being thus put off.It was interesting — most interesting — and then Soames was so clever that they were sure he would do something with those pictures if anybody could; but what was his plan now that he had won his case; was he going to leave London at once, and live in the country, or what was he going to do?Soames answered that he did not know, he thought they should be moving soon. He rose and kissed his aunts.No sooner had Aunt Juley received this emblem of departure than a change came over her, as though she were being visited by dreadful courage; every little roll of flesh on her face seemed trying to escape from an invisible, confining mask.She rose to the full extent of her more than medium height, and said: “It has been on my mind a long time, dear, and if nobody else will tell you, I have made up my mind that. . . . ”Aunt Hester interrupted her: “Mind, Julia, you do it. . . . ” she gasped —“on your own responsibility!”Mrs. Small went on as though she had not heard: “I think you ought to know, dear, that Mrs. MacAnder saw Irene walking in Richmond Park with Mr. Bosinney.”Aunt Hester, who had also risen, sank back in her chair, and turned her face away. Really Juley was too — she should not do such things when she — Aunt Hester, was in the room; and, breathless with anticipation, she waited for what Soames would answer.He had flushed the peculiar flush which always centred between his eyes; lifting his hand, and, as it were, selecting a finger, he bit a nail delicately; then, drawling it out between set lips, he said: “Mrs. MacAnder is a cat!”Without waiting for any reply, he left the room.When he went into Timothy’s he had made up his mind what course to pursue on getting home. He would go up to Irene and say:“Well, I’ve won my case, and there’s an end of it! I don’t want to be hard on Bosinney; I’ll see if we can’t come to some arrangement; he shan’t be pressed. And now let’s turn over a new leaf! We’ll let the house, and get out of these fogs. We’ll go down to Robin Hill at once. I— I never meant to be rough with you! Let’s shake hands — and —” Perhaps she would let him kiss her, and forget!When he came out of Timothy’s his intentions were no longer so simple. The smouldering jealousy and suspicion of months blazed up within him. He would put an end to that sort of thing once and for all; he would not have her drag his name in the dirt! If she could not or would not love him, as was her duty and his right — she should not play him tricks with anyone else! He would tax her with it; threaten to divorce her! That would make her behave; she would never face that. But — but — what if she did? He was staggered; this had not occurred to him.What if she did? What if she made him a confession? How would he stand then? He would have to bring a divorce!A divorce! Thus close, the word was paralyzing, so utterly at variance with all the principles that had hitherto guided his life. Its lack of compromise appalled him; he felt — like the captain of a ship, going to the side of his vessel, and, with his own hands throwing over the most precious of his bales. This jettisoning of his property with his own hand seemed uncanny to Soames. It would injure him in his profession: He would have to get rid of the house at Robin Hill, on which he had spent so much money, so much anticipation — and at a sacrifice. And she! She would no longer belong to him, not even in name! She would pass out of his life, and he — he should never see her again!He traversed in the cab the length of a street without getting beyond the thought that he should never see her again!But perhaps there was nothing to confess, even now very likely there was nothing to confess. Was it wise to push things so far? Was it wise to put himself into a position where he might have to eat his words? The result of this case would ruin Bosinney; a ruined man was desperate, but — what could he do? He might go abroad, ruined men always went abroad. What could they do — if indeed it was ‘they’— without money? It would be better to wait and see how things turned out. If necessary, he could have her watched. The agony of his jealousy (for all the world like the crisis of an aching tooth) came on again; and he almost cried out. But he must decide, fix on some course of action before he got home. When the cab drew up at the door, he had decided nothing.He entered, pale, his hands moist with perspiration, dreading to meet her, burning to meet her, ignorant of what he was to say or do.The maid Bilson was in the hall, and in answer to his question: “Where is your mistress?” told him that Mrs. Forsyte had left the house about noon, taking with her a trunk and bag.Snatching the sleeve of his fur coat away from her grasp, he confronted her:“What?” he exclaimed; “what’s that you said?” Suddenly recollecting that he must not betray emotion, he added: “What message did she leave?” and noticed with secret terror the startled look of the maid’s eyes.“Mrs. Forsyte left no message, sir.”“No message; very well, thank you, that will do. I shall be dining out.”The maid went downstairs, leaving him still in his fur coat, idly turning over the visiting cards in the porcelain bowl that stood on the carved oak rug chest in the hall.Mr. and Mrs. Bareham Culcher. Mrs. Septimus Small. Mrs. Baynes. Mr. Solomon Thornworthy. Lady Bellis. Miss Hermione Bellis. Miss Winifred Bellis. Miss Ella Bellis.Who the devil were all these people? He seemed to have forgotten all familiar things. The words ‘no message — a trunk, and a bag,’ played a hide-and-seek in his brain. It was incredible that she had left no message, and, still in his fur coat, he ran upstairs two steps at a time, as a young married man when he comes home will run up to his wife’s room.Everything was dainty, fresh, sweet-smelling; everything in perfect order. On the great bed with its lilac silk quilt, was the bag she had made and embroidered with her own hands to hold her sleeping things; her slippers ready at the foot; the sheets even turned over at the head as though expecting her.On the table stood the silver-mounted brushes and bottles from her dressing bag, his own present. There must, then, be some mistake. What bag had she taken? He went to the bell to summon Bilson, but remembered in time that he must assume knowledge of where Irene had gone, take it all as a matter of course, and grope out the meaning for himself.He locked the doors, and tried to think, but felt his brain going round; and suddenly tears forced themselves into his eyes.Hurriedly pulling off his coat, he looked at himself in the mirror.He was too pale, a greyish tinge all over his face; he poured out water, and began feverishly washing.Her silver-mounted brushes smelt faintly of the perfumed lotion she used for her hair; and at this scent the burning sickness of his jealousy seized him again.Struggling into his fur, he ran downstairs and out into the street.He had not lost all command of himself, however, and as he went down Sloane Street he framed a story for use, in case he should not find her at Bosinney’s. But if he should? His power of decision again failed; he reached the house without knowing what he should do if he did find her there.It was after office hours, and the street door was closed; the woman who opened it could not say whether Mr. Bosinney were in or no; she had not seen him that day, not for two or three days; she did not attend to him now, nobody attended to him, he. . . .Soames interrupted her, he would go up and see for himself. He went up with a dogged, white face.The top floor was unlighted, the door closed, no one answered his ringing, he could hear no sound. He was obliged to descend, shivering under his fur, a chill at his heart. Hailing a cab, he told the man to drive to Park Lane.On the way he tried to recollect when he had last given her a cheque; she could not have more than three or four pounds, but there were her jewels; and with exquisite torture he remembered how much money she could raise on these; enough to take them abroad; enough for them to live on for months! He tried to calculate; the cab stopped, and he got out with the calculation unmade.The butler asked whether Mrs. Soames was in the cab, the master had told him they were both expected to dinner.Soames answered: “No. Mrs. Forsyte has a cold.”The butler was sorry.Soames thought he was looking at him inquisitively, and remembering that he was not in dress clothes, asked: “Anybody here to dinner, Warmson?”“Nobody but Mr. and Mrs. Dartie, sir.”Again it seemed to Soames that the butler was looking curiously at him. His composure gave way.“What are you looking at?” he said. “What’s the matter with me, eh?”The butler blushed, hung up the fur coat, murmured something that sounded like: “Nothing, sir, I’m sure, sir,” and stealthily withdrew.Soames walked upstairs. Passing the drawing-room without a look, he went straight up to his mother’s and father’s bedroom.James, standing sideways, the concave lines of his tall, lean figure displayed to advantage in shirt-sleeves and evening waistcoat, his head bent, the end of his white tie peeping askew from underneath one white Dundreary whisker, his eyes peering with intense concentration, his lips pouting, was hooking the top hooks of his wife’s bodice. Soames stopped; he felt half-choked, whether because he had come upstairs too fast, or for some other reason. He — he himself had never — never been asked to. . . .He heard his father’s voice, as though there were a pin in his mouth, saying: “Who’s that? Who’s there? What d’you want?” His mother’s: “Here, Felice, come and hook this; your master’ll never get done.”He put his hand up to his throat, and said hoarsely:“It’s I— Soames!”He noticed gratefully the affectionate surprise in Emily’s: “Well, my dear boy?” and James’, as he dropped the hook: “What, Soames! What’s brought you up? Aren’t you well?”He answered mechanically: “I’m all right,” and looked at them, and it seemed impossible to bring out his news.James, quick to take alarm, began: “You don’t look well. I expect you’ve taken a chill — it’s liver, I shouldn’t wonder. Your mother’ll give you. . . . ”But Emily broke in quietly: “Have you brought Irene?”Soames shook his head.“No,” he stammered, “she — she’s left me!”Emily deserted the mirror before which she was standing. Her tall, full figure lost its majesty and became very human as she came running over to Soames.“My dear boy! My dear boy!”She put her lips to his forehead, and stroked his hand.James, too, had turned full towards his son; his face looked older.“Left you?” he said. “What d’you mean — left you? You never told me she was going to leave you.”Soames answered surlily: “How could I tell? What’s to be done?”James began walking up and down; he looked strange and stork-like without a coat. “What’s to be done!” he muttered. “How should I know what’s to be done? What’s the good of asking me? Nobody tells me anything, and then they come and ask me what’s to be done; and I should like to know how I’m to tell them! Here’s your mother, there she stands; she doesn’t say anything. What I should say you’ve got to do is to follow her..”Soames smiled; his peculiar, supercilious smile had never before looked pitiable.“I don’t know where shew I’m to tell them! Here’s your mother, there she stands; she doesn’t say anything. What I shoul’s gone,” he said.“Don’t know where she’s gone!” said James. “How d’you mean, don’t know where she’s gone? Where d’you suppose she’s gone? She’s gone after that young Bosinney, that’s where she’s gone. I knew how it would be.”Soames, in the long silence that followed, felt his mother pressing his hand. And all that passed seemed to pass as though his own power of thinking or doing had gone to sleep.His father’s face, dusky red, twitching as if he were going to cry, and words breaking out that seemed rent from him by some spasm in his soul.“There’ll be a scandal; I always said so.” Then, no one saying anything: “And there you stand, you and your mother!”And Emily’s voice, calm, rather contemptuous: “Come, now, James! Soames will do all that he can.”And James, staring at the floor, a little brokenly: “Well, I can’t help you; I’m getting old. Don’t you be in too great a hurry, my boy.”And his mother’s voice again: “Soames will do all he can to get her back. We won’t talk of it. It’ll all come right, I dare say.”And James: “Well, I can’t see how it can come right. And if she hasn’t gone off with that young Bosinney, my advice to you is not to listen to her, but to follow her and get her back.”Once more Soames felt his mother stroking his hand, in token of her approval, and as though repeating some form of sacred oath, he muttered between his teeth: “I will!”All three went down to the drawing-room together. There, were gathered the three girls and Dartie; had Irene been present, the family circle would have been complete.James sank into his armchair, and except for a word of cold greeting to Dartie, whom he both despised and dreaded, as a man likely to be always in want of money, he said nothing till dinner was announced. Soames, too, was silent; Emily alone, a woman of cool courage, maintained a conversation with Winifred on trivial subjects. She was never more composed in her manner and conversation than that evening.A decision having been come to not to speak of Irene’s flight, no view was expressed by any other member of the family as to the right course to be pursued; there can be little doubt, from the general tone adopted in relation to events as they afterwards turned out, that James’s advice: “Don’t you listen to her, follow-her and get her back!” would, with here and there an exception, have been regarded as sound, not only in Park Lane, but amongst the Nicholases, the Rogers, and at Timothy’s. Just as it would surely have been endorsed by that wider body of Forsytes all over London, who were merely excluded from judgment by ignorance of the story.In spite then of Emily’s efforts, the dinner was served by Warmson and the footman almost in silence. Dartie was sulky, and drank all he could get; the girls seldom talked to each other at any time. James asked once where June was, and what she was doing with herself in these days. No one could tell him. He sank back into gloom. Only when Winifred recounted how little Publius had given his bad penny to a beggar, did he brighten up.“Ah!” he said, “that’s a clever little chap. I don’t know what’ll become of him, if he goes on like this. An intelligent little chap, I call him!” But it was only a flash.The courses succeeded one another solemnly, under the electric light, which glared down onto the table, but barely reached the principal ornament of the walls, a so-called ‘Sea Piece by Turner,’ almost entirely composed of cordage and drowning men.Champagne was handed, and then a bottle of James’ prehistoric port, but as by the chill hand of some skeleton.At ten o’clock Soames left; twice in reply to questions, he had said that Irene was not well; he felt he could no longer trust himself. His mother kissed him with her large soft kiss, and he pressed her hand, a flush of warmth in his cheeks. He walked away in the cold wind, which whistled desolately round the corners of the streets, under a sky of clear steel-blue, alive with stars; he noticed neither their frosty greeting, nor the crackle of the curled-up plane-leaves, nor the night-women hurrying in their shabby furs, nor the pinched faces of vagabonds at street corners. Winter was come! But Soames hastened home, oblivious; his hands trembled as he took the late letters from the gilt wire cage into which they had been thrust through the slit in the door.’None from Irene!He went into the dining-room; the fire was bright there, his chair drawn up to it, slippers ready, spirit case, and carven cigarette box on the table; but after staring at it all for a minute or two, he turned out the light and went upstairs. There was a fire too in his dressing-room, but her room was dark and cold. It was into this room that Soames went.He made a great illumination with candles, and for a long time continued pacing up and down between the bed and the door. He could not get used to the thought that she had really left him, and as though still searching for some message, some reason, some reading of all the mystery of his married life, he began opening every recess and drawer.There were her dresses; he had always liked, indeed insisted, that she should be well-dressed — she had taken very few; two or three at most, and drawer after drawer; full of linen and silk things, was untouched.Perhaps after all it was only a freak, and she had gone to the seaside for a few days’ change. If only that were so, and she were really coming back, he would never again do as he had done that fatal night before last, never again run that risk — though it was her duty, her duty as a wife; though she did belong to him — he would never again run that risk; she was evidently not quite right in her head!He stooped over the drawer where she kept her jewels; it was not locked, and came open as he pulled; the jewel box had the key in it. This surprised him until he remembered that it was sure to be empty. He opened it.It was far from empty. Divided, in little green velvet compartments, were all the things he had given her, even her watch, and stuck into the recess that contained — the watch was a three-cornered note addressed ‘Soames Forsyte,’ in Irene’s handwriting:‘I think I have taken nothing that you or your people have given me.’ And that was all.He looked at the clasps and bracelets of diamonds and pearls, at the little flat gold watch with a great diamond set in sapphires, at the chains and rings, each in its nest, and the tears rushed up in his eyes and dropped upon them.Nothing that she could have done, nothing that she had done, brought home to him like this the inner significance of her act. For the moment, perhaps, he understood nearly all there was to understand — understood that she loathed him, that she had loathed him for years, that for all intents and purposes they were like people living in different worlds, that there was no hope for him, never had been; even, that she had suffered — that she was to be pitied.In that moment of emotion he betrayed the Forsyte in him — forgot himself, his interests, his property — was capable of almost anything; was lifted into the pure ether of the selfless and unpractical.Such moments pass quickly.And as though with the tears he had purged himself of weakness, he got up, locked the box, and slowly, almost trembling, carried it with him into the other room.

Chapter 30 June’s Victory 
June had waited for her chance, scanning the duller columns of the journals, morning and evening with an assiduity which at first puzzled old Jolyon; and when her chance came, she took it with all the promptitude and resolute tenacity of her character.She will always remember best in her life that morning when at last she saw amongst the reliable Cause List of the Times newspaper, under the heading of Court XIII, Mr. Justice Bentham, the case of Forsyte v. Bosinney.Like a gambler who stakes his last piece of money, she had prepared to hazard her all upon this throw; it was not her nature to contemplate defeat. How, unless with the instinct of a woman in love, she knew that Bosinney’s discomfiture in this action was assured, cannot be told — on this assumption, however, she laid her plans, as upon a certainty.Half past eleven found her at watch in the gallery of Court XIII., and there she remained till the case of Forsyte v. Bosinney was over. Bosinney’s absence did not disquiet her; she had felt instinctively that he would not defend himself. At the end of the judgment she hastened down, and took a cab to his rooms.She passed the open street-door and the offices on the three lower floors without attracting notice; not till she reached the top did her difficulties begin.Her ring was not answered; she had now to make up her mind whether she would go down and ask the caretaker in the basement to let her in to await Mr. Bosinney’s return, or remain patiently outside the door, trusting that no one would, come up. She decided on the latter course.A quarter of an hour had passed in freezing vigil on the landing, before it occurred to her that Bosinney had been used to leave the key of his rooms under the door-mat. She looked and found it there. For some minutes she could not decide to make use of it; at last she let herself in and left the door open that anyone who came might see she was there on business.This was not the same June who had paid the trembling visit five months ago; those months of suffering and restraint had made her less sensitive; she had dwelt on this visit so long, with such minuteness, that its terrors were discounted beforehand. She was not there to fail this time, for if she failed no one could help her.Like some mother beast on the watch over her young, her little quick figure never stood still in that room, but wandered from wall to wall, from window to door, fingering now one thing, now another. There was dust everywhere, the room could not have been cleaned for weeks, and June, quick to catch at anything that should buoy up her hope, saw in it a sign that he had been obliged, for economy’s sake, to give up his servant.She looked into the bedroom; the bed was roughly made, as though by the hand of man. Listening intently, she darted in, and peered into his cupboards. A few shirts and collars, a pair of muddy boots — the room was bare even of garments.She stole back to the sitting-room, and now she noticed the absence of all the little things he had set store by. The clock that had been his mother’s, the field-glasses that had hung over the sofa; two really valuable old prints of Harrow, where his father had been at school, and last, not least, the piece of Japanese pottery she herself had given him. All were gone; and in spite of the rage roused within her championing soul at the thought that the world should treat him thus, their disappearance augured happily for the success of her plan.It was while looking at the spot where the piece of Japanese pottery had stood that she felt a strange certainty of being watched, and, turning, saw Irene in the open doorway.The two stood gazing at each other for a minute in silence; then June walked forward and held out her hand. Irene did not take it.When her hand was refused, June put it behind her. Her eyes grew steady with anger; she waited for Irene to speak; and thus waiting, took in, with who-knows-what rage of jealousy, suspicion, and curiosity, every detail of her friend’s face and dress and figure.Irene was clothed in her long grey fur; the travelling cap on her head left a wave of gold hair visible above her forehead. The soft fullness of the coat made her face as small as a child’s.Unlike June’s cheeks, her cheeks had no colour in them, but were ivory white and pinched as if with cold. Dark circles lay round her eyes. In one hand she held a bunch of violets.She looked back at June, no smile on her lips; and with those great dark eyes fastened on her, the girl, for all her startled anger, felt something of the old spell.She spoke first, after all.“What have you come for?” But the feeling that she herself was being asked the same question, made her add: “This horrible case. I came to tell him — he has lost it.”Irene did not speak, her eyes never moved from June’s face, and the girl cried:“Don’t stand there as if you were made of stone!”Irene laughed: “I wish to God I were!”But June turned away: “Stop!” she cried, “don’t tell me! I don’t want to hear! I don’t want to hear what you’ve come for. I don’t want to hear!” And like some uneasy spirit, she began swiftly walking to and fro. Suddenly she broke out:“I was here first. We can’t both stay here together!”On Irene’s face a smile wandered up, and died out like a flicker of firelight. She did not move. And then it was that June perceived under the softness and immobility of this figure something desperate and resolved; something not to be turned away, something dangerous. She tore off her hat, and, putting both hands to her brow, pressed back the bronze mass of her hair.“You have no right here!” she cried defiantly.Irene answered: “I have no right anywhere!“What do you mean?”“I have left Soames. You always wanted me to!”June put her hands over her ears.“Don’t! I don’t want to hear anything — I don’t want to know anything. It’s impossible to fight with you! What makes you stand like that? Why don’t you go?”Irene’s lips moved; she seemed to be saying: “Where should I go?”June turned to the window. She could see the face of a clock down in the street. It was nearly four. At any moment he might come! She looked back across her shoulder, and her face was distorted with anger.But Irene had not moved; in her gloved hands she ceaselessly turned and twisted the little bunch of violets.The tears of rage and disappointment rolled down June’s cheeks.“How could you come?” she said. “You have been a false friend to me!”Again Irene laughed. June saw that she had played a wrong card, and broke down.“Why have you come?” she sobbed. “You’ve ruined my life, and now you want to ruin his!”Irene’s mouth quivered; her eyes met June’s with a look so mournful that the girl cried out in the midst of her sobbing, “No, no!”But Irene’s head bent till it touched her breast. She turned, and went quickly out, hiding her lips with the little bunch of violets.June ran to the door. She heard the footsteps going down and down. She called out: “Come back, Irene! Come back!”The footsteps died away. . . .Bewildered and torn, the girl stood at the top of the stairs. Why had Irene gone, leaving her mistress of the field? What did it mean? Had she really given him up to her? Or had she . . .? And she was the prey of a gnawing uncertainty. . . . Bosinney did not come. . . .About six o’clock that afternoon old Jolyon returned from Wistaria Avenue, where now almost every day he spent some hours, and asked if his grand-daughter were upstairs. On being told that she had just come in, he sent up to her room to request her to come down and speak to him.He had made up his mind to tell her that he was reconciled with her father. In future bygones must be bygones. He would no longer live alone, or practically alone, in this great house; he was going to give it up, and take one in the country for his son, where they could all go and live together. If June did not like this, she could have an allowance and live by herself. It wouldn’t make much difference to her, for it was a long time since she had shown him any affection.But when June came down, her face was pinched and piteous; there was a strained, pathetic look in her eyes. She snuggled up in her old attitude on the arm of his chair, and what he said compared but poorly with the clear, authoritative, injured statement he had thought out with much care. His heart felt sore, as the great heart of a mother-bird feels sore when its youngling flies and bruises its wing. His words halted, as though he were apologizing for having at last deviated from the path of virtue, and succumbed, in defiance of sounder principles, to his more natural instincts.He seemed nervous lest, in thus announcing his intentions, he should be setting his granddaughter a bad example; and now that he came to the point, his way of putting the suggestion that, if she didn’t like it, she could live by herself and lump it, was delicate in the extreme.’“And if, by any chance, my darling,” he said, “you found you didn’t get on — with them, why, I could make that all right. You could have what you liked. We could find a little flat in London where you could set up, and I could be running to continually. But the children,” he added, “are dear little things!”Then, in the midst of this grave, rather transparent, explanation of changed policy, his eyes twinkled. “This’ll astonish Timothy’s weak nerves. That precious young thing will have something to say about this, or I’m a Dutchman!”June had not yet spoken. Perched thus on the arm of his chair, with her head above him, her face was invisible. But presently he felt her warm cheek against his own, and knew that, at all events, there was nothing very alarming in her attitude towards his news. He began to take courage.“You’ll like your father,” he said —“an amiable chap. Never was much push about him, but easy to get on with. You’ll find him artistic and all that.”And old Jolyon bethought him of the dozen or so water-colour drawings all carefully locked up in his bedroom; for now that his son was going to become a man of property he did not think them quite such poor things as heretofore.“As to your — your stepmother,” he said, using the word with some little difficulty, “I call her a refined woman — a bit of a Mrs. Gummidge, I shouldn’t wonder — but very fond of Jo. And the children,” he repeated — indeed, this sentence ran like music through all his solemn self-justification —“are sweet little things!”If June had known, those words but reincarnated that tender love for little children, for the young and weak, which in the past had made him desert his son for her tiny self, and now, as the cycle rolled, was taking him from her.But he began to get alarmed at her silence, and asked impatiently: “Well, what do you say?”June slid down to his knee, and she in her turn began her tale. She thought it would all go splendidly; she did not see any difficulty, and she did not care a bit what people thought.Old Jolyon wriggled. H’m! then people would think! He had thought that after all these years perhaps they wouldn’t! Well, he couldn’t help it! Nevertheless, he could not approve of his granddaughter’s way of putting it — she ought to mind what people thought!Yet he said nothing. His feelings were too mixed, too inconsistent for expression.No — went on June he did not care; what business was it of theirs? There was only one thing — and with her cheek pressing against his knee, old Jolyon knew at once that this something was no trifle: As he was going to buy a house in the country, would he not — to please her — buy that splendid house of Soames’ at Robin Hill? It was finished, it was perfectly beautiful, and no one would live in it now. They would all be so happy there.Old Jolyon was on the alert at once. Wasn’t the ‘man of property’ going to live in his new house, then? He never alluded to Soames now but under this title.“No”— June said —“he was not; she knew that he was not!”How did she know?She could not tell him, but she knew. She knew nearly for certain! It was most unlikely; circumstances had changed! Irene’s words still rang in her head: “I have left Soames. Where should I go?”But she kept silence about that.If her grandfather would only buy it and settle that wretched claim that ought never to have been made on Phil! It would be the very best thing for everybody, and everything — everything might come straight.And June put her lips to his forehead, and pressed them close.But old Jolyon freed himself from her caress, his face wore the judicial look which came upon it when he dealt with affairs. He asked: What did she mean? There was something behind all this — had she been seeing Bosinney?June answered: “No; but I have been to his rooms.”“Been to his rooms? Who took you there?”June faced him steadily. “I went alone. He has lost that case. I don’t care whether it was right or wrong. I want to help him; and I will!”Old Jolyon asked again: “Have you seen him?” His glance seemed to pierce right through the girl’s eyes into her soul.Again June answered: “No; he was not there. I waited, but he did not come.”Old Jolyon made a movement of relief. She had risen and looked down at him; so slight, and light, and young, but so fixed, and so determined; and disturbed, vexed, as he was, he could not frown away that fixed look. The feeling of being beaten, of the reins having slipped, of being old and tired, mastered him.“Ah!” he said at last, “you’ll get yourself into a mess one of these days, I can see. You want your own way in everything.”Visited by one of his strange bursts of philosophy, he added: “Like that you were born; and like that you’ll stay until you die!”And he, who in his dealings with men of business, with Boards, with Forsytes of all descriptions, with such as were not Forsytes, had always had his own way, looked at his indomitable grandchild sadly — for he felt in her that quality which above all others he unconsciously admired.“Do you know what they say is going on?” he said slowly.June crimsoned.“Yes — no! I know — and I don’t know — I don’t care!” and she stamped her foot.“I believe,” said old Jolyon, dropping his eyes, “that you’d have him if he were dead!”There was a long silence before he spoke again.“But as to buying this house — you don’t know what you’re talking about!”June said that she did. She knew that he could get it if he wanted. He would only have to give what it cost.“What it cost! You know nothing about it. I won’t go to Soames — I’ll have nothing more to do with that young man.”“But you needn’t; you can go to Uncle James. If you can’t buy the house, will you pay his lawsuit claim? I know he is terribly hard up — I’ve seen it. You can stop it out of my money!”A twinkle came into old Jolyon’s eyes.“Stop it out of your money! A pretty way. And what will you do, pray, without your money?”But secretly, the idea of wresting the house from James and his son had begun to take hold of him. He had heard on Forsyte ‘Change much comment, much rather doubtful praise of this house. It was ‘too artistic,’ but a fine place. To take from the ‘man of property’ that on which he had set his heart, would be a crowning triumph over James, practical proof that he was going to make a man of property of Jo, to put him back in his proper position, and there to keep him secure. Justice once for all on those who had chosen to regard his son as a poor, penniless outcast.He would see, he would see! It might be out of the question; he was not going to pay a fancy price, but if it could be done, why, perhaps he would do it!And still more secretly he knew that he could not refuse her.But he did not commit himself. He would think it over — he said to June.

Chapter 31 Bosinney’s Departure 
Old Jolyon was not given to hasty decisions; it is probable that he would have continued to think over the purchase of the house at Robin Hill, had not June’s face told him that he would have no peace until he acted.At breakfast next morning she asked him what time she should order the carriage.“Carriage!” he said, with some appearance of innocence; “what for? I’m not going out!”She answered: “If you don’t go early, you won’t catch Uncle James before he goes into the City.”“James! what about your Uncle James?”“The house,” she replied, in such a voice that he no longer pretended ignorance.“I’ve not made up my mind,” he said.“You must! You must! Oh! Gran — think of me!”Old Jolyon grumbled out: “Think of you — I’m always thinking of you, but you don’t think of yourself; you don’t think what you’re letting yourself in for. Well, order the carriage at ten!”At a quarter past he was placing his umbrella in the stand at Park Lane — he did not choose to relinquish his hat and coat; telling Warmson that he wanted to see his master, he went, without being announced, into the study, and sat down.James was still in the dining-room talking to Soames, who had come round again before breakfast. On hearing who his visitor was, he muttered nervously: “Now, what’s he want, I wonder?”He then got up.“Well,” he said to Soames, “don’t you go doing anything in a hurry. The first thing is to find out where she is — I should go to Stainer’s about it; they’re the best men, if they can’t find her, nobody can.” And suddenly moved to strange softness, he muttered to himself, “Poor little thing, I can’t tell what she was thinking about!” and went out blowing his nose.Old Jolyon did not rise on seeing his brother, but held out his hand, and exchanged with him the clasp of a Forsyte.James took another chair by the table, and leaned his head on his hand.“Well,” he said, “how are you? We don’t see much of you nowadays!”Old Jolyon paid no attention to the remark.“How’s Emily?” he asked; and waiting for no reply, went on “I’ve come to see you about this affair of young Bosinney’s. I’m told that new house of his is a white elephant.”“I don’t know anything about a white elephant,” said James, “I know he’s lost his case, and I should say he’ll go bankrupt.”Old Jolyon was not slow to seize the opportunity this gave him.“I shouldn’t wonder a bit!” he agreed; “and if he goes bankrupt, the ‘man of property’— that is, Soames’ll be out of pocket. Now, what I was thinking was this: If he’s not going to live there. . . . ”Seeing both surprise and suspicion in James’ eye, he quickly went on: “I don’t want to know anything; I suppose Irene’s put her foot down — it’s not material to me. But I’m thinking of a house in the country myself, not too far from London, and if it suited me I don’t say that I mightn’t look at it, at a price.”James listened to this statement with a strange mixture of doubt, suspicion, and relief, merging into a dread of something behind, and tinged with the remains of his old undoubted reliance upon his elder brother’s good faith and judgment. There was anxiety, too, as to what old Jolyon could have heard and how he had heard it; and a sort of hopefulness arising from the thought that if June’s connection with Bosinney were completely at an end, her grandfather would hardly seem anxious to help the young fellow. Altogether he was puzzled; as he did not like either to show this, or to commit himself in any way, he said:“They tell me you’re altering your Will in favour of your son.”He had not been told this; he had merely added the fact of having seen old Jolyon with his son and grandchildren to the fact that he had taken his Will away from Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte. The shot went home.“Who told you that?” asked old Jolyon.“I’m sure I don’t know,” said James; “I can’t remember names — I know somebody told me Soames spent a lot of money on this house; he’s not likely to part with it except at a good price.”“Well,” said old Jolyon, “if, he thinks I’m going to pay a fancy price, he’s mistaken. I’ve not got the money to throw away that he seems to have. Let him try and sell it at a forced sale, and see what he’ll get. It’s not every man’s house, I hear!”James, who was secretly also of this opinion, answered: “It’s a gentleman’s house. Soames is here now if you’d like to see him.”“No,” said old Jolyon, “I haven’t got as far as that; and I’m not likely to, I can see that very well if I’m met in this manner!”James was a little cowed; when it came to the actual figures of a commercial transaction he was sure of himself, for then he was dealing with facts, not with men; but preliminary negotiations such as these made him nervous — he never knew quite how far he could go.“Well,” he said, “I know nothing about it. Soames, he tells me nothing; I should think he’d entertain it — it’s a question of price.”“Oh!” said old Jolyon, “don’t let him make a favour of it!” He placed his hat on his head in dudgeon.The door was opened and Soames came in.“There’s a policeman out here,” he said with his half smile, “for Uncle Jolyon.”Old Jolyon looked at him angrily, and James said: “A policeman? I don’t know anything about a policeman. But I suppose you know something about him,” he added to old Jolyon with a look of suspicion: “I suppose you’d better see him!”In the hall an Inspector of Police stood stolidly regarding with heavy-lidded pale-blue eyes the fine old English furniture picked up by James at the famous Mavrojano sale in Portman Square. “You’ll find my brother in there,” said James.The Inspector raised his fingers respectfully to his peaked cap, and entered the study.James saw him go in with a strange sensation.“Well,” he said to Soames, “I suppose we must wait and see what he wants. Your uncle’s been here about the house!”He returned with Soames into the dining-room, but could not rest.“Now what does he want?” he murmured again.“Who?” replied Soames: “the Inspector? They sent him round from Stanhope Gate, that’s all I know. That ‘nonconformist’ of Uncle Jolyon’s has been pilfering, I shouldn’t wonder!”But in spite of his calmness, he too was ill at ease.At the end of ten minutes old Jolyon came in. He walked up to the table, and stood there perfectly silent pulling at his long white moustaches. James gazed up at him with opening mouth; he had never seen his brother look like this.Old Jolyon raised his hand, and said slowly:“Young Bosinney has been run over in the fog and killed.”Then standing above his brother and his nephew, and looking down at him with his deep eyes:“There’s — some — talk — of — suicide,” he said.James’ jaw dropped. “Suicide! What should he do that for?”Old Jolyon answered sternly: “God knows, if you and your son don’t!”But James did not reply.For all men of great age, even for all Forsytes, life has had bitter experiences. The passer-by, who sees them wrapped in cloaks of custom, wealth, and comfort, would never suspect that such black shadows had fallen on their roads. To every man of great age — to Sir Walter Bentham himself — the idea of suicide has once at least been present in the ante-room of his soul; on the threshold, waiting to enter, held out from the inmost chamber by some chance reality, some vague fear, some painful hope. To Forsytes that final renunciation of property is hard. Oh! it is hard! Seldom — perhaps never — can they achieve, it; and yet, how near have they not sometimes been!So even with James! Then in the medley of his thoughts, he broke out: “Why I saw it in the paper yesterday: ‘Run over in the fog!’ They didn’t know his name!” He turned from one face to the other in his confusion of soul; but instinctively all the time he was rejecting that rumour of suicide. He dared not entertain this thought, so against his interest, against the interest of his son, of every Forsyte. He strove against it; and as his nature ever unconsciously rejected that which it could not with safety accept, so gradually he overcame this fear. It was an accident! It must have been!Old Jolyon broke in on his reverie.“Death was instantaneous. He lay all day yesterday at the hospital. There was nothing to tell them who he was. I am going there now; you and your son had better come too.”No one opposing this command he led the way from the room.The day was still and clear and bright, and driving over to Park Lane from Stanhope Gate, old Jolyon had had the carriage open. Sitting back on the padded cushions, finishing his cigar, he had noticed with pleasure the keen crispness of the air, the bustle of the cabs and people; the strange, almost Parisian, alacrity that the first fine day will bring into London streets after a spell of fog or rain. And he had felt so happy; he had not felt like it for months. His confession to June was off his mind; he had the prospect of his son’s, above all, of his grandchildren’s company in the future —(he had appointed to meet young Jolyon at the Hotch Potch that very manning to — discuss it again); and there was the pleasurable excitement of a coming encounter, a coming victory, over James and the ‘man of property’ in the matter of the house.He had the carriage closed now; he had no heart to look on gaiety; nor was it right that Forsytes should be seen driving with an Inspector of Police.In that carriage the Inspector spoke again of the death:“It was not so very thick — Just there. The driver says the gentleman must have had time to see what he was about, he seemed to walk right into it. It appears that he was very hard up, we found several pawn tickets at his rooms, his account at the bank is overdrawn, and there’s this case in to-day’s papers;” his cold blue eyes travelled from one to another of the three Forsytes in the carriage.Old Jolyon watching from his corner saw his brother’s face change, and the brooding, worried, look deepen on it. At the Inspector’s words, indeed, all James’ doubts and fears revived. Hard-up — pawn-tickets — an overdrawn account! These words that had all his life been a far-off nightmare to him, seemed to make uncannily real that suspicion of suicide which must on no account be entertained. He sought his son’s eye; but lynx-eyed, taciturn, immovable, Soames gave no answering look. And to old Jolyon watching, divining the league of mutual defence between them, there came an overmastering desire to have his own son at his side, as though this visit to the dead man’s body was a battle in which otherwise he must single-handed meet those two. And the thought of how to keep June’s name out of the business kept whirring in his brain. James had his son to support him! Why should he not send for Jo?Taking out his card-case, he pencilled the following message:‘Come round at once. I’ve sent the carriage for you.’On getting out he gave this card to his coachman, telling him to drive — as fast as possible to the Hotch Potch Club, and if Mr. Jolyon Forsyte were there to give him the card and bring him at once. If not there yet, he was to wait till he came.He followed the others slowly up the steps, leaning on his umbrella, and stood a moment to get his breath. The Inspector said: “This is the mortuary, sir. But take your time.”In the bare, white-walled room, empty of all but a streak of sunshine smeared along the dustless floor, lay a form covered by a sheet. With a huge steady hand the Inspector took the hem and turned it back. A sightless face gazed up at them, and on either side of that sightless defiant face the three Forsytes gazed down; in each one of them the secret emotions, fears, and pity of his own nature rose and fell like the rising, falling waves of life, whose wish those white walls barred out now for ever from Bosinney. And in each one of them the trend of his nature, the odd essential spring, which moved him in fashions minutely, unalterably different from those of every other human being, forced him to a different attitude of thought. Far from the others, yet inscrutably close, each stood thus, alone with death, silent, his eyes lowered.The Inspector asked softly:“You identify the gentleman, sir?”Old Jolyon raised his head and nodded. He looked at his brother opposite, at that long lean figure brooding over the dead man, with face dusky red, and strained grey eyes; and at the figure of Soames white and still by his father’s side. And all that he had felt against those two was gone like smoke in the long white presence of Death. Whence comes it, how comes it — Death? Sudden reverse of all that goes before; blind setting forth on a path that leads to where? Dark quenching of the fire! The heavy, brutal crushing — out that all men must go through, keeping their eyes clear and brave unto the end! Small and of no import, insects though they are! And across old Jolyon’s face there flitted a gleam, for Soames, murmuring to the Inspector, crept noiselessly away.Then suddenly James raised his eyes. There was a queer appeal in that suspicious troubled look: “I know I’m no match for you,” it seemed to say. And, hunting for handkerchief he wiped his brow; then, bending sorrowful and lank over the dead man, he too turned and hurried out.Old Jolyon stood, still as death, his eyes fixed on the body. Who shall tell of what he was thinking? Of himself, when his hair was brown like the hair of that young fellow dead before him? Of himself, with his battle just beginning, the long, long battle he had loved; the battle that was over for this young man almost before it had begun? Of his grand-daughter, with her broken hopes? Of that other woman? Of the strangeness, and the pity of it? And the irony, inscrutable, and bitter of that end? Justice! There was no justice for men, for they were ever in the dark!Or perhaps in his philosophy he thought: Better to be out of, it all! Better to have done with it, like this poor youth. . . .Some one touched him on the arm.A tear started up and wetted his eyelash. “Well,” he said, “I’m no good here. I’d better be going. You’ll come to me as soon as you can, Jo,” and with his head bowed he went away.It was young Jolyon’s turn to take his stand beside the dead man, round whose fallen body he seemed to see all the Forsytes breathless, and prostrated. The stroke had fallen too swiftly.The forces underlying every tragedy — forces that take no denial, working through cross currents to their ironical end, had met and fused with a thunder-clap, flung out the victim, and flattened to the ground all those that stood around.Or so at all events young Jolyon seemed to see them, lying around Bosinney’s body.He asked the Inspector to tell him what had happened, and the latter, like a man who does not every day get such a chance, again detailed such facts as were known.“There’s more here, sir, however,” he said, “than meets the eye. I don’t believe in suicide, nor in pure accident, myself. It’s more likely I think that he was suffering under great stress of mind, and took no notice of things about him. Perhaps you can throw some light on these.”He took from his pocket a little packet and laid it on the table. Carefully undoing it, he revealed a lady’s handkerchief, pinned through the folds with a pin of discoloured Venetian gold, the stone of which had fallen from the socket. A scent of dried violets rose to young Jolyon’s nostrils.“Found in his breast pocket,” said the Inspector; “the name has been cut away!”Young Jolyon with difficulty answered: “I’m afraid I cannot help you!” But vividly there rose before him the face he had seen light up, so tremulous and glad, at Bosinney’s coming! Of her he thought more than of his own daughter, more than of them all — of her with the dark, soft glance, the delicate passive face, waiting for the dead man, waiting even at that moment, perhaps, still and patient in the sunlight.He walked sorrowfully away from the hospital towards his father’s house, reflecting that this death would break up the Forsyte family. The stroke had indeed slipped past their defences into the very wood of their tree. They might flourish to all appearance as before, preserving a brave show before the eyes of London, but the trunk was dead, withered by the same flash that had stricken down Bosinney. And now the saplings would take its place, each one a new custodian of the sense of property.Good forest of Forsytes! thought young Jolyon — soundest timber of our land!Concerning the cause of this death — his family would doubtless reject with vigour the suspicion of suicide, which was so compromising! They would take it as an accident, a stroke of fate. In their hearts they would even feel it an intervention of Providence, a retribution — had not Bosinney endangered their two most priceless possessions, the pocket and the hearth? And they would talk of ‘that unfortunate accident of young Bosinney’s,’ but perhaps they would not talk — silence might be better!As for himself, he regarded the bus-driver’s account of the accident as of very little value. For no one so madly in love committed suicide for want of money; nor was Bosinney the sort of fellow to set much store by a financial crisis. And so he too rejected this theory of suicide, the dead man’s face rose too clearly before him. Gone in the heyday of his summer — and to believe thus that an accident had cut Bosinney off in the full sweep of his passion was more than ever pitiful to young Jolyon.Then came a vision of Soames’ home as it now was, and must be hereafter. The streak of lightning had flashed its clear uncanny gleam on bare bones with grinning spaces between, the disguising flesh was gone. . . .In the dining-room at Stanhope Gate old Jolyon was sitting alone when his son came in. He looked very wan in his great armchair. And his eyes travelling round the walls with their pictures of still life, and the masterpiece ‘Dutch fishing-boats at Sunset’ seemed as though passing their gaze over his life with its hopes, its gains, its achievements.“Ah! Jo!” he said, “is that you? I’ve told poor little June. But that’s not all of it. Are you going to Soames’? She’s brought it on herself, I suppose; but somehow I can’t bear to think of her, shut up there — and all alone.” And holding up his thin, veined hand, he clenched it.

Chapter 32 Irene’s Return 
After leaving James and old Jolyon in the mortuary of the hospital, Soames hurried aimlessly along the streets.The tragic event of Bosinney’s death altered the complexion of everything. There was no longer the same feeling that to lose a minute would be fatal, nor would he now risk communicating the fact of his wife’s flight to anyone till the inquest was over.That morning he had risen early, before the postman came, had taken the first-post letters from the box himself, and, though there had been none from Irene, he had made an opportunity of telling Bilson that her mistress was at the sea; he would probably, he said, be going down himself from Saturday to Monday. This had given him time to breathe, time to leave no stone unturned to find her.But now, cut off from taking steps by Bosinney’s death — that strange death, to think of which was like putting a hot iron to his heart, like lifting a great weight from it — he did not know how to pass his day; and he wandered here and there through the streets, looking at every face he met, devoured by a hundred anxieties.And as he wandered, he thought of him who had finished his wandering, his prowling, and would never haunt his house again.Already in the afternoon he passed posters announcing the identity of the dead man, and bought the papers to see what they said. He would stop their mouths if he could, and he went into the City, and was closeted with Boulter for a long time.On his way home, passing the steps of Jobson’s about half past four, he met George Forsyte, who held out an evening paper to Soames, saying:“Here! Have you seen this about the poor Buccaneer?”Soames answered stonily: “Yes.”George stared at him. He had never liked Soames; he now held him responsible for Bosinney’s death. Soames had done for him — done for him by that act of property that had sent the Buccaneer to run amok that fatal afternoon.‘The poor fellow,’ he was thinking, ‘was so cracked with jealousy, so cracked for his vengeance, that he heard nothing of the omnibus in that infernal fog.’Soames had done for him! And this judgment was in George’s eyes.“They talk of suicide here,” he said at last. “That cat won’t jump.”Soames shook his head. “An accident,” he muttered.Clenching his fist on the paper, George crammed it into his pocket. He could not resist a parting shot.“H’mm! All flourishing at home? Any little Soameses yet?”With a face as white as the steps of Jobson’s, and a lip raised as if snarling, Soames brushed past him and was gone. . . .On reaching home, and entering the little lighted hall with his latchkey, the first thing that caught his eye was his wife’s gold-mounted umbrella lying on the rug chest. Flinging off his fur coat, he hurried to the drawing-room.The curtains were drawn for the night, a bright fire of cedar-logs burned in the grate, and by its light he saw Irene sitting in her usual corner on the sofa. He shut the door softly, and went towards her. She did not move, and did not seem to see him.“So you’ve come back?” he said. “Why are you sitting here in the dark?”Then he caught sight of her face, so white and motionless that it seemed as though the blood must have stopped flowing in her veins; and her eyes, that looked enormous, like the great, wide, startled brown eyes of an owl.Huddled in her grey fur against the sofa cushions, she had a strange resemblance to a captive owl, bunched fir its soft feathers against the wires of a cage. The supple erectness of her figure was gone, as though she had been broken by cruel exercise; as though there were no longer any reason for being beautiful, and supple, and erect.“So you’ve come back,” he repeated.She never looked up, and never spoke, the firelight playing over her motionless figure.Suddenly she tried to rise, but he prevented her; it was then that he understood.She had come back like an animal wounded to death, not knowing where to turn, not knowing what she was doing. The sight of her figure, huddled in the fur, was enough.He knew then for certain that Bosinney had been her lover; knew that she had seen the report of his death — perhaps, like himself, had bought a paper at the draughty corner of a street, and read it.She had come back then of her own accord, to the cage she had pined to be free of — and taking in all the tremendous significance of this, he longed to cry: “Take your hated body, that I love, out of my house! Take away that pitiful white face, so cruel and soft — before I crush it. Get out of my sight; never let me see you again!”And, at those unspoken words, he seemed to see her rise and move away, like a woman in a terrible dream, from which she was fighting to awake — rise and go out into the dark and cold, without a thought of him, without so much as the knowledge of his presence.Then he cried, contradicting what he had not yet spoken, “No; stay there!” And turning away from her, he sat down in his accustomed chair on the other side of the hearth.They sat in silence.And Soames thought: ‘Why is all this? Why should I suffer so? What have I done? It is not my fault!’Again he looked at her, huddled like a bird that is shot and dying, whose poor breast you see panting as the air is taken from it, whose poor eyes look at you who have shot it, with a slow, soft, unseeing look, taking farewell of all that is good — of the sun, and the air, and its mate.So they sat, by the firelight, in the silence, one on each side of the hearth.And the fume of the burning cedar logs, that he loved so well, seemed to grip Soames by the throat till he could bear it no longer. And going out into the hall he flung the door wide, to gulp down the cold air that came in; then without hat or overcoat went out into the Square.Along the garden rails a half-starved cat came rubbing her way towards him, and Soames thought: ‘Suffering! when will it cease, my suffering?’At a front door across the way was a man of his acquaintance named Rutter, scraping his boots, with an air of ‘I am master here.’ And Soames walked on.From far in the clear air the bells of the church where he and Irene had been married were pealing in ‘practice’ for the advent of Christ, the chimes ringing out above the sound of traffic. He felt a craving for strong drink, to lull him to indifference, or rouse him to fury. If only he could burst out of himself, out of this web that for the first time in his life he felt around him. If only he could surrender to the thought: ‘Divorce her — turn her out! She has forgotten you. Forget her!’If only he could surrender to the thought: ‘Let her go — she has suffered enough!’If only he could surrender to the desire: ‘Make a slave of her — she is in your power!’If only even he could surrender to the sudden vision: ‘What does it all matter?’ Forget himself for a minute, forget that it mattered what he did, forget that whatever he did he must sacrifice something.If only he could act on an impulse!He could forget nothing; surrender to no thought, vision, or desire; it was all too serious; too close around him, an unbreakable cage.On the far side of the Square newspaper boys were calling their evening wares, and the ghoulish cries mingled and jangled with the sound of those church bells.Soames covered his ears. The thought flashed across him that but for a chance, he himself, and not Bosinney, might be lying dead, and she, instead of crouching there like a shot bird with those dying eyes. . . .Something soft touched his legs, the cat was rubbing herself against them. And a sob that shook him from head to foot burst from Soames’ chest. Then all was still again in the dark, where the houses seemed to stare at him, each with a master and mistress of its own, and a secret story of happiness or sorrow.And suddenly he saw that his own door was open, and black against the light from the hall a man standing with his back turned. Something slid too in his breast, and he stole up close behind.He could see his own fur coat flung across the carved oak chair; the Persian rugs; the silver bowls, the rows of porcelain plates arranged along the walls, and this unknown man who was standing there.And sharply he asked: “What is it you want, sir?”The visitor turned. It was young Jolyon.“The door was open,” he said. “Might I see your wife for a minute, I have a message for her?”Soames gave him a strange, sidelong stare.“My wife can see no one,” he muttered doggedly.Young Jolyon answered gently: “I shouldn’t keep her a minute.”Soames brushed by him and barred the way.“She can see no one,” he said again.Young Jolyon’s glance shot past him into the hall, and Soames turned. There in the drawing-room doorway stood Irene, her eyes were wild and eager, her lips were parted, her hands outstretched. In the sight of both men that light vanished from her face; her hands dropped to her sides; she stood like stone.Soames spun round, and met his visitor’s eyes, and at the look he saw in them, a sound like a snarl escaped him. He drew his lips back in the ghost of a smile.“This is my house,” he said; “I manage my own affairs. I’ve told you once — I tell you again; we are not at home.”And in young Jolyon’s face he slammed the door.The End