stage of his career, he made a calculation of what he was worth,
and after writing off liberally for depreciation by the war,
found his value to be some hundred and thirty thousand pounds. At
his father’s death, which could not, alas, be delayed much
longer, he must come into at least another fifty thousand, and
his yearly expenditure at present just reached two. Standing
among his pictures, he saw before him a future full of bargains
earned by the trained faculty of knowing better than other
people. Selling what was about to decline, keeping what was still
going up, and exercising judicious insight into future taste, he
would make a unique collection, which at his death would pass to
the nation under the title “Forsyte Bequest.”
If the divorce went through, he had determined on his line with
Madame Lamotte. She had, he knew, but one real ambition—to live
on her “_rentes_” in Paris near her grandchildren. He would buy
the goodwill of the Restaurant Bretagne at a fancy price. Madame
would live like a Queen-Mother in Paris on the interest, invested
as she would know how. (Incidentally Soames meant to put a
capable manager in her place, and make the restaurant pay good
interest on his money. There were great possibilities in Soho.)
On Annette he would promise to settle fifteen thousand pounds
(whether designedly or not), precisely the sum old Jolyon had
settled on “that woman.”
A letter from Jolyon’s solicitor to his own had disclosed the
fact that “those two” were in Italy. And an opportunity had been
duly given for noting that they had first stayed at an hotel in
London. The matter was clear as daylight, and would be disposed
of in half an hour or so; but during that half-hour he, Soames,
would go down to hell; and after that half-hour all bearers of
the Forsyte name would feel the bloom was off the rose. He had no
illusions like Shakespeare that roses by any other name would
smell as sweet. The name was a possession, a concrete, unstained
piece of property, the value of which would be reduced some
twenty per cent. at least. Unless it were Roger, who had once
refused to stand for Parliament, and—oh, irony!—Jolyon, hung on
the line, there had never been a distinguished Forsyte. But that
very lack of distinction was the name’s greatest asset. It was a
private name, intensely individual, and his own property; it had
never been exploited for good or evil by intrusive report. He and
each member of his family owned it wholly, sanely, secretly,
without any more interference from the public than had been
necessitated by their births, their marriages, their deaths. And
during these weeks of waiting and preparing to drop the Law, he
conceived for that Law a bitter distaste, so deeply did he resent
its coming violation of his name, forced on him by the need he
felt to perpetuate that name in a lawful manner. The monstrous
injustice of the whole thing excited in him a perpetual
suppressed fury. He had asked no better than to live in spotless
domesticity, and now he must go into the witness box, after all
these futile, barren years, and proclaim his failure to keep his
wife—incur the pity, the amusement, the contempt of his kind. It
was all upside down. She and that fellow ought to be the
sufferers, and they—were in Italy! In these weeks the Law he had
served so faithfully, looked on so reverently as the guardian of
all property, seemed to him quite pitiful. What could be more
insane than to tell a man that he owned his wife, and punish him
when someone unlawfully took her away from him? Did the Law not
know that a man’s name was to him the apple of his eye, that it
was far harder to be regarded as cuckold than as seducer? He
actually envied Jolyon the reputation of succeeding where he,
Soames, had failed. The question of damages worried him, too. He
wanted to make that fellow suffer, but he remembered his cousin’s
words, “I shall be very happy,” with the uneasy feeling that to
claim damages would make not Jolyon but himself suffer; he felt
uncannily that Jolyon would rather like to pay them—the chap was
so loose. Besides, to claim damages was not the thing to do. The
claim, indeed, had been made almost mechanically; and as the hour
drew near Soames saw in it just another dodge of this insensitive
and topsy-turvy Law to make him ridiculous; so that people might
sneer and say: “Oh, yes, he got quite a good price for her!” And
he gave instructions that his Counsel should state that the money
would be given to a Home for Fallen Women. He was a long time
hitting off exactly the right charity; but, having pitched on it,
he used to wake up in the night and think: “It won’t do, too
lurid; it’ll draw attention. Something quieter—better taste.” He
did not care for dogs, or he would have named them; and it was in
desperation at last—for his knowledge of charities was
limited—that he decided on the blind. That could not be
inappropriate, and it would make the Jury assess the damages
high.
A good many suits were dropping out of the list, which happened
to be exceptionally thin that summer, so that his case would be
reached before August. As the day grew nearer, Winifred was his
only comfort. She showed the fellow-feeling of one who had been
through the mill, and was the “femme-sole” in whom he confided,
well knowing that she would not let Dartie into her confidence.
That ruffian would be only too rejoiced! At the end of July, on
the afternoon before the case, he went in to see her. They had
not yet been able to leave town, because Dartie had already spent
their summer holiday, and Winifred dared not go to her father for
more money while he was waiting not to be told anything about
this affair of Soames.
Soames found her with a letter in her hand.
“That from Val,” he asked gloomily. “What does he say?”
“He says he’s married,” said Winifred.
“Whom to, for Goodness’ sake?”
Winifred looked up at him.
“To Holly Forsyte, Jolyon’s daughter.”
“What?”
“He got leave and did it. I didn’t even know he knew her.
Awkward, isn’t it?”
Soames uttered a short laugh at that characteristic minimisation.
“Awkward! Well, I don’t suppose they’ll hear about this till they
come back. They’d better stay out there. That fellow will give
her money.”
“But I want Val back,” said Winifred almost piteously; “I miss
him, he helps me to get on.”
“I know,” murmured Soames. “How’s Dartie behaving now?”
“It might be worse; but it’s always money. Would you like me to
come down to the Court to-morrow, Soames?”
Soames stretched out his hand for hers. The gesture so betrayed
the loneliness in him that she pressed it between her two.
“Never mind, old boy. You’ll feel ever so much better when it’s
all over.”
“I don’t know what I’ve done,” said Soames huskily; “I never
have. It’s all upside down. I was fond of her; I’ve always been.”
Winifred saw a drop of blood ooze out of his lip, and the sight
stirred her profoundly.
“Of course,” she said, “it’s been _too_ bad of her all along! But
what shall I do about this marriage of Val’s, Soames? I don’t
know how to write to him, with this coming on. You’ve seen that
child. Is she pretty?”
“Yes, she’s pretty,” said Soames. “Dark—lady-like enough.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” thought Winifred. “Jolyon had
style.”
“It is a coil,” she said. “What will father say?
“Mustn’t be told,” said Soames. “The war’ll soon be over now,
you’d better let Val take to farming out there.”
It was tantamount to saying that his nephew was lost.
“I haven’t told Monty,” Winifred murmured desolately.
The case was reached before noon next day, and was over in little
more than half an hour. Soames—pale, spruce, sad-eyed in the
witness-box—had suffered so much beforehand that he took it all
like one dead. The moment the decree nisi was pronounced he left
the Courts of Justice.
Four hours until he became public property! “Solicitor’s divorce
suit!” A surly, dogged anger replaced that dead feeling within
him. “Damn them all!” he thought; “I won’t run away. I’ll act as
if nothing had happened.” And in the sweltering heat of Fleet
Street and Ludgate Hill he walked all the way to his City Club,
lunched, and went back to his office. He worked there stolidly
throughout the afternoon.
On his way out he saw that his clerks knew, and answered their
involuntary glances with a look so sardonic that they were
immediately withdrawn. In front of St. Paul’s, he stopped to buy
the most gentlemanly of the evening papers. Yes! there he was!
“Well-known solicitor’s divorce. Cousin co-respondent. Damages
given to the blind”—so, they had got that in! At every other
face, he thought: “I wonder if you know!” And suddenly he felt
queer, as if something were racing round in his head.
What was this? He was letting it get hold of him! He mustn’t! He
would be ill. He mustn’t think! He would get down to the river
and row about, and fish. “I’m not going to be laid up,” he
thought.
It flashed across him that he had something of importance to do
before he went out of town. Madame Lamotte! He must explain the
Law. Another six months before he was really free! Only he did
not want to see Annette! And he passed his hand over the top of
his head—it was very hot.
He branched off through Covent Garden. On this sultry day of late
July the garbage-tainted air of the old market offended him, and
Soho seemed more than ever the disenchanted home of
rapscallionism. Alone, the Restaurant Bretagne, neat, daintily
painted, with its blue tubs and the dwarf trees therein, retained
an aloof and Frenchified self-respect. It was the slack hour, and
pale trim waitresses were preparing the little tables for dinner.
Soames went through into the private part. To his discomfiture
Annette answered his knock. She, too, looked pale and dragged
down by the heat.
“You are quite a stranger,” she said languidly.
Soames smiled.
“I haven’t wished to be; I’ve been busy.”
“Where’s your mother, Annette? I’ve got some news for her.”
“Mother is not in.”
It seemed to Soames that she looked at him in a queer way. What
did she know? How much had her mother told her? The worry of
trying to make that out gave him an alarming feeling in the head.
He gripped the edge of the table, and dizzily saw Annette come
forward, her eyes clear with surprise. He shut his own and said:
“It’s all right. I’ve had a touch of the sun, I think.” The sun!
What he had was a touch of darkness! Annette’s voice, French and
composed, said:
“Sit down, it will pass, then.” Her hand pressed his shoulder,
and Soames sank into a chair. When the dark feeling dispersed,
and he opened his eyes, she was looking down at him. What an
inscrutable and odd expression for a girl of twenty!
“Do you feel better?”
“It’s nothing,” said Soames. Instinct told him that to be feeble
before her was not helping him—age was enough handicap without
that. Will-power was his fortune with Annette, he had lost ground
these latter months from indecision—he could not afford to lose
any more. He got up, and said:
“I’ll write to your mother. I’m going down to my river house for
a long holiday. I want you both to come there presently and stay.
It’s just at its best. You will, won’t you?”
“It will be veree nice.” A pretty little roll of that “r” but no
enthusiasm. And rather sadly he added:
“You’re feeling the heat, too, aren’t you, Annette? It’ll do you
good to be on the river. Good-night.” Annette swayed forward.
There was a sort of compunction in the movement.
“Are you fit to go? Shall I give you some coffee?”
“No,” said Soames firmly. “Give me your hand.”
She held out her hand, and Soames raised it to his lips. When he
looked up, her face wore again that strange expression. “I can’t
tell,” he thought, as he went out; “but I mustn’t think—I mustn’t
worry.”
But worry he did, walking toward Pall Mall. English, not of her
religion, middle-aged, scarred as it were by domestic tragedy,
what had he to give her? Only wealth, social position, leisure,
admiration! It was much, but was it enough for a beautiful girl
of twenty? He felt so ignorant about Annette. He had, too, a
curious fear of the French nature of her mother and herself. They
knew so well what they wanted. They were almost Forsytes. They
would never grasp a shadow and miss a substance.
The tremendous effort it was to write a simple note to Madame
Lamotte when he reached his Club warned him still further that he
was at the end of his tether.
“MY DEAR MADAME (he said),
“You will see by the enclosed newspaper cutting that I
obtained my decree of divorce to-day. By the English Law I
shall not, however, be free to marry again till the decree is
confirmed six months hence. In the meanwhile I have the honor
to ask to be considered a formal suitor for the hand of your
daughter. I shall write again in a few days and beg you both
to come and stay at my river house.
“I am, dear Madame,
“Sincerely yours,
“SOAMES FORSYTE.”
Having sealed and posted this letter, he went into the
dining-room. Three mouthfuls of soup convinced him that he could
not eat; and, causing a cab to be summoned, he drove to
Paddington Station and took the first train to Reading. He
reached his house just as the sun went down, and wandered out on
to the lawn. The air was drenched with the scent of pinks and
picotees in his flower-borders. A stealing coolness came off the
river.
Rest—peace! Let a poor fellow rest! Let not worry and shame and
anger chase like evil night-birds in his head! Like those doves
perched half-sleeping on their dovecot, like the furry creatures
in the woods on the far side, and the simple folk in their
cottages, like the trees and the river itself, whitening fast in
twilight, like the darkening cornflower-blue sky where stars were
coming up—let him cease _from himself_, and rest!
CHAPTER X PASSING OF AN AGE
The marriage of Soames with Annette took place in Paris on the
last day of January, 1901, with such privacy that not even Emily
was told until it was accomplished.
The day after the wedding he brought her to one of those quiet
hotels in London where greater expense can be incurred for less
result than anywhere else under heaven. Her beauty in the best
Parisian frocks was giving him more satisfaction than if he had
collected a perfect bit of china, or a jewel of a picture; he
looked forward to the moment when he would exhibit her in Park
Lane, in Green Street, and at Timothy’s.
If some one had asked him in those days, “In confidence—are you
in love with this girl?” he would have replied: “In love? What is
love? If you mean do I feel to her as I did towards Irene in
those old days when I first met her and she would not have me;
when I sighed and starved after her and couldn’t rest a minute
until she yielded—no! If you mean do I admire her youth and
prettiness, do my senses ache a little when I see her moving
about—yes! Do I think she will keep me straight, make me a
creditable wife and a good mother for my children?—again, yes!”
“What more do I need? and what more do three-quarters of the
women who are married get from the men who marry them?” And if
the enquirer had pursued his query, “And do you think it was fair
to have tempted this girl to give herself to you for life unless
you have really touched her heart?” he would have answered: “The
French see these things differently from us. They look at
marriage from the point of view of establishments and children;
and, from my own experience, I am not at all sure that theirs is
not the sensible view. I shall not expect this time more than I
can get, or she can give. Years hence I shouldn’t be surprised if
I have trouble with her; but I shall be getting old, I shall have
children by then. I shall shut my eyes. I have had my great
passion; hers is perhaps to come—I don’t suppose it will be for
me. I offer her a great deal, and I don’t expect much in return,
except children, or at least a son. But one thing I am sure
of—she has very good sense!”
And if, insatiate, the enquirer had gone on, “You do not look,
then, for spiritual union in this marriage?” Soames would have
lifted his sideway smile, and rejoined: “That’s as it may be. If
I get satisfaction for my senses, perpetuation of myself; good
taste and good humour in the house; it is all I can expect at my
age. I am not likely to be going out of my way towards any
far-fetched sentimentalism.” Whereon, the enquirer must in good
taste have ceased enquiry.
The Queen was dead, and the air of the greatest city upon earth
grey with unshed tears. Fur-coated and top-hatted, with Annette
beside him in dark furs, Soames crossed Park Lane on the morning
of the funeral procession, to the rails in Hyde Park. Little
moved though he ever was by public matters, this event, supremely
symbolical, this summing-up of a long rich period, impressed his
fancy. In ’37, when she came to the throne, “Superior Dosset” was
still building houses to make London hideous; and James, a
stripling of twenty-six, just laying the foundations of his
practice in the Law. Coaches still ran; men wore stocks, shaved
their upper lips, ate oysters out of barrels; “tigers” swung
behind cabriolets; women said, “La!” and owned no property; there
were manners in the land, and pigsties for the poor; unhappy
devils were hanged for little crimes, and Dickens had but just
begun to write. Well-nigh two generations had slipped by—of
steamboats, railways, telegraphs, bicycles, electric light,
telephones, and now these motorcars—of such accumulated wealth,
that eight per cent. had become three, and Forsytes were numbered
by the thousand! Morals had changed, manners had changed, men had
become monkeys twice-removed, God had become Mammon—Mammon so
respectable as to deceive himself: Sixty-four years that favoured
property, and had made the upper middle class; buttressed,
chiselled, polished it, till it was almost indistinguishable in
manners, morals, speech, appearance, habit, and soul from the
nobility. An epoch which had gilded individual liberty so that if
a man had money, he was free in law and fact, and if he had not
money he was free in law and not in fact. An era which had
canonised hypocrisy, so that to seem to be respectable was to be.
A great Age, whose transmuting influence nothing had escaped save
the nature of man and the nature of the Universe.
And to witness the passing of this Age, London—its pet and
fancy—was pouring forth her citizens through every gate into Hyde
Park, hub of Victorianism, happy hunting-ground of Forsytes.
Under the grey heavens, whose drizzle just kept off, the dark
concourse gathered to see the show. The “good old” Queen, full of
years and virtue, had emerged from her seclusion for the last
time to make a London holiday. From Houndsditch, Acton, Ealing,
Hampstead, Islington, and Bethnal Green; from Hackney, Hornsey,
Leytonstone, Battersea, and Fulham; and from those green pastures
where Forsytes flourish—Mayfair and Kensington, St. James’ and
Belgravia, Bayswater and Chelsea and the Regent’s Park, the
people swarmed down on to the roads where death would presently
pass with dusky pomp and pageantry. Never again would a Queen
reign so long, or people have a chance to see so much history
buried for their money. A pity the war dragged on, and that the
Wreath of Victory could not be laid upon her coffin! All else
would be there to follow and commemorate—soldiers, sailors,
foreign princes, half-masted bunting, tolling bells, and above
all the surging, great, dark-coated crowd, with perhaps a simple
sadness here and there deep in hearts beneath black clothes put
on by regulation. After all, more than a Queen was going to her
rest, a woman who had braved sorrow, lived well and wisely
according to her lights.
Out in the crowd against the railings, with his arm hooked in
Annette’s, Soames waited. Yes! the Age was passing! What with
this Trade Unionism, and Labour fellows in the House of Commons,
with continental fiction, and something in the general feel of
everything, not to be expressed in words, things were very
different; he recalled the crowd on Mafeking night, and George
Forsyte saying: “They’re all socialists, they want our goods.”
Like James, Soames didn’t know, he couldn’t tell—with Edward on
the throne! Things would never be as safe again as under good old
Viccy! Convulsively he pressed his young wife’s arm. There, at
any rate, was something substantially his own, domestically
certain again at last; something which made property worth
while—a real thing once more. Pressed close against her and
trying to ward others off, Soames was content. The crowd swayed
round them, ate sandwiches and dropped crumbs; boys who had
climbed the plane-trees chattered above like monkeys, threw twigs
and orange-peel. It was past time; they should be coming soon!
And, suddenly, a little behind them to the left, he saw a tallish
man with a soft hat and short grizzling beard, and a tallish
woman in a little round fur cap and veil. Jolyon and Irene
talking, smiling at each other, close together like Annette and
himself! They had not seen him; and stealthily, with a very queer
feeling in his heart, Soames watched those two. They looked
happy! What had they come here for—inherently illicit creatures,
rebels from the Victorian ideal? What business had they in this
crowd? Each of them twice exiled by morality—making a boast, as
it were, of love and laxity! He watched them fascinated;
admitting grudgingly even with his arm thrust through Annette’s
that—that she—Irene—No! he would _not_ admit it; and he turned
his eyes away. He would _not_ see them, and let the old
bitterness, the old longing rise up within him! And then Annette
turned to him and said: “Those two people, Soames; they know you,
I am sure. Who are they?”
Soames nosed sideways.
“What people?”
“There, you see them; just turning away. They know you.”
“No,” Soames answered; “a mistake, my dear.”
“A lovely face! And how she walk! _Elle est très distinguée!_”
Soames looked then. Into his life, out of his life she had walked
like that swaying and erect, remote, unseizable; ever eluding the
contact of his soul! He turned abruptly from that receding vision
of the past.
“You’d better attend,” he said, “they’re coming now!”
But while he stood, grasping her arm, seemingly intent on the
head of the procession, he was quivering with the sense of always
missing something, with instinctive regret that he had not got
them both.
Slow came the music and the march, till, in silence, the long
line wound in through the Park gate. He heard Annette whisper,
“How sad it is and beautiful!” felt the clutch of her hand as she
stood up on tiptoe; and the crowd’s emotion gripped him. There it
was—the bier of the Queen, coffin of the Age slow passing! And as
it went by there came a murmuring groan from all the long line of
those who watched, a sound such as Soames had never heard, so
unconscious, primitive, deep and wild, that neither he nor any
knew whether they had joined in uttering it. Strange sound,
indeed! Tribute of an Age to its own death.... Ah! Ah!... The
hold on life had slipped. That which had seemed eternal was gone!
The Queen—God bless her!
It moved on with the bier, that travelling groan, as a fire moves
on over grass in a thin line; it kept step, and marched alongside
down the dense crowds mile after mile. It was a human sound, and
yet inhuman, pushed out by animal subconsciousness, by intimate
knowledge of universal death and change. None of us—none of us
can hold on for ever!
It left silence for a little—a very little time, till tongues
began, eager to retrieve interest in the show. Soames lingered
just long enough to gratify Annette, then took her out of the
Park to lunch at his father’s in Park Lane....
James had spent the morning gazing out of his bedroom window. The
last show he would see, last of so many! So she was gone! Well,
she was getting an old woman. Swithin and he had seen her
crowned—slim slip of a girl, not so old as Imogen! She had got
very stout of late. Jolyon and he had seen her married to that
German chap, her husband—he had turned out all right before he
died, and left her with that son of his. And he remembered the
many evenings he and his brothers and their cronies had wagged
their heads over their wine and walnuts and that fellow in his
salad days. And now he had come to the throne. They said he had
steadied down—he didn’t know—couldn’t tell! He’d make the money
fly still, he shouldn’t wonder. What a lot of people out there!
It didn’t seem so very long since he and Swithin stood in the
crowd outside Westminster Abbey when she was crowned, and Swithin
had taken him to Cremorne afterwards—racketty chap, Swithin; no,
it didn’t seem much longer ago than Jubilee Year, when he had
joined with Roger in renting a balcony in Piccadilly.
Jolyon, Swithin, Roger all gone, and he would be ninety in
August! And there was Soames married again to a French girl. The
French were a queer lot, but they made good mothers, he had
heard. Things changed! They said this German Emperor was here for
the funeral, his telegram to old Kruger had been in shocking
taste. He should not be surprised if that chap made trouble some
day. Change! H’m! Well, they must look after themselves when he
was gone: he didn’t know where he’d be! And now Emily had asked
Dartie to lunch, with Winifred and Imogen, to meet Soames’
wife—she was always doing something. And there was Irene living
with that fellow Jolyon, they said. He’d marry her now, he
supposed.
“My brother Jolyon,” he thought, “what would he have said to it
all?” And somehow the utter impossibility of knowing what his
elder brother, once so looked up to, would have said, so worried
James that he got up from his chair by the window, and began
slowly, feebly to pace the room.
“She was a pretty thing, too,” he thought; “I was fond of her.
Perhaps Soames didn’t suit her—I don’t know—I can’t tell. We
never had any trouble with _our_ wives.” Women had changed
everything had changed! And now the Queen was dead—well, there it
was! A movement in the crowd brought him to a standstill at the
window, his nose touching the pane and whitening from the chill
of it. They had got her as far as Hyde Park Corner—they were
passing now! Why didn’t Emily come up here where she could see,
instead of fussing about lunch. He missed her at that
moment—missed her! Through the bare branches of the plane-trees
he could just see the procession, could see the hats coming off
the people’s heads—a lot of them would catch colds, he shouldn’t
wonder! A voice behind him said:
“You’ve got a capital view here, James!”
“_There_ you are!” muttered James; “why didn’t you come before?
You might have missed it!”
And he was silent, staring with all his might.
“What’s the noise?” he asked suddenly.
“There’s no noise,” returned Emily; “what are you thinking
of?—they wouldn’t cheer.”
“I can hear it.”
“Nonsense, James!”
No sound came through those double panes; what James heard was
the groaning in his own heart at sight of his Age passing.
“Don’t you ever tell me where I’m buried,” he said suddenly. “I
shan’t want to know.” And he turned from the window. There she
went, the old Queen; she’d had a lot of anxiety—she’d be glad to
be out of it, he should think!
Emily took up the hair-brushes.
“There’ll be just time to brush your head,” she said, “before
they come. You must look your best, James.”
“Ah!” muttered James; “they say she’s pretty.”
The meeting with his new daughter-in-law took place in the
dining-room. James was seated by the fire when she was brought
in. He placed, his hands on the arms of the chair and slowly
raised himself. Stooping and immaculate in his frock-coat, thin
as a line in Euclid, he received Annette’s hand in his; and the
anxious eyes of his furrowed face, which had lost its colour now,
doubted above her. A little warmth came into them and into his
cheeks, refracted from her bloom.
“How are you?” he said. “You’ve been to see the Queen, I suppose?
Did you have a good crossing?”
In this way he greeted her from whom he hoped for a grandson of
his name.
Gazing at him, so old, thin, white, and spotless, Annette
murmured something in French which James did not understand.
“Yes, yes,” he said, “you want your lunch, I expect. Soames, ring
the bell; we won’t wait for that chap Dartie.” But just then they
arrived. Dartie had refused to go out of his way to see “the old
girl.” With an early cocktail beside him, he had taken a “squint”
from the smoking-room of the Iseeum, so that Winifred and Imogen
had been obliged to come back from the Park to fetch him thence.
His brown eyes rested on Annette with a stare of almost startled
satisfaction. The second beauty that fellow Soames had picked up!
What women could see in him! Well, she would play him the same
trick as the other, no doubt; but in the meantime he was a lucky
devil! And he brushed up his moustache, having in nine months of
Green Street domesticity regained almost all his flesh and his
assurance. Despite the comfortable efforts of Emily, Winifred’s
composure, Imogen’s enquiring friendliness, Dartie’s showing-off,
and James’ solicitude about her food, it was not, Soames felt, a
successful lunch for his bride. He took her away very soon.
“That Monsieur Dartie,” said Annette in the cab, “_je n’aime pas
ce type-là!_”
“No, by George!” said Soames.
“Your sister is veree amiable, and the girl is pretty. Your
father is veree old. I think your mother has trouble with him; I
should not like to be her.”
Soames nodded at the shrewdness, the clear hard judgment in his
young wife; but it disquieted him a little. The thought may have
just flashed through him, too: “When I’m eighty she’ll be
fifty-five, having trouble with me!”
“There’s just one other house of my relations I must take you
to,” he said; “you’ll find it funny, but we must get it over; and
then we’ll dine and go to the theatre.”
In this way he prepared her for Timothy’s. But Timothy’s was
different. They were _delighted_ to see dear Soames after this
long long time; and so this was Annette!
“You are _so_ pretty, my dear; almost too young and pretty for
dear Soames, aren’t you? But he’s very attentive and careful—such
a good hush....” Aunt Juley checked herself, and placed her lips
just under each of Annette’s eyes—she afterwards described them
to Francie, who dropped in, as: “Cornflower-blue, so pretty, I
quite wanted to kiss them. I must say dear Soames is a perfect
connoisseur. In her French way, and not so very French either, I
think she’s as pretty—though not so distinguished, not so
alluring—as Irene. Because she was alluring, wasn’t she? with
that white skin and those dark eyes, and that hair, _couleur
de_—what was it? I always forget.”
“_Feuille morte_,” Francie prompted.
“Of course, dead leaves—so strange. I remember when I was a girl,
before we came to London, we had a foxhound puppy—to ‘walk’ it
was called then; it had a tan top to its head and a white chest,
and beautiful dark brown eyes, and it was a lady.”
“Yes, auntie,” said Francie, “but I don’t see the connection.”
“Oh!” replied Aunt Juley, rather flustered, “it was so alluring,
and her eyes and hair, you know....” She was silent, as if
surprised in some indelicacy. “_Feuille morte_,” she added
suddenly; “Hester—do remember that!”....
Considerable debate took place between the two sisters whether
Timothy should or should not be summoned to see Annette.
“Oh, don’t bother!” said Soames.
“But it’s no trouble, only of course Annette’s being French might
upset him a little. He was so scared about Fashoda. I think
perhaps we had better not run the risk, Hester. It’s nice to have
her all to ourselves, isn’t it? And how are you, Soames? Have you
quite got over your....”
Hester interposed hurriedly:
“What do you think of London, Annette?”
Soames, disquieted, awaited the reply. It came, sensible,
composed: “Oh! I know London. I have visited before.”
He had never ventured to speak to her on the subject of the
restaurant. The French had different notions about gentility, and
to shrink from connection with it might seem to her ridiculous;
he had waited to be married before mentioning it; and now he
wished he hadn’t.
“And what part do you know best?” said Aunt Juley.
“Soho,” said Annette simply.
Soames snapped his jaw.
“Soho?” repeated Aunt Juley; “Soho?”
“That’ll go round the family,” thought Soames.
“It’s very French, and interesting,” he said.
“Yes,” murmured Aunt Juley, “your Uncle Roger had some houses
there once; he was always having to turn the tenants out, I
remember.”
Soames changed the subject to Mapledurham.
“Of course,” said Aunt Juley, “you will be going down there soon
to settle in. We are all so looking forward to the time when
Annette has a dear little....”
“Juley!” cried Aunt Hester desperately, “ring tea!”
Soames dared not wait for tea, and took Annette away.
“I shouldn’t mention Soho if I were you,” he said in the cab.
“It’s rather a shady part of London; and you’re altogether above
that restaurant business now; I mean,” he added, “I want you to
know nice people, and the English are fearful snobs.”
Annette’s clear eyes opened; a little smile came on her lips.
“Yes?” she said.
“H’m!” thought Soames, “that’s meant for me!” and he looked at
her hard. “She’s got good business instincts,” he thought. “I
must make her grasp it once for all!”
“Look here, Annette! it’s very simple, only it wants
understanding. Our professional and leisured classes still think
themselves a cut above our business classes, except of course the
very rich. It may be stupid, but there it is, you see. It isn’t
advisable in England to let people know that you ran a restaurant
or kept a shop or were in any kind of trade. It may have been
extremely creditable, but it puts a sort of label on you; you
don’t have such a good time, or meet such nice people—that’s
all.”
“I see,” said Annette; “it is the same in France.”
“Oh!” murmured Soames, at once relieved and taken aback. “Of
course, class is everything, really.”
“Yes,” said Annette; “_comme vous êtes sage_.”
“That’s all right,” thought Soames, watching her lips, “only
she’s pretty cynical.” His knowledge of French was not yet such
as to make him grieve that she had not said “tu.” He slipped his
arm round her, and murmured with an effort:
“_Et vous êtes ma belle femme_.”
Annette went off into a little fit of laughter.
“_Oh, non!_” she said. “_Oh, non! ne parlez pas Français_,
Soames. What is that old lady, your aunt, looking forward to?”
Soames bit his lip. “God knows!” he said; “she’s always saying
something;” but he knew better than God.
CHAPTER XI SUSPENDED ANIMATION
The war dragged on. Nicholas had been heard to say that it would
cost three hundred millions if it cost a penny before they’d done
with it! The income-tax was seriously threatened. Still, there
would be South Africa for their money, once for all. And though
the possessive instinct felt badly shaken at three o’clock in the
morning, it recovered by breakfast-time with the recollection
that one gets nothing in this world without paying for it. So, on
the whole, people went about their business much as if there were
no war, no concentration camps, no slippery de Wet, no feeling on
the Continent, no anything unpleasant. Indeed, the attitude of
the nation was typified by Timothy’s map, whose animation was
suspended—for Timothy no longer moved the flags, and they could
not move themselves, not even backwards and forwards as they
should have done.
Suspended animation went further; it invaded Forsyte ’Change, and
produced a general uncertainty as to what was going to happen
next. The announcement in the marriage column of _The Times_,
“Jolyon Forsyte to Irene, only daughter of the late Professor
Heron,” had occasioned doubt whether Irene had been justly
described. And yet, on the whole, relief was felt that she had
not been entered as “Irene, late the wife,” or “the divorced
wife,” “of Soames Forsyte.” Altogether, there had been a kind of
sublimity from the first about the way the family had taken that
“affair.” As James had phrased it, “There it was!” No use to
fuss! Nothing to be had out of admitting that it had been a
“nasty jar”—in the phraseology of the day.
But what would happen now that both Soames and Jolyon were
married again? That was very intriguing. George was known to have
laid Eustace six to four on a little Jolyon before a little
Soames. George was so droll! It was rumoured, too, that he and
Dartie had a bet as to whether James would attain the age of
ninety, though which of them had backed James no one knew.
Early in May, Winifred came round to say that Val had been
wounded in the leg by a spent bullet, and was to be discharged.
His wife was nursing him. He would have a little limp—nothing to
speak of. He wanted his grandfather to buy him a farm out there
where he could breed horses. Her father was giving Holly eight
hundred a year, so they could be quite comfortable, because his
grandfather would give Val five, he had said; but as to the farm,
he didn’t know—couldn’t tell: he didn’t want Val to go throwing
away his money.
“But you know,” said Winifred, “he must do something.”
Aunt Hester thought that perhaps his dear grandfather was wise,
because if he didn’t buy a farm it couldn’t turn out badly.
“But Val loves horses,” said Winifred. “It’d be such an
occupation for him.”
Aunt Juley thought that horses were very uncertain, had not
Montague found them so?
“Val’s different,” said Winifred; “he takes after me.”
Aunt Juley was sure that dear Val was very clever. “I always
remember,” she added, “how he gave his bad penny to a beggar. His
dear grandfather was so pleased. He thought it showed such
presence of mind. I remember his saying that he ought to go into
the Navy.”
Aunt Hester chimed in: Did not Winifred think that it was much
better for the young people to be secure and not run any risk at
their age?
“Well,” said Winifred, “if they were in London, perhaps; in
London it’s amusing to do nothing. But out there, of course,
he’ll simply get bored to death.”
Aunt Hester thought that it would be nice for him to work, if he
were quite sure not to lose by it. It was not as if they had no
money. Timothy, of course, had done so well by retiring. Aunt
Juley wanted to know what Montague had said.
Winifred did not tell her, for Montague had merely remarked:
“Wait till the old man dies.”
At this moment Francie was announced. Her eyes were brimming with
a smile.
“Well,” she said, “what do you think of it?”
“Of what, dear?”
“In _The Times_ this morning.”
“We haven’t seen it, we always read it after dinner; Timothy has
it till then.”
Francie rolled her eyes.
“Do you think you _ought_ to tell us?” said Aunt Juley. “What
_was_ it?”
“Irene’s had a son at Robin Hill.”
Aunt Juley drew in her breath. “But,” she said, “they were only
married in March!”
“Yes, Auntie; isn’t it interesting?”
“Well,” said Winifred, “I’m glad. I was sorry for Jolyon losing
his boy. It might have been Val.”
Aunt Juley seemed to go into a sort of dream. “I wonder,” she
murmured, “what dear Soames will think? He has so wanted to have
a son himself. A little bird has always told me that.”
“Well,” said Winifred, “he’s going to—bar accidents.”
Gladness trickled out of Aunt Juley’s eyes.
“How delightful!” she said. “When?”
“November.”
Such a lucky month! But she did wish it could be sooner. It was a
long time for James to wait, at his age!
To wait! They dreaded it for James, but they were used to it
themselves. Indeed, it was their great distraction. To wait! For
_The Times_ to read; for one or other of their nieces or nephews
to come in and cheer them up; for news of Nicholas’ health; for
that decision of Christopher’s about going on the stage; for
information concerning the mine of Mrs. MacAnder’s nephew; for
the doctor to come about Hester’s inclination to wake up early in
the morning; for books from the library which were always out;
for Timothy to have a cold; for a nice quiet warm day, not too
hot, when they could take a turn in Kensington Gardens. To wait,
one on each side of the hearth in the drawing-room, for the clock
between them to strike; their thin, veined, knuckled hands plying
knitting-needles and crochet-hooks, their hair ordered to
stop—like Canute’s waves—from any further advance in colour. To
wait in their black silks or satins for the Court to say that
Hester might wear her dark green, and Juley her darker maroon. To
wait, slowly turning over and over, in their old minds the little
joys and sorrows, events and expectancies, of their little family
world, as cows chew patient cuds in a familiar field. And this
new event was so well worth waiting for. Soames had always been
their pet, with his tendency to give them pictures, and his
almost weekly visits which they missed so much, and his need for
their sympathy evoked by the wreck of his first marriage. This
new event—the birth of an heir to Soames—was so important for
him, and for his dear father, too, that James might not have to
die without some certainty about things. James did so dislike
uncertainty; and with Montague, of course, he could not feel
really satisfied to leave no grand-children but the young
Darties. After all, one’s own name did count! And as James’
ninetieth birthday neared they wondered what precautions he was
taking. He would be the first of the Forsytes to reach that age,
and set, as it were, a new standard in holding on to life. That
was so important, they felt, at their ages eighty-seven and
eighty-five; though they did not want to think of themselves when
they had Timothy, who was not yet eighty-two, to think of. There
was, of course, a better world. “In my Father’s house are many
mansions” was one of Aunt Juley’s favourite sayings—it always
comforted her, with its suggestion of house property, which had
made the fortune of dear Roger. The Bible was, indeed, a great
resource, and on _very_ fine Sundays there was church in the
morning; and sometimes Juley would steal into Timothy’s study
when she was sure he was out, and just put an open New Testament
casually among the books on his little table—he was a great
reader, of course, having been a publisher. But she had noticed
that Timothy was always cross at dinner afterwards. And Smither
had told her more than once that she had picked books off the
floor in doing the room. Still, with all that, they did feel that
heaven could not be quite so cosy as the rooms in which they and
Timothy had been waiting so long. Aunt Hester, especially, could
not bear the thought of the exertion. Any change, or rather the
thought of a change—for there never _was_ any—always upset her
very much. Aunt Juley, who had more spirit, sometimes thought it
would be quite exciting; she had so enjoyed that visit to
Brighton the year dear Susan died. But then Brighton one knew was
nice, and it was so difficult to tell what heaven would be like,
so on the whole she was more than content to wait.
On the morning of James’ birthday, August the 5th, they felt
extraordinary animation, and little notes passed between them by
the hand of Smither while they were having breakfast in their
beds. Smither must go round and take their love and little
presents and find out how Mr. James was, and whether he had
passed a good night with all the excitement. And on the way back
would Smither call in at Green Street—it was a little out of her
way, but she could take the bus up Bond Street afterwards; it
would be a nice little change for her—and ask dear Mrs. Dartie to
be sure and look in before she went out of town.
All this Smither did—an undeniable servant trained many years ago
under Aunt Ann to a perfection not now procurable. Mr. James, so
Mrs. James said, had passed an excellent night, he sent his love;
Mrs. James had said he was very funny and had complained that he
didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Oh! and Mrs. Dartie sent
her love, and she would come to tea.
Aunts Juley and Hester, rather hurt that their presents had not
received special mention—they forgot every year that James could
not bear to receive presents, “throwing away their money on him,”
as he always called it—were “delighted”; it showed that James was
in good spirits, and that was so important for him. And they
began to wait for Winifred. She came at four, bringing Imogen,
and Maud, just back from school, and “getting such a pretty girl,
too,” so that it was extremely difficult to ask for news about
Annette. Aunt Juley, however, summoned courage to enquire whether
Winifred had heard anything, and if Soames was anxious.
“Uncle Soames is always anxious, Auntie,” interrupted Imogen; “he
can’t be happy now he’s got it.”
The words struck familiarly on Aunt Juley’s ears. Ah! yes; that
funny drawing of George’s, which had _not_ been shown them! But
what did Imogen mean? That her uncle always wanted more than he
could have? It was not at all nice to think like that.
Imogen’s voice rose clear and clipped:
“Imagine! Annette’s only two years older than me; it must be
awful for her, married to Uncle Soames.”
Aunt Juley lifted her hands in horror.
“My dear,” she said, “you don’t know what you’re talking about.
Your Uncle Soames is a match for anybody. He’s a very clever man,
and good-looking and wealthy, and most considerate and careful,
and not at all old, considering everything.”
Imogen, turning her luscious glance from one to the other of the
“old dears,” only smiled.
“I hope,” said Aunt Juley quite severely, “that _you_ will marry
as good a man.”
“_I_ shan’t marry a good man, Auntie,” murmured Imogen; “they’re
dull.”
“If you go on like this,” replied Aunt Juley, still very much
upset, “you won’t marry anybody. We’d better not pursue the
subject;” and turning to Winifred, she said: “How is Montague?”
That evening, while they were waiting for dinner, she murmured:
“I’ve told Smither to get up half a bottle of the sweet
champagne, Hester. I think we ought to drink dear James’ health,
and—and the health of Soames’ wife; only, let’s keep that quite
secret. I’ll just say like this, ‘And _you know_, Hester!’ and
then we’ll drink. It might upset Timothy.”
“It’s more likely to upset us,” said Aunt Nester. “But we must, I
suppose; for such an occasion.”
“Yes,” said Aunt Juley rapturously, “it _is_ an occasion! Only
fancy if he has a dear little boy, to carry the family on! I do
feel it so important, now that Irene has had a son. Winifred says
George is calling Jolyon ‘The Three-Decker,’ because of his three
families, you know! George _is_ droll. And fancy! Irene is living
after all in the house Soames had built for them both. It does
seem hard on dear Soames; and he’s always been so regular.”
That night in bed, excited and a little flushed still by her
glass of wine and the secrecy of the second toast, she lay with
her prayer-book opened flat, and her eyes fixed on a ceiling
yellowed by the light from her reading-lamp. Young things! It was
so nice for them all! And she would be so happy if she could see
dear Soames happy. But, of course, he must be now, in spite of
what Imogen had said. He would have all that he wanted: property,
and wife, and children! And he would live to a green old age,
like his dear father, and forget all about Irene and that
dreadful case. If only she herself could be here to buy his
children their first rocking-horse! Smither should choose it for
her at the stores, nice and dappled. Ah! how Roger used to rock
her until she fell off! Oh dear! that was a long time ago! It
_was!_ “In my Father’s house are many mansions—”A little
scrattling noise caught her ear—“but no mice!” she thought
mechanically. The noise increased. There! it _was_ a mouse! How
naughty of Smither to say there wasn’t! It would be eating
through the wainscot before they knew where they were, and they
would have to have the builders in. They were such destructive
things! And she lay, with her eyes just moving, following in her
mind that little scrattling sound, and waiting for sleep to
release her from it.
CHAPTER XII BIRTH OF A FORSYTE
Soames walked out of the garden door, crossed the lawn, stood on
the path above the river, turned round and walked back to the
garden door, without having realised that he had moved. The sound
of wheels crunching the drive convinced him that time had passed,
and the doctor gone. What, exactly, had he said?
“This is the position, Mr. Forsyte. I can make pretty certain of
her life if I operate, but the baby will be born dead. If I don’t
operate, the baby will most probably be born alive, but it’s a
great risk for the mother—a great risk. In either case I don’t
think she can ever have another child. In her state she obviously
can’t decide for herself, and we can’t wait for her mother. It’s
for you to make the decision, while I’m getting what’s necessary.
I shall be back within the hour.”
The decision! What a decision! No time to get a specialist down!
No time for anything!
The sound of wheels died away, but Soames still stood intent;
then, suddenly covering his ears, he walked back to the river. To
come before its time like this, with no chance to foresee
anything, not even to get her mother here! It was for her mother
to make that decision, and she couldn’t arrive from Paris till
to-night! If only he could have understood the doctor’s jargon,
the medical niceties, so as to be sure he was weighing the
chances properly; but they were Greek to him—like a legal problem
to a layman. And yet he _must_ decide! He brought his hand away
from his brow wet, though the air was chilly. These sounds which
came from her room! To go back there would only make it more
difficult. He must be calm, clear. On the one hand life, nearly
certain, of his young wife, death quite certain, of his child;
and—no more children afterwards! On the other, death _perhaps_ of
his wife, nearly certain life for the child; and—no more children
afterwards! Which to choose?.... It had rained this last
fortnight—the river was very full, and in the water, collected
round the little house-boat moored by his landing-stage, were
many leaves from the woods above, brought off by a frost. Leaves
fell, lives drifted down—Death! To decide about death! And no one
to give him a hand. Life lost was lost for good. Let nothing go
that you could keep; for, if it went, you couldn’t get it back.
It left you bare, like those trees when they lost their leaves;
barer and barer until you, too, withered and came down. And, by a
queer somersault of thought, he seemed to see not Annette lying
up there behind that window-pane on which the sun was shining,
but Irene lying in their bedroom in Montpellier Square, as it
might conceivably have been her fate to lie, sixteen years ago.
Would he have hesitated then? Not a moment! Operate, operate!
Make certain of her life! No decision—a mere instinctive cry for
help, in spite of his knowledge, even then, that she did not love
him! But this! Ah! there was nothing overmastering in his feeling
for Annette! Many times these last months, especially since she
had been growing frightened, he had wondered. She had a will of
her own, was selfish in her French way. And yet—so pretty! What
would she wish—to take the risk. “I know she wants the child,” he
thought. “If it’s born dead, and no more chance afterwards—it’ll
upset her terribly. No more chance! All for nothing! Married life
with her for years and years without a child. Nothing to steady
her! She’s too young. Nothing to look forward to, for her—for me!
_For me!_” He struck his hands against his chest! Why couldn’t he
think without bringing himself in—get out of himself and see what
he ought to do? The thought hurt him, then lost edge, as if it
had come in contact with a breastplate. Out of oneself!
Impossible! Out into soundless, scentless, touchless, sightless
space! The very idea was ghastly, futile! And touching there the
bedrock of reality, the bottom of his Forsyte spirit, Soames
rested for a moment. When one ceased, all ceased; it might go on,
but there’d be nothing in it!
He looked at his watch. In half an hour the doctor would be back.
He _must_ decide! If against the operation and she died, how face
her mother and the doctor afterwards? How face his own
conscience? It was _his_ child that she was having. If for the
operation—then he condemned them both to childlessness. And for
what else had he married her but to have a lawful heir? And his
father—at death’s door, waiting for the news! “It’s cruel!” he
thought; “I ought never to have such a thing to settle! It’s
cruel!” He turned towards the house. Some deep, simple way of
deciding! He took out a coin, and put it back. If he spun it, he
knew he would not abide by what came up! He went into the
dining-room, furthest away from that room whence the sounds
issued. The doctor had said there was a chance. In here that
chance seemed greater; the river did not flow, nor the leaves
fall. A fire was burning. Soames unlocked the tantalus. He hardly
ever touched spirits, but now—he poured himself out some whisky
and drank it neat, craving a faster flow of blood. “That fellow
Jolyon,” he thought; “he had children already. He has the woman I
really loved; and now a son by her! And I—I’m asked to destroy my
only child! Annette _can’t_ die; it’s not possible. She’s
strong!”
He was still standing sullenly at the sideboard when he heard the
doctor’s carriage, and went out to him. He had to wait for him to
come downstairs.
“Well, doctor?”
“The situation’s the same. Have you decided?”
“Yes,” said Soames; “don’t operate!”
“Not? You understand—the risk’s great?”
In Soames’ set face nothing moved but the lips.
“You said there was a chance?”
“A chance, yes; not much of one.”
“You say the baby _must_ be born dead if you do?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still think that in any case she can’t have another?”
“One can’t be absolutely sure, but it’s most unlikely.”
“She’s strong,” said Soames; “we’ll take the risk.”
The doctor looked at him very gravely. “It’s on your shoulders,”
he said; “with my own wife, I couldn’t.”
Soames’ chin jerked up as if someone had hit him.
“Am I of any use up there?” he asked.
“No; keep away.”
“I shall be in my picture-gallery, then; you know where.”
The doctor nodded, and went upstairs.
Soames continued to stand, listening. “By this time to-morrow,”
he thought, “I may have her death on my hands.” No! it was
unfair—monstrous, to put it that way! Sullenness dropped on him
again, and he went up to the gallery. He stood at the window. The
wind was in the north; it was cold, clear; very blue sky, heavy
ragged white clouds chasing across; the river blue, too, through
the screen of goldening trees; the woods all rich with colour,
glowing, burnished—an early autumn. If it were his own life,
would he be taking that risk? “But _she’d_ take the risk of
losing me,” he thought, “sooner than lose her child! She doesn’t
really love me!” What could one expect—a girl and French? The one
thing really vital to them both, vital to their marriage and
their futures, was a child! “I’ve been through a lot for this,”
he thought, “I’ll hold on—hold on. There’s a chance of keeping
both—a chance!” One kept till things were taken—one naturally
kept! He began walking round the gallery. He had made one
purchase lately which he knew was a fortune in itself, and he
halted before it—a girl with dull gold hair which looked like
filaments of metal gazing at a little golden monster she was
holding in her hand. Even at this tortured moment he could just
feel the extraordinary nature of the bargain he had made—admire
the quality of the table, the floor, the chair, the girl’s
figure, the absorbed expression on her face, the dull gold
filaments of her hair, the bright gold of the little monster.
Collecting pictures; growing richer, richer! What use, if...! He
turned his back abruptly on the picture, and went to the window.
Some of his doves had flown up from their perches round the
dovecot, and were stretching their wings in the wind. In the
clear sharp sunlight their whiteness almost flashed. They flew
far, making a flung-up hieroglyphic against the sky. Annette fed
the doves; it was pretty to see her. They took it out of her
hand; they knew she was matter-of-fact. A choking sensation came
into his throat. She would not—could not die! She was too—too
sensible; and she was strong, really strong, like her mother, in
spite of her fair prettiness.
It was already growing dark when at last he opened the door, and
stood listening. Not a sound! A milky twilight crept about the
stairway and the landings below. He had turned back when a sound
caught his ear. Peering down, he saw a black shape moving, and
his heart stood still. What was it? Death? The shape of Death
coming from her door? No! only a maid without cap or apron. She
came to the foot of his flight of stairs and said breathlessly:
“The doctor wants to see you, sir.”
He ran down. She stood flat against the wall to let him pass, and
said:
“Oh, Sir! it’s over.”
“Over?” said Soames, with a sort of menace; “what d’you mean?”
“It’s born, sir.”
He dashed up the four steps in front of him, and came suddenly on
the doctor in the dim passage. The man was wiping his brow.
“Well?” he said; “quick!”
“Both living; it’s all right, I think.”
Soames stood quite still, covering his eyes.
“I congratulate you,” he heard the doctor say; “it was touch and
go.”
Soames let fall the hand which was covering his face.
“Thanks,” he said; “thanks very much. What is it?”
“Daughter—luckily; a son would have killed her—the head.”
A daughter!
“The utmost care of both,” he hears the doctor say, “and we shall
do. When does the mother come?”
“To-night, between nine and ten, I hope.”
“I’ll stay till then. Do you want to see them?”
“Not now,” said Soames; “before you go. I’ll have dinner sent up
to you.” And he went downstairs.
Relief unspeakable, and yet—a daughter! It seemed to him unfair.
To have taken that risk—to have been through this agony—and what
agony!—for a daughter! He stood before the blazing fire of wood
logs in the hall, touching it with his toe and trying to readjust
himself. “My father!” he thought. A bitter disappointment, no
disguising it! One never got all one wanted in this life! And
there was no other—at least, if there was, it was no use!
While he was standing there, a telegram was brought him.
“Come up at once, your father sinking fast.—MOTHER.”
He read it with a choking sensation. One would have thought he
couldn’t feel anything after these last hours, but he felt this.
Half-past seven, a train from Reading at nine, and madame’s
train, if she had caught it, came in at eight-forty—he would meet
that, and go on. He ordered the carriage, ate some dinner
mechanically, and went upstairs. The doctor came out to him.
“They’re sleeping.”
“I won’t go in,” said Soames with relief. “My father’s dying; I
have to—go up. Is it all right?”
The doctor’s face expressed a kind of doubting admiration. “If
they were all as unemotional” he might have been saying.
“Yes, I think you may go with an easy mind. You’ll be down soon?”
“To-morrow,” said Soames. “Here’s the address.”
The doctor seemed to hover on the verge of sympathy.
“Good-night!” said Soames abruptly, and turned away. He put on
his fur coat. Death! It was a chilly business. He smoked a
cigarette in the carriage—one of his rare cigarettes. The night
was windy and flew on black wings; the carriage lights had to
search out the way. His father! That old, old man! A comfortless
night—to die!
The London train came in just as he reached the station, and
Madame Lamotte, substantial, dark-clothed, very yellow in the
lamplight, came towards the exit with a dressing-bag.
“This all you have?” asked Soames.
“But yes; I had not the time. How is my little one?”
“Doing well—both. A girl!”
“A girl! What joy! I had a frightful crossing!”
Her black bulk, solid, unreduced by the frightful crossing,
climbed into the brougham.
“And you, _mon cher?_”
“My father’s dying,” said Soames between his teeth. “I’m going
up. Give my love to Annette.”
“_Tiens!_” murmured Madame Lamotte; “_quel malheur!_”
Soames took his hat off, and moved towards his train. “The
French!” he thought.
CHAPTER XIII JAMES IS TOLD
A simple cold, caught in the room with double windows, where the
air and the people who saw him were filtered, as it were, the
room he had not left since the middle of September—and James was
in deep waters. A little cold, passing his little strength and
flying quickly to his lungs. “He mustn’t catch cold,” the doctor
had declared, and he had gone and caught it. When he first felt
it in his throat he had said to his nurse—for he had one
now—“There, I knew how it would be, airing the room like that!”
For a whole day he was highly nervous about himself and went in
advance of all precautions and remedies; drawing every breath
with extreme care and having his temperature taken every hour.
Emily was not alarmed.
But next morning when she went in the nurse whispered: “He won’t
have his temperature taken.”
Emily crossed to the side of the bed where he was lying, and said
softly, “How do you feel, James?” holding the thermometer to his
lips. James looked up at her.
“What’s the good of that?” he murmured huskily; “I don’t want to
know.”
Then she _was_ alarmed. He breathed with difficulty, he looked
terribly frail, white, with faint red discolorations. She had
“had trouble” with him, Goodness knew; but he was James, had been
James for nearly fifty years; she couldn’t remember or imagine
life without James—James, behind all his fussiness, his
pessimism, his crusty shell, deeply affectionate, really kind and
generous to them all!
All that day and the next he hardly uttered a word, but there was
in his eyes a noticing of everything done for him, a look on his
face which told her he was fighting; and she did not lose hope.
His very stillness, the way he conserved every little scrap of
energy, showed the tenacity with which he was fighting. It
touched her deeply; and though her face was composed and
comfortable in the sick-room, tears ran down her cheeks when she
was out of it.
About tea-time on the third day—she had just changed her dress,
keeping her appearance so as not to alarm him, because he noticed
everything—she saw a difference. “It’s no use; I’m tired,” was
written plainly across that white face, and when she went up to
him, he muttered: “Send for Soames.”
“Yes, James,” she said comfortably; “all right—at once.” And she
kissed his forehead. A tear dropped there, and as she wiped it
off she saw that his eyes looked grateful. Much upset, and
without hope now, she sent Soames the telegram.
When he entered out of the black windy night, the big house was
still as a grave. Warmson’s broad face looked almost narrow; he
took the fur coat with a sort of added care, saying:
“Will you have a glass of wine, sir?”
Soames shook his head, and his eyebrows made enquiry.
Warmson’s lips twitched. “He’s asking for you, sir;” and suddenly
he blew his nose. “It’s a long time, sir,” he said, “that I’ve
been with Mr. Forsyte—a long time.”
Soames left him folding the coat, and began to mount the stairs.
This house, where he had been born and sheltered, had never
seemed to him so warm, and rich, and cosy, as during this last
pilgrimage to his father’s room. It was not his taste; but in its
own substantial, lincrusta way it was the acme of comfort and
security. And the night was so dark and windy; the grave so cold
and lonely!
He paused outside the door. No sound came from within. He turned
the handle softly and was in the room before he was perceived.
The light was shaded. His mother and Winifred were sitting on the
far side of the bed; the nurse was moving away from the near side
where was an empty chair. “For me!” thought Soames. As he moved
from the door his mother and sister rose, but he signed with his
hand and they sat down again. He went up to the chair and stood
looking at his father. James’ breathing was as if strangled; his
eyes were closed. And in Soames, looking on his father so worn
and white and wasted, listening to his strangled breathing, there
rose a passionate vehemence of anger against Nature, cruel,
inexorable Nature, kneeling on the chest of that wisp of a body,
slowly pressing out the breath, pressing out the life of the
being who was dearest to him in the world. His father, of all
men, had lived a careful life, moderate, abstemious, and this was
his reward—to have life slowly, painfully squeezed out of him!
And, without knowing that he spoke, he said: “It’s cruel!”
He saw his mother cover her eyes and Winifred bow her face
towards the bed. Women! They put up with things so much better
than men. He took a step nearer to his father. For three days
James had not been shaved, and his lips and chin were covered
with hair, hardly more snowy than his forehead. It softened his
face, gave it a queer look already not of this world. His eyes
opened. Soames went quite close and bent over. The lips moved.
“Here I am, Father:”
“Um—what—what news? They never tell....” the voice died, and a
flood of emotion made Soames’ face work so that he could not
speak. Tell him?—yes. But what? He made a great effort, got his
lips together, and said:
“Good news, dear, good—Annette, a son.”
“Ah!” It was the queerest sound, ugly, relieved, pitiful,
triumphant—like the noise a baby makes getting what it wants. The
eyes closed, and that strangled sound of breathing began again.
Soames recoiled to the chair and stonily sat down. The lie he had
told, based, as it were, on some deep, temperamental instinct
that after death James would not know the truth, had taken away
all power of feeling for the moment. His arm brushed against
something. It was his father’s naked foot. In the struggle to
breathe he had pushed it out from under the clothes. Soames took
it in his hand, a cold foot, light and thin, white, very cold.
What use to put it back, to wrap up that which must be colder
soon! He warmed it mechanically with his hand, listening to his
father’s laboured breathing; while the power of feeling rose
again within him. A little sob, quickly smothered, came from
Winifred, but his mother sat unmoving with her eyes fixed on
James. Soames signed to the nurse.
“Where’s the doctor?” he whispered.
“He’s been sent for.”
“Can’t you do anything to ease his breathing?”
“Only an injection; and he can’t stand it. The doctor said, while
he was fighting....”
“He’s not fighting,” whispered Soames, “he’s being slowly
smothered. It’s awful.”
James stirred uneasily, as if he knew what they were saying.
Soames rose and bent over him. James feebly moved his two hands,
and Soames took them.
“He wants to be pulled up,” whispered the nurse.
Soames pulled. He thought he pulled gently, but a look almost of
anger passed over James’ face. The nurse plumped the pillows.
Soames laid the hands down, and bending over kissed his father’s
forehead. As he was raising himself again, James’ eyes bent on
him a look which seemed to come from the very depths of what was
left within. “I’m done, my boy,” it seemed to say, “take care of
them, take care of yourself; take care—I leave it all to you.”
“Yes, Yes,” Soames whispered, “yes, yes.”
Behind him the nurse did he knew not what, for his father made a
tiny movement of repulsion as if resenting that interference; and
almost at once his breathing eased away, became quiet; he lay
very still. The strained expression on his face passed, a curious
white tranquillity took its place. His eyelids quivered, rested;
the whole face rested; at ease. Only by the faint puffing of his
lips could they tell that he was breathing. Soames sank back on
his chair, and fell to cherishing the foot again. He heard the
nurse quietly crying over there by the fire; curious that she, a
stranger, should be the only one of them who cried! He heard the
quiet lick and flutter of the fire flames. One more old Forsyte
going to his long rest—wonderful, they were!—wonderful how he had
held on! His mother and Winifred were leaning forward, hanging on
the sight of James’ lips. But Soames bent sideways over the feet,
warming them both; they gave him comfort, colder and colder
though they grew. Suddenly he started up; a sound, a dreadful
sound such as he had never heard, was coming from his father’s
lips, as if an outraged heart had broken with a long moan. What a
strong heart, to have uttered that farewell! It ceased. Soames
looked into the face. No motion; no breath! Dead! He kissed the
brow, turned round and went out of the room. He ran upstairs to
the bedroom, his old bedroom, still kept for him; flung himself
face down on the bed, and broke into sobs which he stilled with
the pillow....
A little later he went downstairs and passed into the room. James
lay alone, wonderfully calm, free from shadow and anxiety, with
the gravity on his ravaged face which underlies great age, the
worn fine gravity of old coins.
Soames looked steadily at that face, at the fire, at all the room
with windows thrown open to the London night.
“Good-bye!” he whispered, and went out.
CHAPTER XIV HIS
He had much to see to, that night and all next day. A telegram at
breakfast reassured him about Annette, and he only caught the
last train back to Reading, with Emily’s kiss on his forehead and
in his ears her words:
“I don’t know what I should have done without you, my dear boy.”
He reached his house at midnight. The weather had changed, was
mild again, as though, having finished its work and sent a
Forsyte to his last account, it could relax. A second telegram,
received at dinner-time, had confirmed the good news of Annette,
and, instead of going in, Soames passed down through the garden
in the moonlight to his houseboat. He could sleep there quite
well. Bitterly tired, he lay down on the sofa in his fur coat and
fell asleep. He woke soon after dawn and went on deck. He stood
against the rail, looking west where the river swept round in a
wide curve under the woods. In Soames, appreciation of natural
beauty was curiously like that of his farmer ancestors, a sense
of grievance if it wasn’t there, sharpened, no doubt, and
civilised, by his researches among landscape painting. But dawn
has power to fertilise the most matter-of-fact vision, and he was
stirred. It was another world from the river he knew, under that
remote cool light; a world into which man had not entered, an
unreal world, like some strange shore sighted by discovery. Its
colour was not the colour of convention, was hardly colour at
all; its shapes were brooding yet distinct; its silence stunning;
it had no scent. Why it should move him he could not tell, unless
it were that he felt so alone in it, bare of all relationship and
all possessions. Into such a world his father might be voyaging,
for all resemblance it had to the world he had left. And Soames
took refuge from it in wondering what painter could have done it
justice. The white-grey water was like—like the belly of a fish!
Was it possible that this world on which he looked was all
private property, except the water—and even that was tapped! No
tree, no shrub, not a blade of grass, not a bird or beast, not
even a fish that was not owned. And once on a time all this was
jungle and marsh and water, and weird creatures roamed and
sported without human cognizance to give them names; rotting
luxuriance had rioted where those tall, carefully planted woods
came down to the water, and marsh-misted reeds on that far side
had covered all the pasture. Well! they had got it under,
kennelled it all up, labelled it, and stowed it in lawyers’
offices. And a good thing too! But once in a way, as now, the
ghost of the past came out to haunt and brood and whisper to any
human who chanced to be awake: “Out of my unowned loneliness you
all came, into it some day you will all return.”
And Soames, who felt the chill and the eeriness of that world—new
to him and so very old: the world, unowned, visiting the scene of
its past—went down and made himself tea on a spirit-lamp. When he
had drunk it, he took out writing materials and wrote two
paragraphs:
“On the 20th instant at his residence in Park Lane, James
Forsyte, in his ninety-first year. Funeral at noon on the 24th at
Highgate. No flowers by request.”
“On the 20th instant at The Shelter; Mapledurham, Annette, wife
of Soames Forsyte, of a daughter.” And underneath on the
blottingpaper he traced the word “son.”
It was eight o’clock in an ordinary autumn world when he went
across to the house. Bushes across the river stood round and
bright-coloured out of a milky haze; the wood-smoke went up blue
and straight; and his doves cooed, preening their feathers in the
sunlight.
He stole up to his dressing-room, bathed, shaved, put on fresh
linen and dark clothes.
Madame Lamotte was beginning her breakfast when he went down.
She looked at his clothes, said, “Don’t tell me!” and pressed his
hand. “Annette is prettee well. But the doctor say she can never
have no more children. You knew that?” Soames nodded. “It’s a
pity. _Mais la petite est adorable. Du café?_”
Soames got away from her as soon as he could. She offended
him—solid, matter-of-fact, quick, clear—_French_. He could not
bear her vowels, her “r’s”. he resented the way she had looked at
him, as if it were his fault that Annette could never bear him a
son! His fault! He even resented her cheap adoration of the
daughter he had not yet seen.
Curious how he jibbed away from sight of his wife and child!
One would have thought he must have rushed up at the first
moment. On the contrary, he had a sort of physical shrinking from
it—fastidious possessor that he was. He was afraid of what
Annette was thinking of him, author of her agonies, afraid of the
look of the baby, afraid of showing his disappointment with the
present and—the future.
He spent an hour walking up and down the drawing-room before he
could screw his courage up to mount the stairs and knock on the
door of their room.
Madame Lamotte opened it.
“Ah! At last you come! _Elle vous attend!_” She passed him, and
Soames went in with his noiseless step, his jaw firmly set, his
eyes furtive.
Annette was very pale and very pretty lying there. The baby was
hidden away somewhere; he could not see it. He went up to the
bed, and with sudden emotion bent and kissed her forehead.
“Here you are then, Soames,” she said. “I am not so bad now. But
I suffered terribly, terribly. I am glad I cannot have any more.
Oh! how I suffered!”
Soames stood silent, stroking her hand; words of endearment, of
sympathy, absolutely would not come; the thought passed through
him: “An English girl wouldn’t have said that!” At this moment he
knew with certainty that he would never be near to her in spirit
and in truth, nor she to him. He had collected her—that was all!
And Jolyon’s words came rushing into his mind: “I should imagine
you will be glad to have your neck out of chancery.” Well, he had
got it out! Had he got it in again?
“We must feed you up,” he said, “you’ll soon be strong.”
“Don’t you want to see baby, Soames? She is asleep.”
“Of course,” said Soames, “very much.”
He passed round the foot of the bed to the other side and stood
staring. For the first moment what he saw was much what he had
expected to see—a baby. But as he stared and the baby breathed
and made little sleeping movements with its tiny features, it
seemed to assume an individual shape, grew to be like a picture,
a thing he would know again; not repulsive, strangely bud-like
and touching. It had dark hair. He touched it with his finger, he
wanted to see its eyes. They opened, they were dark—whether blue
or brown he could not tell. The eyes winked, stared, they had a
sort of sleepy depth in them. And suddenly his heart felt queer,
warm, as if elated.
“_Ma petite fleur!_” Annette said softly.
“Fleur,” repeated Soames: “Fleur! we’ll call her that.”
The sense of triumph and renewed possession swelled within him.
By God! this—this thing was his! By God! this—this thing was
_his!_