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Файл:Сага о Форсайтах. В петле. Книга для чтения на английском языке
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“Give Mr. Jolyon Forsyte this as soon as he
comes in,” he said, and took one of the new motor
cabs into the City…
Jolyon received that card the same afternoon,
and turned his face towards the Connoisseurs.
What did Soames want now? Had he got wind of
Paris? And stepping across St. James’s Street, he
determined to make no secret of his visit. ‘But it
won’t do,’ he thought, ‘to let him know she’s there,
unless he knows already.’ In this complicated state
of mind he was conducted to where Soames was
drinking tea in a small baywindow.
“No tea, thanks,” said Jolyon, “but I’ll go on
smoking if I may.”
The curtains were not yet drawn, though the
lamps outside were lighted; the two cousins sat
waiting on each other. “You’ve been in Paris, I
hear,” said Soames at last.
“Yes; just back.”
“Young Val told me; he and your boy are go
ing off, then?” Jolyon nodded.
“You didn’t happen to see Irene, I suppose. It
appears she’s abroad somewhere.”
Jolyon wreathed himself in smoke before he an
swered: “Yes, I saw her.”
“How was she?”
“Very well.”
There was another silence; then Soames roused
himself in his chair. “When I saw you last,” he said,
PART II
291
“I was in two minds. We talked, and you expressed
your opinion. I don’t wish to reopen that discus
sion. I only wanted to say this: My position with
her is extremely difficult. I don’t want you to go
using your influence against me. What happened
IN CHANCERY
is a very long time ago. I’m going to ask her to let
bygones be bygones.”
“You have asked her, you know,” murmured
Jolyon.
“The idea was new to her then; it came as a
shock. But the more she thinks of it, the more
she must see that it’s the only way out for both
of us.”
“That’s not my impression of her state of mind,”
said Jolyon with particular calm. “And, forgive my
saying, you misconceive the matter if you think
reason comes into it at all.”
He saw his cousin’s pale face grow paler —
he had used, without knowing it, Irene’s own
words.
“Thanks,” muttered Soames, “but I see things
perhaps more plainly than you think. I only want
to be sure that you won’t try to influence her
against me.”
“I don’t know what makes you think I have
any influence,” said Jolyon; “but if I have I’m
bound to use it in the direction of what I think
is her happiness. I am what they call a ‘feminist,’
I believe.”
292
“Feminist!” repeated Soames, as if seeking to
gain time. “Does that mean that you’re against
me?”
“Bluntly,” said Jolyon, “I’m against any woman
living with any man whom she definitely dislikes.
It appears to me rotten.”
“And I suppose each time you see her you put
your opinions into her mind.”
“I am not likely to be seeing her.”
“Not going back to Paris?”
“Not so far as I know,” said Jolyon, conscious
of the intent watchfulness in Soames’ face.
“Well, that’s all I had to say. Anyone who comes
between man and wife, you know, incurs heavy re
sponsibility.”
Jolyon rose and made him a slight bow. “Good
bye,” he said, and, without offering to shake hands,
moved away, leaving Soames staring after him. ‘We
Forsytes,’ thought Jolyon, hailing a cab, ‘are very
civilised. With simpler folk that might have come
to a row. If it weren’t for my boy going to the
war…’ The war! A gust of his old doubt swept over
him. A precious war! Domination of peoples or of
women! Attempts to master and possess those who
did not want you! The negation of gentle dec
ency! Possession, vested rights; and anyone ‘agin’
’em — outcast! ‘Thank Heaven!’ he thought, ‘I al
ways felt “agin” ’em, anyway!’ Yes! Even before his
first disastrous marriage he could remember fuming
PART II
293
over the bludgeoning of Ireland1, or the matrimo
nial suits of women trying to be free of men they
loathed. Parsons would have it that freedom of soul
and body were quite different things! Pernicious
doctrine! Body and soul could not thus be separ
IN CHANCERY
ated. Free will was the strength of any tie, and not
its weakness. ‘I ought to have told Soames,’ he
thought, ‘that I think him comic. Ah! but he’s
tragic, too!’ Was there anything, indeed, more
tragic in the world than a man enslaved by his own
possessive instinct, who couldn’t see the sky for it,
or even enter fully into what another person felt!
‘I must write and warn her,’ he thought; ‘he’s go
ing to have another try.’ And all the way home to
Robin Hill he rebelled at the strength of that duty
to his son which prevented him from posting back
to Paris…
But Soames sat long in his chair, the prey of a
no less gnawing ache — a jealous ache, as if it had
been revealed to him that this fellow held preced
ence of himself, and had spun fresh threads of
resistance to his way out. ‘Does that mean that
you’re against me?’ he had got nothing out of that
disingenuous question. Feminist! Phrasey fellow!
‘I mustn’t rush things,’ he thought. ‘I have some
1
the bludgeoning of Ireland — так называемое восста
ние фениев, расправа над повстанцами в Ирландии (фев
раль–март 1867 г.)
294
breathing space; he’s not going back to Paris, un
less he was lying. I’ll let the spring come!’ Though
how the spring could serve him, save by adding to
his ache, he could not tell. And gazing down into
the street, where figures were passing from pool to
pool of the light from the high lamps, he thought:
‘Nothing seems any good — nothing seems worth
while. I’m loney — that’s the trouble.’
He closed his eyes; and at once he seemed to
see Irene, in a dark street below a church — pass
ing, turning her neck so that he caught the gleam
of her eyes and her white forehead under a little
dark hat, which had gold spangles on it and a veil
hanging down behind. He opened his eyes — so
vividly he had seen her! A woman was passing be
low, but not she! Oh no, there was nothing there!
Chapter XIII
‘HERE WE ARE AGAIN!’
Imogen’s frocks for her first season exercised
the judgment of her mother and the purse of her
grandfather all through the month of March.
With Forsyte tenacity Winifred quested for per
fection. It took her mind off the slowly approach
ing rite which would give her a freedom but
doubtfully desired; took her mind, too, off her boy
and his fast approaching departure for a war from
PART II
295
which the news remained disquieting. Like bees
busy on summer flowers, or bright gadflies hov
ering and darting over spiky autumn blossoms,
she and her ‘little daughter,’ tall nearly as herself
and with a bust measurement not far inferior,
IN CHANCERY
hovered in the shops of Regent Street, the estab
lishments of Hanover Square and of Bond Street,
lost in consideration and the feel of fabrics. Doz
ens of young women of striking deportment and
peculiar gait paraded before Winifred and Imo
gen, draped in ‘creations.’ The models — ‘Very
new, modom; quite the latest thing — ’ which
those two reluctantly turned down, would have
filled a museum; the models which they were
obliged to have nearly emptied James’ bank. It
was no good doing things by halves, Winifred felt,
in view of the need for making this first and sole
untarnished season a conspicuous success. Their
patience in trying the patience of those imper
sonal creatures who swam about before them
could alone have been displayed by such as were
moved by faith. It was for Winifred a long pros
tration before her dear goddess Fashion, fervent
as a Catholic might make before the Virgin; for
Imogen an experience by no means too unpleas
ant — she often looked so nice, and flattery was
implicit everywhere: in a word it was ‘amusing.’
On the afternoon of the 20th of March, having,
as it were, gutted Skywards, they had sought re
296
freshment over the way at Caramel and Baker’s,
and, stored with chocolate frothed at the top with
cream, turned homewards through Berkeley Square
of an evening touched with spring. Opening the
door — freshly painted a light olivegreen; nothing
neglected that year to give Imogen a good send
off — Winifred passed towards the silver basket to
see if anyone had called, and suddenly her nostrils
twitched. What was that scent?
Imogen had taken up a novel sent from the li
brary, and stood absorbed. Rather sharply, because
of the queer feeling in her breast, Winifred said:
“Take that up, dear, and have a rest before dinner.”
Imogen, still reading, passed up the stairs. Wini
fred heard the door of her room slammed to, and
drew a long savouring breath. Was it spring tickling
her senses — whipping up nostalgia for her ‘clown,’
against all wisdom and outraged virtue? A male
scent! A faint reek of cigars and lavenderwater not
smelt since that early autumn night six months ago,
when she had called him ‘the limit.’ Whence came it,
or was it ghost of scent — sheer emanation from
memory? She looked round her. Nothing — not a
thing, no tiniest disturbance of her hall, nor of the
diningroom. A little daydream of a scent — illus
ory, saddening, silly! In the silver basket were new
cards, two with ‘Mr. and Mrs. Polegate Thom,’ and
one with ‘Mr. Polegate Thom’ thereon; she sniffed
them, but they smelled severe. ‘I must be tired,’ she
PART II
297
thought, ‘I’ll go and lie down.’ Upstairs the drawing
room was darkened, waiting for some hand to give it
evening light; and she passed on up to her bedroom.
This, too, was halfcurtained and dim, for it was six
o’clock. Winifred threw off her coat — that scent
IN CHANCERY
again! — then stood, as if shot, transfixed against the
bedrail. Something dark had risen from the sofa in
the far corner. A word of horror — in her family —
escaped her: “God!”
“It’s I — Monty,” said a voice.
Clutching the bedrail, Winifred reached up
and turned the switch of the light hanging above
her dressingtable. He appeared just on the rim of
the light’s circumference, emblazoned from the
absence of his watchchain down to boots neat and
sooty brown, but — yes! — split at the toecap. His
chest and face were shadowy. Surely he was thin —
or was it a trick of the light? He advanced, lighted
now from toecap to the top of his dark head —
surely a little grizzled! His complexion had dark
ened, sallowed; his black moustache had lost bold
ness, become sardonic; there were lines which she
did not know about his face. There was no pin in
his tie. His suit — ah! — she knew that — but how
unpressed, unglossy! She stared again at the toe
cap of his boot. Something big and relentless had
been ‘at him,’ had turned and twisted, raked and
scraped him. And she stayed, not speaking, motion
less, staring at that crack across the toe.
298
“Well!” he said, “I got the order. I’m back.”
Winifred’s bosom began to heave. The nostal
gia for her husband which had rushed up with that
scent was struggling with a deeper jealousy than
any she had felt yet. There he was — a dark, and
as if harried, shadow of his sleek and brazen self!
What force had done this to him — squeezed him
like an orange to its dry rind! That woman!
“I’m back,” he said again. “I’ve had a beastly
time. By God! I came steerage. I’ve got nothing but
what I stand up in, and that bag.”
“And who has the rest?” cried Winifred, sud
denly alive. “How dared you come? You knew it
was just for divorce that you got that order to
come back. Don’t touch me!”
They held each to the rail of the big bed where
they had spent so many years of nights together.
Many times, yes — many times she had wanted him
back. But now that he had come she was filled with
this cold and deadly resentment. He put his hand up
to his moustache; but did not frizz and twist it in the
old familiar way, he just pulled it downwards.
“Gad!” he said: “If you knew the time I’ve had!”
“I’m glad I don’t!”
“Are the kids all right?”
Winifred nodded. “How did you get in?”
“With my key.”
“Then the maids don’t know. You can’t stay
here, Monty.”
PART II
299
He uttered a little sardonic laugh. “Where then?”
“Anywhere.”
“Well, look at me! That — that damned…”
“If you mention her,” cried Winifred, “I go
straight out to Park Lane and I don’t come back.”
IN CHANCERY
Suddenly he did a simple thing, but so uncharac
teristic that it moved her. He shut his eyes. It was as
if he had said: ‘All right! I’m dead to the world!’
“You can have a room for the night,” she said;
“your things are still here. Only Imogen is at home.”
He leaned back against the bedrail. “Well, it’s
in your hands,” and his own made a writhing move
ment. “I’ve been through it. You needn’t hit too
hard — it isn’t worth while. I’ve been frightened;
I’ve been frightened, Freddie.”
That old pet name, disused for years and years,
sent a shiver through Winifred. ‘What am I to do
with him?’ she thought. ‘What in God’s name am
I to do with him?’
“Got a cigarette?”
She gave him one from a little box she kept up
there for when she couldn’t sleep at night, and
lighted it. With that action the matteroffact side
of her nature came to life again. “Go and have a
hot bath. I’ll put some clothes out for you in the
dressingroom. We can talk later.”
He nodded, and fixed his eyes on her — they
looked halfdead, or was it that the folds in the lids
had become heavier?
300
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