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Файл:Сага о Форсайтах. В петле. Книга для чтения на английском языке
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solicitors to more limited Companies than they could
properly attend to. Up to the City of a morning in a
Pullman car, down from the City of an evening in a
Pullman car. Law papers again after dinner, then the
sleep of the tired, and up again next morning. Satur
day to Monday was spent at his Club in town — cu
rious reversal of customary procedure, based on the
deep and careful instinct that while working so hard
he needed sea air to and from the station twice a day,
and while resting must indulge his domestic affec
tions. The Sunday visit to his family in Park Lane, to
Timothy’s, and to Green Street; the occasional visits
elsewhere had seemed to him as necessary to health as
sea air on weekdays. Even since his migration to
Mapledurham he had maintained those habits un
til — he had known Annette.
Whether Annette had produced the revolution
in his outlook, or that outlook had produced An
nette, he knew no more than we know where a
circle begins. It was intricate and deeply involved
with the growing consciousness that property
without anyone to leave it to is the negation of
true Forsyteism. To have an heir, some continu
ance of self, who would begin where he left off —
ensure, in fact, that he would not leave off — had
quite obsessed him for the last year and more.
After buying a bit of Wedgwood one evening in
April, he had dropped into Malta Street to look
at a house of his father’s which had been turned
PART I
51
into a restaurant — a risky proceeding, and one not
quite in accordance with the terms of the lease. He
had stared for a little at the outside painted a good
cream colour, with two peacockblue tubs contain
ing little baytrees in a recessed doorway — and at
IN CHANCERY
the words ‘Restaurant Bretagne’ above them in
gold letters, rather favourably impressed. Entering,
he had noticed that several people were already
seated at little round green tables with little pots
of fresh flowers on them and Brittanyware plates,
and had asked of a trim waitress to see the propri
etor. They had shown him into a back room, where
a girl was sitting at a simple bureau covered with
papers, and a small round, table was laid for two.
The impression of cleanliness, order, and good taste
was confirmed when the girl got up, saying, “You
wish to see Maman, Monsieur?” in a broken ac
cent.
“Yes,” Soames had answered, “I represent your
landlord; in fact, I’m his son.”
“Won’t you sit down, sir, please? Tell Maman
to come to this gentleman.”
He was pleased that the girl seemed impressed,
because it showed business instinct; and sudden
ly he noticed that she was remarkably pretty —
so remarkably pretty that his eyes found a diffi
culty in leaving her face. When she moved to put
a chair for him, she swayed in a curious subtle
way, as if she had been put together by someone
52
with a special secret skill; and her face and neck,
which was a little bared, looked as fresh as if they
had been sprayed with dew. Probably at this
moment Soames decided that the lease had not
been violated; though to himself and his father
he based the decision on the efficiency of those
illicit adaptations in the building, on the signs of
prosperity, and the obvious business capacity of
Madame Lamotte. He did not, however, neglect
to leave certain matters to future consideration,
which had necessitated further visits, so that the
little back room had become quite accustomed to
his spare, not unsolid, but unobtrusive figure, and
his pale, chinny face with clipped moustache and
dark hair not yet grizzling at the sides.
1
“Un Monsieur très distingué
found him; and presently, “Tr ès amical, très gentil
,” Madame Lamotte
2
watching his eyes upon her daughter.
She was one of those generously built, fine
faced, darkhaired Frenchwomen, whose every ac
tion and tone of voice inspire perfect confidence
in the thoroughness of their domestic tastes, their
knowledge of cooking, and the careful increase of
their bank balances.
PART I
,”
1
Un Monsieur très distingué. — (фр.) На редкость хо
рошо воспитанный господин.
2
Très amical, très gentil. — (фр.) Очень приветливый,
очень симпатичный.
53
After those visits to the Restaurant Bretagne
began, other visits ceased — without, indeed, any
definite decision, for Soames, like all Forsytes, and
the great majority of their countrymen, was a born
empiricist. But it was this change in his mode of
IN CHANCERY
life which had gradually made him so definitely
conscious that he desired to alter his condition
from that of the unmarried married man to that of
the married man remarried.
Turning into Malta Street on this evening of ear
ly October, 1899, he bought a paper to see if there
were any afterdevelopment of the Dreyfus case
a question which he had always found useful in mak
ing closer acquaintanceship with Madame Lamotte
and her daughter, who were Catholic and antiDrey
fusard.
Scanning those columns, Soames found nothing
French, but noticed a general fall on the Stock Ex
change and an ominous leader about the Transvaal.
He entered, thinking: ‘War’s a certainty. I shall sell
my consols.’ Not that he had many, personally, the
rate of interest was too wretched; but he should
advise his Companies — consols would assuredly
go down. A look, as he passed the doorways of the
restaurant, assured him that business was good as
1
—
1
the Dreyfus case — «дело Дрейфуса» (1896–1899),
судебное разбирательство по обвинению в шпионаже офи
цера французского генштаба
54
ever, and this, which in April would have pleased
him, now gave him a certain uneasiness. If the steps
which he had to take ended in his marrying An
nette, he would rather see her mother safely back
in France, a move to which the prosperity of the
Restaurant Bretagne might become an obstacle. He
would have to buy them out, of course, for French
people only came to England to make money; and
it would mean a higher price. And then that pecu
liar sweet sensation at the back of his throat, and
a slight thumping about the heart, which he al
ways experienced at the door of the little room,
prevented his thinking how much it would cost.
Going in, he was conscious of an abundant black
skirt vanishing through the door into the restaurant,
and of Annette with her hands up to her hair. It was
the attitude in which of all others he admired her —
so beautifully straight and rounded and supple. And
he said: “I just came in to talk to your mother about
pulling down that partition. No, don’t call her.”
“Monsieur will have supper with us? It will be
ready in ten minutes.” Soames, who still held her
hand, was overcome by an impulse which surprised
him.
“You look so pretty tonight,” he said, “so very
pretty. Do you know how pretty you look, An
nette?”
Annette withdrew her hand, and blushed. “Mon
sieur is very good.”
PART I
55
“Not a bit good,” said Soames, and sat down
gloomily.
Annette made a little expressive gesture with
her hands; a smile was crinkling her red lips un
touched by salve.
IN CHANCERY
And, looking at those lips, Soames said: “Are
you happy over here, or do you want to go back
to France?”
“Oh, I like London. Paris, of course. But Lon
don is better than Orleans, and the English coun
try is so beautiful. I have been to Richmond last
Sunday.”
Soames went through a moment of calculating
struggle. Mapledurham! Dared he? After all, dared
he go so far as that, and show her what there was
to look forward to! Still! Down there one could say
things. In this room it was impossible.
“I want you and your mother,” he said suddenly,
“to come for the afternoon next Sunday. My house
is on the river, it’s not too late in this weather; and
I can show you some good pictures. What do you
say?”
Annette clasped her hands. “It will be lovelee.
The river is so beautiful!”
“That’s understood, then. I’ll ask Madame.”
He need say no more to her this evening, and
risk giving himself away. But had he not already
said too much? Did one ask restaurant proprietors
with pretty daughters down to one’s country house
56
without design? Madame Lamotte would see, if
Annette didn’t. Well! there was not much that
Madame did not see. Besides, this was the second
time he had stayed to supper with them; he owed
them hospitality.
Walking home towards Park Lane — for he was
staying at his father’s — with the impression of
Annette’s soft clever hand within his own, his
thoughts were pleasant, slightly sensual, rather
puzzled. Take steps! What steps? How? Dirty
linen washed in public? Pah! With his reputation
for sagacity, for farsightedness and the clever ex
trication of others, he, who stood for proprietary
interests, to become the plaything of that Law of
which he was a pillar! There was something re
volting in the thought! Winifred’s affair was bad
enough! To have a double dose of publicity in
the family! Would not a liaison be better than
that — a liaison, and a son he could adopt? But
dark, solid, watchful, Madame Lamotte blocked
the avenue of that vision. No! that would not
work. It was not as if Annette could have a real
passion for him; one could not expect that at his
age. If her mother wished, if the worldly advan
tage were manifestly great — perhaps! If not, re
fusal would be certain. Besides, he thought: ‘I’m
not a villain. I don’t want to hurt her; and I don’t
want anything underhand. But I do want her, and
I want a son! There’s nothing for it but divorce —
PART I
57
somehow — anyhow — divorce!’ Under the shadow
of the planetrees, in the lamplight, he passed
slowly along the railings of the Green Park. Mist
clung there among the bluish tree shapes, beyond
range of the lamps. How many hundred times he
IN CHANCERY
had walked past those trees from his father’s
house in Park Lane, when he was quite a young
man; or from his own house in Montpellier Square
in those four years of married life! And, tonight,
making up his mind to free himself if he could of
that long useless marriage tie, he took a fancy to
walk on, in at Hyde Park Corner, out at Knights
bridge Gate, just as he used to when going home
to Irene in the old days. What could she be like
now? — how had she passed the years since he
last saw her, twelve years in all, seven already
since Uncle Jolyon left her that money? Was she
still beautiful? Would he know her if he saw
her? ‘I’ve not changed much,’ he thought; ‘I
expect she has. She made me suffer.’ He remem
bered suddenly one night, the first on which he
went out to dinner alone — an old Malburian
dinner — the first year of their marriage. With
what eagerness he had hurried back; and, enter
ing softly as a cat, had heard her playing. Open
ing the drawingroom door noiselessly, he had
stood watching the expression on her face, dif
ferent from any he knew, so much more open, so
confiding, as though to her music she was giv
58
ing a heart he had never seen. And he remem
bered how she stopped and looked round, how
her face changed back to that which he did
know, and what an icy shiver had gone through
him, for all that the next moment he was fon
dling her shoulders. Yes, she had made him suf
fer! Divorce! It seemed ridiculous, after all these
years of utter separation! But it would have to
be. No other way! ‘The question,’ he thought
with sudden realism, ‘is — which of us? She or
me? She deserted me. She ought to pay for it.
There’ll be someone, I suppose.’ Involuntarily he
uttered a little snarling sound, and, turning,
made his way back to Park Lane.
Chapter V
JAMES SEES VISIONS
The butler himself opened the door, and clos
ing it softly, detained Soames on the inner mat.
“The master’s poorly, sir,” he murmured. “He
wouldn’t go to bed till you came in. He’s still in
the diningroom.”
Soames responded in the hushed tone to which
the house was now accustomed.
“What’s the matter with him, Warmson?”
“Nervous, sir, I think. Might be the funeral;
might be Mrs. Dartie’s comin’ round this afternoon.
PART I
59
I think he overheard something. I’ve took him in
a negus. The mistress has just gone up.”
Soames hung his hat on a mahogany stag’s
horn.
“All right, Warmson, you can go to bed; I’ll take
IN CHANCERY
him up myself.” And he passed into the dining
room.
James was sitting before the fire, in a big arm
chair, with a camelhair shawl, very light and
warm, over his frockcoated shoulders, on to
which his long white whiskers drooped. His white
hair, still fairly thick, glistened in the lamplight;
a little moisture from his fixed, lightgrey eyes
stained the cheeks, still quite well coloured, and
the long deep furrows running to the corners of
the cleanshaven lips, which moved as if mum
bling thoughts. His long legs, thin as a crow’s, in
shepherd’s plaid trousers, were bent at less than
a right angle, and on one knee a spindly hand
moved continually, with fingers wide apart and
glistening tapered nails. Beside him, on a low
stool, stood a halffinished glass of negus, bedewed
with beads of heat. There he had been sitting,
with intervals for meals, all day. At eightyeight
he was still organically sound, but suffering terrib
ly from the thought that no one ever told him
anything. It is, indeed, doubtful how he had be
come aware that Roger was being buried that day,
for Emily had kept it from him. She was always
60
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