The Forsyte saga - Complete
have some breathing space; he’s not going back to Paris, unless
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
lonely—that’s the trouble.”
He closed his eyes; and at once he seemed to see Irene, in a dark
street below a church—passing, 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 below, 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 perfection.
It took her mind off the slowly approaching 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 which the
news remained disquieting. Like bees busy on summer flowers, or
bright gadflies hovering and darting over spiky autumn blossoms,
she and her “little daughter,” tall nearly as herself and with a
bust measurement not far inferior, hovered in the shops of Regent
Street, the establishments of Hanover Square and of Bond Street,
lost in consideration and the feel of fabrics. Dozens of young
women of striking deportment and peculiar gait paraded before
Winifred and Imogen, 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
impersonal creatures who swam about before them could alone have
been displayed by such as were moved by faith. It was for
Winifred a long prostration before her dear goddess Fashion,
fervent as a Catholic might make before the Virgin; for Imogen an
experience by no means too unpleasant—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 refreshment 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
olive-green; 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 library, 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. Winifred 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 lavender-water 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
day-dream of a scent—illusory, 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 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 half-curtained and dim, for it was six
o’clock. Winifred threw off her coat—that scent again!—then
stood, as if shot, transfixed against the bed-rail. 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 bed-rail, Winifred reached up and turned the switch
of the light hanging above her dressing-table. He appeared just
on the rim of the light’s circumference, emblazoned from the
absence of his watch-chain 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 toe-cap to the top of his dark head—surely a
little grizzled! His complexion had darkened, sallowed; his black
moustache had lost boldness, 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, motionless, staring at
that crack across the toe.
“Well!” he said, “I got the order. I’m back.”
Winifred’s bosom began to heave. The nostalgia 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, suddenly 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.”
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.”
Suddenly he did a simple thing, but so uncharacteristic 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 bed-rail. “Well, it’s in your hands,”
and his own made a writhing movement. “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
matter-of-fact side of her nature came to life again.
“Go and have a hot bath. I’ll put some clothes out for you in the
dressing-room. We can talk later.”
He nodded, and fixed his eyes on her—they looked half-dead, or
was it that the folds in the lids had become heavier?
“He’s not the same,” she thought. He would never be quite the
same again! But what would he be?
“All right!” he said, and went towards the door. He even moved
differently, like a man who has lost illusion and doubts whether
it is worth while to move at all.
When he was gone, and she heard the water in the bath running,
she put out a complete set of garments on the bed in his
dressing-room, then went downstairs and fetched up the biscuit
box and whisky. Putting on her coat again, and listening a moment
at the bathroom door, she went down and out. In the street she
hesitated. Past seven o’clock! Would Soames be at his Club or at
Park Lane? She turned towards the latter. Back!
Soames had always feared it—she had sometimes hoped it.... Back!
So like him—clown that he was—with this: “Here we are again!” to
make fools of them all—of the Law, of Soames, of herself!
Yet to have done with the Law, not to have that murky cloud
hanging over her and the children! What a relief! Ah! but how to
accept his return? That “woman” had ravaged him, taken from him
passion such as he had never bestowed on herself, such as she had
not thought him capable of. There was the sting! That selfish,
blatant “clown” of hers, whom she herself had never really
stirred, had been swept and ungarnished by another woman!
Insulting! Too insulting! Not right, not decent to take him back!
And yet she had asked for him; the Law perhaps would make her
now! He was as much her husband as ever—she had put herself out
of court! And all he wanted, no doubt, was money—to keep him in
cigars and lavender-water! That scent! “After all, I’m not old,”
she thought, “not old yet!” But that woman who had reduced him to
those words: “I’ve been through it. I’ve been
frightened—frightened, Freddie!” She neared her father’s house,
driven this way and that, while all the time the Forsyte undertow
was drawing her to deep conclusion that after all he was her
property, to be held against a robbing world. And so she came to
James’.
“Mr. Soames? In his room? I’ll go up; don’t say I’m here.”
Her brother was dressing. She found him before a mirror, tying a
black bow with an air of despising its ends.
“Hullo!” he said, contemplating her in the glass; “what’s wrong?”
“Monty!” said Winifred stonily.
Soames spun round. “What!”
“Back!”
“Hoist,” muttered Soames, “with our own petard. Why the deuce
didn’t you let me try cruelty? I always knew it was too much risk
this way.”
“Oh! Don’t talk about that! What shall I do?”
Soames answered, with a deep, deep sound.
“Well?” said Winifred impatiently.
“What has he to say for himself?”
“Nothing. One of his boots is split across the toe.”
Soames stared at her.