The Forsyte saga - Complete
Bosinney, with his haggard face, and his restless eyes always
wandering to the clock, had roused in him a pity, with which was
mingled strange, irresistible envy.
He knew the signs so well. Whither was he going—to what sort of
fate? What kind of woman was it who was drawing him to her by
that magnetic force which no consideration of honour, no
principle, no interest could withstand; from which the only
escape was flight.
Flight! But why should Bosinney fly? A man fled when he was in
danger of destroying hearth and home, when there were children,
when he felt himself trampling down ideals, breaking something.
But here, so he had heard, it was all broken to his hand.
He himself had not fled, nor would he fly if it were all to come
over again. Yet he had gone further than Bosinney, had broken up
his own unhappy home, not someone else’s: And the old saying came
back to him: “A man’s fate lies in his own heart.”
In his own heart! The proof of the pudding was in the
eating—Bosinney had still to eat his pudding.
His thoughts passed to the woman, the woman whom he did not know,
but the outline of whose story he had heard.
An unhappy marriage! No ill-treatment—only that indefinable
malaise, that terrible blight which killed all sweetness under
Heaven; and so from day to day, from night to night, from week to
week, from year to year, till death should end it.
But young Jolyon, the bitterness of whose own feelings time had
assuaged, saw Soames’s side of the question too. Whence should a
man like his cousin, saturated with all the prejudices and
beliefs of his class, draw the insight or inspiration necessary
to break up this life? It was a question of imagination, of
projecting himself into the future beyond the unpleasant gossip,
sneers, and tattle that followed on such separations, beyond the
passing pangs that the lack of the sight of her would cause,
beyond the grave disapproval of the worthy. But few men, and
especially few men of Soames’s class, had imagination enough for
that. A deal of mortals in this world, and not enough imagination
to go round! And sweet Heaven, what a difference between theory
and practice; many a man, perhaps even Soames, held chivalrous
views on such matters, who when the shoe pinched found a
distinguishing factor that made of himself an exception.
Then, too, he distrusted his judgment. He had been through the
experience himself, had tasted to the dregs the bitterness of an
unhappy marriage, and how could he take the wide and
dispassionate view of those who had never been within sound of
the battle? His evidence was too first-hand—like the evidence on
military matters of a soldier who has been through much active
service, against that of civilians who have not suffered the
disadvantage of seeing things too close. Most people would
consider such a marriage as that of Soames and Irene quite fairly
successful; he had money, she had beauty; it was a case for
compromise. There was no reason why they should not jog along,
even if they hated each other. It would not matter if they went
their own ways a little so long as the decencies were
observed—the sanctity of the marriage tie, of the common home,
respected. Half the marriages of the upper classes were conducted
on these lines: Do not offend the susceptibilities of Society; do
not offend the susceptibilities of the Church. To avoid offending
these is worth the sacrifice of any private feelings. The
advantages of the stable home are visible, tangible, so many
pieces of property; there is no risk in the _statu quo_. To break
up a home is at the best a dangerous experiment, and selfish into
the bargain.
This was the case for the defence, and young Jolyon sighed.
“The core of it all,” he thought, “is property, but there are
many people who would not like it put that way. To them it is
‘the sanctity of the marriage tie’; but the sanctity of the
marriage tie is dependent on the sanctity of the family, and the
sanctity of the family is dependent on the sanctity of property.
And yet I imagine all these people are followers of One who never
owned anything. It is curious!”
And again young Jolyon sighed.
“Am I going on my way home to ask any poor devils I meet to share
my dinner, which will then be too little for myself, or, at all
events, for my wife, who is necessary to my health and happiness?
It may be that after all Soames does well to exercise his rights
and support by his practice the sacred principle of property
which benefits us all, with the exception of those who suffer by
the process.”
And so he left his chair, threaded his way through the maze of
seats, took his hat, and languidly up the hot streets crowded
with carriages, reeking with dusty odours, wended his way home.
Before reaching Wistaria Avenue he removed old Jolyon’s letter
from his pocket, and tearing it carefully into tiny pieces,
scattered them in the dust of the road.
He let himself in with his key, and called his wife’s name. But
she had gone out, taking Jolly and Holly, and the house was
empty; alone in the garden the dog Balthasar lay in the shade
snapping at flies.
Young Jolyon took his seat there, too, under the pear-tree that
bore no fruit.
CHAPTER XI BOSINNEY ON PAROLE
The day after the evening at Richmond Soames returned from Henley
by a morning train. Not constitutionally interested in amphibious
sports, his visit had been one of business rather than pleasure,
a client of some importance having asked him down.
He went straight to the City, but finding things slack, he left
at three o’clock, glad of this chance to get home quietly. Irene
did not expect him. Not that he had any desire to spy on her
actions, but there was no harm in thus unexpectedly surveying the
scene.
After changing to Park clothes he went into the drawing-room. She
was sitting idly in the corner of the sofa, her favourite seat;
and there were circles under her eyes, as though she had not
slept.
He asked: “How is it you’re in? Are you expecting somebody?”
“Yes—that is, not particularly.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Bosinney said he might come.”
“Bosinney. He ought to be at work.”
To this she made no answer.
“Well,” said Soames, “I want you to come out to the Stores with
me, and after that we’ll go to the Park.”
“I don’t want to go out; I have a headache.”
Soames replied: “If ever I want you to do anything, you’ve always
got a headache. It’ll do you good to come and sit under the
trees.”
She did not answer.
Soames was silent for some minutes; at last he said: “I don’t
know what your idea of a wife’s duty is. I never have known!”
He had not expected her to reply, but she did.
“I have tried to do what you want; it’s not my fault that I
haven’t been able to put my heart into it.”
“Whose fault is it, then?” He watched her askance.
“Before we were married you promised to let me go if our marriage
was not a success. Is it a success?”
Soames frowned.
“Success,” he stammered—“it would be a success if you behaved
yourself properly!”
“I have tried,” said Irene. “Will you let me go?”
Soames turned away. Secretly alarmed, he took refuge in bluster.
“Let you go? You don’t know what you’re talking about. Let you
go? How can I let you go? We’re married, aren’t we? Then, what
are you talking about? For God’s sake, don’t let’s have any of
this sort of nonsense! Get your hat on, and come and sit in the
Park.”
“Then, you won’t let me go?”
He felt her eyes resting on him with a strange, touching look.
“Let you go!” he said; “and what on earth would you do with
yourself if I did? You’ve got no money!”
“I could manage somehow.”
He took a swift turn up and down the room; then came and stood
before her.
“Understand,” he said, “once and for all, I won’t have you say
this sort of thing. Go and get your hat on!”
She did not move.
“I suppose,” said Soames, “you don’t want to miss Bosinney if he
comes!”
Irene got up slowly and left the room. She came down with her hat
on.
They went out.
In the Park, the motley hour of mid-afternoon, when foreigners
and other pathetic folk drive, thinking themselves to be in
fashion, had passed; the right, the proper, hour had come, was
nearly gone, before Soames and Irene seated themselves under the
Achilles statue.
It was some time since he had enjoyed her company in the Park.
That was one of the past delights of the first two seasons of his
married life, when to feel himself the possessor of this gracious
creature before all London had been his greatest, though secret,
pride. How many afternoons had he not sat beside her, extremely
neat, with light grey gloves and faint, supercilious smile,
nodding to acquaintances, and now and again removing his hat.
His light grey gloves were still on his hands, and on his lips
his smile sardonic, but where the feeling in his heart?
The seats were emptying fast, but still he kept her there, silent
and pale, as though to work out a secret punishment. Once or
twice he made some comment, and she bent her head, or answered
“Yes” with a tired smile.
Along the rails a man was walking so fast that people stared
after him when he passed.
“Look at that ass!” said Soames; “he must be mad to walk like
that in this heat!”
He turned; Irene had made a rapid movement.
“Hallo!” he said: “it’s our friend the Buccaneer!”
And he sat still, with his sneering smile, conscious that Irene
was sitting still, and smiling too.
“Will she bow to him?” he thought.
But she made no sign.
Bosinney reached the end of the rails, and came walking back
amongst the chairs, quartering his ground like a pointer. When he
saw them he stopped dead, and raised his hat.
The smile never left Soames’s face; he also took off his hat.
Bosinney came up, looking exhausted, like a man after hard
physical exercise; the sweat stood in drops on his brow, and
Soames’ smile seemed to say: “You’ve had a trying time, my
friend.... What are _you_ doing in the Park?” he asked. “We
thought you despised such frivolity!”
Bosinney did not seem to hear; he made his answer to Irene: “I’ve
been round to your place; I hoped I should find you in.”
Somebody tapped Soames on the back, and spoke to him; and in the
exchange of those platitudes over his shoulder, he missed her
answer, and took a resolution.
“We’re just going in,” he said to Bosinney; “you’d better come
back to dinner with us.” Into that invitation he put a strange
bravado, a stranger pathos: “You, can’t deceive me,” his look and
voice seemed saying, “but see—I trust you—I’m not afraid of you!”
They started back to Montpellier Square together, Irene between