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The Forsyte Saga, Complete

J >> John Galsworthy >> The Forsyte Saga, Complete




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 nod 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 hearts 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....