If it were she, sitting at that piano, a few yards away, what did she look like now? Seven times–no, eight–he had seen her since that long ago November night. Twice in her Chelsea flat; then by that fountain in the Bois de Boulogne; at Robin Hill when he delivered his ultimatum to her and young Jolyon; at Queen Victoria’s funeral; at Lord’s Cricket ground; again at Robin Hill when he went to beg for Fleur; and in the Goupenor Gallery just before she came out here. Each meeting he could remember in every detail, down to the lifting of her gloved hand at the last–the faint smiling of her lips.
And Soames shivered. Too hot–these American rooms! He went back into the sitting-room; they had cleared away and brought him the evening paper; no good in that! He could never find anything in the papers over here. At this distance from the past, all this space and all this time–what did he feel about her? Hate? The word was too strong. One didn’t hate those who weren’t near one. Besides, he had never hated her! Not even when he first knew she was unfaithful. Contempt? No. She had made him ache too much for that. He didn’t know what he felt. And he began walking up and down, and once or twice stood at the door and listened, as might a prisoner in his cell. Undignified! And going to the sofa he stretched himself out on it. He would think about his travels. Had he enjoyed them? One long whirl of things, and–water. And yet, all had gone according to programme, except China, to which they had given as wide a berth as possible, owing to its state. The Sphinx and the Taj Mahal, Vancouver Harbour, and the Rocky Mountains, they played a sort of hide-and-seek within him; and now–that strumming; was it She? Strange! You had, it seemed, only just one season of real heat. Everything else that happened to you was in a way tepid, and perhaps it was as well, or the boiler would burst. His emotions in the years when he first knew her–would he go through them again? Not for the world. And yet! Soames got up. That music was going on and on; but when it stopped, the player–She or not She! – would be no longer visible. Why not walk past that little salon–just walk past, and–and take a glimpse? If it were She, well, probably she’d lost her looks–the beauty that had played such havoc with him? He had noticed the position of the piano; yes–the player would be in profile to him. He opened the door; the music swelled, and he stole forth.
The breadth of Fleur’s room, only, separated him from that little open salon opposite the stairs. No one was in the corridor, not even a bell boy. Very likely some American woman after all, possibly that girl–Jon’s wife! Yet no–there was something–something in the sound! And holding up the evening paper before him, he moved along. Three pillars, with spaces between them, divided the salon from the corridor, avoiding what Soames so missed in America–the fourth wall. At the first of these pillars he came to a stand. A tall lamp with an orange shade stood by the keyboard, and the light from it fell on the music, on the keys, on the cheek and hair of the player. SHE! Though he had supposed her grey by now, the sight of that hair without a thread in it of the old gold affected him strangely. Curved, soft, shining, it covered her like a silver casque. She was in evening dress, and he could see that her shoulders, neck, and arms were still rounded and beautiful. All her body from the waist was moving lightly to the rhythm of her playing. Her frock was of a greyish heliotrope. Soames stood behind his pillar gazing, his hand over his face, lest she should turn her head. He did not exactly feel–the film of remembrance was unrolled too quickly. From the first sight of her in a Bournemouth drawing-room to the last sight of her in the Goupenor Gallery–the long sequence passed him by in its heat and its frost and its bitterness; the long struggle of sense, the long failure of spirit; the long aching passion, and its long schooling into numbness and indifference. The last thing he wanted, standing there, was to speak with her, and yet he could not take his eyes away. Suddenly she stopped playing; bending forward she closed the music and reached to turn out the lamp. Her face came round in the light, and, cowering back, Soames saw it, still beautiful, perhaps more beautiful, a little worn, so that the eyes looked even darker than of old, larger, softer under the still-dark eyebrows. And once more he had that feeling: “There sits a woman I have never known.” With a sort of anger he craned back till he could see no longer. Ah! she had had many faults, but the worst of her faults had always been, was still, her infernal mystery! And, stepping silently like a cat, he regained his room.
He felt tired to death now, and, going into his bedroom, undressed hurriedly and got into bed. He wished with all his heart that he were on board, under the British flag. ‘I’m old,’ he thought suddenly, ‘old.’ This America was too young for him, so full of energy, bustling about to ends he could not see. Those Eastern places had been different. And yet, after all, he was a mere seventy. His father had lived to be ninety–old Jolyon eighty-five, Timothy a hundred, and so with all the old Forsytes. At seventy THEY weren’t playing golf; and yet they were younger, younger anyway than he felt to-night. The sight of that woman had–had–! Old!
‘I’m not going back to be old,’ he thought. ‘If I feel like this again I shall consult someone.’ They had some monkey thing nowadays they could inject. He shouldn’t try that. Monkeys indeed! Why not pigs or tigers? Hold on somehow another ten or fifteen years! By that time they would have found out where they were in England. That precious capital levy would have been exploded. He would know what he had to leave to Fleur; would see her baby grow into a boy and go to school–public school–even! Eton? No–young Jolyon had been there. Winchester, the Monts’ school? Not there either, if he could help it. Harrow was handy; or his own old school–Marlborough? Perhaps he would see him play at Lord’s. Another fifteen years before Kit could play at Lord’s! Well–something to look forward to, something to hold on for. If you hadn’t that, you felt old, and if you FELT old, you WERE old, and the end soon came. How well that woman had worn! She–! There were his pictures too; take them up more seriously. That Freer Gallery! Leave them to the nation, and your name lived–much comfort in THAT! She! SHE would never die!
A crack of light on the wall close to the door.
“Asleep, Dad?”
So Fleur had remembered to come and have a look at him!
“How are you now, dear?”
“All right; tired. How was the opera?”
“Middling.”
“I’ve told them to call us at seven. We’ll breakfast on the train.”
Her lips touched his forehead. If–if that woman–but never–never once–never of her own accord–!
“Good night,” he said. “Sleep well!”
The light on the wall narrowed and was gone! Well! He was drowsy now. But, in this house–Shapes–Shapes! Past–present–at the piano–at his bedside–passing–passing by–and there, behind them, the great bronze-hooded woman, with the closed eyes, deep sunk in everlasting–profound–pro–! And from Soames a gentle snore escaped.
1 2 3
And Soames shivered. Too hot–these American rooms! He went back into the sitting-room; they had cleared away and brought him the evening paper; no good in that! He could never find anything in the papers over here. At this distance from the past, all this space and all this time–what did he feel about her? Hate? The word was too strong. One didn’t hate those who weren’t near one. Besides, he had never hated her! Not even when he first knew she was unfaithful. Contempt? No. She had made him ache too much for that. He didn’t know what he felt. And he began walking up and down, and once or twice stood at the door and listened, as might a prisoner in his cell. Undignified! And going to the sofa he stretched himself out on it. He would think about his travels. Had he enjoyed them? One long whirl of things, and–water. And yet, all had gone according to programme, except China, to which they had given as wide a berth as possible, owing to its state. The Sphinx and the Taj Mahal, Vancouver Harbour, and the Rocky Mountains, they played a sort of hide-and-seek within him; and now–that strumming; was it She? Strange! You had, it seemed, only just one season of real heat. Everything else that happened to you was in a way tepid, and perhaps it was as well, or the boiler would burst. His emotions in the years when he first knew her–would he go through them again? Not for the world. And yet! Soames got up. That music was going on and on; but when it stopped, the player–She or not She! – would be no longer visible. Why not walk past that little salon–just walk past, and–and take a glimpse? If it were She, well, probably she’d lost her looks–the beauty that had played such havoc with him? He had noticed the position of the piano; yes–the player would be in profile to him. He opened the door; the music swelled, and he stole forth.
The breadth of Fleur’s room, only, separated him from that little open salon opposite the stairs. No one was in the corridor, not even a bell boy. Very likely some American woman after all, possibly that girl–Jon’s wife! Yet no–there was something–something in the sound! And holding up the evening paper before him, he moved along. Three pillars, with spaces between them, divided the salon from the corridor, avoiding what Soames so missed in America–the fourth wall. At the first of these pillars he came to a stand. A tall lamp with an orange shade stood by the keyboard, and the light from it fell on the music, on the keys, on the cheek and hair of the player. SHE! Though he had supposed her grey by now, the sight of that hair without a thread in it of the old gold affected him strangely. Curved, soft, shining, it covered her like a silver casque. She was in evening dress, and he could see that her shoulders, neck, and arms were still rounded and beautiful. All her body from the waist was moving lightly to the rhythm of her playing. Her frock was of a greyish heliotrope. Soames stood behind his pillar gazing, his hand over his face, lest she should turn her head. He did not exactly feel–the film of remembrance was unrolled too quickly. From the first sight of her in a Bournemouth drawing-room to the last sight of her in the Goupenor Gallery–the long sequence passed him by in its heat and its frost and its bitterness; the long struggle of sense, the long failure of spirit; the long aching passion, and its long schooling into numbness and indifference. The last thing he wanted, standing there, was to speak with her, and yet he could not take his eyes away. Suddenly she stopped playing; bending forward she closed the music and reached to turn out the lamp. Her face came round in the light, and, cowering back, Soames saw it, still beautiful, perhaps more beautiful, a little worn, so that the eyes looked even darker than of old, larger, softer under the still-dark eyebrows. And once more he had that feeling: “There sits a woman I have never known.” With a sort of anger he craned back till he could see no longer. Ah! she had had many faults, but the worst of her faults had always been, was still, her infernal mystery! And, stepping silently like a cat, he regained his room.
He felt tired to death now, and, going into his bedroom, undressed hurriedly and got into bed. He wished with all his heart that he were on board, under the British flag. ‘I’m old,’ he thought suddenly, ‘old.’ This America was too young for him, so full of energy, bustling about to ends he could not see. Those Eastern places had been different. And yet, after all, he was a mere seventy. His father had lived to be ninety–old Jolyon eighty-five, Timothy a hundred, and so with all the old Forsytes. At seventy THEY weren’t playing golf; and yet they were younger, younger anyway than he felt to-night. The sight of that woman had–had–! Old!
‘I’m not going back to be old,’ he thought. ‘If I feel like this again I shall consult someone.’ They had some monkey thing nowadays they could inject. He shouldn’t try that. Monkeys indeed! Why not pigs or tigers? Hold on somehow another ten or fifteen years! By that time they would have found out where they were in England. That precious capital levy would have been exploded. He would know what he had to leave to Fleur; would see her baby grow into a boy and go to school–public school–even! Eton? No–young Jolyon had been there. Winchester, the Monts’ school? Not there either, if he could help it. Harrow was handy; or his own old school–Marlborough? Perhaps he would see him play at Lord’s. Another fifteen years before Kit could play at Lord’s! Well–something to look forward to, something to hold on for. If you hadn’t that, you felt old, and if you FELT old, you WERE old, and the end soon came. How well that woman had worn! She–! There were his pictures too; take them up more seriously. That Freer Gallery! Leave them to the nation, and your name lived–much comfort in THAT! She! SHE would never die!
A crack of light on the wall close to the door.
“Asleep, Dad?”
So Fleur had remembered to come and have a look at him!
“How are you now, dear?”
“All right; tired. How was the opera?”
“Middling.”
“I’ve told them to call us at seven. We’ll breakfast on the train.”
Her lips touched his forehead. If–if that woman–but never–never once–never of her own accord–!
“Good night,” he said. “Sleep well!”
The light on the wall narrowed and was gone! Well! He was drowsy now. But, in this house–Shapes–Shapes! Past–present–at the piano–at his bedside–passing–passing by–and there, behind them, the great bronze-hooded woman, with the closed eyes, deep sunk in everlasting–profound–pro–! And from Soames a gentle snore escaped.
1 2 3