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CHAPTER II

NIGHT IN THE PARK


Although with her infallible instinct Mrs. Small had said the
very thing to make her guest 'more intriguee than ever,' it is
difficult to see how else she could truthfully have spoken.

It was not a subject which the Forsytes could talk about even
among themselves--to use the word Soames had invented to
characterize to himself the situation, it was 'subterranean.'

Yet, within a week of Mrs. MacAnder's encounter in Richmond Park,
to all of them--save Timothy, from whom it was carefully kept--to
James on his domestic beat from the Poultry to Park Lane, to
George the wild one, on his daily adventure from the bow window
at the Haversnake to the billiard room at the 'Red Pottle,' was
it known that 'those two' had gone to extremes.

George (it was he who invented many of those striking expressions
still current in fashionable circles) voiced the sentiment more
accurately than any one when he said to his brother Eustace that
'the Buccaneer' was 'going it'; he expected Soames was about 'fed
up.'

It was felt that he must be, and yet, what could be done? He
ought perhaps to take steps; but to take steps would be
deplorable.

Without an open scandal which they could not see their way to
recommending, it was difficult to see what steps could be taken.
In this impasse, the only thing was to say nothing to Soames, and
nothing to each other; in fact, to pass it over.

By displaying towards Irene a dignified coldness, some impression
might be made upon her; but she was seldom now to be seen, and
there seemed a slight difficulty in seeking her out on purpose to
show her coldness. Sometimes in the privacy of his bedroom James
would reveal to Emily the real suffering that his son's
misfortune caused him.

"I can't tell," he would say; "it worries me out of my life.
There'll be a scandal, and that'll do him no good. I shan't say
anything to him. There might be nothing in it. What do you
think? She's very artistic, they tell me. What? Oh, you're a
'regular Juley! Well, I don't know; I expect the worst. This is
what comes of having no children. I knew how it would be from
the first. They never told me they didn't mean to have any
children--nobody tells me anything!"

On his knees by the side of the bed, his eyes open and fixed with
worry, he would breathe into the counterpane. Clad in his
nightshirt, his neck poked forward, his back rounded, he
resembled some long white bird.

"Our Father-," he repeated, turning over and over again the
thought of this possible scandal.

Like old Jolyon, he, too, at the bottom of his heart set the
blame of the tragedy down to family interference. What business
had that lot--he began to think of the Stanhope Gate branch,
including young Jolyon and his daughter, as 'that lot'--to
introduce a person like this Bosinney into the family? (He had
heard George's soubriquet, 'The Buccaneer,' but he could make
nothing of that--the young man was an architect.)

He began to feel that his brother Jolyon, to whom he had always
looked up and on whose opinion he had relied, was not quite what
he had expected.

Not having his eldest brother's force of character, he was more
sad than angry. His great comfort was to go to Winifred's, and
take the little Darties in his carriage over to Kensington
Gardens, and there, by the Round Pond, he could often be seen
walking with his eyes fixed anxiously on little Publius Dartie's
sailing-boat, which he had himself freighted with a penny, as
though convinced that it would never again come to shore; while
little Publius--who, James delighted to say, was not a bit like
his father skipping along under his lee, would try to get him to
bet another that it never would, having found that it always did.
And James would make the bet; he always paid--sometimes as many
as three or four pennies in the afternoon, for the game seemed
never to pall on little Publius--and always in paying he said:
"Now, that's for your money-box. Why, you're getting quite a
rich man!" The thought of his little grandson's growing wealth
was a real pleasure to him. But little Publius knew a
sweet-shop, and a trick worth two of that.

And they would walk home across the Park, James' figure, with
high shoulders and absorbed and worried face, exercising its
tall, lean protectorship, pathetically unregarded, over the
robust child-figures of Imogen and little Publius.

But those Gardens and that Park were not sacred to James.
Forsytes and tramps, children and lovers, rested and wandered day
after day, night after night, seeking one and all some freedom
from labour, from the reek and turmoil of the streets.

The leaves browned slowly, lingering with the sun and summer-like
warmth of the nights.

On Saturday, October 5, the sky that had been blue all day
deepened after sunset to the bloom of purple grapes. There was
no moon, and a clear dark, like some velvety garment, was wrapped
around the trees, whose thinned branches, resembling plumes,
stirred not in the still, warm air. All London had poured into
the Park, draining the cup of summer to its dregs.

Couple after couple, from every gate, they streamed along the
paths and over the burnt grass, and one after another, silently
out of the lighted spaces, stole into the shelter of the feathery
trees, where, blotted against some trunk, or under the shadow of
shrubs, they were lost to all but themselves in the heart of the
soft darkness.

To fresh-comers along the paths, these forerunners formed but
part of that passionate dusk, whence only a strange murmur, like
the confused beating of hearts, came forth. But when that murmur
reached each couple in the lamp-light their voices wavered, and
ceased; their arms enlaced, their eyes began seeking, searching,
probing the blackness. Suddenly, as though drawn by invisible
hands, they, too, stepped over the railing, and, silent as
shadows, were gone from the light.

The stillness, enclosed in the far, inexorable roar of the town,
was alive with the myriad passions, hopes, and loves of
multitudes of struggling human atoms; for in spite of the
disapproval of that great body of Forsytes, the Municipal
Council--to whom Love had long been considered, next to the
Sewage Question, the gravest danger to the community--a process
was going on that night in the Park, and in a hundred other
parks, without which the thousand factories, churches, shops,
taxes, and drains, of which they were custodians, were as
arteries without blood, a man without a heart.

The instincts of self-forgetfulness, of passion, and of love,
hiding under the trees, away from the trustees of their
remorseless enemy, the 'sense of property,' were holding a
stealthy revel, and Soames, returning from Bayswater for he had
been alone to dine at Timothy's walking home along the water,
with his mind upon that coming lawsuit, had the blood driven from
his heart by a low laugh and the sound of kisses. He thought of
writing to the Times the next morning, to draw the attention of
the Editor to the condition of our parks. He did not, however,
for he had a horror of seeing his name in print.

But starved as he was, the whispered sounds in the stillness, the
half-seen forms in the dark, acted on him like some morbid
stimulant. He left the path along the water and stole under the
trees, along the deep shadow of little plantations, where the
boughs of chestnut trees hung their great leaves low, and there
was blacker refuge, shaping his course in circles which had for
their object a stealthy inspection of chairs side by side,
against tree-trunks, of enlaced lovers, who stirred at his
approach.

Now he stood still on the rise overlooking the Serpentine, where,
in full lamp-light, black against the silver water, sat a couple
who never moved, the woman's face buried on the man's neck--a
single form, like a carved emblem of passion, silent and
unashamed.

And, stung by the sight, Soames hurried on deeper into the shadow
of the trees.

In this search, who knows what he thought and what he sought?
Bread for hunger--light in darkness? Who knows what he expected
to find--impersonal knowledge of the human heart--the end of his
private subterranean tragedy--for, again, who knew, but that each
dark couple, unnamed, unnameable, might not be he and she?

But it could not be such knowledge as this that he was seeking--
the wife of Soames Forsyte sitting in the Park like a common
wench! Such thoughts were inconceivable; and from tree to tree,
with his noiseless step, he passed.

Once he was sworn at; once the whisper, "If only it could always
be like this!" sent the blood flying again from his heart, and he
waited there, patient and dogged, for the two to move. But it
was only a poor thin slip of a shop-girl in her draggled blouse
who passed him, clinging to her lover's arm.

A hundred other lovers too whispered that hope in the stillness
of the trees, a hundred other lovers clung to each other.

But shaking himself with sudden disgust, Soames returned to the
path, and left that seeking for he knew not what.





Man of Property by John Galsworthy
Category:
English Novel

General Fiction
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