On the afternoon of May 12, 1920, Soames came out of the Knightsbridge Hotel where he was staying, intending to go to a painting shop near Cork Street to see a group of art exhibitions, and take a look at the futuristic "future" by the way.He didn't take a car.Since the Great War he had never, if he could think of it, ride in a carriage.In his eyes, the coachmen were a bunch of impolite fellows; but now that the war was over, and the supply of coaches was somewhat oversupplied, they began to become a little polite again in accordance with the habits of human nature.Even so, Soames was still displeased with them, and at the bottom of his soul he identified them with the dark memories of the past; and now, like all men of his class, he vaguely identified them with the Revolution. up.He had had a period of considerable anxiety during the war, and a period of greater anxiety after the peace; and these experiences had had a tenacious psychological consequence.Having seen himself bankrupt in his imagination so many times in the past, he had now resolutely refused to believe that it was actually possible.A man who pays £4,000 a year in income tax and excess tax can never be much worse off.The property of 250,000 pounds is scattered in several aspects, and only supports a wife and a daughter. Even if someone wants to levy a capital tax on a whim, he can't do anything about it.As for the confiscation of wartime profits, he is 100% in favor of it, because he himself has none, and those bastards deserved to end up like this!Not only that, if there is any change in the market of ancient paintings, it will be even more attractive, and since the beginning of the war, the paintings he has collected have become more and more valuable.Again, air raids were only good for a naturally cautious man, and hardened an already stubborn character.As air-raids feared total ruin, those partial losses from taxes were less frightening; on the other hand, accustomed to hating the shamelessness of the Germans, he naturally hated the shamelessness of the Labor Party ; if not openly hated, at least in the temple of one's own soul.

Soames walked on.It was still early, and Fleur had made an appointment with him at the art shop at four o'clock, and it was only half past two.Walking was good for him—his liver was throbbing a little and he was a little hairy.His wife never stayed in hotels when she was in town, and his daughter was always wandering, like most young women after the war.All the same, thank goodness for the fact that she was too young to really show her face during the war.Of course, this does not mean that he did not give his full support to the country at the beginning of the war; but there is still a gap between full support and letting his wife and daughter personally go out; Excited.For example, he had strongly objected to Annette going back to France (which, spurred by the war, she began to call "dear country") to watch over the "brave soldiers"; In four years, he was only thirty-five years old.Destroy her health and appearance!As if she were indeed a nurse!He was determined not to allow it.It's better to let her stay at home and make needlework and knit yarn for the soldiers!Annette didn't make it because of this, but from then on she became quite different from before; gradually she got into the habit of laughing at him, not openly, but constantly in small places.As for Fleur, the war finally solved for her the complicated problem of whether to go to school or not.In view of her mother's attitude towards the war, it was better for Fleur to stay away, so as to avoid air raids, and not to overstep the bounds; for these reasons, he sent Fleur far west In his opinion, the location and the level of the school are a good balance, but he misses this child very much.Fleur!This somewhat foreign name had been his own sudden decision to give her at her birth; though it was a marked concession to the French, he had never regretted it.Fleur!A beautiful name; a beautiful person!But my mind can't settle down, I can't settle down too much; my temperament is so stubborn!And Man knew he could hold his father hostage!Soames was often thinking that it was wrong to love his daughter so much.What a fool!Sixty-five years old!He was not young, but he didn't feel it, because although Annette was young and beautiful, his second marriage was just a light ink landscape.Maybe it's just luck.There was only one time in his life when he really loved, and that was to his first wife, Irene.By the way, and his cousin Jolyon, the guy who married Irene, is said to be very old.At the age of seventy-two, twenty years have passed since his third marriage, so no wonder.

Soames stopped halfway and leaned against the railing of the Hyde Park ride.This place is exactly the halfway point between the Park Lane house where he was born and where his parents died, and the little house in Monteberia Square where he enjoyed his first married life thirty-five years ago; so a fitting nostalgic spot .Now another twenty years have passed since his reprinted married life, and that ancient tragedy seems like a world away—it can be said that it has ended since Fleur was born in the place of his long-awaited son.Over the years, he had no longer regretted not having a son, not even a vague resentment; Fleur had filled his heart.Anyway, her surname was his, and when she would change her surname, he didn't even think about it.Really, he vaguely felt that as long as the dowry was quite rich, maybe he could buy the guy who married Fleur and ask him to change his surname; what's wrong with that, isn't it fair to say that men and women are equal now? ?So, just thinking about the catastrophe gave him some relief from this vague feeling.Secretly, however, he still believed that women and men were not equal; and at the thought Soames wiped his face vigorously with a crooked hand, until he found his own chin, the one that comforted him.Thanks to a healthy diet, this face has not become bloated; the nose is shaved and not red at all, the gray beard is cut very short, and the eyesight has never faded.The gray hair has gone bald a little, making the forehead look higher, but because the body is slightly slack, it just makes up for the change here, so the face does not look too long.Now there is only one Timothy left in the old Forsyte (now a hundred and one years old); cause any change in Ersay.

Shinosuke's green shade was just over his trimmed fedora; he had long since given up his top hat; on days like these, it was pointless to draw attention to one's wealth.Xiao Xuanmu!Suddenly his mind flew to Madrid.It was the Easter Sunday before the outbreak of the Great War. At that time, in order to decide whether to buy that Goya painting, he was like a navigator in order to discover land, so he went to the painter's hometown to study it.His impression was that this guy was a great deal, a real genius!As high as those people had lifted him up, he was going to lift him even higher before they got down on it.The second Goya mania will be even stronger than the first; yes!So he took it in.When he went to Madrid that time, he also asked someone to copy a mural called "Picking Grapes"; daughter.The painting now hangs in Maurbourdulum's gallery, and it's not very eye-catching—Goya couldn't imitate it.But when his daughter was not present, he would still look at this painting, because the person in the painting's light and strong waist, curved and wide eyebrows, and the anxious dream contained in the black eyes all made him unable to help. Think of my own daughter.His own eyes were gray; none of the real Forsytes had brown eyes; her mother's were blue, and yet Fleur had black eyes, no wonder!But her grandmother's eyes were as black as syrup!

Soames started again towards the Hyde Park Triangle.In all England there is no greater change in the course than here!Since his birthplace was only a stone's throw away, he could remember everything since 1860.When he was a child, he was brought here by adults, staring at those playboys in tight pants and beards galloping in the posture of cavalry; watching people in white ruffled top hats salute, the most idle-looking; and the bow-legged dwarf in a long red waistcoat who always walks among the fashionable, with dogs on his hands, with the intention of selling one to his mother: the Charlie Poodle. , an Italian running dog, who loves to be hugged by his mother's hoop skirt - these people are all gone now.Really, there is no gentleman to be seen now, only a lot of workmen sitting there in rows, except for a few jumping young women, wearing bowlers, riding by on saddles. , or some colonial people who don't know how to ride, sit on the poor-looking hired horses, gallop up and down, with nothing to see; occasionally see some little girls riding young foals, or take a ride to relieve the pain of the liver. An old man, or an orderly, tried on a big "charging" horse; the thoroughbred was invisible, and the groom was invisible, and the manners, manners, chattering—all invisible; only the trees remained the same—only These trees are indifferent to the vicissitudes of personnel.A democratic England--disordered, hurried, noisy, and never seems to be finished.The little eccentricity in Soames's soul stirred.That noble and elegant high society will never come again!There's money--yes!There was money--his father had never been richer than he had been; but manners, taste, manners were all gone, lost in a vast, ugly, crowded, gasoline-smelling vulgarity.Here and there lurked a few middle classes, representing refinement and noble manners, but here and there, as Annette used to say, very shabby; don't expect to see any firm and reasonable manners emerge again.And his daughter--the flower of his life--was left in this new world of politeness, immorality, and chaos!And when the Labour bastards come to power - if they ever come to power - it will be even worse.

He went out through the archway in Triangle Field; thank God, the archway was no longer grotesquely illuminated by the leaden gray of the searchlights. "They'd better put up searchlights where everyone goes," he thought, "to light up their precious democracy!" He walked along the Piccadilly in front of the clubs.George Forsyte was of course already seated in front of the arched windows of the Issim Club.The fellow had grown fatter now, and sat there almost all day, watching the decay of the world with one still, ironic, humorous eye.Soames hastened his pace. He was always uncomfortable in the sight of his cousin.It was said once upon a time that George wrote a letter signed "Patriot" during the war complaining that the government restricted the brome the horses ate.Look, he's not sitting there!He was tall, burly, and neat, with a clean-shaven beard and well-combed hair that wasn't thin at all. Of course, he was painted with the best pomade. He held a pink newspaper in his hand.Humph, he hasn't changed!Soames felt--perhaps for the first time in his life--a feeling of sympathy for this narrow-minded kinsman.So big, with so neatly parted hair, and eyes as fierce as a bulldog's, he was not so easy to move if he represented the old order.He saw George wave the pink newspaper as if beckoning him to come up.This guy must be asking about his property.These properties are still in the trusteeship of Soames; twenty years ago—that painful period—when he and Irene divorced, Soames, although he had only a name in the law firm, unconsciously Take over all the purely Forsyte business.

He only hesitated for a moment, then nodded and walked into the club.Since the death in Paris of his brother-in-law Montagu Dartie—how no one knew, but it was certainly not a suicide—the Isym Club seemed to Soames to have grown more genteel.George, he knew, had given up those absurd things, and was now absorbed in the enjoyment of food and drink, always choosing the best food, so as not to get fatter; As the saying goes, "Just raise one or two old wastes to maintain a little interest in life."For these reasons Soames found his cousin in front of the arched window without feeling the embarrassment he had always felt when he came here, as if he had done a rash thing.

George held out a well-kept hand. "I haven't seen you since the war," he said. "How is sister-in-law?" "Thank you," said Soames coldly. "It's not bad." The fat on George's face squeezed out a hint of ridicule for a moment, and it was also revealed in his eyes. "That Belgian guy, Prolau," he said, "is a member here now. A queer fellow." "Exactly!" said Soames. "What do you want from me?" "Old Timothy; he might die any minute now. I suppose his will is done?" "it is done."

"You ought to go and see him, or whatever--the last of the old ones; he's a hundred now, you know. They say he's like a mummy. Where are you going to bury him?" The reason should be to build a pyramid for him." Soames shook his head. "Buried at the ancestral grave on Gaomen Mountain." "Well, I think those old ladies would miss him if he was buried elsewhere. They say he's still interested in eating. You know, he might still be alive. These old Foer Cyke did have them. Ten—average age eighty-eight—I counted. It should be as rare as triplets."

"Is that all?" said Soames. "I must go." "You inhuman bastard," George's eyes seemed to answer. "By the way, that's all. You go and see him—the old guy may be a saint if he lives in an ancient tomb." The smile formed by the fat lines on George's face disappeared, and he continued: "You lawyers are terrible. Have you ever figured out how to avoid this dog income tax? The fixed inheritance income is the hardest hit. I usually have a total of 2,500 pounds a year; now I only get 1,500 pounds, and the cost of living is doubled. .” "Ah," murmured Soames, "the race is threatened."

There was a look of reluctant self-defense on George's face. "Well," said George, "I've been brought up to be idle, and now I'm old and feeble, and I'm getting poorer every day. These Labor guys won't quit until they get them all. How are you going to make a living by then? I'm going to work six hours a day, and teach the politicians a little bit of humor. Take my advice, Soames; run for Parliament, and get four hundred pounds a year first—and employ me." After Soames had gone, he resumed his seat before the arched window. Soames, walking along the Piccadilly, pondered deeply what his cousin had just said.He himself has always been industrious and frugal, and George has always been lazy and spends money; however, once the property is confiscated, it is he who is industrious and frugal who will be deprived of it!This negates all virtue, and overthrows all Forsyte's principles.Without these, how can we build a civilized society?He doesn't think so.His collection of paintings will never be confiscated, because they don't know how much these paintings are worth.However, once these lunatics extract capital, how much can these paintings be worth?It's all gone. "I don't mind myself," thought he, "at my age I can live on five hundred pounds a year and not be inconvenient at all." But Fleur!This property, so wisely distributed in investment, and these carefully selected and collected treasures, aren't they all for her!If you can't give it to her or leave it to her later, then—what's the point of life, and what's the use of going to see those boring futuristic works now to find out whether they have a future? Nevertheless, when he reached the shop near Cork Street, he paid a shilling, took a catalog and went in.About ten people were looking around.Soames took a few steps forward, and saw head-on a light pole that looked like it had been bent by a bus.It was on display three or four feet from the wall, and it was written "Jupiter" in his catalogue.He looked at the stone statue with curiosity, because he had recently paid a little attention to sculpture. "If this is Jupiter," he thought, "I wonder what Juno looks like." Suddenly, he saw Juno, just opposite.To him, Juno looked like a water pump with two handles, wearing a thin white dress.While he was still gazing at the statue, two people looking around came to his left and stopped. "Brilliant!" he heard one of them say something in French. "Bullshit!" Soames cursed alone. Another young voice replied, "You're wrong, man; he's playing tricks on you. When he made Jupiter and Juno like God, he was saying: I think those fools could eat this one. They Sure enough, I ate it all." "You little bastard! Vospovich is an innovator. Can't you see that he has brought irony into sculpture? The future of plastic arts, music, painting, even architecture is decided on irony. It must be so." .People are sick of it—nobody likes emotional stuff." "Well, I can still feel a little interest in beauty. I have survived the war. You have lost your handkerchief, sir." Soames saw a handkerchief being handed to him.He took it, but naturally he was a little confused, so he leaned close to his nose and smelled it.It smells right—the scent of old toilet water—and has my initials on the corner.A little relieved, he raised his eyes to look at the young man's face.Two ears are a bit protruding, a smiling mouth, a mustache on one side, like half a toothbrush, and a pair of small eyes. "Thank you," said Soames; and then, somewhat angrily, "I am glad to hear that you like beauty; it is not so often seen at the present time." "I am fascinated," said the young man; "but you and I are the only ones left, sir." Soames laughed. "If you really like painting--" he said, "here's my calling card. Any Sunday, if you'll be down on the river and you'll stop by, I can show you some really good pictures." "Thank you very much, sir. I would very much like to come. My name is Mont-Magill." He took off his hat. Soames, now chagrined and a little rash, only raised his hat in return, while looking contemptuously at the young man's companion, who wore a purple tie, had slug-like whiskers, and looked contemptuous—just As if claiming to be a poet! It had been a long time since he had done such a rash thing, so he found a small alcove and sat down.Why did he foolishly give his business card to such a flamboyant and impetuous young man?And with him was another guy like that.At this time, Fleur, who had been hiding in the depths of his mind, suddenly jumped out like a golden filigree that chimed the time.On the screen opposite the booth was a large canvas painted with tomato-coloured squares and nothing else, at least from where Soames sat.He glanced at the table of contents: "Number 32—City of the Future—Paul Post." "I guess that's a caricature, too," he thought. "What it looks like!" But this second impulse came more cautiously.Hasty denials are inappropriate.Those works of Meng Nai in the past became such famous works later on; there are also Little Point and Kogan.Yes, even after the Post-Impressionists, there are still one or two painters that should not be underestimated.To tell the truth, in his thirty-eight years as a connoisseur, he had seen so many "movements," waves of taste and skill that rose and fell so sharply that one couldn't tell what they were, except that each time Changing the climate is always profitable.This thing in front of me might just be an example of overcoming your primal dislike or missing out.He stood up and walked to the painting, desperately trying to see it through someone else's eyes.On top of those tomato-colored squares, it seemed to him to be a sunset, and then someone walked by and said, "How wonderful he draws these planes, isn't it!" Vertical black bars; he could hardly see any meaning, and then another man came up and whispered, "How well he's doing this prospect!" Performance?What do you show?Soames returned to his seat.This thing is "out there," his father would say when he was alive, so he doesn't think it's worth the shit.Performance!what!I heard that the mainland is full of expressionists now.It's getting here now, isn't it?He remembered that in 1887—maybe 88—there had been the first wave of influenza, which they said started in China.This expressionism—I don’t know where it started.This thing is simply a scourge! He has been aware of a woman and a young man standing between himself and the "future city".The two turned round; and suddenly Soames covered his face with the table of contents, and drew his hat forward a little, and looked out only through the gap.There is nothing wrong with that back, it is as graceful as before, although the hair on it is already gray.Erin!His divorcee Irene!This one, no doubt her son--by that fellow Jolyon Forsyte--their son, six months older than his daughter!While murmuring in his mind the hateful days of his divorce, he got up to avoid it, but sat down again quickly.She had turned her head now to talk to her son; the profile was still so young that it made her gray hair look as if she had been powdered at a masquerade ball; A possessor had never seen her smile like this.He admitted bitterly that she was still beautiful, and as light as ever.How affectionately the child smiled at her!Soames had mixed feelings.The affectionate look of the mother and child made him feel very aggrieved.He hated the way the kid smiled at her—more affectionately than Fleur had been to him; she didn't deserve it.This son of hers and Jolyon might well be his son; Fleur might well be her daughter, if she behaved as a woman!He lowered the catalog, it would be better if she saw herself!Her son probably knew nothing of her past actions, and reminding her in his presence would be a helpful instruction from the goddess Nemesis, for retribution would surely find her sooner or later!Feeling a little afterward that this was too much for a Forsyte of his age, he took out his watch.It's past four o'clock!Fleur is late again!She was going to the house of her niece Imogen Caddy, and they were always left there to smoke cigarettes, talk, and so on.He heard the boy laugh, and said eagerly, "I said, Mom, did one of Aunt Joan's poor people draw this?" "Paul Post--I suppose so, my dear." Soames's heart skipped a beat at those two words; he had never heard them uttered by her.Then she saw him.There must have been George Forsyte's sarcasm in his own glance; for she had creased the folds of her gown with one gloved hand, raised her brow, and set her face down.She walks away. "It's a big deal indeed," said the boy, taking her arm again. Soames stared behind.The boy was handsome, with a Forsyte chin, and dark gray eyes, very deep; but there was something alive in his face, as if a glass of old sherry had been spilled; perhaps it was his smile, or his hair.They don't deserve a son like that—those two!The mother and child went into the next room, and Soames continued to gaze at the "City of the Future," but ignored it.A small smile played on his lips.After so many years, the emotions are still so excited, it can be said to be boring.Mengying!But what is left of one's old age, except a little dreamlike thing?Of course, he still has Fleur!He kept his eyes on the door.She ought to come; but of course he had to wait!Suddenly he seemed to feel a gust of wind—a small woman in a sea-green moslem robe, with a metal belt and a ribbon in her hair, stubborn reddish-gold hair half gray. .She was talking to the studio waiter, and Soames found it very familiar—the eyes, chin, hair, and expression reminded him of a skimpy terrier just before eating.It must be Joan Forsyte!His niece Joan--and coming all the way to his alcove.She sat down beside him, with a concentrated expression, took out a small notebook, and wrote down a little with a pencil.Soames sat still.Relatives are really hateful! "Damned!" he heard her murmur, and then, as if displeased that a stranger was eavesdropping, she looked at him.Terrible! "Soames!" Soames turned his head slightly. "How are you?" he said. "I haven't seen you for twenty years." "By the way. How did you come up here?" "Habits die hard," Soames said. "What are these things!" "Stuff? Oh, yes—of course; these aren't in fashion yet." "Never," said Soames; "it must be a terrible loss." "Of course it's a loss." "how do you know?" "This is my painting shop." Soames gave a snort of sheer surprise. "Your art shop? How did you come to such an art exhibition?" "I don't think of art as a grocery store." Soames pointed to the "City of the Future." "Look at this! Who would live in a city like this, or hang it on the wall, and live with it?" Joan studied the painting. "It's about writing a mood," she said. "damn it!" The two sides did not speak again, and then Joan stood up. "How badly dressed!" he thought to himself. He said, "Your half-brother and a woman I used to know are here. If you listen to my advice, close this exhibition." Joan looked back at him. "Ah! You Forsyte!" she said, and went away.When she floated away, that lithe figure in a toga with long sleeves looked very resolute and terrifying.Forsyte!Of course he was a Forsyte!She is too!But she had brought Bosinney into his family life when she was a girl, and wrecked that family; and he and Joan had never been together, and never would be, ever since!Look at her, she is still unmarried and has opened a painting shop! ... Soames suddenly felt that he knew too little about his family now.The two old ladies in Timothy's family had been dead for many years; there was no news exchange any more.What did they all do during the war?Roger Jr.'s son was wounded, St. John Heyman's second son was killed; Nicholas Jr.'s older son got an Imperial Order or something--they gave it anyway.Dare I say, they all enlisted.Jolyon and Irene's child was probably underage: his own generation was certainly too old, but Gals Heyman had driven for the Red Cross and Gisele Heyman had been a temporary policeman ——These two Dromeo brothers have always been the kind of people who do what is right!As for himself, he donated an ambulance, read the newspaper too much, bored many minds, suffered many shocks, stopped making new clothes, and lost seven pounds; At this age, I don't know what else to pledge my allegiance to.It is said that all the manpower, material resources and financial resources in the country were used in the Boer War at the beginning, but looking back now, he feels that he and his family treat this war very differently from the Boer War.Of course in that old war his nephew Val Dardie was wounded and that fellow Jolyon's eldest son died of enteritis and the "Dromeo brothers" were in the cavalry and Joan was a nurse ; but it all seemed extraordinary, and in this war everyone had done their part and taken it for granted, at least it seemed to him.It seemed to indicate the emergence of something new—or the decline of something else.Have the Forsytes become less individualistic, or more imperial, or less idiosyncratic?Or is it just because everyone hates the Germans? ...Why isn't Frey here yet?I want to go but I can't go.He saw Irene, mother and son, and Joan coming out of the next room and coming along the other side of the screen.Now the boy stood before Juno.Suddenly Soames raised his eyebrows as he saw his daughter on Juno's side, of course.He could see Fleur's eyes squinting at the boy, and the boy looked back at her.Then Irene took the boy's arm and pulled him away.Soames saw him look about, and Fleur from behind watched the three go out. A cheery voice said: "It's a little too much, isn't it?" The young man who handed him the handkerchief came over again.Soames nodded. "I don't know what else we'll encounter next." "Oh! that's all right, sir," answered the young man cheerfully; "they don't know either." Fleur's voice: "Ah, Father! Here you come!" almost as if Soames had kept her waiting. The young man quickly took off his hat and walked away. "Well, what a punctual lady you are!" said Soames, looking her up and down. His precious possessions in life were medium height, sallow complexion, short dark chestnut hair; a pair of good, wide eyes, brown eyes, the whites of which were so clear that when they moved they seemed to flash, but when they stopped, they were caught by both eyes. Covered by white eyelids with black eyelashes, it seems like a dream, making people unable to figure it out.She was very handsome in profile, and except for a firm chin, her father could not be seen anywhere in her face.Soames watched, knowing that his face softened, and frowning again in order to preserve Forsyte's reserve.He knew she was eager to take advantage of her weakness. Fleur put his hand on his arm and said: "Who is that?" "The one who picked up the handkerchief for me just now, we talked about painting." "You can't buy this, Dad?" "No," said Soames viciously, "especially that Juno you just looked at." Frey tugged at his arm. "Hey! Let's go! This art exhibition is ugly." The two walked to the door, passing the young man named Monte and his companions.But Soames had already put a "No Entry" sign on his face, and he only nodded his head reluctantly when the young man saluted. In the street, Soames said: "Who did you meet at Imogen's?" "Aunt Winifred, and that Mr. Profan." "Oh!" grunted Soames; "that fellow! How could your aunt take such a fancy to him?" "Don't know. He looks very deep. Ma said she liked him." Soames snorted. "Cousin Farr and his wife are here." "Why!" said Soames. "I still think they're in South Africa." "Come back! They've sold the farm over there. Cousin Farr's going to train racehorses in the Southern Highlands; they've got an interesting old-fashioned house over there, and they've invited me to play." Soames coughed; the news sounded hard to him. "What is his wife like now?" "Not much talk, but nice guy, I think." Soames coughed again. "Your cousin Val is an unreliable fellow." "Oh! no, Father; they're two on good terms. I promise to play--Saturday till next Wednesday." "Training the racehorses?" said Soames.It was absurd, but that was not why he felt bad.Why doesn't this nephew stay in South Africa?His own divorce was bad enough without his nephew marrying the second respondent's daughter; and she was Joan's half-sister, who belonged to the boy Fleur had just looked at under the handle of the pump. Half-sister.If he's not careful, Fleur will know all the details of that scandalous past!A whole bunch of annoying things!This afternoon he was surrounded like a swarm of bees! "I don't like this thing!" he said. “我想看那些马，”芙蕾说，“他们而且答应让我骑呢。法尔表哥走动不方便，你知道；可是骑马骑得顶好。他打算让我看他的那些快马呢。” “跑马！”索米斯说。“可惜大战没有把这件事情结果掉。他恐怕在学他父亲的样子。” “我一点不知道他父亲的事情。” “当然，”索米斯板着脸说。“他就喜欢跑马，后来在巴黎下楼梯时，把头颈骨跌断了。对你的姑母倒是大幸。”他皱起眉头，回忆着六年前自己在巴黎调查那座楼梯的情形，因为蒙达古·达尔第自己已经调查不了——规规矩矩的楼梯，就在一家打巴卡拉纸牌的房子里。可能是赢得太多了，不然就是赢得兴高采烈，使他妹夫完全忘其所以了。法国的审讯手续很不严密；这件事弄得他很棘手。 芙蕾的声音分散了他的心思。“你看！我们在画店里碰见的那几个人。” “什么人？”索米斯咕噜说，其实他完全明白。 “我觉得那个妇人很美。” “我们上这儿坐坐，”索米斯猛然说；他一把抓着女儿的胳臂转身进了一家糖果店。对他来说，这事做得有点突兀，所以他相当急切地说：“你吃什么？” “我不要吃。我喝了一杯鸡尾酒，午饭吃得很饱。” “现在既然来了，总得吃一点，”索米斯说，仍旧抓着她的胳臂。 “两客茶，”他说：“来两块那种果仁糖。” 可是他的身体才坐下来，灵魂立刻惊得跳了起来。那三个人——那三个人正走进来！他听见伊琳跟她的儿子讲了句什么，儿子回答说： “不要走，妈；这地方不错，我请客。”三个人坐下来。 索米斯这时候可说是一生中从没有这样窘过，脑子里充满过去的影子；当着这两个他一生唯一爱过的两个女子——他的离婚妻和继妻的女儿——索米斯倒并不感觉害怕，害怕的倒是这个侄女儿琼。她说不定会不知轻重——说不定给这两个孩子介绍——她什么事都做得出来。那块糖吃得太急了，粘着他的假牙托子。他一面用指头挖那块糖，一面瞄自己女儿。芙蕾神情恍惚地嚼着，可是眼睛却盯着那个男孩子看。他的福尔赛顽强性格在心里说：“只要露一点声色，你就完蛋了！”他死命用手指去挖。假牙托子！乔里恩不知道可用这个？这个女人不知道可用这个！可是过去他连她不穿衣服也见过。这件事情至少是他们剥夺不掉的。而且她也知道，尽管她可以那样恬静，那样神态自若地坐在那里，好象从没有做过他妻子似的。他的福尔赛血液里生出一种酸溜溜的感觉；一种和快感只有一发之差的微妙痛苦。只要琼不突如其来地大煞风景！那个男孩子正在讲话。 “当然，琼姑，”——原来他称呼自己的异母姊“姑姑”，真的吗？哼，她足足准有五十岁！——“琼姑，你鼓励他们是很好的。不过——糟糕透了！”索米斯偷瞥了一眼。伊琳的惊异的眼睛正凝望着自己的孩子。她——她对波辛尼——对这孩子的父亲——对这个孩子——都有这种情意呢！他碰一下芙蕾的胳臂，说道： “你吃完了没有？” “等等，爹，我还要吃一块。” 她要吃伤呢！他上柜台那边去付账，当他重新转过身时，他看见芙蕾靠近门口站着，拿着一块显然刚由那个男孩子递给她的手绢。 “FF，”他听见自己女儿说。“芙蕾·福尔赛——正是我的。多谢多谢。” God!刚才在画店里告诉她的把戏，她已经学会了——小鬼！ “福尔赛吗？怎么——我也姓这个。也许我们是一家呢。” “是吗！一定是一家。再没有别家姓福尔赛的。我住在买波杜伦；你呢？” “我住罗宾山。” 两个人一问一答非常之快，索米斯还没有来得及干涉时，谈话已经结束了。他看见伊琳脸上充满惊讶的神情，便微微摇一下头，挽起芙蕾的胳臂。 "Let's go!" he said. 芙蕾没有动。 “你听见吗，爹？我们是同姓——奇怪不奇怪？难道我们是堂房姊妹吗？” "What?" he said. “福尔赛？也许是远房本家。” “我叫乔里恩，先生。简称乔恩。” “哦！哦！”索米斯说。“是的，远房本家。好吗！你很不错。再见！” he's gone. “谢谢你，”芙蕾说。 "goodbye!" “再见！”他听见那个男孩子也回了一句法文。

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Notes: