Chapter 32 Chapter Nine Erin Returns Home

Leaving James and old Jolyon in the hospital morgue, Soames hurried aimlessly down the street. The tragedy of Bosinney's death changed the face of everything.He no longer felt that a minute wasted was going to get out of hand; he did not dare to tell anyone about his wife's escape until the autopsy was completed. He got up early that morning, before the postman delivered the letters, and he took the first letters out of the mailbox with his own hands.Although there was no letter from Irene in it, he took this opportunity to tell Peerson that the mistress had gone to sea; and that he himself would probably go down to live from Saturday to Monday.This gave him breathing time, during which time he could always find her everywhere.

But now the death of Bosinney--a death so singular that to think of it it was like putting a iron in his heart, like taking a heavy iron from it--had left him for the time being. Taking any steps, he felt that there was no way to get through the day; so he wandered the streets, looking at every face that came his way, eaten away by a thousand anxieties. As he wandered, he thought of the man who had finished his wanderings and prying eyes; he would no longer harass his family. It was already afternoon, and he saw newspaper posters announcing that the name of the deceased had been found, so he bought those newspapers to see what the newspapers said.He would have liked to gag them if he could.He went to the business district and had a long discussion with Bullard.

On his way home, passing the steps of Jobson's House at about half-past four, he met George Forsyte.George handed Soames an evening paper, saying: "Look! Did you see the news of that hapless 'pirate'?" Soames grimly replied: "I see." George stared at him.He had never liked Soames; he now held him responsible for Bosinney's death.It was he who had driven Bosinney to his death--it had been his exercise of power over his wife that had made the "pirate" scurry about like a fly without a head that unfortunate afternoon. "That wretch," he was thinking, "has such envy and hatred of Soames that he cannot hear the stagecoach rushing behind him through that hateful fog."

Soames had driven him to death!George's eyes passed judgment. "The papers said it was a suicide," he finally said. "It doesn't stand up." Soames shook his head. "Car accident," he said. George squeezed the newspaper in his fists and stuffed it in his pocket.Before leaving, he couldn't help but hit him again. "Hmph! How is everything going on in the house? Is there little Soames?" Soames, turning as white as Jobson's steps, and pouting as if to bite, hurried past George. Soames reached the house, opened the door with his key, and entered the dimly lit hall, where he saw at once his wife's gilded parasol lying on the rug chest.He threw down his fur coat and hurried into the living room.

It was late, the curtains had been drawn, and a pile of fir firewood was burning brightly on the stove. By the light of the fire, he saw Irene sitting on the corner of the couch where she usually sat.He closed the door gently and walked towards her.She didn't move, and didn't seem to see him. "You're back?" he said. "Why are you sitting like this in the dark?" Then he saw her face, so pale and expressionless as if the blood had stopped flowing, and the eyes were so wide open, like the big round yellow eyes of a frightened owl. Wrapped in a gray fur coat, she leaned against the cushions of the couch, much like a captive owl, wrapping her soft feathers against the copper wire of the cage; After the cruel labor, it seems that people have collapsed; as if they no longer need beauty, vigor and gracefulness.

"Are you back?" he said again. She never raised her head, never opened her mouth, and the flames cast her motionless figure.Suddenly she was about to stand up, but he stopped her; only then did he understand. She was like a badly wounded wild animal, she didn't know where she was going, and she didn't know what she was doing, so she came back.Just seeing her appearance, curled up in her fur coat, was enough. It was then that he really understood that Bosinney was her lover; that she had seen the news of his death—perhaps like himself, bought a newspaper on a windy street corner, and read it.

So she came back of her own accord, of her own accord, into the cage she had been trying to get out of—he wanted to call out, after he had considered the weight of the matter: "Take your hateful body—the body I love! —Get out of my house! Take away your poor pale face, so cruel yet so tender—don't wait for me to smash it to pieces. Go away, and don't let me see you again!" He didn't say these words, but he seemed to see her get up and go away, like a woman in a nightmare, struggling to wake up-get up and go out into the cold darkness, not thinking of him at all, Didn't even feel his presence at all.

Then he called out, which happened to contradict what he hadn't said: "Don't move, sit there!" He turned and sat down in his usual chair on the other side of the fire.The two sat silently. Soames thought: "What is all this? Why should I suffer like this? What crime have I committed? It is not my fault!" He looked at her again, curled up like a shot dead bird; you looked at its poor chest, panting, and could not breathe in; its poor eyes looked at you, who shot her Man, slow and gentle, as if not seeing you, bids farewell to all good things at the same time—the sun, the air, and its mates.

The two of them just sat by the fire without saying a word, sitting at either end of the fire. The burning fir wood gave off smoke. He liked the smell very much, but now it seemed to be strangling his throat, making him unable to bear it any longer.He went into the hall, opened the door, breathed in as much of the cold air as possible, and ran out into the square without hat or coat.A half-starved stray-cat was approaching him along the garden rail, and Soames thought to himself: "Pain! When will my pain cease?" At the door of a house in the opposite street, a man whom he knew well, named Luther, was polishing his boots, and said with air, "I am the master here," and Soames stepped forward.

Far from the clear air came the bells of the church where he and Irene were married, practicing for the birth of Christ, drowning out the sound of the wheels.He felt that he urgently needed a strong drink, or to calm himself down, to be indifferent to everything, or to irritate himself.If only he could break free of himself - free from the melancholy that for the first time in his life felt haunting him.If only he could accept the thought: "Divorce her—get her out! She's forgotten you. Forget her!" If only he could accept the thought: "Let her go—she's had enough!"

If only he could accept the desire: "Make her your slave—she's at your mercy!" Even as long as he can accept this sudden realization: "What is all this?" As long as he can forget himself for a minute, forget that his actions matter, forget that no matter what he does, he has to sacrifice something. . As long as he can do it on his own impulse! But he can't forget anything; he can't accept any thought, consciousness or desire; this matter is too serious; and he is too close, like an impenetrable cage. On the far side of the square, a boy selling newspapers was hawking the evening papers. The sound merged with the church bell, but it was so piercing that it made one's hair stand on end. Soames covered his ears; a thought flashed through his mind, that if it hadn't been for the goodness of heaven, maybe it was not Bosinney who was crushing to death now, but himself, and she would not just shrink there Eyes glazed over like a shot bird— -Something soft touched his leg, and it turned out that the cat had hit him with its body.Soames burst from his breast with a whimper that shook him from head to toe.Then all was silent again in the darkness, and the houses seemed to stare at him, each house having its master and its mistress, and its happy or bitter secret. Suddenly, he saw that his door was open, and the firelight in the hall reflected the dark figure of a man standing with his back.Startled, he tiptoed over. He could see his fur coat thrown on the carved oak chair; he could see the Persian rugs hanging on the wall, the silver bowls and rows of china basins, and the stranger standing at the door. "What can you do, sir?" he asked sharply. The man turned around.It was little Jolyon. "The gate was open," he said. "Can I see your wife for a minute and have a letter for her?" Soames gave him a sideways look with a strange look. "My wife doesn't see anybody," he said stubbornly. Little Jolyon answered gently, "I won't keep her two minutes." Soames overtook him and barred the door. "She can't see anybody," he added. Young Jolyon looked into the hall behind him, and Soames turned.Erin was standing at the door of the living room, her eyes were wide open, her lips were parted, her hands were stretched out, her eyes were wide open, her expression was anxious.When she saw these two, the radiance faded from her face; her hands fell to her waist; she stood there like a stone. Turning round, Soames happened to catch the eye of his visitor; and seeing the expression in his visitor's eyes, he uttered a snarl involuntarily.When the lips were closed, there was a faint smile. "This is my house," he said; "no one else has my business. I told you—I'll tell you now; we see no visitors." He slammed the door in young Jolyon's face.