The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

Out of his other property, out of all the things he had collected, his

silver, his pictures, his houses, his investments, he got a secret and

intimate feeling; out of her he got none.

In this house of his there was writing on every wall. His business-like

temperament protested against a mysterious warning that she was not made

for him. He had married this woman, conquered her, made her his own, and

it seemed to him contrary to the most fundamental of all laws, the law

of possession, that he could do no more than own her body--if indeed he

could do that, which he was beginning to doubt. If any one had asked him

if he wanted to own her soul, the question would have seemed to him both

ridiculous and sentimental. But he did so want, and the writing said he

never would.

She was ever silent, passive, gracefully averse; as though terrified

lest by word, motion, or sign she might lead him to believe that she was

fond of him; and he asked himself: Must I always go on like this?

Like most novel readers of his generation (and Soames was a great novel

reader), literature coloured his view of life; and he had imbibed the

belief that it was only a question of time.

In the end the husband always gained the affection of his wife. Even

in those cases--a class of book he was not very fond of--which ended in

tragedy, the wife always died with poignant regrets on her lips, or if

it were the husband who died--unpleasant thought--threw herself on his

body in an agony of remorse.

He often took Irene to the theatre, instinctively choosing the modern

Society Plays with the modern Society conjugal problem, so fortunately

different from any conjugal problem in real life. He found that they too

always ended in the same way, even when there was a lover in the case.

While he was watching the play Soames often sympathized with the lover;

but before he reached home again, driving with Irene in a hansom, he saw

that this would not do, and he was glad the play had ended as it had.

There was one class of husband that had just then come into fashion,

the strong, rather rough, but extremely sound man, who was peculiarly

successful at the end of the play; with this person Soames was really

not in sympathy, and had it not been for his own position, would have

expressed his disgust with the fellow. But he was so conscious of

how vital to himself was the necessity for being a successful, even a

'strong,' husband, that he never spoke of a distaste born perhaps by

the perverse processes of Nature out of a secret fund of brutality in

himself.