ll in love with her. He was
the architect of this very house that we live in now, he was building it
for her and Fleur's father to live in, a new prison to hold her, in place
of the one she inhabited with him in London. Perhaps that fact played
some part in what came of it. But in any case she, too, fell in love
with him. I know it's not necessary to explain to you that one does not
precisely choose with whom one will fall in love. It comes. Very well!
It came. I can imagine--though she never said much to me about it--the
struggle that then took place in her, because, Jon, she was brought up
strictly and was not light in her ideas--not at all. However, this was an
overwhelming feeling, and it came to pass that they loved in deed as well
as in thought. Then came a fearful tragedy. I must tell you of it
because if I don't you will never understand the real situation that you
have now to face. The man whom she had married--Soames Forsyte, the
father of Fleur one night, at the height of her passion for this young
man, forcibly reasserted his rights over her. The next day she met her
lover and told him of it. Whether he committed suicide or whether he was
accidentally run over in his distraction, we never knew; but so it was.
Think of your mother as she was that evening when she heard of his death.
I happened to see her. Your grandfather sent me to help her if I could.
I only just saw her, before the door was shut against me by her husband.
But I have never forgotten her face, I can see it now. I was not in love
with her then, not for twelve years after, but I have never for gotten.
My dear boy--it is not easy to write like this. But you see, I must.
Your mother is wrapped up in you, utterly, devotedly. I don't wish to
write harshly of Soames Forsyte. I don't think harshly of him. I have
long been sorry for him; perhaps I was sorry even then. As the world
judges she was in error, he within his rights. He loved her--in his way.
She was his property. That is the view he holds of life--of human
feelings and hearts--property. It's not his fault--so was he born. To
me it is a view that has always been abhorrent--so was I born! Knowing
you as I do, I feel it cannot be otherwise than abhorrent to you. Let me
go on with the story. Your mother fled from his house that night; for
twelve years she lived quietly alone without companionship of any sort,
until in 1899 her husband--you see, he was still her husband, for