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 he did not attempt
to divorce her, and she of course had no right