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 grand-father 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, nor for twelve years after, but I have
never forgotten. 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 was 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