Volume I. The Man of PropertyPart I

Volume I. The Man of Property
Part I
Chapter V. A Forsyte Menagel
Like the enlightened thousands of his class and generation in this great city of London, who no longer believe in red velvet chairs, and know that groups of modern Italian marble are 'vieux jeu,' Soames Forsyte inhabited a house which did what it could. It owned a copper door knocker of individual design, windows which had been altered to open outwards, hanging flower boxes filled with fuchsias, and at the back (a great feature) a little court tiled with jade-green tiles, and surrounded by pink hydrangeas in peacock-blue tubs. Here, under a parchment- coloured Japanese sunshade covering the whole end, inhabitants or visitors could be screened from the eyes of the curious while they drank tea and examined at their leisure the latest of Soames's little silver boxes.

The inner decoration favoured the First Empire and William Morris. For its size, the house was commodious; there were countless nooks resembling birds' nests, and little things made of silver were deposited like eggs.

In this general perfection two kinds of fastidiousness were at war. There lived here a mistress who would have dwelt daintily on a desert island; a master whose daintiness was, as it were, an investment, cultivated by the owner for his advancement, in accordance with the laws of competition. This competitive daintiness had caused Soames in his Marlborough days to be the first boy into white waistcoats in summer, and corduroy waistcoats in winter, had prevented him from ever appearing in public with his tie climbing up his collar, and induced him to dust his patent leather boots before a great multitude assembled on Speech Day to hear him recite Moliere.

Skin-like immaculateness had grown over Soames, as over many Londoners; impossible to conceive of him with a hair out of place, a tie deviating one-eighth of an inch from the perpendicular, a collar unglossed! He would not have gone without a bath for worlds--it was the fashion to take baths; and how bitter was his scorn of people who omitted them!

But Irene could be imagined, like some nymph, bathing in wayside streams, for the joy of the freshness and of seeing her own fair body.

In this conflict throughout the house the woman had gone to the wall. As in the struggle between Saxon and Celt still going on within the nation, the more impressionable and receptive temperament had had forced on it a conventional superstructure.

Thus the house had acquired a close resemblance to hundreds of other houses with the same high aspirations, having become: 'That very charming little house of the Soames Forsytes, quite individual, my dear--really elegant.'

For Soames Forsyte--read James Peabody, Thomas Atkins, or Emmanuel Spagnoletti, the name in fact of any upper-middle class Englishman in London with any pretensions to taste; and though the decoration be different, the phrase is just.

On the evening of August 8, a week after the expedition to Robin Hill, in the dining-room of this house--'quite individual, my dear--really elegant'--Soames and Irene were seated at dinner. A hot dinner on Sundays was a little distinguishing elegance common to this house and many others. Early in married life Soames had laid down the rule: 'The servants must give us hot dinner on Sundays--they've nothing to do but play the concertina.'

The custom had produced no revolution. For--to Soames a rather deplorable sign--servants were devoted to Irene, who, in defiance of all safe tradition, appeared to recognise their right to a share in the weaknesses of human nature.

The happy pair were seated, not opposite each other, but rectangularly, at the handsome rosewood table; they dined without a cloth--a distinguishing elegance--and so far had not spoken a word.

Soames liked to talk during dinner about business, or what he had been buying, and so long as he talked Irene's silence did not distress him. This evening he had found it impossible to talk. The decision to build had been weighing on his mind all the week, and he had made up his mind to tell her.

His nervousness about this disclosure irritated him profoundly; she had no business to make him feel like that--a wife and a husband being one person. She had not looked at him once since they sat down; and he wondered what on earth she had been thinking about all the time. It was hard, when a man worked as he did, making money for her--yes, and with an ache in his heart- -that she should sit there, looking--looking as if she saw the walls of the room closing in. It was enough to make a man get up and leave the table.

The light from the rose-shaded lamp fell on her neck and arms-- Soames liked her to dine in a low dress, it gave him an inexpressible feeling of superiority to the majority of his acquaintance, whose wives were contented with their best high frocks or with tea-gowns, when they dined at home. Under that rosy light her amber-coloured hair and fair skin made strange contrast with her dark brown eyes.

Could a man own anything prettier than this dining-table with its deep tints, the starry, soft-petalled roses, the ruby-coloured glass, and quaint silver furnishing; could a man own anything prettier than the woman who sat at it? Gratitude was no virtue among Forsytes, who, competitive, and full of common-sense, had no occasion for it; and Soames only experienced a sense of exasperation amounting to pain, that he did not own her as it was his right to own her, that he could not, as by stretching out his hand to that rose, pluck her and sniff the very secrets of her heart.

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 be never spoke of a distaste born perhaps by the perverse processes of Nature out of a secret fund of brutality in himself.

But Irene's silence this evening was exceptional. He had never before seen such an expression on her face. And since it is always the unusual which alarms, Soames was alarmed. He ate his savoury, and hurried the maid as she swept off the crumbs with the silver sweeper. When she had left the room, he filled his. glass with wine and said:

"Anybody been here this afternoon?"

"June."

"What did she want?" It was an axiom with the Forsytes that people did not go anywhere unless they wanted something. "Came to talk about her lover, I suppose?"

Irene made no reply.

"It looks to me," continued Soames, "as if she were sweeter on him than he is on her. She's always following him about."

Irene's eyes made him feel uncomfortable.

"You've no business to say such a thing!" she exclaimed.

"Why not? Anybody can see it."

"They cannot. And if they could, it's disgraceful to say so."

Soames's composure gave way.

"You're a pretty wife!" he said. But secretly he wondered at the heat of her reply; it was unlike her. "You're cracked about June! I can tell you one thing: now that she has the Buccaneer in tow, she doesn't care twopence about you, and, you'll find it out. But you won't see so much of her in future; we're going to live in the country."

He had been glad to get his news out under cover of this burst of irritation. He had expected a cry of dismay; the silence with which his pronouncement was received alarmed him.

"You don't seem interested," he was obliged to add.

"I knew it already."

He looked at her sharply.

"Who told you?"

"June."

"How did she know?"

Irene did not answer. Baffled and uncomfortable, he said:

"It's a fine thing for Bosinney, it'll be the making of him. I suppose she's told you all about it?"

"Yes."

There was another pause, and then Soames said:

"I suppose you don't want to, go?"

Irene mad

Kết quả (Anh) 1:

Volume I. The Man of PropertyPart IChapter V. A Forsyte Menagel Like the enlightened thousands of his class and generation in this great city of London, who no longer believe in red velvet chairs, and know that groups of modern Italian marble are ' vieux jeu, ' Soames Forsyte inhabited a house which did what it could. It owned a copper door knocker of individual design, windows which had been altered to open outwards, hanging flower boxes filled with fuchsias, and at the back (a great feature) a little court tiled with jade-green tiles, and surrounded by pink hydrangeas in peacock-blue tubs. Here, under a parchment-coloured Japanese sunshade covering the whole end, inhabitants or visitors could be screened from the eyes of the curious while they drank tea and examined at their leisure the latest Soames's of little silver boxes.The inner decoration favoured the First Empire and William Morris. For its size, the house was commodious; There were countless nooks resembling designs birds ' nests, and little things made of silver were deposited like eggs.In this general perfection two kinds of fastidiousness were at war. There lived here a mistress who would have dwelt daintily on a desert island; a master whose daintiness was, as it were, an investment, cultivated by the owner for his advancement, in accordance with the laws of competition. This competitive daintiness had caused Soames in his Marlborough days to be the first boy into white waistcoats in summer, and corduroy waistcoats in winter, had prevented him from ever appearing in public with his tie climbing up his collar, and induced him to dust his patent leather boots before a great multitude assembled on Speech Day to hear him recite Moliere.Skin-like immaculateness had grown over Soames, as over many Londoners; impossible to conceive of him with a hair out of place, a tie deviating one-eighth of an inch from the perpendicular, a collar unglossed! He would not have gone without a bath for worlds--it was the fashion to take baths; and how bitter was his scorn of people who omitted them!But Irene could be imagined, like some nymph, bathing in the wayside streams, for the joy of the freshness and of seeing her own fair body.In this conflict throughout the house the woman had gone to the wall. As in the struggle between Saxons and Celts still going on within the nation, the more impressionable and receptive temperament had had forced upon it a conventional superstructure.Thus the house had acquired a close resemblance to hundreds of other houses with the same high aspirations, having become: ' That very charming little house of the Soames Forsytes, quite individual, my dear--really elegant. 'For Soames Forsyte--read James Peabody, Thomas Atkins, or Emmanuel Spagnoletti, the name in fact of any upper-middle class Englishman in London with any pretensions to taste; and though the decoration be different, the phrase is just.On the evening of August 8, a week after the expedition to Robin Hill, in the dining-room of this house--' quite individual, my dear--really elegant '--Soames and Irene were seated at dinner. A hot dinner on Sundays was a little elegance distinguishing common to this house and many others. Early in married life Soames had laid down the rule: ' The servants must give us hot dinner on Sundays--they've nothing to do but play the concertina. 'The custom had produced no revolution. For--to Soames a rather deplorable sign--were servants devoted to Irene, who, in defiance of all safe tradition, appeared to recognise their right to a share in the weaknesses of human nature.The happy pair were seated, not opposite each other, but rectangularly, at the handsome rosewood table; they dined without a cloth--a distinguishing elegance--and so far had not spoken a word.Soames liked to talk during dinner about business, or what he had been buying, and so long as he talked Irene's silence did not distress him. This evening he had found it impossible to talk. The decision to build had been weighing on his mind all the week, and he had made up his mind to tell her.His nervousness about this disclosure irritated him profoundly; She had no business to make him feel like that--a wife and a husband being one person. She had not looked at him once since they sat down; and he wondered what on earth she had been thinking about all the time. It was hard, when a man worked as he did, making money for her--yes, and with an ache in his heart--that she should sit there, looking and looking as if she--saw the walls of the room closing in. It was enough to make a man get up and leave the table.The light from the rose-shaded lamp fell on her neck and arms--Soames liked her to dine in a low dress, it gave him an inexpressible feeling of superiority to the majority of his acquaintance, whose wives were contented with their best high frocks or with tea-gowns, when they dined at home. Under that rosy light her amber-coloured hair and fair skin made strange contrast with her dark brown eyes.Could a man own anything prettier than this dining-table with its deep tints, the starry, soft-petalled roses, the ruby-coloured glass, and quaint silver furnishing; could a man own anything prettier than the woman who sat at it? Gratitude was no virtue among Forsytes, who, competitive, and full of common-sense, had no occasion for it; and Soames only experienced a sense of exasperation amounting to pain, that he did not own her as it was his right to own her, that he could not, as by stretching out his hand to that rose, her pluck and sniff the very secrets of her heart.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 her own 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 birthday. 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), coloured his view of life literature; 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 upon 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 problem, so fortunately conjugal 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 be never spoke of a distaste born perhaps by the perverse processes of Nature out of a secret fund of brutality in himself.But Irene's silence this evening was exceptional. He had never before seen such an expression on her face. And since it is always the unusual which alarms, Soames was alarmed. He ate his savoury, and hurried the maid as she swept off the crumbs with the silver sweeper. When she had left the room, he filled his. glass with wine and said:"Anybody been here this afternoon?""June.""What did she want?" It was an axiom with the Forsytes that people did not go anywhere unless they wanted something. "Came to talk about her lover, I suppose?"Irene made no reply."It looks to me," continued Soames, "as if she were sweeter on him than he is on her. She's always following him about. "Irene's eyes made him feel uncomfortable."You've no business to say such a thing!" she exclaimed."Why not? Anybody can see it. ""They cannot. And if they could, it's disgraceful to say so. "Soames's composure gave way."You're a pretty wife!" he said. But secretly he wondered at the heat of her reply; It was unlike her. "You're cracked about June! I can tell you one thing: now that she has the Buccaneer in tow, she doesn't care twopence about you, and, you'll find it out. But you won't see so much of her in future; We're going to live in the country. "He had been glad to get his news out under cover of this burst of irritation. He had expected a cry of dismay; the silence with which his pronouncement was received alarmed him."You don't seem interested," he was obliged to add."I knew it already."He looked at her sharply."Who told you?""June.""How did she know?"Irene did not answer. Baffled and uncomfortable, he said:"It's a fine thing for Bosinney, it'll be the making of him. I suppose she's told you all about it? ""Yes."There was another pause, and then Soames said:"I suppose you don't want to go?"Irene mad

Kết quả (Anh) 2:

Volume I. The Man of Property
Part I of
Chapter V. A Forsyte Menagel
Like the enlightened Thousands of his class and generation in this great city of London, who no longer believe in red velvet chairs, and know mà groups of modern Italian marble are ' vieux jeu, 'Soames Forsyte Inhabited a house did what it could mà. It owned a copper door knocker of the individual design, windows đã được altered to open outwards, hanging flower boxes filled with fuchsias, and at the back (a great feature) a little court jade-green tiled with tiles, and surrounded by pink hydrangeas peacock-blue printed tubs. Here, under a sunshade parchment- Japanese Coloured covering the whole end, inhabitant or visitors could be screened from the eyes of the curious while chúng drank tea and examined at leisure chúng những of Soames's little silver boxes. The inner decoration the First Empire Favoured and William Morris. For its size, the house was commodious; There were Countless nooks resembling birds' nests, made ​​of silver and little things like eggs deposited là. In this general two kinds of fastidiousness là perfection at war. There lived here a mistress who would have dwelt on a desert island daintily; có daintiness was a master, as it Were, an Investment, cultivated by the owner for his advancement, print accordance with the laws of competition. This competitive daintiness Marlborough hda caused Soames In His days the first boy to be printed Into summer white waistcoats, waistcoats and printed corduroy winter, prevented him from Ever Had in public with his xuất hiện tie climbing up his collar, and induced him to patent his dust leather boots is before a great multitude assembled on Speech Day to hear him recite Moliere. Skin-like immaculateness hda grown over Soames, as over many Londoners; impossible to conceive of photographing with a hair out of place, a tie one-eighth of an deviating from the perpendicular inch, a collar unglossed! He would not have gone without a bath for worlds - it was the fashion to take baths; and how was his bitter scorn of People who bỏ đi them! But Irene could be imagined, like some nymph, bathing wayside print streams, for the joy of the freshness and of seeing the her own body fair. In this Conflict throughout the house the woman hda gone to the wall. As in the struggle waged Saxon and Celtic giữa trong nation still going on, the more impressionable and receptive temperament hda hda forced on it a conventional superstructure. thì the house acquired a close resemblance to hda Hundreds of other houses with the same high Aspirations, having trở: 'That very charming little house of the Soames Forsytes, quite the individual, my dear - really elegant.' Soames Forsyte For - read James Peabody, Thomas Atkins, or Emmanuel Spagnoletti, the name printed fact of any upper-middle class Englishman in London with any pretensions to taste; and though the decoration beige khác, the phrase is just. On the evening of August 8, a week after the expedition to Robin Hill, in the dining-room of this house - 'quite the individual, my dear - really elegant'- -Soames and Irene Were seated at dinner. A hot dinner on Sundays was a little Distinguishing common elegance to this house and many others. Early married life Soames hda print laid down the rule: 'The Servants Must give us hot dinner on Sundays - they've nothing to do but play the concertina.' The custom hda Produced no revolution. For - to Soames a rather deplorable sign - Servants Were devoted to Irene, who, print Defiance of all safe tradition, appeared, to ask for their right to a share recognise in the weaknesses of human nature. The happy pair là seated, not opposite each other, but rectangularly, at the handsome rosewood table; They dined without a cloth - a Distinguishing elegance - and so far not spoken a word hda. Soames liked to talk about business khi dinner, or what he hda được buying, and so long as he did not Talked Irene's silence to distress him. This evening he found it impossible to talk hda. The Decision to build on his Weighing hda được mind all the week, and he made ​​up his mind hda to tell her Artist. His nervousness photographing profoundly irritated about this disclosure; SHE Had no business to make him feel like that - a wife and a husband being one person. Looked at photographing She Had not sat down once since chúng; and he wondered what on earth SHE hda được thinking about all the time. It was hard, worked as khi man he did, making money for the her - yes, and with an In His heart- ache -Really SHE shouldnt sit there, looking - looking as if SHE saw the walls of the room closing print . It was enough to make a man get up and leave the table. The light from the rose-shaded lamp Fell on her neck and arms-- Soames liked her to the dine in a low dress, an inexpressible feeling it Gave photographing of Superiority to the Majority of his acquaintance, wives là có có contented with high best frocks or with tea-gowns, khi chúng dined at home. Under mà rosy light amber-Coloured her Do hair and fair skin made ​​strange contrast with the her dark brown eyes. Could a man own anything prettier dining-table this coal with its deep tints, the Starry, soft-petalled roses, the ruby-Coloured glass , and quaint silver furnishing; could a man own anything prettier woman who sat at the coal it? Gratitude was no virtue Among Forsytes, who, competitive, and full of common-sense, hda no occasion for it; Soames and experienced a sense of exasperation only amounting to pain, that he did not own the her as it was his own right to the her, that he could not, as by stretching out his hand to mà rose, pluck her Artist and sniff the very secrets of her heart. Out of his other property, out of all the things he hda thập, his silver, his pictures, his houses, his Investments, he got a secret and intimate feeling; he got out of the her none. In this house there was writing on his of every wall. His business-like temperament protested với a mysterious warning was not made ​​for That She him. He married this woman hda, conquered the her, made ​​her Do His Own, and it seemed to him the contrary to the fundamental of all nhất laws, the law of Possession, that he could do no more coal the her own body - if indeed he could do that, he was beginning to doubt mà. If any one if he wanted photographing Asked hda to the her own soul, the question would have to photographing cả Seemed Ridiculous and sentimental. But he did against want, and the writing said he never would. She was Ever silent, passive, gracefully averse; as though terrified lest by word, motion, or sign of might lead him to believe SHE That She was fond of him; and he Asked Himself: Must I always go on like this? Like readers of his novel nhất generation (and Soames was a great novel reader), his view of life literature Coloured; and he hda imbibed the Belief That it was only a question of time. In the end the husband always Gained the affection of his wife. Even print những Cases - a class of book he was not very fond of-- print mà tragedy ended, 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 took Irene to the theater often Do, instinctively Choosing the modern Society with the modern Society Plays conjugal problem, compared fortunately khác print any real problem conjugal life. He found mà chúng too ended in the same way always, there was a lover thậm khi in the case. While he was watching the play Soames often Do sympathized with the lover; but all before he reached home again, driving in a Hansom with Irene, he saw mà this would not do, and he was glad the play ended as it hda hda. There was one class of husband có có just then come Into fashion, the strong, rather rough, but extremely sound man, who was successful at the end peculiarly of the play; Soames with this person was really not print sympathy, and hda it for His Own được position, would have his Expressed disgust with the fellow. But he was so conscious of how Vital to Himself was the Necessity for being a successful, thậm a 'strong,' husband, that be never spoke of a distaste born perhaps' by the perverse processes of Nature out of a secret fund of brutality print Himself . But Irene's silence this evening was exceptional. Had never seen such 'He is before an expression on her face. And since it is always the unusual mà alarms, Soames was alarmed. He ate his Savoury, and hurried the maid as SHE swept off the crumbs with the silver sweeper. When She Had left the room, he filled his. glass with wine and said: "Anybody here this afternoon được?" "June." "WHAT DID SHE want?" It was an AXIOM with the Forsytes That did not go anywhere nếu người chúng wanted something. "Came to talk about the her lover, I suppose?" Irene made ​​no reply. "It looks to me," continued Soames, "as if SHE là sweeter on photographing charcoal he is on her. She's always sau photographing about." Irene's eyes Made Him feel uncomfortable. "You've no business to say such 'a thing!" SHE exclaimed. "Why not? Anybody can see it." "They can not. And if chúng could, it's disgraceful to say so." Soames's composure Gave way. "You're a pretty wife!" he said. Secretly he wondered at the frist heat of the her reply; it was unlike her Artist. "You're cracked about June! I can tell you one thing: That She now has the Buccaneer print tow, She does not care twopence about you, and, you'll find it out. But you will not see so much of her Artist in Future; we're going to live in the country. " He Had Been glad to get out under cover of his news this burst of irritation. He expected a cry of dismay hda; the silence with his mà pronouncement was received alarmed him. "You do not Seem interested," he was obliged to add. "I Knew it already." He Looked at the her sharply. "Who Told you?" "June." " How did SHE know? " Irene did not answer. Baffled and uncomfortable, he said: "It's a fine thing for Bosinney, it'll be the making of him. I suppose she's Told you all about it?" "Yes." There was another pause, and then Soames said: "I suppose you do not want to, go? " Irene mad