1

In the last day of May in the early 'nineties, about six o'clock of the evening, old Jolyon Forsyte sat under the oak tree below the terrace of his house at Robin Hill. He was waiting for the midges to bite him, before abandoning the glory of the afternoon. His thin brown hand, where blue veins stood out, held the end of a cigar in its tapering, long—nailed fingers—a pointed polished nail had survived with him from those earlier Victorian days when to touch nothing, even with the tips of the fingers, had been so distinguished. His domed forehead, great white moustache, lean cheeks, and long lean jaw were covered from the westering sunshine by an old brown Panama hat. His legs were crossed; in all his attitude was serenity and a kind of elegance, as of an old man who every morning put eau de Cologne upon his silk handkerchief. At his feet lay a woolly brown—and—white dog trying to be a Pomeranian—the dog Balthasar between whom and old Jolyon primal aversion had changed into attachment with the years. Close to his chair was a swing, and on the swing was seated one of Holly's dolls—called' Duffer Alice '—with her body fallen over her legs and her doleful nose buried in a black petticoat. She was never out of disgrace, so it did not matter to her how she sat. Below the oak tree the lawn dipped down a bank, stretched to the fernery, and, beyond that refinement, became fields, dropping to the pond, the coppice, and the prospect—' Fine, remarkable '—at which Swithin Forsyte, from under this very tree, had stared five years ago when he drove down with Irene to look at the house. Old Jolyon had heard of his brother's exploit—that drive which had become quite celebrated on Forsyte' Change. Swithin! And the fellow had gone and died, last November, at the age of only seventy—nine, renewing the doubt whether Forsytes could live for ever, which had first arisen when Aunt Ann passed away. Died! and left only Jolyon and James, Roger and Nicholas and Timothy, Julia, Hester, Susan! And old Jolyon thought: 'Eighty—five! I don't feel it—except when I get that pain. '

九十年代初一个五月的最后一天，傍晚六点左右，老乔利恩·福赛特坐在一棵橡树下，就在他罗宾山宅第的走廊下面。即使蠓虫会来咬他，他也要享受这傍晚的美好时光。他的手瘦黄，青筋暴露；一截雪茄烟头夹在瘦削的手指间，指甲很长——有一只光亮的尖指甲是他从维多利亚时代早期就一直留着的。当时，人们认为不用手，甚至不用指尖去碰任何东西才是十分高贵。他前额圆阔，双颊瘦削，下颌长瘦，留着浓密的大白胡子；一顶又黄又旧的巴拿马草帽为他遮挡西斜的日光。他跷着腿，神情自若且优雅。一个每天早上都要往丝质手帕上洒古龙香水的老人，正是如此。一只棕白相间的长毛狗趴着他的脚边，扮作博美犬的样子—这就是小狗巴尔萨泽。多年过去，它与老乔利恩已经由最初的相互敌视转为亲密无间了。他椅子旁有架秋千，上面坐着霍利的一只玩偶——名叫 “笨蛋艾丽斯” ——她的上身倒在腿上，那只悲惨的鼻子埋在她的黑裙里。她一向不惹人怜爱，所以坐姿如何也就无所谓了。橡树下是草坪，草坪沿着斜坡往下，连着精心修剪的蕨类种植园，再往那边是田野，接着地势更低了，一直到池塘和小灌木林，还有那片斯威辛·福赛特曾感叹 “不错，美极了” 的景色——五年前他和艾琳一起坐马车过来看房子时，曾在这棵橡树下凝望这片美景。老乔利恩听说过他弟弟的辉煌成就——那次出行曾在整个福赛特交易所引起轰动。斯威辛！不曾想，去年十一月，这位老兄弟就死了，才七十九岁。这让人们又一次怀疑，福赛特家族的人是否真能永远不死。他们第一次有这种怀疑，还是在安姑太去世的时候呢。又走了一个。现在只剩下老乔利恩、詹姆斯、罗杰、尼古拉斯、蒂莫西、茱莉娅、赫斯特，还有苏姗了！老乔利恩想： “八十五了！我可没觉得——不过那儿疼的时候除外。”

His memory went searching. He had not felt his age since he had bought his nephew Soames' ill—starred house and settled into it here at Robin Hill over three years ago. It was as if he had been getting younger every spring, living in the country with his son and his grandchildren—June, and the little ones of the second marriage, Jolly and Holly; living down here out of the racket of London and the cackle of Forsyte 'Change, ' free of his boards, in a delicious atmosphere of no work and all play, with plenty of occupation in the perfecting and mellowing of the house and its twenty acres, and in ministering to the whims of Holly and Jolly. All the knots and crankiness, which had gathered in his heart during that long and tragic business of June, Soames, Irene his wife, and poor young Bosinney, had been smoothed out. Even June had thrown off her melancholy at last—witness this travel in Spain she was taking now with her father and her stepmother. Curiously perfect peace was left by their departure; blissful, yet blank, because his son was not there. Jo was never anything but a comfort and a pleasure to him nowadays—an amiable chap; but women, somehow—even the best—got a little on one's nerves, unless of course one admired them.

他继续回想着往事。三年前，他从侄子索姆斯手中买下了这座不祥之屋，搬到了罗宾山。打那以后，他还不觉得自己老过。他跟儿子乔、孙女琼，还有乔再婚后生的乔利和霍利一起生活在乡下，远离伦敦的喧闹，也没有福赛特交易所的聒噪，不开董事会，不用工作，尽情玩乐，这让他觉得自己每年都年轻了一些。他每天花大量时间完善屋舍，打理周边的二十英亩地，由着霍利和乔利的性子做这做那。琼、索姆斯和他妻子艾琳，还有小波辛尼，这几个人之间的恩怨长久以来在他心里生了许多郁结，可如今，也都逐渐化解了。就连琼也终于不再忧伤——现在正和父亲与继母一起在西班牙旅行。没想到他们走后，日子显得格外平静，幸福却又冷清，因为儿子不在身边。乔是个让人心宽的孩子，近来给他带来很多慰藉和快乐；可是女人，不知为何，即使是最好的女人，也难免让人有些心烦，当然，除非你对她心驰神往。

Far—off a cuckoo called; a wood—pigeon was cooing from the first elm—tree in the field, and how the daisies and buttercups had sprung up after the last mowing! The wind had got into the sou 'west, too—a delicious air, sappy! He pushed his hat back and let the sun fall on his chin and cheek. Somehow, to—day, he wanted company—wanted a pretty face to look at. People treated the old as if they wanted nothing. And with the un—Forsytean philosophy which ever intruded on his soul, he thought: ' One's never had enough. With a foot in the grave one'll want something, I shouldn't be surprised! 'Down here—away from the exigencies of affairs—his grandchildren, and the flowers, trees, birds of his little domain, to say nothing of sun and moon and stars above them, said, ' Open, sesame, 't o him day and night. And sesame had opened—how much, perhaps, he did not know. He had always been responsive to what they had begun to call 'Nature, ' genuinely, almost religiously responsive, though he had never lost his habit of calling a sunset a sunset and a view a view, however deeply they might move him. But nowadays Nature actually made him ache, he appreciated it so. Every one of these calm, bright, lengthening days, with Holly's hand in his, and the dog Balthasar in front looking studiously for what he never found, he would stroll, watching the roses open, fruit budding on the walls, sunlight brightening the oak leaves and saplings in the coppice, watching the water—lily leaves unfold and glisten, and the silvery young corn of the one wheat field; listening to the starlings and skylarks, and the Alderney cows chewing the cud, flicking slow their tufted tails; and every one of these fine days he ached a little from sheer love of it all, feeling perhaps, deep down, that he had not very much longer to enjoy it. The thought that some day—perhaps not ten years hence, perhaps not five—all this world would be taken away from him, before he had exhausted his powers of loving it, seemed to him in the nature of an injustice brooding over his horizon. If anything came after this life, it wouldn't be what he wanted; not Robin Hill, and flowers and birds and pretty faces—too few, even now, of those about him! With the years his dislike of humbug had increased; the orthodoxy he had worn in the 'sixties, as he had worn side—whiskers out of sheer exuberance, had long dropped off, leaving him reverent before three things alone—beauty, upright conduct, and the sense of property; and the greatest of these now was beauty. He had always had wide interests, and, indeed could still read The Times, but he was liable at any moment to put it down if he heard a blackbird sing. Upright conduct, property—somehow, they were tiring; the blackbirds and the sunsets never tired him, only gave him an uneasy feeling that he could not get enough of them. Staring into the stilly radiance of the early evening and at the little gold and white flowers on the lawn, a thought came to him: This weather was like the music of' Orfeo, 'which he had recently heard at Covent Garden. A beautiful opera, not like Meyerbeer, nor even quite Mozart, but, in its way, perhaps even more lovely; something classical and of the Golden Age about it, chaste and mellow, and the Ravogli' almost worthy of the old days' —highest praise he could bestow. The yearning of Orpheus for the beauty he was losing, for his love going down to Hades, as in life love and beauty did go—the yearning which sang and throbbed through the golden music, stirred also in the lingering beauty of the world that evening. And with the tip of his cork—soled, elastic—sided boot he involuntarily stirred the ribs of the dog Balthasar, causing the animal to wake and attack his fleas; for though he was supposed to have none, nothing could persuade him of the fact. When he had finished he rubbed the place he had been scratching against his master's calf, and settled down again with his chin over the instep of the disturbing boot. And into old Jolyon's mind came a sudden recollection—a face he had seen at that opera three weeks ago—Irene, the wife of his precious nephew Soames, that man of property! Though he had not met her since the day of the 'At Home' in his old house at Stanhope Gate, which celebrated his granddaughter June's ill—starred engagement to young Bosinney, he had remembered her at once, for he had always admired her—a very pretty creature. After the death of young Bosinney, whose mistress she had so reprehensibly become, he had heard that she had left Soames at once. Goodness only knew what she had been doing since. That sight of her face—a side view—in the row in front, had been literally the only reminder these three years that she was still alive. No one ever spoke of her. And yet Jo had told him something once—something which had upset him completely. The boy had got it from George Forsyte, he believed, who had seen Bosinney in the fog the day he was run over—something which explained the young fellow's distress—an act of Soames towards his wife—a shocking act. Jo had seen her, too, that afternoon, after the news was out, seen her for a moment, and his description had always lingered in old Jolyon's mind— 'wild and lost' he had called her. And next day June had gone there—bottled up her feelings and gone there, and the maid had cried and told her how her mistress had slipped out in the night and vanished. A tragic business altogether! One thing was certain—Soames had never been able to lay hands on her again. And he was living at Brighton, and journeying up and down—a fitting fate, the man of property! For when he once took a dislike to anyone—as he had to his nephew—old Jolyon never got over it. He remembered still the sense of relief with which he had heard the news of Irene's disappearance. It had been shocking to think of her a prisoner in that house to which she must have wandered back, when Jo saw her, wandered back for a moment—like a wounded animal to its hole after seeing that news, 'Tragic death of an Architect, ' in the street. Her face had struck him very much the other night—more beautiful than he had remembered, but like a mask, with something going on beneath it. A young woman still—twenty—eight perhaps. Ah, well! Very likely she had another lover by now. But at this subversive thought—for married women should never love: once, even, had been too much—his instep rose, and with it the dog Balthasar's head. The sagacious animal stood up and looked into old Jolyon's face. 'Walk? ' he seemed to say; and old Jolyon answered: Come on, old chap!

远处传来布谷鸟的叫声；一只斑鸠在田野那边的第一棵榆树上咕咕啼唱。自上次刈草后，雏菊和毛茛长得多快啊！风也转为西南风——好甜美的空气，甘露一般！他往后推了推帽子，让阳光照在他的下颌和脸颊上。不知为何，今天他想让人陪着——有张漂亮的脸看看也好。人们总以为老人无欲无求。不时侵入他灵魂的非福赛特哲学此时又在唱和，他想： “人永远不会满足。就算是快要入土的人也会有所欲求，这有什么好奇怪的！” 就在这乡下——远离世事扰攘的地方，他的孙子孙女、花儿、树，还有他小家园的鸟儿们，更不用说他们头顶上的日月星辰，日日夜夜都在对他说： “芝麻，开门。” 门终究是开了——开了多大，也许他并不清楚。他总能很快地感应到人们口中的 “自然” ，这种感应发自内心，几乎像对宗教般虔诚。可不管自然多么打动他，他也不会改变看法，夕阳就是夕阳，风景就是风景。如今自然却让他隐隐作痛，他对这一点有切身体会。现在白天越来越长，在每个这样宁静明媚的日子，老乔利恩都会牵着霍利的手去散步，小狗巴尔萨泽跑在前面，努力寻找它从来没找到的那些东西。他们看着玫瑰花开，墙上的枝条结出果子，阳光照亮橡树叶子和灌木林中的小树苗，睡莲的叶子舒展开来，闪着光，还有唯一的一片麦田里银色的新麦；听着椋鸟和云雀歌唱，看着奥尔德尼乳牛嚼着草，慢慢地摇着蓬松的尾巴。他珍爱每一个这样美好的日子，却也因此感到心中隐隐作痛，因为在内心深处，他觉得自己也许已时日无多，再也无法享受这一切。想到有一天——也许不到十年，也许不到五年——所有这一切都会从他身边消失，而他还没有倾尽所有力量来爱这个世界，这在他看来太不公平了。即使有来世，也不会是他想要的。不会有罗宾山，不会有花和鸟，也不会有漂亮的脸蛋——就算是现在，这些在他的生活中也太少！年岁渐长，他越发痛恨欺骗。六十年代时，他还是一副道貌岸然的样子，当时蓄起络腮胡子纯属年轻气盛，现在它们早已稀疏。如今他仍信奉着只有三样东西——美、正直的品行以及财产意识。而当下，美才是其中最重要的。他一直对许多事情饶有兴趣，也依然会读读《泰晤士报》，不过，一旦耳边传来画眉鸟的叫声，他就会立刻丢下手中的报纸。正直的品行、财产——不知怎的，这些东西会让人觉得厌烦；画眉鸟和落日却从来不会，只会让他觉得不安心，总怕自己听不够、看不够。他出神地望着黄昏时分静谧的余晖，还有草地上金色和白色的小花，心想：这天气多像《奥菲欧》里的音乐呀！不久前，他刚在科文特加登剧院听过这场歌剧。那场歌剧很精彩，它不像梅耶贝尔，也不怎么像莫扎特，它有自己的风格，或许这样更显得可爱。它带有古典风格和黄金时代的色彩，纯洁而浓郁，还有拉沃戈里， “堪比昔日” ——这是他所能给出的最佳称赞。俄耳甫斯怀念逝去的美人，怀念他撒手人寰的爱人，世间的爱和美的结局皆是如此——那金子般的音乐动人地诉说着这段情思，也在今晚迟迟未散的美丽中跃动。他穿着两边有松紧的软木底靴，鞋尖不经意地踢到了小狗巴尔萨泽的肋骨，把它戳醒了。小家伙于是开始捉起身上的跳蚤来；虽然它身上根本没有，可它怎么也不相信。弄完后，它又把抓过的地方在主人的小腿肚上蹭了蹭，然后又趴下来，把下巴搭在那只戳醒它的靴子上。老乔利恩突然回忆起了什么：三周前他在剧院见过一张面孔——是艾琳，他那拥有产业的宝贝侄子索姆斯的妻子！老乔利恩上次见到她，还是在斯坦霍普门旧居举办的茶会上，那次是为了庆祝他孙女琼和小波辛尼不幸的订婚。即便如此，他还是立刻认出了她，因为他早就十分欣赏这位天生丽人。艾琳后来成了小波辛尼的情妇，这件事颇受非议。小波辛尼死后，他听说艾琳立刻离开了索姆斯。没有人知道她后来的情况。那天她坐在前排，他只看了个侧脸。但那却是三年来唯一的消息，让人知道她还活着。从来没有人谈起过她。不过有一次，乔向他说起过什么，让他很不愉快。他觉得乔是从乔治·福赛特那里听来的。那天下着大雾，乔治看到了波辛尼，他就是那天出的车祸。乔告诉了老乔利恩索姆斯对妻子的所作所为——令人震惊，这也正是让年轻的波辛尼万分痛苦的原因。那天下午，就在消息传出后，乔也见到了她，时间不长。老乔利恩始终无法忘记乔是如何描述艾琳的——说她 “疯疯癫癫，丢了魂一般” 。第二天，琼也去看她，努力掩饰着自己的情绪去看她。女仆哭着告诉她女主人夜里偷偷跑了出去，不见了。彻头彻尾的悲剧！可以确定的一点是——从那以后，索姆斯再也没找到艾琳。他后来搬去了布赖顿，整天东奔西跑——有产业的人，就该是这个命！老乔利恩一旦不喜欢某个人，比如他侄子，就不会再改变。他仍记得自己听说艾琳失踪时是如何如释重负。乔看见她时，她一定是看见了街上那条 “一名建筑师惨死” 的消息，然后，迷迷糊糊走回了那间屋子，就像受伤的动物慢慢挪回自己的洞穴。想想她像个囚犯似的住在那里面，真叫人不好受。那晚的见面着实让他心里一惊，那张脸比他记忆中的还要美，但却像戴着一张面具，下面隐藏着什么东西。她年纪还轻——可能二十八岁上下。唉，好吧！她现在很可能已经找到爱人了。已婚女人不该再爱上别人，哪怕一次也不行——一想到她有违传统的做法，他又抬了抬脚，巴尔萨泽的头也跟着抬了起来。敏锐的小家伙爬起来，望着老乔利恩的脸。它仿佛在说： “去散步吗？” 老乔利恩回答道： “走吧，老伙计！”

Slowly, as was their wont, they crossed among the constellations of buttercups and daisies, and entered the fernery. This feature, where very little grew as yet, had been judiciously dropped below the level of the lawn so that it might come up again on the level of the other lawn and give the impression of irregularity, so important in horticulture. Its rocks and earth were beloved of the dog Balthasar, who sometimes found a mole there. Old Jolyon made a point of passing through it because, though it was not beautiful, he intended that it should be, some day, and he would think: 'I must get Varr to come down and look at it; he's better than Beech. ' For plants, like houses and human complaints, required the best expert consideration. It was inhabited by snails, and if accompanied by his grandchildren, he would point to one and tell them the story of the little boy who said: 'Have plummers got leggers, Mother? ' No, sonny. '' Then darned if I haven't been and swallowed a snileybob. 'And when they skipped and clutched his hand, thinking of the snileybob going down the little boy's' red lane, 'his eyes would twinkle. Emerging from the fernery, he opened the wicket gate, which just there led into the first field, a large and park—like area, out of which, within brick walls, the vegetable garden had been carved. Old Jolyon avoided this, which did not suit his mood, and made down the hill towards the pond. Balthasar, who knew a water—rat or two, gambolled in front, at the gait which marks an oldish dog who takes the same walk every day. Arrived at the edge, old Jolyon stood, noting another water—lily opened since yesterday; he would show it to Holly to—morrow, when 'his little sweet' had got over the upset which had followed on her eating a tomato at lunch—her little arrangements were very delicate. Now that Jolly had gone to school—his first term—Holly was with him nearly all day long, and he missed her badly. He felt that pain too, which often bothered him now, a little dragging at his left side. He looked back up the hill. Really, poor young Bosinney had made an uncommonly good job of the house; he would have done very well for himself if he had lived! And where was he now? Perhaps, still haunting this, the site of his last work, of his tragic love affair. Or was Philip Bosinney's spirit diffused in the general? Who could say? That dog was getting his legs muddy! And he moved towards the coppice. There had been the most delightful lot of bluebells, and he knew where some still lingered like little patches of sky fallen in between the trees, away out of the sun. He passed the cow—houses and the hen—houses there installed, and pursued a path into the thick of the saplings, making for one of the bluebell plots. Balthasar, preceding him once more, uttered a low growl. Old Jolyon stirred him with his foot, but the dog remained motionless, just where there was no room to pass, and the hair rose slowly along the centre of his woolly back. Whether from the growl and the look of the dog's stivered hair, or from the sensation which a man feels in a wood, old Jolyon also felt something move along his spine. And then the path turned, and there was an old mossy log, and on it a woman sitting. Her face was turned away, and he had just time to think: 'She's trespassing—I must have a board put up! ' before she turned. Powers above! The face he had seen at the opera—the very woman he had just been thinking of! In that confused moment he saw things blurred, as if a spirit—queer effect—the slant of sunlight perhaps on her violet—grey frock! And then she rose and stood smiling, her head a little to one side. Old Jolyon thought: 'How pretty she is! ' She did not speak, neither did he; and he realized why with a certain admiration. She was here no doubt because of some memory, and did not mean to try and get out of it by vulgar explanation.

和往常一样，他们缓步穿过了黄毛茛和雏菊丛，走进了蕨草园。这时蕨草还没长出多少；这里的设计十分巧妙，这片地刚好比草坪低一些，草长长后就和另一块草坪一样高了，给人一种不规则的感觉，园艺学很讲究这个。巴尔萨泽特别喜欢这里的石块和泥土，有时它还能找着一只鼹鼠。老乔利恩是特地从这里穿过来的，虽然这里现在算不上美，但他觉得总有一天会变美，他总是想： “我得让瓦尔过来看看，他可比比奇强。” 花草就像房子和疾病一样，需要最出色的行家帮忙料理。这里还有不少蜗牛，要是有孙子孙女陪着，他就会指着其中一只，给他们讲一个小男孩的故事。小男孩问： “妈妈，李子有腿吗？” “没有，宝贝。” “那可糟糕啦，我好像吞下了一只蜗牛宝宝。” 孩子们听了就会跳起来，紧紧抓住他的手，想象着蜗牛宝宝爬过那小男孩的 “红红的喉洞” ，他的眼睛就会闪闪发亮。走过蕨草园，他打开小门，门正好通向第一块田地。那块地大得像公园一样，外面用砖墙围出一个菜园。老乔利恩没心情去菜园，他于是下了山坡，向池塘走去。巴尔萨泽知道那里有一两只水鼠，于是蹦蹦跳跳地走在前面。它每天都走这条路，所以再熟悉不过了；从步态中看得出它年纪不轻了。老乔利恩在池塘边站了一会，看到昨天又有一朵睡莲开了；他明天要带霍利来看，那时 “小甜心” 的腹泻就好了——霍利的小肠胃特别娇弱，午餐时只吃了一个西红柿就拉肚子了。乔利已经上学了——这是第一个学期——之前他几乎整天都和霍利黏在一起，所以现在非常想她。他又感到疼了，最近经常这样，身体左肋处隐隐作痛。他回头望了望小山。的确，可怜的小波辛尼把宅子建得非常出色；如果现在他还活着，应该已经很成功了！那他现在在哪里呢？也许他的灵魂还在这里徘徊，这里有他最后一件作品，也是他爱情悲剧发生的地方。或者菲利普·波辛尼的灵魂已经融入了这里的一草一木？谁又能说得清呢？巴尔萨泽腿上沾满了泥！他朝小灌木林走去。前些日子，那里到处都是风信子，特别惹人喜爱；他知道在林中几片太阳照不到的地方有一些仍开着，就像从树间落下的块块天空。他路过那里的牛棚和鸡舍，从小路穿过茂密的幼苗林，朝有风信子的地方走去。巴尔萨泽又跑到他前面去了，发出一声低沉的吼叫。老乔利恩用脚碰了碰他，小狗还是一动不动，就在前面把路挡住，它蓬松后背中间的毛慢慢地立了起来。不知道是因为听见狗叫，看到狗毛竖起，还是因为人在树林中都有这种感觉，老乔利恩也感到脊梁骨发凉。接着到了小路拐弯处，那里横着一根长满苔藓的老原木，一个女人坐在上面。她的脸侧对着他，就在她回头之前，他还在想： “她竟然擅闯私人庄园——我得立一块牌子才行！” 这时那张脸转了过来。天哪！就是他在剧院看到的那张脸——他刚才想到的那个女人！在那心神迷惘的时刻，他眼中的景象竟都模糊了，前面仿佛是一个精灵——真是怪事——也许是因为阳光斜斜地照在她紫灰色连衣裙上！她站起身莞尔一笑，头向一旁微微侧着。老乔利恩心想： “她可真漂亮！” 她没说话，他也没开口；他明白了自己为何会如此欣赏她。毫无疑问，她是来怀念过往的，她也不打算找个粗鄙的理由为自己开脱。

"Don't let that dog touch your frock, " he said; "he's got wet feet. Come here, you! "

“别让狗碰到裙子，” 他说： “它的爪子是湿的。巴尔萨泽，过来！”

But the dog Balthasar went on towards the visitor, who put her hand down and stroked his head. Old Jolyon said quickly:

但巴尔萨泽却朝客人走了过去。她用手摸了摸狗的头。老乔利恩马上说：

"I saw you at the opera the other night; you didn't notice me. "

“我那晚在歌剧院见过你；你没注意到我。”

"Oh, yes! I did. "

“哦，不！我看见您了。”

He felt a subtle flattery in that, as though she had added: 'Do you think one could miss seeing you? '

他感到那句话带着点儿微微的奉承，就好像她接下来要说： “您觉得谁会看不见您吗？”

"They're all in Spain, " he remarked abruptly. "I 'm alone; I drove up for the opera. The Ravogli's good. Have you seen the cow—houses? "

“他们都在西班牙呢，” 他突然开口说道， “我自己一个人住，有时开车去听听歌剧。拉沃戈里唱得很好。你看见牛棚了吗？”

In a situation so charged with mystery and something very like emotion he moved instinctively towards that bit of property, and she moved beside him. Her figure swayed faintly, like the best kind of French figures; her dress, too, was a sort of French grey. He noticed two or three silver threads in her amber—coloured hair, strange hair with those dark eyes of hers, and that creamy—pale face. A sudden sidelong look from the velvety brown eyes disturbed him. It seemed to come from deep and far, from another world almost, or at all events from some one not living very much in this. And he said mechanically:

在这一充满神秘和类似情感的情形下，他本能地朝那片产业走了过去，艾琳也和他并肩走着。她腰肢轻摆，和最曼妙的法国女子的腰肢一样；连衣裙也是那种法兰西式的浅灰色。他注意到她琥珀色的头发中有两三根银丝，与她深色的双眸、象牙白的面庞不太相配。她那天鹅绒般的棕色眼眸突然望了他一眼，让他心神一颤。他觉得这一瞥像来自十分遥远的地方，几乎来自另一个世界，至少也是没怎么在这个世界生活过的人才会有这种眼神。他不禁问道：

"Where are you living now? "

“你现在住哪儿？”

"I have a little flat in Chelsea. "

“我在切尔西租了间小公寓。”

He did not want to hear what she was doing, did not want to hear anything; but the perverse word came out:

他不想知道她在做什么，不想听任何事情；但那句不合时宜的话还是脱口而出：

"Alone? "

“一个人？”

She nodded. It was a relief to know that. And it came into his mind that, but for a twist of fate, she would have been mistress of this coppice, showing these cow—houses to him, a visitor.

她点点头。这倒让他宽慰了些。他突然想到，要不是命运的捉弄，她本应是这片小灌木林的女主人，带他这位客人看这些牛棚。

"All Alderneys, " he muttered; "they give the best milk. This one's a pretty creature. Woa, Myrtle! "

“这些都是奥尔德尼牛，” 他嘀咕道， “能产出最好的牛奶。这头长得很漂亮。噢，桃金娘！”

The fawn—coloured cow, with eyes as soft and brown as Irene's own, was standing absolutely still, not having long been milked. She looked round at them out of the corner of those lustrous, mild, cynical eyes, and from her grey lips a little dribble of saliva threaded its way towards the straw. The scent of hay and vanilla and ammonia rose in the dim light of the cool cow—house; and old Jolyon said:

这头浅黄褐色的奶牛，眸子也是棕色的，和艾琳的一样柔和。刚挤完奶不久，它站在那里一动不动。它用眼角打量着他们，那眼神光亮、温和，又有点儿愤世嫉俗，一缕涎液从灰色的唇边淌到稻草上。凉爽的牛棚里光线昏暗，隐隐飘着干草、香草和氨水的气味；老乔利恩说：

"You must come up and have some dinner with me. I'll send you home in the carriage. "

“你一定要过来和我一起吃晚饭。我会派马车送你回去。”

He perceived a struggle going on within her; natural, no doubt, with her memories. But he wanted her company; a pretty face, a charming figure, beauty! He had been alone all the afternoon. Perhaps his eyes were wistful, for she answered: "Thank you, Uncle Jolyon. I should like to. "

他察觉到艾琳内心的犹豫；这很自然，毕竟有那段回忆。可他希望她能陪着他；美丽的面庞，曼妙的身姿，真美！整个下午他都是一个人。也许是因为他渴望的眼神；她答道： “谢谢您，乔利恩伯伯。我很乐意。”

He rubbed his hands, and said:

他搓着手说：

"Capital! Let's go up, then! " And, preceded by the dog Balthasar, they ascended through the field. The sun was almost level in their faces now, and he could see, not only those silver threads, but little lines, just deep enough to stamp her beauty with a coin—like fineness—the special look of life unshared with others. "I'll take her in by the terrace, " he thought: "I won't make a common visitor of her. "

“好极了！我们这就上去！” 于是，巴尔萨泽领头，他们穿过田野走上去。这时的太阳几乎和他们的脸在同一水平线上了。老乔利恩不仅看到了些许银发，还看到了一些皱纹，不深不浅，让她的美如精雕细琢的硬币头像般精致——与众不同的人生才有的独特之美。 “我要带她从露台进去，” 他心想： “可不能当她是普普通通的来客。”

"What do you do all day? " he said.

“你每天都做些什么？” 他问。

"Teach music; I have another interest, too. "

“教音乐；也有别的兴趣。”

"Work! " said old Jolyon, picking up the doll from off the swing, and smoothing its black petticoat. "Nothing like it, is there? I don't do any now. I 'm getting on. What interest is that? "

“工作！” 老乔利恩边说边拿起秋千上的娃娃，抚平它黑色的裙子， “什么也不如工作，对吗？我现在什么也不做了。年岁大了。你说的兴趣是指什么？”

"Trying to help women who've come to grief. " Old Jolyon did not quite understand. "To grief? " he repeated; then realised with a shock that she meant exactly what he would have meant himself if he had used that expression. Assisting the Magdalenes of London! What a weird and terrifying interest! And, curiosity overcoming his natural shrinking, he asked:

“想办法帮助落难的女人。” 老乔利恩没听太懂。 “落难？” 他重复道；接着一惊，这才明白艾琳的意思跟他自己偶尔说到这个词时的意思如出一辙。帮助伦敦从良的妓女！多么让人惊悸又难以置信的兴趣！然而，好奇心战胜了天然的畏缩，他问：

"Why? What do you do for them? "

“为什么？你怎么帮她们？”

"Not much. I've no money to spare. I can only give sympathy and food sometimes. "

“帮不上太多。没有钱给她们。只能表示同情，有时给她们点儿吃的。”

Involuntarily old Jolyon's hand sought his purse. He said hastily: "How d 'you get hold of them? "

老乔利恩的手不由得摸向了自己的钱袋。他连忙问： “你怎么认识她们的？”

"I go to a hospital. "

“在医院。”

"A hospital! Phew! "

“啊，医院。”

"What hurts me most is that once they nearly all had some sort of beauty. "

“她们从前几乎都有自己的美，这最让我难受。”

Old Jolyon straightened the doll. "Beauty! " he ejaculated: "Ha! Yes! A sad business! " and he moved towards the house. Through a French window, under sun—blinds not yet drawn up, he preceded her into the room where he was wont to study The Times and the sheets of an agricultural magazine, with huge illustrations of mangold wurzels, and the like, which provided Holly with material for her paint brush.

老乔利恩拉直了手中的玩偶。 “美！” 他突然说道， “呵！可不是！多么悲惨！” 于是向房子走去。老乔利恩带她走到一扇落地窗前，掀起百叶帘，来到自己平时读书的房间。除了读《泰晤士报》，他也看农业杂志，上面有大幅的甜菜之类的插图，正好可以用作霍利画画的素材。

"Dinner's in half an hour. You'd like to wash your hands! I'll take you to June's room. "

“晚饭半个小时后就好。洗洗手吧！我带你去琼的房间。”

He saw her looking round eagerly; what changes since she had last visited this house with her husband, or her lover, or both perhaps—he did not know, could not say! All that was dark, and he wished to leave it so. But what changes! And in the hall he said:

老乔利恩看到艾琳热切地环顾四周；她上次来还是和丈夫一起，或者和情人一起，又或者跟他们都一起来过。这之后发生了多少变化，他不知道，更说不上来！这还是个秘密，他也不打算弄明白。但确实变了很多！在厅堂里，他说：

"My boy Jo's a painter, you know. He's got a lot of taste. It isn't mine, of course, but I've let him have his way. "

“我儿子乔是个画家，你知道。他很有品位。当然，跟我的不同，不过我由着他了。”

She was standing very still, her eyes roaming through the hall and music room, as it now was—all thrown into one, under the great skylight. Old Jolyon had an odd impression of her. Was she trying to conjure somebody from the shades of that space where the colouring was all pearl—grey and silver? He would have had gold himself; more lively and solid. But Jo had French tastes, and it had come out shadowy like that, with an effect as of the fume of cigarettes the chap was always smoking, broken here and there by a little blaze of blue or crimson colour. It was not his dream! Mentally he had hung this space with those gold—framed masterpieces of still and stiller life which he had bought in days when quantity was precious. And now where were they? Sold for a song! That something which made him, alone among Forsytes, move with the times had warned him against the struggle to retain them. But in his study he still had 'Dutch Fishing Boats at Sunset. '

她站在那里，一动不动，目光在厅堂和琴房间缓缓移动着。现在，大天窗底下的这两间房已经被打通成了一间。她给了老乔利恩一种奇妙的感觉。她莫不是想从那块珍珠灰和银色空间的阴影中用意念唤出一个人？他自己倒是想用金色的，生动又稳重。但是乔的品位是法国式的，家里的装修那样朦胧虚幻，就像这小子常抽烟吐出的烟雾一般，还缀上星星点点的蓝色或深红色。这可不是他想要的！他原想在这间屋子挂上金框的静物画和更静的静物画佳作；他当时买的时候，人们更讲究收藏的数量。这些画现在都哪里去了？都贱卖了！在福赛特家族成员中，他是唯一紧跟时代的人，正因为如此，他努力说服自己不保留这些画。但他的书房里还挂着那幅《日暮时分的荷兰渔船》。

He began to mount the stairs with her, slowly, for he felt his side.

他们一起上楼，上得很慢，因为他左肋有点儿疼。

"These are the bathrooms, " he said, "and other arrangements. I've had them tiled. The nurseries are along there. And this is Jo's and his wife's. They all communicate. But you remember, I expect. "

“这是浴室，” 他说， “还有洗手间。我都铺了瓷砖。孩子的房间在那边。这儿是乔和他妻子的房间。房间是通着的。我想，你应该还记得。”

Irene nodded. They passed on, up the gallery and entered a large room with a small bed, and several windows.

艾琳点点头。他们沿着走廊继续往前，走进了一个大房间，里面摆着一张小床，有几扇窗户。

"This is mine, " he said. The walls were covered with the photographs of children and watercolour sketches, and he added doubtfully:

“我就住这儿。” 他说。墙上挂着许多孩子的照片和水彩画，他迟疑着说：

"These are Jo's. The view's first—rate. You can see the Grand Stand at Epsom in clear weather. "

“都是乔的画。这儿视野非常好。天气晴朗的时候能看见埃普索姆跑马场的大看台。”

The sun was down now, behind the house, and over the 'prospect' a luminous haze had settled, emanation of the long and prosperous day. Few houses showed, but fields and trees faintly glistened, away to a loom of downs.

此时，太阳已经西沉，落到了房子后面。明亮的雾霭飘浮在那片 “景色” 之上，仿佛映射着这悠长而繁荣的一天。望不见什么房子，不过田野和树木若隐若现，远处是一片朦胧的高地。

"The country's changing, " he said abruptly, "but there it'll be when we're all gone. Look at those thrushes—the birds are sweet here in the mornings. I 'm glad to have washed my hands of London. "

“乡下也变了，” 他突然说道， “但即使我们都不在了，它还会在。你看那些画眉，早上这儿的鸟叫声真动听。真高兴我与伦敦再无瓜葛。”

Her face was close to the window pane, and he was struck by its mournful look. 'Wish I could make her look happy! ' he thought. 'A pretty face, but sad! ' And taking up his can of hot water he went out into the gallery.

艾琳的脸靠着窗格；看到她悲戚的神情，老乔利恩心中一动。 “真希望能让她开心起来！” 他想着。 “多美的一张脸，却这么哀伤。” 他提起房里那罐热水，走出房间来到走廊。

"This is June's room, " he said, opening the next door and putting the can down; "I think you'll find everything. " And closing the door behind her he went back to his own room. Brushing his hair with his great ebony brushes, and dabbing his forehead with eau de Cologne, he mused. She had come so strangely—a sort of visitation; mysterious, even romantic, as if his desire for company, for beauty, had been fulfilled by whatever it was which fulfilled that sort of thing. And before the mirror he straightened his still upright figure, passed the brushes over his great white moustache, touched up his eyebrows with eau de Cologne, and rang the bell.

“这是琼的房间，” 他说着打开了隔壁房间的门，把罐子放下， “我想你可以自己看看。” 他走出去，关上她身后的门，回到自己的房间。他用那柄大乌木梳理了理头发，往额头拍了点儿古龙水，陷入沉思。她就这么来了——算是种天赐吧；有些神秘，甚至还带点儿浪漫。似乎他对有人为伴和对美好的渴望都得到了满足；究竟是什么满足了这些东西？还是先别去追问了。站在镜子前，他挺了挺还算笔直的腰，用刷子在他的大白胡子上刷了几下，又用古龙水沾了沾眉毛，然后摇响了铃。

"I forgot to let them know that I have a lady to dinner with me. Let cook do something extra, and tell Beacon to have the landau and pair at half—past ten to drive her back to Town to—night. Is Miss Holly asleep? "

“我忘了告诉他们，今晚有位女士与我一同用餐。告诉厨师加点儿菜，还有，让贝肯今晚十点半备好马车和两匹马，送她回城。霍利小姐睡了吗？”

The maid thought not. And old Jolyon, passing down the gallery, stole on tiptoe towards the nursery, and opened the door whose hinges he kept specially oiled that he might slip in and out in the evenings without being heard.

女仆说可能还没。老乔利恩踮着脚尖沿着走廊来到孩子的房间，打开门——他特意给门的铰链上了油，这样他就可以在夜晚溜进溜出，而不吵醒霍利。