Chapter XII: Birth of a Forsyte

Soames walked out of the garden door, crossed the lawn, stood on
the path above the river, turned round and walked back to the
garden door, without having realised that he had moved. The sound
of wheels crunching the drive convinced him that time had passed,
and the doctor gone. What, exactly, had he said?

“This is the position, Mr. Forsyte. I can make pretty certain of
her life if I operate, but the baby will be born dead. If I don’t
operate, the baby will most probably be born alive, but it’s a
great risk for the mother—a great risk. In either case I don’t
think she can ever have another child. In her state she obviously
can’t decide for herself, and we can’t wait for her mother. It’s
for you to make the decision, while I’m getting what’s necessary.
I shall be back within the hour.”

The decision! What a decision! No time to get a specialist down!
No time for anything!

The sound of wheels died away, but Soames still stood intent;
then, suddenly covering his ears, he walked back to the river. To
come before its time like this, with no chance to foresee
anything, not even to get her mother here! It was for her mother
to make that decision, and she couldn’t arrive from Paris till
to-night! If only he could have understood the doctor’s jargon,
the medical niceties, so as to be sure he was weighing the
chances properly; but they were Greek to him—like a legal problem
to a layman. And yet he _must_ decide! He brought his hand away
from his brow wet, though the air was chilly. These sounds which
came from her room! To go back there would only make it more
difficult. He must be calm, clear. On the one hand life, nearly
certain, of his young wife, death quite certain, of his child;
and—no more children afterwards! On the other, death _perhaps_ of
his wife, nearly certain life for the child; and—no more children
afterwards! Which to choose?.... It had rained this last
fortnight—the river was very full, and in the water, collected
round the little house-boat moored by his landing-stage, were
many leaves from the woods above, brought off by a frost. Leaves
fell, lives drifted down—Death! To decide about death! And no one
to give him a hand. Life lost was lost for good. Let nothing go
that you could keep; for, if it went, you couldn’t get it back.
It left you bare, like those trees when they lost their leaves;
barer and barer until you, too, withered and came down. And, by a
queer somersault of thought, he seemed to see not Annette lying
up there behind that window-pane on which the sun was shining,
but Irene lying in their bedroom in Montpellier Square, as it
might conceivably have been her fate to lie, sixteen years ago.
Would he have hesitated then? Not a moment! Operate, operate!
Make certain of her life! No decision—a mere instinctive cry for
help, in spite of his knowledge, even then, that she did not love
him! But this! Ah! there was nothing overmastering in his feeling
for Annette! Many times these last months, especially since she
had been growing frightened, he had wondered. She had a will of
her own, was selfish in her French way. And yet—so pretty! What
would she wish—to take the risk. “I know she wants the child,” he
thought. “If it’s born dead, and no more chance afterwards—it’ll
upset her terribly. No more chance! All for nothing! Married life
with her for years and years without a child. Nothing to steady
her! She’s too young. Nothing to look forward to, for her—for me!
_For me!_” He struck his hands against his chest! Why couldn’t he
think without bringing himself in—get out of himself and see what
he ought to do? The thought hurt him, then lost edge, as if it
had come in contact with a breastplate. Out of oneself!
Impossible! Out into soundless, scentless, touchless, sightless
space! The very idea was ghastly, futile! And touching there the
bedrock of reality, the bottom of his Forsyte spirit, Soames
rested for a moment. When one ceased, all ceased; it might go on,
but there’d be nothing in it!

He looked at his watch. In half an hour the doctor would be back.
He _must_ decide! If against the operation and she died, how face
her mother and the doctor afterwards? How face his own
conscience? It was _his_ child that she was having. If for the
operation—then he condemned them both to childlessness. And for
what else had he married her but to have a lawful heir? And his
father—at death’s door, waiting for the news! “It’s cruel!” he
thought; “I ought never to have such a thing to settle! It’s
cruel!” He turned towards the house. Some deep, simple way of
deciding! He took out a coin, and put it back. If he spun it, he
knew he would not abide by what came up! He went into the
dining-room, furthest away from that room whence the sounds
issued. The doctor had said there was a chance. In here that
chance seemed greater; the river did not flow, nor the leaves
fall. A fire was burning. Soames unlocked the tantalus. He hardly
ever touched spirits, but now—he poured himself out some whisky
and drank it neat, craving a faster flow of blood. “That fellow
Jolyon,” he thought; “he had children already. He has the woman I
really loved; and now a son by her! And I—I’m asked to destroy my
only child! Annette _can’t_ die; it’s not possible. She’s
strong!”

He was still standing sullenly at the sideboard when he heard the
doctor’s carriage, and went out to him. He had to wait for him to
come downstairs.

“Well, doctor?”

“The situation’s the same. Have you decided?”

“Yes,” said Soames; “don’t operate!”

“Not? You understand—the risk’s great?”

In Soames’ set face nothing moved but the lips.

“You said there was a chance?”

“A chance, yes; not much of one.”

“You say the baby _must_ be born dead if you do?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still think that in any case she can’t have another?”

“One can’t be absolutely sure, but it’s most unlikely.”

“She’s strong,” said Soames; “we’ll take the risk.”

The doctor looked at him very gravely. “It’s on your shoulders,”
he said; “with my own wife, I couldn’t.”

Soames’ chin jerked up as if someone had hit him.

“Am I of any use up there?” he asked.

“No; keep away.”

“I shall be in my picture-gallery, then; you know where.”

The doctor nodded, and went upstairs.

Soames continued to stand, listening. “By this time to-morrow,”
he thought, “I may have her death on my hands.” No! it was
unfair—monstrous, to put it that way! Sullenness dropped on him
again, and he went up to the gallery. He stood at the window. The
wind was in the north; it was cold, clear; very blue sky, heavy
ragged white clouds chasing across; the river blue, too, through
the screen of goldening trees; the woods all rich with colour,
glowing, burnished—an early autumn. If it were his own life,
would he be taking that risk? “But _she’d_ take the risk of
losing me,” he thought, “sooner than lose her child! She doesn’t
really love me!” What could one expect—a girl and French? The one
thing really vital to them both, vital to their marriage and
their futures, was a child! “I’ve been through a lot for this,”
he thought, “I’ll hold on—hold on. There’s a chance of keeping
both—a chance!” One kept till things were taken—one naturally
kept! He began walking round the gallery. He had made one
purchase lately which he knew was a fortune in itself, and he
halted before it—a girl with dull gold hair which looked like
filaments of metal gazing at a little golden monster she was
holding in her hand. Even at this tortured moment he could just
feel the extraordinary nature of the bargain he had made—admire
the quality of the table, the floor, the chair, the girl’s
figure, the absorbed expression on her face, the dull gold
filaments of her hair, the bright gold of the little monster.
Collecting pictures; growing richer, richer! What use, if...! He
turned his back abruptly on the picture, and went to the window.
Some of his doves had flown up from their perches round the
dovecot, and were stretching their wings in the wind. In the
clear sharp sunlight their whiteness almost flashed. They flew
far, making a flung-up hieroglyphic against the sky. Annette fed
the doves; it was pretty to see her. They took it out of her
hand; they knew she was matter-of-fact. A choking sensation came
into his throat. She would not—could not die! She was too—too
sensible; and she was strong, really strong, like her mother, in
spite of her fair prettiness.

It was already growing dark when at last he opened the door, and
stood listening. Not a sound! A milky twilight crept about the
stairway and the landings below. He had turned back when a sound
caught his ear. Peering down, he saw a black shape moving, and
his heart stood still. What was it? Death? The shape of Death
coming from her door? No! only a maid without cap or apron. She
came to the foot of his flight of stairs and said breathlessly:

“The doctor wants to see you, sir.”

He ran down. She stood flat against the wall to let him pass, and
said:

“Oh, Sir! it’s over.”

“Over?” said Soames, with a sort of menace; “what d’you mean?”

“It’s born, sir.”

He dashed up the four steps in front of him, and came suddenly on
the doctor in the dim passage. The man was wiping his brow.

“Well?” he said; “quick!”

“Both living; it’s all right, I think.”

Soames stood quite still, covering his eyes.

“I congratulate you,” he heard the doctor say; “it was touch and
go.”

Soames let fall the hand which was covering his face.

“Thanks,” he said; “thanks very much. What is it?”

“Daughter—luckily; a son would have killed her—the head.”

A daughter!

“The utmost care of both,” he hears the doctor say, “and we shall
do. When does the mother come?”

“To-night, between nine and ten, I hope.”

“I’ll stay till then. Do you want to see them?”

“Not now,” said Soames; “before you go. I’ll have dinner sent up
to you.” And he went downstairs.

Relief unspeakable, and yet—a daughter! It seemed to him unfair.
To have taken that risk—to have been through this agony—and what
agony!—for a daughter! He stood before the blazing fire of wood
logs in the hall, touching it with his toe and trying to readjust
himself. “My father!” he thought. A bitter disappointment, no
disguising it! One never got all one wanted in this life! And
there was no other—at least, if there was, it was no use!

While he was standing there, a telegram was brought him.

“Come up at once, your father sinking fast.—MOTHER.”

He read it with a choking sensation. One would have thought he
couldn’t feel anything after these last hours, but he felt this.
Half-past seven, a train from Reading at nine, and madame’s
train, if she had caught it, came in at eight-forty—he would meet
that, and go on. He ordered the carriage, ate some dinner
mechanically, and went upstairs. The doctor came out to him.

“They’re sleeping.”

“I won’t go in,” said Soames with relief. “My father’s dying; I
have to—go up. Is it all right?”

The doctor’s face expressed a kind of doubting admiration. “If
they were all as unemotional” he might have been saying.

“Yes, I think you may go with an easy mind. You’ll be down soon?”

“To-morrow,” said Soames. “Here’s the address.”

The doctor seemed to hover on the verge of sympathy.

“Good-night!” said Soames abruptly, and turned away. He put on
his fur coat. Death! It was a chilly business. He smoked a
cigarette in the carriage—one of his rare cigarettes. The night
was windy and flew on black wings; the carriage lights had to
search out the way. His father! That old, old man! A comfortless
night—to die!

The London train came in just as he reached the station, and
Madame Lamotte, substantial, dark-clothed, very yellow in the
lamplight, came towards the exit with a dressing-bag.

“This all you have?” asked Soames.

“But yes; I had not the time. How is my little one?”

“Doing well—both. A girl!”

“A girl! What joy! I had a frightful crossing!”

Her black bulk, solid, unreduced by the frightful crossing,
climbed into the brougham.

“And you, _mon cher?_”

“My father’s dying,” said Soames between his teeth. “I’m going
up. Give my love to Annette.”

“_Tiens!_” murmured Madame Lamotte; “_quel malheur!_”

Soames took his hat off, and moved towards his train. “The
French!” he thought.