Swan Song

In Washington, District of Columbia, the "Fall" sun shone, and all
that was not evergreen or stone in Rock Creek Cemetery was glowing.
Before the Saint Gaudens statue Soames Forsyte sat on his overcoat,
with the marble screen to his back, enjoying the seclusion and a
streak of sunlight passaging between the cypresses.

With his daughter and her husband he had been up here already, the
afternoon before, and had taken a fancy to the place. Apart from
the general attraction of a cemetery, this statue awakened the
connoisseur within him. Though not a thing you could acquire, it
was undoubtedly a work of art, and produced a very marked effect.
He did not remember a statue that made him feel so thoroughly at
home. That great greenish bronze figure of seated woman within the
hooding folds of her ample cloak seemed to carry him down to the
bottom of his own soul. Yesterday, in the presence of Fleur,
Michael, and other people, all gaping like himself, he had not so
much noted the mood of the thing as its technical excellence, but
now, alone, he could enjoy the luxury of his own sensations. Some
called it "Grief," some "The Adams Memorial." He didn't know, but
in any case there it was, the best thing he had come across in
America, the one that gave him the most pleasure, in spite of all
the water he had seen at Niagara and those skyscrapers in New York.
Three times he had changed his position on that crescent marble
seat, varying his sensations every time. From his present position
the woman had passed beyond grief. She sat in a frozen acceptance
deeper than death itself, very remarkable! There was something
about death! He remembered his own father, James, a quarter of an
hour after death, as if--as if he had been told at last!

A red-oak leaf fell on to his lapel, another on to his knee; Soames
did not brush them off. Easy to sit still in front of that thing!
They ought to make America sit there once a week!

He rose, crossed towards the statue, and gingerly touched a fold in
the green bronze, as if questioning the possibility of everlasting
nothingness.

"Got a sister living in Dallas--married a railroad man down there
as a young girl. Why! Texas is a wonderful State. I know my
sister laughs at the idea that the climate of Texas isn't about
right."

Soames withdrew his hand from the bronze, and returned to his seat.
Two tall thin elderly figures were entering the sanctuary. They
moved into the middle and stood silent. Presently one said "Well!"
and they moved out again at the other end. A little stir of wind
fluttered some fallen leaves at the base of the statue. Soames
shifted along to the extreme left. From there the statue was once
more woman--very noble! And he sat motionless in his attitude of a
thinker, the lower part of his face buried in his hand.

Considerably browned and distinctly healthy-looking, he was
accustomed to regard himself as worn out by his long travel, which,
after encircling the world, would end, the day after tomorrow, by
embarkation on the Adelphic. This three-day run to Washington was
the last straw, and he was supporting it very well. The city was
pleasing; it had some fine buildings and a great many trees with
the tints on; there wasn't the rush of New York, and plenty of
houses that people could live in, he should think. Of course the
place was full of Americans, but that was unavoidable. He was
happy about Fleur too; she had quite got over that unpleasant
Ferrar business, seemed on excellent terms with young Michael, and
was looking forward to her home and her baby again. There was,
indeed, in Soames a sense of culmination and of peace--a feeling of
virtue having been its own reward, and beyond all, the thought that
he would soon be smelling English grass and seeing again the river
flowing past his cows. Annette, even, might be glad to see him--he
had bought her a really nice emerald bracelet in New York. To such
general satisfaction this statue of "Grief" was putting the
finishing touch.

"Here we are, Anne."

An English voice, and two young people at the far end--going to
chatter, he supposed! He was preparing to rise when he heard the
girl say, in a voice American, indeed, but soft and curiously
private:

"John, it's terribly great. It makes me sink here." From the
gesture of her hand, Soames saw that it was where the thing had
made HIM sink, too.

"Everlasting stillness. It makes me sad, John."