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diff --git a/2559-0.txt b/2559-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..032c2ec --- /dev/null +++ b/2559-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14523 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Forsyte Saga, The Man Of Property, by John Galsworthy + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + +Title: The Forsyte Saga, The Man Of Property + +Author: John Galsworthy + +Release Date: March, 2001 [EBook #2559] +[Most recently updated: May 11, 2020] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORSYTE SAGA, THE MAN OF PROPERTY *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + spines (203K) + + subscription (12K) + + editon (10K) + + titlepage1 (38K) + + frontis1 (60K) + + + + + FORSYTE SAGA + + THE MAN OF PROPERTY + + By John Galsworthy + + + Contents + + PREFACE: + + THE MAN OF PROPERTY + + PART I + + CHAPTER I—“AT HOME” AT OLD JOLYON’S + + CHAPTER II—OLD JOLYON GOES TO THE OPERA + + CHAPTER III—DINNER AT SWITHIN’S + + CHAPTER IV—PROJECTION OF THE HOUSE + + CHAPTER V—A FORSYTE MÉNAGE + + CHAPTER VI—JAMES AT LARGE + + CHAPTER VII—OLD JOLYON’S PECCADILLO + + CHAPTER VIII—PLANS OF THE HOUSE + + CHAPTER IX—DEATH OF AUNT ANN + + + PART II + + CHAPTER I—PROGRESS OF THE HOUSE + + CHAPTER II—JUNE’S TREAT + + CHAPTER III—DRIVE WITH SWITHIN + + CHAPTER IV—JAMES GOES TO SEE FOR HIMSELF + + CHAPTER V—SOAMES AND BOSINNEY CORRESPOND + + CHAPTER VI—OLD JOLYON AT THE ZOO + + CHAPTER VII—AFTERNOON AT TIMOTHY’S + + CHAPTER VIII—DANCE AT ROGER’S + + CHAPTER IX—EVENING AT RICHMOND + + CHAPTER X—DIAGNOSIS OF A FORSYTE + + CHAPTER XI—BOSINNEY ON PAROLE + + CHAPTER XII—JUNE PAYS SOME CALLS + + CHAPTER XIII—PERFECTION OF THE HOUSE + + CHAPTER XIV—SOAMES SITS ON THE STAIRS + + + PART III + + CHAPTER I—MRS. MACANDER’S EVIDENCE + + CHAPTER II—NIGHT IN THE PARK + + CHAPTER III—MEETING AT THE BOTANICAL + + CHAPTER IV—VOYAGE INTO THE INFERNO + + CHAPTER V—THE TRIAL + + CHAPTER VI—SOAMES BREAKS THE NEWS + + CHAPTER VII—JUNE’S VICTORY + + CHAPTER VIII—BOSINNEY’S DEPARTURE + + CHAPTER IX—IRENE’S RETURN + + + + + THE MAN OF PROPERTY + + + TO MY WIFE: + I DEDICATE THE FORSYTE SAGA IN ITS ENTIRETY, + BELIEVING IT TO BE OF ALL MY WORKS THE LEAST UNWORTHY OF ONE WITHOUT + WHOSE ENCOURAGEMENT, SYMPATHY AND CRITICISM I COULD NEVER HAVE BECOME + EVEN SUCH A WRITER AS I AM. + + + + + PREFACE: + + + “The Forsyte Saga” was the title originally destined for that + part of it which is called “The Man of Property”; and to adopt it + for the collected chronicles of the Forsyte family has indulged + the Forsytean tenacity that is in all of us. The word Saga might + be objected to on the ground that it connotes the heroic and that + there is little heroism in these pages. But it is used with a + suitable irony; and, after all, this long tale, though it may + deal with folk in frock coats, furbelows, and a gilt-edged + period, is not devoid of the essential heat of conflict. + Discounting for the gigantic stature and blood-thirstiness of old + days, as they have come down to us in fairy-tale and legend, the + folk of the old Sagas were Forsytes, assuredly, in their + possessive instincts, and as little proof against the inroads of + beauty and passion as Swithin, Soames, or even Young Jolyon. And + if heroic figures, in days that never were, seem to startle out + from their surroundings in fashion unbecoming to a Forsyte of the + Victorian era, we may be sure that tribal instinct was even then + the prime force, and that “family” and the sense of home and + property counted as they do to this day, for all the recent + efforts to “talk them out.” + + So many people have written and claimed that their families were + the originals of the Forsytes that one has been almost encouraged + to believe in the typicality of an imagined species. Manners + change and modes evolve, and “Timothy’s on the Bayswater Road” + becomes a nest of the unbelievable in all except essentials; we + shall not look upon its like again, nor perhaps on such a one as + James or Old Jolyon. And yet the figures of Insurance Societies + and the utterances of Judges reassure us daily that our earthly + paradise is still a rich preserve, where the wild raiders, Beauty + and Passion, come stealing in, filching security from beneath our + noses. As surely as a dog will bark at a brass band, so will the + essential Soames in human nature ever rise up uneasily against + the dissolution which hovers round the folds of ownership. + + “Let the dead Past bury its dead” would be a better saying if the + Past ever died. The persistence of the Past is one of those + tragi-comic blessings which each new age denies, coming cocksure + on to the stage to mouth its claim to a perfect novelty. + + But no Age is so new as that! Human Nature, under its changing + pretensions and clothes, is and ever will be very much of a + Forsyte, and might, after all, be a much worse animal. + + Looking back on the Victorian era, whose ripeness, decline, and + “fall-of” is in some sort pictured in “The Forsyte Saga,” we see + now that we have but jumped out of a frying-pan into a fire. It + would be difficult to substantiate a claim that the case of + England was better in 1913 than it was in 1886, when the Forsytes + assembled at Old Jolyon’s to celebrate the engagement of June to + Philip Bosinney. And in 1920, when again the clan gathered to + bless the marriage of Fleur with Michael Mont, the state of + England is as surely too molten and bankrupt as in the eighties + it was too congealed and low-percented. If these chronicles had + been a really scientific study of transition one would have dwelt + probably on such factors as the invention of bicycle, motor-car, + and flying-machine; the arrival of a cheap Press; the decline of + country life and increase of the towns; the birth of the Cinema. + Men are, in fact, quite unable to control their own inventions; + they at best develop adaptability to the new conditions those + inventions create. + + But this long tale is no scientific study of a period; it is + rather an intimate incarnation of the disturbance that Beauty + effects in the lives of men. + + The figure of Irene, never, as the reader may possibly have + observed, present, except through the senses of other characters, + is a concretion of disturbing Beauty impinging on a possessive + world. + + One has noticed that readers, as they wade on through the salt + waters of the Saga, are inclined more and more to pity Soames, + and to think that in doing so they are in revolt against the mood + of his creator. Far from it! He, too, pities Soames, the tragedy + of whose life is the very simple, uncontrollable tragedy of being + unlovable, without quite a thick enough skin to be thoroughly + unconscious of the fact. Not even Fleur loves Soames as he feels + he ought to be loved. But in pitying Soames, readers incline, + perhaps, to animus against Irene: After all, they think, he + wasn’t a bad fellow, it wasn’t his fault; she ought to have + forgiven him, and so on! + + And, taking sides, they lose perception of the simple truth, + which underlies the whole story, that where sex attraction is + utterly and definitely lacking in one partner to a union, no + amount of pity, or reason, or duty, or what not, can overcome a + repulsion implicit in Nature. Whether it ought to, or no, is + beside the point; because in fact it never does. And where Irene + seems hard and cruel, as in the Bois de Boulogne, or the Goupenor + Gallery, she is but wisely realistic—knowing that the least + concession is the inch which precedes the impossible, the + repulsive ell. + + A criticism one might pass on the last phase of the Saga is the + complaint that Irene and Jolyon those rebels against + property—claim spiritual property in their son Jon. But it would + be hypercriticism, as the tale is told. No father and mother + could have let the boy marry Fleur without knowledge of the + facts; and the facts determine Jon, not the persuasion of his + parents. Moreover, Jolyon’s persuasion is not on his own account, + but on Irene’s, and Irene’s persuasion becomes a reiterated: + “Don’t think of me, think of yourself!” That Jon, knowing the + facts, can realise his mother’s feelings, will hardly with + justice be held proof that she is, after all, a Forsyte. + + But though the impingement of Beauty and the claims of Freedom on + a possessive world are the main prepossessions of the Forsyte + Saga, it cannot be absolved from the charge of embalming the + upper-middle class. As the old Egyptians placed around their + mummies the necessaries of a future existence, so I have + endeavoured to lay beside the figures of Aunts Ann and Juley and + Hester, of Timothy and Swithin, of Old Jolyon and James, and of + their sons, that which shall guarantee them a little life + here-after, a little balm in the hurried Gilead of a dissolving + “Progress.” + + If the upper-middle class, with other classes, is destined to + “move on” into amorphism, here, pickled in these pages, it lies + under glass for strollers in the wide and ill-arranged museum of + Letters. Here it rests, preserved in its own juice: The Sense of + Property. 1922. + + + THE MAN OF PROPERTY + + by JOHN GALSWORTHY + “........You will answer The slaves are + ours.....” + —Merchant of Venice. + TO EDWARD GARNETT + + + + + PART I + + CHAPTER I “AT HOME” AT OLD JOLYON’S + + + Those privileged to be present at a family festival of the + Forsytes have seen that charming and instructive sight—an upper + middle-class family in full plumage. But whosoever of these + favoured persons has possessed the gift of psychological analysis + (a talent without monetary value and properly ignored by the + Forsytes), has witnessed a spectacle, not only delightful in + itself, but illustrative of an obscure human problem. In plainer + words, he has gleaned from a gathering of this family—no branch + of which had a liking for the other, between no three members of + whom existed anything worthy of the name of sympathy—evidence of + that mysterious concrete tenacity which renders a family so + formidable a unit of society, so clear a reproduction of society + in miniature. He has been admitted to a vision of the dim roads + of social progress, has understood something of patriarchal life, + of the swarmings of savage hordes, of the rise and fall of + nations. He is like one who, having watched a tree grow from its + planting—a paragon of tenacity, insulation, and success, amidst + the deaths of a hundred other plants less fibrous, sappy, and + persistent—one day will see it flourishing with bland, full + foliage, in an almost repugnant prosperity, at the summit of its + efflorescence. + + On June 15, eighteen eighty-six, about four of the afternoon, the + observer who chanced to be present at the house of old Jolyon + Forsyte in Stanhope Gate, might have seen the highest + efflorescence of the Forsytes. + + This was the occasion of an “at home” to celebrate the engagement + of Miss June Forsyte, old Jolyon’s granddaughter, to Mr. Philip + Bosinney. In the bravery of light gloves, buff waistcoats, + feathers and frocks, the family were present, even Aunt Ann, who + now but seldom left the corner of her brother Timothy’s green + drawing-room, where, under the aegis of a plume of dyed pampas + grass in a light blue vase, she sat all day reading and knitting, + surrounded by the effigies of three generations of Forsytes. Even + Aunt Ann was there; her inflexible back, and the dignity of her + calm old face personifying the rigid possessiveness of the family + idea. + + When a Forsyte was engaged, married, or born, the Forsytes were + present; when a Forsyte died—but no Forsyte had as yet died; they + did not die; death being contrary to their principles, they took + precautions against it, the instinctive precautions of highly + vitalized persons who resent encroachments on their property. + + About the Forsytes mingling that day with the crowd of other + guests, there was a more than ordinarily groomed look, an alert, + inquisitive assurance, a brilliant respectability, as though they + were attired in defiance of something. The habitual sniff on the + face of Soames Forsyte had spread through their ranks; they were + on their guard. + + The subconscious offensiveness of their attitude has constituted + old Jolyon’s “home” the psychological moment of the family + history, made it the prelude of their drama. + + The Forsytes were resentful of something, not individually, but + as a family; this resentment expressed itself in an added + perfection of raiment, an exuberance of family cordiality, an + exaggeration of family importance, and—the sniff. Danger—so + indispensable in bringing out the fundamental quality of any + society, group, or individual—was what the Forsytes scented; the + premonition of danger put a burnish on their armour. For the + first time, as a family, they appeared to have an instinct of + being in contact, with some strange and unsafe thing. + + Over against the piano a man of bulk and stature was wearing two + waistcoats on his wide chest, two waistcoats and a ruby pin, + instead of the single satin waistcoat and diamond pin of more + usual occasions, and his shaven, square, old face, the colour of + pale leather, with pale eyes, had its most dignified look, above + his satin stock. This was Swithin Forsyte. Close to the window, + where he could get more than his fair share of fresh air, the + other twin, James—the fat and the lean of it, old Jolyon called + these brothers—like the bulky Swithin, over six feet in height, + but very lean, as though destined from his birth to strike a + balance and maintain an average, brooded over the scene with his + permanent stoop; his grey eyes had an air of fixed absorption in + some secret worry, broken at intervals by a rapid, shifting + scrutiny of surrounding facts; his cheeks, thinned by two + parallel folds, and a long, clean-shaven upper lip, were framed + within Dundreary whiskers. In his hands he turned and turned a + piece of china. Not far off, listening to a lady in brown, his + only son Soames, pale and well-shaved, dark-haired, rather bald, + had poked his chin up sideways, carrying his nose with that + aforesaid appearance of “sniff,” as though despising an egg which + he knew he could not digest. Behind him his cousin, the tall + George, son of the fifth Forsyte, Roger, had a Quilpish look on + his fleshy face, pondering one of his sardonic jests. Something + inherent to the occasion had affected them all. + + Seated in a row close to one another were three ladies—Aunts Ann, + Hester (the two Forsyte maids), and Juley (short for Julia), who + not in first youth had so far forgotten herself as to marry + Septimus Small, a man of poor constitution. She had survived him + for many years. With her elder and younger sister she lived now + in the house of Timothy, her sixth and youngest brother, on the + Bayswater Road. Each of these ladies held fans in their hands, + and each with some touch of colour, some emphatic feather or + brooch, testified to the solemnity of the opportunity. + + In the centre of the room, under the chandelier, as became a + host, stood the head of the family, old Jolyon himself. Eighty + years of age, with his fine, white hair, his dome-like forehead, + his little, dark grey eyes, and an immense white moustache, which + drooped and spread below the level of his strong jaw, he had a + patriarchal look, and in spite of lean cheeks and hollows at his + temples, seemed master of perennial youth. He held himself + extremely upright, and his shrewd, steady eyes had lost none of + their clear shining. Thus he gave an impression of superiority to + the doubts and dislikes of smaller men. Having had his own way + for innumerable years, he had earned a prescriptive right to it. + It would never have occurred to old Jolyon that it was necessary + to wear a look of doubt or of defiance. + + Between him and the four other brothers who were present, James, + Swithin, Nicholas, and Roger, there was much difference, much + similarity. In turn, each of these four brothers was very + different from the other, yet they, too, were alike. + + Through the varying features and expression of those five faces + could be marked a certain steadfastness of chin, underlying + surface distinctions, marking a racial stamp, too prehistoric to + trace, too remote and permanent to discuss—the very hall-mark and + guarantee of the family fortunes. + + Among the younger generation, in the tall, bull-like George, in + pallid strenuous Archibald, in young Nicholas with his sweet and + tentative obstinacy, in the grave and foppishly determined + Eustace, there was this same stamp—less meaningful perhaps, but + unmistakable—a sign of something ineradicable in the family soul. + At one time or another during the afternoon, all these faces, so + dissimilar and so alike, had worn an expression of distrust, the + object of which was undoubtedly the man whose acquaintance they + were thus assembled to make. Philip Bosinney was known to be a + young man without fortune, but Forsyte girls had become engaged + to such before, and had actually married them. It was not + altogether for this reason, therefore, that the minds of the + Forsytes misgave them. They could not have explained the origin + of a misgiving obscured by the mist of family gossip. A story was + undoubtedly told that he had paid his duty call to Aunts Ann, + Juley, and Hester, in a soft grey hat—a soft grey hat, not even a + new one—a dusty thing with a shapeless crown. “So, extraordinary, + my dear—so odd,” Aunt Hester, passing through the little, dark + hall (she was rather short-sighted), had tried to “shoo” it off a + chair, taking it for a strange, disreputable cat—Tommy had such + disgraceful friends! She was disturbed when it did not move. + + Like an artist for ever seeking to discover the significant + trifle which embodies the whole character of a scene, or place, + or person, so those unconscious artists—the Forsytes had fastened + by intuition on this hat; it was their significant trifle, the + detail in which was embedded the meaning of the whole matter; for + each had asked himself: “Come, now, should _I_ have paid that + visit in that hat?” and each had answered “No!” and some, with + more imagination than others, had added: “It would never have + come into my head!” + + George, on hearing the story, grinned. The hat had obviously been + worn as a practical joke! He himself was a connoisseur of such. + “Very haughty!” he said, “the wild Buccaneer.” + + And this mot, the “Buccaneer,” was bandied from mouth to mouth, + till it became the favourite mode of alluding to Bosinney. + + Her aunts reproached June afterwards about the hat. + + “We don’t think you ought to let him, dear!” they had said. + + June had answered in her imperious brisk way, like the little + embodiment of will she was: “Oh! what does it matter? Phil never + knows what he’s got on!” + + No one had credited an answer so outrageous. A man not to know + what he had on? No, no! What indeed was this young man, who, in + becoming engaged to June, old Jolyon’s acknowledged heiress, had + done so well for himself? He was an architect, not in itself a + sufficient reason for wearing such a hat. None of the Forsytes + happened to be architects, but one of them knew two architects + who would never have worn such a hat upon a call of ceremony in + the London season. + + Dangerous—ah, dangerous! June, of course, had not seen this, but, + though not yet nineteen, she was notorious. Had she not said to + Mrs. Soames—who was always so beautifully dressed—that feathers + were vulgar? Mrs. Soames had actually given up wearing feathers, + so dreadfully downright was dear June! + + These misgivings, this disapproval, and perfectly genuine + distrust, did not prevent the Forsytes from gathering to old + Jolyon’s invitation. An “At Home” at Stanhope Gate was a great + rarity; none had been held for twelve years, not indeed, since + old Mrs. Jolyon had died. + + Never had there been so full an assembly, for, mysteriously + united in spite of all their differences, they had taken arms + against a common peril. Like cattle when a dog comes into the + field, they stood head to head and shoulder to shoulder, prepared + to run upon and trample the invader to death. They had come, too, + no doubt, to get some notion of what sort of presents they would + ultimately be expected to give; for though the question of + wedding gifts was usually graduated in this way: “What are _you_ + givin’. Nicholas is givin’ spoons!”—so very much depended on the + bridegroom. If he were sleek, well-brushed, prosperous-looking, + it was more necessary to give him nice things; he would expect + them. In the end each gave exactly what was right and proper, by + a species of family adjustment arrived at as prices are arrived + at on the Stock Exchange—the exact niceties being regulated at + Timothy’s commodious, red-brick residence in Bayswater, + overlooking the Park, where dwelt Aunts Ann, Juley, and Hester. + + The uneasiness of the Forsyte family has been justified by the + simple mention of the hat. How impossible and wrong would it have + been for any family, with the regard for appearances which should + ever characterize the great upper middle-class, to feel otherwise + than uneasy! + + The author of the uneasiness stood talking to June by the further + door; his curly hair had a rumpled appearance, as though he found + what was going on around him unusual. He had an air, too, of + having a joke all to himself. George, speaking aside to his + brother, Eustace, said: + + “Looks as if he might make a bolt of it—the dashing Buccaneer!” + + This “very singular-looking man,” as Mrs. Small afterwards called + him, was of medium height and strong build, with a pale, brown + face, a dust-coloured moustache, very prominent cheek-bones, and + hollow checks. His forehead sloped back towards the crown of his + head, and bulged out in bumps over the eyes, like foreheads seen + in the Lion-house at the Zoo. He had sherry-coloured eyes, + disconcertingly inattentive at times. Old Jolyon’s coachman, + after driving June and Bosinney to the theatre, had remarked to + the butler: + + “I dunno what to make of ’im. Looks to me for all the world like + an ’alf-tame leopard.” And every now and then a Forsyte would + come up, sidle round, and take a look at him. + + June stood in front, fending off this idle curiosity—a little bit + of a thing, as somebody once said, “all hair and spirit,” with + fearless blue eyes, a firm jaw, and a bright colour, whose face + and body seemed too slender for her crown of red-gold hair. + + A tall woman, with a beautiful figure, which some member of the + family had once compared to a heathen goddess, stood looking at + these two with a shadowy smile. + + Her hands, gloved in French grey, were crossed one over the + other, her grave, charming face held to one side, and the eyes of + all men near were fastened on it. Her figure swayed, so balanced + that the very air seemed to set it moving. There was warmth, but + little colour, in her cheeks; her large, dark eyes were soft. + + But it was at her lips—asking a question, giving an answer, with + that shadowy smile—that men looked; they were sensitive lips, + sensuous and sweet, and through them seemed to come warmth and + perfume like the warmth and perfume of a flower. + + The engaged couple thus scrutinized were unconscious of this + passive goddess. It was Bosinney who first noticed her, and asked + her name. + + June took her lover up to the woman with the beautiful figure. + + “Irene is my greatest chum,” she said: “Please be good friends, + you two!” + + At the little lady’s command they all three smiled; and while + they were smiling, Soames Forsyte, silently appearing from behind + the woman with the beautiful figure, who was his wife, said: + + “Ah! introduce me too!” + + He was seldom, indeed, far from Irene’s side at public functions, + and even when separated by the exigencies of social intercourse, + could be seen following her about with his eyes, in which were + strange expressions of watchfulness and longing. + + At the window his father, James, was still scrutinizing the marks + on the piece of china. + + “I wonder at Jolyon’s allowing this engagement,” he said to Aunt + Ann. “They tell me there’s no chance of their getting married for + years. This young Bosinney” (he made the word a dactyl in + opposition to general usage of a short o) “has got nothing. When + Winifred married Dartie, I made him bring every penny into + settlement—lucky thing, too—they’d ha’ had nothing by this time!” + + Aunt Ann looked up from her velvet chair. Grey curls banded her + forehead, curls that, unchanged for decades, had extinguished in + the family all sense of time. She made no reply, for she rarely + spoke, husbanding her aged voice; but to James, uneasy of + conscience, her look was as good as an answer. + + “Well,” he said, “I couldn’t help Irene’s having no money. Soames + was in such a hurry; he got quite thin dancing attendance on + her.” + + Putting the bowl pettishly down on the piano, he let his eyes + wander to the group by the door. + + “It’s my opinion,” he said unexpectedly, “that it’s just as well + as it is.” + + Aunt Ann did not ask him to explain this strange utterance. She + knew what he was thinking. If Irene had no money she would not be + so foolish as to do anything wrong; for they said—they said—she + had been asking for a separate room; but, of course, Soames had + not.... + + James interrupted her reverie: + + “But where,” he asked, “was Timothy? Hadn’t he come with them?” + + Through Aunt Ann’s compressed lips a tender smile forced its way: + + “No, he didn’t think it wise, with so much of this diphtheria + about; and he so liable to take things.” + + James answered: + + “Well, _he_ takes good care of himself. I can’t afford to take + the care of myself that he does.” + + Nor was it easy to say which, of admiration, envy, or contempt, + was dominant in that remark. + + Timothy, indeed, was seldom seen. The baby of the family, a + publisher by profession, he had some years before, when business + was at full tide, scented out the stagnation which, indeed, had + not yet come, but which ultimately, as all agreed, was bound to + set in, and, selling his share in a firm engaged mainly in the + production of religious books, had invested the quite conspicuous + proceeds in three per cent. consols. By this act he had at once + assumed an isolated position, no other Forsyte being content with + less than four per cent. for his money; and this isolation had + slowly and surely undermined a spirit perhaps better than + commonly endowed with caution. He had become almost a myth—a kind + of incarnation of security haunting the background of the Forsyte + universe. He had never committed the imprudence of marrying, or + encumbering himself in any way with children. + + James resumed, tapping the piece of china: + + “This isn’t real old Worcester. I s’pose Jolyon’s told you + something about the young man. From all _I_ can learn, he’s got + no business, no income, and no connection worth speaking of; but + then, I know nothing—nobody tells me anything.” + + Aunt Ann shook her head. Over her square-chinned, aquiline old + face a trembling passed; the spidery fingers of her hands pressed + against each other and interlaced, as though she were subtly + recharging her will. + + The eldest by some years of all the Forsytes, she held a peculiar + position amongst them. Opportunists and egotists one and + all—though not, indeed, more so than their neighbours—they + quailed before her incorruptible figure, and, when opportunities + were too strong, what could they do but avoid her! + + Twisting his long, thin legs, James went on: + + “Jolyon, he will have his own way. He’s got no children”—and + stopped, recollecting the continued existence of old Jolyon’s + son, young Jolyon, Jun’s father, who had made such a mess of it, + and done for himself by deserting his wife and child and running + away with that foreign governess. “Well,” he resumed hastily, “if + he likes to do these things, I s’pose he can afford to. Now, + what’s he going to give her? I s’pose he’ll give her a thousand a + year; he’s got nobody else to leave his money to.” + + He stretched out his hand to meet that of a dapper, clean-shaven + man, with hardly a hair on his head, a long, broken nose, full + lips, and cold grey eyes under rectangular brows. + + “Well, Nick,” he muttered, “how are you?” + + Nicholas Forsyte, with his bird-like rapidity and the look of a + preternaturally sage schoolboy (he had made a large fortune, + quite legitimately, out of the companies of which he was a + director), placed within that cold palm the tips of his still + colder fingers and hastily withdrew them. + + “I’m bad,” he said, pouting—“been bad all the week; don’t sleep + at night. The doctor can’t tell why. He’s a clever fellow, or I + shouldn’t have him, but I get nothing out of him but bills.” + + “Doctors!” said James, coming down sharp on his words: “_I’ve_ + had all the doctors in London for one or another of us. There’s + no satisfaction to be got out of _them;_ they’ll tell you + anything. There’s Swithin, now. What good have they done him? + There he is; he’s bigger than ever; he’s enormous; they can’t get + his weight down. Look at him!” + + Swithin Forsyte, tall, square, and broad, with a chest like a + pouter pigeon’s in its plumage of bright waistcoats, came + strutting towards them. + + “Er—how are you?” he said in his dandified way, aspirating the + “h” strongly (this difficult letter was almost absolutely safe in + his keeping)—“how are you?” + + Each brother wore an air of aggravation as he looked at the other + two, knowing by experience that they would try to eclipse his + ailments. + + “We were just saying,” said James, “that you don’t get any + thinner.” + + Swithin protruded his pale round eyes with the effort of hearing. + + “Thinner? I’m in good case,” he said, leaning a little forward, + “not one of your thread-papers like you!” + + But, afraid of losing the expansion of his chest, he leaned back + again into a state of immobility, for he prized nothing so highly + as a distinguished appearance. + + Aunt Ann turned her old eyes from one to the other. Indulgent and + severe was her look. In turn the three brothers looked at Ann. + She was getting shaky. Wonderful woman! Eighty-six if a day; + might live another ten years, and had never been strong. Swithin + and James, the twins, were only seventy-five, Nicholas a mere + baby of seventy or so. All were strong, and the inference was + comforting. Of all forms of property their respective healths + naturally concerned them most. + + “I’m very well in myself,” proceeded James, “but my nerves are + out of order. The least thing worries me to death. I shall have + to go to Bath.” + + “Bath!” said Nicholas. “I’ve tried Harrogate. _That’s_ no good. + What I want is sea air. There’s nothing like Yarmouth. Now, when + I go there I sleep....” + + “My liver’s very bad,” interrupted Swithin slowly. “Dreadful pain + here;” and he placed his hand on his right side. + + “Want of exercise,” muttered James, his eyes on the china. He + quickly added: “I get a pain there, too.” + + Swithin reddened, a resemblance to a turkey-cock coming upon his + old face. + + “Exercise!” he said. “I take plenty: I never use the lift at the + Club.” + + “I didn’t know,” James hurried out. “I know nothing about + anybody; nobody tells me anything....” + + Swithin fixed him with a stare: + + “What do you do for a pain there?” + + James brightened. + + “I take a compound....” + + “How are you, uncle?” + + June stood before him, her resolute small face raised from her + little height to his great height, and her hand outheld. + + The brightness faded from James’s visage. + + “How are you?” he said, brooding over her. “So you’re going to + Wales to-morrow to visit your young man’s aunts? You’ll have a + lot of rain there. This isn’t real old Worcester.” He tapped the + bowl. “Now, that set I gave your mother when she married was the + genuine thing.” + + June shook hands one by one with her three great-uncles, and + turned to Aunt Ann. A very sweet look had come into the old + lady’s face, she kissed the girl’s check with trembling fervour. + + “Well, my dear,” she said, “and so you’re going for a whole + month!” + + The girl passed on, and Aunt Ann looked after her slim little + figure. The old lady’s round, steel grey eyes, over which a film + like a bird’s was beginning to come, followed her wistfully + amongst the bustling crowd, for people were beginning to say + good-bye; and her finger-tips, pressing and pressing against each + other, were busy again with the recharging of her will against + that inevitable ultimate departure of her own. + + “Yes,” she thought, “everybody’s been most kind; quite a lot of + people come to congratulate her. She ought to be very happy.” + Amongst the throng of people by the door, the well-dressed throng + drawn from the families of lawyers and doctors, from the Stock + Exchange, and all the innumerable avocations of the upper-middle + class—there were only some twenty percent of Forsytes; but to + Aunt Ann they seemed all Forsytes—and certainly there was not + much difference—she saw only her own flesh and blood. It was her + world, this family, and she knew no other, had never perhaps + known any other. All their little secrets, illnesses, + engagements, and marriages, how they were getting on, and whether + they were making money—all this was her property, her delight, + her life; beyond this only a vague, shadowy mist of facts and + persons of no real significance. This it was that she would have + to lay down when it came to her turn to die; this which gave to + her that importance, that secret self-importance, without which + none of us can bear to live; and to this she clung wistfully, + with a greed that grew each day! If life were slipping away from + her, _this_ she would retain to the end. + + She thought of Jun’s father, young Jolyon, who had run away with + that foreign girl. And what a sad blow to his father and to them + all. Such a promising young fellow! A sad blow, though there had + been no public scandal, most fortunately, Jo’s wife seeking for + no divorce! A long time ago! And when Jun’s mother died, six + years ago, Jo had married that woman, and they had two children + now, so she had heard. Still, he had forfeited his right to be + there, had cheated her of the complete fulfilment of her family + pride, deprived her of the rightful pleasure of seeing and + kissing him of whom she had been so proud, such a promising young + fellow! The thought rankled with the bitterness of a + long-inflicted injury in her tenacious old heart. A little water + stood in her eyes. With a handkerchief of the finest lawn she + wiped them stealthily. + + “Well, Aunt Ann?” said a voice behind. + + Soames Forsyte, flat-shouldered, clean-shaven, flat-cheeked, + flat-waisted, yet with something round and secret about his whole + appearance, looked downwards and aslant at Aunt Ann, as though + trying to see through the side of his own nose. + + “And what do you think of the engagement?” he asked. + + Aunt Ann’s eyes rested on him proudly; of all the nephews since + young Jolyon’s departure from the family nest, he was now her + favourite, for she recognised in him a sure trustee of the family + soul that must so soon slip beyond her keeping. + + “Very nice for the young man,” she said; “and he’s a good-looking + young fellow; but I doubt if he’s quite the right lover for dear + June.” + + Soames touched the edge of a gold-lacquered lustre. + + “She’ll tame him,” he said, stealthily wetting his finger and + rubbing it on the knobby bulbs. “That’s genuine old lacquer; you + can’t get it nowadays. It’d do well in a sale at Jobson’s.” He + spoke with relish, as though he felt that he was cheering up his + old aunt. It was seldom he was so confidential. “I wouldn’t mind + having it myself,” he added; “you can always get your price for + old lacquer.” + + “You’re so clever with all those things,” said Aunt Ann. “And how + is dear Irene?” + + Soames’s smile died. + + “Pretty well,” he said. “Complains she can’t sleep; she sleeps a + great deal better than I do,” and he looked at his wife, who was + talking to Bosinney by the door. + + Aunt Ann sighed. + + “Perhaps,” she said, “it will be just as well for her not to see + so much of June. She’s such a decided character, dear June!” + + Soames flushed; his flushes passed rapidly over his flat cheeks + and centered between his eyes, where they remained, the stamp of + disturbing thoughts. + + “I don’t know what she sees in that little flibbertigibbet,” he + burst out, but noticing that they were no longer alone, he turned + and again began examining the lustre. + + “They tell me Jolyon’s bought another house,” said his father’s + voice close by; “he must have a lot of money—he must have more + money than he knows what to do with! Montpellier Square, they + say; close to Soames! They never told me, Irene never tells me + anything!” + + “Capital position, not two minutes from me,” said the voice of + Swithin, “and from my rooms I can drive to the Club in eight.” + + The position of their houses was of vital importance to the + Forsytes, nor was this remarkable, since the whole spirit of + their success was embodied therein. + + Their father, of farming stock, had come from Dorsetshire near + the beginning of the century. + + “Superior Dosset Forsyte,” as he was called by his intimates, had + been a stonemason by trade, and risen to the position of a + master-builder. + + Towards the end of his life he moved to London, where, building + on until he died, he was buried at Highgate. He left over thirty + thousand pounds between his ten children. Old Jolyon alluded to + him, if at all, as “A hard, thick sort of man; not much + refinement about him.” The second generation of Forsytes felt + indeed that he was not greatly to their credit. The only + aristocratic trait they could find in his character was a habit + of drinking Madeira. + + Aunt Hester, an authority on family history, described him thus: + “I don’t recollect that he ever did anything; at least, not in my + time. He was er—an owner of houses, my dear. His hair about your + Uncle Swithin’s colour; rather a square build. Tall? No—not very + tall” (he had been five feet five, with a mottled face); “a + fresh-coloured man. I remember he used to drink Madeira; but ask + your Aunt Ann. What was _his_ father? He—er—had to do with the + land down in Dorsetshire, by the sea.” + + James once went down to see for himself what sort of place this + was that they had come from. He found two old farms, with a cart + track rutted into the pink earth, leading down to a mill by the + beach; a little grey church with a buttressed outer wall, and a + smaller and greyer chapel. The stream which worked the mill came + bubbling down in a dozen rivulets, and pigs were hunting round + that estuary. A haze hovered over the prospect. Down this hollow, + with their feet deep in the mud and their faces towards the sea, + it appeared that the primeval Forsytes had been content to walk + Sunday after Sunday for hundreds of years. + + Whether or no James had cherished hopes of an inheritance, or of + something rather distinguished to be found down there, he came + back to town in a poor way, and went about with a pathetic + attempt at making the best of a bad job. + + “There’s very little to be had out of that,” he said; “regular + country little place, old as the hills....” + + Its age was felt to be a comfort. Old Jolyon, in whom a desperate + honesty welled up at times, would allude to his ancestors as: + “Yeomen—I suppose very small beer.” Yet he would repeat the word + “yeomen” as if it afforded him consolation. + + They had all done so well for themselves, these Forsytes, that + they were all what is called “of a certain position.” They had + shares in all sorts of things, not as yet—with the exception of + Timothy—in consols, for they had no dread in life like that of 3 + per cent. for their money. They collected pictures, too, and were + supporters of such charitable institutions as might be beneficial + to their sick domestics. From their father, the builder, they + inherited a talent for bricks and mortar. Originally, perhaps, + members of some primitive sect, they were now in the natural + course of things members of the Church of England, and caused + their wives and children to attend with some regularity the more + fashionable churches of the Metropolis. To have doubted their + Christianity would have caused them both pain and surprise. Some + of them paid for pews, thus expressing in the most practical form + their sympathy with the teachings of Christ. + + Their residences, placed at stated intervals round the park, + watched like sentinels, lest the fair heart of this London, where + their desires were fixed, should slip from their clutches, and + leave them lower in their own estimations. + + There was old Jolyon in Stanhope Place; the Jameses in Park Lane; + Swithin in the lonely glory of orange and blue chambers in Hyde + Park Mansions—he had never married, not he—the Soamses in their + nest off Knightsbridge; the Rogers in Prince’s Gardens (Roger was + that remarkable Forsyte who had conceived and carried out the + notion of bringing up his four sons to a new profession. “Collect + house property, nothing like it,” he would say; “_I_ never did + anything else”). + + The Haymans again—Mrs. Hayman was the one married Forsyte + sister—in a house high up on Campden Hill, shaped like a giraffe, + and so tall that it gave the observer a crick in the neck; the + Nicholases in Ladbroke Grove, a spacious abode and a great + bargain; and last, but not least, Timothy’s on the Bayswater + Road, where Ann, and Juley, and Hester, lived under his + protection. + + But all this time James was musing, and now he inquired of his + host and brother what he had given for that house in Montpellier + Square. He himself had had his eye on a house there for the last + two years, but they wanted such a price. + + Old Jolyon recounted the details of his purchase. + + “Twenty-two years to run?” repeated James; “The very house I was + after—you’ve given too much for it!” + + Old Jolyon frowned. + + “It’s not that I want it,” said James hastily; “it wouldn’t suit + my purpose at that price. Soames knows the house, well—he’ll tell + you it’s too dear—his opinion’s worth having.” + + “I don’t,” said old Jolyon, “care a fig for his opinion.” + + “Well,” murmured James, “you _will_ have your own way—it’s a good + opinion. Good-bye! We’re going to drive down to Hurlingham. They + tell me Jun’s going to Wales. You’ll be lonely tomorrow. What’ll + you do with yourself? You’d better come and dine with us!” + + Old Jolyon refused. He went down to the front door and saw them + into their barouche, and twinkled at them, having already + forgotten his spleen—Mrs. James facing the horses, tall and + majestic with auburn hair; on her left, Irene—the two husbands, + father and son, sitting forward, as though they expected + something, opposite their wives. Bobbing and bounding upon the + spring cushions, silent, swaying to each motion of their chariot, + old Jolyon watched them drive away under the sunlight. + + During the drive the silence was broken by Mrs. James. + + “Did you ever see such a collection of rumty-too people?” + + Soames, glancing at her beneath his eyelids, nodded, and he saw + Irene steal at him one of her unfathomable looks. It is likely + enough that each branch of the Forsyte family made that remark as + they drove away from old Jolyon’s “At Home!” + + Amongst the last of the departing guests the fourth and fifth + brothers, Nicholas and Roger, walked away together, directing + their steps alongside Hyde Park towards the Praed Street Station + of the Underground. Like all other Forsytes of a certain age they + kept carriages of their own, and never took cabs if by any means + they could avoid it. + + The day was bright, the trees of the Park in the full beauty of + mid-June foliage; the brothers did not seem to notice phenomena, + which contributed, nevertheless, to the jauntiness of promenade + and conversation. + + “Yes,” said Roger, “she’s a good-lookin’ woman, that wife of + Soames’. I’m told they don’t get on.” + + This brother had a high forehead, and the freshest colour of any + of the Forsytes; his light grey eyes measured the street frontage + of the houses by the way, and now and then he would level his, + umbrella and take a “lunar,” as he expressed it, of the varying + heights. + + “She’d no money,” replied Nicholas. + + He himself had married a good deal of money, of which, it being + then the golden age before the Married Women’s Property Act, he + had mercifully been enabled to make a successful use. + + “What was her father?” + + “Heron was his name, a Professor, so they tell me.” + + Roger shook his head. + + “There’s no money in that,” he said. + + “They say her mother’s father was cement.” + + Roger’s face brightened. + + “But he went bankrupt,” went on Nicholas. + + “Ah!” exclaimed Roger, “Soames will have trouble with her; you + mark my words, he’ll have trouble—she’s got a foreign look.” + + Nicholas licked his lips. + + “She’s a pretty woman,” and he waved aside a crossing-sweeper. + + “How did he get hold of her?” asked Roger presently. “She must + cost him a pretty penny in dress!” + + “Ann tells me,” replied Nicholas, “he was half-cracked about her. + She refused him five times. James, he’s nervous about it, I can + see.” + + “Ah!” said Roger again; “I’m sorry for James; he had trouble with + Dartie.” His pleasant colour was heightened by exercise, he swung + his umbrella to the level of his eye more frequently than ever. + Nicholas’s face also wore a pleasant look. + + “Too pale for me,” he said, “but her figures capital!” + + Roger made no reply. + + “I call her distinguished-looking,” he said at last—it was the + highest praise in the Forsyte vocabulary. “That young Bosinney + will never do any good for himself. They say at Burkitt’s he’s + one of these artistic chaps—got an idea of improving English + architecture; there’s no money in that! I should like to hear + what Timothy would say to it.” + + They entered the station. + + “What class are you going? I go second.” + + “No second for me,” said Nicholas;—“you never know what you may + catch.” + + He took a first-class ticket to Notting Hill Gate; Roger a second + to South Kensington. The train coming in a minute later, the two + brothers parted and entered their respective compartments. Each + felt aggrieved that the other had not modified his habits to + secure his society a little longer; but as Roger voiced it in his + thoughts: + + “Always a stubborn beggar, Nick!” + + And as Nicholas expressed it to himself: + + “Cantankerous chap Roger—always was!” + + There was little sentimentality about the Forsytes. In that great + London, which they had conquered and become merged in, what time + had they to be sentimental? + + + + + CHAPTER II OLD JOLYON GOES TO THE OPERA + + At five o’clock the following day old Jolyon sat alone, a cigar + between his lips, and on a table by his side a cup of tea. He was + tired, and before he had finished his cigar he fell asleep. A fly + settled on his hair, his breathing sounded heavy in the drowsy + silence, his upper lip under the white moustache puffed in and + out. From between the fingers of his veined and wrinkled hand the + cigar, dropping on the empty hearth, burned itself out. + + The gloomy little study, with windows of stained glass to exclude + the view, was full of dark green velvet and heavily-carved + mahogany—a suite of which old Jolyon was wont to say: “Shouldn’t + wonder if it made a big price some day!” + + It was pleasant to think that in the after life he could get more + for things than he had given. + + In the rich brown atmosphere peculiar to back rooms in the + mansion of a Forsyte, the Rembrandtesque effect of his great + head, with its white hair, against the cushion of his high-backed + seat, was spoiled by the moustache, which imparted a somewhat + military look to his face. An old clock that had been with him + since before his marriage forty years ago kept with its ticking a + jealous record of the seconds slipping away forever from its old + master. + + He had never cared for this room, hardly going into it from one + year’s end to another, except to take cigars from the Japanese + cabinet in the corner, and the room now had its revenge. + + His temples, curving like thatches over the hollows beneath, his + cheek-bones and chin, all were sharpened in his sleep, and there + had come upon his face the confession that he was an old man. + + He woke. June had gone! James had said he would be lonely. James + had always been a poor thing. He recollected with satisfaction + that he had bought that house over James’s head. + + Serve him right for sticking at the price; the only thing the + fellow thought of was money. Had he given too much, though? It + wanted a lot of doing to—He dared say he would want all his money + before he had done with this affair of Jun’s. He ought never to + have allowed the engagement. She had met this Bosinney at the + house of Baynes, Baynes and Bildeboy, the architects. He believed + that Baynes, whom he knew—a bit of an old woman—was the young + man’s uncle by marriage. After that she’d been always running + after him; and when she took a thing into her head there was no + stopping her. She was continually taking up with “lame ducks” of + one sort or another. This fellow had no money, but she must needs + become engaged to him—a harumscarum, unpractical chap, who would + get himself into no end of difficulties. + + She had come to him one day in her slap-dash way and told him; + and, as if it were any consolation, she had added: + + “He’s so splendid; he’s often lived on cocoa for a week!” + + “And he wants you to live on cocoa too?” + + “Oh no; he is getting into the swim now.” + + Old Jolyon had taken his cigar from under his white moustaches, + stained by coffee at the edge, and looked at her, that little + slip of a thing who had got such a grip of his heart. He knew + more about “swims” than his granddaughter. But she, having + clasped her hands on his knees, rubbed her chin against him, + making a sound like a purring cat. And, knocking the ash off his + cigar, he had exploded in nervous desperation: + + “You’re all alike: you won’t be satisfied till you’ve got what + you want. If you must come to grief, you must; _I_ wash my hands + of it.” + + So, he had washed his hands of it, making the condition that they + should not marry until Bosinney had at least four hundred a year. + + “_I_ shan’t be able to give you very much,” he had said, a + formula to which June was not unaccustomed. “Perhaps this + What’s-his-name will provide the cocoa.” + + He had hardly seen anything of her since it began. A bad + business! He had no notion of giving her a lot of money to enable + a fellow he knew nothing about to live on in idleness. He had + seen that sort of thing before; no good ever came of it. Worst of + all, he had no hope of shaking her resolution; she was as + obstinate as a mule, always had been from a child. He didn’t see + where it was to end. They must cut their coat according to their + cloth. He would not give way till he saw young Bosinney with an + income of his own. That June would have trouble with the fellow + was as plain as a pikestaff; he had no more idea of money than a + cow. As to this rushing down to Wales to visit the young man’s + aunts, he fully expected they were old cats. + + And, motionless, old Jolyon stared at the wall; but for his open + eyes, he might have been asleep.... The idea of supposing that + young cub Soames could give him advice! He had always been a cub, + with his nose in the air! He would be setting up as a man of + property next, with a place in the country! A man of property! + H’mph! Like his father, he was always nosing out bargains, a + cold-blooded young beggar! + + He rose, and, going to the cabinet, began methodically stocking + his cigar-case from a bundle fresh in. They were not bad at the + price, but you couldn’t get a good cigar, nowadays, nothing to + hold a candle to those old Superfinos of Hanson and Bridger’s. + _That_ was a cigar! + + The thought, like some stealing perfume, carried him back to + those wonderful nights at Richmond when after dinner he sat + smoking on the terrace of the Crown and Sceptre with Nicholas + Treffry and Traquair and Jack Herring and Anthony Thornworthy. + How good his cigars were then! Poor old Nick!—dead, and Jack + Herring—dead, and Traquair—dead of that wife of his, and + Thornworthy—awfully shaky (no wonder, with his appetite). + + Of all the company of those days he himself alone seemed left, + except Swithin, of course, and he so outrageously big there was + no doing anything with him. + + Difficult to believe it was so long ago; he felt young still! Of + all his thoughts, as he stood there counting his cigars, this was + the most poignant, the most bitter. With his white head and his + loneliness he had remained young and green at heart. And those + Sunday afternoons on Hampstead Heath, when young Jolyon and he + went for a stretch along the Spaniard’s Road to Highgate, to + Child’s Hill, and back over the Heath again to dine at Jack + Straw’s Castle—how delicious his cigars were then! And such + weather! There was no weather now. + + When June was a toddler of five, and every other Sunday he took + her to the Zoo, away from the society of those two good women, + her mother and her grandmother, and at the top of the bear den + baited his umbrella with buns for her favourite bears, how sweet + his cigars were then! + + Cigars! He had not even succeeded in out-living his palate—the + famous palate that in the fifties men swore by, and speaking of + him, said: “Forsyte’s the best palate in London!” The palate that + in a sense had made his fortune—the fortune of the celebrated tea + men, Forsyte and Treffry, whose tea, like no other man’s tea, had + a romantic aroma, the charm of a quite singular genuineness. + About the house of Forsyte and Treffry in the City had clung an + air of enterprise and mystery, of special dealings in special + ships, at special ports, with special Orientals. + + He had worked at that business! Men did work in those days! these + young pups hardly knew the meaning of the word. He had gone into + every detail, known everything that went on, sometimes sat up all + night over it. And he had always chosen his agents himself, + prided himself on it. His eye for men, he used to say, had been + the secret of his success, and the exercise of this masterful + power of selection had been the only part of it all that he had + really liked. Not a career for a man of his ability. Even now, + when the business had been turned into a Limited Liability + Company, and was declining (he had got out of his shares long + ago), he felt a sharp chagrin in thinking of that time. How much + better he might have done! He would have succeeded splendidly at + the Bar! He had even thought of standing for Parliament. How + often had not Nicholas Treffry said to him: + + “You could do anything, Jo, if you weren’t so d-damned careful of + yourself!” Dear old Nick! Such a good fellow, but a racketty + chap! The notorious Treffry! _He_ had never taken any care of + himself. So he was dead. Old Jolyon counted his cigars with a + steady hand, and it came into his mind to wonder if perhaps he + had been _too_ careful of himself. + + He put the cigar-case in the breast of his coat, buttoned it in, + and walked up the long flights to his bedroom, leaning on one + foot and the other, and helping himself by the bannister. The + house was too big. After June was married, if she ever did marry + this fellow, as he supposed she would, he would let it and go + into rooms. What was the use of keeping half a dozen servants + eating their heads off? + + The butler came to the ring of his bell—a large man with a beard, + a soft tread, and a peculiar capacity for silence. Old Jolyon + told him to put his dress clothes out; he was going to dine at + the Club. + + How long had the carriage been back from taking Miss June to the + station? Since two? Then let him come round at half-past six! + + The Club which old Jolyon entered on the stroke of seven was one + of those political institutions of the upper middle class which + have seen better days. In spite of being talked about, perhaps in + consequence of being talked about, it betrayed a disappointing + vitality. People had grown tired of saying that the “Disunion” + was on its last legs. Old Jolyon would say it, too, yet + disregarded the fact in a manner truly irritating to + well-constituted Clubmen. + + “Why do you keep your name on?” Swithin often asked him with + profound vexation. “Why don’t you join the ‘Polyglot’. You can’t + get a wine like our Heidsieck under twenty shillin’ a bottle + anywhere in London;” and, dropping his voice, he added: “There’s + only five hundred dozen left. I drink it every night of my life.” + + “I’ll think of it,” old Jolyon would answer; but when he did + think of it there was always the question of fifty guineas + entrance fee, and it would take him four or five years to get in. + He continued to think of it. + + He was too old to be a Liberal, had long ceased to believe in the + political doctrines of his Club, had even been known to allude to + them as “wretched stuff,” and it afforded him pleasure to + continue a member in the teeth of principles so opposed to his + own. He had always had a contempt for the place, having joined it + many years ago when they refused to have him at the “Hotch Potch” + owing to his being “in trade.” As if he were not as good as any + of them! He naturally despised the Club that _did_ take him. The + members were a poor lot, many of them in the City—stockbrokers, + solicitors, auctioneers—what not! Like most men of strong + character but not too much originality, old Jolyon set small + store by the class to which he belonged. Faithfully he followed + their customs, social and otherwise, and secretly he thought them + “a common lot.” + + Years and philosophy, of which he had his share, had dimmed the + recollection of his defeat at the “Hotch Potch”. and now in his + thoughts it was enshrined as the Queen of Clubs. He would have + been a member all these years himself, but, owing to the slipshod + way his proposer, Jack Herring, had gone to work, they had not + known what they were doing in keeping him out. Why! they had + taken his son Jo at once, and he believed the boy was still a + member; he had received a letter dated from there eight years + ago. + + He had not been near the “Disunion” for months, and the house had + undergone the piebald decoration which people bestow on old + houses and old ships when anxious to sell them. + + “Beastly colour, the smoking-room!” he thought. “The dining-room + is good!” + + Its gloomy chocolate, picked out with light green, took his + fancy. + + He ordered dinner, and sat down in the very corner, at the very + table perhaps! (things did not progress much at the “Disunion,” a + Club of almost Radical principles) at which he and young Jolyon + used to sit twenty-five years ago, when he was taking the latter + to Drury Lane, during his holidays. + + The boy had loved the theatre, and old Jolyon recalled how he + used to sit opposite, concealing his excitement under a careful + but transparent nonchalance. + + He ordered himself, too, the very dinner the boy had always + chosen—soup, whitebait, cutlets, and a tart. Ah! if he were only + opposite now! + + The two had not met for fourteen years. And not for the first + time during those fourteen years old Jolyon wondered whether he + had been a little to blame in the matter of his son. An + unfortunate love-affair with that precious flirt Danae + Thornworthy (now Danae Pellew), Anthony Thornworthy’s daughter, + had thrown him on the rebound into the arms of Jun’s mother. He + ought perhaps to have put a spoke in the wheel of their marriage; + they were too young; but after that experience of Jo’s + susceptibility he had been only too anxious to see him married. + And in four years the crash had come! To have approved his son’s + conduct in that crash was, of course, impossible; reason and + training—that combination of potent factors which stood for his + principles—told him of this impossibility, and his heart cried + out. The grim remorselessness of that business had no pity for + hearts. There was June, the atom with flaming hair, who had + climbed all over him, twined and twisted herself about him—about + his heart that was made to be the plaything and beloved resort of + tiny, helpless things. With characteristic insight he saw he must + part with one or with the other; no half-measures could serve in + such a situation. In that lay its tragedy. And the tiny, helpless + thing prevailed. He would not run with the hare and hunt with the + hounds, and so to his son he said good-bye. + + That good-bye had lasted until now. + + He had proposed to continue a reduced allowance to young Jolyon, + but this had been refused, and perhaps that refusal had hurt him + more than anything, for with it had gone the last outlet of his + penned-in affection; and there had come such tangible and solid + proof of rupture as only a transaction in property, a bestowal or + refusal of such, could supply. + + His dinner tasted flat. His pint of champagne was dry and bitter + stuff, not like the Veuve Clicquots of old days. + + Over his cup of coffee, he bethought him that he would go to the + opera. In the _Times_, therefore—he had a distrust of other + papers—he read the announcement for the evening. It was + “Fidelio.” + + Mercifully not one of those new-fangled German pantomimes by that + fellow Wagner. + + Putting on his ancient opera hat, which, with its brim flattened + by use, and huge capacity, looked like an emblem of greater days, + and, pulling out an old pair of very thin lavender kid gloves + smelling strongly of Russia leather, from habitual proximity to + the cigar-case in the pocket of his overcoat, he stepped into a + hansom. + + The cab rattled gaily along the streets, and old Jolyon was + struck by their unwonted animation. + + “The hotels must be doing a tremendous business,” he thought. A + few years ago there had been none of these big hotels. He made a + satisfactory reflection on some property he had in the + neighbourhood. It must be going up in value by leaps and bounds! + What traffic! + + But from that he began indulging in one of those strange + impersonal speculations, so uncharacteristic of a Forsyte, + wherein lay, in part, the secret of his supremacy amongst them. + What atoms men were, and what a lot of them! And what would + become of them all? + + He stumbled as he got out of the cab, gave the man his exact + fare, walked up to the ticket office to take his stall, and stood + there with his purse in his hand—he always carried his money in a + purse, never having approved of that habit of carrying it loosely + in the pockets, as so many young men did nowadays. The official + leaned out, like an old dog from a kennel. + + “Why,” he said in a surprised voice, “it’s Mr. Jolyon Forsyte! So + it is! Haven’t seen you, sir, for years. Dear me! Times aren’t + what they were. Why! you and your brother, and that + auctioneer—Mr. Traquair, and Mr. Nicholas Treffry—you used to + have six or seven stalls here regular every season. And how are + you, sir? We don’t get younger!” + + The colour in old Jolyon’s eyes deepened; he paid his guinea. + They had not forgotten him. He marched in, to the sounds of the + overture, like an old war-horse to battle. + + Folding his opera hat, he sat down, drew out his lavender gloves + in the old way, and took up his glasses for a long look round the + house. Dropping them at last on his folded hat, he fixed his eyes + on the curtain. More poignantly than ever he felt that it was all + over and done with him. Where were all the women, the pretty + women, the house used to be so full of? Where was that old + feeling in the heart as he waited for one of those great singers? + Where that sensation of the intoxication of life and of his own + power to enjoy it all? + + The greatest opera-goer of his day! There was no opera now! That + fellow Wagner had ruined everything; no melody left, nor any + voices to sing it. Ah! the wonderful singers! Gone! He sat + watching the old scenes acted, a numb feeling at his heart. + + From the curl of silver over his ear to the pose of his foot in + its elastic-sided patent boot, there was nothing clumsy or weak + about old Jolyon. He was as upright—very nearly—as in those old + times when he came every night; his sight was as good—almost as + good. But what a feeling of weariness and disillusion! + + He had been in the habit all his life of enjoying things, even + imperfect things—and there had been many imperfect things—he had + enjoyed them all with moderation, so as to keep himself young. + But now he was deserted by his power of enjoyment, by his + philosophy, and left with this dreadful feeling that it was all + done with. Not even the Prisoners’ Chorus, nor Florian’s Song, + had the power to dispel the gloom of his loneliness. + + If Jo were only with him! The boy must be forty by now. He had + wasted fourteen years out of the life of his only son. And Jo was + no longer a social pariah. He was married. Old Jolyon had been + unable to refrain from marking his appreciation of the action by + enclosing his son a cheque for £500. The cheque had been returned + in a letter from the “Hotch Potch,” couched in these words. + + “MY DEAREST FATHER, + “Your generous gift was welcome as a sign that you might + think worse of me. I return it, but should you think fit to + invest it for the benefit of the little chap (we call him + Jolly), who bears our Christian and, by courtesy, our + surname, I shall be very glad. + “I hope with all my heart that your health is as good as + ever. + + “Your loving son, + “JO.” + + The letter was like the boy. He had always been an amiable chap. + Old Jolyon had sent this reply: + + “MY DEAR JO, + “The sum (£500) stands in my books for the benefit of your + boy, under the name of Jolyon Forsyte, and will be + duly-credited with interest at 5 per cent. I hope that you + are doing well. My health remains good at present. + + “With love, I am, + “Your affectionate Father, + “JOLYON FORSYTE.” + + And every year on the 1st of January he had added a hundred and + the interest. The sum was mounting up—next New Year’s Day it + would be fifteen hundred and odd pounds! And it is difficult to + say how much satisfaction he had got out of that yearly + transaction. But the correspondence had ended. + + In spite of his love for his son, in spite of an instinct, partly + constitutional, partly the result, as in thousands of his class, + of the continual handling and watching of affairs, prompting him + to judge conduct by results rather than by principle, there was + at the bottom of his heart a sort of uneasiness. His son ought, + under the circumstances, to have gone to the dogs; that law was + laid down in all the novels, sermons, and plays he had ever read, + heard, or witnessed. + + After receiving the cheque back there seemed to him to be + something wrong somewhere. Why had his son not gone to the dogs? + But, then, who could tell? + + He had heard, of course—in fact, he had made it his business to + find out—that Jo lived in St. John’s Wood, that he had a little + house in Wistaria Avenue with a garden, and took his wife about + with him into society—a queer sort of society, no doubt—and that + they had two children—the little chap they called Jolly + (considering the circumstances the name struck him as cynical, + and old Jolyon both feared and disliked cynicism), and a girl + called Holly, born since the marriage. Who could tell what his + son’s circumstances really were? He had capitalized the income he + had inherited from his mother’s father and joined Lloyd’s as an + underwriter; he painted pictures, too—water-colours. Old Jolyon + knew this, for he had surreptitiously bought them from time to + time, after chancing to see his son’s name signed at the bottom + of a representation of the river Thames in a dealer’s window. He + thought them bad, and did not hang them because of the signature; + he kept them locked up in a drawer. + + In the great opera-house a terrible yearning came on him to see + his son. He remembered the days when he had been wont to slide + him, in a brown holland suit, to and fro under the arch of his + legs; the times when he ran beside the boy’s pony, teaching him + to ride; the day he first took him to school. He had been a + loving, lovable little chap! After he went to Eton he had + acquired, perhaps, a little too much of that desirable manner + which old Jolyon knew was only to be obtained at such places and + at great expense; but he had always been companionable. Always a + companion, even after Cambridge—a little far off, perhaps, owing + to the advantages he had received. Old Jolyon’s feeling towards + our public schools and ’Varsities never wavered, and he retained + touchingly his attitude of admiration and mistrust towards a + system appropriate to the highest in the land, of which he had + not himself been privileged to partake.... Now that June had gone + and left, or as good as left him, it would have been a comfort to + see his son again. Guilty of this treason to his family, his + principles, his class, old Jolyon fixed his eyes on the singer. A + poor thing—a wretched poor thing! And the Florian a perfect + stick! + + It was over. They were easily pleased nowadays! + + In the crowded street he snapped up a cab under the very nose of + a stout and much younger gentleman, who had already assumed it to + be his own. His route lay through Pall Mall, and at the corner, + instead of going through the Green Park, the cabman turned to + drive up St. James’s Street. Old Jolyon put his hand through the + trap (he could not bear being taken out of his way); in turning, + however, he found himself opposite the “Hotch Potch,” and the + yearning that had been secretly with him the whole evening + prevailed. He called to the driver to stop. He would go in and + ask if Jo still belonged there. + + He went in. The hall looked exactly as it did when he used to + dine there with Jack Herring, and they had the best cook in + London; and he looked round with the shrewd, straight glance that + had caused him all his life to be better served than most men. + + “Mr. Jolyon Forsyte still a member here?” + + “Yes, sir; in the Club now, sir. What name?” + + Old Jolyon was taken aback. + + “His father,” he said. + + And having spoken, he took his stand, back to the fireplace. + + Young Jolyon, on the point of leaving the Club, had put on his + hat, and was in the act of crossing the hall, as the porter met + him. He was no longer young, with hair going grey, and face—a + narrower replica of his father’s, with the same large drooping + moustache—decidedly worn. He turned pale. This meeting was + terrible after all those years, for nothing in the world was so + terrible as a scene. They met and crossed hands without a word. + Then, with a quaver in his voice, the father said: + + “How are you, my boy?” + + The son answered: + + “How are you, Dad?” + + Old Jolyon’s hand trembled in its thin lavender glove. + + “If you’re going my way,” he said, “I can give you a lift.” + + And as though in the habit of taking each other home every night + they went out and stepped into the cab. + + To old Jolyon it seemed that his son had grown. “More of a man + altogether,” was his comment. Over the natural amiability of that + son’s face had come a rather sardonic mask, as though he had + found in the circumstances of his life the necessity for armour. + The features were certainly those of a Forsyte, but the + expression was more the introspective look of a student or + philosopher. He had no doubt been obliged to look into himself a + good deal in the course of those fifteen years. + + To young Jolyon the first sight of his father was undoubtedly a + shock—he looked so worn and old. But in the cab he seemed hardly + to have changed, still having the calm look so well remembered, + still being upright and keen-eyed. + + “You look well, Dad.” + + “Middling,” old Jolyon answered. + + He was the prey of an anxiety that he found he must put into + words. Having got his son back like this, he felt he must know + what was his financial position. + + “Jo,” he said, “I should like to hear what sort of water you’re + in. I suppose you’re in debt?” + + He put it this way that his son might find it easier to confess. + + Young Jolyon answered in his ironical voice: + + “No! I’m not in debt!” + + Old Jolyon saw that he was angry, and touched his hand. He had + run a risk. It was worth it, however, and Jo had never been sulky + with him. They drove on, without speaking again, to Stanhope + Gate. Old Jolyon invited him in, but young Jolyon shook his head. + + “Jun’s not here,” said his father hastily: “went off to-day on a + visit. I suppose you know that she’s engaged to be married?” + + “Already?” murmured young Jolyon’. + + Old Jolyon stepped out, and, in paying the cab fare, for the + first time in his life gave the driver a sovereign in mistake for + a shilling. + + Placing the coin in his mouth, the cabman whipped his horse + secretly on the underneath and hurried away. + + Old Jolyon turned the key softly in the lock, pushed open the + door, and beckoned. His son saw him gravely hanging up his coat, + with an expression on his face like that of a boy who intends to + steal cherries. + + The door of the dining-room was open, the gas turned low; a + spirit-urn hissed on a tea-tray, and close to it a cynical + looking cat had fallen asleep on the dining-table. Old Jolyon + “shoo’d” her off at once. The incident was a relief to his + feelings; he rattled his opera hat behind the animal. + + “She’s got fleas,” he said, following her out of the room. + Through the door in the hall leading to the basement he called + “Hssst!” several times, as though assisting the cat’s departure, + till by some strange coincidence the butler appeared below. + + “You can go to bed, Parfitt,” said old Jolyon. “I will lock up + and put out.” + + When he again entered the dining-room the cat unfortunately + preceded him, with her tail in the air, proclaiming that she had + seen through this manouevre for suppressing the butler from the + first.... + + A fatality had dogged old Jolyon’s domestic stratagems all his + life. + + Young Jolyon could not help smiling. He was very well versed in + irony, and everything that evening seemed to him ironical. The + episode of the cat; the announcement of his own daughter’s + engagement. So he had no more part or parcel in her than he had + in the Puss! And the poetical justice of this appealed to him. + + “What is June like now?” he asked. + + “She’s a little thing,” returned old Jolyon; “they say she’s like + me, but that’s their folly. She’s more like your mother—the same + eyes and hair.” + + “Ah! and she is pretty?” + + Old Jolyon was too much of a Forsyte to praise anything freely; + especially anything for which he had a genuine admiration. + + “Not bad looking—a regular Forsyte chin. It’ll be lonely here + when she’s gone, Jo.” + + The look on his face again gave young Jolyon the shock he had + felt on first seeing his father. + + “What will you do with yourself, Dad? I suppose she’s wrapped up + in him?” + + “Do with myself?” repeated old Jolyon with an angry break in his + voice. “It’ll be miserable work living here alone. I don’t know + how it’s to end. I wish to goodness....” He checked himself, and + added: “The question is, what had I better do with this house?” + + Young Jolyon looked round the room. It was peculiarly vast and + dreary, decorated with the enormous pictures of still life that + he remembered as a boy—sleeping dogs with their noses resting on + bunches of carrots, together with onions and grapes lying side by + side in mild surprise. The house was a white elephant, but he + could not conceive of his father living in a smaller place; and + all the more did it all seem ironical. + + In his great chair with the book-rest sat old Jolyon, the + figurehead of his family and class and creed, with his white head + and dome-like forehead, the representative of moderation, and + order, and love of property. As lonely an old man as there was in + London. + + There he sat in the gloomy comfort of the room, a puppet in the + power of great forces that cared nothing for family or class or + creed, but moved, machine-like, with dread processes to + inscrutable ends. This was how it struck young Jolyon, who had + the impersonal eye. + + The poor old Dad! So this was the end, the purpose to which he + had lived with such magnificent moderation! To be lonely, and + grow older and older, yearning for a soul to speak to! + + In his turn old Jolyon looked back at his son. He wanted to talk + about many things that he had been unable to talk about all these + years. It had been impossible to seriously confide in June his + conviction that property in the Soho quarter would go up in + value; his uneasiness about that tremendous silence of Pippin, + the superintendent of the New Colliery Company, of which he had + so long been chairman; his disgust at the steady fall in American + Golgothas, or even to discuss how, by some sort of settlement, he + could best avoid the payment of those death duties which would + follow his decease. Under the influence, however, of a cup of + tea, which he seemed to stir indefinitely, he began to speak at + last. A new vista of life was thus opened up, a promised land of + talk, where he could find a harbour against the waves of + anticipation and regret; where he could soothe his soul with the + opium of devising how to round off his property and make eternal + the only part of him that was to remain alive. + + Young Jolyon was a good listener; it was his great quality. He + kept his eyes fixed on his father’s face, putting a question now + and then. + + The clock struck one before old Jolyon had finished, and at the + sound of its striking his principles came back. He took out his + watch with a look of surprise: + + “I must go to bed, Jo,” he said. + + Young Jolyon rose and held out his hand to help his father up. + The old face looked worn and hollow again; the eyes were steadily + averted. + + “Good-bye, my boy; take care of yourself.” + + A moment passed, and young Jolyon, turning on his heel, marched + out at the door. He could hardly see; his smile quavered. Never + in all the fifteen years since he had first found out that life + was no simple business, had he found it so singularly + complicated. + + + + + CHAPTER III DINNER AT SWITHIN’S + + In Swithin’s orange and light-blue dining-room, facing the Park, + the round table was laid for twelve. + + A cut-glass chandelier filled with lighted candles hung like a + giant stalactite above its centre, radiating over large + gilt-framed mirrors, slabs of marble on the tops of side-tables, + and heavy gold chairs with crewel worked seats. Everything + betokened that love of beauty so deeply implanted in each family + which has had its own way to make into Society, out of the more + vulgar heart of Nature. Swithin had indeed an impatience of + simplicity, a love of ormolu, which had always stamped him + amongst his associates as a man of great, if somewhat luxurious + taste; and out of the knowledge that no one could possibly enter + his rooms without perceiving him to be a man of wealth, he had + derived a solid and prolonged happiness such as perhaps no other + circumstance in life had afforded him. + + Since his retirement from land agency, a profession deplorable in + his estimation, especially as to its auctioneering department, he + had abandoned himself to naturally aristocratic tastes. + + The perfect luxury of his latter days had embedded him like a fly + in sugar; and his mind, where very little took place from morning + till night, was the junction of two curiously opposite emotions, + a lingering and sturdy satisfaction that he had made his own way + and his own fortune, and a sense that a man of his distinction + should never have been allowed to soil his mind with work. + + He stood at the sideboard in a white waistcoat with large gold + and onyx buttons, watching his valet screw the necks of three + champagne bottles deeper into ice-pails. Between the points of + his stand-up collar, which—though it hurt him to move—he would on + no account have had altered, the pale flesh of his under chin + remained immovable. His eyes roved from bottle to bottle. He was + debating, and he argued like this: Jolyon drinks a glass, perhaps + two, he’s so careful of himself. James, he can’t take his wine + nowadays. Nicholas—Fanny and he would swill water he shouldn’t + wonder! Soames didn’t count; these young nephews—Soames was + thirty-one—couldn’t drink! But Bosinney? + + Encountering in the name of this stranger something outside the + range of his philosophy, Swithin paused. A misgiving arose within + him! It was impossible to tell! June was only a girl, in love + too! Emily (Mrs. James) liked a good glass of champagne. It was + too dry for Juley, poor old soul, she had no palate. As to Hatty + Chessman! The thought of this old friend caused a cloud of + thought to obscure the perfect glassiness of his eyes: He + shouldn’t wonder if she drank half a bottle! + + But in thinking of his remaining guest, an expression like that + of a cat who is just going to purr stole over his old face: Mrs. + Soames! She mightn’t take much, but she would appreciate what she + drank; it was a pleasure to give her good wine! A pretty + woman—and sympathetic to him! + + The thought of her was like champagne itself! A pleasure to give + a good wine to a young woman who looked so well, who knew how to + dress, with charming manners, quite distinguished—a pleasure to + entertain her. Between the points of his collar he gave his head + the first small, painful oscillation of the evening. + + “Adolf!” he said. “Put in another bottle.” + + He himself might drink a good deal, for, thanks to that + prescription of Blight’s, he found himself extremely well, and he + had been careful to take no lunch. He had not felt so well for + weeks. Puffing out his lower lip, he gave his last instructions: + + “Adolf, the least touch of the West India when you come to the + ham.” + + Passing into the anteroom, he sat down on the edge of a chair, + with his knees apart; and his tall, bulky form was wrapped at + once in an expectant, strange, primeval immobility. He was ready + to rise at a moment’s notice. He had not given a dinner-party for + months. This dinner in honour of Jun’s engagement had seemed a + bore at first (among Forsytes the custom of solemnizing + engagements by feasts was religiously observed), but the labours + of sending invitations and ordering the repast over, he felt + pleasantly stimulated. + + And thus sitting, a watch in his hand, fat, and smooth, and + golden, like a flattened globe of butter, he thought of nothing. + + A long man, with side whiskers, who had once been in Swithin’s + service, but was now a greengrocer, entered and proclaimed: + + “Mrs. Chessman, Mrs. Septimus Small!” + + Two ladies advanced. The one in front, habited entirely in red, + had large, settled patches of the same colour in her cheeks, and + a hard, dashing eye. She walked at Swithin, holding out a hand + cased in a long, primrose-coloured glove: + + “Well! Swithin,” she said, “I haven’t seen you for ages. How are + you? Why, my dear boy, how stout you’re getting!” + + The fixity of Swithin’s eye alone betrayed emotion. A dumb and + grumbling anger swelled his bosom. It was vulgar to be stout, to + talk of being stout; he had a chest, nothing more. Turning to his + sister, he grasped her hand, and said in a tone of command: + + “Well, Juley.” + + Mrs. Septimus Small was the tallest of the four sisters; her + good, round old face had gone a little sour; an innumerable pout + clung all over it, as if it had been encased in an iron wire mask + up to that evening, which, being suddenly removed, left little + rolls of mutinous flesh all over her countenance. Even her eyes + were pouting. It was thus that she recorded her permanent + resentment at the loss of Septimus Small. + + She had quite a reputation for saying the wrong thing, and, + tenacious like all her breed, she would hold to it when she had + said it, and add to it another wrong thing, and so on. With the + decease of her husband the family tenacity, the family + matter-of-factness, had gone sterile within her. A great talker, + when allowed, she would converse without the faintest animation + for hours together, relating, with epic monotony, the innumerable + occasions on which Fortune had misused her; nor did she ever + perceive that her hearers sympathized with Fortune, for her heart + was kind. + + Having sat, poor soul, long by the bedside of Small (a man of + poor constitution), she had acquired the habit, and there were + countless subsequent occasions when she had sat immense periods + of time to amuse sick people, children, and other helpless + persons, and she could never divest herself of the feeling that + the world was the most ungrateful place anybody could live in. + Sunday after Sunday she sat at the feet of that extremely witty + preacher, the Rev. Thomas Scoles, who exercised a great influence + over her; but she succeeded in convincing everybody that even + this was a misfortune. She had passed into a proverb in the + family, and when anybody was observed to be peculiarly + distressing, he was known as a regular “Juley.” The habit of her + mind would have killed anybody but a Forsyte at forty; but she + was seventy-two, and had never looked better. And one felt that + there were capacities for enjoyment about her which might yet + come out. She owned three canaries, the cat Tommy, and half a + parrot—in common with her sister Hester;—and these poor creatures + (kept carefully out of Timothy’s way—he was nervous about + animals), unlike human beings, recognising that she could not + help being blighted, attached themselves to her passionately. + + She was sombrely magnificent this evening in black bombazine, + with a mauve front cut in a shy triangle, and crowned with a + black velvet ribbon round the base of her thin throat; black and + mauve for evening wear was esteemed very chaste by nearly every + Forsyte. + + Pouting at Swithin, she said: + + “Ann has been asking for you. You haven’t been near us for an + age!” + + Swithin put his thumbs within the armholes of his waistcoat, and + replied: + + “Ann’s getting very shaky; she ought to have a doctor!” + + “Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Forsyte!” + + Nicholas Forsyte, cocking his rectangular eyebrows, wore a smile. + He had succeeded during the day in bringing to fruition a scheme + for the employment of a tribe from Upper India in the gold-mines + of Ceylon. A pet plan, carried at last in the teeth of great + difficulties—he was justly pleased. It would double the output of + his mines, and, as he had often forcibly argued, all experience + tended to show that a man must die; and whether he died of a + miserable old age in his own country, or prematurely of damp in + the bottom of a foreign mine, was surely of little consequence, + provided that by a change in his mode of life he benefited the + British Empire. + + His ability was undoubted. Raising his broken nose towards his + listener, he would add: + + “For want of a few hundred of these fellows we haven’t paid a + dividend for years, and look at the price of the shares. I can’t + get ten shillings for them.” + + He had been at Yarmouth, too, and had come back feeling that he + had added at least ten years to his own life. He grasped + Swithin’s hand, exclaiming in a jocular voice: + + “Well, so here we are again!” + + Mrs. Nicholas, an effete woman, smiled a smile of frightened + jollity behind his back. + + “Mr. and Mrs. James Forsyte! Mr. and Mrs. Soames Forsyte!” + + Swithin drew his heels together, his deportment ever admirable. + + “Well, James, well Emily! How are you, Soames? How do you _do?_” + + His hand enclosed Irene’s, and his eyes swelled. She was a pretty + woman—a little too pale, but her figure, her eyes, her teeth! Too + good for that chap Soames! + + The gods had given Irene dark brown eyes and golden hair, that + strange combination, provocative of men’s glances, which is said + to be the mark of a weak character. And the full, soft pallor of + her neck and shoulders, above a gold-coloured frock, gave to her + personality an alluring strangeness. + + Soames stood behind, his eyes fastened on his wife’s neck. The + hands of Swithin’s watch, which he still held open in his hand, + had left eight behind; it was half an hour beyond his + dinner-time—he had had no lunch—and a strange primeval impatience + surged up within him. + + “It’s not like Jolyon to be late!” he said to Irene, with + uncontrollable vexation. “I suppose it’ll be June keeping him!” + + “People in love are always late,” she answered. + + Swithin stared at her; a dusky orange dyed his cheeks. + + “They’ve no business to be. Some fashionable nonsense!” + + And behind this outburst the inarticulate violence of primitive + generations seemed to mutter and grumble. + + “Tell me what you think of my new star, Uncle Swithin,” said + Irene softly. + + Among the lace in the bosom of her dress was shining a + five-pointed star, made of eleven diamonds. Swithin looked at the + star. He had a pretty taste in stones; no question could have + been more sympathetically devised to distract his attention. + + “Who gave you that?” he asked. + + “Soames.” + + There was no change in her face, but Swithin’s pale eyes bulged + as though he might suddenly have been afflicted with insight. + + “I dare say you’re dull at home,” he said. “Any day you like to + come and dine with me, I’ll give you as good a bottle of wine as + you’ll get in London.” + + “Miss June Forsyte—Mr. Jolyon Forsyte!... Mr. Boswainey!...” + + Swithin moved his arm, and said in a rumbling voice: + + “Dinner, now—dinner!” + + He took in Irene, on the ground that he had not entertained her + since she was a bride. June was the portion of Bosinney, who was + placed between Irene and his fiancée. On the other side of June + was James with Mrs. Nicholas, then old Jolyon with Mrs. James, + Nicholas with Hatty Chessman, Soames with Mrs. Small, completing, + the circle to Swithin again. + + Family dinners of the Forsytes observe certain traditions. There + are, for instance, no _hors d’œuvres_. The reason for this is + unknown. Theory among the younger members traces it to the + disgraceful price of oysters; it is more probably due to a desire + to come to the point, to a good practical sense deciding at once + that _hors d’œuvres_ are but poor things. The Jameses alone, + unable to withstand a custom almost universal in Park Lane, are + now and then unfaithful. + + A silent, almost morose, inattention to each other succeeds to + the subsidence into their seats, lasting till well into the first + entree, but interspersed with remarks such as, “Tom’s bad again; + I can’t tell what’s the matter with him!” “I suppose Ann doesn’t + come down in the mornings?”—“What’s the name of your doctor, + Fanny?” “Stubbs?” “He’s a quack!”—“Winifred? She’s got too many + children. Four, isn’t it? She’s as thin as a lath!”—“What d’you + give for this sherry, Swithin? Too dry for me!” + + With the second glass of champagne, a kind of hum makes itself + heard, which, when divested of casual accessories and resolved + into its primal element, is found to be James telling a story, + and this goes on for a long time, encroaching sometimes even upon + what must universally be recognised as the crowning point of a + Forsyte feast—“the saddle of mutton.” + + No Forsyte has given a dinner without providing a saddle of + mutton. There is something in its succulent solidity which makes + it suitable to people “of a certain position.” It is nourishing + and tasty; the sort of thing a man remembers eating. It has a + past and a future, like a deposit paid into a bank; and it is + something that can be argued about. + + Each branch of the family tenaciously held to a particular + locality—old Jolyon swearing by Dartmoor, James by Welsh, Swithin + by Southdown, Nicholas maintaining that people might sneer, but + there was nothing like New Zealand! As for Roger, the “original” + of the brothers, he had been obliged to invent a locality of his + own, and with an ingenuity worthy of a man who had devised a new + profession for his sons, he had discovered a shop where they sold + German; on being remonstrated with, he had proved his point by + producing a butcher’s bill, which showed that he paid more than + any of the others. It was on this occasion that old Jolyon, + turning to June, had said in one of his bursts of philosophy: + + “You may depend upon it, they’re a cranky lot, the Forsytes—and + you’ll find it out, as you grow older!” + + Timothy alone held apart, for though he ate saddle of mutton + heartily, he was, he said, afraid of it. + + To anyone interested psychologically in Forsytes, this great + saddle-of-mutton trait is of prime importance; not only does it + illustrate their tenacity, both collectively and as individuals, + but it marks them as belonging in fibre and instincts to that + great class which believes in nourishment and flavour, and yields + to no sentimental craving for beauty. + + Younger members of the family indeed would have done without a + joint altogether, preferring guinea-fowl, or lobster + salad—something which appealed to the imagination, and had less + nourishment—but these were females; or, if not, had been + corrupted by their wives, or by mothers, who having been forced + to eat saddle of mutton throughout their married lives, had + passed a secret hostility towards it into the fibre of their + sons. + + The great saddle-of-mutton controversy at an end, a Tewkesbury + ham commenced, together with the least touch of West + Indian—Swithin was so long over this course that he caused a + block in the progress of the dinner. To devote himself to it with + better heart, he paused in his conversation. + + From his seat by Mrs. Septimus Small Soames was watching. He had + a reason of his own connected with a pet building scheme, for + observing Bosinney. The architect might do for his purpose; he + looked clever, as he sat leaning back in his chair, moodily + making little ramparts with bread-crumbs. Soames noted his dress + clothes to be well cut, but too small, as though made many years + ago. + + He saw him turn to Irene and say something and her face sparkle + as he often saw it sparkle at other people—never at himself. He + tried to catch what they were saying, but Aunt Juley was + speaking. + + Hadn’t that always seemed very extraordinary to Soames? Only last + Sunday dear Mr. Scoles, had been so witty in his sermon, so + sarcastic, “For what,” he had said, “shall it profit a man if he + gain his own soul, but lose all his property?” That, he had said, + was the motto of the middle-class; now, what _had_ he meant by + that? Of course, it might be what middle-class people + believed—she didn’t know; what did Soames think? + + He answered abstractedly: “How should I know? Scoles is a humbug, + though, isn’t he?” For Bosinney was looking round the table, as + if pointing out the peculiarities of the guests, and Soames + wondered what he was saying. By her smile Irene was evidently + agreeing with his remarks. She seemed always to agree with other + people. + + Her eyes were turned on himself; Soames dropped his glance at + once. The smile had died off her lips. + + A humbug? But what did Soames mean? If Mr. Scoles was a humbug, a + clergyman—then anybody might be—it was frightful! + + “Well, and so they are!” said Soames. + + During Aunt Juley’s momentary and horrified silence he caught + some words of Irene’s that sounded like: “Abandon hope, all ye + who enter here!” + + But Swithin had finished his ham. + + “Where do you go for your mushrooms?” he was saying to Irene in a + voice like a courtier’s; “you ought to go to Smileybob’s—he’ll + give ’em you fresh. These _little_ men, they won’t take the + trouble!” + + Irene turned to answer him, and Soames saw Bosinney watching her + and smiling to himself. A curious smile the fellow had. A + half-simple arrangement, like a child who smiles when he is + pleased. As for George’s nickname—“The Buccaneer”—he did not + think much of that. And, seeing Bosinney turn to June, Soames + smiled too, but sardonically—he did not like June, who was not + looking too pleased. + + This was not surprising, for she had just held the following + conversation with James: + + “I stayed on the river on my way home, Uncle James, and saw a + beautiful site for a house.” + + James, a slow and thorough eater, stopped the process of + mastication. + + “Eh?” he said. “Now, where was that?” + + “Close to Pangbourne.” + + James placed a piece of ham in his mouth, and June waited. + + “I suppose you wouldn’t know whether the land about there was + freehold?” he asked at last. “_You_ wouldn’t know anything about + the price of land about there?” + + “Yes,” said June; “I made inquiries.” Her little resolute face + under its copper crown was suspiciously eager and aglow. + + James regarded her with the air of an inquisitor. + + “What? You’re not thinking of buying land!” he ejaculated, + dropping his fork. + + June was greatly encouraged by his interest. It had long been her + pet plan that her uncles should benefit themselves and Bosinney + by building country-houses. + + “Of course not,” she said. “I thought it would be such a splendid + place for—you or—someone to build a country-house!” + + James looked at her sideways, and placed a second piece of ham in + his mouth.... + + “Land ought to be very dear about there,” he said. + + What June had taken for personal interest was only the impersonal + excitement of every Forsyte who hears of something eligible in + danger of passing into other hands. But she refused to see the + disappearance of her chance, and continued to press her point. + + “You ought to go into the country, Uncle James. I wish I had a + lot of money, I wouldn’t live another day in London.” + + James was stirred to the depths of his long thin figure; he had + no idea his niece held such downright views. + + “Why don’t you go into the country?” repeated June; “it would do + you a lot of good.” + + “Why?” began James in a fluster. “Buying land—what good d’you + suppose I can do buying land, building houses?—I couldn’t get + four per cent. for my money!” + + “What does that matter? You’d get fresh air.” + + “Fresh air!” exclaimed James; “what should I do with fresh air,” + + “I should have thought anybody liked to have fresh air,” said + June scornfully. + + James wiped his napkin all over his mouth. + + “You don’t know the value of money,” he said, avoiding her eye. + + “No! and I hope I never shall!” and, biting her lip with + inexpressible mortification, poor June was silent. + + Why were her own relations so rich, and Phil never knew where the + money was coming from for to-morrow’s tobacco. Why couldn’t they + do something for him? But they were so selfish. Why couldn’t they + build country-houses? She had all that naive dogmatism which is + so pathetic, and sometimes achieves such great results. Bosinney, + to whom she turned in her discomfiture, was talking to Irene, and + a chill fell on Jun’s spirit. Her eyes grew steady with anger, + like old Jolyon’s when his will was crossed. + + James, too, was much disturbed. He felt as though someone had + threatened his right to invest his money at five per cent. Jolyon + had spoiled her. None of _his_ girls would have said such a + thing. James had always been exceedingly liberal to his children, + and the consciousness of this made him feel it all the more + deeply. He trifled moodily with his strawberries, then, deluging + them with cream, he ate them quickly; they, at all events, should + not escape him. + + No wonder he was upset. Engaged for fifty-four years (he had been + admitted a solicitor on the earliest day sanctioned by the law) + in arranging mortgages, preserving investments at a dead level of + high and safe interest, conducting negotiations on the principle + of securing the utmost possible out of other people compatible + with safety to his clients and himself, in calculations as to the + exact pecuniary possibilities of all the relations of life, he + had come at last to think purely in terms of money. Money was now + his light, his medium for seeing, that without which he was + really unable to see, really not cognisant of phenomena; and to + have this thing, “I hope I shall never know the value of money!” + said to his face, saddened and exasperated him. He knew it to be + nonsense, or it would have frightened him. What was the world + coming to! Suddenly recollecting the story of young Jolyon, + however, he felt a little comforted, for what could you expect + with a father like that! This turned his thoughts into a channel + still less pleasant. What was all this talk about Soames and + Irene? + + As in all self-respecting families, an emporium had been + established where family secrets were bartered, and family stock + priced. It was known on Forsyte ’Change that Irene regretted her + marriage. Her regret was disapproved of. She ought to have known + her own mind; no dependable woman made these mistakes. + + James reflected sourly that they had a nice house (rather small) + in an excellent position, no children, and no money troubles. + Soames was reserved about his affairs, but he must be getting a + very warm man. He had a capital income from the business—for + Soames, like his father, was a member of that well-known firm of + solicitors, Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte—and had always been very + careful. He had done quite unusually well with some mortgages he + had taken up, too—a little timely foreclosure—most lucky hits! + + There was no reason why Irene should not be happy, yet they said + she’d been asking for a separate room. He knew where that ended. + It wasn’t as if Soames drank. + + James looked at his daughter-in-law. That unseen glance of his + was cold and dubious. Appeal and fear were in it, and a sense of + personal grievance. Why should he be worried like this? It was + very likely all nonsense; women were funny things! They + exaggerated so, you didn’t know what to believe; and then, nobody + told him anything, he had to find out everything for himself. + Again he looked furtively at Irene, and across from her to + Soames. The latter, listening to Aunt Juley, was looking up, + under his brows in the direction of Bosinney. + + “He’s fond of her, I know,” thought James. “Look at the way he’s + always giving her things.” + + And the extraordinary unreasonableness of her disaffection struck + him with increased force. It was a pity, too, she was a taking + little thing, and he, James, would be really quite fond of her if + she’d only let him. She had taken up lately with June; _that_ was + doing her no good, that was certainly doing her no good. She was + getting to have opinions of her own. He didn’t know what she + wanted with anything of the sort. She’d a good home, and + everything she could wish for. He felt that her friends ought to + be chosen for her. To go on like this was dangerous. + + June, indeed, with her habit of championing the unfortunate, had + dragged from Irene a confession, and, in return, had preached the + necessity of facing the evil, by separation, if need be. But in + the face of these exhortations, Irene had kept a brooding + silence, as though she found terrible the thought of this + struggle carried through in cold blood. He would never give her + up, she had said to June. + + “Who cares?” June cried; “let him do what he likes—you’ve only to + stick to it!” And she had not scrupled to say something of this + sort at Timothy’s; James, when he heard of it, had felt a natural + indignation and horror. + + What if Irene were to take it into her head to—he could hardly + frame the thought—to leave Soames? But he felt this thought so + unbearable that he at once put it away; the shady visions it + conjured up, the sound of family tongues buzzing in his ears, the + horror of the conspicuous happening so close to him, to one of + his own children! Luckily, she had no money—a beggarly fifty + pound a year! And he thought of the deceased Heron, who had had + nothing to leave her, with contempt. Brooding over his glass, his + long legs twisted under the table, he quite omitted to rise when + the ladies left the room. He would have to speak to Soames—would + have to put him on his guard; they could not go on like this, now + that such a contingency had occurred to him. And he noticed with + sour disfavour that June had left her wine-glasses full of wine. + + “That little, thing’s at the bottom of it all,” he mused; + “Irene’d never have thought of it herself.” James was a man of + imagination. + + The voice of Swithin roused him from his reverie. + + “I gave four hundred pounds for it,” he was saying. “Of course + it’s a regular work of art.” + + “Four hundred! H’m! that’s a lot of money!” chimed in Nicholas. + + The object alluded to was an elaborate group of statuary in + Italian marble, which, placed upon a lofty stand (also of + marble), diffused an atmosphere of culture throughout the room. + The subsidiary figures, of which there were six, female, nude, + and of highly ornate workmanship, were all pointing towards the + central figure, also nude, and female, who was pointing at + herself; and all this gave the observer a very pleasant sense of + her extreme value. Aunt Juley, nearly opposite, had had the + greatest difficulty in not looking at it all the evening. + + Old Jolyon spoke; it was he who had started the discussion. + + “Four hundred fiddlesticks! Don’t tell me you gave four hundred + for _that?_” + + Between the points of his collar Swithin’s chin made the second + painful oscillatory movement of the evening. + + “Four-hundred-pounds, of English money; not a farthing less. I + don’t regret it. It’s not common English—it’s genuine modern + Italian!” + + Soames raised the corner of his lip in a smile, and looked across + at Bosinney. The architect was grinning behind the fumes of his + cigarette. Now, indeed, he looked more like a buccaneer. + + “There’s a lot of work about it,” remarked James hastily, who was + really moved by the size of the group. “It’d sell well at + Jobson’s.” + + “The poor foreign dey-vil that made it,” went on Swithin, “asked + me five hundred—I gave him four. It’s worth eight. Looked + half-starved, poor dey-vil!” + + “Ah!” chimed in Nicholas suddenly, “poor, seedy-lookin’ chaps, + these artists; it’s a wonder to me how they live. Now, there’s + young Flageoletti, that Fanny and the girls are always hav’in’ + in, to play the fiddle; if he makes a hundred a year it’s as much + as ever he does!” + + James shook his head. “Ah!” he said, “_I_ don’t know how they + live!” + + Old Jolyon had risen, and, cigar in mouth, went to inspect the + group at close quarters. + + “Wouldn’t have given two for it!” he pronounced at last. + + Soames saw his father and Nicholas glance at each other + anxiously; and, on the other side of Swithin, Bosinney, still + shrouded in smoke. + + “I wonder what _he_ thinks of it?” thought Soames, who knew well + enough that this group was hopelessly _vieux jeu;_ hopelessly of + the last generation. There was no longer any sale at Jobson’s for + such works of art. + + Swithin’s answer came at last. “You never knew anything about a + statue. You’ve got your pictures, and that’s all!” + + Old Jolyon walked back to his seat, puffing his cigar. It was not + likely that he was going to be drawn into an argument with an + obstinate beggar like Swithin, pig-headed as a mule, who had + never known a statue from a—-straw hat. + + “Stucco!” was all he said. + + It had long been physically impossible for Swithin to start; his + fist came down on the table. + + “Stucco! I should like to see anything you’ve got in your house + half as good!” + + And behind his speech seemed to sound again that rumbling + violence of primitive generations. + + It was James who saved the situation. + + “Now, what do you say, Mr. Bosinney? You’re an architect; you + ought to know all about statues and things!” + + Every eye was turned upon Bosinney; all waited with a strange, + suspicious look for his answer. + + And Soames, speaking for the first time, asked: + + “Yes, Bosinney, what do you say?” + + Bosinney replied coolly: + + “The work is a remarkable one.” + + His words were addressed to Swithin, his eyes smiled slyly at old + Jolyon; only Soames remained unsatisfied. + + “Remarkable for what?” + + “For its naiveté.” + + The answer was followed by an impressive silence; Swithin alone + was not sure whether a compliment was intended. + + + + + CHAPTER IV PROJECTION OF THE HOUSE + + Soames Forsyte walked out of his green-painted front door three + days after the dinner at Swithin’s, and looking back from across + the Square, confirmed his impression that the house wanted + painting. + + He had left his wife sitting on the sofa in the drawing-room, her + hands crossed in her lap, manifestly waiting for him to go out. + This was not unusual. It happened, in fact, every day. + + He could not understand what she found wrong with him. It was not + as if he drank! Did he run into debt, or gamble, or swear; was he + violent; were his friends rackety; did he stay out at night? On + the contrary. + + The profound, subdued aversion which he felt in his wife was a + mystery to him, and a source of the most terrible irritation. + That she had made a mistake, and did not love him, had tried to + love him and could not love him, was obviously no reason. + + He that could imagine so outlandish a cause for his wife’s not + getting on with him was certainly no Forsyte. + + Soames was forced, therefore, to set the blame entirely down to + his wife. He had never met a woman so capable of inspiring + affection. They could not go anywhere without his seeing how all + the men were attracted by her; their looks, manners, voices, + betrayed it; her behaviour under this attention had been beyond + reproach. That she was one of those women—not too common in the + Anglo-Saxon race—born to be loved and to love, who when not + loving are not living, had certainly never even occurred to him. + Her power of attraction, he regarded as part of her value as his + property; but it made him, indeed, suspect that she could give as + well as receive; and she gave him nothing! “Then why did she + marry me?” was his continual thought. He had forgotten his + courtship; that year and a half when he had besieged and lain in + wait for her, devising schemes for her entertainment, giving her + presents, proposing to her periodically, and keeping her other + admirers away with his perpetual presence. He had forgotten the + day when, adroitly taking advantage of an acute phase of her + dislike to her home surroundings, he crowned his labours with + success. If he remembered anything, it was the dainty + capriciousness with which the gold-haired, dark-eyed girl had + treated him. He certainly did not remember the look on her + face—strange, passive, appealing—when suddenly one day she had + yielded, and said that she would marry him. + + It had been one of those real devoted wooings which books and + people praise, when the lover is at length rewarded for hammering + the iron till it is malleable, and all must be happy ever after + as the wedding bells. + + Soames walked eastwards, mousing doggedly along on the shady + side. + + The house wanted doing, up, unless he decided to move into the + country, and build. + + For the hundredth time that month he turned over this problem. + There was no use in rushing into things! He was very comfortably + off, with an increasing income getting on for three thousand a + year; but his invested capital was not perhaps so large as his + father believed—James had a tendency to expect that his children + should be better off than they were. “I can manage eight thousand + easily enough,” he thought, “without calling in either + Robertson’s or Nicholl’s.” + + He had stopped to look in at a picture shop, for Soames was an + “amateur” of pictures, and had a little-room in No. 62, + Montpellier Square, full of canvases, stacked against the wall, + which he had no room to hang. He brought them home with him on + his way back from the City, generally after dark, and would enter + this room on Sunday afternoons, to spend hours turning the + pictures to the light, examining the marks on their backs, and + occasionally making notes. + + They were nearly all landscapes with figures in the foreground, a + sign of some mysterious revolt against London, its tall houses, + its interminable streets, where his life and the lives of his + breed and class were passed. Every now and then he would take one + or two pictures away with him in a cab, and stop at Jobson’s on + his way into the City. + + He rarely showed them to anyone; Irene, whose opinion he secretly + respected and perhaps for that reason never solicited, had only + been into the room on rare occasions, in discharge of some wifely + duty. She was not asked to look at the pictures, and she never + did. To Soames this was another grievance. He hated that pride of + hers, and secretly dreaded it. + + In the plate-glass window of the picture shop his image stood and + looked at him. + + His sleek hair under the brim of the tall hat had a sheen like + the hat itself; his cheeks, pale and flat, the line of his + clean-shaven lips, his firm chin with its greyish shaven tinge, + and the buttoned strictness of his black cut-away coat, conveyed + an appearance of reserve and secrecy, of imperturbable, enforced + composure; but his eyes, cold,—grey, strained—looking, with a + line in the brow between them, examined him wistfully, as if they + knew of a secret weakness. + + He noted the subjects of the pictures, the names of the painters, + made a calculation of their values, but without the satisfaction + he usually derived from this inward appraisement, and walked on. + + No. 62 would do well enough for another year, if he decided to + build! The times were good for building, money had not been so + dear for years; and the site he had seen at Robin Hill, when he + had gone down there in the spring to inspect the Nicholl + mortgage—what could be better! Within twelve miles of Hyde Park + Corner, the value of the land certain to go up, would always + fetch more than he gave for it; so that a house, if built in + really good style, was a first-class investment. + + The notion of being the one member of his family with a country + house weighed but little with him; for to a true Forsyte, + sentiment, even the sentiment of social position, was a luxury + only to be indulged in after his appetite for more material + pleasure had been satisfied. + + To get Irene out of London, away from opportunities of going + about and seeing people, away from her friends and those who put + ideas into her head! That was the thing! She was too thick with + June! June disliked him. He returned the sentiment. They were of + the same blood. + + It would be everything to get Irene out of town. The house would + please her, she would enjoy messing about with the decoration, + she was very artistic! + + The house must be in good style, something that would always be + certain to command a price, something unique, like that last + house of Parkes, which had a tower; but Parkes had himself said + that his architect was ruinous. You never knew where you were + with those fellows; if they had a name they ran you into no end + of expense and were conceited into the bargain. + + And a common architect was no good—the memory of Parkes’ tower + precluded the employment of a common architect: + + This was why he had thought of Bosinney. Since the dinner at + Swithin’s he had made enquiries, the result of which had been + meagre, but encouraging: “One of the new school.” + + “Clever?” + + “As clever as you like—a bit—a bit up in the air!” + + He had not been able to discover what houses Bosinney had built, + nor what his charges were. The impression he gathered was that he + would be able to make his own terms. The more he reflected on the + idea, the more he liked it. It would be keeping the thing in the + family, with Forsytes almost an instinct; and he would be able to + get “favoured-nation,” if not nominal terms—only fair, + considering the chance to Bosinney of displaying his talents, for + this house must be no common edifice. + + Soames reflected complacently on the work it would be sure to + bring the young man; for, like every Forsyte, he could be a + thorough optimist when there was anything to be had out of it. + + Bosinney’s office was in Sloane Street, close at, hand, so that + he would be able to keep his eye continually on the plans. + + Again, Irene would not be to likely to object to leave London if + her greatest friend’s lover were given the job. Jun’s marriage + might depend on it. Irene could not decently stand in the way of + Jun’s marriage; she would never do that, he knew her too well. + And June would be pleased; of this he saw the advantage. + + Bosinney looked clever, but he had also—and—it was one of his + great attractions—an air as if he did not quite know on which + side his bread were buttered; he should be easy to deal with in + money matters. Soames made this reflection in no defrauding + spirit; it was the natural attitude of his mind—of the mind of + any good business man—of all those thousands of good business men + through whom he was threading his way up Ludgate Hill. + + Thus he fulfilled the inscrutable laws of his great class—of + human nature itself—when he reflected, with a sense of comfort, + that Bosinney would be easy to deal with in money matters. + + While he elbowed his way on, his eyes, which he usually kept + fixed on the ground before his feet, were attracted upwards by + the dome of St. Paul’s. It had a peculiar fascination for him, + that old dome, and not once, but twice or three times a week, + would he halt in his daily pilgrimage to enter beneath and stop + in the side aisles for five or ten minutes, scrutinizing the + names and epitaphs on the monuments. The attraction for him of + this great church was inexplicable, unless it enabled him to + concentrate his thoughts on the business of the day. If any + affair of particular moment, or demanding peculiar acuteness, was + weighing on his mind, he invariably went in, to wander with + mouse-like attention from epitaph to epitaph. Then retiring in + the same noiseless way, he would hold steadily on up Cheapside, a + thought more of dogged purpose in his gait, as though he had seen + something which he had made up his mind to buy. + + He went in this morning, but, instead of stealing from monument + to monument, turned his eyes upwards to the columns and spacings + of the walls, and remained motionless. + + His uplifted face, with the awed and wistful look which faces + take on themselves in church, was whitened to a chalky hue in the + vast building. His gloved hands were clasped in front over the + handle of his umbrella. He lifted them. Some sacred inspiration + perhaps had come to him. + + “Yes,” he thought, “I must have room to hang my pictures.” + + That evening, on his return from the City, he called at + Bosinney’s office. He found the architect in his shirt-sleeves, + smoking a pipe, and ruling off lines on a plan. Soames refused a + drink, and came at once to the point. + + “If you’ve nothing better to do on Sunday, come down with me to + Robin Hill, and give me your opinion on a building site.” + + “Are you going to build?” + + “Perhaps,” said Soames; “but don’t speak of it. I just want your + opinion.” + + “Quite so,” said the architect. + + Soames peered about the room. + + “You’re rather high up here,” he remarked. + + Any information he could gather about the nature and scope of + Bosinney’s business would be all to the good. + + “It does well enough for me so far,” answered the architect. + “You’re accustomed to the swells.” + + He knocked out his pipe, but replaced it empty between his teeth; + it assisted him perhaps to carry on the conversation. Soames + noted a hollow in each cheek, made as it were by suction. + + “What do you pay for an office like this?” said he. + + “Fifty too much,” replied Bosinney. + + This answer impressed Soames favourably. + + “I suppose it _is_ dear,” he said. “I’ll call for you—on Sunday + about eleven.” + + The following Sunday therefore he called for Bosinney in a + hansom, and drove him to the station. On arriving at Robin Hill, + they found no cab, and started to walk the mile and a half to the + site. + + It was the 1st of August—a perfect day, with a burning sun and + cloudless sky—and in the straight, narrow road leading up the + hill their feet kicked up a yellow dust. + + “Gravel soil,” remarked Soames, and sideways he glanced at the + coat Bosinney wore. Into the side-pockets of this coat were + thrust bundles of papers, and under one arm was carried a + queer-looking stick. Soames noted these and other peculiarities. + + No one but a clever man, or, indeed, a buccaneer, would have + taken such liberties with his appearance; and though these + eccentricities were revolting to Soames, he derived a certain + satisfaction from them, as evidence of qualities by which he must + inevitably profit. If the fellow could build houses, what did his + clothes matter? + + “I told you,” he said, “that I want this house to be a surprise, + so don’t say anything about it. I never talk of my affairs until + they’re carried through.” + + Bosinney nodded. + + “Let women into your plans,” pursued Soames, “and you never know + where it’ll end.” + + “Ah!” Said Bosinney, “women are the devil!” + + This feeling had long been at the bottom of Soames’s heart; he + had never, however, put it into words. + + “Oh!” he muttered, “so you’re beginning to....” He stopped, but + added, with an uncontrollable burst of spite: “Jun’s got a temper + of her own—always had.” + + “A temper’s not a bad thing in an angel.” + + Soames had never called Irene an angel. He could not so have + violated his best instincts, letting other people into the secret + of her value, and giving himself away. He made no reply. + + They had struck into a half-made road across a warren. A + cart-track led at right-angles to a gravel pit, beyond which the + chimneys of a cottage rose amongst a clump of trees at the border + of a thick wood. Tussocks of feathery grass covered the rough + surface of the ground, and out of these the larks soared into the + haze of sunshine. On the far horizon, over a countless succession + of fields and hedges, rose a line of downs. + + Soames led till they had crossed to the far side, and there he + stopped. It was the chosen site; but now that he was about to + divulge the spot to another he had become uneasy. + + “The agent lives in that cottage,” he said; “he’ll give us some + lunch—we’d better have lunch before we go into this matter.” + + He again took the lead to the cottage, where the agent, a tall + man named Oliver, with a heavy face and grizzled beard, welcomed + them. During lunch, which Soames hardly touched, he kept looking + at Bosinney, and once or twice passed his silk handkerchief + stealthily over his forehead. The meal came to an end at last, + and Bosinney rose. + + “I dare say you’ve got business to talk over,” he said; “I’ll + just go and nose about a bit.” Without waiting for a reply he + strolled out. + + Soames was solicitor to this estate, and he spent nearly an hour + in the agent’s company, looking at ground-plans and discussing + the Nicholl and other mortgages; it was as it were by an + afterthought that he brought up the question of the building + site. + + “Your people,” he said, “ought to come down in their price to me, + considering that I shall be the first to build.” + + Oliver shook his head. + + The site you’ve fixed on, Sir, he said, “is the cheapest we’ve + got. Sites at the top of the slope are dearer by a good bit.” + + “Mind,” said Soames, “I’ve not decided; it’s quite possible I + shan’t build at all. The ground rent’s very high.” + + “Well, Mr. Forsyte, I shall be sorry if you go off, and I think + you’ll make a mistake, Sir. There’s not a bit of land near London + with such a view as this, nor one that’s cheaper, all things + considered; we’ve only to advertise, to get a mob of people after + it.” + + They looked at each other. Their faces said very plainly: “I + respect you as a man of business; and you can’t expect me to + believe a word you say.” + + Well, repeated Soames, “I haven’t made up my mind; the thing will + very likely go off!” With these words, taking up his umbrella, he + put his chilly hand into the agent’s, withdrew it without the + faintest pressure, and went out into the sun. + + He walked slowly back towards the site in deep thought. His + instinct told him that what the agent had said was true. A cheap + site. And the beauty of it was, that he knew the agent did not + really think it cheap; so that his own intuitive knowledge was a + victory over the agent’s. + + “Cheap or not, I mean to have it,” he thought. + + The larks sprang up in front of his feet, the air was full of + butterflies, a sweet fragrance rose from the wild grasses. The + sappy scent of the bracken stole forth from the wood, where, + hidden in the depths, pigeons were cooing, and from afar on the + warm breeze, came the rhythmic chiming of church bells. + + Soames walked with his eyes on the ground, his lips opening and + closing as though in anticipation of a delicious morsel. But when + he arrived at the site, Bosinney was nowhere to be seen. After + waiting some little time, he crossed the warren in the direction + of the slope. He would have shouted, but dreaded the sound of his + voice. + + The warren was as lonely as a prairie, its silence only broken by + the rustle of rabbits bolting to their holes, and the song of the + larks. + + Soames, the pioneer-leader of the great Forsyte army advancing to + the civilization of this wilderness, felt his spirit daunted by + the loneliness, by the invisible singing, and the hot, sweet air. + He had begun to retrace his steps when he at last caught sight of + Bosinney. + + The architect was sprawling under a large oak tree, whose trunk, + with a huge spread of bough and foliage, ragged with age, stood + on the verge of the rise. + + Soames had to touch him on the shoulder before he looked up. + + “Hallo! Forsyte,” he said, “I’ve found the very place for your + house! Look here!” + + Soames stood and looked, then he said, coldly: + + “You may be very clever, but this site will cost me half as much + again.” + + “Hang the cost, man. Look at the view!” + + Almost from their feet stretched ripe corn, dipping to a small + dark copse beyond. A plain of fields and hedges spread to the + distant grey-bluedowns. In a silver streak to the right could be + seen the line of the river. + + The sky was so blue, and the sun so bright, that an eternal + summer seemed to reign over this prospect. Thistledown floated + round them, enraptured by the serenity, of the ether. The heat + danced over the corn, and, pervading all, was a soft, insensible + hum, like the murmur of bright minutes holding revel between + earth and heaven. + + Soames looked. In spite of himself, something swelled in his + breast. To live here in sight of all this, to be able to point it + out to his friends, to talk of it, to possess it! His cheeks + flushed. The warmth, the radiance, the glow, were sinking into + his senses as, four years before, Irene’s beauty had sunk into + his senses and made him long for her. He stole a glance at + Bosinney, whose eyes, the eyes of the coachman’s “half-tame + leopard,” seemed running wild over the landscape. The sunlight + had caught the promontories of the fellow’s face, the bumpy + cheekbones, the point of his chin, the vertical ridges above his + brow; and Soames watched this rugged, enthusiastic, careless face + with an unpleasant feeling. + + A long, soft ripple of wind flowed over the corn, and brought a + puff of warm air into their faces. + + “I could build you a teaser here,” said Bosinney, breaking the + silence at last. + + “I dare say,” replied Soames, drily. “You haven’t got to pay for + it.” + + “For about eight thousand I could build you a palace.” + + Soames had become very pale—a struggle was going on within him. + He dropped his eyes, and said stubbornly: + + “I can’t afford it.” + + And slowly, with his mousing walk, he led the way back to the + first site. + + They spent some time there going into particulars of the + projected house, and then Soames returned to the agent’s cottage. + + He came out in about half an hour, and, joining Bosinney, started + for the station. + + “Well,” he said, hardly opening his lips, “I’ve taken that site + of yours, after all.” + + And again he was silent, confusedly debating how it was that this + fellow, whom by habit he despised, should have overborne his own + decision. + + + + + CHAPTER V A FORSYTE MÉNAGE + + 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 Molière. + + 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 he 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 made no reply. + + “Well, I can’t tell what you want. You never seem contented + here.” + + “Have my wishes anything to do with it?” + + She took the vase of roses and left the room. Soames remained + seated. Was it for this that he had signed that contract? Was it + for this that he was going to spend some ten thousand pounds? + Bosinney’s phrase came back to him: “Women are the devil!” + + But presently he grew calmer. It might have been worse. She might + have flared up. He had expected something more than this. It was + lucky, after all, that June had broken the ice for him. She must + have wormed it out of Bosinney; he might have known she would. + + He lighted his cigarette. After all, Irene had not made a scene! + She would come round—that was the best of her; she was cold, but + not sulky. And, puffing the cigarette smoke at a lady-bird on the + shining table, he plunged into a reverie about the house. It was + no good worrying; he would go and make it up presently. She would + be sitting out there in the dark, under the Japanese sunshade, + knitting. A beautiful, warm night.... + + In truth, June had come in that afternoon with shining eyes, and + the words: “Soames is a brick! It’s splendid for Phil—the very + thing for him!” + + Irene’s face remaining dark and puzzled, she went on: + + “Your new house at Robin Hill, of course. What? Don’t you know?” + + Irene did not know. + + “Oh! then, I suppose I oughtn’t to have told you!” Looking + impatiently at her friend, she cried: “You look as if you didn’t + care. Don’t you see, it’s what I’ve been praying for—the very + chance he’s been wanting all this time. Now you’ll see what he + can do;” and thereupon she poured out the whole story. + + Since her own engagement she had not seemed much interested in + her friend’s position; the hours she spent with Irene were given + to confidences of her own; and at times, for all her affectionate + pity, it was impossible to keep out of her smile a trace of + compassionate contempt for the woman who had made such a mistake + in her life—such a vast, ridiculous mistake. + + “He’s to have all the decorations as well—a free hand. It’s + perfect—” June broke into laughter, her little figure quivered + gleefully; she raised her hand, and struck a blow at a muslin + curtain. “Do you, know I even asked Uncle James....” But, with a + sudden dislike to mentioning that incident, she stopped; and + presently, finding her friend so unresponsive, went away. She + looked back from the pavement, and Irene was still standing in + the doorway. In response to her farewell wave, Irene put her hand + to her brow, and, turning slowly, shut the door.... + + Soames went to the drawing-room presently, and peered at her + through the window. + + Out in the shadow of the Japanese sunshade she was sitting very + still, the lace on her white shoulders stirring with the soft + rise and fall of her bosom. + + But about this silent creature sitting there so motionless, in + the dark, there seemed a warmth, a hidden fervour of feeling, as + if the whole of her being had been stirred, and some change were + taking place in its very depths. + + He stole back to the dining-room unnoticed. + + + + + CHAPTER VI JAMES AT LARGE + + It was not long before Soames’s determination to build went the + round of the family, and created the flutter that any decision + connected with property should make among Forsytes. + + It was not his fault, for he had been determined that no one + should know. June, in the fulness of her heart, had told Mrs. + Small, giving her leave only to tell Aunt Ann—she thought it + would cheer her, the poor old sweet! for Aunt Ann had kept her + room now for many days. + + Mrs. Small told Aunt Ann at once, who, smiling as she lay back on + her pillows, said in her distinct, trembling old voice: + + “It’s very nice for dear June; but I hope they will be + careful—it’s rather dangerous!” + + When she was left alone again, a frown, like a cloud presaging a + rainy morrow, crossed her face. + + While she was lying there so many days the process of recharging + her will went on all the time; it spread to her face, too, and + tightening movements were always in action at the corners of her + lips. + + The maid Smither, who had been in her service since girlhood, and + was spoken of as “Smither—a good girl—but so slow!”—the maid + Smither performed every morning with extreme punctiliousness the + crowning ceremony of that ancient toilet. Taking from the + recesses of their pure white band-box those flat, grey curls, the + insignia of personal dignity, she placed them securely in her + mistress’s hands, and turned her back. + + And every day Aunts Juley and Hester were required to come and + report on Timothy; what news there was of Nicholas; whether dear + June had succeeded in getting Jolyon to shorten the engagement, + now that Mr. Bosinney was building Soames a house; whether young + Roger’s wife was really—expecting; how the operation on Archie + had succeeded; and what Swithin had done about that empty house + in Wigmore Street, where the tenant had lost all his money and + treated him so badly; above all, about Soames; was Irene + still—still asking for a separate room? And every morning Smither + was told: “I shall be coming down this afternoon, Smither, about + two o’clock. I shall want your arm, after all these days in bed!” + + After telling Aunt Ann, Mrs. Small had spoken of the house in the + strictest confidence to Mrs. Nicholas, who in her turn had asked + Winifred Dartie for confirmation, supposing, of course, that, + being Soames’s sister, she would know all about it. Through her + it had in due course come round to the ears of James. He had been + a good deal agitated. + + “Nobody,” he said, “told him anything.” And, rather than go + direct to Soames himself, of whose taciturnity he was afraid, he + took his umbrella and went round to Timothy’s. + + He found Mrs. Septimus and Hester (who had been told—she was so + safe, she found it tiring to talk) ready, and indeed eager, to + discuss the news. It was very good of dear Soames, they thought, + to employ Mr. Bosinney, but rather risky. What had George named + him? “The Buccaneer!” How droll! But George was always droll! + However, it would be all in the family they supposed they must + really look upon Mr. Bosinney as belonging to the family, though + it seemed strange. + + James here broke in: + + “Nobody knows anything about him. I don’t see what Soames wants + with a young man like that. I shouldn’t be surprised if Irene had + put her oar in. I shall speak to....” + + “Soames,” interposed Aunt Juley, “told Mr. Bosinney that he + didn’t wish it mentioned. He wouldn’t like it to be talked about, + I’m sure, and if Timothy knew he would be very vexed, I....” + + James put his hand behind his ear: + + “What?” he said. “I’m getting very deaf. I suppose I don’t hear + people. Emily’s got a bad toe. We shan’t be able to start for + Wales till the end of the month. There’s always something!” And, + having got what he wanted, he took his hat and went away. + + It was a fine afternoon, and he walked across the Park towards + Soames’s, where he intended to dine, for Emily’s toe kept her in + bed, and Rachel and Cicely were on a visit to the country. He + took the slanting path from the Bayswater side of the Row to the + Knightsbridge Gate, across a pasture of short, burnt grass, + dotted with blackened sheep, strewn with seated couples and + strange waifs; lying prone on their faces, like corpses on a + field over which the wave of battle has rolled. + + He walked rapidly, his head bent, looking neither to right nor + left. The appearance of this park, the centre of his own + battle-field, where he had all his life been fighting, excited no + thought or speculation in his mind. These corpses flung down, + there, from out the press and turmoil of the struggle, these + pairs of lovers sitting cheek by jowl for an hour of idle Elysium + snatched from the monotony of their treadmill, awakened no + fancies in his mind; he had outlived that kind of imagination; + his nose, like the nose of a sheep, was fastened to the pastures + on which he browsed. + + One of his tenants had lately shown a disposition to be + behind-hand in his rent, and it had become a grave question + whether he had not better turn him out at once, and so run the + risk of not re-letting before Christmas. Swithin had just been + let in very badly, but it had served him right—he had held on too + long. + + He pondered this as he walked steadily, holding his umbrella + carefully by the wood, just below the crook of the handle, so as + to keep the ferule off the ground, and not fray the silk in the + middle. And, with his thin, high shoulders stooped, his long legs + moving with swift mechanical precision, this passage through the + Park, where the sun shone with a clear flame on so much + idleness—on so many human evidences of the remorseless battle of + Property, raging beyond its ring—was like the flight of some land + bird across the sea. + + He felt a touch on the arm as he came out at Albert Gate. + + It was Soames, who, crossing from the shady side of Piccadilly, + where he had been walking home from the office, had suddenly + appeared alongside. + + “Your mother’s in bed,” said James; “I was just coming to you, + but I suppose I shall be in the way.” + + The outward relations between James and his son were marked by a + lack of sentiment peculiarly Forsytean, but for all that the two + were by no means unattached. Perhaps they regarded one another as + an investment; certainly they were solicitous of each other’s + welfare, glad of each other’s company. They had never exchanged + two words upon the more intimate problems of life, or revealed in + each other’s presence the existence of any deep feeling. + + Something beyond the power of word-analysis bound them together, + something hidden deep in the fibre of nations and families—for + blood, they say, is thicker than water—and neither of them was a + cold-blooded man. Indeed, in James love of his children was now + the prime motive of his existence. To have creatures who were + parts of himself, to whom he might transmit the money he saved, + was at the root of his saving; and, at seventy-five, what was + left that could give him pleasure, but—saving? The kernel of life + was in this saving for his children. + + Than James Forsyte, notwithstanding all his “Jonah-isms,” there + was no saner man (if the leading symptom of sanity, as we are + told, is self-preservation, though without doubt Timothy went too + far) in all this London, of which he owned so much, and loved + with such a dumb love, as the centre of his opportunities. He had + the marvellous instinctive sanity of the middle class. In + him—more than in Jolyon, with his masterful will and his moments + of tenderness and philosophy—more than in Swithin, the martyr to + crankiness—Nicholas, the sufferer from ability—and Roger, the + victim of enterprise—beat the true pulse of compromise; of all + the brothers he was least remarkable in mind and person, and for + that reason more likely to live for ever. + + To James, more than to any of the others, was “the family” + significant and dear. There had always been something primitive + and cosy in his attitude towards life; he loved the family + hearth, he loved gossip, and he loved grumbling. All his + decisions were formed of a cream which he skimmed off the family + mind; and, through that family, off the minds of thousands of + other families of similar fibre. Year after year, week after + week, he went to Timothy’s, and in his brother’s front + drawing-room—his legs twisted, his long white whiskers framing + his clean-shaven mouth—would sit watching the family pot simmer, + the cream rising to the top; and he would go away sheltered, + refreshed, comforted, with an indefinable sense of comfort. + + Beneath the adamant of his self-preserving instinct there was + much real softness in James; a visit to Timothy’s was like an + hour spent in the lap of a mother; and the deep craving he + himself had for the protection of the family wing reacted in turn + on his feelings towards his own children; it was a nightmare to + him to think of them exposed to the treatment of the world, in + money, health, or reputation. When his old friend John Street’s + son volunteered for special service, he shook his head + querulously, and wondered what John Street was about to allow it; + and when young Street was assagaied, he took it so much to heart + that he made a point of calling everywhere with the special + object of saying: He knew how it would be—he’d no patience with + them! + + When his son-in-law Dartie had that financial crisis, due to + speculation in Oil Shares, James made himself ill worrying over + it; the knell of all prosperity seemed to have sounded. It took + him three months and a visit to Baden-Baden to get better; there + was something terrible in the idea that but for his, James’s, + money, Dartie’s name might have appeared in the Bankruptcy List. + + Composed of a physiological mixture so sound that if he had an + earache he thought he was dying, he regarded the occasional + ailments of his wife and children as in the nature of personal + grievances, special interventions of Providence for the purpose + of destroying his peace of mind; but he did not believe at all in + the ailments of people outside his own immediate family, + affirming them in every case to be due to neglected liver. + + His universal comment was: “What can they expect? I have it + myself, if I’m not careful!” + + When he went to Soames’s that evening he felt that life was hard + on him: There was Emily with a bad toe, and Rachel gadding about + in the country; he got no sympathy from anybody; and Ann, she was + ill—he did not believe she would last through the summer; he had + called there three times now without her being able to see him! + And this idea of Soames’s, building a house, _that_ would have to + be looked into. As to the trouble with Irene, he didn’t know what + was to come of that—anything might come of it! + + He entered 62, Montpellier Square with the fullest intentions of + being miserable. + + It was already half-past seven, and Irene, dressed for dinner, + was seated in the drawing-room. She was wearing her gold-coloured + frock—for, having been displayed at a dinner-party, a soirée, and + a dance, it was now to be worn at home—and she had adorned the + bosom with a cascade of lace, on which James’s eyes riveted + themselves at once. + + “Where do you get your things?” he said in an aggravated voice. + “I never see Rachel and Cicely looking half so well. That + rose-point, now—that’s not real!” + + Irene came close, to prove to him that he was in error. + + And, in spite of himself, James felt the influence of her + deference, of the faint seductive perfume exhaling from her. No + self-respecting Forsyte surrendered at a blow; so he merely said: + He didn’t know—he expected she was spending a pretty penny on + dress. + + The gong sounded, and, putting her white arm within his, Irene + took him into the dining-room. She seated him in Soames’s usual + place, round the corner on her left. The light fell softly there, + so that he would not be worried by the gradual dying of the day; + and she began to talk to him about himself. + + Presently, over James came a change, like the mellowing that + steals upon a fruit in the sun; a sense of being caressed, and + praised, and petted, and all without the bestowal of a single + caress or word of praise. He felt that what he was eating was + agreeing with him; he could not get that feeling at home; he did + not know when he had enjoyed a glass of champagne so much, and, + on inquiring the brand and price, was surprised to find that it + was one of which he had a large stock himself, but could never + drink; he instantly formed the resolution to let his wine + merchant know that he had been swindled. + + Looking up from his food, he remarked: + + “You’ve a lot of nice things about the place. Now, what did you + give for that sugar-sifter? Shouldn’t wonder if it was worth + money!” + + He was particularly pleased with the appearance of a picture, on + the wall opposite, which he himself had given them: + + “I’d no idea it was so good!” he said. + + They rose to go into the drawing-room, and James followed Irene + closely. + + “That’s what I call a capital little dinner,” he murmured, + breathing pleasantly down on her shoulder; “nothing heavy—and not + too Frenchified. But _I_ can’t get it at home. I pay my cook + sixty pounds a year, but _she_ can’t give me a dinner like that!” + + He had as yet made no allusion to the building of the house, nor + did he when Soames, pleading the excuse of business, betook + himself to the room at the top, where he kept his pictures. + + James was left alone with his daughter-in-law. The glow of the + wine, and of an excellent liqueur, was still within him. He felt + quite warm towards her. She was really a taking little thing; she + listened to you, and seemed to understand what you were saying; + and, while talking, he kept examining her figure, from her + bronze-coloured shoes to the waved gold of her hair. She was + leaning back in an Empire chair, her shoulders poised against the + top—her body, flexibly straight and unsupported from the hips, + swaying when she moved, as though giving to the arms of a lover. + Her lips were smiling, her eyes half-closed. + + It may have been a recognition of danger in the very charm of her + attitude, or a twang of digestion, that caused a sudden dumbness + to fall on James. He did not remember ever having been quite + alone with Irene before. And, as he looked at her, an odd feeling + crept over him, as though he had come across something strange + and foreign. + + Now what was she thinking about—sitting back like that? + + Thus when he spoke it was in a sharper voice, as if he had been + awakened from a pleasant dream. + + “What d’you do with yourself all day?” he said. “You never come + round to Park Lane!” + + She seemed to be making very lame excuses, and James did not look + at her. He did not want to believe that she was really avoiding + them—it would mean too much. + + “I expect the fact is, you haven’t time,” he said; “You’re always + about with June. I expect you’re useful to her with her young + man, chaperoning, and one thing and another. They tell me she’s + never at home now; your Uncle Jolyon he doesn’t like it, I fancy, + being left so much alone as he is. They tell me she’s always + hanging about for this young Bosinney; I suppose he comes here + every day. Now, what do you think of him? D’you think he knows + his own mind? He seems to me a poor thing. I should say the grey + mare was the better horse!” + + The colour deepened in Irene’s face; and James watched her + suspiciously. + + “Perhaps you don’t quite understand Mr. Bosinney,” she said. + + “Don’t understand him!” James hummed out: “Why not?—you can see + he’s one of these artistic chaps. They say he’s clever—they all + think they’re clever. You know more about him than I do,” he + added; and again his suspicious glance rested on her. + + “He is designing a house for Soames,” she said softly, evidently + trying to smooth things over. + + “That brings me to what I was going to say,” continued James; “I + don’t know what Soames wants with a young man like that; why + doesn’t he go to a first-rate man?” + + “Perhaps Mr. Bosinney is first-rate!” + + James rose, and took a turn with bent head. + + “That’s it’,” he said, “you young people, you all stick together; + you all think you know best!” + + Halting his tall, lank figure before her, he raised a finger, and + levelled it at her bosom, as though bringing an indictment + against her beauty: + + “All I can say is, these artistic people, or whatever they call + themselves, they’re as unreliable as they can be; and my advice + to you is, don’t you have too much to do with him!” + + Irene smiled; and in the curve of her lips was a strange + provocation. She seemed to have lost her deference. Her breast + rose and fell as though with secret anger; she drew her hands + inwards from their rest on the arms of her chair until the tips + of her fingers met, and her dark eyes looked unfathomably at + James. + + The latter gloomily scrutinized the floor. + + “I tell you my opinion,” he said, “it’s a pity you haven’t got a + child to think about, and occupy you!” + + A brooding look came instantly on Irene’s face, and even James + became conscious of the rigidity that took possession of her + whole figure beneath the softness of its silk and lace clothing. + + He was frightened by the effect he had produced, and like most + men with but little courage, he sought at once to justify himself + by bullying. + + “You don’t seem to care about going about. Why don’t you drive + down to Hurlingham with us? And go to the theatre now and then. + At your time of life you ought to take an interest in things. + You’re a young woman!” + + The brooding look darkened on her face; he grew nervous. + + “Well, I know nothing about it,” he said; “nobody tells me + anything. Soames ought to be able to take care of himself. If he + can’t take care of himself he mustn’t look to me—that’s all.” + + Biting the corner of his forefinger he stole a cold, sharp look + at his daughter-in-law. + + He encountered her eyes fixed on his own, so dark and deep, that + he stopped, and broke into a gentle perspiration. + + “Well, I must be going,” he said after a short pause, and a + minute later rose, with a slight appearance of surprise, as + though he had expected to be asked to stop. Giving his hand to + Irene, he allowed himself to be conducted to the door, and let + out into the street. He would not have a cab, he would walk, + Irene was to say good-night to Soames for him, and if she wanted + a little gaiety, well, he would drive her down to Richmond any + day. + + He walked home, and going upstairs, woke Emily out of the first + sleep she had had for four and twenty hours, to tell her that it + was his impression things were in a bad way at Soames’s; on this + theme he descanted for half an hour, until at last, saying that + he would not sleep a wink, he turned on his side and instantly + began to snore. + + In Montpellier Square Soames, who had come from the picture room, + stood invisible at the top of the stairs, watching Irene sort the + letters brought by the last post. She turned back into the + drawing-room; but in a minute came out, and stood as if + listening. Then she came stealing up the stairs, with a kitten in + her arms. He could see her face bent over the little beast, which + was purring against her neck. Why couldn’t she look at him like + that? + + Suddenly she saw him, and her face changed. + + “Any letters for me?” he said. + + “Three.” + + He stood aside, and without another word she passed on into the + bedroom. + + + + + CHAPTER VII OLD JOLYON’S PECCADILLO + + Old Jolyon came out of Lord’s cricket ground that same afternoon + with the intention of going home. He had not reached Hamilton + Terrace before he changed his mind, and hailing a cab, gave the + driver an address in Wistaria Avenue. He had taken a resolution. + + June had hardly been at home at all that week; she had given him + nothing of her company for a long time past, not, in fact, since + she had become engaged to Bosinney. He never asked her for her + company. It was not his habit to ask people for things! She had + just that one idea now—Bosinney and his affairs—and she left him + stranded in his great house, with a parcel of servants, and not a + soul to speak to from morning to night. His Club was closed for + cleaning; his Boards in recess; there was nothing, therefore, to + take him into the City. June had wanted him to go away; she would + not go herself, because Bosinney was in London. + + But where was he to go by himself? He could not go abroad alone; + the sea upset his liver; he hated hotels. Roger went to a + hydropathic—he was not going to begin that at his time of life, + those new-fangled places were all humbug! + + With such formulas he clothed to himself the desolation of his + spirit; the lines down his face deepening, his eyes day by day + looking forth with the melancholy which sat so strangely on a + face wont to be strong and serene. + + And so that afternoon he took this journey through St. John’s + Wood, in the golden-light that sprinkled the rounded green bushes + of the acacia’s before the little houses, in the summer sunshine + that seemed holding a revel over the little gardens; and he + looked about him with interest; for this was a district which no + Forsyte entered without open disapproval and secret curiosity. + + His cab stopped in front of a small house of that peculiar buff + colour which implies a long immunity from paint. It had an outer + gate, and a rustic approach. + + He stepped out, his bearing extremely composed; his massive head, + with its drooping moustache and wings of white hair, very + upright, under an excessively large top hat; his glance firm, a + little angry. He had been driven into this! + + “Mrs. Jolyon Forsyte at home?” + + “Oh, yes sir!—what name shall I say, if you please, sir?” + + Old Jolyon could not help twinkling at the little maid as he gave + his name. She seemed to him such a funny little toad! + + And he followed her through the dark hall, into a small double, + drawing-room, where the furniture was covered in chintz, and the + little maid placed him in a chair. + + “They’re all in the garden, sir; if you’ll kindly take a seat, + I’ll tell them.” + + Old Jolyon sat down in the chintz-covered chair, and looked + around him. The whole place seemed to him, as he would have + expressed it, pokey; there was a certain—he could not tell + exactly what—air of shabbiness, or rather of making two ends + meet, about everything. As far as he could see, not a single + piece of furniture was worth a five-pound note. The walls, + distempered rather a long time ago, were decorated with + water-colour sketches; across the ceiling meandered a long crack. + + These little houses were all old, second-rate concerns; he should + hope the rent was under a hundred a year; it hurt him more than + he could have said, to think of a Forsyte—his own son living in + such a place. + + The little maid came back. Would he please to go down into the + garden? + + Old Jolyon marched out through the French windows. In descending + the steps he noticed that they wanted painting. + + Young Jolyon, his wife, his two children, and his dog Balthasar, + were all out there under a pear-tree. + + This walk towards them was the most courageous act of old + Jolyon’s life; but no muscle of his face moved, no nervous + gesture betrayed him. He kept his deep-set eyes steadily on the + enemy. + + In those two minutes he demonstrated to perfection all that + unconscious soundness, balance, and vitality of fibre that made, + of him and so many others of his class the core of the nation. In + the unostentatious conduct of their own affairs, to the neglect + of everything else, they typified the essential individualism, + born in the Briton from the natural isolation of his country’s + life. + + The dog Balthasar sniffed round the edges of his trousers; this + friendly and cynical mongrel—offspring of a liaison between a + Russian poodle and a fox-terrier—had a nose for the unusual. + + The strange greetings over, old Jolyon seated himself in a wicker + chair, and his two grandchildren, one on each side of his knees, + looked at him silently, never having seen so old a man. + + They were unlike, as though recognising the difference set + between them by the circumstances of their births. Jolly, the + child of sin, pudgy-faced, with his tow-coloured hair brushed off + his forehead, and a dimple in his chin, had an air of stubborn + amiability, and the eyes of a Forsyte; little Holly, the child of + wedlock, was a dark-skinned, solemn soul, with her mother’s grey + and wistful eyes. + + The dog Balthasar, having walked round the three small + flower-beds, to show his extreme contempt for things at large, + had also taken a seat in front of old Jolyon, and, oscillating a + tail curled by Nature tightly over his back, was staring up with + eyes that did not blink. + + Even in the garden, that sense of things being pokey haunted old + Jolyon; the wicker chair creaked under his weight; the + garden-beds looked “daverdy”. On the far side, under the + smut-stained wall, cats had made a path. + + While he and his grandchildren thus regarded each other with the + peculiar scrutiny, curious yet trustful, that passes between the + very young and the very old, young Jolyon watched his wife. + + The colour had deepened in her thin, oval face, with its straight + brows, and large, grey eyes. Her hair, brushed in fine, high + curves back from her forehead, was going grey, like his own, and + this greyness made the sudden vivid colour in her cheeks + painfully pathetic. + + The look on her face, such as he had never seen there before, + such as she had always hidden from him, was full of secret + resentments, and longings, and fears. Her eyes, under their + twitching brows, stared painfully. And she was silent. + + Jolly alone sustained the conversation; he had many possessions, + and was anxious that his unknown friend with extremely large + moustaches, and hands all covered with blue veins, who sat with + legs crossed like his own father (a habit he was himself trying + to acquire), should know it; but being a Forsyte, though not yet + quite eight years old, he made no mention of the thing at the + moment dearest to his heart—a camp of soldiers in a shop-window, + which his father had promised to buy. No doubt it seemed to him + too precious; a tempting of Providence to mention it yet. + + And the sunlight played through the leaves on that little party + of the three generations grouped tranquilly under the pear-tree, + which had long borne no fruit. + + Old Jolyon’s furrowed face was reddening patchily, as old men’s + faces redden in the sun. He took one of Jolly’s hands in his own; + the boy climbed on to his knee; and little Holly, mesmerized by + this sight, crept up to them; the sound of the dog Balthasar’s + scratching arose rhythmically. + + Suddenly young Mrs. Jolyon got up and hurried indoors. A minute + later her husband muttered an excuse, and followed. Old Jolyon + was left alone with his grandchildren. + + And Nature with her quaint irony began working in him one of her + strange revolutions, following her cyclic laws into the depths of + his heart. And that tenderness for little children, that passion + for the beginnings of life which had once made him forsake his + son and follow June, now worked in him to forsake June and follow + these littler things. Youth, like a flame, burned ever in his + breast, and to youth he turned, to the round little limbs, so + reckless, that wanted care, to the small round faces so + unreasonably solemn or bright, to the treble tongues, and the + shrill, chuckling laughter, to the insistent tugging hands, and + the feel of small bodies against his legs, to all that was young + and young, and once more young. And his eyes grew soft, his + voice, and thin-veined hands soft, and soft his heart within him. + And to those small creatures he became at once a place of + pleasure, a place where they were secure, and could talk and + laugh and play; till, like sunshine, there radiated from old + Jolyon’s wicker chair the perfect gaiety of three hearts. + + But with young Jolyon following to his wife’s room it was + different. + + He found her seated on a chair before her dressing-glass, with + her hands before her face. + + Her shoulders were shaking with sobs. This passion of hers for + suffering was mysterious to him. He had been through a hundred of + these moods; how he had survived them he never knew, for he could + never believe they _were_ moods, and that the last hour of his + partnership had not struck. + + In the night she would be sure to throw her arms round his neck + and say: “Oh! Jo, how I make you suffer!” as she had done a + hundred times before. + + He reached out his hand, and, unseen, slipped his razor-case into + his pocket. “I cannot stay here,” he thought, “I must go down!” + Without a word he left the room, and went back to the lawn. + + Old Jolyon had little Holly on his knee; she had taken possession + of his watch; Jolly, very red in the face, was trying to show + that he could stand on his head. The dog Balthasar, as close as + he might be to the tea-table, had fixed his eyes on the cake. + + Young Jolyon felt a malicious desire to cut their enjoyment + short. + + What business had his father to come and upset his wife like + this? It was a shock, after all these years! He ought to have + known; he ought to have given them warning; but when did a + Forsyte ever imagine that his conduct could upset anybody! And in + his thoughts he did old Jolyon wrong. + + He spoke sharply to the children, and told them to go in to their + tea. Greatly surprised, for they had never heard their father + speak sharply before, they went off, hand in hand, little Holly + looking back over her shoulder. + + Young Jolyon poured out the tea. + + “My wife’s not the thing today,” he said, but he knew well enough + that his father had penetrated the cause of that sudden + withdrawal, and almost hated the old man for sitting there so + calmly. + + “You’ve got a nice little house here,” said old Jolyon with a + shrewd look; “I suppose you’ve taken a lease of it!” + + Young Jolyon nodded. + + “I don’t like the neighbourhood,” said old Jolyon; “a ramshackle + lot.” + + Young Jolyon replied: “Yes, we’re a ramshackle lot.” + + The silence was now only broken by the sound of the dog + Balthasar’s scratching. + + Old Jolyon said simply: “I suppose I oughtn’t to have come here, + Jo; but I get so lonely!” + + At these words young Jolyon got up and put his hand on his + father’s shoulder. + + In the next house someone was playing over and over again: “La + Donna è mobile” on an untuned piano; and the little garden had + fallen into shade, the sun now only reached the wall at the end, + whereon basked a crouching cat, her yellow eyes turned sleepily + down on the dog Balthasar. There was a drowsy hum of very distant + traffic; the creepered trellis round the garden shut out + everything but sky, and house, and pear-tree, with its top + branches still gilded by the sun. + + For some time they sat there, talking but little. Then old Jolyon + rose to go, and not a word was said about his coming again. + + He walked away very sadly. What a poor miserable place; and he + thought of the great, empty house in Stanhope Gate, fit residence + for a Forsyte, with its huge billiard-room and drawing-room that + no one entered from one week’s end to another. + + That woman, whose face he had rather liked, was too thin-skinned + by half; she gave Jo a bad time he knew! And those sweet + children! Ah! what a piece of awful folly! + + He walked towards the Edgware Road, between rows of little + houses, all suggesting to him (erroneously no doubt, but the + prejudices of a Forsyte are sacred) shady histories of some sort + or kind. + + Society, forsooth, the chattering hags and jackanapes—had set + themselves up to pass judgment on _his_ flesh and blood! A parcel + of old women! He stumped his umbrella on the ground, as though to + drive it into the heart of that unfortunate body, which had dared + to ostracize his son and his son’s son, in whom he could have + lived again! + + He stumped his umbrella fiercely; yet he himself had followed + Society’s behaviour for fifteen years—had only today been false + to it! + + He thought of June, and her dead mother, and the whole story, + with all his old bitterness. A wretched business! + + He was a long time reaching Stanhope Gate, for, with native + perversity, being extremely tired, he walked the whole way. + + After washing his hands in the lavatory downstairs, he went to + the dining-room to wait for dinner, the only room he used when + June was out—it was less lonely so. The evening paper had not yet + come; he had finished the Times, there was therefore nothing to + do. + + The room faced the backwater of traffic, and was very silent. He + disliked dogs, but a dog even would have been company. His gaze, + travelling round the walls, rested on a picture entitled: “Group + of Dutch fishing boats at sunset”; the _chef d’œuvre_ of his + collection. It gave him no pleasure. He closed his eyes. He was + lonely! He oughtn’t to complain, he knew, but he couldn’t help + it: He was a poor thing—had always been a poor thing—no pluck! + Such was his thought. + + The butler came to lay the table for dinner, and seeing his + master apparently asleep, exercised extreme caution in his + movements. This bearded man also wore a moustache, which had + given rise to grave doubts in the minds of many members—of the + family—, especially those who, like Soames, had been to public + schools, and were accustomed to niceness in such matters. Could + he really be considered a butler? Playful spirits alluded to him + as: “Uncle Jolyon’s Nonconformist”. George, the acknowledged wag, + had named him: “Sankey.” + + He moved to and fro between the great polished sideboard and the + great polished table inimitably sleek and soft. + + Old Jolyon watched him, feigning sleep. The fellow was a sneak—he + had always thought so—who cared about nothing but rattling + through his work, and getting out to his betting or his woman or + goodness knew what! A slug! Fat too! And didn’t care a pin about + his master! + + But then against his will, came one of those moments of + philosophy which made old Jolyon different from other Forsytes: + + After all why should the man care? He wasn’t paid to care, and + why expect it? In this world people couldn’t look for affection + unless they paid for it. It might be different in the next—he + didn’t know—couldn’t tell! And again he shut his eyes. + + Relentless and stealthy, the butler pursued his labours, taking + things from the various compartments of the sideboard. His back + seemed always turned to old Jolyon; thus, he robbed his + operations of the unseemliness of being carried on in his + master’s presence; now and then he furtively breathed on the + silver, and wiped it with a piece of chamois leather. He appeared + to pore over the quantities of wine in the decanters, which he + carried carefully and rather high, letting his head droop over + them protectingly. When he had finished, he stood for over a + minute watching his master, and in his greenish eyes there was a + look of contempt: + + After all, this master of his was an old buffer, who hadn’t much + left in him! + + Soft as a tom-cat, he crossed the room to press the bell. His + orders were “dinner at seven.” What if his master were asleep; he + would soon have him out of that; there was the night to sleep in! + He had himself to think of, for he was due at his Club at + half-past eight! + + In answer to the ring, appeared a page boy with a silver soup + tureen. The butler took it from his hands and placed it on the + table, then, standing by the open door, as though about to usher + company into the room, he said in a solemn voice: + + “Dinner is on the table, sir!” + + Slowly old Jolyon got up out of his chair, and sat down at the + table to eat his dinner. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII PLANS OF THE HOUSE + + Forsytes, as is generally admitted, have shells, like that + extremely useful little animal which is made into Turkish + delight, in other words, they are never seen, or if seen would + not be recognised, without habitats, composed of circumstance, + property, acquaintances, and wives, which seem to move along with + them in their passage through a world composed of thousands of + other Forsytes with their habitats. Without a habitat a Forsyte + is inconceivable—he would be like a novel without a plot, which + is well-known to be an anomaly. + + To Forsyte eyes Bosinney appeared to have no habitat, he seemed + one of those rare and unfortunate men who go through life + surrounded by circumstance, property, acquaintances, and wives + that do not belong to them. + + His rooms in Sloane Street, on the top floor, outside which, on a + plate, was his name, “Philip Baynes Bosinney, Architect,” were + not those of a Forsyte. He had no sitting-room apart from his + office, but a large recess had been screened off to conceal the + necessaries of life—a couch, an easy chair, his pipes, spirit + case, novels and slippers. The business part of the room had the + usual furniture; an open cupboard with pigeon-holes, a round oak + table, a folding wash-stand, some hard chairs, a standing desk of + large dimensions covered with drawings and designs. June had + twice been to tea there under the chaperonage of his aunt. + + He was believed to have a bedroom at the back. + + As far as the family had been able to ascertain his income, it + consisted of two consulting appointments at twenty pounds a year, + together with an odd fee once in a way, and—more worthy item—a + private annuity under his father’s will of one hundred and fifty + pounds a year. + + What had transpired concerning that father was not so reassuring. + It appeared that he had been a Lincolnshire country doctor of + Cornish extraction, striking appearance, and Byronic tendencies—a + well-known figure, in fact, in his county. Bosinney’s uncle by + marriage, Baynes, of Baynes and Bildeboy, a Forsyte in instincts + if not in name, had but little that was worthy to relate of his + brother-in-law. + + “An odd fellow!” he would say: “always spoke of his three eldest + boys as ‘good creatures, but so dull’; they’re all doing + capitally in the Indian Civil! Philip was the only one _he_ + liked. I’ve heard him talk in the queerest way; he once said to + me: ‘My dear fellow, never let your poor wife know what you’re + thinking of!’ But I didn’t follow his advice; not I! An eccentric + man! He would say to Phil: ‘Whether you live like a gentleman or + not, my boy, be sure you die like one!’ and he had himself + embalmed in a frock coat suit, with a satin cravat and a diamond + pin. Oh, quite an original, I can assure you!” + + Of Bosinney himself Baynes would speak warmly, with a certain + compassion: “He’s got a streak of his father’s Byronism. Why, + look at the way he threw up his chances when he left my office; + going off like that for six months with a knapsack, and all for + what?—to study foreign architecture—foreign! What could he + expect? And there he is—a clever young fellow—doesn’t make his + hundred a year! Now this engagement is the best thing that could + have happened—keep him steady; he’s one of those that go to bed + all day and stay up all night, simply because they’ve no method; + but no vice about him—not an ounce of vice. Old Forsyte’s a rich + man!” + + Mr. Baynes made himself extremely pleasant to June, who + frequently visited his house in Lowndes Square at this period. + + “This house of your cousin’s—what a capital man of business—is + the very thing for Philip,” he would say to her; “you mustn’t + expect to see too much of him just now, my dear young lady. The + good cause—the good cause! The young man must make his way. When + I was his age I was at work day and night. My dear wife used to + say to me, ‘Bobby, don’t work too hard, think of your health’; + but I never spared myself!” + + June had complained that her lover found no time to come to + Stanhope Gate. + + The first time he came again they had not been together a quarter + of an hour before, by one of those coincidences of which she was + a mistress, Mrs. Septimus Small arrived. Thereon Bosinney rose + and hid himself, according to previous arrangement, in the little + study, to wait for her departure. + + “My dear,” said Aunt Juley, “how thin he is! I’ve often noticed + it with engaged people; but you mustn’t let it get worse. There’s + Barlow’s extract of veal; it did your Uncle Swithin a lot of + good.” + + June, her little figure erect before the hearth, her small face + quivering grimly, for she regarded her aunt’s untimely visit in + the light of a personal injury, replied with scorn: + + “It’s because he’s busy; people who can do anything worth doing + are never fat!” + + Aunt Juley pouted; she herself had always been thin, but the only + pleasure she derived from the fact was the opportunity of longing + to be stouter. + + “I don’t think,” she said mournfully, “that you ought to let them + call him ‘The Buccaneer’; people might think it odd, now that + he’s going to build a house for Soames. I do hope he will be + careful; it’s so important for him. Soames has such good taste!” + + “Taste!” cried June, flaring up at once; “wouldn’t give that for + his taste, or any of the family’s!” + + Mrs. Small was taken aback. + + “Your Uncle Swithin,” she said, “always had beautiful taste! And + Soames’s little house is lovely; you don’t mean to say you don’t + think so!” + + “H’mph!” said June, “that’s only because Irene’s there!” + + Aunt Juley tried to say something pleasant: + + “And how will dear Irene like living in the country?” + + June gazed at her intently, with a look in her eyes as if her + conscience had suddenly leaped up into them; it passed; and an + even more intent look took its place, as if she had stared that + conscience out of countenance. She replied imperiously: + + “Of course she’ll like it; why shouldn’t she?” + + Mrs. Small grew nervous. + + “I didn’t know,” she said; “I thought she mightn’t like to leave + her friends. Your Uncle James says she doesn’t take enough + interest in life. _We_ think—I mean Timothy thinks—she ought to + go out more. I expect you’ll miss her very much!” + + June clasped her hands behind her neck. + + “I do wish,” she cried, “Uncle Timothy wouldn’t talk about what + doesn’t concern him!” + + Aunt Juley rose to the full height of her tall figure. + + “He never talks about what doesn’t concern him,” she said. + + June was instantly compunctious; she ran to her aunt and kissed + her. + + “I’m very sorry, auntie; but I wish they’d let Irene alone.” + + Aunt Juley, unable to think of anything further on the subject + that would be suitable, was silent; she prepared for departure, + hooking her black silk cape across her chest, and, taking up her + green reticule: + + “And how is your dear grandfather?” she asked in the hall, “I + expect he’s very lonely now that all your time is taken up with + Mr. Bosinney.” + + She bent and kissed her niece hungrily, and with little, mincing + steps passed away. + + The tears sprang up in Jun’s eyes; running into the little study, + where Bosinney was sitting at the table drawing birds on the back + of an envelope, she sank down by his side and cried: + + “Oh, Phil! it’s all so horrid!” Her heart was as warm as the + colour of her hair. + + On the following Sunday morning, while Soames was shaving, a + message was brought him to the effect that Mr. Bosinney was + below, and would be glad to see him. Opening the door into his + wife’s room, he said: + + “Bosinney’s downstairs. Just go and entertain him while I finish + shaving. I’ll be down in a minute. It’s about the plans, I + expect.” + + Irene looked at him, without reply, put the finishing touch to + her dress and went downstairs. He could not make her out about + this house. She had said nothing against it, and, as far as + Bosinney was concerned, seemed friendly enough. + + From the window of his dressing-room he could see them talking + together in the little court below. He hurried on with his + shaving, cutting his chin twice. He heard them laugh, and thought + to himself: “Well, they get on all right, anyway!” + + As he expected, Bosinney had come round to fetch him to look at + the plans. + + He took his hat and went over. + + The plans were spread on the oak table in the architect’s room; + and pale, imperturbable, inquiring, Soames bent over them for a + long time without speaking. + + He said at last in a puzzled voice: + + “It’s an odd sort of house!” + + A rectangular house of two stories was designed in a quadrangle + round a covered-in court. This court, encircled by a gallery on + the upper floor, was roofed with a glass roof, supported by eight + columns running up from the ground. + + It was indeed, to Forsyte eyes, an odd house. + + “There’s a lot of room cut to waste,” pursued Soames. + + Bosinney began to walk about, and Soames did not like the + expression on his face. + + “The principle of this house,” said the architect, “was that you + should have room to breathe—like a gentleman!” + + Soames extended his finger and thumb, as if measuring the extent + of the distinction he should acquire; and replied: + + “Oh! yes; I see.” + + The peculiar look came into Bosinney’s face which marked all his + enthusiasms. + + “I’ve tried to plan you a house here with some self-respect of + its own. If you don’t like it, you’d better say so. It’s + certainly the last thing to be considered—who wants self-respect + in a house, when you can squeeze in an extra lavatory?” He put + his finger suddenly down on the left division of the centre + oblong: “You can swing a cat here. This is for your pictures, + divided from this court by curtains; draw them back and you’ll + have a space of fifty-one by twenty-three six. This double-faced + stove in the centre, here, looks one way towards the court, one + way towards the picture room; this end wall is all window; you’ve + a southeast light from that, a north light from the court. The + rest of your pictures you can hang round the gallery upstairs, or + in the other rooms.” “In architecture,” he went on—and though + looking at Soames he did not seem to see him, which gave Soames + an unpleasant feeling—“as in life, you’ll get no self-respect + without regularity. Fellows tell you that’s old fashioned. It + appears to be peculiar any way; it never occurs to us to embody + the main principle of life in our buildings; we load our houses + with decoration, gimcracks, corners, anything to distract the + eye. On the contrary the eye should rest; get your effects with a + few strong lines. The whole thing is regularity—there’s no + self-respect without it.” + + Soames, the unconscious ironist, fixed his gaze on Bosinney’s + tie, which was far from being in the perpendicular; he was + unshaven too, and his dress not remarkable for order. + Architecture appeared to have exhausted his regularity. + + “Won’t it look like a barrack?” he inquired. + + He did not at once receive a reply. + + “I can see what it is,” said Bosinney, “you want one of + Littlemaster’s houses—one of the pretty and commodious sort, + where the servants will live in garrets, and the front door be + sunk so that you may come up again. By all means try + Littlemaster, you’ll find him a capital fellow, I’ve known him + all my life!” + + Soames was alarmed. He had really been struck by the plans, and + the concealment of his satisfaction had been merely instinctive. + It was difficult for him to pay a compliment. He despised people + who were lavish with their praises. + + He found himself now in the embarrassing position of one who must + pay a compliment or run the risk of losing a good thing. Bosinney + was just the fellow who might tear up the plans and refuse to act + for him; a kind of grown-up child! + + This grown-up childishness, to which he felt so superior, + exercised a peculiar and almost mesmeric effect on Soames, for he + had never felt anything like it in himself. + + “Well,” he stammered at last, “it’s—it’s, certainly original.” + + He had such a private distrust and even dislike of the word + “original” that he felt he had not really given himself away by + this remark. + + Bosinney seemed pleased. It was the sort of thing that would + please a fellow like that! And his success encouraged Soames. + + “It’s—a big place,” he said. + + “Space, air, light,” he heard Bosinney murmur, “you can’t live + like a gentleman in one of Littlemaster’s—he builds for + manufacturers.” + + Soames made a deprecating movement; he had been identified with a + gentleman; not for a good deal of money now would he be classed + with manufacturers. But his innate distrust of general principles + revived. What the deuce was the good of talking about regularity + and self-respect? It looked to him as if the house would be cold. + + “Irene can’t stand the cold!” he said. + + “Ah!” said Bosinney sarcastically. “Your wife? She doesn’t like + the cold? I’ll see to that; she shan’t be cold. Look here!” he + pointed, to four marks at regular intervals on the walls of the + court. “I’ve given you hot-water pipes in aluminium casings; you + can get them with very good designs.” + + Soames looked suspiciously at these marks. + + “It’s all very well, all this,” he said, “but what’s it going to + cost?” + + The architect took a sheet of paper from his pocket: + + “The house, of course, should be built entirely of stone, but, as + I thought you wouldn’t stand that, I’ve compromised for a facing. + It ought to have a copper roof, but I’ve made it green slate. As + it is, including metal work, it’ll cost you eight thousand five + hundred.” + + “Eight thousand five hundred?” said Soames. “Why, I gave you an + outside limit of eight!” + + “Can’t be done for a penny less,” replied Bosinney coolly. + + “You must take it or leave it!” + + It was the only way, probably, that such a proposition could have + been made to Soames. He was nonplussed. Conscience told him to + throw the whole thing up. But the design was good, and he knew + it—there was completeness about it, and dignity; the servants’ + apartments were excellent too. He would gain credit by living in + a house like that—with such individual features, yet perfectly + well-arranged. + + He continued poring over the plans, while Bosinney went into his + bedroom to shave and dress. + + The two walked back to Montpellier Square in silence, Soames + watching him out of the corner of his eye. + + The Buccaneer was rather a good-looking fellow—so he thought—when + he was properly got up. + + Irene was bending over her flowers when the two men came in. + + She spoke of sending across the Park to fetch June. + + “No, no,” said Soames, “we’ve still got business to talk over!” + + At lunch he was almost cordial, and kept pressing Bosinney to + eat. He was pleased to see the architect in such high spirits, + and left him to spend the afternoon with Irene, while he stole + off to his pictures, after his Sunday habit. At tea-time he came + down to the drawing-room, and found them talking, as he expressed + it, nineteen to the dozen. + + Unobserved in the doorway, he congratulated himself that things + were taking the right turn. It was lucky she and Bosinney got on; + she seemed to be falling into line with the idea of the new + house. + + Quiet meditation among his pictures had decided him to spring the + five hundred if necessary; but he hoped that the afternoon might + have softened Bosinney’s estimates. It was so purely a matter + which Bosinney could remedy if he liked; there must be a dozen + ways in which he could cheapen the production of a house without + spoiling the effect. + + He awaited, therefore, his opportunity till Irene was handing the + architect his first cup of tea. A chink of sunshine through the + lace of the blinds warmed her cheek, shone in the gold of her + hair, and in her soft eyes. Possibly the same gleam deepened + Bosinney’s colour, gave the rather startled look to his face. + + Soames hated sunshine, and he at once got up, to draw the blind. + Then he took his own cup of tea from his wife, and said, more + coldly than he had intended: + + “Can’t you see your way to do it for eight thousand after all? + There must be a lot of little things you could alter.” + + Bosinney drank off his tea at a gulp, put down his cup, and + answered: + + “Not one!” + + Soames saw that his suggestion had touched some unintelligible + point of personal vanity. + + “Well,” he agreed, with sulky resignation; “you must have it your + own way, I suppose.” + + A few minutes later Bosinney rose to go, and Soames rose too, to + see him off the premises. The architect seemed in absurdly high + spirits. After watching him walk away at a swinging pace, Soames + returned moodily to the drawing-room, where Irene was putting + away the music, and, moved by an uncontrollable spasm of + curiosity, he asked: + + “Well, what do you think of ‘The Buccaneer’?” + + He looked at the carpet while waiting for her answer, and he had + to wait some time. + + “I don’t know,” she said at last. + + “Do you think he’s good-looking?” + + Irene smiled. And it seemed to Soames that she was mocking him. + + “Yes,” she answered; “very.” + + + + + CHAPTER IX DEATH OF AUNT ANN + + There came a morning at the end of September when Aunt Ann was + unable to take from Smither’s hands the insignia of personal + dignity. After one look at the old face, the doctor, hurriedly + sent for, announced that Miss Forsyte had passed away in her + sleep. + + Aunts Juley and Hester were overwhelmed by the shock. They had + never imagined such an ending. Indeed, it is doubtful whether + they had ever realized that an ending was bound to come. Secretly + they felt it unreasonable of Ann to have left them like this + without a word, without even a struggle. It was unlike her. + + Perhaps what really affected them so profoundly was the thought + that a Forsyte should have let go her grasp on life. If one, then + why not all! + + It was a full hour before they could make up their minds to tell + Timothy. If only it could be kept from him! If only it could be + broken to him by degrees! + + And long they stood outside his door whispering together. And + when it was over they whispered together again. + + He would feel it more, they were afraid, as time went on. Still, + he had taken it better than could have been expected. He would + keep his bed, of course! + + They separated, crying quietly. + + Aunt Juley stayed in her room, prostrated by the blow. Her face, + discoloured by tears, was divided into compartments by the little + ridges of pouting flesh which had swollen with emotion. It was + impossible to conceive of life without Ann, who had lived with + her for seventy-three years, broken only by the short interregnum + of her married life, which seemed now so unreal. At fixed + intervals she went to her drawer, and took from beneath the + lavender bags a fresh pocket-handkerchief. Her warm heart could + not bear the thought that Ann was lying there so cold. + + Aunt Hester, the silent, the patient, that backwater of the + family energy, sat in the drawing-room, where the blinds were + drawn; and she, too, had wept at first, but quietly, without + visible effect. Her guiding principle, the conservation of + energy, did not abandon her in sorrow. She sat, slim, motionless, + studying the grate, her hands idle in the lap of her black silk + dress. They would want to rouse her into doing something, no + doubt. As if there were any good in that! Doing something would + not bring back Ann! Why worry her? + + Five o’clock brought three of the brothers, Jolyon and James and + Swithin; Nicholas was at Yarmouth, and Roger had a bad attack of + gout. Mrs. Hayman had been by herself earlier in the day, and, + after seeing Ann, had gone away, leaving a message for + Timothy—which was kept from him—that she ought to have been told + sooner. In fact, there was a feeling amongst them all that they + ought to have been told sooner, as though they had missed + something; and James said: + + “I knew how it’d be; I told you she wouldn’t last through the + summer.” + + Aunt Hester made no reply; it was nearly October, but what was + the good of arguing; some people were never satisfied. + + She sent up to tell her sister that the brothers were there. Mrs. + Small came down at once. She had bathed her face, which was still + swollen, and though she looked severely at Swithin’s trousers, + for they were of light blue—he had come straight from the club, + where the news had reached him—she wore a more cheerful + expression than usual, the instinct for doing the wrong thing + being even now too strong for her. + + Presently all five went up to look at the body. Under the pure + white sheet a quilted counter-pane had been placed, for now, more + than ever, Aunt Ann had need of warmth; and, the pillows removed, + her spine and head rested flat, with the semblance of their + life-long inflexibility; the coif banding the top of her brow was + drawn on either side to the level of the ears, and between it and + the sheet her face, almost as white, was turned with closed eyes + to the faces of her brothers and sisters. In its extraordinary + peace the face was stronger than ever, nearly all bone now under + the scarce-wrinkled parchment of skin—square jaw and chin, + cheekbones, forehead with hollow temples, chiselled nose—the + fortress of an unconquerable spirit that had yielded to death, + and in its upward sightlessness seemed trying to regain that + spirit, to regain the guardianship it had just laid down. + + Swithin took but one look at the face, and left the room; the + sight, he said afterwards, made him very queer. He went + downstairs shaking the whole house, and, seizing his hat, + clambered into his brougham, without giving any directions to the + coachman. He was driven home, and all the evening sat in his + chair without moving. + + He could take nothing for dinner but a partridge, with an + imperial pint of champagne.... + + Old Jolyon stood at the bottom of the bed, his hands folded in + front of him. He alone of those in the room remembered the death + of his mother, and though he looked at Ann, it was of that he was + thinking. Ann was an old woman, but death had come to her at + last—death came to all! His face did not move, his gaze seemed + travelling from very far. + + Aunt Hester stood beside him. She did not cry now, tears were + exhausted—her nature refused to permit a further escape of force; + she twisted her hands, looking not at Ann, but from side to side, + seeking some way of escaping the effort of realization. + + Of all the brothers and sisters James manifested the most + emotion. Tears rolled down the parallel furrows of his thin face; + where he should go now to tell his troubles he did not know; + Juley was no good, Hester worse than useless! He felt Ann’s death + more than he had ever thought he should; this would upset him for + weeks! + + Presently Aunt Hester stole out, and Aunt Juley began moving + about, doing “what was necessary,” so that twice she knocked + against something. Old Jolyon, roused from his reverie, that + reverie of the long, long past, looked sternly at her, and went + away. James alone was left by the bedside; glancing stealthily + round, to see that he was not observed, he twisted his long body + down, placed a kiss on the dead forehead, then he, too, hastily + left the room. Encountering Smither in the hall, he began to ask + her about the funeral, and, finding that she knew nothing, + complained bitterly that, if they didn’t take care, everything + would go wrong. She had better send for Mr. Soames—he knew all + about that sort of thing; her master was very much upset, he + supposed—he would want looking after; as for her mistresses, they + were no good—they had no gumption! They would be ill too, he + shouldn’t wonder. She had better send for the doctor; it was best + to take things in time. He didn’t think his sister Ann had had + the best opinion; if she’d had Blank she would have been alive + now. Smither might send to Park Lane any time she wanted advice. + Of course, his carriage was at their service for the funeral. He + supposed she hadn’t such a thing as a glass of claret and a + biscuit—he had had no lunch! + + The days before the funeral passed quietly. It had long been + known, of course, that Aunt Ann had left her little property to + Timothy. There was, therefore, no reason for the slightest + agitation. Soames, who was sole executor, took charge of all + arrangements, and in due course sent out the following invitation + to every male member of the family: + + _“To—— + “Your presence is requested at the funeral of Miss Ann + Forsyte, in Highgate Cemetery, at noon of Oct. 1st. Carriages + will meet at ‘The Bower,’ Bayswater Road, at 10.45. No + flowers by request. + “R.S.V.P.”_ + + The morning came, cold, with a high, grey, London sky, and at + half-past ten the first carriage, that of James, drove up. It + contained James and his son-in-law Dartie, a fine man, with a + square chest, buttoned very tightly into a frock coat, and a + sallow, fattish face adorned with dark, well-curled moustaches, + and that incorrigible commencement of whisker which, eluding the + strictest attempts at shaving, seems the mark of something deeply + ingrained in the personality of the shaver, being especially + noticeable in men who speculate. + + Soames, in his capacity of executor, received the guests, for + Timothy still kept his bed; he would get up after the funeral; + and Aunts Juley and Hester would not be coming down till all was + over, when it was understood there would be lunch for anyone who + cared to come back. The next to arrive was Roger, still limping + from the gout, and encircled by three of his sons—young Roger, + Eustace, and Thomas. George, the remaining son, arrived almost + immediately afterwards in a hansom, and paused in the hall to ask + Soames how he found undertaking pay. + + They disliked each other. + + Then came two Haymans—Giles and Jesse perfectly silent, and very + well dressed, with special creases down their evening trousers. + Then old Jolyon alone. Next, Nicholas, with a healthy colour in + his face, and a carefully veiled sprightliness in every movement + of his head and body. One of his sons followed him, meek and + subdued. Swithin Forsyte, and Bosinney arrived at the same + moment,—and stood—bowing precedence to each other,—but on the + door opening they tried to enter together; they renewed their + apologies in the hall, and, Swithin, settling his stock, which + had become disarranged in the struggle, very slowly mounted the + stairs. The other Hayman; two married sons of Nicholas, together + with Tweetyman, Spender, and Warry, the husbands of married + Forsyte and Hayman daughters. The company was then complete, + twenty-one in all, not a male member of the family being absent + but Timothy and young Jolyon. + + Entering the scarlet and green drawing-room, whose apparel made + so vivid a setting for their unaccustomed costumes, each tried + nervously to find a seat, desirous of hiding the emphatic + blackness of his trousers. There seemed a sort of indecency in + that blackness and in the colour of their gloves—a sort of + exaggeration of the feelings; and many cast shocked looks of + secret envy at “the Buccaneer,” who had no gloves, and was + wearing grey trousers. A subdued hum of conversation rose, no one + speaking of the departed, but each asking after the other, as + though thereby casting an indirect libation to this event, which + they had come to honour. + + And presently James said: + + “Well, I think we ought to be starting.” + + They went downstairs, and, two and two, as they had been told off + in strict precedence, mounted the carriages. + + The hearse started at a foot’s pace; the carriages moved slowly + after. In the first went old Jolyon with Nicholas; in the second, + the twins, Swithin and James; in the third, Roger and young + Roger; Soames, young Nicholas, George, and Bosinney followed in + the fourth. Each of the other carriages, eight in all, held three + or four of the family; behind them came the doctor’s brougham; + then, at a decent interval, cabs containing family clerks and + servants; and at the very end, one containing nobody at all, but + bringing the total cortege up to the number of thirteen. + + So long as the procession kept to the highway of the Bayswater + Road, it retained the foot’s-pace, but, turning into less + important thorough-fares, it soon broke into a trot, and so + proceeded, with intervals of walking in the more fashionable + streets, until it arrived. In the first carriage old Jolyon and + Nicholas were talking of their wills. In the second the twins, + after a single attempt, had lapsed into complete silence; both + were rather deaf, and the exertion of making themselves heard was + too great. Only once James broke this silence: + + “I shall have to be looking about for some ground somewhere. What + arrangements have you made, Swithin?” + + And Swithin, fixing him with a dreadful stare, answered: + + “Don’t talk to me about such things!” + + In the third carriage a disjointed conversation was carried on in + the intervals of looking out to see how far they had got, George + remarking, “Well, it was really time that the poor old lady + went.” He didn’t believe in people living beyond seventy, Young + Nicholas replied mildly that the rule didn’t seem to apply to the + Forsytes. George said he himself intended to commit suicide at + sixty. Young Nicholas, smiling and stroking a long chin, didn’t + think _his_ father would like that theory; he had made a lot of + money since he was sixty. Well, seventy was the outside limit; it + was then time, George said, for them to go and leave their money + to their children. Soames, hitherto silent, here joined in; he + had not forgotten the remark about the “undertaking,” and, + lifting his eyelids almost imperceptibly, said it was all very + well for people who never made money to talk. He himself intended + to live as long as he could. This was a hit at George, who was + notoriously hard up. Bosinney muttered abstractedly “Hear, hear!” + and, George yawning, the conversation dropped. + + Upon arriving, the coffin was borne into the chapel, and, two by + two, the mourners filed in behind it. This guard of men, all + attached to the dead by the bond of kinship, was an impressive + and singular sight in the great city of London, with its + overwhelming diversity of life, its innumerable vocations, + pleasures, duties, its terrible hardness, its terrible call to + individualism. + + The family had gathered to triumph over all this, to give a show + of tenacious unity, to illustrate gloriously that law of property + underlying the growth of their tree, by which it had thriven and + spread, trunk and branches, the sap flowing through all, the full + growth reached at the appointed time. The spirit of the old woman + lying in her last sleep had called them to this demonstration. It + was her final appeal to that unity which had been their + strength—it was her final triumph that she had died while the + tree was yet whole. + + She was spared the watching of the branches jut out beyond the + point of balance. She could not look into the hearts of her + followers. The same law that had worked in her, bringing her up + from a tall, straight-backed slip of a girl to a woman strong and + grown, from a woman grown to a woman old, angular, feeble, almost + witchlike, with individuality all sharpened and sharpened, as all + rounding from the world’s contact fell off from her—that same law + would work, was working, in the family she had watched like a + mother. + + She had seen it young, and growing, she had seen it strong and + grown, and before her old eyes had time or strength to see any + more, she died. She would have tried, and who knows but she might + have kept it young and strong, with her old fingers, her + trembling kisses—a little longer; alas! not even Aunt Ann could + fight with Nature. + + “Pride comes before a fall!” In accordance with this, the + greatest of Nature’s ironies, the Forsyte family had gathered for + a last proud pageant before they fell. Their faces to right and + left, in single lines, were turned for the most part impassively + toward the ground, guardians of their thoughts; but here and + there, one looking upward, with a line between his brows, + searched to see some sight on the chapel walls too much for him, + to be listening to something that appalled. And the responses, + low-muttered, in voices through which rose the same tone, the + same unseizable family ring, sounded weird, as though murmured in + hurried duplication by a single person. + + The service in the chapel over, the mourners filed up again to + guard the body to the tomb. The vault stood open, and, round it, + men in black were waiting. + + From that high and sacred field, where thousands of the upper + middle class lay in their last sleep, the eyes of the Forsytes + travelled down across the flocks of graves. There—spreading to + the distance, lay London, with no sun over it, mourning the loss + of its daughter, mourning with this family, so dear, the loss of + her who was mother and guardian. A hundred thousand spires and + houses, blurred in the great grey web of property, lay there like + prostrate worshippers before the grave of this, the oldest + Forsyte of them all. + + A few words, a sprinkle of earth, the thrusting of the coffin + home, and Aunt Ann had passed to her last rest. + + Round the vault, trustees of that passing, the five brothers + stood, with white heads bowed; they would see that Ann was + comfortable where she was going. Her little property must stay + behind, but otherwise, all that could be should be done.... + + Then severally, each stood aside, and putting on his hat, turned + back to inspect the new inscription on the marble of the family + vault: + + SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF + ANN FORSYTE, + THE DAUGHTER OF THE ABOVE + JOLYON AND ANN FORSYTE, + WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE THE 27TH DAY OF + SEPTEMBER, 1886, + AGED EIGHTY-SEVEN YEARS AND FOUR DAYS. + + Soon perhaps, someone else would be wanting an inscription. It + was strange and intolerable, for they had not thought somehow, + that Forsytes could die. And one and all they had a longing to + get away from this painfulness, this ceremony which had reminded + them of things they could not bear to think about—to get away + quickly and go about their business and forget. + + It was cold, too; the wind, like some slow, disintegrating force, + blowing up the hill over the graves, struck them with its chilly + breath; they began to split into groups, and as quickly as + possible to fill the waiting carriages. + + Swithin said he should go back to lunch at Timothy’s, and he + offered to take anybody with him in his brougham. It was + considered a doubtful privilege to drive with Swithin in his + brougham, which was not a large one; nobody accepted, and he went + off alone. James and Roger followed immediately after; they also + would drop in to lunch. The others gradually melted away, Old + Jolyon taking three nephews to fill up his carriage; he had a + want of those young faces. + + Soames, who had to arrange some details in the cemetery office, + walked away with Bosinney. He had much to talk over with him, + and, having finished his business, they strolled to Hampstead, + lunched together at the Spaniard’s Inn, and spent a long time in + going into practical details connected with the building of the + house; they then proceeded to the tram-line, and came as far as + the Marble Arch, where Bosinney went off to Stanhope Gate to see + June. + + Soames felt in excellent spirits when he arrived home, and + confided to Irene at dinner that he had had a good talk with + Bosinney, who really seemed a sensible fellow; they had had a + capital walk too, which had done his liver good—he had been short + of exercise for a long time—and altogether a very satisfactory + day. If only it hadn’t been for poor Aunt Ann, he would have + taken her to the theatre; as it was, they must make the best of + an evening at home. + + “The Buccaneer asked after you more than once,” he said suddenly. + And moved by some inexplicable desire to assert his + proprietorship, he rose from his chair and planted a kiss on his + wife’s shoulder. + + + PART II + + + + + CHAPTER I PROGRESS OF THE HOUSE + + The winter had been an open one. Things in the trade were slack; + and as Soames had reflected before making up his mind, it had + been a good time for building. The shell of the house at Robin + Hill was thus completed by the end of April. + + Now that there was something to be seen for his money, he had + been coming down once, twice, even three times a week, and would + mouse about among the debris for hours, careful never to soil his + clothes, moving silently through the unfinished brickwork of + doorways, or circling round the columns in the central court. + + And he would stand before them for minutes together, as though + peering into the real quality of their substance. + + On April 30 he had an appointment with Bosinney to go over the + accounts, and five minutes before the proper time he entered the + tent which the architect had pitched for himself close to the old + oak tree. + + The accounts were already prepared on a folding table, and with a + nod Soames sat down to study them. It was some time before he + raised his head. + + “I can’t make them out,” he said at last; “they come to nearly + seven hundred more than they ought.” + + After a glance at Bosinney’s face he went on quickly: + + “If you only make a firm stand against these builder chaps you’ll + get them down. They stick you with everything if you don’t look + sharp.... Take ten per cent. off all round. I shan’t mind it’s + coming out a hundred or so over the mark!” + + Bosinney shook his head: + + “I’ve taken off every farthing I can!” + + Soames pushed back the table with a movement of anger, which sent + the account sheets fluttering to the ground. + + “Then all I can say is,” he flustered out, “you’ve made a pretty + mess of it!” + + “I’ve told you a dozen times,” Bosinney answered sharply, “that + there’d be extras. I’ve pointed them out to you over and over + again!” + + “I know that,” growled Soames: “I shouldn’t have objected to a + ten pound note here and there. How was I to know that by ‘extras’ + you meant seven hundred pounds?” + + The qualities of both men had contributed to this + not-inconsiderable discrepancy. On the one hand, the architect’s + devotion to his idea, to the image of a house which he had + created and believed in—had made him nervous of being stopped, or + forced to the use of makeshifts; on the other, Soames’s not less + true and wholehearted devotion to the very best article that + could be obtained for the money, had rendered him averse to + believing that things worth thirteen shillings could not be + bought with twelve. + + “I wish I’d never undertaken your house,” said Bosinney suddenly. + “You come down here worrying me out of my life. You want double + the value for your money anybody else would, and now that you’ve + got a house that for its size is not to be beaten in the county, + you don’t want to pay for it. If you’re anxious to be off your + bargain, I daresay I can find the balance above the estimates + myself, but I’m d——d if I do another stroke of work for you!” + + Soames regained his composure. Knowing that Bosinney had no + capital, he regarded this as a wild suggestion. He saw, too, that + he would be kept indefinitely out of this house on which he had + set his heart, and just at the crucial point when the architect’s + personal care made all the difference. In the meantime there was + Irene to be thought of! She had been very queer lately. He really + believed it was only because she had taken to Bosinney that she + tolerated the idea of the house at all. It would not do to make + an open breach with her. + + “You needn’t get into a rage,” he said. “If I’m willing to put up + with it, I suppose you needn’t cry out. All I meant was that when + you tell me a thing is going to cost so much, I like to—well, in + fact, I—like to know where I am.” + + “Look here!” said Bosinney, and Soames was both annoyed and + surprised by the shrewdness of his glance. “You’ve got my + services dirt cheap. For the kind of work I’ve put into this + house, and the amount of time I’ve given to it, you’d have had to + pay Littlemaster or some other fool four times as much. What you + want, in fact, is a first-rate man for a fourth-rate fee, and + that’s exactly what you’ve got!” + + Soames saw that he really meant what he said, and, angry though + he was, the consequences of a row rose before him too vividly. He + saw his house unfinished, his wife rebellious, himself a + laughingstock. + + “Let’s go over it,” he said sulkily, “and see how the money’s + gone.” + + “Very well,” assented Bosinney. “But we’ll hurry up, if you don’t + mind. I have to get back in time to take June to the theatre.” + + Soames cast a stealthy look at him, and said: “Coming to our + place, I suppose to meet her?” He was always coming to their + place! + + There had been rain the night before—a spring rain, and the earth + smelt of sap and wild grasses. The warm, soft breeze swung the + leaves and the golden buds of the old oak tree, and in the + sunshine the blackbirds were whistling their hearts out. + + It was such a spring day as breathes into a man an ineffable + yearning, a painful sweetness, a longing that makes him stand + motionless, looking at the leaves or grass, and fling out his + arms to embrace he knows not what. The earth gave forth a + fainting warmth, stealing up through the chilly garment in which + winter had wrapped her. It was her long caress of invitation, to + draw men down to lie within her arms, to roll their bodies on + her, and put their lips to her breast. + + On just such a day as this Soames had got from Irene the promise + he had asked her for so often. Seated on the fallen trunk of a + tree, he had promised for the twentieth time that if their + marriage were not a success, she should be as free as if she had + never married him! + + “Do you swear it?” she had said. A few days back she had reminded + him of that oath. He had answered: “Nonsense! I couldn’t have + sworn any such thing!” By some awkward fatality he remembered it + now. What queer things men would swear for the sake of women! He + would have sworn it at any time to gain her! He would swear it + now, if thereby he could touch her—but nobody could touch her, + she was cold-hearted! + + And memories crowded on him with the fresh, sweet savour of the + spring wind—memories of his courtship. + + In the spring of the year 1881 he was visiting his old + school-fellow and client, George Liversedge, of Branksome, who, + with the view of developing his pine-woods in the neighbourhood + of Bournemouth, had placed the formation of the company necessary + to the scheme in Soames’s hands. Mrs. Liversedge, with a sense of + the fitness of things, had given a musical tea in his honour. + Later in the course of this function, which Soames, no musician, + had regarded as an unmitigated bore, his eye had been caught by + the face of a girl dressed in mourning, standing by herself. The + lines of her tall, as yet rather thin figure, showed through the + wispy, clinging stuff of her black dress, her black-gloved hands + were crossed in front of her, her lips slightly parted, and her + large, dark eyes wandered from face to face. Her hair, done low + on her neck, seemed to gleam above her black collar like coils of + shining metal. And as Soames stood looking at her, the sensation + that most men have felt at one time or another went stealing + through him—a peculiar satisfaction of the senses, a peculiar + certainty, which novelists and old ladies call love at first + sight. Still stealthily watching her, he at once made his way to + his hostess, and stood doggedly waiting for the music to cease. + + “Who is that girl with yellow hair and dark eyes?” he asked. + + “That—oh! Irene Heron. Her father, Professor Heron, died this + year. She lives with her stepmother. She’s a nice girl, a pretty + girl, but no money!” + + “Introduce me, please,” said Soames. + + It was very little that he found to say, nor did he find her + responsive to that little. But he went away with the resolution + to see her again. He effected his object by chance, meeting her + on the pier with her stepmother, who had the habit of walking + there from twelve to one of a forenoon. Soames made this lady’s + acquaintance with alacrity, nor was it long before he perceived + in her the ally he was looking for. His keen scent for the + commercial side of family life soon told him that Irene cost her + stepmother more than the fifty pounds a year she brought her; it + also told him that Mrs. Heron, a woman yet in the prime of life, + desired to be married again. The strange ripening beauty of her + stepdaughter stood in the way of this desirable consummation. And + Soames, in his stealthy tenacity, laid his plans. + + He left Bournemouth without having given himself away, but in a + month’s time came back, and this time he spoke, not to the girl, + but to her stepmother. He had made up his mind, he said; he would + wait any time. And he had long to wait, watching Irene bloom, the + lines of her young figure softening, the stronger blood deepening + the gleam of her eyes, and warming her face to a creamy glow; and + at each visit he proposed to her, and when that visit was at an + end, took her refusal away with him, back to London, sore at + heart, but steadfast and silent as the grave. He tried to come at + the secret springs of her resistance; only once had he a gleam of + light. It was at one of those assembly dances, which afford the + only outlet to the passions of the population of seaside + watering-places. He was sitting with her in an embrasure, his + senses tingling with the contact of the waltz. She had looked at + him over her slowly waving fan; and he had lost his head. Seizing + that moving wrist, he pressed his lips to the flesh of her arm. + And she had shuddered—to this day he had not forgotten that + shudder—nor the look so passionately averse she had given him. + + A year after that she had yielded. What had made her yield he + could never make out; and from Mrs. Heron, a woman of some + diplomatic talent, he learnt nothing. Once after they were + married he asked her, “What made you refuse me so often?” She had + answered by a strange silence. An enigma to him from the day that + he first saw her, she was an enigma to him still.... + + Bosinney was waiting for him at the door; and on his rugged, + good-looking, face was a queer, yearning, yet happy look, as + though he too saw a promise of bliss in the spring sky, sniffed a + coming happiness in the spring air. Soames looked at him waiting + there. What was the matter with the fellow that he looked so + happy? What was he waiting for with that smile on his lips and in + his eyes? Soames could not see that for which Bosinney was + waiting as he stood there drinking in the flower-scented wind. + And once more he felt baffled in the presence of this man whom by + habit he despised. He hastened on to the house. + + “The only colour for those tiles,” he heard Bosinney say, “is + ruby with a grey tint in the stuff, to give a transparent effect. + I should like Irene’s opinion. I’m ordering the purple leather + curtains for the doorway of this court; and if you distemper the + drawing-room ivory cream over paper, you’ll get an illusive look. + You want to aim all through the decorations at what I call + charm.” + + Soames said: “You mean that my wife has charm!” + + Bosinney evaded the question. + + “You should have a clump of iris plants in the centre of that + court.” + + Soames smiled superciliously. + + “I’ll look into Beech’s some time,” he said, “and see what’s + appropriate!” + + They found little else to say to each other, but on the way to + the Station Soames asked: + + “I suppose you find Irene very artistic.” + + “Yes.” The abrupt answer was as distinct a snub as saying: “If + you want to discuss her you can do it with someone else!” + + And the slow, sulky anger Soames had felt all the afternoon + burned the brighter within him. + + Neither spoke again till they were close to the Station, then + Soames asked: + + “When do you expect to have finished?” + + “By the end of June, if you really wish me to decorate as well.” + + Soames nodded. “But you quite understand,” he said, “that the + house is costing me a lot beyond what I contemplated. I may as + well tell you that I should have thrown it up, only I’m not in + the habit of giving up what I’ve set my mind on.” + + Bosinney made no reply. And Soames gave him askance a look of + dogged dislike—for in spite of his fastidious air and that + supercilious, dandified taciturnity, Soames, with his set lips + and squared chin, was not unlike a bulldog.... + + When, at seven o’clock that evening, June arrived at 62, + Montpellier Square, the maid Bilson told her that Mr. Bosinney + was in the drawing-room; the mistress—she said—was dressing, and + would be down in a minute. She would tell her that Miss June was + here. + + June stopped her at once. + + “All right, Bilson,” she said, “I’ll just go in. You, needn’t + hurry Mrs. Soames.” + + She took off her cloak, and Bilson, with an understanding look, + did not even open the drawing-room door for her, but ran + downstairs. + + June paused for a moment to look at herself in the little + old-fashioned silver mirror above the oaken rug chest—a slim, + imperious young figure, with a small resolute face, in a white + frock, cut moon-shaped at the base of a neck too slender for her + crown of twisted red-gold hair. + + She opened the drawing-room door softly, meaning to take him by + surprise. The room was filled with a sweet hot scent of flowering + azaleas. + + She took a long breath of the perfume, and heard Bosinney’s + voice, not in the room, but quite close, saying. + + “Ah! there were such heaps of things I wanted to talk about, and + now we shan’t have time!” + + Irene’s voice answered: “Why not at dinner?” + + “How can one talk....” + + Jun’s first thought was to go away, but instead she crossed to + the long window opening on the little court. It was from there + that the scent of the azaleas came, and, standing with their + backs to her, their faces buried in the golden-pink blossoms, + stood her lover and Irene. + + Silent but unashamed, with flaming cheeks and angry eyes, the + girl watched. + + “Come on Sunday by yourself—We can go over the house together.” + + June saw Irene look up at him through her screen of blossoms. It + was not the look of a coquette, but—far worse to the watching + girl—of a woman fearful lest that look should say too much. + + “I’ve promised to go for a drive with Uncle....” + + “The big one! Make him bring you; it’s only ten miles—the very + thing for his horses.” + + “Poor old Uncle Swithin!” + + A wave of the azalea scent drifted into Jun’s face; she felt sick + and dizzy. + + “Do! ah! do!” + + “But why?” + + “I must see you there—I thought you’d like to help me....” + + The answer seemed to the girl to come softly with a tremble from + amongst the blossoms: “So I do!” + + And she stepped into the open space of the window. + + “How stuffy it is here!” she said; “I can’t bear this scent!” + + Her eyes, so angry and direct, swept both their faces. + + “Were you talking about the house? _I_ haven’t seen it yet, you + know—shall we all go on Sunday?” + + From Irene’s face the colour had flown. + + “I am going for a drive that day with Uncle Swithin,” she + answered. + + “Uncle Swithin! What does he matter? You can throw him over!” + + “I am not in the habit of throwing people over!” + + There was a sound of footsteps and June saw Soames standing just + behind her. + + “Well! if you are all ready,” said Irene, looking from one to the + other with a strange smile, “dinner is too!” + + + + + CHAPTER II JUNE’S TREAT + + Dinner began in silence; the women facing one another, and the + men. + + In silence the soup was finished—excellent, if a little thick; + and fish was brought. In silence it was handed. + + Bosinney ventured: “It’s the first spring day.” + + Irene echoed softly: “Yes—the first spring day.” + + “Spring!” said June: “there isn’t a breath of air!” No one + replied. + + The fish was taken away, a fine fresh sole from Dover. And Bilson + brought champagne, a bottle swathed around the neck with + white.... + + Soames said: “You’ll find it dry.” + + Cutlets were handed, each pink-frilled about the legs. They were + refused by June, and silence fell. + + Soames said: “You’d better take a cutlet, June; there’s nothing + coming.” + + But June again refused, so they were borne away. And then Irene + asked: “Phil, have you heard my blackbird?” + + Bosinney answered: “Rather—he’s got a hunting-song. As I came + round I heard him in the Square.” + + “He’s such a darling!” + + “Salad, sir?” Spring chicken was removed. + + But Soames was speaking: “The asparagus is very poor. Bosinney, + glass of sherry with your sweet? June, you’re drinking nothing!” + + June said: “You know I never do. Wine’s such horrid stuff!” + + An apple charlotte came upon a silver dish, and smilingly Irene + said: “The azaleas are so wonderful this year!” + + To this Bosinney murmured: “Wonderful! The scent’s + extraordinary!” + + June said: “How can you like the scent? Sugar, please, Bilson.” + + Sugar was handed her, and Soames remarked: “This charlotte’s + good!” + + The charlotte was removed. Long silence followed. Irene, + beckoning, said: “Take out the azalea, Bilson. Miss June can’t + bear the scent.” + + “No; let it stay,” said June. + + Olives from France, with Russian caviare, were placed on little + plates. And Soames remarked: “Why can’t we have the Spanish?” But + no one answered. + + The olives were removed. Lifting her tumbler June demanded: “Give + me some water, please.” Water was given her. A silver tray was + brought, with German plums. There was a lengthy pause. In perfect + harmony all were eating them. + + Bosinney counted up the stones: “This year—next year—some time.” + + Irene finished softly: “Never! There was such a glorious sunset. + The sky’s all ruby still—so beautiful!” + + He answered: “Underneath the dark.” + + Their eyes had met, and June cried scornfully: “A London sunset!” + + Egyptian cigarettes were handed in a silver box. Soames, taking + one, remarked: “What time’s your play begin?” + + No one replied, and Turkish coffee followed in enamelled cups. + + Irene, smiling quietly, said: “If only....” + + “Only what?” said June. + + “If only it could always be the spring!” + + Brandy was handed; it was pale and old. + + Soames said: “Bosinney, better take some brandy.” + + Bosinney took a glass; they all arose. + + “You want a cab?” asked Soames. + + June answered: “No! My cloaks please, Bilson.” Her cloak was + brought. + + Irene, from the window, murmured: “Such a lovely night! The stars + are coming out!” + + Soames added: “Well, I hope you’ll both enjoy yourselves.” + + From the door June answered: “Thanks. Come, Phil.” + + Bosinney cried: “I’m coming.” + + Soames smiled a sneering smile, and said: “I wish you luck!” + + And at the door Irene watched them go. + + Bosinney called: “Good night!” + + “Good night!” she answered softly.... + + June made her lover take her on the top of a ’bus, saying she + wanted air, and there sat silent, with her face to the breeze. + + The driver turned once or twice, with the intention of venturing + a remark, but thought better of it. They were a lively couple! + The spring had got into his blood, too; he felt the need for + letting steam escape, and clucked his tongue, flourishing his + whip, wheeling his horses, and even they, poor things, had + smelled the spring, and for a brief half-hour spurned the + pavement with happy hoofs. + + The whole town was alive; the boughs, curled upward with their + decking of young leaves, awaited some gift the breeze could + bring. New-lighted lamps were gaining mastery, and the faces of + the crowd showed pale under that glare, while on high the great + white clouds slid swiftly, softly, over the purple sky. + + Men in evening dress had thrown back overcoats, stepping jauntily + up the steps of Clubs; working folk loitered; and women—those + women who at that time of night are solitary—solitary and moving + eastward in a stream—swung slowly along, with expectation in + their gait, dreaming of good wine and a good supper, or, for an + unwonted minute, of kisses given for love. + + Those countless figures, going their ways under the lamps and the + moving sky, had one and all received some restless blessing from + the stir of spring. And one and all, like those clubmen with + their opened coats, had shed something of caste, and creed, and + custom, and by the cock of their hats, the pace of their walk, + their laughter, or their silence, revealed their common kinship + under the passionate heavens. + + Bosinney and June entered the theatre in silence, and mounted to + their seats in the upper boxes. The piece had just begun, and the + half-darkened house, with its rows of creatures peering all one + way, resembled a great garden of flowers turning their faces to + the sun. + + June had never before been in the upper boxes. From the age of + fifteen she had habitually accompanied her grandfather to the + stalls, and not common stalls, but the best seats in the house, + towards the centre of the third row, booked by old Jolyon, at + Grogan and Boyne’s, on his way home from the City, long before + the day; carried in his overcoat pocket, together with his + cigar-case and his old kid gloves, and handed to June to keep + till the appointed night. And in those stalls—an erect old figure + with a serene white head, a little figure, strenuous and eager, + with a red-gold head—they would sit through every kind of play, + and on the way home old Jolyon would say of the principal actor: + “Oh, he’s a poor stick! You should have seen little Bobson!” + + She had looked forward to this evening with keen delight; it was + stolen, chaperone-less, undreamed of at Stanhope Gate, where she + was supposed to be at Soames’s. She had expected reward for her + subterfuge, planned for her lover’s sake; she had expected it to + break up the thick, chilly cloud, and make the relations between + them which of late had been so puzzling, so tormenting—sunny and + simple again as they had been before the winter. She had come + with the intention of saying something definite; and she looked + at the stage with a furrow between her brows, seeing nothing, her + hands squeezed together in her lap. A swarm of jealous suspicions + stung and stung her. + + If Bosinney was conscious of her trouble he made no sign. + + The curtain dropped. The first act had come to an end. + + “It’s awfully hot here!” said the girl; “I should like to go + out.” + + She was very white, and she knew—for with her nerves thus + sharpened she saw everything—that he was both uneasy and + compunctious. + + At the back of the theatre an open balcony hung over the street; + she took possession of this, and stood leaning there without a + word, waiting for him to begin. + + At last she could bear it no longer. + + “I want to say something to you, Phil,” she said. + + “Yes?” + + The defensive tone of his voice brought the colour flying to her + cheek, the words flying to her lips: “You don’t give me a chance + to be nice to you; you haven’t for ages now!” + + Bosinney stared down at the street. He made no answer.... + + June cried passionately: “You know I want to do everything for + you—that I want to be everything to you....” + + A hum rose from the street, and, piercing it with a sharp “ping,” + the bell sounded for the raising of the curtain. June did not + stir. A desperate struggle was going on within her. Should she + put everything to the proof? Should she challenge directly that + influence, that attraction which was driving him away from her? + It was her nature to challenge, and she said: “Phil, take me to + see the house on Sunday!” + + With a smile quivering and breaking on her lips, and trying, how + hard, not to show that she was watching, she searched his face, + saw it waver and hesitate, saw a troubled line come between his + brows, the blood rush into his face. He answered: “Not Sunday, + dear; some other day!” + + “Why not Sunday? I shouldn’t be in the way on Sunday.” + + He made an evident effort, and said: “I have an engagement.” + + “You are going to take....” + + His eyes grew angry; he shrugged his shoulders, and answered: “An + engagement that will prevent my taking you to see the house!” + + June bit her lip till the blood came, and walked back to her seat + without another word, but she could not help the tears of rage + rolling down her face. The house had been mercifully darkened for + a crisis, and no one could see her trouble. + + Yet in this world of Forsytes let no man think himself immune + from observation. + + In the third row behind, Euphemia, Nicholas’s youngest daughter, + with her married-sister, Mrs. Tweetyman, were watching. + + They reported at Timothy’s, how they had seen June and her fiancé + at the theatre. + + “In the stalls?” “No, not in the....” “Oh! in the dress circle, + of course. That seemed to be quite fashionable nowadays with + young people!” + + Well—not exactly. In the.... Anyway, _that_ engagement wouldn’t + last long. They had never seen anyone look so thunder and + lightningy as that little June! With tears of enjoyment in their + eyes, they related how she had kicked a man’s hat as she returned + to her seat in the middle of an act, and how the man had looked. + Euphemia had a noted, silent laugh, terminating most + disappointingly in squeaks; and when Mrs. Small, holding up her + hands, said: “My dear! Kicked a ha-at?” she let out such a number + of these that she had to be recovered with smelling-salts. As she + went away she said to Mrs. Tweetyman: + + “Kicked a—ha-at! Oh! I shall die.” + + For “that little June” this evening, that was to have been “her + treat,” was the most miserable she had ever spent. God knows she + tried to stifle her pride, her suspicion, her jealousy! + + She parted from Bosinney at old Jolyon’s door without breaking + down; the feeling that her lover must be conquered was strong + enough to sustain her till his retiring footsteps brought home + the true extent of her wretchedness. + + The noiseless “Sankey” let her in. She would have slipped up to + her own room, but old Jolyon, who had heard her entrance, was in + the dining-room doorway. + + “Come in and have your milk,” he said. “It’s been kept hot for + you. You’re very late. Where have you been?” + + June stood at the fireplace, with a foot on the fender and an arm + on the mantelpiece, as her grandfather had done when he came in + that night of the opera. She was too near a breakdown to care + what she told him. + + “We dined at Soames’s.” + + “H’m! the man of property! His wife there and Bosinney?” + + “Yes.” + + Old Jolyon’s glance was fixed on her with the penetrating gaze + from which it was difficult to hide; but she was not looking at + him, and when she turned her face, he dropped his scrutiny at + once. He had seen enough, and too much. He bent down to lift the + cup of milk for her from the hearth, and, turning away, grumbled: + “You oughtn’t to stay out so late; it makes you fit for nothing.” + + He was invisible now behind his paper, which he turned with a + vicious crackle; but when June came up to kiss him, he said: + “Good-night, my darling,” in a tone so tremulous and unexpected, + that it was all the girl could do to get out of the room without + breaking into the fit of sobbing which lasted her well on into + the night. + + When the door was closed, old Jolyon dropped his paper, and + stared long and anxiously in front of him. + + “The beggar!” he thought. “I always knew she’d have trouble with + him!” + + Uneasy doubts and suspicions, the more poignant that he felt + himself powerless to check or control the march of events, came + crowding upon him. + + Was the fellow going to jilt her? He longed to go and say to him: + “Look here, you sir! Are you going to jilt my grand-daughter?” + But how could he? Knowing little or nothing, he was yet certain, + with his unerring astuteness, that there was something going on. + He suspected Bosinney of being too much at Montpellier Square. + + “This fellow,” he thought, “may not be a scamp; his face is not a + bad one, but he’s a queer fish. I don’t know what to make of him. + I shall never know what to make of him! They tell me he works + like a nigger, but I see no good coming of it. He’s unpractical, + he has no method. When he comes here, he sits as glum as a + monkey. If I ask him what wine he’ll have, he says: ‘Thanks, any + wine.’ If I offer him a cigar, he smokes it as if it were a + twopenny German thing. I never see him looking at June as he + ought to look at her; and yet, he’s not after her money. If she + were to make a sign, he’d be off his bargain to-morrow. But she + won’t—not she! She’ll stick to him! She’s as obstinate as + fate—she’ll never let go!” + + Sighing deeply, he turned the paper; in its columns, perchance he + might find consolation. + + And upstairs in her room June sat at her open window, where the + spring wind came, after its revel across the Park, to cool her + hot cheeks and burn her heart. + + + + + CHAPTER III DRIVE WITH SWITHIN + + Two lines of a certain song in a certain famous old school’s + songbook run as follows: + + “How the buttons on his blue frock shone, tra-la-la! + How he carolled and he sang, like a bird!...” + + Swithin did not exactly carol and sing like a bird, but he felt + almost like endeavouring to hum a tune, as he stepped out of Hyde + Park Mansions, and contemplated his horses drawn up before the + door. + + The afternoon was as balmy as a day in June, and to complete the + simile of the old song, he had put on a blue frock-coat, + dispensing with an overcoat, after sending Adolf down three times + to make sure that there was not the least suspicion of east in + the wind; and the frock-coat was buttoned so tightly around his + personable form, that, if the buttons did not shine, they might + pardonably have done so. Majestic on the pavement he fitted on a + pair of dog-skin gloves; with his large bell-shaped top hat, and + his great stature and bulk he looked too primeval for a Forsyte. + His thick white hair, on which Adolf had bestowed a touch of + pomatum, exhaled the fragrance of opoponax and cigars—the + celebrated Swithin brand, for which he paid one hundred and forty + shillings the hundred, and of which old Jolyon had unkindly said, + he wouldn’t smoke them as a gift; they wanted the stomach of a + horse! + + “Adolf!” + + “Sare!” + + “The new plaid rug!” + + He would never teach that fellow to look smart; and Mrs. Soames + he felt sure, had an eye! + + “The phaeton hood down; I am going—to—drive—a—lady!” + + A pretty woman would want to show off her frock; and well—he was + going to drive a lady! It was like a new beginning to the good + old days. + + Ages since he had driven a woman! The last time, if he + remembered, it had been Juley; the poor old soul had been as + nervous as a cat the whole time, and so put him out of patience + that, as he dropped her in the Bayswater Road, he had said: “Well + I’m d——d if I ever drive you again!” And he never had, not he! + + Going up to his horses’ heads, he examined their bits; not that + he knew anything about bits—he didn’t pay his coachman sixty + pounds a year to do his work for him, that had never been his + principle. Indeed, his reputation as a horsey man rested mainly + on the fact that once, on Derby Day, he had been welshed by some + thimble-riggers. But someone at the Club, after seeing him drive + his greys up to the door—he always drove grey horses, you got + more style for the money, some thought—had called him + “Four-in-hand Forsyte.” The name having reached his ears through + that fellow Nicholas Treffry, old Jolyon’s dead partner, the + great driving man notorious for more carriage accidents than any + man in the kingdom—Swithin had ever after conceived it right to + act up to it. The name had taken his fancy, not because he had + ever driven four-in-hand, or was ever likely to, but because of + something distinguished in the sound. Four-in-hand Forsyte! Not + bad! Born too soon, Swithin had missed his vocation. Coming upon + London twenty years later, he could not have failed to have + become a stockbroker, but at the time when he was obliged to + select, this great profession had not as yet become the chief + glory of the upper-middle class. He had literally been forced + into auctioneering. + + Once in the driving seat, with the reins handed to him, and + blinking over his pale old cheeks in the full sunlight, he took a + slow look round—Adolf was already up behind; the cockaded groom + at the horses’ heads stood ready to let go; everything was + prepared for the signal, and Swithin gave it. The equipage dashed + forward, and before you could say Jack Robinson, with a rattle + and flourish drew up at Soames’s door. + + Irene came out at once, and stepped in—he afterward described it + at Timothy’s—“as light as—er—Taglioni, no fuss about it, no + wanting this or wanting that;” and above all, Swithin dwelt on + this, staring at Mrs. Septimus in a way that disconcerted her a + good deal, “no silly nervousness!” To Aunt Hester he portrayed + Irene’s hat. “Not one of your great flopping things, sprawling + about, and catching the dust, that women are so fond of nowadays, + but a neat little—” he made a circular motion of his hand, “white + veil—capital taste.” + + “What was it made of?” inquired Aunt Hester, who manifested a + languid but permanent excitement at any mention of dress. + + “Made of?” returned Swithin; “now how should I know?” + + He sank into silence so profound that Aunt Hester began to be + afraid he had fallen into a trance. She did not try to rouse him + herself, it not being her custom. + + “I wish somebody would come,” she thought; “I don’t like the look + of him!” + + But suddenly Swithin returned to life. “Made of” he wheezed out + slowly, “what should it be made of?” + + They had not gone four miles before Swithin received the + impression that Irene liked driving with him. Her face was so + soft behind that white veil, and her dark eyes shone so in the + spring light, and whenever he spoke she raised them to him and + smiled. + + On Saturday morning Soames had found her at her writing-table + with a note written to Swithin, putting him off. Why did she want + to put him off? he asked. She might put her own people off when + she liked, he would not have her putting off _his_ people! + + She had looked at him intently, had torn up the note, and said: + “Very well!” + + And then she began writing another. He took a casual glance + presently, and saw that it was addressed to Bosinney. + + “What are you writing to _him_ about?” he asked. + + Irene, looking at him again with that intent look, said quietly: + “Something he wanted me to do for him!” + + “Humph!” said Soames,—“Commissions!” + + “You’ll have your work cut out if you begin that sort of thing!” + He said no more. + + Swithin opened his eyes at the mention of Robin Hill; it was a + long way for his horses, and he always dined at half-past seven, + before the rush at the Club began; the new chef took more trouble + with an early dinner—a lazy rascal! + + He would like to have a look at the house, however. A house + appealed to any Forsyte, and especially to one who had been an + auctioneer. After all he said the distance was nothing. When he + was a younger man he had had rooms at Richmond for many years, + kept his carriage and pair there, and drove them up and down to + business every day of his life. + + Four-in-hand Forsyte they called him! His T-cart, his horses had + been known from Hyde Park Corner to the Star and Garter. The Duke + of Z.... wanted to get hold of them, would have given him double + the money, but he had kept them; know a good thing when you have + it, eh? A look of solemn pride came portentously on his shaven + square old face, he rolled his head in his stand-up collar, like + a turkey-cock preening himself. + + She was really—a charming woman! He enlarged upon her frock + afterwards to Aunt Juley, who held up her hands at his way of + putting it. + + Fitted her like a skin—tight as a drum; that was how he liked + ’em, all of a piece, none of your daverdy, scarecrow women! He + gazed at Mrs. Septimus Small, who took after James—long and thin. + + “There’s style about her,” he went on, “fit for a king! And she’s + so quiet with it too!” + + “She seems to have made quite a conquest of you, any way,” + drawled Aunt Hester from her corner. + + Swithin heard extremely well when anybody attacked him. + + “What’s that?” he said. “I know a—pretty—woman when I see one, + and all I can say is, I don’t see the young man about that’s fit + for her; but perhaps—you—do, come, perhaps—you-do!” + + “Oh?” murmured Aunt Hester, “ask Juley!” + + Long before they reached Robin Hill, however, the unaccustomed + airing had made him terribly sleepy; he drove with his eyes + closed, a life-time of deportment alone keeping his tall and + bulky form from falling askew. + + Bosinney, who was watching, came out to meet them, and all three + entered the house together; Swithin in front making play with a + stout gold-mounted Malacca cane, put into his hand by Adolf, for + his knees were feeling the effects of their long stay in the same + position. He had assumed his fur coat, to guard against the + draughts of the unfinished house. + + The staircase—he said—was handsome! the baronial style! They + would want some statuary about! He came to a standstill between + the columns of the doorway into the inner court, and held out his + cane inquiringly. + + What was this to be—this vestibule, or whatever they called it? + But gazing at the skylight, inspiration came to him. + + “Ah! the billiard-room!” + + When told it was to be a tiled court with plants in the centre, + he turned to Irene: + + “Waste this on plants? You take my advice and have a billiard + table here!” + + Irene smiled. She had lifted her veil, banding it like a nun’s + coif across her forehead, and the smile of her dark eyes below + this seemed to Swithin more charming than ever. He nodded. She + would take his advice he saw. + + He had little to say of the drawing or dining-rooms, which he + described as “spacious”; but fell into such raptures as he + permitted to a man of his dignity, in the wine-cellar, to which + he descended by stone steps, Bosinney going first with a light. + + “You’ll have room here,” he said, “for six or seven hundred + dozen—a very pooty little cellar!” + + Bosinney having expressed the wish to show them the house from + the copse below, Swithin came to a stop. + + “There’s a fine view from here,” he remarked; “you haven’t such a + thing as a chair?” + + A chair was brought him from Bosinney’s tent. + + “You go down,” he said blandly; “you two! I’ll sit here and look + at the view.” + + He sat down by the oak tree, in the sun; square and upright, with + one hand stretched out, resting on the nob of his cane, the other + planted on his knee; his fur coat thrown open, his hat, roofing + with its flat top the pale square of his face; his stare, very + blank, fixed on the landscape. + + He nodded to them as they went off down through the fields. He + was, indeed, not sorry to be left thus for a quiet moment of + reflection. The air was balmy, not too much heat in the sun; the + prospect a fine one, a remarka.... His head fell a little to one + side; he jerked it up and thought: Odd! He—ah! They were waving + to him from the bottom! He put up his hand, and moved it more + than once. They were active—the prospect was remar.... His head + fell to the left, he jerked it up at once; it fell to the right. + It remained there; he was asleep. + + And asleep, a sentinel on the—top of the rise, he appeared to + rule over this prospect—remarkable—like some image blocked out by + the special artist, of primeval Forsytes in pagan days, to record + the domination of mind over matter! + + And all the unnumbered generations of his yeoman ancestors, wont + of a Sunday to stand akimbo surveying their little plots of land, + their grey unmoving eyes hiding their instinct with its hidden + roots of violence, their instinct for possession to the exclusion + of all the world—all these unnumbered generations seemed to sit + there with him on the top of the rise. + + But from him, thus slumbering, his jealous Forsyte spirit + travelled far, into God-knows-what jungle of fancies; with those + two young people, to see what they were doing down there in the + copse—in the copse where the spring was running riot with the + scent of sap and bursting buds, the song of birds innumerable, a + carpet of bluebells and sweet growing things, and the sun caught + like gold in the tops of the trees; to see what they were doing, + walking along there so close together on the path that was too + narrow; walking along there so close that they were always + touching; to watch Irene’s eyes, like dark thieves, stealing the + heart out of the spring. And a great unseen chaperon, his spirit + was there, stopping with them to look at the little furry corpse + of a mole, not dead an hour, with his mushroom-and-silver coat + untouched by the rain or dew; watching over Irene’s bent head, + and the soft look of her pitying eyes; and over that young man’s + head, gazing at her so hard, so strangely. Walking on with them, + too, across the open space where a wood-cutter had been at work, + where the bluebells were trampled down, and a trunk had swayed + and staggered down from its gashed stump. Climbing it with them, + over, and on to the very edge of the copse, whence there + stretched an undiscovered country, from far away in which came + the sounds, “Cuckoo-cuckoo!” + + Silent, standing with them there, and uneasy at their silence! + Very queer, very strange! + + Then back again, as though guilty, through the wood—back to the + cutting, still silent, amongst the songs of birds that never + ceased, and the wild scent—hum! what was it—like that herb they + put in—back to the log across the path.... + + And then unseen, uneasy, flapping above them, trying to make + noises, his Forsyte spirit watched her balanced on the log, her + pretty figure swaying, smiling down at that young man gazing up + with such strange, shining eyes, slipping now—a—ah! falling, + o—oh! sliding—down his breast; her soft, warm body clutched, her + head bent back from his lips; his kiss; her recoil; his cry: “You + must know—I love you!” Must know—indeed, a pretty...? Love! Hah! + + Swithin awoke; virtue had gone out of him. He had a taste in his + mouth. Where was he? + + Damme! He had been asleep! + + He had dreamed something about a new soup, with a taste of mint + in it. + + Those young people—where had they got to? His left leg had pins + and needles. + + “Adolf!” The rascal was not there; the rascal was asleep + somewhere. + + He stood up, tall, square, bulky in his fur, looking anxiously + down over the fields, and presently he saw them coming. + + Irene was in front; that young fellow—what had they nicknamed + him—“The Buccaneer?” looked precious hangdog there behind her; + had got a flea in his ear, he shouldn’t wonder. Serve him right, + taking her down all that way to look at the house! The proper + place to look at a house from was the lawn. + + They saw him. He extended his arm, and moved it spasmodically to + encourage them. But they had stopped. What were they standing + there for, talking—talking? They came on again. She had been + giving him a rub, he had not the least doubt of it, and no + wonder, over a house like that—a great ugly thing, not the sort + of house he was accustomed to. + + He looked intently at their faces, with his pale, immovable + stare. That young man looked very queer! + + “You’ll never make anything of this!” he said tartly, pointing at + the mansion;—“too newfangled!” + + Bosinney gazed at him as though he had not heard; and Swithin + afterwards described him to Aunt Hester as “an extravagant sort + of fellow very odd way of looking at you—a bumpy beggar!” + + What gave rise to this sudden piece of psychology he did not + state; possibly Bosinney’s prominent forehead and cheekbones and + chin, or something hungry in his face, which quarrelled with + Swithin’s conception of the calm satiety that should characterize + the perfect gentleman. + + He brightened up at the mention of tea. He had a contempt for + tea—his brother Jolyon had been in tea; made a lot of money by + it—but he was so thirsty, and had such a taste in his mouth, that + he was prepared to drink anything. He longed to inform Irene of + the taste in his mouth—she was so sympathetic—but it would not be + a distinguished thing to do; he rolled his tongue round, and + faintly smacked it against his palate. + + In a far corner of the tent Adolf was bending his cat-like + moustaches over a kettle. He left it at once to draw the cork of + a pint-bottle of champagne. Swithin smiled, and, nodding at + Bosinney, said: “Why, you’re quite a Monte Cristo!” This + celebrated novel—one of the half-dozen he had read—had produced + an extraordinary impression on his mind. + + Taking his glass from the table, he held it away from him to + scrutinize the colour; thirsty as he was, it was not likely that + he was going to drink trash! Then, placing it to his lips, he + took a sip. + + “A very nice wine,” he said at last, passing it before his nose; + “not the equal of my Heidsieck!” + + It was at this moment that the idea came to him which he + afterwards imparted at Timothy’s in this nutshell: “I shouldn’t + wonder a bit if that architect chap were sweet upon Mrs. Soames!” + + And from this moment his pale, round eyes never ceased to bulge + with the interest of his discovery. + + “The fellow,” he said to Mrs. Septimus, “follows her about with + his eyes like a dog—the bumpy beggar! I don’t wonder at it—she’s + a very charming woman, and, I should say, the pink of + discretion!” A vague consciousness of perfume caging about Irene, + like that from a flower with half-closed petals and a passionate + heart, moved him to the creation of this image. “But I wasn’t + sure of it,” he said, “till I saw him pick up her handkerchief.” + + Mrs. Small’s eyes boiled with excitement. + + “And did he give it her back?” she asked. + + “Give it back?” said Swithin: “I saw him slobber on it when he + thought I wasn’t looking!” + + Mrs. Small gasped—too interested to speak. + + “But _she_ gave him no encouragement,” went on Swithin; he + stopped, and stared for a minute or two in the way that alarmed + Aunt Hester so—he had suddenly recollected that, as they were + starting back in the phaeton, she had given Bosinney her hand a + second time, and let it stay there too.... He had touched his + horses smartly with the whip, anxious to get her all to himself. + But she had looked back, and she had not answered his first + question; neither had he been able to see her face—she had kept + it hanging down. + + There is somewhere a picture, which Swithin has not seen, of a + man sitting on a rock, and by him, immersed in the still, green + water, a sea-nymph lying on her back, with her hand on her naked + breast. She has a half-smile on her face—a smile of hopeless + surrender and of secret joy. + + Seated by Swithin’s side, Irene may have been smiling like that. + + When, warmed by champagne, he had her all to himself, he + unbosomed himself of his wrongs; of his smothered resentment + against the new chef at the club; his worry over the house in + Wigmore Street, where the rascally tenant had gone bankrupt + through helping his brother-in-law as if charity did not begin at + home; of his deafness, too, and that pain he sometimes got in his + right side. She listened, her eyes swimming under their lids. He + thought she was thinking deeply of his troubles, and pitied + himself terribly. Yet in his fur coat, with frogs across the + breast, his top hat aslant, driving this beautiful woman, he had + never felt more distinguished. + + A coster, however, taking his girl for a Sunday airing, seemed to + have the same impression about himself. This person had flogged + his donkey into a gallop alongside, and sat, upright as a + waxwork, in his shallopy chariot, his chin settled pompously on a + red handkerchief, like Swithin’s on his full cravat; while his + girl, with the ends of a fly-blown boa floating out behind, aped + a woman of fashion. Her swain moved a stick with a ragged bit of + string dangling from the end, reproducing with strange fidelity + the circular flourish of Swithin’s whip, and rolled his head at + his lady with a leer that had a weird likeness to Swithin’s + primeval stare. + + Though for a time unconscious of the lowly ruffian’s presence, + Swithin presently took it into his head that he was being guyed. + He laid his whip-lash across the mares flank. The two chariots, + however, by some unfortunate fatality continued abreast. + Swithin’s yellow, puffy face grew red; he raised his whip to lash + the costermonger, but was saved from so far forgetting his + dignity by a special intervention of Providence. A carriage + driving out through a gate forced phaeton and donkey-cart into + proximity; the wheels grated, the lighter vehicle skidded, and + was overturned. + + Swithin did not look round. On no account would he have pulled up + to help the ruffian. Serve him right if he had broken his neck! + + But he could not if he would. The greys had taken alarm. The + phaeton swung from side to side, and people raised frightened + faces as they went dashing past. Swithin’s great arms, stretched + at full length, tugged at the reins. His cheeks were puffed, his + lips compressed, his swollen face was of a dull, angry red. + + Irene had her hand on the rail, and at every lurch she gripped it + tightly. Swithin heard her ask: + + “Are we going to have an accident, Uncle Swithin?” + + He gasped out between his pants: “It’s nothing; a—little fresh!” + + “I’ve never been in an accident.” + + “Don’t you move!” He took a look at her. She was smiling, + perfectly calm. “Sit still,” he repeated. “Never fear, I’ll get + you home!” + + And in the midst of all his terrible efforts, he was surprised to + hear her answer in a voice not like her own: + + _“I don’t care if I never get home!”_ + + The carriage giving a terrific lurch, Swithin’s exclamation was + jerked back into his throat. The horses, winded by the rise of a + hill, now steadied to a trot, and finally stopped of their own + accord. + + “When”—Swithin described it at Timothy’s—“I pulled ’em up, there + she was as cool as myself. God bless my soul! she behaved as if + she didn’t care whether she broke her neck or not! What was it + she said: ‘I don’t care if I never get home?’ Leaning over the + handle of his cane, he wheezed out, to Mrs. Small’s terror: “And + I’m not altogether surprised, with a finickin’ feller like young + Soames for a husband!” + + It did not occur to him to wonder what Bosinney had done after + they had left him there alone; whether he had gone wandering + about like the dog to which Swithin had compared him; wandering + down to that copse where the spring was still in riot, the cuckoo + still calling from afar; gone down there with her handkerchief + pressed to lips, its fragrance mingling with the scent of mint + and thyme. Gone down there with such a wild, exquisite pain in + his heart that he could have cried out among the trees. Or what, + indeed, the fellow had done. In fact, till he came to Timothy’s, + Swithin had forgotten all about him. + + + + + CHAPTER IV JAMES GOES TO SEE FOR HIMSELF + + Those ignorant of Forsyte ’Change would not, perhaps, foresee all + the stir made by Irene’s visit to the house. + + After Swithin had related at Timothy’s the full story of his + memorable drive, the same, with the least suspicion of curiosity, + the merest touch of malice, and a real desire to do good, was + passed on to June. + + “And what a _dreadful_ thing to say, my dear!” ended Aunt Juley; + “that about not going home. What did she mean?” + + It was a strange recital for the girl. She heard it flushing + painfully, and, suddenly, with a curt handshake, took her + departure. + + “Almost rude!” Mrs. Small said to Aunt Hester, when June was + gone. + + The proper construction was put on her reception of the news. She + was upset. Something was therefore very wrong. Odd! She and Irene + had been such friends! + + It all tallied too well with whispers and hints that had been + going about for some time past. Recollections of Euphemia’s + account of the visit to the theatre—Mr. Bosinney always at + Soames’s? Oh, indeed! Yes, of course, he _would_ be—about the + house! Nothing open. Only upon the greatest, the most important + provocation was it necessary to say anything open on Forsyte + ’Change. This machine was too nicely adjusted; a hint, the merest + trifling expression of regret or doubt, sufficed to set the + family soul so sympathetic—vibrating. No one desired that harm + should come of these vibrations—far from it; they were set in + motion with the best intentions, with the feeling that each + member of the family had a stake in the family soul. + + And much kindness lay at the bottom of the gossip; it would + frequently result in visits of condolence being made, in + accordance with the customs of Society, thereby conferring a real + benefit upon the sufferers, and affording consolation to the + sound, who felt pleasantly that someone at all events was + suffering from that from which they themselves were not + suffering. In fact, it was simply a desire to keep things + well-aired, the desire which animates the Public Press, that + brought James, for instance, into communication with Mrs. + Septimus, Mrs. Septimus, with the little Nicholases, the little + Nicholases with who-knows-whom, and so on. That great class to + which they had risen, and now belonged, demanded a certain + candour, a still more certain reticence. This combination + guaranteed their membership. + + Many of the younger Forsytes felt, very naturally, and would + openly declare, that they did not want their affairs pried into; + but so powerful was the invisible, magnetic current of family + gossip, that for the life of them they could not help knowing all + about everything. It was felt to be hopeless. + + One of them (young Roger) had made an heroic attempt to free the + rising generation, by speaking of Timothy as an “old cat.” The + effort had justly recoiled upon himself; the words, coming round + in the most delicate way to Aunt Juley’s ears, were repeated by + her in a shocked voice to Mrs. Roger, whence they returned again + to young Roger. + + And, after all, it was only the wrong-doers who suffered; as, for + instance, George, when he lost all that money playing billiards; + or young Roger himself, when he was so dreadfully near to + marrying the girl to whom, it was whispered, he was already + married by the laws of Nature; or again Irene, who was thought, + rather than said, to be in danger. + + All this was not only pleasant but salutary. And it made so many + hours go lightly at Timothy’s in the Bayswater Road; so many + hours that must otherwise have been sterile and heavy to those + three who lived there; and Timothy’s was but one of hundreds of + such homes in this City of London—the homes of neutral persons of + the secure classes, who are out of the battle themselves, and + must find their reason for existing, in the battles of others. + + But for the sweetness of family gossip, it must indeed have been + lonely there. Rumours and tales, reports, surmises—were they not + the children of the house, as dear and precious as the prattling + babes the brother and sisters had missed in their own journey? To + talk about them was as near as they could get to the possession + of all those children and grandchildren, after whom their soft + hearts yearned. For though it is doubtful whether Timothy’s heart + yearned, it is indubitable that at the arrival of each fresh + Forsyte child he was quite upset. + + Useless for young Roger to say, “Old cat!” for Euphemia to hold + up her hands and cry: “Oh! those three!” and break into her + silent laugh with the squeak at the end. Useless, and not too + kind. + + The situation which at this stage might seem, and especially to + Forsyte eyes, strange—not to say “impossible”—was, in view of + certain facts, not so strange after all. + + Some things had been lost sight of. + + And first, in the security bred of many harmless marriages, it + had been forgotten that Love is no hot-house flower, but a wild + plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine; sprung + from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind. A wild plant + that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, + we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, + flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always, wild! + + And further—the facts and figures of their own lives being + against the perception of this truth—it was not generally + recognised by Forsytes that, where this wild plant springs, men + and women are but moths around the pale, flame-like blossom. + + It was long since young Jolyon’s escapade—there was danger of a + tradition again arising that people in their position never cross + the hedge to pluck that flower; that one could reckon on having + love, like measles, once in due season, and getting over it + comfortably for all time—as with measles, on a soothing mixture + of butter and honey—in the arms of wedlock. + + Of all those whom this strange rumour about Bosinney and Mrs. + Soames reached, James was the most affected. He had long + forgotten how he had hovered, lanky and pale, in side whiskers of + chestnut hue, round Emily, in the days of his own courtship. He + had long forgotten the small house in the purlieus of Mayfair, + where he had spent the early days of his married life, or rather, + he had long forgotten the early days, not the small house,—a + Forsyte never forgot a house—he had afterwards sold it at a clear + profit of four hundred pounds. + + He had long forgotten those days, with their hopes and fears and + doubts about the prudence of the match (for Emily, though pretty, + had nothing, and he himself at that time was making a bare + thousand a year), and that strange, irresistible attraction which + had drawn him on, till he felt he must die if he could not marry + the girl with the fair hair, looped so neatly back, the fair arms + emerging from a skin-tight bodice, the fair form decorously + shielded by a cage of really stupendous circumference. + + James had passed through the fire, but he had passed also through + the river of years which washes out the fire; he had experienced + the saddest experience of all—forgetfulness of what it was like + to be in love. + + Forgotten! Forgotten so long, that he had forgotten even that he + had forgotten. + + And now this rumour had come upon him, this rumour about his + son’s wife; very vague, a shadow dodging among the palpable, + straightforward appearances of things, unreal, unintelligible as + a ghost, but carrying with it, like a ghost, inexplicable terror. + + He tried to bring it home to his mind, but it was no more use + than trying to apply to himself one of those tragedies he read of + daily in his evening paper. He simply could not. There could be + nothing in it. It was all their nonsense. She didn’t get on with + Soames as well as she might, but she was a good little thing—a + good little thing! + + Like the not inconsiderable majority of men, James relished a + nice little bit of scandal, and would say, in a matter-of-fact + tone, licking his lips, “Yes, yes—she and young Dyson; they tell + me they’re living at Monte Carlo!” + + But the significance of an affair of this sort—of its past, its + present, or its future—had never struck him. What it meant, what + torture and raptures had gone to its construction, what slow, + overmastering fate had lurked within the facts, very naked, + sometimes sordid, but generally spicy, presented to his gaze. He + was not in the habit of blaming, praising, drawing deductions, or + generalizing at all about such things; he simply listened rather + greedily, and repeated what he was told, finding considerable + benefit from the practice, as from the consumption of a sherry + and bitters before a meal. + + Now, however, that such a thing—or rather the rumour, the breath + of it—had come near him personally, he felt as in a fog, which + filled his mouth full of a bad, thick flavour, and made it + difficult to draw breath. + + A scandal! A possible scandal! + + To repeat this word to himself thus was the only way in which he + could focus or make it thinkable. He had forgotten the sensations + necessary for understanding the progress, fate, or meaning of any + such business; he simply could no longer grasp the possibilities + of people running any risk for the sake of passion. + + Amongst all those persons of his acquaintance, who went into the + City day after day and did their business there, whatever it was, + and in their leisure moments bought shares, and houses, and ate + dinners, and played games, as he was told, it would have seemed + to him ridiculous to suppose that there were any who would run + risks for the sake of anything so recondite, so figurative, as + passion. + + Passion! He seemed, indeed, to have heard of it, and rules such + as “A young man and a young woman ought never to be trusted + together” were fixed in his mind as the parallels of latitude are + fixed on a map (for all Forsytes, when it comes to “bed-rock” + matters of fact, have quite a fine taste in realism); but as to + anything else—well, he could only appreciate it at all through + the catch-word “scandal.” + + Ah! but there was no truth in it—could not be. He was not afraid; + she was really a good little thing. But there it was when you got + a thing like that into your mind. And James was of a nervous + temperament—one of those men whom things will not leave alone, + who suffer tortures from anticipation and indecision. For fear of + letting something slip that he might otherwise secure, he was + physically unable to make up his mind until absolutely certain + that, by not making it up, he would suffer loss. + + In life, however, there were many occasions when the business of + making up his mind did not even rest with himself, and this was + one of them. + + What could he do? Talk it over with Soames? That would only make + matters worse. And, after all, there was nothing in it, he felt + sure. + + It was all that house. He had mistrusted the idea from the first. + What did Soames want to go into the country for? And, if he must + go spending a lot of money building himself a house, why not have + a first-rate man, instead of this young Bosinney, whom nobody + knew anything about? He had told them how it would be. And he had + heard that the house was costing Soames a pretty penny beyond + what he had reckoned on spending. + + This fact, more than any other, brought home to James the real + danger of the situation. It was always like this with these + “artistic” chaps; a sensible man should have nothing to say to + them. He had warned Irene, too. And see what had come of it! + + And it suddenly sprang into James’s mind that he ought to go and + see for himself. In the midst of that fog of uneasiness in which + his mind was enveloped the notion that he could go and look at + the house afforded him inexplicable satisfaction. It may have + been simply the decision to do something—more possibly the fact + that he was going to look at a house—that gave him relief. He + felt that in staring at an edifice of bricks and mortar, of wood + and stone, built by the suspected man himself, he would be + looking into the heart of that rumour about Irene. + + Without saying a word, therefore, to anyone, he took a hansom to + the station and proceeded by train to Robin Hill; thence—there + being no “flies,” in accordance with the custom of the + neighbourhood—he found himself obliged to walk. + + He started slowly up the hill, his angular knees and high + shoulders bent complainingly, his eyes fixed on his feet, yet, + neat for all that, in his high hat and his frock-coat, on which + was the speckless gloss imparted by perfect superintendence. + Emily saw to that; that is, she did not, of course, see to + it—people of good position not seeing to each other’s buttons, + and Emily was of good position—but she saw that the butler saw to + it. + + He had to ask his way three times; on each occasion he repeated + the directions given him, got the man to repeat them, then + repeated them a second time, for he was naturally of a talkative + disposition, and one could not be too careful in a new + neighbourhood. + + He kept assuring them that it was a new house he was looking for; + it was only, however, when he was shown the roof through the + trees that he could feel really satisfied that he had not been + directed entirely wrong. + + A heavy sky seemed to cover the world with the grey whiteness of + a whitewashed ceiling. There was no freshness or fragrance in the + air. On such a day even British workmen scarcely cared to do more + then they were obliged, and moved about their business without + the drone of talk which whiles away the pangs of labour. + + Through spaces of the unfinished house, shirt-sleeved figures + worked slowly, and sounds arose—spasmodic knockings, the scraping + of metal, the sawing of wood, with the rumble of wheelbarrows + along boards; now and again the foreman’s dog, tethered by a + string to an oaken beam, whimpered feebly, with a sound like the + singing of a kettle. + + The fresh-fitted window-panes, daubed each with a white patch in + the centre, stared out at James like the eyes of a blind dog. + + And the building chorus went on, strident and mirthless under the + grey-white sky. But the thrushes, hunting amongst the + fresh-turned earth for worms, were silent quite. + + James picked his way among the heaps of gravel—the drive was + being laid—till he came opposite the porch. Here he stopped and + raised his eyes. There was but little to see from this point of + view, and that little he took in at once; but he stayed in this + position many minutes, and who shall know of what he thought. + + His china-blue eyes under white eyebrows that jutted out in + little horns, never stirred; the long upper lip of his wide + mouth, between the fine white whiskers, twitched once or twice; + it was easy to see from that anxious rapt expression, whence + Soames derived the handicapped look which sometimes came upon his + face. James might have been saying to himself: “I don’t + know—life’s a tough job.” + + In this position Bosinney surprised him. + + James brought his eyes down from whatever bird’s-nest they had + been looking for in the sky to Bosinney’s face, on which was a + kind of humorous scorn. + + “How do you do, Mr. Forsyte? Come down to see for yourself?” + + It was exactly what James, as we know, had come for, and he was + made correspondingly uneasy. He held out his hand, however, + saying: + + “How are you?” without looking at Bosinney. + + The latter made way for him with an ironical smile. + + James scented something suspicious in this courtesy. “I should + like to walk round the outside first,” he said, “and see what + you’ve been doing!” + + A flagged terrace of rounded stones with a list of two or three + inches to port had been laid round the south-east and south-west + sides of the house, and ran with a bevelled edge into mould, + which was in preparation for being turfed; along this terrace + James led the way. + + “Now what did _this_ cost?” he asked, when he saw the terrace + extending round the corner. + + “What should you think?” inquired Bosinney. + + “How should I know?” replied James somewhat nonplussed; “two or + three hundred, I dare say!” + + “The exact sum!” + + James gave him a sharp look, but the architect appeared + unconscious, and he put the answer down to mishearing. + + On arriving at the garden entrance, he stopped to look at the + view. + + “That ought to come down,” he said, pointing to the oak-tree. + + “You think so? You think that with the tree there you don’t get + enough view for your money.” + + Again James eyed him suspiciously—this young man had a peculiar + way of putting things: “Well!” he said, with a perplexed, + nervous, emphasis, “I don’t see what you want with a tree.” + + “It shall come down to-morrow,” said Bosinney. + + James was alarmed. “Oh,” he said, “don’t go saying I said it was + to come down! _I_ know nothing about it!” + + “No?” + + James went on in a fluster: “Why, what should I know about it? + It’s nothing to do with me! You do it on your own + responsibility.” + + “You’ll allow me to mention your name?” + + James grew more and more alarmed: “I don’t know what you want + mentioning my name for,” he muttered; “you’d better leave the + tree alone. It’s not your tree!” + + He took out a silk handkerchief and wiped his brow. They entered + the house. Like Swithin, James was impressed by the inner + court-yard. + + “You must have spent a deuce of a lot of money here,” he said, + after staring at the columns and gallery for some time. “Now, + what did it cost to put up those columns?” + + “I can’t tell you off-hand,” thoughtfully answered Bosinney, “but + I know it was a deuce of a lot!” + + “I should think so,” said James. “I should....” He caught the + architect’s eye, and broke off. And now, whenever he came to + anything of which he desired to know the cost, he stifled that + curiosity. + + Bosinney appeared determined that he should see everything, and + had not James been of too “noticing” a nature, he would certainly + have found himself going round the house a second time. He seemed + so anxious to be asked questions, too, that James felt he must be + on his guard. He began to suffer from his exertions, for, though + wiry enough for a man of his long build, he was seventy-five + years old. + + He grew discouraged; he seemed no nearer to anything, had not + obtained from his inspection any of the knowledge he had vaguely + hoped for. He had merely increased his dislike and mistrust of + this young man, who had tired him out with his politeness, and in + whose manner he now certainly detected mockery. + + The fellow was sharper than he had thought, and better-looking + than he had hoped. He had a—a “don’t care” appearance that James, + to whom risk was the most intolerable thing in life, did not + appreciate; a peculiar smile, too, coming when least expected; + and very queer eyes. He reminded James, as he said afterwards, of + a hungry cat. This was as near as he could get, in conversation + with Emily, to a description of the peculiar exasperation, + velvetiness, and mockery, of which Bosinney’s manner had been + composed. + + At last, having seen all that was to be seen, he came out again + at the door where he had gone in; and now, feeling that he was + wasting time and strength and money, all for nothing, he took the + courage of a Forsyte in both hands, and, looking sharply at + Bosinney, said: + + “I dare say you see a good deal of my daughter-in-law; now, what + does _she_ think of the house? But she hasn’t seen it, I + suppose?” + + This he said, knowing all about Irene’s visit not, of course, + that there was anything in the visit, except that extraordinary + remark she had made about “not caring to get home”—and the story + of how June had taken the news! + + He had determined, by this way of putting the question, to give + Bosinney a chance, as he said to himself. + + The latter was long in answering, but kept his eyes with + uncomfortable steadiness on James. + + “She _has_ seen the house, but I can’t tell you what she thinks + of it.” + + Nervous and baffled, James was constitutionally prevented from + letting the matter drop. + + “Oh!” he said, “she has seen it? Soames brought her down, I + suppose?” + + Bosinney smilingly replied: “Oh, no!” + + “What, did she come down alone?” + + “Oh, no!” + + “Then—who brought her?” + + “I really don’t know whether I ought to tell you who brought + her.” + + To James, who knew that it was Swithin, this answer appeared + incomprehensible. + + “Why!” he stammered, “you know that....” but he stopped, suddenly + perceiving his danger. + + “Well,” he said, “if you don’t want to tell me I suppose you + won’t! Nobody tells me anything.” + + Somewhat to his surprise Bosinney asked him a question. + + “By the by,” he said, “could you tell me if there are likely to + be any more of you coming down? I should like to be on the spot!” + + “Any more?” said James bewildered, “who should there be more? I + don’t know of any more. Good-bye.” + + Looking at the ground he held out his hand, crossed the palm of + it with Bosinney’s, and taking his umbrella just above the silk, + walked away along the terrace. + + Before he turned the corner he glanced back, and saw Bosinney + following him slowly—“slinking along the wall” as he put it to + himself, “like a great cat.” He paid no attention when the young + fellow raised his hat. + + Outside the drive, and out of sight, he slackened his pace still + more. Very slowly, more bent than when he came, lean, hungry, and + disheartened, he made his way back to the station. + + The Buccaneer, watching him go so sadly home, felt sorry perhaps + for his behaviour to the old man. + + + + + CHAPTER V SOAMES AND BOSINNEY CORRESPOND + + James said nothing to his son of this visit to the house; but, + having occasion to go to Timothy’s one morning on a matter + connected with a drainage scheme which was being forced by the + sanitary authorities on his brother, he mentioned it there. + + It was not, he said, a bad house. He could see that a good deal + could be made of it. The fellow was clever in his way, though + what it was going to cost Soames before it was done with he + didn’t know. + + Euphemia Forsyte, who happened to be in the room—she had come + round to borrow the Rev. Mr. Scoles’ last novel, “Passion and + Paregoric”, which was having such a vogue—chimed in. + + “I saw Irene yesterday at the Stores; she and Mr. Bosinney were + having a nice little chat in the Groceries.” + + It was thus, simply, that she recorded a scene which had really + made a deep and complicated impression on her. She had been + hurrying to the silk department of the Church and Commercial + Stores—that Institution than which, with its admirable system, + admitting only guaranteed persons on a basis of payment before + delivery, no emporium can be more highly recommended to + Forsytes—to match a piece of prunella silk for her mother, who + was waiting in the carriage outside. + + Passing through the Groceries her eye was unpleasantly attracted + by the back view of a very beautiful figure. It was so charmingly + proportioned, so balanced, and so well clothed, that Euphemia’s + instinctive propriety was at once alarmed; such figures, she + knew, by intuition rather than experience, were rarely connected + with virtue—certainly never in her mind, for her own back was + somewhat difficult to fit. + + Her suspicions were fortunately confirmed. A young man coming + from the Drugs had snatched off his hat, and was accosting the + lady with the unknown back. + + It was then that she saw with whom she had to deal; the lady was + undoubtedly Mrs. Soames, the young man Mr. Bosinney. Concealing + herself rapidly over the purchase of a box of Tunisian dates, for + she was impatient of awkwardly meeting people with parcels in her + hands, and at the busy time of the morning, she was quite + unintentionally an interested observer of their little interview. + + Mrs. Soames, usually somewhat pale, had a delightful colour in + her cheeks; and Mr. Bosinney’s manner was strange, though + attractive (she thought him rather a distinguished-looking man, + and George’s name for him, “The Buccaneer”—about which there was + something romantic—quite charming). He seemed to be pleading. + Indeed, they talked so earnestly—or, rather, he talked so + earnestly, for Mrs. Soames did not say much—that they caused, + inconsiderately, an eddy in the traffic. One nice old General, + going towards Cigars, was obliged to step quite out of the way, + and chancing to look up and see Mrs. Soames’s face, he actually + took off his hat, the old fool! So like a man! + + But it was Mrs. Soames’ eyes that worried Euphemia. She never + once looked at Mr. Bosinney until he moved on, and then she + looked after him. And, oh, that look! + + On that look Euphemia had spent much anxious thought. It is not + too much to say that it had hurt her with its dark, lingering + softness, for all the world as though the woman wanted to drag + him back, and unsay something she had been saying. + + Ah, well, she had had no time to go deeply into the matter just + then, with that prunella silk on her hands; but she was “very + _intriguée_”—very! She had just nodded to Mrs. Soames, to show + her that she had seen; and, as she confided, in talking it over + afterwards, to her chum Francie (Roger’s daughter), “Didn’t she + look caught out just?...” + + James, most averse at the first blush to accepting any news + confirmatory of his own poignant suspicions, took her up at once. + + “Oh” he said, “they’d be after wall-papers no doubt.” + + Euphemia smiled. “In the Groceries?” she said softly; and, taking + “Passion and Paregoric” from the table, added: “And so you’ll + lend me this, dear Auntie? Good-bye!” and went away. + + James left almost immediately after; he was late as it was. + + When he reached the office of Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte, he + found Soames, sitting in his revolving, chair, drawing up a + defence. The latter greeted his father with a curt good-morning, + and, taking an envelope from his pocket, said: + + “It may interest you to look through this.” + + James read as follows: + + “309D, SLOANE STREET, + “_May_ 15, + + “DEAR FORSYTE, + “The construction of your house being now completed, my + duties as architect have come to an end. If I am to go on + with the business of decoration, which at your request I + undertook, I should like you to clearly understand that I + must have a free hand. + “You never come down without suggesting something that goes + counter to my scheme. I have here three letters from you, + each of which recommends an article I should never dream of + putting in. I had your father here yesterday afternoon, who + made further valuable suggestions. + “Please make up your mind, therefore, whether you want me to + decorate for you, or to retire which on the whole I should + prefer to do. + “But understand that, if I decorate, I decorate alone, + without interference of any sort. + “If I do the thing, I will do it thoroughly, but I must have + a free hand. + + “Yours truly, + “PHILIP BOSINNEY.” + + The exact and immediate cause of this letter cannot, of course, + be told, though it is not improbable that Bosinney may have been + moved by some sudden revolt against his position towards + Soames—that eternal position of Art towards Property—which is so + admirably summed up, on the back of the most indispensable of + modern appliances, in a sentence comparable to the very finest in + Tacitus: + + THOS. T. SORROW, + Inventor. + + BERT M. PADLAND, + Proprietor. + + “What are you going to say to him?” James asked. + + Soames did not even turn his head. “I haven’t made up my mind,” + he said, and went on with his defence. + + A client of his, having put some buildings on a piece of ground + that did not belong to him, had been suddenly and most + irritatingly warned to take them off again. After carefully going + into the facts, however, Soames had seen his way to advise that + his client had what was known as a title by possession, and that, + though undoubtedly the ground did not belong to him, he was + entitled to keep it, and had better do so; and he was now + following up this advice by taking steps to—as the sailors + say—“make it so.” + + He had a distinct reputation for sound advice; people saying of + him: “Go to young Forsyte—a long-headed fellow!” and he prized + this reputation highly. + + His natural taciturnity was in his favour; nothing could be more + calculated to give people, especially people with property + (Soames had no other clients), the impression that he was a safe + man. And he was safe. Tradition, habit, education, inherited + aptitude, native caution, all joined to form a solid professional + honesty, superior to temptation—from the very fact that it was + built on an innate avoidance of risk. How could he fall, when his + soul abhorred circumstances which render a fall possible—a man + cannot fall off the floor! + + And those countless Forsytes, who, in the course of innumerable + transactions concerned with property of all sorts (from wives to + water rights), had occasion for the services of a safe man, found + it both reposeful and profitable to confide in Soames. That + slight superciliousness of his, combined with an air of mousing + amongst precedents, was in his favour too—a man would not be + supercilious unless he knew! + + He was really at the head of the business, for though James still + came nearly every day to, see for himself, he did little now but + sit in his chair, twist his legs, slightly confuse things already + decided, and presently go away again, and the other partner, + Bustard, was a poor thing, who did a great deal of work, but + whose opinion was never taken. + + So Soames went steadily on with his defence. Yet it would be idle + to say that his mind was at ease. He was suffering from a sense + of impending trouble, that had haunted him for some time past. He + tried to think it physical—a condition of his liver—but knew that + it was not. + + He looked at his watch. In a quarter of an hour he was due at the + General Meeting of the New Colliery Company—one of Uncle Jolyon’s + concerns; he should see Uncle Jolyon there, and say something to + him about Bosinney—he had not made up his mind what, but + something—in any case he should not answer this letter until he + had seen Uncle Jolyon. He got up and methodically put away the + draft of his defence. Going into a dark little cupboard, he + turned up the light, washed his hands with a piece of brown + Windsor soap, and dried them on a roller towel. Then he brushed + his hair, paying strict attention to the parting, turned down the + light, took his hat, and saying he would be back at half-past + two, stepped into the Poultry. + + It was not far to the Offices of the New Colliery Company in + Ironmonger Lane, where, and not at the Cannon Street Hotel, in + accordance with the more ambitious practice of other companies, + the General Meeting was always held. Old Jolyon had from the + first set his face against the Press. What business—he said—had + the Public with his concerns! + + Soames arrived on the stroke of time, and took his seat alongside + the Board, who, in a row, each Director behind his own ink-pot, + faced their Shareholders. + + In the centre of this row old Jolyon, conspicuous in his black, + tightly-buttoned frock-coat and his white moustaches, was leaning + back with finger tips crossed on a copy of the Directors’ report + and accounts. + + On his right hand, always a little larger than life, sat the + Secretary, “Down-by-the-starn” Hemmings; an all-too-sad sadness + beaming in his fine eyes; his iron-grey beard, in mourning like + the rest of him, giving the feeling of an all-too-black tie + behind it. + + The occasion indeed was a melancholy one, only six weeks having + elapsed since that telegram had come from Scorrier, the mining + expert, on a private mission to the Mines, informing them that + Pippin, their Superintendent, had committed suicide in + endeavouring, after his extraordinary two years’ silence, to + write a letter to his Board. That letter was on the table now; it + would be read to the Shareholders, who would of course be put + into possession of all the facts. + + Hemmings had often said to Soames, standing with his coat-tails + divided before the fireplace: + + “What our Shareholders don’t know about our affairs isn’t worth + knowing. You may take that from me, Mr. Soames.” + + On one occasion, old Jolyon being present, Soames recollected a + little unpleasantness. His uncle had looked up sharply and said: + “Don’t talk nonsense, Hemmings! You mean that what they _do_ know + isn’t worth knowing!” Old Jolyon detested humbug. + + Hemmings, angry-eyed, and wearing a smile like that of a trained + poodle, had replied in an outburst of artificial applause: “Come, + now, that’s good, sir—that’s very good. Your uncle _will_ have + his joke!” + + The next time he had seen Soames he had taken the opportunity of + saying to him: “The chairman’s getting very old!—I can’t get him + to understand things; and he’s so wilful—but what can you expect, + with a chin like his?” + + Soames had nodded. + + Everyone knew that Uncle Jolyon’s chin was a caution. He was + looking worried to-day, in spite of his General Meeting look; he + (Soames) should certainly speak to him about Bosinney. + + Beyond old Jolyon on the left was little Mr. Booker, and he, too, + wore his General Meeting look, as though searching for some + particularly tender shareholder. And next him was the deaf + director, with a frown; and beyond the deaf director, again, was + old Mr. Bleedham, very bland, and having an air of conscious + virtue—as well he might, knowing that the brown-paper parcel he + always brought to the Board-room was concealed behind his hat + (one of that old-fashioned class, of flat-brimmed top-hats which + go with very large bow ties, clean-shaven lips, fresh cheeks, and + neat little, white whiskers). + + Soames always attended the General Meeting; it was considered + better that he should do so, in case “anything should arise!” He + glanced round with his close, supercilious air at the walls of + the room, where hung plans of the mine and harbour, together with + a large photograph of a shaft leading to a working which had + proved quite remarkably unprofitable. This photograph—a witness + to the eternal irony underlying commercial enterprise—still + retained its position on the wall, an effigy of the directors’ + pet, but dead, lamb. + + And now old Jolyon rose, to present the report and accounts. + + Veiling under a Jove-like serenity that perpetual antagonism + deep-seated in the bosom of a director towards his shareholders, + he faced them calmly. Soames faced them too. He knew most of them + by sight. There was old Scrubsole, a tar man, who always came, as + Hemmings would say, “to make himself nasty,” a + cantankerous-looking old fellow with a red face, a jowl, and an + enormous low-crowned hat reposing on his knee. And the Rev. Mr. + Boms, who always proposed a vote of thanks to the chairman, in + which he invariably expressed the hope that the Board would not + forget to elevate their employees, using the word with a double + e, as being more vigorous and Anglo-Saxon (he had the strong + Imperialistic tendencies of his cloth). It was his salutary + custom to buttonhole a director afterwards, and ask him whether + he thought the coming year would be good or bad; and, according + to the trend of the answer, to buy or sell three shares within + the ensuing fortnight. + + And there was that military man, Major O’Bally, who could not + help speaking, if only to second the re-election of the auditor, + and who sometimes caused serious consternation by taking + toasts—proposals rather—out of the hands of persons who had been + flattered with little slips of paper, entrusting the said + proposals to their care. + + These made up the lot, together with four or five strong, silent + shareholders, with whom Soames could sympathize—men of business, + who liked to keep an eye on their affairs for themselves, without + being fussy—good, solid men, who came to the City every day and + went back in the evening to good, solid wives. + + Good, solid wives! There was something in that thought which + roused the nameless uneasiness in Soames again. + + What should he say to his uncle? What answer should he make to + this letter? + + . . . . “If any shareholder has any question to put, I shall be + glad to answer it.” A soft thump. Old Jolyon had let the report + and accounts fall, and stood twisting his tortoise-shell glasses + between thumb and forefinger. + + The ghost of a smile appeared on Soames’s face. They had better + hurry up with their questions! He well knew his uncle’s method + (the ideal one) of at once saying: “I propose, then, that the + report and accounts be adopted!” Never let them get their + wind—shareholders were notoriously wasteful of time! + + A tall, white-bearded man, with a gaunt, dissatisfied face, + arose: + + “I believe I am in order, Mr. Chairman, in raising a question on + this figure of £5000 in the accounts. ‘To the widow and family’” + (he looked sourly round), “‘of our late superintendent,’ who + so—er—ill-advisedly (I say—ill-advisedly) committed suicide, at a + time when his services were of the utmost value to this Company. + You have stated that the agreement which he has so unfortunately + cut short with his own hand was for a period of five years, of + which one only had expired—I—” + + Old Jolyon made a gesture of impatience. + + “I believe I am in order, Mr. Chairman—I ask whether this amount + paid, or proposed to be paid, by the Board to the er—deceased—is + for services which might have been rendered to the Company—had he + not committed suicide?” + + “It is in recognition of past services, which we all know—you as + well as any of us—to have been of vital value.” + + “Then, sir, all I have to say is that the services being past, + the amount is too much.” + + The shareholder sat down. + + Old Jolyon waited a second and said: “I now propose that the + report and—” + + The shareholder rose again: “May I ask if the Board realizes that + it is not their money which—I don’t hesitate to say that if it + were their money....” + + A second shareholder, with a round, dogged face, whom Soames + recognised as the late superintendent’s brother-in-law, got up + and said warmly: “In my opinion, sir, the sum is not enough!” + + The Rev. Mr. Boms now rose to his feet. “If I may venture to + express myself,” he said, “I should say that the fact of + the—er—deceased having committed suicide should weigh very + heavily—_very_ heavily with our worthy chairman. I have no doubt + it has weighed with him, for—I say this for myself and I think + for everyone present (hear, hear)—he enjoys our confidence in a + high degree. We all desire, I should hope, to be charitable. But + I feel sure” (he-looked severely at the late superintendent’s + brother-in-law) “that he will in some way, by some written + expression, or better perhaps by reducing the amount, record our + grave disapproval that so promising and valuable a life should + have been thus impiously removed from a sphere where both its own + interests and—if I may say so—our interests so imperatively + demanded its continuance. We should not—nay, we may + not—countenance so grave a dereliction of all duty, both human + and divine.” + + The reverend gentleman resumed his seat. The late + superintendent’s brother-in-law again rose: “What I have said I + stick to,” he said; “the amount is not enough!” + + The first shareholder struck in: “I challenge the legality of the + payment. In my opinion this payment is not legal. The Company’s + solicitor is present; I believe I am in order in asking him the + question.” + + All eyes were now turned upon Soames. Something had arisen! + + He stood up, close-lipped and cold; his nerves inwardly + fluttered, his attention tweaked away at last from contemplation + of that cloud looming on the horizon of his mind. + + “The point,” he said in a low, thin voice, “is by no means clear. + As there is no possibility of future consideration being + received, it is doubtful whether the payment is strictly legal. + If it is desired, the opinion of the court could be taken.” + + The superintendent’s brother-in-law frowned, and said in a + meaning tone: “We have no doubt the opinion of the court could be + taken. May I ask the name of the gentleman who has given us that + striking piece of information? Mr. Soames Forsyte? Indeed!” He + looked from Soames to old Jolyon in a pointed manner. + + A flush coloured Soames’s pale cheeks, but his superciliousness + did not waver. Old Jolyon fixed his eyes on the speaker. + + “If,” he said, “the late superintendents brother-in-law has + nothing more to say, I propose that the report and accounts....” + + At this moment, however, there rose one of those five silent, + stolid shareholders, who had excited Soames’s sympathy. He said: + + “I deprecate the proposal altogether. We are expected to give + charity to this man’s wife and children, who, you tell us, were + dependent on him. They may have been; I do not care whether they + were or not. I object to the whole thing on principle. It is high + time a stand was made against this sentimental humanitarianism. + The country is eaten up with it. I object to my money being paid + to these people of whom I know nothing, who have done nothing to + earn it. I object _in toto;_ it is not business. I now move that + the report and accounts be put back, and amended by striking out + the grant altogether.” + + Old Jolyon had remained standing while the strong, silent man was + speaking. The speech awoke an echo in all hearts, voicing, as it + did, the worship of strong men, the movement against generosity, + which had at that time already commenced among the saner members + of the community. + + The words “it is not business” had moved even the Board; + privately everyone felt that indeed it was not. But they knew + also the chairman’s domineering temper and tenacity. He, too, at + heart must feel that it was not business; but he was committed to + his own proposition. Would he go back upon it? It was thought to + be unlikely. + + All waited with interest. Old Jolyon held up his hand; + dark-rimmed glasses depending between his finger and thumb + quivered slightly with a suggestion of menace. + + He addressed the strong, silent shareholder. + + “Knowing, as you do, the efforts of our late superintendent upon + the occasion of the explosion at the mines, do you seriously wish + me to put that amendment, sir?” + + “I do.” + + Old Jolyon put the amendment. + + “Does anyone second this?” he asked, looking calmly round. + + And it was then that Soames, looking at his uncle, felt the power + of will that was in that old man. No one stirred. Looking + straight into the eyes of the strong, silent shareholder, old + Jolyon said: + + “I now move, ‘That the report and accounts for the year 1886 be + received and adopted.’ You second that? Those in favour signify + the same in the usual way. Contrary—no. Carried. The next + business, gentlemen....” + + Soames smiled. Certainly Uncle Jolyon had a way with him! + + But now his attention relapsed upon Bosinney. + + Odd how that fellow haunted his thoughts, even in business hours. + + Irene’s visit to the house—but there was nothing in that, except + that she might have told him; but then, again, she never did tell + him anything. She was more silent, more touchy, every day. He + wished to God the house were finished, and they were in it, away + from London. Town did not suit her; her nerves were not strong + enough. That nonsense of the separate room had cropped up again! + + The meeting was breaking up now. Underneath the photograph of the + lost shaft Hemmings was buttonholed by the Rev. Mr. Boms. Little + Mr. Booker, his bristling eyebrows wreathed in angry smiles, was + having a parting turn-up with old Scrubsole. The two hated each + other like poison. There was some matter of a tar-contract + between them, little Mr. Booker having secured it from the Board + for a nephew of his, over old Scrubsole’s head. Soames had heard + that from Hemmings, who liked a gossip, more especially about his + directors, except, indeed, old Jolyon, of whom he was afraid. + + Soames awaited his opportunity. The last shareholder was + vanishing through the door, when he approached his uncle, who was + putting on his hat. + + “Can I speak to you for a minute, Uncle Jolyon?” + + It is uncertain what Soames expected to get out of this + interview. + + Apart from that somewhat mysterious awe in which Forsytes in + general held old Jolyon, due to his philosophic twist, or + perhaps—as Hemmings would doubtless have said—to his chin, there + was, and always had been, a subtle antagonism between the younger + man and the old. It had lurked under their dry manner of + greeting, under their non-committal allusions to each other, and + arose perhaps from old Jolyon’s perception of the quiet tenacity + (“obstinacy,” he rather naturally called it) of the young man, of + a secret doubt whether he could get his own way with him. + + Both these Forsytes, wide asunder as the poles in many respects, + possessed in their different ways—to a greater degree than the + rest of the family—that essential quality of tenacious and + prudent insight into “affairs,” which is the highwater mark of + their great class. Either of them, with a little luck and + opportunity, was equal to a lofty career; either of them would + have made a good financier, a great contractor, a statesman, + though old Jolyon, in certain of his moods when under the + influence of a cigar or of Nature—would have been capable of, not + perhaps despising, but certainly of questioning, his own high + position, while Soames, who never smoked cigars, would not. + + Then, too, in old Jolyon’s mind there was always the secret ache, + that the son of James—of James, whom he had always thought such a + poor thing, should be pursuing the paths of success, while his + own son...! + + And last, not least—for he was no more outside the radiation of + family gossip than any other Forsyte—he had now heard the + sinister, indefinite, but none the less disturbing rumour about + Bosinney, and his pride was wounded to the quick. + + Characteristically, his irritation turned not against Irene but + against Soames. The idea that his nephew’s wife (why couldn’t the + fellow take better care of her—Oh! quaint injustice! as though + Soames could possibly take more care!)—should be drawing to + herself Jun’s lover, was intolerably humiliating. And seeing the + danger, he did not, like James, hide it away in sheer + nervousness, but owned with the dispassion of his broader + outlook, that it was not unlikely; there was something very + attractive about Irene! + + He had a presentiment on the subject of Soames’s communication as + they left the Board Room together, and went out into the noise + and hurry of Cheapside. They walked together a good minute + without speaking, Soames with his mousing, mincing step, and old + Jolyon upright and using his umbrella languidly as a + walking-stick. + + They turned presently into comparative quiet, for old Jolyon’s + way to a second Board led him in the direction of Moorage Street. + + Then Soames, without lifting his eyes, began: “I’ve had this + letter from Bosinney. You see what he says; I thought I’d let you + know. I’ve spent a lot more than I intended on this house, and I + want the position to be clear.” + + Old Jolyon ran his eyes unwillingly over the letter: “What he + says is clear enough,” he said. + + “He talks about ‘a free hand,’” replied Soames. + + Old Jolyon looked at him. The long-suppressed irritation and + antagonism towards this young fellow, whose affairs were + beginning to intrude upon his own, burst from him. + + “Well, if you don’t trust him, why do you employ him?” + + Soames stole a sideway look: “It’s much too late to go into + that,” he said, “I only want it to be quite understood that if I + give him a free hand, he doesn’t let me in. I thought if you were + to speak to him, it would carry more weight!” + + “No,” said old Jolyon abruptly; “I’ll have nothing to do with + it!” + + The words of both uncle and nephew gave the impression of + unspoken meanings, far more important, behind. And the look they + interchanged was like a revelation of this consciousness. + + “Well,” said Soames; “I thought, for Jun’s sake, I’d tell you, + that’s all; I thought you’d better know I shan’t stand any + nonsense!” + + “What is that to me?” old Jolyon took him up. + + “Oh! I don’t know,” said Soames, and flurried by that sharp look + he was unable to say more. “Don’t say I didn’t tell you,” he + added sulkily, recovering his composure. + + “Tell me!” said old Jolyon; “I don’t know what you mean. You come + worrying me about a thing like this. _I_ don’t want to hear about + your affairs; you must manage them yourself!” + + “Very well,” said Soames immovably, “I will!” + + “Good-morning, then,” said old Jolyon, and they parted. + + Soames retraced his steps, and going into a celebrated + eating-house, asked for a plate of smoked salmon and a glass of + Chablis; he seldom ate much in the middle of the day, and + generally ate standing, finding the position beneficial to his + liver, which was very sound, but to which he desired to put down + all his troubles. + + When he had finished he went slowly back to his office, with bent + head, taking no notice of the swarming thousands on the + pavements, who in their turn took no notice of him. + + The evening post carried the following reply to Bosinney: + + “FORSYTE, BUSTARD AND FORSYTE, + “Commissioners for Oaths, + “92001, BRANCH LANE, POULTRY, E.C., + “_May_ 17, 1887. + + “DEAR BOSINNEY, + “I have, received your letter, the terms of which not a + little surprise me. I was under the impression that you had, + and have had all along, a “free hand”; for I do not recollect + that any suggestions I have been so unfortunate as to make + have met with your approval. In giving you, in accordance + with your request, this “free hand,” I wish you to clearly + understand that the total cost of the house as handed over to + me completely decorated, inclusive of your fee (as arranged + between us), must not exceed twelve thousand pounds—£12,000. + This gives you an ample margin, and, as you know, is far more + than I originally contemplated. + + “I am, + “Yours truly, + “SOAMES FORSYTE.” + + On the following day he received a note from Bosinney: + + “PHILIP BAYNES BOSINNEY, + “Architect, + “309D, SLOANE STREET, S.W., + “_May_ 18. + + “DEAR FORSYTE, + “If you think that in such a delicate matter as decoration I + can bind myself to the exact pound, I am afraid you are + mistaken. I can see that you are tired of the arrangement, + and of me, and I had better, therefore, resign. + + “Yours faithfully, + “PHILIP BAYNES BOSINNEY.” + + Soames pondered long and painfully over his answer, and late at + night in the dining-room, when Irene had gone to bed, he composed + the following: + + “62, MONTPELLIER SQUARE, S.W., + “_May_ 19, 1887. + + “DEAR BOSINNEY, + “I think that in both our interests it would be extremely + undesirable that matters should be so left at this stage. I + did not mean to say that if you should exceed the sum named + in my letter to you by ten or twenty or even fifty pounds, + there would be any difficulty between us. This being so, I + should like you to reconsider your answer. You have a “free + hand” in the terms of this correspondence, and I hope you + will see your way to completing the decorations, in the + matter of which I know it is difficult to be absolutely + exact. + + “Yours truly, + “SOAMES FORSYTE.” + + Bosinney’s answer, which came in the course of the next day, was: + + “_May_ 20. + + “DEAR FORSYTE, + “Very well. + + “PH. BOSINNEY.” + + + + + CHAPTER VI OLD JOLYON AT THE ZOO + + Old Jolyon disposed of his second Meeting—an ordinary + Board—summarily. He was so dictatorial that his fellow directors + were left in cabal over the increasing domineeringness of old + Forsyte, which they were far from intending to stand much longer, + they said. + + He went out by Underground to Portland Road Station, whence he + took a cab and drove to the Zoo. + + He had an assignation there, one of those assignations that had + lately been growing more frequent, to which his increasing + uneasiness about June and the “change in her,” as he expressed + it, was driving him. + + She buried herself away, and was growing thin; if he spoke to her + he got no answer, or had his head snapped off, or she looked as + if she would burst into tears. She was as changed as she could + be, all through this Bosinney. As for telling him about anything, + not a bit of it! + + And he would sit for long spells brooding, his paper unread + before him, a cigar extinct between his lips. She had been such a + companion to him ever since she was three years old! And he loved + her so! + + Forces regardless of family or class or custom were beating down + his guard; impending events over which he had no control threw + their shadows on his head. The irritation of one accustomed to + have his way was roused against he knew not what. + + Chafing at the slowness of his cab, he reached the Zoo door; but, + with his sunny instinct for seizing the good of each moment, he + forgot his vexation as he walked towards the tryst. + + From the stone terrace above the bear-pit his son and his two + grandchildren came hastening down when they saw old Jolyon + coming, and led him away towards the lion-house. They supported + him on either side, holding one to each of his hands,—whilst + Jolly, perverse like his father, carried his grandfather’s + umbrella in such a way as to catch people’s legs with the crutch + of the handle. + + Young Jolyon followed. + + It was as good as a play to see his father with the children, but + such a play as brings smiles with tears behind. An old man and + two small children walking together can be seen at any hour of + the day; but the sight of old Jolyon, with Jolly and Holly seemed + to young Jolyon a special peep-show of the things that lie at the + bottom of our hearts. The complete surrender of that erect old + figure to those little figures on either hand was too poignantly + tender, and, being a man of an habitual reflex action, young + Jolyon swore softly under his breath. The show affected him in a + way unbecoming to a Forsyte, who is nothing if not + undemonstrative. + + Thus they reached the lion-house. + + There had been a morning fête at the Botanical Gardens, and a + large number of Forsy—that is, of well-dressed people who kept + carriages had brought them on to the Zoo, so as to have more, if + possible, for their money, before going back to Rutland Gate or + Bryanston Square. + + “Let’s go on to the Zoo,” they had said to each other; “it’ll be + great fun!” It was a shilling day; and there would not be all + those horrid common people. + + In front of the long line of cages they were collected in rows, + watching the tawny, ravenous beasts behind the bars await their + only pleasure of the four-and-twenty hours. The hungrier the + beast, the greater the fascination. But whether because the + spectators envied his appetite, or, more humanely, because it was + so soon to be satisfied, young Jolyon could not tell. Remarks + kept falling on his ears: “That’s a nasty-looking brute, that + tiger!” “Oh, what a love! Look at his little mouth!” “Yes, he’s + rather nice! Don’t go too near, mother.” + + And frequently, with little pats, one or another would clap their + hands to their pockets behind and look round, as though expecting + young Jolyon or some disinterested-looking person to relieve them + of the contents. + + A well-fed man in a white waistcoat said slowly through his + teeth: “It’s all greed; they can’t be hungry. Why, they take no + exercise.” At these words a tiger snatched a piece of bleeding + liver, and the fat man laughed. His wife, in a Paris model frock + and gold nose-nippers, reproved him: “How can you laugh, Harry? + Such a horrid sight!” + + Young Jolyon frowned. + + The circumstances of his life, though he had ceased to take a too + personal view of them, had left him subject to an intermittent + contempt; and the class to which he had belonged—the carriage + class—especially excited his sarcasm. + + To shut up a lion or tiger in confinement was surely a horrible + barbarity. But no cultivated person would admit this. + + The idea of its being barbarous to confine wild animals had + probably never even occurred to his father for instance; he + belonged to the old school, who considered it at once humanizing + and educational to confine baboons and panthers, holding the + view, no doubt, that in course of time they might induce these + creatures not so unreasonably to die of misery and heart-sickness + against the bars of their cages, and put the society to the + expense of getting others! In his eyes, as in the eyes of all + Forsytes, the pleasure of seeing these beautiful creatures in a + state of captivity far outweighed the inconvenience of + imprisonment to beasts whom God had so improvidently placed in a + state of freedom! It was for the animals’ good, removing them at + once from the countless dangers of open air and exercise, and + enabling them to exercise their functions in the guaranteed + seclusion of a private compartment! Indeed, it was doubtful what + wild animals were made for but to be shut up in cages! + + But as young Jolyon had in his constitution the elements of + impartiality, he reflected that to stigmatize as barbarity that + which was merely lack of imagination must be wrong; for none who + held these views had been placed in a similar position to the + animals they caged, and could not, therefore, be expected to + enter into their sensations. It was not until they were leaving + the gardens—Jolly and Holly in a state of blissful delirium—that + old Jolyon found an opportunity of speaking to his son on the + matter next his heart. “I don’t know what to make of it,” he + said; “if she’s to go on as she’s going on now, I can’t tell + what’s to come. I wanted her to see the doctor, but she won’t. + She’s not a bit like me. She’s your mother all over. Obstinate as + a mule! If she doesn’t want to do a thing, she won’t, and there’s + an end of it!” + + Young Jolyon smiled; his eyes had wandered to his father’s chin. + “A pair of you,” he thought, but he said nothing. + + “And then,” went on old Jolyon, “there’s this Bosinney. I should + like to punch the fellow’s head, but I can’t, I suppose, though—I + don’t see why you shouldn’t,” he added doubtfully. + + “What has he done? Far better that it should come to an end, if + they don’t hit it off!” + + Old Jolyon looked at his son. Now they had actually come to + discuss a subject connected with the relations between the sexes + he felt distrustful. Jo would be sure to hold some loose view or + other. + + “Well, I don’t know what you think,” he said; “I dare say your + sympathy’s with him—shouldn’t be surprised; but I think he’s + behaving precious badly, and if he comes my way I shall tell him + so.” He dropped the subject. + + It was impossible to discuss with his son the true nature and + meaning of Bosinney’s defection. Had not his son done the very + same thing (worse, if possible) fifteen years ago? There seemed + no end to the consequences of that piece of folly. + + Young Jolyon also was silent; he had quickly penetrated his + father’s thought, for, dethroned from the high seat of an obvious + and uncomplicated view of things, he had become both perceptive + and subtle. + + The attitude he had adopted towards sexual matters fifteen years + before, however, was too different from his father’s. There was + no bridging the gulf. + + He said coolly: “I suppose he’s fallen in love with some other + woman?” + + Old Jolyon gave him a dubious look: “I can’t tell,” he said; + “they say so!” + + “Then, it’s probably true,” remarked young Jolyon unexpectedly; + “and I suppose _they’ve_ told you who she is?” + + “Yes,” said old Jolyon, “Soames’s wife!” + + Young Jolyon did not whistle: The circumstances of his own life + had rendered him incapable of whistling on such a subject, but he + looked at his father, while the ghost of a smile hovered over his + face. + + If old Jolyon saw, he took no notice. + + “She and June were bosom friends!” he muttered. + + “Poor little June!” said young Jolyon softly. He thought of his + daughter still as a babe of three. + + Old Jolyon came to a sudden halt. + + “I don’t believe a word of it,” he said, “it’s some old woman’s + tale. Get me a cab, Jo, I’m tired to death!” + + They stood at a corner to see if an empty cab would come along, + while carriage after carriage drove past, bearing Forsytes of all + descriptions from the Zoo. The harness, the liveries, the gloss + on the horses’ coats, shone and glittered in the May sunlight, + and each equipage, landau, sociable, barouche, Victoria, or + brougham, seemed to roll out proudly from its wheels: + + “I and my horses and my men you know, + Indeed the whole turn-out have cost a pot. + But we were worth it every penny. Look + At Master and at Missis now, the dawgs! + Ease with security—ah! that’s the ticket!” + + And such, as everyone knows, is fit accompaniment for a + perambulating Forsyte. + + Amongst these carriages was a barouche coming at a greater pace + than the others, drawn by a pair of bright bay horses. It swung + on its high springs, and the four people who filled it seemed + rocked as in a cradle. + + This chariot attracted young Jolyon’s attention; and suddenly, on + the back seat, he recognised his Uncle James, unmistakable in + spite of the increased whiteness of his whiskers; opposite, their + backs defended by sunshades, Rachel Forsyte and her elder but + married sister, Winifred Dartie, in irreproachable toilettes, had + posed their heads haughtily, like two of the birds they had been + seeing at the Zoo; while by James’ side reclined Dartie, in a + brand-new frock-coat buttoned tight and square, with a large + expanse of carefully shot linen protruding below each wristband. + + An extra, if subdued, sparkle, an added touch of the best gloss + or varnish characterized this vehicle, and seemed to distinguish + it from all the others, as though by some happy extravagance—like + that which marks out the real “work of art” from the ordinary + “picture”—it were designated as the typical car, the very throne + of Forsytedom. + + Old Jolyon did not see them pass; he was petting poor Holly who + was tired, but those in the carriage had taken in the little + group; the ladies’ heads tilted suddenly, there was a spasmodic + screening movement of parasols; James’ face protruded naively, + like the head of a long bird, his mouth slowly opening. The + shield-like rounds of the parasols grew smaller and smaller, and + vanished. + + Young Jolyon saw that he had been recognised, even by Winifred, + who could not have been more than fifteen when he had forfeited + the right to be considered a Forsyte. + + There was not much change in _them!_ He remembered the exact look + of their turn-out all that time ago: Horses, men, carriage—all + different now, no doubt—but of the precise stamp of fifteen years + before; the same neat display, the same nicely calculated + arrogance ease with security! The swing exact, the pose of the + sunshades exact, exact the spirit of the whole thing. + + And in the sunlight, defended by the haughty shields of parasols, + carriage after carriage went by. + + “Uncle James has just passed, with his female folk,” said young + Jolyon. + + His father looked black. “Did your uncle see us? Yes? Hmph! + What’s _he_ want, coming down into these parts?” + + An empty cab drove up at this moment, and old Jolyon stopped it. + + “I shall see you again before long, my boy!” he said. “Don’t you + go paying any attention to what I’ve been saying about young + Bosinney—I don’t believe a word of it!” + + Kissing the children, who tried to detain him, he stepped in and + was borne away. + + Young Jolyon, who had taken Holly up in his arms, stood + motionless at the corner, looking after the cab. + + + + + CHAPTER VII AFTERNOON AT TIMOTHY’S + + If old Jolyon, as he got into his cab, had said: “I _won’t_ + believe a word of it!” he would more truthfully have expressed + his sentiments. + + The notion that James and his womankind had seen him in the + company of his son had awakened in him not only the impatience he + always felt when crossed, but that secret hostility natural + between brothers, the roots of which—little nursery + rivalries—sometimes toughen and deepen as life goes on, and, all + hidden, support a plant capable of producing in season the + bitterest fruits. + + Hitherto there had been between these six brothers no more + unfriendly feeling than that caused by the secret and natural + doubt that the others might be richer than themselves; a feeling + increased to the pitch of curiosity by the approach of death—that + end of all handicaps—and the great “closeness” of their man of + business, who, with some sagacity, would profess to Nicholas + ignorance of James’ income, to James ignorance of old Jolyon’s, + to Jolyon ignorance of Roger’s, to Roger ignorance of Swithin’s, + while to Swithin he would say most irritatingly that Nicholas + must be a rich man. Timothy alone was exempt, being in gilt-edged + securities. + + But now, between two of them at least, had arisen a very + different sense of injury. From the moment when James had the + impertinence to pry into his affairs—as he put it—old Jolyon no + longer chose to credit this story about Bosinney. His + grand-daughter slighted through a member of “that fellow’s” + family! He made up his mind that Bosinney was maligned. There + must be some other reason for his defection. + + June had flown out at him, or something; she was as touchy as she + could be! + + He would, however, let Timothy have a bit of his mind, and see if + he would go on dropping hints! And he would not let the grass + grow under his feet either, he would go there at once, and take + very good care that he didn’t have to go again on the same + errand. + + He saw James’ carriage blocking the pavement in front of “The + Bower”. So they had got there before him—cackling about having + seen him, he dared say! And further on, Swithin’s greys were + turning their noses towards the noses of James’ bays, as though + in conclave over the family, while their coachmen were in + conclave above. + + Old Jolyon, depositing his hat on the chair in the narrow hall, + where that hat of Bosinney’s had so long ago been mistaken for a + cat, passed his thin hand grimly over his face with its great + drooping white moustaches, as though to remove all traces of + expression, and made his way upstairs. + + He found the front drawing-room full. It was full enough at the + best of times—without visitors—without any one in it—for Timothy + and his sisters, following the tradition of their generation, + considered that a room was not quite “nice” unless it was + “properly” furnished. It held, therefore, eleven chairs, a sofa, + three tables, two cabinets, innumerable knicknacks, and part of a + large grand piano. And now, occupied by Mrs. Small, Aunt Hester, + by Swithin, James, Rachel, Winifred, Euphemia, who had come in + again to return “Passion and Paregoric” which she had read at + lunch, and her chum Frances, Roger’s daughter (the musical + Forsyte, the one who composed songs), there was only one chair + left unoccupied, except, of course, the two that nobody ever sat + on—and the only standing room was occupied by the cat, on whom + old Jolyon promptly stepped. + + In these days it was by no means unusual for Timothy to have so + many visitors. The family had always, one and all, had a real + respect for Aunt Ann, and now that she was gone, they were coming + far more frequently to The Bower, and staying longer. + + Swithin had been the first to arrive, and seated torpid in a red + satin chair with a gilt back, he gave every appearance of lasting + the others out. And symbolizing Bosinney’s name “the big one,” + with his great stature and bulk, his thick white hair, his puffy + immovable shaven face, he looked more primeval than ever in the + highly upholstered room. + + His conversation, as usual of late, had turned at once upon + Irene, and he had lost no time in giving Aunts Juley and Hester + his opinion with regard to this rumour he heard was going about. + No—as he said—she might want a bit of flirtation—a pretty woman + must have her fling; but more than that he did not believe. + Nothing open; she had too much good sense, too much proper + appreciation of what was due to her position, and to the family! + No sc—, he was going to say “scandal” but the very idea was so + preposterous that he waved his hand as though to say—“but let + that pass!” + + Granted that Swithin took a bachelor’s view of the + situation—still what indeed was not due to that family in which + so many had done so well for themselves, had attained a certain + position? If he _had_ heard in dark, pessimistic moments the + words “yeomen” and “very small beer” used in connection with his + origin, did he believe them? + + No! he cherished, hugging it pathetically to his bosom the secret + theory that there was something distinguished somewhere in his + ancestry. + + “Must be,” he once said to young Jolyon, before the latter went + to the bad. “Look at us, _we’ve_ got on! There must be good blood + in us somewhere.” + + He had been fond of young Jolyon: the boy had been in a good set + at College, had known that old ruffian Sir Charles Fiste’s sons—a + pretty rascal one of them had turned out, too; and there was + style about him—it was a thousand pities he had run off with that + half-foreign governess! If he must go off like that why couldn’t + he have chosen someone who would have done them credit! And what + was he now?—an underwriter at Lloyd’s; they said he even painted + pictures—pictures! Damme! he might have ended as Sir Jolyon + Forsyte, Bart., with a seat in Parliament, and a place in the + country! + + It was Swithin who, following the impulse which sooner or later + urges thereto some member of every great family, went to the + Heralds’ Office, where they assured him that he was undoubtedly + of the same family as the well-known Forsites with an “i,” whose + arms were “three dexter buckles on a sable ground gules,” hoping + no doubt to get him to take them up. + + Swithin, however, did not do this, but having ascertained that + the crest was a “pheasant proper,” and the motto “For Forsite,” + he had the pheasant proper placed upon his carriage and the + buttons of his coachman, and both crest and motto on his + writing-paper. The arms he hugged to himself, partly because, not + having paid for them, he thought it would look ostentatious to + put them on his carriage, and he hated ostentation, and partly + because he, like any practical man all over the country, had a + secret dislike and contempt for things he could not understand he + found it hard, as anyone might, to swallow “three dexter buckles + on a sable ground gules.” + + He never forgot, however, their having told him that if he paid + for them he would be entitled to use them, and it strengthened + his conviction that he was a gentleman. Imperceptibly the rest of + the family absorbed the “pheasant proper,” and some, more serious + than others, adopted the motto; old Jolyon, however, refused to + use the latter, saying that it was humbug meaning nothing, so far + as he could see. + + Among the older generation it was perhaps known at bottom from + what great historical event they derived their crest; and if + pressed on the subject, sooner than tell a lie—they did not like + telling lies, having an impression that only Frenchmen and + Russians told them—they would confess hurriedly that Swithin had + got hold of it somehow. + + Among the younger generation the matter was wrapped in a + discretion proper. They did not want to hurt the feelings of + their elders, nor to feel ridiculous themselves; they simply used + the crest.... + + “No,” said Swithin, “he had had an opportunity of seeing for + himself, and what he should say was, that there was nothing in + her manner to that young Buccaneer or Bosinney or whatever his + name was, different from her manner to himself; in fact, he + should rather say....” But here the entrance of Frances and + Euphemia put an unfortunate stop to the conversation, for this + was not a subject which could be discussed before young people. + + And though Swithin was somewhat upset at being stopped like this + on the point of saying something important, he soon recovered his + affability. He was rather fond of Frances—Francie, as she was + called in the family. She was so smart, and they told him she + made a pretty little pot of pin-money by her songs; he called it + very clever of her. + + He rather prided himself indeed on a liberal attitude towards + women, not seeing any reason why they shouldn’t paint pictures, + or write tunes, or books even, for the matter of that, especially + if they could turn a useful penny by it; not at all—kept them out + of mischief. It was not as if they were men! + + “Little Francie,” as she was usually called with good-natured + contempt, was an important personage, if only as a standing + illustration of the attitude of Forsytes towards the Arts. She + was not really “little,” but rather tall, with dark hair for a + Forsyte, which, together with a grey eye, gave her what was + called “a Celtic appearance.” She wrote songs with titles like + “Breathing Sighs,” or “Kiss me, Mother, ere I die,” with a + refrain like an anthem: + “Kiss me, Mother, ere I die; + Kiss me-kiss me, Mother, ah! + Kiss, ah! kiss me e-ere I— + Kiss me, Mother, ere I d-d-die!” + + She wrote the words to them herself, and other poems. In lighter + moments she wrote waltzes, one of which, the “Kensington Coil,” + was almost national to Kensington, having a sweet dip in it. + Thus: + + + It was very original. Then there were her “Songs for Little + People,” at once educational and witty, especially “Gran’ma’s + Porgie,” and that ditty, almost prophetically imbued with the + coming Imperial spirit, entitled “Black Him In His Little Eye.” + + Any publisher would take these, and reviews like “High Living,” + and the “Ladies’ Genteel Guide” went into raptures over: “Another + of Miss Francie Forsyte’s spirited ditties, sparkling and + pathetic. We ourselves were moved to tears and laughter. Miss + Forsyte should go far.” + + With the true instinct of her breed, Francie had made a point of + knowing the right people—people who would write about her, and + talk about her, and people in Society, too—keeping a mental + register of just where to exert her fascinations, and an eye on + that steady scale of rising prices, which in her mind’s eye + represented the future. In this way she caused herself to be + universally respected. + + Once, at a time when her emotions were whipped by an + attachment—for the tenor of Roger’s life, with its whole-hearted + collection of house property, had induced in his only daughter a + tendency towards passion—she turned to great and sincere work, + choosing the sonata form, for the violin. This was the only one + of her productions that troubled the Forsytes. They felt at once + that it would not sell. + + Roger, who liked having a clever daughter well enough, and often + alluded to the amount of pocket-money she made for herself, was + upset by this violin sonata. + + “Rubbish like that!” he called it. Francie had borrowed young + Flageoletti from Euphemia, to play it in the drawing-room at + Prince’s Gardens. + + As a matter of fact Roger was right. It was rubbish, + but—annoying! the sort of rubbish that wouldn’t sell. As every + Forsyte knows, rubbish that sells is not rubbish at all—far from + it. + + And yet, in spite of the sound common sense which fixed the worth + of art at what it would fetch, some of the Forsytes—Aunt Hester, + for instance, who had always been musical—could not help + regretting that Francie’s music was not “classical”. the same + with her poems. But then, as Aunt Hester said, they didn’t see + any poetry nowadays, all the poems were “little light things.” + There was nobody who could write a poem like “Paradise Lost,” or + “Childe Harold”; either of which made you feel that you really + had read something. Still, it was nice for Francie to have + something to occupy her; while other girls were spending money + shopping she was making it! + + And both Aunt Hester and Aunt Juley were always ready to listen + to the latest story of how Francie had got her price increased. + + They listened now, together with Swithin, who sat pretending not + to, for these young people talked so fast and mumbled so, he + never could catch what they said. + + “And I can’t think,” said Mrs. Septimus, “how you do it. I should + never have the audacity!” + + Francie smiled lightly. “I’d much rather deal with a man than a + woman. Women are so sharp!” + + “My dear,” cried Mrs. Small, “I’m sure we’re not.” + + Euphemia went off into her silent laugh, and, ending with the + squeak, said, as though being strangled: “Oh, you’ll kill me some + day, auntie.” + + Swithin saw no necessity to laugh; he detested people laughing + when he himself perceived no joke. Indeed, he detested Euphemia + altogether, to whom he always alluded as “Nick’s daughter, what’s + she called—the pale one?” He had just missed being her + god-father—indeed, would have been, had he not taken a firm stand + against her outlandish name. He hated becoming a godfather. + Swithin then said to Francie with dignity: “It’s a fine + day—er—for the time of year.” But Euphemia, who knew perfectly + well that he had refused to be her godfather, turned to Aunt + Hester, and began telling her how she had seen Irene—Mrs. + Soames—at the Church and Commercial Stores. + + “And Soames was with her?” said Aunt Hester, to whom Mrs. Small + had as yet had no opportunity of relating the incident. + + “_Soames_ with her? Of _course_ not!” + + “But was she all alone in London?” + + “Oh, no; there was Mr. Bosinney with her. She was _perfectly_ + dressed.” + + But Swithin, hearing the name Irene, looked severely at Euphemia, + who, it is true, never did look well in a dress, whatever she may + have done on other occasions, and said: + + “Dressed like a lady, I’ve no doubt. It’s a pleasure to see her.” + + At this moment James and his daughters were announced. Dartie, + feeling badly in want of a drink, had pleaded an appointment with + his dentist, and, being put down at the Marble Arch, had got into + a hansom, and was already seated in the window of his club in + Piccadilly. + + His wife, he told his cronies, had wanted to take him to pay some + calls. It was not in his line—not exactly. Haw! + + Hailing the waiter, he sent him out to the hall to see what had + won the 4.30 race. He was dog-tired, he said, and that was a + fact; had been drivin’ about with his wife to “shows” all the + afternoon. Had put his foot down at last. A fellow must live his + own life. + + At this moment, glancing out of the bay window—for he loved this + seat whence he could see everybody pass—his eye unfortunately, or + perhaps fortunately, chanced to light on the figure of Soames, + who was mousing across the road from the Green Park-side, with + the evident intention of coming in, for he, too, belonged to “The + Iseeum.” + + Dartie sprang to his feet; grasping his glass, he muttered + something about “that 4.30 race,” and swiftly withdrew to the + card-room, where Soames never came. Here, in complete isolation + and a dim light, he lived his own life till half past seven, by + which hour he knew Soames must certainly have left the club. + + It would not do, as he kept repeating to himself whenever he felt + the impulse to join the gossips in the bay-window getting too + strong for him—it absolutely would not do, with finances as low + as his, and the “old man” (James) rusty ever since that business + over the oil shares, which was no fault of his, to risk a row + with Winifred. + + If Soames were to see him in the club it would be sure to come + round to her that he wasn’t at the dentist’s at all. He never + knew a family where things “came round” so. Uneasily, amongst the + green baize card-tables, a frown on his olive coloured face, his + check trousers crossed, and patent-leather boots shining through + the gloom, he sat biting his forefinger, and wondering where the + deuce he was to get the money if Erotic failed to win the + Lancashire Cup. + + His thoughts turned gloomily to the Forsytes. What a set they + were! There was no getting anything out of them—at least, it was + a matter of extreme difficulty. They were so d—-d particular + about money matters; not a sportsman amongst the lot, unless it + were George. That fellow Soames, for instance, would have a fit + if you tried to borrow a tenner from him, or, if he didn’t have a + fit, he looked at you with his cursed supercilious smile, as if + you were a lost soul because you were in want of money. + + And that wife of his (Dartie’s mouth watered involuntarily), he + had tried to be on good terms with her, as one naturally would + with any pretty sister-in-law, but he would be cursed if the (he + mentally used a coarse word)—would have anything to say to + him—she looked at him, indeed, as if he were dirt—and yet she + could go far enough, he wouldn’t mind betting. He knew women; + they weren’t made with soft eyes and figures like that for + nothing, as that fellow Soames would jolly soon find out, if + there were anything in what he had heard about this Buccaneer + Johnny. + + Rising from his chair, Dartie took a turn across the room, ending + in front of the looking-glass over the marble chimney-piece; and + there he stood for a long time contemplating in the glass the + reflection of his face. It had that look, peculiar to some men, + of having been steeped in linseed oil, with its waxed dark + moustaches and the little distinguished commencements of side + whiskers; and concernedly he felt the promise of a pimple on the + side of his slightly curved and fattish nose. + + In the meantime old Jolyon had found the remaining chair in + Timothy’s commodious drawing-room. His advent had obviously put a + stop to the conversation, decided awkwardness having set in. Aunt + Juley, with her well-known kindheartedness, hastened to set + people at their ease again. + + “Yes, Jolyon,” she said, “we were just saying that you haven’t + been here for a long time; but we mustn’t be surprised. You’re + busy, of course? James was just saying what a busy time of + year....” + + “Was he?” said old Jolyon, looking hard at James. “It wouldn’t be + half so busy if everybody minded their own business.” + + James, brooding in a small chair from which his knees ran uphill, + shifted his feet uneasily, and put one of them down on the cat, + which had unwisely taken refuge from old Jolyon beside him. + + “Here, you’ve got a cat here,” he said in an injured voice, + withdrawing his foot nervously as he felt it squeezing into the + soft, furry body. + + “Several,” said old Jolyon, looking at one face and another; “I + trod on one just now.” + + A silence followed. + + Then Mrs. Small, twisting her fingers and gazing round with + “pathetic calm”, asked: “And how is dear June?” + + A twinkle of humour shot through the sternness of old Jolyon’s + eyes. Extraordinary old woman, Juley! No one quite like her for + saying the wrong thing! + + “Bad!” he said; “London don’t agree with her—too many people + about, too much clatter and chatter by half.” He laid emphasis on + the words, and again looked James in the face. + + Nobody spoke. + + A feeling of its being too dangerous to take a step in any + direction, or hazard any remark, had fallen on them all. + Something of the sense of the impending, that comes over the + spectator of a Greek tragedy, had entered that upholstered room, + filled with those white-haired, frock-coated old men, and + fashionably attired women, who were all of the same blood, + between all of whom existed an unseizable resemblance. + + Not that they were conscious of it—the visits of such fateful, + bitter spirits are only felt. + + Then Swithin rose. He would not sit there, feeling like that—he + was not to be put down by anyone! And, manoeuvring round the room + with added pomp, he shook hands with each separately. + + “You tell Timothy from me,” he said, “that he coddles himself too + much!” Then, turning to Francie, whom he considered “smart,” he + added: “You come with me for a drive one of these days.” But this + conjured up the vision of that other eventful drive which had + been so much talked about, and he stood quite still for a second, + with glassy eyes, as though waiting to catch up with the + significance of what he himself had said; then, suddenly + recollecting that he didn’t care a damn, he turned to old Jolyon: + “Well, good-bye, Jolyon! You shouldn’t go about without an + overcoat; you’ll be getting sciatica or something!” And, kicking + the cat slightly with the pointed tip of his patent leather boot, + he took his huge form away. + + When he had gone everyone looked secretly at the others, to see + how they had taken the mention of the word “drive”—the word which + had become famous, and acquired an overwhelming importance, as + the only official—so to speak—news in connection with the vague + and sinister rumour clinging to the family tongue. + + Euphemia, yielding to an impulse, said with a short laugh: “I’m + glad Uncle Swithin doesn’t ask me to go for drives.” + + Mrs. Small, to reassure her and smooth over any little + awkwardness the subject might have, replied: “My dear, he likes + to take somebody well dressed, who will do him a little credit. I + shall never forget the drive he took me. It was an experience!” + And her chubby round old face was spread for a moment with a + strange contentment; then broke into pouts, and tears came into + her eyes. She was thinking of that long ago driving tour she had + once taken with Septimus Small. + + James, who had relapsed into his nervous brooding in the little + chair, suddenly roused himself: “He’s a funny fellow, Swithin,” + he said, but in a half-hearted way. + + Old Jolyon’s silence, his stern eyes, held them all in a kind of + paralysis. He was disconcerted himself by the effect of his own + words—an effect which seemed to deepen the importance of the very + rumour he had come to scotch; but he was still angry. + + He had not done with them yet—No, no—he would give them another + rub or two. + + He did not wish to rub his nieces, he had no quarrel with them—a + young and presentable female always appealed to old Jolyon’s + clemency—but that fellow James, and, in a less degree perhaps, + those others, deserved all they would get. And he, too, asked for + Timothy. + + As though feeling that some danger threatened her younger + brother, Aunt Juley suddenly offered him tea: “There it is,” she + said, “all cold and nasty, waiting for you in the back drawing + room, but Smither shall make you some fresh.” + + Old Jolyon rose: “Thank you,” he said, looking straight at James, + “but I’ve no time for tea, and—scandal, and the rest of it! It’s + time I was at home. Good-bye, Julia; good-bye, Hester; good-bye, + Winifred.” + + Without more ceremonious adieux, he marched out. + + Once again in his cab, his anger evaporated, for so it ever was + with his wrath—when he had rapped out, it was gone. Sadness came + over his spirit. He had stopped their mouths, maybe, but at what + a cost! At the cost of certain knowledge that the rumour he had + been resolved not to believe was true. June was abandoned, and + for the wife of that fellow’s son! He felt it was true, and + hardened himself to treat it as if it were not; but the pain he + hid beneath this resolution began slowly, surely, to vent itself + in a blind resentment against James and his son. + + The six women and one man left behind in the little drawing-room + began talking as easily as might be after such an occurrence, for + though each one of them knew for a fact that he or she never + talked scandal, each one of them also knew that the other six + did; all were therefore angry and at a loss. James only was + silent, disturbed, to the bottom of his soul. + + Presently Francie said: “Do you know, I think Uncle Jolyon is + terribly changed this last year. What do you think, Aunt Hester?” + + Aunt Hester made a little movement of recoil: “Oh, ask your Aunt + Julia!” she said; “I know nothing about it.” + + No one else was afraid of assenting, and James muttered gloomily + at the floor: “He’s not half the man he was.” + + “I’ve noticed it a long time,” went on Francie; “he’s aged + tremendously.” + + Aunt Juley shook her head; her face seemed suddenly to have + become one immense pout. + + “Poor dear Jolyon,” she said, “somebody ought to see to it for + him!” + + There was again silence; then, as though in terror of being left + solitarily behind, all five visitors rose simultaneously, and + took their departure. + + Mrs. Small, Aunt Hester, and their cat were left once more alone, + the sound of a door closing in the distance announced the + approach of Timothy. + + That evening, when Aunt Hester had just got off to sleep in the + back bedroom that used to be Aunt Juley’s before Aunt Juley took + Aunt Ann’s, her door was opened, and Mrs. Small, in a pink + night-cap, a candle in her hand, entered: “Hester!” she said. + “Hester!” + + Aunt Hester faintly rustled the sheet. + + “Hester,” repeated Aunt Juley, to make quite sure that she had + awakened her, “I am quite troubled about poor dear Jolyon. + _What_,” Aunt Juley dwelt on the word, “do you think ought to be + done?” + + Aunt Hester again rustled the sheet, her voice was heard faintly + pleading: “Done? How should I know?” + + Aunt Juley turned away satisfied, and closing the door with extra + gentleness so as not to disturb dear Hester, let it slip through + her fingers and fall to with a “crack.” + + Back in her own room, she stood at the window gazing at the moon + over the trees in the Park, through a chink in the muslin + curtains, close drawn lest anyone should see. And there, with her + face all round and pouting in its pink cap, and her eyes wet, she + thought of “dear Jolyon,” so old and so lonely, and how she could + be of some use to him; and how he would come to love her, as she + had never been loved since—since poor Septimus went away. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII DANCE AT ROGER’S + + Roger’s house in Prince’s Gardens was brilliantly alight. Large + numbers of wax candles had been collected and placed in cut-glass + chandeliers, and the parquet floor of the long, double + drawing-room reflected these constellations. An appearance of + real spaciousness had been secured by moving out all the + furniture on to the upper landings, and enclosing the room with + those strange appendages of civilization known as “rout” seats. + In a remote corner, embowered in palms, was a cottage piano, with + a copy of the “Kensington Coil” open on the music-stand. + + Roger had objected to a band. He didn’t see in the least what + they wanted with a band; he wouldn’t go to the expense, and there + was an end of it. Francie (her mother, whom Roger had long since + reduced to chronic dyspepsia, went to bed on such occasions), had + been obliged to content herself with supplementing the piano by a + young man who played the cornet, and she so arranged with palms + that anyone who did not look into the heart of things might + imagine there were several musicians secreted there. She made up + her mind to tell them to play loud—there was a lot of music in a + cornet, if the man would only put his soul into it. + + In the more cultivated American tongue, she was “through” at + last—through that tortuous labyrinth of make-shifts, which must + be traversed before fashionable display can be combined with the + sound economy of a Forsyte. Thin but brilliant, in her + maize-coloured frock with much tulle about the shoulders, she + went from place to place, fitting on her gloves, and casting her + eye over it all. + + To the hired butler (for Roger only kept maids) she spoke about + the wine. Did he quite understand that Mr. Forsyte wished a dozen + bottles of the champagne from Whiteley’s to be put out? But if + that were finished (she did not suppose it would be, most of the + ladies would drink water, no doubt), but if it were, there was + the champagne cup, and he must do the best he could with that. + + She hated having to say this sort of thing to a butler, it was so + _infra dig.;_ but what could you do with father? Roger, indeed, + after making himself consistently disagreeable about the dance, + would come down presently, with his fresh colour and bumpy + forehead, as though he had been its promoter; and he would smile, + and probably take the prettiest woman in to supper; and at two + o’clock, just as they were getting into the swing, he would go up + secretly to the musicians and tell them to play “God Save the + Queen,” and go away. + + Francie devoutly hoped he might soon get tired, and slip off to + bed. + + The three or four devoted girl friends who were staying in the + house for this dance had partaken with her, in a small, abandoned + room upstairs, of tea and cold chicken-legs, hurriedly served; + the men had been sent out to dine at Eustace’s Club, it being + felt that they must be fed up. + + Punctually on the stroke of nine arrived Mrs. Small alone. She + made elaborate apologies for the absence of Timothy, omitting all + mention of Aunt Hester, who, at the last minute, had said she + could not be bothered. Francie received her effusively, and + placed her on a rout seat, where she left her, pouting and + solitary in lavender-coloured satin—the first time she had worn + colour since Aunt Ann’s death. + + The devoted maiden friends came now from their rooms, each by + magic arrangement in a differently coloured frock, but all with + the same liberal allowance of tulle on the shoulders and at the + bosom—for they were, by some fatality, lean to a girl. They were + all taken up to Mrs. Small. None stayed with her more than a few + seconds, but clustering together talked and twisted their + programmes, looking secretly at the door for the first appearance + of a man. + + Then arrived in a group a number of Nicholases, always + punctual—the fashion up Ladbroke Grove way; and close behind them + Eustace and his men, gloomy and smelling rather of smoke. + + Three or four of Francie’s lovers now appeared, one after the + other; she had made each promise to come early. They were all + clean-shaven and sprightly, with that peculiar kind of young-man + sprightliness which had recently invaded Kensington; they did not + seem to mind each other’s presence in the least, and wore their + ties bunching out at the ends, white waistcoats, and socks with + clocks. All had handkerchiefs concealed in their cuffs. They + moved buoyantly, each armoured in professional gaiety, as though + he had come to do great deeds. Their faces when they danced, far + from wearing the traditional solemn look of the dancing + Englishman, were irresponsible, charming, suave; they bounded, + twirling their partners at great pace, without pedantic attention + to the rhythm of the music. + + At other dancers they looked with a kind of airy scorn—they, the + light brigade, the heroes of a hundred Kensington “hops”—from + whom alone could the right manner and smile and step be hoped. + + After this the stream came fast; chaperones silting up along the + wall facing the entrance, the volatile element swelling the eddy + in the larger room. + + Men were scarce, and wallflowers wore their peculiar, pathetic + expression, a patient, sourish smile which seemed to say: “Oh, + no! don’t mistake me, _I_ know you are not coming up to me. I can + hardly expect that!” And Francie would plead with one of her + lovers, or with some callow youth: “Now, to please me, do let me + introduce you to Miss Pink; such a nice girl, really!” and she + would bring him up, and say: “Miss Pink—Mr. Gathercole. Can you + spare him a dance?” Then Miss Pink, smiling her forced smile, + colouring a little, answered: “Oh! I think so!” and screening her + empty card, wrote on it the name of Gathercole, spelling it + passionately in the district that he proposed, about the second + extra. + + But when the youth had murmured that it was hot, and passed, she + relapsed into her attitude of hopeless expectation, into her + patient, sourish smile. + + Mothers, slowly fanning their faces, watched their daughters, and + in their eyes could be read all the story of those daughters’ + fortunes. As for themselves, to sit hour after hour, dead tired, + silent, or talking spasmodically—what did it matter, so long as + the girls were having a good time! But to see them neglected and + passed by! Ah! they smiled, but their eyes stabbed like the eyes + of an offended swan; they longed to pluck young Gathercole by the + slack of his dandified breeches, and drag him to their + daughters—the jackanapes! + + And all the cruelties and hardness of life, its pathos and + unequal chances, its conceit, self-forgetfulness, and patience, + were presented on the battle-field of this Kensington ball-room. + + Here and there, too, lovers—not lovers like Francie’s, a peculiar + breed, but simply lovers—trembling, blushing, silent, sought each + other by flying glances, sought to meet and touch in the mazes of + the dance, and now and again dancing together, struck some + beholder by the light in their eyes. + + Not a second before ten o’clock came the Jameses—Emily, Rachel, + Winifred (Dartie had been left behind, having on a former + occasion drunk too much of Roger’s champagne), and Cicely, the + youngest, making her debut; behind them, following in a hansom + from the paternal mansion where they had dined, Soames and Irene. + + All these ladies had shoulder-straps and no tulle—thus showing at + once, by a bolder exposure of flesh, that they came from the more + fashionable side of the Park. + + Soames, sidling back from the contact of the dancers, took up a + position against the wall. Guarding himself with his pale smile, + he stood watching. Waltz after waltz began and ended, couple + after couple brushed by with smiling lips, laughter, and snatches + of talk; or with set lips, and eyes searching the throng; or + again, with silent, parted lips, and eyes on each other. And the + scent of festivity, the odour of flowers, and hair, of essences + that women love, rose suffocatingly in the heat of the summer + night. + + Silent, with something of scorn in his smile, Soames seemed to + notice nothing; but now and again his eyes, finding that which + they sought, would fix themselves on a point in the shifting + throng, and the smile die off his lips. + + He danced with no one. Some fellows danced with their wives; his + sense of “form” had never permitted him to dance with Irene since + their marriage, and the God of the Forsytes alone can tell + whether this was a relief to him or not. + + She passed, dancing with other men, her dress, iris-coloured, + floating away from her feet. She danced well; he was tired of + hearing women say with an acid smile: “How beautifully your wife + dances, Mr. Forsyte—it’s quite a pleasure to watch her!” Tired of + answering them with his sidelong glance: “You think so?” + + A young couple close by flirted a fan by turns, making an + unpleasant draught. Francie and one of her lovers stood near. + They were talking of love. + + He heard Roger’s voice behind, giving an order about supper to a + servant. Everything was very second-class! He wished that he had + not come! He had asked Irene whether she wanted him; she had + answered with that maddening smile of hers “Oh, no!” + + Why _had_ he come? For the last quarter of an hour he had not + even seen her. Here was George advancing with his Quilpish face; + it was too late to get out of his way. + + “Have you seen ‘The Buccaneer’.” said this licensed wag; “he’s on + the warpath—hair cut and everything!” + + Soames said he had not, and crossing the room, half-empty in an + interval of the dance, he went out on the balcony, and looked + down into the street. + + A carriage had driven up with late arrivals, and round the door + hung some of those patient watchers of the London streets who + spring up to the call of light or music; their faces, pale and + upturned above their black and rusty figures, had an air of + stolid watching that annoyed Soames. Why were they allowed to + hang about; why didn’t the bobby move them on? + + But the policeman took no notice of them; his feet were planted + apart on the strip of crimson carpet stretched across the + pavement; his face, under the helmet, wore the same stolid, + watching look as theirs. + + Across the road, through the railings, Soames could see the + branches of trees shining, faintly stirring in the breeze, by the + gleam of the street lamps; beyond, again, the upper lights of the + houses on the other side, so many eyes looking down on the quiet + blackness of the garden; and over all, the sky, that wonderful + London sky, dusted with the innumerable reflection of countless + lamps; a dome woven over between its stars with the refraction of + human needs and human fancies—immense mirror of pomp and misery + that night after night stretches its kindly mocking over miles of + houses and gardens, mansions and squalor, over Forsytes, + policemen, and patient watchers in the streets. + + Soames turned away, and, hidden in the recess, gazed into the + lighted room. It was cooler out there. He saw the new arrivals, + June and her grandfather, enter. What had made them so late? They + stood by the doorway. They looked fagged. Fancy Uncle Jolyon + turning out at this time of night! Why hadn’t June come to Irene, + as she usually did, and it occurred to him suddenly that he had + seen nothing of June for a long time now. + + Watching her face with idle malice, he saw it change, grow so + pale that he thought she would drop, then flame out crimson. + Turning to see at what she was looking, he saw his wife on + Bosinney’s arm, coming from the conservatory at the end of the + room. Her eyes were raised to his, as though answering some + question he had asked, and he was gazing at her intently. + + Soames looked again at June. Her hand rested on old Jolyon’s arm; + she seemed to be making a request. He saw a surprised look on his + uncle’s face; they turned and passed through the door out of his + sight. + + The music began again—a waltz—and, still as a statue in the + recess of the window, his face unmoved, but no smile on his lips, + Soames waited. Presently, within a yard of the dark balcony, his + wife and Bosinney passed. He caught the perfume of the gardenias + that she wore, saw the rise and fall of her bosom, the languor in + her eyes, her parted lips, and a look on her face that he did not + know. To the slow, swinging measure they danced by, and it seemed + to him that they clung to each other; he saw her raise her eyes, + soft and dark, to Bosinney’s, and drop them again. + + Very white, he turned back to the balcony, and leaning on it, + gazed down on the Square; the figures were still there looking up + at the light with dull persistency, the policeman’s face, too, + upturned, and staring, but he saw nothing of them. Below, a + carriage drew up, two figures got in, and drove away.... + + That evening June and old Jolyon sat down to dinner at the usual + hour. The girl was in her customary high-necked frock, old Jolyon + had not dressed. + + At breakfast she had spoken of the dance at Uncle Roger’s, she + wanted to go; she had been stupid enough, she said, not to think + of asking anyone to take her. It was too late now. + + Old Jolyon lifted his keen eyes. June was used to go to dances + with Irene as a matter of course! and deliberately fixing his + gaze on her, he asked: “Why don’t you get Irene?” + + No! June did not want to ask Irene; she would only go if—if her + grandfather wouldn’t mind just for once for a little time! + + At her look, so eager and so worn, old Jolyon had grumblingly + consented. He did not know what she wanted, he said, with going + to a dance like this, a poor affair, he would wager; and she no + more fit for it than a cat! What she wanted was sea air, and + after his general meeting of the Globular Gold Concessions he was + ready to take her. She didn’t want to go away? Ah! she would + knock herself up! Stealing a mournful look at her, he went on + with his breakfast. + + June went out early, and wandered restlessly about in the heat. + Her little light figure that lately had moved so languidly about + its business, was all on fire. She bought herself some flowers. + She wanted—she meant to look her best. _He_ would be there! She + knew well enough that he had a card. She would show him that she + did not care. But deep down in her heart she resolved that + evening to win him back. She came in flushed, and talked brightly + all lunch; old Jolyon was there, and he was deceived. + + In the afternoon she was overtaken by a desperate fit of sobbing. + She strangled the noise against the pillows of her bed, but when + at last it ceased she saw in the glass a swollen face with + reddened eyes, and violet circles round them. She stayed in the + darkened room till dinner time. + + All through that silent meal the struggle went on within her. + + She looked so shadowy and exhausted that old Jolyon told “Sankey” + to countermand the carriage, he would not have her going out.... + She was to go to bed! She made no resistance. She went up to her + room, and sat in the dark. At ten o’clock she rang for her maid. + + “Bring some hot water, and go down and tell Mr. Forsyte that I + feel perfectly rested. Say that if he’s too tired I can go to the + dance by myself.” + + The maid looked askance, and June turned on her imperiously. + “Go,” she said, “bring the hot water at once!” + + Her ball-dress still lay on the sofa, and with a sort of fierce + care she arrayed herself, took the flowers in her hand, and went + down, her small face carried high under its burden of hair. She + could hear old Jolyon in his room as she passed. + + Bewildered and vexed, he was dressing. It was past ten, they + would not get there till eleven; the girl was mad. But he dared + not cross her—the expression of her face at dinner haunted him. + + With great ebony brushes he smoothed his hair till it shone like + silver under the light; then he, too, came out on the gloomy + staircase. + + June met him below, and, without a word, they went to the + carriage. + + When, after that drive which seemed to last for ever, she entered + Roger’s drawing-room, she disguised under a mask of resolution a + very torment of nervousness and emotion. The feeling of shame at + what might be called “running after him” was smothered by the + dread that he might not be there, that she might not see him + after all, and by that dogged resolve—somehow, she did not know + how—to win him back. + + The sight of the ballroom, with its gleaming floor, gave her a + feeling of joy, of triumph, for she loved dancing, and when + dancing she floated, so light was she, like a strenuous, eager + little spirit. He would surely ask her to dance, and if he danced + with her it would all be as it was before. She looked about her + eagerly. + + The sight of Bosinney coming with Irene from the conservatory, + with that strange look of utter absorption on his face, struck + her too suddenly. They had not seen—no one should see—her + distress, not even her grandfather. + + She put her hand on Jolyon’s arm, and said very low: + + “I must go home, Gran; I feel ill.” + + He hurried her away, grumbling to himself that he had known how + it would be. + + To her he said nothing; only when they were once more in the + carriage, which by some fortunate chance had lingered near the + door, he asked her: “What is it, my darling?” + + Feeling her whole slender body shaken by sobs, he was terribly + alarmed. She must have Blank to-morrow. He would insist upon it. + He could not have her like this.... There, there! + + June mastered her sobs, and squeezing his hand feverishly, she + lay back in her corner, her face muffled in a shawl. + + He could only see her eyes, fixed and staring in the dark, but he + did not cease to stroke her hand with his thin fingers. + + + + + CHAPTER IX EVENING AT RICHMOND + + Other eyes besides the eyes of June and of Soames had seen “those + two” (as Euphemia had already begun to call them) coming from the + conservatory; other eyes had noticed the look on Bosinney’s face. + + There are moments when Nature reveals the passion hidden beneath + the careless calm of her ordinary moods—violent spring flashing + white on almond-blossom through the purple clouds; a snowy, + moonlit peak, with its single star, soaring up to the passionate + blue; or against the flames of sunset, an old yew-tree standing + dark guardian of some fiery secret. + + There are moments, too, when in a picture-gallery, a work, noted + by the casual spectator as “* * *Titian—remarkably fine,” breaks + through the defences of some Forsyte better lunched perhaps than + his fellows, and holds him spellbound in a kind of ecstasy. There + are things, he feels—there are things here which—well, which are + things. Something unreasoning, unreasonable, is upon him; when he + tries to define it with the precision of a practical man, it + eludes him, slips away, as the glow of the wine he has drunk is + slipping away, leaving him cross, and conscious of his liver. He + feels that he has been extravagant, prodigal of something; virtue + has gone out of him. He did not desire this glimpse of what lay + under the three stars of his catalogue. God forbid that he should + know anything about the forces of Nature! God forbid that he + should admit for a moment that there are such things! Once admit + that, and where was he? One paid a shilling for entrance, and + another for the programme. + + The look which June had seen, which other Forsytes had seen, was + like the sudden flashing of a candle through a hole in some + imaginary canvas, behind which it was being moved—the sudden + flaming-out of a vague, erratic glow, shadowy and enticing. It + brought home to onlookers the consciousness that dangerous forces + were at work. For a moment they noticed it with pleasure, with + interest, then felt they must not notice it at all. + + It supplied, however, the reason of Jun’s coming so late and + disappearing again without dancing, without even shaking hands + with her lover. She was ill, it was said, and no wonder. + + But here they looked at each other guiltily. They had no desire + to spread scandal, no desire to be ill-natured. Who would have? + And to outsiders no word was breathed, unwritten law keeping them + silent. + + Then came the news that June had gone to the seaside with old + Jolyon. + + He had carried her off to Broadstairs, for which place there was + just then a feeling, Yarmouth having lost caste, in spite of + Nicholas, and no Forsyte going to the sea without intending to + have an air for his money such as would render him bilious in a + week. That fatally aristocratic tendency of the first Forsyte to + drink Madeira had left his descendants undoubtedly accessible. + + So June went to the sea. The family awaited developments; there + was nothing else to do. + + But how far—how far had “those two” gone? How far were they going + to go? Could they really be going at all? Nothing could surely + come of it, for neither of them had any money. At the most a + flirtation, ending, as all such attachments should, at the proper + time. + + Soames’s sister, Winifred Dartie, who had imbibed with the + breezes of Mayfair—she lived in Green Street—more fashionable + principles in regard to matrimonial behaviour than were current, + for instance, in Ladbroke Grove, laughed at the idea of there + being anything in it. The “little thing”—Irene was taller than + herself, and it was real testimony to the solid worth of a + Forsyte that she should always thus be a “little thing”—the + little thing was bored. Why shouldn’t she amuse herself? Soames + was rather tiring; and as to Mr. Bosinney—only that buffoon + George would have called him the Buccaneer—she maintained that he + was very _chic_. + + This dictum—that Bosinney was _chic_—caused quite a sensation. It + failed to convince. That he was “good-looking in a way” they were + prepared to admit, but that anyone could call a man with his + pronounced cheekbones, curious eyes, and soft felt hats _chic_ + was only another instance of Winifred’s extravagant way of + running after something new. + + It was that famous summer when extravagance was fashionable, when + the very earth was extravagant, chestnut-trees spread with + blossom, and flowers drenched in perfume, as they had never been + before; when roses blew in every garden; and for the swarming + stars the nights had hardly space; when every day and all day + long the sun, in full armour, swung his brazen shield above the + Park, and people did strange things, lunching and dining in the + open air. Unprecedented was the tale of cabs and carriages that + streamed across the bridges of the shining river, bearing the + upper-middle class in thousands to the green glories of Bushey, + Richmond, Kew, and Hampton Court. Almost every family with any + pretensions to be of the carriage-class paid one visit that year + to the horse-chestnuts at Bushey, or took one drive amongst the + Spanish chestnuts of Richmond Park. Bowling smoothly, if dustily, + along, in a cloud of their own creation, they would stare + fashionably at the antlered heads which the great slow deer + raised out of a forest of bracken that promised to autumn lovers + such cover as was never seen before. And now and again, as the + amorous perfume of chestnut flowers and of fern was drifted too + near, one would say to the other: “My dear! What a peculiar + scent!” + + And the lime-flowers that year were of rare prime, near + honey-coloured. At the corners of London squares they gave out, + as the sun went down, a perfume sweeter than the honey bees had + taken—a perfume that stirred a yearning unnamable in the hearts + of Forsytes and their peers, taking the cool after dinner in the + precincts of those gardens to which they alone had keys. + + And that yearning made them linger amidst the dim shapes of + flower-beds in the failing daylight, made them turn, and turn, + and turn again, as though lovers were waiting for them—waiting + for the last light to die away under the shadow of the branches. + + Some vague sympathy evoked by the scent of the limes, some + sisterly desire to see for herself, some idea of demonstrating + the soundness of her dictum that there was “nothing in it”; or + merely the craving to drive down to Richmond, irresistible that + summer, moved the mother of the little Darties (of little + Publius, of Imogen, Maud, and Benedict) to write the following + note to her sister-in-law: + + “_June_ 30. + + “DEAR IRENE, + “I hear that Soames is going to Henley tomorrow for the + night. I thought it would be great fun if we made up a little + party and drove down to, Richmond. Will you ask Mr. Bosinney, + and I will get young Flippard. + “Emily (they called their mother Emily—it was so chic) will + lend us the carriage. I will call for you and your young man + at seven o’clock. + + “Your affectionate sister, + “WINIFRED DARTIE. + + “Montague believes the dinner at the Crown and Sceptre to be + quite eatable.” + + Montague was Dartie’s second and better known name—his first + being Moses; for he was nothing if not a man of the world. + + Her plan met with more opposition from Providence than so + benevolent a scheme deserved. In the first place young Flippard + wrote: + + “DEAR MRS. DARTIE, + “Awfully sorry. Engaged two deep. + + “Yours, + “AUGUSTUS FLIPPARD.” + + It was late to send into the by-ways and hedges to remedy this + misfortune. With the promptitude and conduct of a mother, + Winifred fell back on her husband. She had, indeed, the decided + but tolerant temperament that goes with a good deal of profile, + fair hair, and greenish eyes. She was seldom or never at a loss; + or if at a loss, was always able to convert it into a gain. + + Dartie, too, was in good feather. Erotic had failed to win the + Lancashire Cup. Indeed, that celebrated animal, owned as he was + by a pillar of the turf, who had secretly laid many thousands + against him, had not even started. The forty-eight hours that + followed his scratching were among the darkest in Dartie’s life. + + Visions of James haunted him day and night. Black thoughts about + Soames mingled with the faintest hopes. On the Friday night he + got drunk, so greatly was he affected. But on Saturday morning + the true Stock Exchange instinct triumphed within him. Owing some + hundreds, which by no possibility could he pay, he went into town + and put them all on Concertina for the Saltown Borough Handicap. + + As he said to Major Scrotton, with whom he lunched at the Iseeum: + “That little Jew boy, Nathans, had given him the tip. He didn’t + care a cursh. He wash in—a mucker. If it didn’t come up—well + then, damme, the old man would have to pay!” + + A bottle of Pol Roger to his own cheek had given him a new + contempt for James. + + It came up. Concertina was squeezed home by her neck—a terrible + squeak! But, as Dartie said: There was nothing like pluck! + + He was by no means averse to the expedition to Richmond. He would + “stand” it himself! He cherished an admiration for Irene, and + wished to be on more playful terms with her. + + At half-past five the Park Lane footman came round to say: Mrs. + Forsyte was very sorry, but one of the horses was coughing! + + Undaunted by this further blow, Winifred at once despatched + little Publius (now aged seven) with the nursery governess to + Montpellier Square. + + They would go down in hansoms and meet at the Crown and Sceptre + at 7.45. + + Dartie, on being told, was pleased enough. It was better than + going down with your back to the horses! He had no objection to + driving down with Irene. He supposed they would pick up the + others at Montpellier Square, and swop hansoms there? + + Informed that the meet was at the Crown and Sceptre, and that he + would have to drive with his wife, he turned sulky, and said it + was d—-d slow! + + At seven o’clock they started, Dartie offering to bet the driver + half-a-crown he didn’t do it in the three-quarters of an hour. + + Twice only did husband and wife exchange remarks on the way. + + Dartie said: “It’ll put Master Soames’s nose out of joint to hear + his wife’s been drivin’ in a hansom with Master Bosinney!” + + Winifred replied: “Don’t talk such nonsense, Monty!” + + “Nonsense!” repeated Dartie. “You don’t know women, my fine + lady!” + + On the other occasion he merely asked: “How am I looking? A bit + puffy about the gills? That fizz old George is so fond of is a + windy wine!” + + He had been lunching with George Forsyte at the Haversnake. + + Bosinney and Irene had arrived before them. They were standing in + one of the long French windows overlooking the river. + + Windows that summer were open all day long, and all night too, + and day and night the scents of flowers and trees came in, the + hot scent of parching grass, and the cool scent of the heavy + dews. + + To the eye of the observant Dartie his two guests did not appear + to be making much running, standing there close together, without + a word. Bosinney was a hungry-looking creature—not much go about + _him!_ + + He left them to Winifred, however, and busied himself to order + the dinner. + + A Forsyte will require good, if not delicate feeding, but a + Dartie will tax the resources of a Crown and Sceptre. Living as + he does, from hand to mouth, nothing is too good for him to eat; + and he will eat it. His drink, too, will need to be carefully + provided; there is much drink in this country “not good enough” + for a Dartie; he will have the best. Paying for things + vicariously, there is no reason why he should stint himself. To + stint yourself is the mark of a fool, not of a Dartie. + + The best of everything! No sounder principle on which a man can + base his life, whose father-in-law has a very considerable + income, and a partiality for his grandchildren. + + With his not unable eye Dartie had spotted this weakness in James + the very first year after little Publius’s arrival (an error); he + had profited by his perspicacity. Four little Darties were now a + sort of perpetual insurance. + + The feature of the feast was unquestionably the red mullet. This + delectable fish, brought from a considerable distance in a state + of almost perfect preservation, was first fried, then boned, then + served in ice, with Madeira punch in place of sauce, according to + a recipe known to a few men of the world. + + Nothing else calls for remark except the payment of the bill by + Dartie. + + He had made himself extremely agreeable throughout the meal; his + bold, admiring stare seldom abandoning Irene’s face and figure. + As he was obliged to confess to himself, he got no change out of + her—she was cool enough, as cool as her shoulders looked under + their veil of creamy lace. He expected to have caught her out in + some little game with Bosinney; but not a bit of it, she kept up + her end remarkably well. As for that architect chap, he was as + glum as a bear with a sore head—Winifred could barely get a word + out of him; he ate nothing, but he certainly took his liquor, and + his face kept getting whiter, and his eyes looked queer. + + It was all very amusing. + + For Dartie himself was in capital form, and talked freely, with a + certain poignancy, being no fool. He told two or three stories + verging on the improper, a concession to the company, for his + stories were not used to verging. He proposed Irene’s health in a + mock speech. Nobody drank it, and Winifred said: “Don’t be such a + clown, Monty!” + + At her suggestion they went after dinner to the public terrace + overlooking the river. + + “I should like to see the common people making love,” she said, + “it’s such fun!” + + There were numbers of them walking in the cool, after the day’s + heat, and the air was alive with the sound of voices, coarse and + loud, or soft as though murmuring secrets. + + It was not long before Winifred’s better sense—she was the only + Forsyte present—secured them an empty bench. They sat down in a + row. A heavy tree spread a thick canopy above their heads, and + the haze darkened slowly over the river. + + Dartie sat at the end, next to him Irene, then Bosinney, then + Winifred. There was hardly room for four, and the man of the + world could feel Irene’s arm crushed against his own; he knew + that she could not withdraw it without seeming rude, and this + amused him; he devised every now and again a movement that would + bring her closer still. He thought: “That Buccaneer Johnny shan’t + have it all to himself! It’s a pretty tight fit, certainly!” + + From far down below on the dark river came drifting the tinkle of + a mandoline, and voices singing the old round: + + “A boat, a boat, unto the ferry, + For we’ll go over and be merry; + And laugh, and quaff, and drink brown sherry!” + + And suddenly the moon appeared, young and tender, floating up on + her back from behind a tree; and as though she had breathed, the + air was cooler, but down that cooler air came always the warm + odour of the limes. + + Over his cigar Dartie peered round at Bosinney, who was sitting + with his arms crossed, staring straight in front of him, and on + his face the look of a man being tortured. + + And Dartie shot a glance at the face between, so veiled by the + overhanging shadow that it was but like a darker piece of the + darkness shaped and breathed on; soft, mysterious, enticing. + + A hush had fallen on the noisy terrace, as if all the strollers + were thinking secrets too precious to be spoken. + + And Dartie thought: “Women!” + + The glow died above the river, the singing ceased; the young moon + hid behind a tree, and all was dark. He pressed himself against + Irene. + + He was not alarmed at the shuddering that ran through the limbs + he touched, or at the troubled, scornful look of her eyes. He + felt her trying to draw herself away, and smiled. + + It must be confessed that the man of the world had drunk quite as + much as was good for him. + + With thick lips parted under his well-curled moustaches, and his + bold eyes aslant upon her, he had the malicious look of a satyr. + + Along the pathway of sky between the hedges of the tree tops the + stars clustered forth; like mortals beneath, they seemed to shift + and swarm and whisper. Then on the terrace the buzz broke out + once more, and Dartie thought: “Ah! he’s a poor, hungry-looking + devil, that Bosinney!” and again he pressed himself against + Irene. + + The movement deserved a better success. She rose, and they all + followed her. + + The man of the world was more than ever determined to see what + she was made of. Along the terrace he kept close at her elbow. He + had within him much good wine. There was the long drive home, the + long drive and the warm dark and the pleasant closeness of the + hansom cab—with its insulation from the world devised by some + great and good man. That hungry architect chap might drive with + his wife—he wished him joy of her! And, conscious that his voice + was not too steady, he was careful not to speak; but a smile had + become fixed on his thick lips. + + They strolled along toward the cabs awaiting them at the farther + end. His plan had the merit of all great plans, an almost brutal + simplicity— he would merely keep at her elbow till she got in, + and get in quickly after her. + + But when Irene reached the cab she did not get in; she slipped, + instead, to the horse’s head. Dartie was not at the moment + sufficiently master of his legs to follow. She stood stroking the + horse’s nose, and, to his annoyance, Bosinney was at her side + first. She turned and spoke to him rapidly, in a low voice; the + words “That man” reached Dartie. He stood stubbornly by the cab + step, waiting for her to come back. He knew a trick worth two of + that! + + Here, in the lamp-light, his figure (no more than medium height), + well squared in its white evening waistcoat, his light overcoat + flung over his arm, a pink flower in his button-hole, and on his + dark face that look of confident, good-humoured insolence, he was + at his best—a thorough man of the world. + + Winifred was already in her cab. Dartie reflected that Bosinney + would have a poorish time in that cab if he didn’t look sharp! + Suddenly he received a push which nearly overturned him in the + road. Bosinney’s voice hissed in his ear: “I am taking Irene + back; do you understand?” He saw a face white with passion, and + eyes that glared at him like a wild cat’s. + + “Eh?” he stammered. “What? Not a bit. You take my wife!” + + “Get away!” hissed Bosinney—“or I’ll throw you into the road!” + + Dartie recoiled; he saw as plainly as possible that the fellow + meant it. In the space he made Irene had slipped by, her dress + brushed his legs. Bosinney stepped in after her. + + “Go on!” he heard the Buccaneer cry. The cabman flicked his + horse. It sprang forward. + + Dartie stood for a moment dumbfounded; then, dashing at the cab + where his wife sat, he scrambled in. + + “Drive on!” he shouted to the driver, “and don’t you lose sight + of that fellow in front!” + + Seated by his wife’s side, he burst into imprecations. Calming + himself at last with a supreme effort, he added: “A pretty mess + you’ve made of it, to let the Buccaneer drive home with her; why + on earth couldn’t you keep hold of him? He’s mad with love; any + fool can see that!” + + He drowned Winifred’s rejoinder with fresh calls to the Almighty; + nor was it until they reached Barnes that he ceased a Jeremiad, + in the course of which he had abused her, her father, her + brother, Irene, Bosinney, the name of Forsyte, his own children, + and cursed the day when he had ever married. + + Winifred, a woman of strong character, let him have his say, at + the end of which he lapsed into sulky silence. His angry eyes + never deserted the back of that cab, which, like a lost chance, + haunted the darkness in front of him. + + Fortunately he could not hear Bosinney’s passionate pleading—that + pleading which the man of the world’s conduct had let loose like + a flood; he could not see Irene shivering, as though some garment + had been torn from her, nor her eyes, black and mournful, like + the eyes of a beaten child. He could not hear Bosinney + entreating, entreating, always entreating; could not hear her + sudden, soft weeping, nor see that poor, hungry-looking devil, + awed and trembling, humbly touching her hand. + + In Montpellier Square their cabman, following his instructions to + the letter, faithfully drew up behind the cab in front. The + Darties saw Bosinney spring out, and Irene follow, and hasten up + the steps with bent head. She evidently had her key in her hand, + for she disappeared at once. It was impossible to tell whether + she had turned to speak to Bosinney. + + The latter came walking past their cab; both husband and wife had + an admirable view of his face in the light of a street lamp. It + was working with violent emotion. + + “Good-night, Mr. Bosinney!” called Winifred. + + Bosinney started, clawed off his hat, and hurried on. He had + obviously forgotten their existence. + + “There!” said Dartie, “did you see the beast’s face? What did I + say? Fine games!” He improved the occasion. + + There had so clearly been a crisis in the cab that Winifred was + unable to defend her theory. + + She said: “I shall say nothing about it. I don’t see any use in + making a fuss!” + + With that view Dartie at once concurred; looking upon James as a + private preserve, he disapproved of his being disturbed by the + troubles of others. + + “Quite right,” he said; “let Soames look after himself. He’s + jolly well able to!” + + Thus speaking, the Darties entered their habitat in Green Street, + the rent of which was paid by James, and sought a well-earned + rest. The hour was midnight, and no Forsytes remained abroad in + the streets to spy out Bosinney’s wanderings; to see him return + and stand against the rails of the Square garden, back from the + glow of the street lamp; to see him stand there in the shadow of + trees, watching the house where in the dark was hidden she whom + he would have given the world to see for a single minute—she who + was now to him the breath of the lime-trees, the meaning of the + light and the darkness, the very beating of his own heart. + + + + + CHAPTER X DIAGNOSIS OF A FORSYTE + + It is in the nature of a Forsyte to be ignorant that he is a + Forsyte; but young Jolyon was well aware of being one. He had not + known it till after the decisive step which had made him an + outcast; since then the knowledge had been with him continually. + He felt it throughout his alliance, throughout all his dealings + with his second wife, who was emphatically not a Forsyte. + + He knew that if he had not possessed in great measure the eye for + what he wanted, the tenacity to hold on to it, the sense of the + folly of wasting that for which he had given so big a price—in + other words, the “sense of property” he could never have retained + her (perhaps never would have desired to retain her) with him + through all the financial troubles, slights, and misconstructions + of those fifteen years; never have induced her to marry him on + the death of his first wife; never have lived it all through, and + come up, as it were, thin, but smiling. + + He was one of those men who, seated cross-legged like miniature + Chinese idols in the cages of their own hearts, are ever smiling + at themselves a doubting smile. Not that this smile, so intimate + and eternal, interfered with his actions, which, like his chin + and his temperament, were quite a peculiar blend of softness and + determination. + + He was conscious, too, of being a Forsyte in his work, that + painting of water-colours to which he devoted so much energy, + always with an eye on himself, as though he could not take so + unpractical a pursuit quite seriously, and always with a certain + queer uneasiness that he did not make more money at it. + + It was, then, this consciousness of what it meant to be a + Forsyte, that made him receive the following letter from old + Jolyon, with a mixture of sympathy and disgust: + + “SHELDRAKE HOUSE, + “BROADSTAIRS, + “_July_ 1. + + “MY DEAR JO,” + (The Dad’s handwriting had altered very little in the thirty + odd years that he remembered it.) + “We have been here now a fortnight, and have had good weather + on the whole. The air is bracing, but my liver is out of + order, and I shall be glad enough to get back to town. I + cannot say much for June, her health and spirits are very + indifferent, and I don’t see what is to come of it. She says + nothing, but it is clear that she is harping on this + engagement, which is an engagement and no engagement, + and—goodness knows what. I have grave doubts whether she + ought to be allowed to return to London in the present state + of affairs, but she is so self-willed that she might take it + into her head to come up at any moment. The fact is someone + ought to speak to Bosinney and ascertain what he means. I’m + afraid of this myself, for I should certainly rap him over + the knuckles, but I thought that you, knowing him at the + Club, might put in a word, and get to ascertain what the + fellow is about. You will of course in no way commit June. I + shall be glad to hear from you in the course of a few days + whether you have succeeded in gaining any information. The + situation is very distressing to me, I worry about it at + night. With my love to Jolly and Holly. + + “I am, + “Your affect. father, + “JOLYON FORSYTE.” + + Young Jolyon pondered this letter so long and seriously that his + wife noticed his preoccupation, and asked him what was the + matter. He replied: “Nothing.” + + It was a fixed principle with him never to allude to June. She + might take alarm, he did not know what she might think; he + hastened, therefore, to banish from his manner all traces of + absorption, but in this he was about as successful as his father + would have been, for he had inherited all old Jolyon’s + transparency in matters of domestic finesse; and young Mrs. + Jolyon, busying herself over the affairs of the house, went about + with tightened lips, stealing at him unfathomable looks. + + He started for the Club in the afternoon with the letter in his + pocket, and without having made up his mind. + + To sound a man as to “his intentions” was peculiarly unpleasant + to him; nor did his own anomalous position diminish this + unpleasantness. It was so like his family, so like all the people + they knew and mixed with, to enforce what they called their + rights over a man, to bring him up to the mark; so like them to + carry their business principles into their private relations. + + And how that phrase in the letter—“You will, of course, in no way + commit June”—gave the whole thing away. + + Yet the letter, with the personal grievance, the concern for + June, the “rap over the knuckles,” was all so natural. No wonder + his father wanted to know what Bosinney meant, no wonder he was + angry. + + It was difficult to refuse! But why give the thing to him to do? + That was surely quite unbecoming; but so long as a Forsyte got + what he was after, he was not too particular about the means, + provided appearances were saved. + + How should he set about it, or how refuse? Both seemed + impossible. So, young Jolyon! + + He arrived at the Club at three o’clock, and the first person he + saw was Bosinney himself, seated in a corner, staring out of the + window. + + Young Jolyon sat down not far off, and began nervously to + reconsider his position. He looked covertly at Bosinney sitting + there unconscious. He did not know him very well, and studied him + attentively for perhaps the first time; an unusual looking man, + unlike in dress, face, and manner to most of the other members of + the Club—young Jolyon himself, however different he had become in + mood and temper, had always retained the neat reticence of + Forsyte appearance. He alone among Forsytes was ignorant of + Bosinney’s nickname. The man was unusual, not eccentric, but + unusual; he looked worn, too, haggard, hollow in the cheeks + beneath those broad, high cheekbones, though without any + appearance of ill-health, for he was strongly built, with curly + hair that seemed to show all the vitality of a fine constitution. + + Something in his face and attitude touched young Jolyon. He knew + what suffering was like, and this man looked as if he were + suffering. + + He got up and touched his arm. + + Bosinney started, but exhibited no sign of embarrassment on + seeing who it was. + + Young Jolyon sat down. + + “I haven’t seen you for a long time,” he said. “How are you + getting on with my cousin’s house?” + + “It’ll be finished in about a week.” + + “I congratulate you!” + + “Thanks—I don’t know that it’s much of a subject for + congratulation.” + + “No?” queried young Jolyon; “I should have thought you’d be glad + to get a long job like that off your hands; but I suppose you + feel it much as I do when I part with a picture—a sort of child?” + + He looked kindly at Bosinney. + + “Yes,” said the latter more cordially, “it goes out from you and + there’s an end of it. I didn’t know you painted.” + + “Only water-colours; I can’t say I believe in my work.” + + “Don’t believe in it? There—how can you do it? Work’s no use + unless you believe in it!” + + “Good,” said young Jolyon; “it’s exactly what I’ve always said. + By-the-bye, have you noticed that whenever one says ‘Good,’ one + always adds ‘it’s exactly what I’ve always said’. But if you ask + me how I do it, I answer, because I’m a Forsyte.” + + “A Forsyte! I never thought of you as one!” + + “A Forsyte,” replied young Jolyon, “is not an uncommon animal. + There are hundreds among the members of this Club. Hundreds out + there in the streets; you meet them wherever you go!” + + “And how do you tell them, may I ask?” said Bosinney. + + “By their sense of property. A Forsyte takes a practical—one + might say a commonsense—view of things, and a practical view of + things is based fundamentally on a sense of property. A Forsyte, + you will notice, never gives himself away.” + + “Joking?” + + Young Jolyon’s eye twinkled. + + “Not much. As a Forsyte myself, I have no business to talk. But + I’m a kind of thoroughbred mongrel; now, there’s no mistaking + you: You’re as different from me as I am from my Uncle James, who + is the perfect specimen of a Forsyte. His sense of property is + extreme, while you have practically none. Without me in between, + you would seem like a different species. I’m the missing link. We + are, of course, all of us the slaves of property, and I admit + that it’s a question of degree, but what I call a ‘Forsyte’ is a + man who is decidedly more than less a slave of property. He knows + a good thing, he knows a safe thing, and his grip on property—it + doesn’t matter whether it be wives, houses, money, or + reputation—is his hall-mark.” + + “Ah!” murmured Bosinney. “You should patent the word.” + + “I should like,” said young Jolyon, “to lecture on it: + + “Properties and quality of a Forsyte: This little animal, + disturbed by the ridicule of his own sort, is unaffected in his + motions by the laughter of strange creatures (you or I). + Hereditarily disposed to myopia, he recognises only the persons + of his own species, amongst which he passes an existence of + competitive tranquillity.” + + “You talk of them,” said Bosinney, “as if they were half + England.” + + “They are,” repeated young Jolyon, “half England, and the better + half, too, the safe half, the three per cent. half, the half that + counts. It’s their wealth and security that makes everything + possible; makes your art possible, makes literature, science, + even religion, possible. Without Forsytes, who believe in none of + these things, and habitats but turn them all to use, where should + we be? My dear sir, the Forsytes are the middlemen, the + commercials, the pillars of society, the cornerstones of + convention; everything that is admirable!” + + “I don’t know whether I catch your drift,” said Bosinney, “but I + fancy there are plenty of Forsytes, as you call them, in my + profession.” + + “Certainly,” replied young Jolyon. “The great majority of + architects, painters, or writers have no principles, like any + other Forsytes. Art, literature, religion, survive by virtue of + the few cranks who really believe in such things, and the many + Forsytes who make a commercial use of them. At a low estimate, + three-fourths of our Royal Academicians are Forsytes, + seven-eighths of our novelists, a large proportion of the press. + Of science I can’t speak; they are magnificently represented in + religion; in the House of Commons perhaps more numerous than + anywhere; the aristocracy speaks for itself. But I’m not + laughing. It is dangerous to go against the majority and what a + majority!” He fixed his eyes on Bosinney: “It’s dangerous to let + anything carry you away—a house, a picture, a—woman!” + + They looked at each other.—And, as though he had done that which + no Forsyte did—given himself away, young Jolyon drew into his + shell. Bosinney broke the silence. + + “Why do you take your own people as the type?” said he. + + “My people,” replied young Jolyon, “are not very extreme, and + they have their own private peculiarities, like every other + family, but they possess in a remarkable degree those two + qualities which are the real tests of a Forsyte—the power of + never being able to give yourself up to anything soul and body, + and the ‘sense of property’.” + + Bosinney smiled: “How about the big one, for instance?” + + “Do you mean Swithin?” asked young Jolyon. “Ah! in Swithin + there’s something primeval still. The town and middle-class life + haven’t digested him yet. All the old centuries of farm work and + brute force have settled in him, and there they’ve stuck, for all + he’s so distinguished.” + + Bosinney seemed to ponder. “Well, you’ve hit your cousin Soames + off to the life,” he said suddenly. “_He’ll_ never blow his + brains out.” + + Young Jolyon shot at him a penetrating glance. + + “No,” he said; “he won’t. That’s why he’s to be reckoned with. + Look out for their grip! It’s easy to laugh, but don’t mistake + me. It doesn’t do to despise a Forsyte; it doesn’t do to + disregard them!” + + “Yet you’ve done it yourself!” + + Young Jolyon acknowledged the hit by losing his smile. + + “You forget,” he said with a queer pride, “I can hold on, too—I’m + a Forsyte myself. We’re all in the path of great forces. The man + who leaves the shelter of the wall—well—you know what I mean. I + don’t,” he ended very low, as though uttering a threat, + “recommend every man to-go-my-way. It depends.” + + The colour rushed into Bosinney’s face, but soon receded, leaving + it sallow-brown as before. He gave a short laugh, that left his + lips fixed in a queer, fierce smile; his eyes mocked young + Jolyon. + + “Thanks,” he said. “It’s deuced kind of you. But you’re not the + only chaps that can hold on.” He rose. + + Young Jolyon looked after him as he walked away, and, resting his + head on his hand, sighed. + + In the drowsy, almost empty room the only sounds were the rustle + of newspapers, the scraping of matches being struck. He stayed a + long time without moving, living over again those days when he, + too, had sat long hours watching the clock, waiting for the + minutes to pass—long hours full of the torments of uncertainty, + and of a fierce, sweet aching; and the slow, delicious agony of + that season came back to him with its old poignancy. The sight of + Bosinney, with his haggard face, and his restless eyes always + wandering to the clock, had roused in him a pity, with which was + mingled strange, irresistible envy. + + He knew the signs so well. Whither was he going—to what sort of + fate? What kind of woman was it who was drawing him to her by + that magnetic force which no consideration of honour, no + principle, no interest could withstand; from which the only + escape was flight. + + Flight! But why should Bosinney fly? A man fled when he was in + danger of destroying hearth and home, when there were children, + when he felt himself trampling down ideals, breaking something. + But here, so he had heard, it was all broken to his hand. + + He himself had not fled, nor would he fly if it were all to come + over again. Yet he had gone further than Bosinney, had broken up + his own unhappy home, not someone else’s: And the old saying came + back to him: “A man’s fate lies in his own heart.” + + In his own heart! The proof of the pudding was in the + eating—Bosinney had still to eat his pudding. + + His thoughts passed to the woman, the woman whom he did not know, + but the outline of whose story he had heard. + + An unhappy marriage! No ill-treatment—only that indefinable + malaise, that terrible blight which killed all sweetness under + Heaven; and so from day to day, from night to night, from week to + week, from year to year, till death should end it. + + But young Jolyon, the bitterness of whose own feelings time had + assuaged, saw Soames’s side of the question too. Whence should a + man like his cousin, saturated with all the prejudices and + beliefs of his class, draw the insight or inspiration necessary + to break up this life? It was a question of imagination, of + projecting himself into the future beyond the unpleasant gossip, + sneers, and tattle that followed on such separations, beyond the + passing pangs that the lack of the sight of her would cause, + beyond the grave disapproval of the worthy. But few men, and + especially few men of Soames’s class, had imagination enough for + that. A deal of mortals in this world, and not enough imagination + to go round! And sweet Heaven, what a difference between theory + and practice; many a man, perhaps even Soames, held chivalrous + views on such matters, who when the shoe pinched found a + distinguishing factor that made of himself an exception. + + Then, too, he distrusted his judgment. He had been through the + experience himself, had tasted to the dregs the bitterness of an + unhappy marriage, and how could he take the wide and + dispassionate view of those who had never been within sound of + the battle? His evidence was too first-hand—like the evidence on + military matters of a soldier who has been through much active + service, against that of civilians who have not suffered the + disadvantage of seeing things too close. Most people would + consider such a marriage as that of Soames and Irene quite fairly + successful; he had money, she had beauty; it was a case for + compromise. There was no reason why they should not jog along, + even if they hated each other. It would not matter if they went + their own ways a little so long as the decencies were + observed—the sanctity of the marriage tie, of the common home, + respected. Half the marriages of the upper classes were conducted + on these lines: Do not offend the susceptibilities of Society; do + not offend the susceptibilities of the Church. To avoid offending + these is worth the sacrifice of any private feelings. The + advantages of the stable home are visible, tangible, so many + pieces of property; there is no risk in the _statu quo_. To break + up a home is at the best a dangerous experiment, and selfish into + the bargain. + + This was the case for the defence, and young Jolyon sighed. + + “The core of it all,” he thought, “is property, but there are + many people who would not like it put that way. To them it is + ‘the sanctity of the marriage tie’; but the sanctity of the + marriage tie is dependent on the sanctity of the family, and the + sanctity of the family is dependent on the sanctity of property. + And yet I imagine all these people are followers of One who never + owned anything. It is curious!” + + And again young Jolyon sighed. + + “Am I going on my way home to ask any poor devils I meet to share + my dinner, which will then be too little for myself, or, at all + events, for my wife, who is necessary to my health and happiness? + It may be that after all Soames does well to exercise his rights + and support by his practice the sacred principle of property + which benefits us all, with the exception of those who suffer by + the process.” + + And so he left his chair, threaded his way through the maze of + seats, took his hat, and languidly up the hot streets crowded + with carriages, reeking with dusty odours, wended his way home. + + Before reaching Wistaria Avenue he removed old Jolyon’s letter + from his pocket, and tearing it carefully into tiny pieces, + scattered them in the dust of the road. + + He let himself in with his key, and called his wife’s name. But + she had gone out, taking Jolly and Holly, and the house was + empty; alone in the garden the dog Balthasar lay in the shade + snapping at flies. + + Young Jolyon took his seat there, too, under the pear-tree that + bore no fruit. + + + + + CHAPTER XI BOSINNEY ON PAROLE + + The day after the evening at Richmond Soames returned from Henley + by a morning train. Not constitutionally interested in amphibious + sports, his visit had been one of business rather than pleasure, + a client of some importance having asked him down. + + He went straight to the City, but finding things slack, he left + at three o’clock, glad of this chance to get home quietly. Irene + did not expect him. Not that he had any desire to spy on her + actions, but there was no harm in thus unexpectedly surveying the + scene. + + After changing to Park clothes he went into the drawing-room. She + was sitting idly in the corner of the sofa, her favourite seat; + and there were circles under her eyes, as though she had not + slept. + + He asked: “How is it you’re in? Are you expecting somebody?” + + “Yes—that is, not particularly.” + + “Who?” + + “Mr. Bosinney said he might come.” + + “Bosinney. He ought to be at work.” + + To this she made no answer. + + “Well,” said Soames, “I want you to come out to the Stores with + me, and after that we’ll go to the Park.” + + “I don’t want to go out; I have a headache.” + + Soames replied: “If ever I want you to do anything, you’ve always + got a headache. It’ll do you good to come and sit under the + trees.” + + She did not answer. + + Soames was silent for some minutes; at last he said: “I don’t + know what your idea of a wife’s duty is. I never have known!” + + He had not expected her to reply, but she did. + + “I have tried to do what you want; it’s not my fault that I + haven’t been able to put my heart into it.” + + “Whose fault is it, then?” He watched her askance. + + “Before we were married you promised to let me go if our marriage + was not a success. Is it a success?” + + Soames frowned. + + “Success,” he stammered—“it would be a success if you behaved + yourself properly!” + + “I have tried,” said Irene. “Will you let me go?” + + Soames turned away. Secretly alarmed, he took refuge in bluster. + + “Let you go? You don’t know what you’re talking about. Let you + go? How can I let you go? We’re married, aren’t we? Then, what + are you talking about? For God’s sake, don’t let’s have any of + this sort of nonsense! Get your hat on, and come and sit in the + Park.” + + “Then, you won’t let me go?” + + He felt her eyes resting on him with a strange, touching look. + + “Let you go!” he said; “and what on earth would you do with + yourself if I did? You’ve got no money!” + + “I could manage somehow.” + + He took a swift turn up and down the room; then came and stood + before her. + + “Understand,” he said, “once and for all, I won’t have you say + this sort of thing. Go and get your hat on!” + + She did not move. + + “I suppose,” said Soames, “you don’t want to miss Bosinney if he + comes!” + + Irene got up slowly and left the room. She came down with her hat + on. + + They went out. + + In the Park, the motley hour of mid-afternoon, when foreigners + and other pathetic folk drive, thinking themselves to be in + fashion, had passed; the right, the proper, hour had come, was + nearly gone, before Soames and Irene seated themselves under the + Achilles statue. + + It was some time since he had enjoyed her company in the Park. + That was one of the past delights of the first two seasons of his + married life, when to feel himself the possessor of this gracious + creature before all London had been his greatest, though secret, + pride. How many afternoons had he not sat beside her, extremely + neat, with light grey gloves and faint, supercilious smile, + nodding to acquaintances, and now and again removing his hat. + + His light grey gloves were still on his hands, and on his lips + his smile sardonic, but where the feeling in his heart? + + The seats were emptying fast, but still he kept her there, silent + and pale, as though to work out a secret punishment. Once or + twice he made some comment, and she bent her head, or answered + “Yes” with a tired smile. + + Along the rails a man was walking so fast that people stared + after him when he passed. + + “Look at that ass!” said Soames; “he must be mad to walk like + that in this heat!” + + He turned; Irene had made a rapid movement. + + “Hallo!” he said: “it’s our friend the Buccaneer!” + + And he sat still, with his sneering smile, conscious that Irene + was sitting still, and smiling too. + + “Will she bow to him?” he thought. + + But she made no sign. + + Bosinney reached the end of the rails, and came walking back + amongst the chairs, quartering his ground like a pointer. When he + saw them he stopped dead, and raised his hat. + + The smile never left Soames’s face; he also took off his hat. + + Bosinney came up, looking exhausted, like a man after hard + physical exercise; the sweat stood in drops on his brow, and + Soames’ smile seemed to say: “You’ve had a trying time, my + friend.... What are _you_ doing in the Park?” he asked. “We + thought you despised such frivolity!” + + Bosinney did not seem to hear; he made his answer to Irene: “I’ve + been round to your place; I hoped I should find you in.” + + Somebody tapped Soames on the back, and spoke to him; and in the + exchange of those platitudes over his shoulder, he missed her + answer, and took a resolution. + + “We’re just going in,” he said to Bosinney; “you’d better come + back to dinner with us.” Into that invitation he put a strange + bravado, a stranger pathos: “You, can’t deceive me,” his look and + voice seemed saying, “but see—I trust you—I’m not afraid of you!” + + They started back to Montpellier Square together, Irene between + them. In the crowded streets Soames went on in front. He did not + listen to their conversation; the strange resolution of + trustfulness he had taken seemed to animate even his secret + conduct. Like a gambler, he said to himself: “It’s a card I dare + not throw away—I must play it for what it’s worth. I have not too + many chances.” + + He dressed slowly, heard her leave her room and go downstairs, + and, for full five minutes after, dawdled about in his + dressing-room. Then he went down, purposely shutting the door + loudly to show that he was coming. He found them standing by the + hearth, perhaps talking, perhaps not; he could not say. + + He played his part out in the farce, the long evening through—his + manner to his guest more friendly than it had ever been before; + and when at last Bosinney went, he said: “You must come again + soon; Irene likes to have you to talk about the house!” Again his + voice had the strange bravado and the stranger pathos; but his + hand was cold as ice. + + Loyal to his resolution, he turned away from their parting, + turned away from his wife as she stood under the hanging lamp to + say good-night—away from the sight of her golden head shining so + under the light, of her smiling mournful lips; away from the + sight of Bosinney’s eyes looking at her, so like a dog’s looking + at its master. + + And he went to bed with the certainty that Bosinney was in love + with his wife. + + The summer night was hot, so hot and still that through every + opened window came in but hotter air. For long hours he lay + listening to her breathing. + + She could sleep, but he must lie awake. And, lying awake, he + hardened himself to play the part of the serene and trusting + husband. + + In the small hours he slipped out of bed, and passing into his + dressing-room, leaned by the open window. + + He could hardly breathe. + + A night four years ago came back to him—the night but one before + his marriage; as hot and stifling as this. + + He remembered how he had lain in a long cane chair in the window + of his sitting-room off Victoria Street. Down below in a side + street a man had banged at a door, a woman had cried out; he + remembered, as though it were now, the sound of the scuffle, the + slam of the door, the dead silence that followed. And then the + early water-cart, cleansing the reek of the streets, had + approached through the strange-seeming, useless lamp-light; he + seemed to hear again its rumble, nearer and nearer, till it + passed and slowly died away. + + He leaned far out of the dressing-room window over the little + court below, and saw the first light spread. The outlines of dark + walls and roofs were blurred for a moment, then came out sharper + than before. + + He remembered how that other night he had watched the lamps + paling all the length of Victoria Street; how he had hurried on + his clothes and gone down into the street, down past houses and + squares, to the street where she was staying, and there had stood + and looked at the front of the little house, as still and grey as + the face of a dead man. + + And suddenly it shot through his mind; like a sick man’s fancy: + What’s _he_ doing?—that fellow who haunts me, who was here this + evening, who’s in love with my wife—prowling out there, perhaps, + looking for her as I know he was looking for her this afternoon; + watching my house now, for all I can tell! + + He stole across the landing to the front of the house, stealthily + drew aside a blind, and raised a window. + + The grey light clung about the trees of the square, as though + Night, like a great downy moth, had brushed them with her wings. + The lamps were still alight, all pale, but not a soul stirred—no + living thing in sight. + + Yet suddenly, very faint, far off in the deathly stillness, he + heard a cry writhing, like the voice of some wandering soul + barred out of heaven, and crying for its happiness. There it was + again—again! Soames shut the window, shuddering. + + Then he thought: “Ah! it’s only the peacocks, across the water.” + + + + + CHAPTER XII JUNE PAYS SOME CALLS + + Jolyon stood in the narrow hall at Broadstairs, inhaling that + odour of oilcloth and herrings which permeates all respectable + seaside lodging-houses. On a chair—a shiny leather chair, + displaying its horsehair through a hole in the top left-hand + corner—stood a black despatch case. This he was filling with + papers, with the _Times_, and a bottle of Eau-de Cologne. He had + meetings that day of the “Globular Gold Concessions” and the “New + Colliery Company, Limited,” to which he was going up, for he + never missed a Board; to “miss a Board” would be one more piece + of evidence that he was growing old, and this his jealous Forsyte + spirit could not bear. + + His eyes, as he filled that black despatch case, looked as if at + any moment they might blaze up with anger. So gleams the eye of a + schoolboy, baited by a ring of his companions; but he controls + himself, deterred by the fearful odds against him. And old Jolyon + controlled himself, keeping down, with his masterful restraint + now slowly wearing out, the irritation fostered in him by the + conditions of his life. + + He had received from his son an unpractical letter, in which by + rambling generalities the boy seemed trying to get out of + answering a plain question. “I’ve seen Bosinney,” he said; “he is + not a criminal. The more I see of people the more I am convinced + that they are never good or bad—merely comic, or pathetic. You + probably don’t agree with me!” + + Old Jolyon did not; he considered it cynical to so express + oneself; he had not yet reached that point of old age when even + Forsytes, bereft of those illusions and principles which they + have cherished carefully for practical purposes but never + believed in, bereft of all corporeal enjoyment, stricken to the + very heart by having nothing left to hope for—break through the + barriers of reserve and say things they would never have believed + themselves capable of saying. + + Perhaps he did not believe in “goodness” and “badness” any more + than his son; but as he would have said: He didn’t know—couldn’t + tell; there might be something in it; and why, by an unnecessary + expression of disbelief, deprive yourself of possible advantage? + + Accustomed to spend his holidays among the mountains, though + (like a true Forsyte) he had never attempted anything too + adventurous or too foolhardy, he had been passionately fond of + them. And when the wonderful view (mentioned in + Baedeker—“fatiguing but repaying”.—was disclosed to him after the + effort of the climb, he had doubtless felt the existence of some + great, dignified principle crowning the chaotic strivings, the + petty precipices, and ironic little dark chasms of life. This was + as near to religion, perhaps, as his practical spirit had ever + gone. + + But it was many years since he had been to the mountains. He had + taken June there two seasons running, after his wife died, and + had realized bitterly that his walking days were over. + + To that old mountain—given confidence in a supreme order of + things he had long been a stranger. + + He knew himself to be old, yet he felt young; and this troubled + him. It troubled and puzzled him, too, to think that he, who had + always been so careful, should be father and grandfather to such + as seemed born to disaster. He had nothing to say against Jo—who + could say anything against the boy, an amiable chap?—but his + position was deplorable, and this business of Jun’s nearly as + bad. It seemed like a fatality, and a fatality was one of those + things no man of his character could either understand or put up + with. + + In writing to his son he did not really hope that anything would + come of it. Since the ball at Roger’s he had seen too clearly how + the land lay—he could put two and two together quicker than most + men—and, with the example of his own son before his eyes, knew + better than any Forsyte of them all that the pale flame singes + men’s wings whether they will or no. + + In the days before Jun’s engagement, when she and Mrs. Soames + were always together, he had seen enough of Irene to feel the + spell she cast over men. She was not a flirt, not even a + coquette—words dear to the heart of his generation, which loved + to define things by a good, broad, inadequate word—but she was + dangerous. He could not say why. Tell him of a quality innate in + some women—a seductive power beyond their own control! He would + but answer: “Humbug!” She was dangerous, and there was an end of + it. He wanted to close his eyes to that affair. If it was, it + was; _he_ did not want to hear any more about it—he only wanted + to save Jun’s position and her peace of mind. He still hoped she + might once more become a comfort to himself. + + And so he had written. He got little enough out of the answer. As + to what young Jolyon had made of the interview, there was + practically only the queer sentence: “I gather that he’s in the + stream.” The stream! What stream? What was this new-fangled way + of talking? + + He sighed, and folded the last of the papers under the flap of + the bag; he knew well enough what was meant. + + June came out of the dining-room, and helped him on with his + summer coat. From her costume, and the expression of her little + resolute face, he saw at once what was coming. + + “I’m going with you,” she said. + + “Nonsense, my dear; I go straight into the City. I can’t have you + racketting about!” + + “I must see old Mrs. Smeech.” + + “Oh, your precious ‘lame ducks’!” grumbled out old Jolyon. He did + not believe her excuse, but ceased his opposition. There was no + doing anything with that pertinacity of hers. + + At Victoria he put her into the carriage which had been ordered + for himself—a characteristic action, for he had no petty + selfishnesses. + + “Now, don’t you go tiring yourself, my darling,” he said, and + took a cab on into the city. + + June went first to a back-street in Paddington, where Mrs. + Smeech, her “lame duck,” lived—an aged person, connected with the + charring interest; but after half an hour spent in hearing her + habitually lamentable recital, and dragooning her into temporary + comfort, she went on to Stanhope Gate. The great house was closed + and dark. + + She had decided to learn something at all costs. It was better to + face the worst, and have it over. And this was her plan: To go + first to Phil’s aunt, Mrs. Baynes, and, failing information + there, to Irene herself. She had no clear notion of what she + would gain by these visits. + + At three o’clock she was in Lowndes Square. With a woman’s + instinct when trouble is to be faced, she had put on her best + frock, and went to the battle with a glance as courageous as old + Jolyon’s itself. Her tremors had passed into eagerness. + + Mrs. Baynes, Bosinney’s aunt (Louisa was her name), was in her + kitchen when June was announced, organizing the cook, for she was + an excellent housewife, and, as Baynes always said, there was “a + lot in a good dinner.” He did his best work after dinner. It was + Baynes who built that remarkably fine row of tall crimson houses + in Kensington which compete with so many others for the title of + “the ugliest in London.” + + On hearing Jun’s name, she went hurriedly to her bedroom, and, + taking two large bracelets from a red morocco case in a locked + drawer, put them on her white wrists—for she possessed in a + remarkable degree that “sense of property,” which, as we know, is + the touchstone of Forsyteism, and the foundation of good + morality. + + Her figure, of medium height and broad build, with a tendency to + embonpoint, was reflected by the mirror of her whitewood + wardrobe, in a gown made under her own organization, of one of + those half-tints, reminiscent of the distempered walls of + corridors in large hotels. She raised her hands to her hair, + which she wore _à la_ Princesse de Galles, and touched it here + and there, settling it more firmly on her head, and her eyes were + full of an unconscious realism, as though she were looking in the + face one of life’s sordid facts, and making the best of it. In + youth her cheeks had been of cream and roses, but they were + mottled now by middle-age, and again that hard, ugly directness + came into her eyes as she dabbed a powder-puff across her + forehead. Putting the puff down, she stood quite still before the + glass, arranging a smile over her high, important nose, her chin, + (never large, and now growing smaller with the increase of her + neck), her thin-lipped, down-drooping mouth. Quickly, not to lose + the effect, she grasped her skirts strongly in both hands, and + went downstairs. + + She had been hoping for this visit for some time past. Whispers + had reached her that things were not all right between her nephew + and his fiancée. Neither of them had been near her for weeks. She + had asked Phil to dinner many times; his invariable answer had + been “Too busy.” + + Her instinct was alarmed, and the instinct in such matters of + this excellent woman was keen. She ought to have been a Forsyte; + in young Jolyon’s sense of the word, she certainly had that + privilege, and merits description as such. + + She had married off her three daughters in a way that people said + was beyond their deserts, for they had the professional plainness + only to be found, as a rule, among the female kind of the more + legal callings. Her name was upon the committees of numberless + charities connected with the Church-dances, theatricals, or + bazaars—and she never lent her name unless sure beforehand that + everything had been thoroughly organized. + + She believed, as she often said, in putting things on a + commercial basis; the proper function of the Church, of charity, + indeed, of everything, was to strengthen the fabric of “Society.” + Individual action, therefore, she considered immoral. + Organization was the only thing, for by organization alone could + you feel sure that you were getting a return for your money. + Organization—and again, organization! And there is no doubt that + she was what old Jolyon called her—“a ‘dab’ at that”—he went + further, he called her “a humbug.” + + The enterprises to which she lent her name were organized so + admirably that by the time the takings were handed over, they + were indeed skim milk divested of all cream of human kindness. + But as she often justly remarked, sentiment was to be deprecated. + She was, in fact, a little academic. + + This great and good woman, so highly thought of in ecclesiastical + circles, was one of the principal priestesses in the temple of + Forsyteism, keeping alive day and night a sacred flame to the God + of Property, whose altar is inscribed with those inspiring words: + “Nothing for nothing, and really remarkably little for sixpence.” + + When she entered a room it was felt that something substantial + had come in, which was probably the reason of her popularity as a + patroness. People liked something substantial when they had paid + money for it; and they would look at her—surrounded by her staff + in charity ballrooms, with her high nose and her broad, square + figure, attired in an uniform covered with sequins—as though she + were a general. + + The only thing against her was that she had not a double name. + She was a power in upper middle-class society, with its hundred + sets and circles, all intersecting on the common battlefield of + charity functions, and on that battlefield brushing skirts so + pleasantly with the skirts of Society with the capital “S.” She + was a power in society with the smaller “s,” that larger, more + significant, and more powerful body, where the commercially + Christian institutions, maxims, and “principle,” which Mrs. + Baynes embodied, were real life-blood, circulating freely, real + business currency, not merely the sterilized imitation that + flowed in the veins of smaller Society with the larger “S.” + People who knew her felt her to be sound—a sound woman, who never + gave herself away, nor anything else, if she could possibly help + it. + + She had been on the worst sort of terms with Bosinney’s father, + who had not infrequently made her the object of an unpardonable + ridicule. She alluded to him now that he was gone as her “poor, + dear, irreverend brother.” + + She greeted June with the careful effusion of which she was a + mistress, a little afraid of her as far as a woman of her + eminence in the commercial and Christian world could be + afraid—for so slight a girl June had a great dignity, the + fearlessness of her eyes gave her that. And Mrs. Baynes, too, + shrewdly recognized that behind the uncompromising frankness of + Jun’s manner there was much of the Forsyte. If the girl had been + merely frank and courageous, Mrs. Baynes would have thought her + “cranky,” and despised her; if she had been merely a Forsyte, + like Francie—let us say—she would have patronized her from sheer + weight of metal; but June, small though she was—Mrs. Baynes + habitually admired quantity—gave her an uneasy feeling; and she + placed her in a chair opposite the light. + + There was another reason for her respect which Mrs. Baynes, too + good a churchwoman to be worldly, would have been the last to + admit—she often heard her husband describe old Jolyon as + extremely well off, and was biassed towards his granddaughter for + the soundest of all reasons. To-day she felt the emotion with + which we read a novel describing a hero and an inheritance, + nervously anxious lest, by some frightful lapse of the novelist, + the young man should be left without it at the end. + + Her manner was warm; she had never seen so clearly before how + distinguished and desirable a girl this was. She asked after old + Jolyon’s health. A wonderful man for his age; so upright, and + young looking, and how old was he? Eighty-one! She would never + have thought it! They were at the sea! Very nice for them; she + supposed June heard from Phil every day? Her light grey eyes + became more prominent as she asked this question; but the girl + met the glance without flinching. + + “No,” she said, “he never writes!” + + Mrs. Baynes’s eyes dropped; they had no intention of doing so, + but they did. They recovered immediately. + + “Of course not. That’s Phil all over—he was always like that!” + + “Was he?” said June. + + The brevity of the answer caused Mrs. Baynes’s bright smile a + moment’s hesitation; she disguised it by a quick movement, and + spreading her skirts afresh, said: “Why, my dear—he’s quite the + most harum-scarum person; one never pays the slightest attention + to what _he_ does!” + + The conviction came suddenly to June that she was wasting her + time; even were she to put a question point-blank, she would + never get anything out of this woman. + + “Do you see him?” she asked, her face crimsoning. + + The perspiration broke out on Mrs. Baynes’ forehead beneath the + powder. + + “Oh, yes! I don’t remember when he was here last—indeed, we + haven’t seen much of him lately. He’s so busy with your cousin’s + house; I’m told it’ll be finished directly. We must organize a + little dinner to celebrate the event; do come and stay the night + with us!” + + “Thank you,” said June. Again she thought: “I’m only wasting my + time. This woman will tell me nothing.” + + She got up to go. A change came over Mrs. Baynes. She rose too; + her lips twitched, she fidgeted her hands. Something was + evidently very wrong, and she did not dare to ask this girl, who + stood there, a slim, straight little figure, with her decided + face, her set jaw, and resentful eyes. She was not accustomed to + be afraid of asking questions—all organization was based on the + asking of questions! + + But the issue was so grave that her nerve, normally strong, was + fairly shaken; only that morning her husband had said: “Old Mr. + Forsyte must be worth well over a hundred thousand pounds!” + + And this girl stood there, holding out her hand—holding out her + hand! + + The chance might be slipping away—she couldn’t tell—the chance of + keeping her in the family, and yet she dared not speak. + + Her eyes followed June to the door. + + It closed. + + Then with an exclamation Mrs. Baynes ran forward, wobbling her + bulky frame from side to side, and opened it again. + + Too late! She heard the front door click, and stood still, an + expression of real anger and mortification on her face. + + June went along the Square with her bird-like quickness. She + detested that woman now whom in happier days she had been + accustomed to think so kind. Was she always to be put off thus, + and forced to undergo this torturing suspense? + + She would go to Phil himself, and ask him what he meant. She had + the right to know. She hurried on down Sloane Street till she + came to Bosinney’s number. Passing the swing-door at the bottom, + she ran up the stairs, her heart thumping painfully. + + At the top of the third flight she paused for breath, and holding + on to the bannisters, stood listening. No sound came from above. + + With a very white face she mounted the last flight. She saw the + door, with his name on the plate. And the resolution that had + brought her so far evaporated. + + The full meaning of her conduct came to her. She felt hot all + over; the palms of her hands were moist beneath the thin silk + covering of her gloves. + + She drew back to the stairs, but did not descend. Leaning against + the rail she tried to get rid of a feeling of being choked; and + she gazed at the door with a sort of dreadful courage. No! she + refused to go down. Did it matter what people thought of her? + They would never know! No one would help her if she did not help + herself! She would go through with it. + + Forcing herself, therefore, to leave the support of the wall, she + rang the bell. The door did not open, and all her shame and fear + suddenly abandoned her; she rang again and again, as though in + spite of its emptiness she could drag some response out of that + closed room, some recompense for the shame and fear that visit + had cost her. It did not open; she left off ringing, and, sitting + down at the top of the stairs, buried her face in her hands. + + Presently she stole down, out into the air. She felt as though + she had passed through a bad illness, and had no desire now but + to get home as quickly as she could. The people she met seemed to + know where she had been, what she had been doing; and + suddenly—over on the opposite side, going towards his rooms from + the direction of Montpellier Square—she saw Bosinney himself. + + She made a movement to cross into the traffic. Their eyes met, + and he raised his hat. An omnibus passed, obscuring her view; + then, from the edge of the pavement, through a gap in the + traffic, she saw him walking on. + + And June stood motionless, looking after him. + + + + + CHAPTER XIII PERFECTION OF THE HOUSE + + “One mockturtle, clear; one oxtail; two glasses of port.” + + In the upper room at French’s, where a Forsyte could still get + heavy English food, James and his son were sitting down to lunch. + + Of all eating-places James liked best to come here; there was + something unpretentious, well-flavoured, and filling about it, + and though he had been to a certain extent corrupted by the + necessity for being fashionable, and the trend of habits keeping + pace with an income that _would_ increase, he still hankered in + quiet City moments after the tasty fleshpots of his earlier days. + Here you were served by hairy English waiters in aprons; there + was sawdust on the floor, and three round gilt looking-glasses + hung just above the line of sight. They had only recently done + away with the cubicles, too, in which you could have your chop, + prime chump, with a floury-potato, without seeing your + neighbours, like a gentleman. + + He tucked the top corner of his napkin behind the third button of + his waistcoat, a practice he had been obliged to abandon years + ago in the West End. He felt that he should relish his soup—the + entire morning had been given to winding up the estate of an old + friend. + + After filling his mouth with household bread, stale, he at once + began: “How are you going down to Robin Hill? You going to take + Irene? You’d better take her. I should think there’ll be a lot + that’ll want seeing to.” + + Without looking up, Soames answered: “She won’t go.” + + “Won’t go? What’s the meaning of that? She’s going to live in the + house, isn’t she?” + + Soames made no reply. + + “I don’t know what’s coming to women nowadays,” mumbled James; “I + never used to have any trouble with them. She’s had too much + liberty. She’s spoiled....” + + Soames lifted his eyes: “I won’t have anything said against her,” + he said unexpectedly. + + The silence was only broken now by the supping of James’s soup. + + The waiter brought the two glasses of port, but Soames stopped + him. + + “That’s not the way to serve port,” he said; “take them away, and + bring the bottle.” + + Rousing himself from his reverie over the soup, James took one of + his rapid shifting surveys of surrounding facts. + + “Your mother’s in bed,” he said; “you can have the carriage to + take you down. I should think Irene’d like the drive. This young + Bosinney’ll be there, I suppose, to show you over.” + + Soames nodded. + + “I should like to go and see for myself what sort of a job he’s + made finishing off,” pursued James. “I’ll just drive round and + pick you both up.” + + “I am going down by train,” replied Soames. “If you like to drive + round and see, Irene might go with you, I can’t tell.” + + He signed to the waiter to bring the bill, which James paid. + + They parted at St. Paul’s, Soames branching off to the station, + James taking his omnibus westwards. + + He had secured the corner seat next the conductor, where his long + legs made it difficult for anyone to get in, and at all who + passed him he looked resentfully, as if they had no business to + be using up his air. + + He intended to take an opportunity this afternoon of speaking to + Irene. A word in time saved nine; and now that she was going to + live in the country there was a chance for her to turn over a new + leaf! He could see that Soames wouldn’t stand very much more of + her goings on! + + It did not occur to him to define what he meant by her “goings + on”. the expression was wide, vague, and suited to a Forsyte. And + James had more than his common share of courage after lunch. + + On reaching home, he ordered out the barouche, with special + instructions that the groom was to go too. He wished to be kind + to her, and to give her every chance. + + When the door of No.62 was opened he could distinctly hear her + singing, and said so at once, to prevent any chance of being + denied entrance. + + Yes, Mrs. Soames was in, but the maid did not know if she was + seeing people. + + James, moving with the rapidity that ever astonished the + observers of his long figure and absorbed expression, went + forthwith into the drawing-room without permitting this to be + ascertained. He found Irene seated at the piano with her hands + arrested on the keys, evidently listening to the voices in the + hall. She greeted him without smiling. + + “Your mother-in-law’s in bed,” he began, hoping at once to enlist + her sympathy. “I’ve got the carriage here. Now, be a good girl, + and put on your hat and come with me for a drive. It’ll do you + good!” + + Irene looked at him as though about to refuse, but, seeming to + change her mind, went upstairs, and came down again with her hat + on. + + “Where are you going to take me?” she asked. + + “We’ll just go down to Robin Hill,” said James, spluttering out + his words very quick; “the horses want exercise, and I should + like to see what they’ve been doing down there.” + + Irene hung back, but again changed her mind, and went out to the + carriage, James brooding over her closely, to make quite sure. + + It was not before he had got her more than half way that he + began: “Soames is very fond of you—he won’t have anything said + against you; why don’t you show him more affection?” + + Irene flushed, and said in a low voice: “I can’t show what I + haven’t got.” + + James looked at her sharply; he felt that now he had her in his + own carriage, with his own horses and servants, he was really in + command of the situation. She could not put him off; nor would + she make a scene in public. + + “I can’t think what you’re about,” he said. “He’s a very good + husband!” + + Irene’s answer was so low as to be almost inaudible among the + sounds of traffic. He caught the words: “You are not married to + him!” + + “What’s that got to do with it? He’s given you everything you + want. He’s always ready to take you anywhere, and now he’s built + you this house in the country. It’s not as if you had anything of + your own.” + + “No.” + + Again James looked at her; he could not make out the expression + on her face. She looked almost as if she were going to cry, and + yet.... + + “I’m sure,” he muttered hastily, “we’ve all tried to be kind to + you.” + + Irene’s lips quivered; to his dismay James saw a tear steal down + her cheek. He felt a choke rise in his own throat. + + “We’re all fond of you,” he said, “if you’d only”—he was going to + say, “behave yourself,” but changed it to—“if you’d only be more + of a wife to him.” + + Irene did not answer, and James, too, ceased speaking. There was + something in her silence which disconcerted him; it was not the + silence of obstinacy, rather that of acquiescence in all that he + could find to say. And yet he felt as if he had not had the last + word. He could not understand this. + + He was unable, however, to long keep silence. + + “I suppose that young Bosinney,” he said, “will be getting + married to June now?” + + Irene’s face changed. “I don’t know,” she said; “you should ask + _her_.” + + “Does she write to you?” + + “No.” + + “No.” + + “How’s that?” said James. “I thought you and she were such great + friends.” + + Irene turned on him. “Again,” she said, “you should ask _her!_” + + “Well,” flustered James, frightened by her look, “it’s very odd + that I can’t get a plain answer to a plain question, but there it + is.” + + He sat ruminating over his rebuff, and burst out at last: + + “Well, I’ve warned you. You won’t look ahead. Soames he doesn’t + say much, but I can see he won’t stand a great deal more of this + sort of thing. You’ll have nobody but yourself to blame, and, + what’s more, you’ll get no sympathy from anybody.” + + Irene bent her head with a little smiling bow. “I am very much + obliged to you.” + + James did not know what on earth to answer. + + The bright hot morning had changed slowly to a grey, oppressive + afternoon; a heavy bank of clouds, with the yellow tinge of + coming thunder, had risen in the south, and was creeping up. + + The branches of the trees dropped motionless across the road + without the smallest stir of foliage. A faint odour of glue from + the heated horses clung in the thick air; the coachman and groom, + rigid and unbending, exchanged stealthy murmurs on the box, + without ever turning their heads. + + To James’ great relief they reached the house at last; the + silence and impenetrability of this woman by his side, whom he + had always thought so soft and mild, alarmed him. + + The carriage put them down at the door, and they entered. + + The hall was cool, and so still that it was like passing into a + tomb; a shudder ran down James’s spine. He quickly lifted the + heavy leather curtains between the columns into the inner court. + + He could not restrain an exclamation of approval. + + The decoration was really in excellent taste. The dull ruby tiles + that extended from the foot of the walls to the verge of a + circular clump of tall iris plants, surrounding in turn a sunken + basin of white marble filled with water, were obviously of the + best quality. He admired extremely the purple leather curtains + drawn along one entire side, framing a huge white-tiled stove. + The central partitions of the skylight had been slid back, and + the warm air from outside penetrated into the very heart of the + house. + + He stood, his hands behind him, his head bent back on his high, + narrow shoulders, spying the tracery on the columns and the + pattern of the frieze which ran round the ivory-coloured walls + under the gallery. Evidently, no pains had been spared. It was + quite the house of a gentleman. He went up to the curtains, and, + having discovered how they were worked, drew them asunder and + disclosed the picture-gallery, ending in a great window taking up + the whole end of the room. It had a black oak floor, and its + walls, again, were of ivory white. He went on throwing open + doors, and peeping in. Everything was in apple-pie order, ready + for immediate occupation. + + He turned round at last to speak to Irene, and saw her standing + over in the garden entrance, with her husband and Bosinney. + + Though not remarkable for sensibility, James felt at once that + something was wrong. He went up to them, and, vaguely alarmed, + ignorant of the nature of the trouble, made an attempt to smooth + things over. + + “How are you, Mr. Bosinney?” he said, holding out his hand. + “You’ve been spending money pretty freely down here, I should + say!” + + Soames turned his back, and walked away. + + James looked from Bosinney’s frowning face to Irene, and, in his + agitation, spoke his thoughts aloud: “Well, I can’t tell what’s + the matter. Nobody tells me anything!” And, making off after his + son, he heard Bosinney’s short laugh, and his “Well, thank God! + You look so....” Most unfortunately he lost the rest. + + What had happened? He glanced back. Irene was very close to the + architect, and her face not like the face he knew of her. He + hastened up to his son. + + Soames was pacing the picture-gallery. + + “What’s the matter?” said James. “What’s all this?” + + Soames looked at him with his supercilious calm unbroken, but + James knew well enough that he was violently angry. + + “Our friend,” he said, “has exceeded his instructions again, + that’s all. So much the worse for him this time.” + + He turned round and walked back towards the door. James followed + hurriedly, edging himself in front. He saw Irene take her finger + from before her lips, heard her say something in her ordinary + voice, and began to speak before he reached them. + + “There’s a storm coming on. We’d better get home. We can’t take + you, I suppose, Mr. Bosinney? No, I suppose not. Then, good-bye!” + He held out his hand. Bosinney did not take it, but, turning with + a laugh, said: + + “Good-bye, Mr. Forsyte. Don’t get caught in the storm!” and + walked away. + + “Well,” began James, “I don’t know....” + + But the sight of Irene’s face stopped him. Taking hold of his + daughter-in-law by the elbow, he escorted her towards the + carriage. He felt certain, quite certain, they had been making + some appointment or other.... + + Nothing in this world is more sure to upset a Forsyte than the + discovery that something on which he has stipulated to spend a + certain sum has cost more. And this is reasonable, for upon the + accuracy of his estimates the whole policy of his life is + ordered. If he cannot rely on definite values of property, his + compass is amiss; he is adrift upon bitter waters without a helm. + + After writing to Bosinney in the terms that have already been + chronicled, Soames had dismissed the cost of the house from his + mind. He believed that he had made the matter of the final cost + so very plain that the possibility of its being again exceeded + had really never entered his head. On hearing from Bosinney that + his limit of twelve thousand pounds would be exceeded by + something like four hundred, he had grown white with anger. His + original estimate of the cost of the house completed had been ten + thousand pounds, and he had often blamed himself severely for + allowing himself to be led into repeated excesses. Over this last + expenditure, however, Bosinney had put himself completely in the + wrong. How on earth a fellow could make such an ass of himself + Soames could not conceive; but he had done so, and all the + rancour and hidden jealousy that had been burning against him for + so long was now focussed in rage at this crowning piece of + extravagance. The attitude of the confident and friendly husband + was gone. To preserve property—his wife—he had assumed it, to + preserve property of another kind he lost it now. + + “Ah!” he had said to Bosinney when he could speak, “and I suppose + you’re perfectly contented with yourself. But I may as well tell + you that you’ve altogether mistaken your man!” + + What he meant by those words he did not quite know at the time, + but after dinner he looked up the correspondence between himself + and Bosinney to make quite sure. There could be no two opinions + about it—the fellow had made himself liable for that extra four + hundred, or, at all events, for three hundred and fifty of it, + and he would have to make it good. + + He was looking at his wife’s face when he came to this + conclusion. Seated in her usual seat on the sofa, she was + altering the lace on a collar. She had not once spoken to him all + the evening. + + He went up to the mantelpiece, and contemplating his face in the + mirror said: “Your friend the Buccaneer has made a fool of + himself; he will have to pay for it!” + + She looked at him scornfully, and answered: “I don’t know what + you are talking about!” + + “You soon will. A mere trifle, quite beneath your contempt—four + hundred pounds.” + + “Do you mean that you are going to make him pay that towards this + hateful, house?” + + “I do.” + + “And you know he’s got nothing?” + + “Yes.” + + “Then you are meaner than I thought you.” + + Soames turned from the mirror, and unconsciously taking a china + cup from the mantelpiece, clasped his hands around it as though + praying. He saw her bosom rise and fall, her eyes darkening with + anger, and taking no notice of the taunt, he asked quietly: + + “Are you carrying on a flirtation with Bosinney?” + + “No, I am not!” + + Her eyes met his, and he looked away. He neither believed nor + disbelieved her, but he knew that he had made a mistake in + asking; he never had known, never would know, what she was + thinking. The sight of her inscrutable face, the thought of all + the hundreds of evenings he had seen her sitting there like that + soft and passive, but unreadable, unknown, enraged him beyond + measure. + + “I believe you are made of stone,” he said, clenching his fingers + so hard that he broke the fragile cup. The pieces fell into the + grate. And Irene smiled. + + “You seem to forget,” she said, “that cup is not!” + + Soames gripped her arm. “A good beating,” he said, “is the only + thing that would bring you to your senses,” but turning on his + heel, he left the room. + + + + + CHAPTER XIV SOAMES SITS ON THE STAIRS + + Soames went up-stairs that night with the feeling that he had + gone too far. He was prepared to offer excuses for his words. + + He turned out the gas still burning in the passage outside their + room. Pausing, with his hand on the knob of the door, he tried to + shape his apology, for he had no intention of letting her see + that he was nervous. + + But the door did not open, nor when he pulled it and turned the + handle firmly. She must have locked it for some reason, and + forgotten. + + Entering his dressing-room, where the gas was also lighted and + burning low, he went quickly to the other door. That too was + locked. Then he noticed that the camp bed which he occasionally + used was prepared, and his sleeping-suit laid out upon it. He put + his hand up to his forehead, and brought it away wet. It dawned + on him that he was barred out. + + He went back to the door, and rattling the handle stealthily, + called: “Unlock the door, do you hear? Unlock the door!” + + There was a faint rustling, but no answer. + + “Do you hear? Let me in at once—I insist on being let in!” + + He could catch the sound of her breathing close to the door, like + the breathing of a creature threatened by danger. + + There was something terrifying in this inexorable silence, in the + impossibility of getting at her. He went back to the other door, + and putting his whole weight against it, tried to burst it open. + The door was a new one—he had had them renewed himself, in + readiness for their coming in after the honeymoon. In a rage he + lifted his foot to kick in the panel; the thought of the servants + restrained him, and he felt suddenly that he was beaten. + + Flinging himself down in the dressing-room, he took up a book. + + But instead of the print he seemed to see his wife—with her + yellow hair flowing over her bare shoulders, and her great dark + eyes—standing like an animal at bay. And the whole meaning of her + act of revolt came to him. She meant it to be for good. + + He could not sit still, and went to the door again. He could + still hear her, and he called: “Irene! Irene!” + + He did not mean to make his voice pathetic. + + In ominous answer, the faint sounds ceased. He stood with + clenched hands, thinking. + + Presently he stole round on tiptoe, and running suddenly at the + other door, made a supreme effort to break it open. It creaked, + but did not yield. He sat down on the stairs and buried his face + in his hands. + + For a long time he sat there in the dark, the moon through the + skylight above laying a pale smear which lengthened slowly + towards him down the stairway. He tried to be philosophical. + + Since she had locked her doors she had no further claim as a + wife, and he would console himself with other women. + + It was but a spectral journey he made among such delights—he had + no appetite for these exploits. He had never had much, and he had + lost the habit. He felt that he could never recover it. His + hunger could only be appeased by his wife, inexorable and + frightened, behind these shut doors. No other woman could help + him. + + This conviction came to him with terrible force out there in the + dark. + + His philosophy left him; and surly anger took its place. Her + conduct was immoral, inexcusable, worthy of any punishment within + his power. He desired no one but her, and she refused him! + + She must really hate him, then! He had never believed it yet. He + did not believe it now. It seemed to him incredible. He felt as + though he had lost for ever his power of judgment. If she, so + soft and yielding as he had always judged her, could take this + decided step—what could not happen? + + Then he asked himself again if she were carrying on an intrigue + with Bosinney. He did not believe that she was; he could not + afford to believe such a reason for her conduct—the thought was + not to be faced. + + It would be unbearable to contemplate the necessity of making his + marital relations public property. Short of the most convincing + proofs he must still refuse to believe, for he did not wish to + punish himself. And all the time at heart—he _did_ believe. + + The moonlight cast a greyish tinge over his figure, hunched + against the staircase wall. + + Bosinney was in love with her! He hated the fellow, and would not + spare him now. He could and would refuse to pay a penny piece + over twelve thousand and fifty pounds—the extreme limit fixed in + the correspondence; or rather he would pay, he would pay and sue + him for damages. He would go to Jobling and Boulter and put the + matter in their hands. He would ruin the impecunious beggar! And + suddenly—though what connection between the thoughts?—he + reflected that Irene had no money either. They were both beggars. + This gave him a strange satisfaction. + + The silence was broken by a faint creaking through the wall. She + was going to bed at last. Ah! Joy and pleasant dreams! If she + threw the door open wide he would not go in now! + + But his lips, that were twisted in a bitter smile, twitched; he + covered his eyes with his hands.... + + It was late the following afternoon when Soames stood in the + dining-room window gazing gloomily into the Square. + + The sunlight still showered on the plane-trees, and in the breeze + their gay broad leaves shone and swung in rhyme to a barrel organ + at the corner. It was playing a waltz, an old waltz that was out + of fashion, with a fateful rhythm in the notes; and it went on + and on, though nothing indeed but leaves danced to the tune. + + The woman did not look too gay, for she was tired; and from the + tall houses no one threw her down coppers. She moved the organ + on, and three doors off began again. + + It was the waltz they had played at Roger’s when Irene had danced + with Bosinney; and the perfume of the gardenias she had worn came + back to Soames, drifted by the malicious music, as it had been + drifted to him then, when she passed, her hair glistening, her + eyes so soft, drawing Bosinney on and on down an endless + ballroom. + + The organ woman plied her handle slowly; she had been grinding + her tune all day—grinding it in Sloane Street hard by, grinding + it perhaps to Bosinney himself. + + Soames turned, took a cigarette from the carven box, and walked + back to the window. The tune had mesmerized him, and there came + into his view Irene, her sunshade furled, hastening homewards + down the Square, in a soft, rose-coloured blouse with drooping + sleeves, that he did not know. She stopped before the organ, took + out her purse, and gave the woman money. + + Soames shrank back and stood where he could see into the hall. + + She came in with her latch-key, put down her sunshade, and stood + looking at herself in the glass. Her cheeks were flushed as if + the sun had burned them; her lips were parted in a smile. She + stretched her arms out as though to embrace herself, with a laugh + that for all the world was like a sob. + + Soames stepped forward. + + “Very-pretty!” he said. + + But as though shot she spun round, and would have passed him up + the stairs. He barred the way. + + “Why such a hurry?” he said, and his eyes fastened on a curl of + hair fallen loose across her ear.... + + He hardly recognised her. She seemed on fire, so deep and rich + the colour of her cheeks, her eyes, her lips, and of the unusual + blouse she wore. + + She put up her hand and smoothed back the curl. She was breathing + fast and deep, as though she had been running, and with every + breath perfume seemed to come from her hair, and from her body, + like perfume from an opening flower. + + “I don’t like that blouse,” he said slowly, “it’s a soft, + shapeless thing!” + + He lifted his finger towards her breast, but she dashed his hand + aside. + + “Don’t touch me!” she cried. + + He caught her wrist; she wrenched it away. + + “And where may you have been?” he asked. + + “In heaven—out of this house!” With those words she fled + upstairs. + + Outside—in thanksgiving—at the very door, the organ-grinder was + playing the waltz. + + And Soames stood motionless. What prevented him from following + her? + + Was it that, with the eyes of faith, he saw Bosinney looking down + from that high window in Sloane Street, straining his eyes for + yet another glimpse of Irene’s vanished figure, cooling his + flushed face, dreaming of the moment when she flung herself on + his breast—the scent of her still in the air around, and the + sound of her laugh that was like a sob? + + + PART III + + + + + CHAPTER I MRS. MACANDER’S EVIDENCE + + Many people, no doubt, including the editor of the “Ultra + Vivisectionist,” then in the bloom of its first youth, would say + that Soames was less than a man not to have removed the locks + from his wife’s doors, and, after beating her soundly, resumed + wedded happiness. + + Brutality is not so deplorably diluted by humaneness as it used + to be, yet a sentimental segment of the population may still be + relieved to learn that he did none of these things. For active + brutality is not popular with Forsytes; they are too circumspect, + and, on the whole, too softhearted. And in Soames there was some + common pride, not sufficient to make him do a really generous + action, but enough to prevent his indulging in an extremely mean + one, except, perhaps, in very hot blood. Above all this a true + Forsyte refused to feel himself ridiculous. Short of actually + beating his wife, he perceived nothing to be done; he therefore + accepted the situation without another word. + + Throughout the summer and autumn he continued to go to the + office, to sort his pictures, and ask his friends to dinner. + + He did not leave town; Irene refused to go away. The house at + Robin Hill, finished though it was, remained empty and ownerless. + Soames had brought a suit against the Buccaneer, in which he + claimed from him the sum of three hundred and fifty pounds. + + A firm of solicitors, Messrs. Freak and Able, had put in a + defence on Bosinney’s behalf. Admitting the facts, they raised a + point on the correspondence which, divested of legal phraseology, + amounted to this: To speak of “a _free_ hand in the terms of this + correspondence” is an Irish bull. + + By a chance, fortuitous but not improbable in the close borough + of legal circles, a good deal of information came to Soames’s ear + anent this line of policy, the working partner in his firm, + Bustard, happening to sit next at dinner at Walmisley’s, the + Taxing Master, to young Chankery, of the Common Law Bar. + + The necessity for talking what is known as “shop,” which comes on + all lawyers with the removal of the ladies, caused Chankery, a + young and promising advocate, to propound an impersonal conundrum + to his neighbour, whose name he did not know, for, seated as he + permanently was in the background, Bustard had practically no + name. + + He had, said Chankery, a case coming on with a “very nice point.” + He then explained, preserving every professional discretion, the + riddle in Soames’s case. Everyone, he said, to whom he had + spoken, thought it a nice point. The issue was small + unfortunately, “though d——d serious for his client he + believed”—Walmisley’s champagne was bad but plentiful. A Judge + would make short work of it, he was afraid. He intended to make a + big effort—the point was a nice one. What did his neighbour say? + + Bustard, a model of secrecy, said nothing. He related the + incident to Soames however with some malice, for this quiet man + was capable of human feeling, ending with his own opinion that + the point _was_ “a very nice one.” + + In accordance with his resolve, our Forsyte had put his interests + into the hands of Jobling and Boulter. From the moment of doing + so he regretted that he had not acted for himself. On receiving a + copy of Bosinney’s defence he went over to their offices. + + Boulter, who had the matter in hand, Jobling having died some + years before, told him that in his opinion it was rather a nice + point; he would like counsel’s opinion on it. + + Soames told him to go to a good man, and they went to Waterbuck, + Q.C., marking him ten and one, who kept the papers six weeks and + then wrote as follows: + + “In my opinion the true interpretation of this correspondence + depends very much on the intention of the parties, and will turn + upon the evidence given at the trial. I am of opinion that an + attempt should be made to secure from the architect an admission + that he understood he was not to spend at the outside more than + twelve thousand and fifty pounds. With regard to the expression, + ‘a free hand in the terms of this correspondence,’ to which my + attention is directed, the point is a nice one; but I am of + opinion that upon the whole the ruling in ‘Boileau _v_. The + Blasted Cement Co., Ltd.,’ will apply.” + + Upon this opinion they acted, administering interrogatories, but + to their annoyance Messrs. Freak and Able answered these in so + masterly a fashion that nothing whatever was admitted and that + without prejudice. + + It was on October 1 that Soames read Waterbuck’s opinion, in the + dining-room before dinner. + + It made him nervous; not so much because of the case of “Boileau + _v_. The Blasted Cement Co., Ltd.,” as that the point had lately + begun to seem to him, too, a nice one; there was about it just + that pleasant flavour of subtlety so attractive to the best legal + appetites. To have his own impression confirmed by Waterbuck, + Q.C., would have disturbed any man. + + He sat thinking it over, and staring at the empty grate, for + though autumn had come, the weather kept as gloriously fine that + jubilee year as if it were still high August. It was not pleasant + to be disturbed; he desired too passionately to set his foot on + Bosinney’s neck. + + Though he had not seen the architect since the last afternoon at + Robin Hill, he was never free from the sense of his + presence—never free from the memory of his worn face with its + high cheek bones and enthusiastic eyes. It would not be too much + to say that he had never got rid of the feeling of that night + when he heard the peacock’s cry at dawn—the feeling that Bosinney + haunted the house. And every man’s shape that he saw in the dark + evenings walking past, seemed that of him whom George had so + appropriately named the Buccaneer. + + Irene still met him, he was certain; where, or how, he neither + knew, nor asked; deterred by a vague and secret dread of too much + knowledge. It all seemed subterranean nowadays. + + Sometimes when he questioned his wife as to where she had been, + which he still made a point of doing, as every Forsyte should, + she looked very strange. Her self-possession was wonderful, but + there were moments when, behind the mask of her face, inscrutable + as it had always been to him, lurked an expression he had never + been used to see there. + + She had taken to lunching out too; when he asked Bilson if her + mistress had been in to lunch, as often as not she would answer: + “No, sir.” + + He strongly disapproved of her gadding about by herself, and told + her so. But she took no notice. There was something that angered, + amazed, yet almost amused him about the calm way in which she + disregarded his wishes. It was really as if she were hugging to + herself the thought of a triumph over him. + + He rose from the perusal of Waterbuck, Q.C.’s opinion, and, going + upstairs, entered her room, for she did not lock her doors till + bed-time—she had the decency, he found, to save the feelings of + the servants. She was brushing her hair, and turned to him with + strange fierceness. + + “What do you want?” she said. “Please leave my room!” + + He answered: “I want to know how long this state of things + between us is to last? I have put up with it long enough.” + + “Will you please leave my room?” + + “Will you treat me as your husband?” + + “No.” + + “Then, I shall take steps to make you.” + + “Do!” + + He stared, amazed at the calmness of her answer. Her lips were + compressed in a thin line; her hair lay in fluffy masses on her + bare shoulders, in all its strange golden contrast to her dark + eyes—those eyes alive with the emotions of fear, hate, contempt, + and odd, haunting triumph. + + “Now, please, will you leave my room?” He turned round, and went + sulkily out. + + He knew very well that he had no intention of taking steps, and + he saw that she knew too—knew that he was afraid to. + + It was a habit with him to tell her the doings of his day: how + such and such clients had called; how he had arranged a mortgage + for Parkes; how that long-standing suit of Fryer _v_. Forsyte was + getting on, which, arising in the preternaturally careful + disposition of his property by his great uncle Nicholas, who had + tied it up so that no one could get at it at all, seemed likely + to remain a source of income for several solicitors till the Day + of Judgment. + + And how he had called in at Jobson’s, and seen a Boucher sold, + which he had just missed buying of Talleyrand and Sons in Pall + Mall. + + He had an admiration for Boucher, Watteau, and all that school. + It was a habit with him to tell her all these matters, and he + continued to do it even now, talking for long spells at dinner, + as though by the volubility of words he could conceal from + himself the ache in his heart. + + Often, if they were alone, he made an attempt to kiss her when + she said good-night. He may have had some vague notion that some + night she would let him; or perhaps only the feeling that a + husband ought to kiss his wife. Even if she hated him, he at all + events ought not to put himself in the wrong by neglecting this + ancient rite. + + And why did she hate him? Even now he could not altogether + believe it. It was strange to be hated!—the emotion was too + extreme; yet he hated Bosinney, that Buccaneer, that prowling + vagabond, that night-wanderer. For in his thoughts Soames always + saw him lying in wait—wandering. Ah, but he must be in very low + water! Young Burkitt, the architect, had seen him coming out of a + third-rate restaurant, looking terribly down in the mouth! + + During all the hours he lay awake, thinking over the situation, + which seemed to have no end—unless she should suddenly come to + her senses—never once did the thought of separating from his wife + seriously enter his head.... + + And the Forsytes! What part did they play in this stage of + Soames’s subterranean tragedy? + + Truth to say, little or none, for they were at the sea. + + From hotels, hydropathics, or lodging-houses, they were bathing + daily; laying in a stock of ozone to last them through the + winter. + + Each section, in the vineyard of its own choosing, grew and + culled and pressed and bottled the grapes of a pet sea-air. + + The end of September began to witness their several returns. + + In rude health and small omnibuses, with considerable colour in + their cheeks, they arrived daily from the various termini. The + following morning saw them back at their vocations. + + On the next Sunday Timothy’s was thronged from lunch till dinner. + + Amongst other gossip, too numerous and interesting to relate, + Mrs. Septimus Small mentioned that Soames and Irene had not been + away. + + It remained for a comparative outsider to supply the next + evidence of interest. + + It chanced that one afternoon late in September, Mrs. MacAnder, + Winifred Dartie’s greatest friend, taking a constitutional, with + young Augustus Flippard, on her bicycle in Richmond Park, passed + Irene and Bosinney walking from the bracken towards the Sheen + Gate. + + Perhaps the poor little woman was thirsty, for she had ridden + long on a hard, dry road, and, as all London knows, to ride a + bicycle and talk to young Flippard will try the toughest + constitution; or perhaps the sight of the cool bracken grove, + whence “those two” were coming down, excited her envy. The cool + bracken grove on the top of the hill, with the oak boughs for + roof, where the pigeons were raising an endless wedding hymn, and + the autumn, humming, whispered to the ears of lovers in the fern, + while the deer stole by. The bracken grove of irretrievable + delights, of golden minutes in the long marriage of heaven and + earth! The bracken grove, sacred to stags, to strange tree-stump + fauns leaping around the silver whiteness of a birch-tree nymph + at summer dusk. + + This lady knew all the Forsytes, and having been at Jun’s “at + home,” was not at a loss to see with whom she had to deal. Her + own marriage, poor thing, had not been successful, but having had + the good sense and ability to force her husband into pronounced + error, she herself had passed through the necessary divorce + proceedings without incurring censure. + + She was therefore a judge of all that sort of thing, and lived in + one of those large buildings, where in small sets of apartments, + are gathered incredible quantities of Forsytes, whose chief + recreation out of business hours is the discussion of each + other’s affairs. + + Poor little woman, perhaps she was thirsty, certainly she was + bored, for Flippard was a wit. To see “those two” in so unlikely + a spot was quite a merciful “pick-me-up.” + + At the MacAnder, like all London, Time pauses. + + This small but remarkable woman merits attention; her all-seeing + eye and shrewd tongue were inscrutably the means of furthering + the ends of Providence. + + With an air of being in at the death, she had an almost + distressing power of taking care of herself. She had done more, + perhaps, in her way than any woman about town to destroy the + sense of chivalry which still clogs the wheel of civilization. So + smart she was, and spoken of endearingly as “the little + MacAnder!” + + Dressing tightly and well, she belonged to a Woman’s Club, but + was by no means the neurotic and dismal type of member who was + always thinking of her rights. She took her rights unconsciously, + they came natural to her, and she knew exactly how to make the + most of them without exciting anything but admiration amongst + that great class to whom she was affiliated, not precisely + perhaps by manner, but by birth, breeding, and the true, the + secret gauge, a sense of property. + + The daughter of a Bedfordshire solicitor, by the daughter of a + clergyman, she had never, through all the painful experience of + being married to a very mild painter with a cranky love of + Nature, who had deserted her for an actress, lost touch with the + requirements, beliefs, and inner feeling of Society; and, on + attaining her liberty, she placed herself without effort in the + very van of Forsyteism. + + Always in good spirits, and “full of information,” she was + universally welcomed. She excited neither surprise nor + disapprobation when encountered on the Rhine or at Zermatt, + either alone, or travelling with a lady and two gentlemen; it was + felt that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself; + and the hearts of all Forsytes warmed to that wonderful instinct, + which enabled her to enjoy everything without giving anything + away. It was generally felt that to such women as Mrs. MacAnder + should we look for the perpetuation and increase of our best type + of woman. She had never had any children. + + If there was one thing more than another that she could not stand + it was one of those soft women with what men called “charm” about + them, and for Mrs. Soames she always had an especial dislike. + + Obscurely, no doubt, she felt that if charm were once admitted as + the criterion, smartness and capability must go to the wall; and + she hated—with a hatred the deeper that at times this so-called + charm seemed to disturb all calculations—the subtle seductiveness + which she could not altogether overlook in Irene. + + She said, however, that she could see nothing in the woman—there + was no “go” about her—she would never be able to stand up for + herself—anyone could take advantage of her, that was plain—she + could not see in fact what men found to admire! + + She was not really ill-natured, but, in maintaining her position + after the trying circumstances of her married life, she had found + it so necessary to be “full of information,” that the idea of + holding her tongue about “those two” in the Park never occurred + to her. + + And it so happened that she was dining that very evening at + Timothy’s, where she went sometimes to “cheer the old things up,” + as she was wont to put it. The same people were always asked to + meet her: Winifred Dartie and her husband; Francie, because she + belonged to the artistic circles, for Mrs. MacAnder was known to + contribute articles on dress to “The Ladies Kingdom Come”. and + for her to flirt with, provided they could be obtained, two of + the Hayman boys, who, though they never said anything, were + believed to be fast and thoroughly intimate with all that was + latest in smart Society. + + At twenty-five minutes past seven she turned out the electric + light in her little hall, and wrapped in her opera cloak with the + chinchilla collar, came out into the corridor, pausing a moment + to make sure she had her latch-key. These little self-contained + flats were convenient; to be sure, she had no light and no air, + but she could shut it up whenever she liked and go away. There + was no bother with servants, and she never felt tied as she used + to when poor, dear Fred was always about, in his mooney way. She + retained no rancour against poor, dear Fred, he was such a fool; + but the thought of that actress drew from her, even now, a + little, bitter, derisive smile. + + Firmly snapping the door to, she crossed the corridor, with its + gloomy, yellow-ochre walls, and its infinite vista of brown, + numbered doors. The lift was going down; and wrapped to the ears + in the high cloak, with every one of her auburn hairs in its + place, she waited motionless for it to stop at her floor. The + iron gates clanked open; she entered. There were already three + occupants, a man in a great white waistcoat, with a large, smooth + face like a baby’s, and two old ladies in black, with mittened + hands. + + Mrs. MacAnder smiled at them; she knew everybody; and all these + three, who had been admirably silent before, began to talk at + once. This was Mrs. MacAnder’s successful secret. She provoked + conversation. + + Throughout a descent of five stories the conversation continued, + the lift boy standing with his back turned, his cynical face + protruding through the bars. + + At the bottom they separated, the man in the white waistcoat + sentimentally to the billiard room, the old ladies to dine and + say to each other: “A dear little woman!” “Such a rattle!” and + Mrs. MacAnder to her cab. + + When Mrs. MacAnder dined at Timothy’s, the conversation (although + Timothy himself could never be induced to be present) took that + wider, man-of-the-world tone current among Forsytes at large, and + this, no doubt, was what put her at a premium there. + + Mrs. Small and Aunt Hester found it an exhilarating change. “If + only,” they said, “Timothy would meet her!” It was felt that she + would do him good. She could tell you, for instance, the latest + story of Sir Charles Fiste’s son at Monte Carlo; who was the real + heroine of Tynemouth Eddy’s fashionable novel that everyone was + holding up their hands over, and what they were doing in Paris + about wearing bloomers. She was so sensible, too, knowing all + about that vexed question, whether to send young Nicholas’ eldest + into the navy as his mother wished, or make him an accountant as + his father thought would be safer. She strongly deprecated the + navy. If you were not exceptionally brilliant or exceptionally + well connected, they passed you over so disgracefully, and what + was it after all to look forward to, even if you became an + admiral—a pittance! An accountant had many more chances, but let + him be put with a good firm, where there was no risk at starting! + + Sometimes she would give them a tip on the Stock Exchange; not + that Mrs. Small or Aunt Hester ever took it. They had indeed no + money to invest; but it seemed to bring them into such exciting + touch with the realities of life. It was an event. They would ask + Timothy, they said. But they never did, knowing in advance that + it would upset him. Surreptitiously, however, for weeks after + they would look in that paper, which they took with respect on + account of its really fashionable proclivities, to see whether + “Bright’s Rubies” or “The Woollen Mackintosh Company” were up or + down. Sometimes they could not find the name of the company at + all; and they would wait until James or Roger or even Swithin + came in, and ask them in voices trembling with curiosity how that + “Bolivia Lime and Speltrate” was doing—they could not find it in + the paper. + + And Roger would answer: “What do you want to know for? Some + trash! You’ll go burning your fingers—investing your money in + lime, and things you know nothing about! Who told you?” and + ascertaining what they had been told, he would go away, and, + making inquiries in the City, would perhaps invest some of his + own money in the concern. + + It was about the middle of dinner, just in fact as the saddle of + mutton had been brought in by Smither, that Mrs. MacAnder, + looking airily round, said: “Oh! and whom do you think I passed + to-day in Richmond Park? You’ll never guess—Mrs. Soames and—Mr. + Bosinney. They must have been down to look at the house!” + + Winifred Dartie coughed, and no one said a word. It was the piece + of evidence they had all unconsciously been waiting for. + + To do Mrs. MacAnder justice, she had been to Switzerland and the + Italian lakes with a party of three, and had not heard of + Soames’s rupture with his architect. She could not tell, + therefore, the profound impression her words would make. + + Upright and a little flushed, she moved her small, shrewd eyes + from face to face, trying to gauge the effect of her words. On + either side of her a Hayman boy, his lean, taciturn, hungry face + turned towards his plate, ate his mutton steadily. + + These two, Giles and Jesse, were so alike and so inseparable that + they were known as the Dromios. They never talked, and seemed + always completely occupied in doing nothing. It was popularly + supposed that they were cramming for an important examination. + They walked without hats for long hours in the Gardens attached + to their house, books in their hands, a fox-terrier at their + heels, never saying a word, and smoking all the time. Every + morning, about fifty yards apart, they trotted down Campden Hill + on two lean hacks, with legs as long as their own, and every + morning about an hour later, still fifty yards apart, they + cantered up again. Every evening, wherever they had dined, they + might be observed about half-past ten, leaning over the + balustrade of the Alhambra promenade. + + They were never seen otherwise than together; in this way passing + their lives, apparently perfectly content. + + Inspired by some dumb stirring within them of the feelings of + gentlemen, they turned at this painful moment to Mrs. MacAnder, + and said in precisely the same voice: “Have you seen the...?” + + Such was her surprise at being thus addressed that she put down + her fork; and Smither, who was passing, promptly removed her + plate. Mrs. MacAnder, however, with presence of mind, said + instantly: “I must have a little more of that nice mutton.” + + But afterwards in the drawing—room she sat down by Mrs. Small, + determined to get to the bottom of the matter. And she began: + + “What a charming woman, Mrs. Soames; such a sympathetic + temperament! Soames is a really lucky man!” + + Her anxiety for information had not made sufficient allowance for + that inner Forsyte skin which refuses to share its troubles with + outsiders. + + Mrs. Septimus Small, drawing herself up with a creak and rustle + of her whole person, said, shivering in her dignity: + + “My dear, it is a subject we do not talk about!” + + + + + CHAPTER II NIGHT IN THE PARK + + Although with her infallible instinct Mrs. Small had said the + very thing to make her guest “more intriguee than ever,” it is + difficult to see how else she could truthfully have spoken. + + It was not a subject which the Forsytes could talk about even + among themselves—to use the word Soames had invented to + characterize to himself the situation, it was “subterranean.” + + Yet, within a week of Mrs. MacAnder’s encounter in Richmond Park, + to all of them—save Timothy, from whom it was carefully kept—to + James on his domestic beat from the Poultry to Park Lane, to + George the wild one, on his daily adventure from the bow window + at the Haversnake to the billiard room at the “Red Pottle,” was + it known that “those two” had gone to extremes. + + George (it was he who invented many of those striking expressions + still current in fashionable circles) voiced the sentiment more + accurately than any one when he said to his brother Eustace that + “the Buccaneer” was “going it”. he expected Soames was about “fed + up.” + + It was felt that he must be, and yet, what could be done? He + ought perhaps to take steps; but to take steps would be + deplorable. + + Without an open scandal which they could not see their way to + recommending, it was difficult to see what steps could be taken. + In this impasse, the only thing was to say nothing to Soames, and + nothing to each other; in fact, to pass it over. + + By displaying towards Irene a dignified coldness, some impression + might be made upon her; but she was seldom now to be seen, and + there seemed a slight difficulty in seeking her out on purpose to + show her coldness. Sometimes in the privacy of his bedroom James + would reveal to Emily the real suffering that his son’s + misfortune caused him. + + “_I_ can’t tell,” he would say; “it worries me out of my life. + There’ll be a scandal, and that’ll do him no good. I shan’t say + anything to him. There might be nothing in it. What do you think? + She’s very artistic, they tell me. What? Oh, you’re a ‘regular + Juley’! Well, I don’t know; I expect the worst. This is what + comes of having no children. I knew how it would be from the + first. They never told me they didn’t mean to have any + children—nobody tells me anything!” + + On his knees by the side of the bed, his eyes open and fixed with + worry, he would breathe into the counterpane. Clad in his + nightshirt, his neck poked forward, his back rounded, he + resembled some long white bird. + + “Our Father—,” he repeated, turning over and over again the + thought of this possible scandal. + + Like old Jolyon, he, too, at the bottom of his heart set the + blame of the tragedy down to family interference. What business + had that lot—he began to think of the Stanhope Gate branch, + including young Jolyon and his daughter, as “that lot”—to + introduce a person like this Bosinney into the family? (He had + heard George’s soubriquet, “The Buccaneer,” but he could make + nothing of that—the young man was an architect.) + + He began to feel that his brother Jolyon, to whom he had always + looked up and on whose opinion he had relied, was not quite what + he had expected. + + Not having his eldest brother’s force of character, he was more + sad than angry. His great comfort was to go to Winifred’s, and + take the little Darties in his carriage over to Kensington + Gardens, and there, by the Round Pond, he could often be seen + walking with his eyes fixed anxiously on little Publius Dartie’s + sailing-boat, which he had himself freighted with a penny, as + though convinced that it would never again come to shore; while + little Publius—who, James delighted to say, was not a bit like + his father skipping along under his lee, would try to get him to + bet another that it never would, having found that it always did. + And James would make the bet; he always paid—sometimes as many as + three or four pennies in the afternoon, for the game seemed never + to pall on little Publius—and always in paying he said: “Now, + that’s for your money-box. Why, you’re getting quite a rich man!” + The thought of his little grandson’s growing wealth was a real + pleasure to him. But little Publius knew a sweet-shop, and a + trick worth two of that. + + And they would walk home across the Park, James’ figure, with + high shoulders and absorbed and worried face, exercising its + tall, lean protectorship, pathetically unregarded, over the + robust child-figures of Imogen and little Publius. + + But those Gardens and that Park were not sacred to James. + Forsytes and tramps, children and lovers, rested and wandered day + after day, night after night, seeking one and all some freedom + from labour, from the reek and turmoil of the streets. + + The leaves browned slowly, lingering with the sun and summer-like + warmth of the nights. + + On Saturday, October 5, the sky that had been blue all day + deepened after sunset to the bloom of purple grapes. There was no + moon, and a clear dark, like some velvety garment, was wrapped + around the trees, whose thinned branches, resembling plumes, + stirred not in the still, warm air. All London had poured into + the Park, draining the cup of summer to its dregs. + + Couple after couple, from every gate, they streamed along the + paths and over the burnt grass, and one after another, silently + out of the lighted spaces, stole into the shelter of the feathery + trees, where, blotted against some trunk, or under the shadow of + shrubs, they were lost to all but themselves in the heart of the + soft darkness. + + To fresh-comers along the paths, these forerunners formed but + part of that passionate dusk, whence only a strange murmur, like + the confused beating of hearts, came forth. But when that murmur + reached each couple in the lamp-light their voices wavered, and + ceased; their arms enlaced, their eyes began seeking, searching, + probing the blackness. Suddenly, as though drawn by invisible + hands, they, too, stepped over the railing, and, silent as + shadows, were gone from the light. + + The stillness, enclosed in the far, inexorable roar of the town, + was alive with the myriad passions, hopes, and loves of + multitudes of struggling human atoms; for in spite of the + disapproval of that great body of Forsytes, the Municipal + Council—to whom Love had long been considered, next to the Sewage + Question, the gravest danger to the community—a process was going + on that night in the Park, and in a hundred other parks, without + which the thousand factories, churches, shops, taxes, and drains, + of which they were custodians, were as arteries without blood, a + man without a heart. + + The instincts of self-forgetfulness, of passion, and of love, + hiding under the trees, away from the trustees of their + remorseless enemy, the “sense of property,” were holding a + stealthy revel, and Soames, returning from Bayswater—for he had + been alone to dine at Timothy’s walking home along the water, + with his mind upon that coming lawsuit, had the blood driven from + his heart by a low laugh and the sound of kisses. He thought of + writing to _The Times_ the next morning, to draw the attention of + the Editor to the condition of our parks. He did not, however, + for he had a horror of seeing his name in print. + + But starved as he was, the whispered sounds in the stillness, the + half-seen forms in the dark, acted on him like some morbid + stimulant. He left the path along the water and stole under the + trees, along the deep shadow of little plantations, where the + boughs of chestnut trees hung their great leaves low, and there + was blacker refuge, shaping his course in circles which had for + their object a stealthy inspection of chairs side by side, + against tree-trunks, of enlaced lovers, who stirred at his + approach. + + Now he stood still on the rise overlooking the Serpentine, where, + in full lamp-light, black against the silver water, sat a couple + who never moved, the woman’s face buried on the man’s neck—a + single form, like a carved emblem of passion, silent and + unashamed. + + And, stung by the sight, Soames hurried on deeper into the shadow + of the trees. + + In this search, who knows what he thought and what he sought? + Bread for hunger—light in darkness? Who knows what he expected to + find—impersonal knowledge of the human heart—the end of his + private subterranean tragedy—for, again, who knew, but that each + dark couple, unnamed, unnameable, might not be he and she? + + But it could not be such knowledge as this that he was + seeking—the wife of Soames Forsyte sitting in the Park like a + common wench! Such thoughts were inconceivable; and from tree to + tree, with his noiseless step, he passed. + + Once he was sworn at; once the whisper, “If only it could always + be like this!” sent the blood flying again from his heart, and he + waited there, patient and dogged, for the two to move. But it was + only a poor thin slip of a shop-girl in her draggled blouse who + passed him, clinging to her lover’s arm. + + A hundred other lovers too whispered that hope in the stillness + of the trees, a hundred other lovers clung to each other. + + But shaking himself with sudden disgust, Soames returned to the + path, and left that seeking for he knew not what. + + + + + CHAPTER III MEETING AT THE BOTANICAL + + Young Jolyon, whose circumstances were not those of a Forsyte, + found at times a difficulty in sparing the money needful for + those country jaunts and researches into Nature, without having + prosecuted which no watercolour artist ever puts brush to paper. + + He was frequently, in fact, obliged to take his colour-box into + the Botanical Gardens, and there, on his stool, in the shade of a + monkey-puzzler or in the lee of some India-rubber plant, he would + spend long hours sketching. + + An Art critic who had recently been looking at his work had + delivered himself as follows: + + “In a way your drawings are very good; tone and colour, in some + of them certainly quite a feeling for Nature. But, you see, + they’re so scattered; you’ll never get the public to look at + them. Now, if you’d taken a definite subject, such as ‘London by + Night,’ or ‘The Crystal Palace in the Spring,’ and made a regular + series, the public would have known at once what they were + looking at. I can’t lay too much stress upon that. All the men + who are making great names in Art, like Crum Stone or Bleeder, + are making them by avoiding the unexpected; by specializing and + putting their works all in the same pigeon-hole, so that the + public know at once where to go. And this stands to reason, for + if a man’s a collector he doesn’t want people to smell at the + canvas to find out whom his pictures are by; he wants them to be + able to say at once, ‘A capital Forsyte!’ It is all the more + important for you to be careful to choose a subject that they can + lay hold of on the spot, since there’s no very marked originality + in your style.” + + Young Jolyon, standing by the little piano, where a bowl of dried + rose leaves, the only produce of the garden, was deposited on a + bit of faded damask, listened with his dim smile. + + Turning to his wife, who was looking at the speaker with an angry + expression on her thin face, he said: + + “You see, dear?” + + “I do _not_,” she answered in her staccato voice, that still had + a little foreign accent; “your style _has_ originality.” + + The critic looked at her, smiled’ deferentially, and said no + more. Like everyone else, he knew their history. + + The words bore good fruit with young Jolyon; they were contrary + to all that he believed in, to all that he theoretically held + good in his Art, but some strange, deep instinct moved him + against his will to turn them to profit. + + He discovered therefore one morning that an idea had come to him + for making a series of watercolour drawings of London. How the + idea had arisen he could not tell; and it was not till the + following year, when he had completed and sold them at a very + fair price, that in one of his impersonal moods, he found himself + able to recollect the Art critic, and to discover in his own + achievement another proof that he was a Forsyte. + + He decided to commence with the Botanical Gardens, where he had + already made so many studies, and chose the little artificial + pond, sprinkled now with an autumn shower of red and yellow + leaves, for though the gardeners longed to sweep them off, they + could not reach them with their brooms. The rest of the gardens + they swept bare enough, removing every morning Nature’s rain of + leaves; piling them in heaps, whence from slow fires rose the + sweet, acrid smoke that, like the cuckoo’s note for spring, the + scent of lime trees for the summer, is the true emblem of the + fall. The gardeners’ tidy souls could not abide the gold and + green and russet pattern on the grass. The gravel paths must lie + unstained, ordered, methodical, without knowledge of the + realities of life, nor of that slow and beautiful decay which + flings crowns underfoot to star the earth with fallen glories, + whence, as the cycle rolls, will leap again wild spring. + + Thus each leaf that fell was marked from the moment when it + fluttered a good-bye and dropped, slow turning, from its twig. + + But on that little pond the leaves floated in peace, and praised + Heaven with their hues, the sunlight haunting over them. + + And so young Jolyon found them. + + Coming there one morning in the middle of October, he was + disconcerted to find a bench about twenty paces from his stand + occupied, for he had a proper horror of anyone seeing him at + work. + + A lady in a velvet jacket was sitting there, with her eyes fixed + on the ground. A flowering laurel, however, stood between, and, + taking shelter behind this, young Jolyon prepared his easel. + + His preparations were leisurely; he caught, as every true artist + should, at anything that might delay for a moment the effort of + his work, and he found himself looking furtively at this unknown + dame. + + Like his father before him, he had an eye for a face. This face + was charming! + + He saw a rounded chin nestling in a cream ruffle, a delicate face + with large dark eyes and soft lips. A black “picture” hat + concealed the hair; her figure was lightly poised against the + back of the bench, her knees were crossed; the tip of a + patent-leather shoe emerged beneath her skirt. There was + something, indeed, inexpressibly dainty about the person of this + lady, but young Jolyon’s attention was chiefly riveted by the + look on her face, which reminded him of his wife. It was as + though its owner had come into contact with forces too strong for + her. It troubled him, arousing vague feelings of attraction and + chivalry. Who was she? And what doing there, alone? + + Two young gentlemen of that peculiar breed, at once forward and + shy, found in the Regent’s Park, came by on their way to lawn + tennis, and he noted with disapproval their furtive stares of + admiration. A loitering gardener halted to do something + unnecessary to a clump of pampas grass; he, too, wanted an excuse + for peeping. A gentleman, old, and, by his hat, a professor of + horticulture, passed three times to scrutinize her long and + stealthily, a queer expression about his lips. + + With all these men young Jolyon felt the same vague irritation. + She looked at none of them, yet was he certain that every man who + passed would look at her like that. + + Her face was not the face of a sorceress, who in every look holds + out to men the offer of pleasure; it had none of the “devil’s + beauty” so highly prized among the first Forsytes of the land; + neither was it of that type, no less adorable, associated with + the box of chocolate; it was not of the spiritually passionate, + or passionately spiritual order, peculiar to house-decoration and + modern poetry; nor did it seem to promise to the playwright + material for the production of the interesting and neurasthenic + figure, who commits suicide in the last act. + + In shape and colouring, in its soft persuasive passivity, its + sensuous purity, this woman’s face reminded him of Titian’s + “Heavenly Love,” a reproduction of which hung over the sideboard + in his dining-room. And her attraction seemed to be in this soft + passivity, in the feeling she gave that to pressure she must + yield. + + For what or whom was she waiting, in the silence, with the trees + dropping here and there a leaf, and the thrushes strutting close + on grass, touched with the sparkle of the autumn rime? Then her + charming face grew eager, and, glancing round, with almost a + lover’s jealousy, young Jolyon saw Bosinney striding across the + grass. + + Curiously he watched the meeting, the look in their eyes, the + long clasp of their hands. They sat down close together, linked + for all their outward discretion. He heard the rapid murmur of + their talk; but what they said he could not catch. + + He had rowed in the galley himself! He knew the long hours of + waiting and the lean minutes of a half-public meeting; the + tortures of suspense that haunt the unhallowed lover. + + It required, however, but a glance at their two faces to see that + this was none of those affairs of a season that distract men and + women about town; none of those sudden appetites that wake up + ravening, and are surfeited and asleep again in six weeks. This + was the real thing! This was what had happened to himself! Out of + this anything might come! + + Bosinney was pleading, and she so quiet, so soft, yet immovable + in her passivity, sat looking over the grass. + + Was he the man to carry her off, that tender, passive being, who + would never stir a step for herself? Who had given him all + herself, and would die for him, but perhaps would never run away + with him! + + It seemed to young Jolyon that he could hear her saying: “But, + darling, it would ruin you!” For he himself had experienced to + the full the gnawing fear at the bottom of each woman’s heart + that she is a drag on the man she loves. + + And he peeped at them no more; but their soft, rapid talk came to + his ears, with the stuttering song of some bird who seemed trying + to remember the notes of spring: Joy—tragedy? Which—which? + + And gradually their talk ceased; long silence followed. + + “And where does Soames come in?” young Jolyon thought. “People + think she is concerned about the sin of deceiving her husband! + Little they know of women! She’s eating, after starvation—taking + her revenge! And Heaven help her—for he’ll take his.” + + He heard the swish of silk, and, spying round the laurel, saw + them walking away, their hands stealthily joined.... + + At the end of July old Jolyon had taken his grand-daughter to the + mountains; and on that visit (the last they ever paid) June + recovered to a great extent her health and spirits. In the + hotels, filled with British Forsytes—for old Jolyon could not + bear a “set of Germans,” as he called all foreigners—she was + looked upon with respect—the only grand-daughter of that + fine-looking, and evidently wealthy, old Mr. Forsyte. She did not + mix freely with people—to mix freely with people was not Jun’s + habit—but she formed some friendships, and notably one in the + Rhone Valley, with a French girl who was dying of consumption. + + Determining at once that her friend should not die, she forgot, + in the institution of a campaign against Death, much of her own + trouble. + + Old Jolyon watched the new intimacy with relief and disapproval; + for this additional proof that her life was to be passed amongst + “lame ducks” worried him. Would she never make a friendship or + take an interest in something that would be of real benefit to + her? + + “Taking up with a parcel of foreigners,” he called it. He often, + however, brought home grapes or roses, and presented them to + “Mam’zelle” with an ingratiating twinkle. + + Towards the end of September, in spite of Jun’s disapproval, + Mademoiselle Vigor breathed her last in the little hotel at St. + Luc, to which they had moved her; and June took her defeat so + deeply to heart that old Jolyon carried her away to Paris. Here, + in contemplation of the “Venus de Milo” and the “Madeleine,” she + shook off her depression, and when, towards the middle of + October, they returned to town, her grandfather believed that he + had effected a cure. + + No sooner, however, had they established themselves in Stanhope + Gate than he perceived to his dismay a return of her old absorbed + and brooding manner. She would sit, staring in front of her, her + chin on her hand, like a little Norse spirit, grim and intent, + while all around in the electric light, then just installed, + shone the great, drawing-room brocaded up to the frieze, full of + furniture from Baple and Pullbred’s. And in the huge gilt mirror + were reflected those Dresden china groups of young men in tight + knee breeches, at the feet of full-bosomed ladies nursing on + their laps pet lambs, which old Jolyon had bought when he was a + bachelor and thought so highly of in these days of degenerate + taste. He was a man of most open mind, who, more than any Forsyte + of them all, had moved with the times, but he could never forget + that he had bought these groups at Jobson’s, and given a lot of + money for them. He often said to June, with a sort of + disillusioned contempt: + + “_You_ don’t care about them! They’re not the gimcrack things you + and your friends like, but they cost me seventy pounds!” He was + not a man who allowed his taste to be warped when he knew for + solid reasons that it was sound. + + One of the first things that June did on getting home was to go + round to Timothy’s. She persuaded herself that it was her duty to + call there, and cheer him with an account of all her travels; but + in reality she went because she knew of no other place where, by + some random speech, or roundabout question, she could glean news + of Bosinney. + + They received her most cordially: And how was her dear + grandfather? He had not been to see them since May. Her Uncle + Timothy was very poorly, he had had a lot of trouble with the + chimney-sweep in his bedroom; the stupid man had let the soot + down the chimney! It had quite upset her uncle. + + June sat there a long time, dreading, yet passionately hoping, + that they would speak of Bosinney. + + But paralyzed by unaccountable discretion, Mrs. Septimus Small + let fall no word, neither did she question June about him. In + desperation the girl asked at last whether Soames and Irene were + in town—she had not yet been to see anyone. + + It was Aunt Hester who replied: Oh, yes, they were in town, they + had not been away at all. There was some little difficulty about + the house, she believed. June had heard, no doubt! She had better + ask her Aunt Juley! + + June turned to Mrs. Small, who sat upright in her chair, her + hands clasped, her face covered with innumerable pouts. In answer + to the girl’s look she maintained a strange silence, and when she + spoke it was to ask June whether she had worn night-socks up in + those high hotels where it must be so cold of a night. + + June answered that she had not, she hated the stuffy things; and + rose to leave. + + Mrs. Small’s infallibly chosen silence was far more ominous to + her than anything that could have been said. + + Before half an hour was over she had dragged the truth from Mrs. + Baynes in Lowndes Square, that Soames was bringing an action + against Bosinney over the decoration of the house. + + Instead of disturbing her, the news had a strangely calming + effect; as though she saw in the prospect of this struggle new + hope for herself. She learnt that the case was expected to come + on in about a month, and there seemed little or no prospect of + Bosinney’s success. + + “And whatever he’ll do I can’t think,” said Mrs. Baynes; “it’s + very dreadful for him, you know—he’s got no money—he’s very hard + up. And we can’t help him, I’m sure. I’m told the money-lenders + won’t lend if you have no security, and he has none—none at all.” + + Her embonpoint had increased of late; she was in the full swing + of autumn organization, her writing-table literally strewn with + the menus of charity functions. She looked meaningly at June, + with her round eyes of parrot-grey. + + The sudden flush that rose on the girl’s intent young face—she + must have seen spring up before her a great hope—the sudden + sweetness of her smile, often came back to Lady Baynes in after + years (Baynes was knighted when he built that public Museum of + Art which has given so much employment to officials, and so + little pleasure to those working classes for whom it was + designed). + + The memory of that change, vivid and touching, like the breaking + open of a flower, or the first sun after long winter, the memory, + too, of all that came after, often intruded itself, + unaccountably, inopportunely on Lady Baynes, when her mind was + set upon the most important things. + + This was the very afternoon of the day that young Jolyon + witnessed the meeting in the Botanical Gardens, and on this day, + too, old Jolyon paid a visit to his solicitors, Forsyte, Bustard, + and Forsyte, in the Poultry. Soames was not in, he had gone down + to Somerset House; Bustard was buried up to the hilt in papers + and that inaccessible apartment, where he was judiciously placed, + in order that he might do as much work as possible; but James was + in the front office, biting a finger, and lugubriously turning + over the pleadings in Forsyte _v_. Bosinney. + + This sound lawyer had only a sort of luxurious dread of the “nice + point,” enough to set up a pleasurable feeling of fuss; for his + good practical sense told him that if he himself were on the + Bench he would not pay much attention to it. But he was afraid + that this Bosinney would go bankrupt and Soames would have to + find the money after all, and costs into the bargain. And behind + this tangible dread there was always that intangible trouble, + lurking in the background, intricate, dim, scandalous, like a bad + dream, and of which this action was but an outward and visible + sign. + + He raised his head as old Jolyon came in, and muttered: “How are + you, Jolyon? Haven’t seen you for an age. You’ve been to + Switzerland, they tell me. This young Bosinney, he’s got himself + into a mess. I knew how it would be!” He held out the papers, + regarding his elder brother with nervous gloom. + + Old Jolyon read them in silence, and while he read them James + looked at the floor, biting his fingers the while. + + Old Jolyon pitched them down at last, and they fell with a thump + amongst a mass of affidavits in “_re_ Buncombe, deceased,” one of + the many branches of that parent and profitable tree, “Fryer _v_. + Forsyte.” + + “I don’t know what Soames is about,” he said, “to make a fuss + over a few hundred pounds. I thought he was a man of property.” + + James’ long upper lip twitched angrily; he could not bear his son + to be attacked in such a spot. + + “It’s not the money,” he began, but meeting his brother’s glance, + direct, shrewd, judicial, he stopped. + + There was a silence. + + “I’ve come in for my Will,” said old Jolyon at last, tugging at + his moustache. + + James’ curiosity was roused at once. Perhaps nothing in this life + was more stimulating to him than a Will; it was the supreme deal + with property, the final inventory of a man’s belongings, the + last word on what he was worth. He sounded the bell. + + “Bring in Mr. Jolyon’s Will,” he said to an anxious, dark-haired + clerk. + + “You going to make some alterations?” And through his mind there + flashed the thought: “Now, am I worth as much as he?” + + Old Jolyon put the Will in his breast pocket, and James twisted + his long legs regretfully. + + “You’ve made some nice purchases lately, they tell me,” he said. + + “I don’t know where you get your information from,” answered old + Jolyon sharply. “When’s this action coming on? Next month? I + can’t tell what you’ve got in your minds. You must manage your + own affairs; but if you take my advice, you’ll settle it out of + Court. Good-bye!” With a cold handshake he was gone. + + James, his fixed grey-blue eye corkscrewing round some secret + anxious image, began again to bite his finger. + + Old Jolyon took his Will to the offices of the New Colliery + Company, and sat down in the empty Board Room to read it through. + He answered “Down-by-the-starn” Hemmings so tartly when the + latter, seeing his Chairman seated there, entered with the new + Superintendent’s first report, that the Secretary withdrew with + regretful dignity; and sending for the transfer clerk, blew him + up till the poor youth knew not where to look. + + It was not—by George—as he (Down-by-the-starn) would have him + know, for a whippersnapper of a young fellow like him, to come + down to that office, and think that he was God Almighty. He + (Down-by-the-starn) had been head of that office for more years + than a boy like him could count, and if he thought that when he + had finished all his work, he could sit there doing nothing, he + did not know him, Hemmings (Down-by-the-starn), and so forth. + + On the other side of the green baize door old Jolyon sat at the + long, mahogany-and-leather board table, his thick, loose-jointed, + tortoiseshell eye-glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, his + gold pencil moving down the clauses of his Will. + + It was a simple affair, for there were none of those vexatious + little legacies and donations to charities, which fritter away a + man’s possessions, and damage the majestic effect of that little + paragraph in the morning papers accorded to Forsytes who die with + a hundred thousand pounds. + + A simple affair. Just a bequest to his son of twenty thousand, + and “as to the residue of my property of whatsoever kind whether + realty or personalty, or partaking of the nature of either—upon + trust to pay the proceeds rents annual produce dividends or + interest thereof and thereon to my said grand-daughter June + Forsyte or her assigns during her life to be for her sole use and + benefit and without, etc... and from and after her death or + decease upon trust to convey assign transfer or make over the + said last-mentioned lands hereditaments premises trust moneys + stocks funds investments and securities or such as shall then + stand for and represent the same unto such person or persons + whether one or more for such intents purposes and uses and + generally in such manner way and form in all respects as the said + June Forsyte notwithstanding coverture shall by her last Will and + Testament or any writing or writings in the nature of a Will + testament or testamentary disposition to be by her duly made + signed and published direct appoint or make over give and dispose + of the same And in default etc.... Provided always...” and so on, + in seven folios of brief and simple phraseology. + + The Will had been drawn by James in his palmy days. He had + foreseen almost every contingency. + + Old Jolyon sat a long time reading this Will; at last he took + half a sheet of paper from the rack, and made a prolonged pencil + note; then buttoning up the Will, he caused a cab to be called + and drove to the offices of Paramor and Herring, in Lincoln’s Inn + Fields. Jack Herring was dead, but his nephew was still in the + firm, and old Jolyon was closeted with him for half an hour. + + He had kept the hansom, and on coming out, gave the driver the + address—3, Wistaria Avenue. + + He felt a strange, slow satisfaction, as though he had scored a + victory over James and the man of property. They should not poke + their noses into his affairs any more; he had just cancelled + their trusteeships of his Will; he would take the whole of his + business out of their hands, and put it into the hands of young + Herring, and he would move the business of his Companies too. If + that young Soames were such a man of property, he would never + miss a thousand a year or so; and under his great white moustache + old Jolyon grimly smiled. He felt that what he was doing was in + the nature of retributive justice, richly deserved. + + Slowly, surely, with the secret inner process that works the + destruction of an old tree, the poison of the wounds to his + happiness, his will, his pride, had corroded the comely edifice + of his philosophy. Life had worn him down on one side, till, like + that family of which he was the head, he had lost balance. + + To him, borne northwards towards his son’s house, the thought of + the new disposition of property, which he had just set in motion, + appeared vaguely in the light of a stroke of punishment, levelled + at that family and that Society, of which James and his son + seemed to him the representatives. He had made a restitution to + young Jolyon, and restitution to young Jolyon satisfied his + secret craving for revenge—revenge against Time, sorrow, and + interference, against all that incalculable sum of disapproval + that had been bestowed by the world for fifteen years on his only + son. It presented itself as the one possible way of asserting + once more the domination of his will; of forcing James, and + Soames, and the family, and all those hidden masses of Forsytes—a + great stream rolling against the single dam of his obstinacy—to + recognise once and for all that _he would be master_. It was + sweet to think that at last he was going to make the boy a richer + man by far than that son of James, that “man of property.” And it + was sweet to give to Jo, for he loved his son. + + Neither young Jolyon nor his wife were in (young Jolyon indeed + was not back from the Botanical), but the little maid told him + that she expected the master at any moment: + + “He’s always at ’ome to tea, sir, to play with the children.” + + Old Jolyon said he would wait; and sat down patiently enough in + the faded, shabby drawing room, where, now that the summer + chintzes were removed, the old chairs and sofas revealed all + their threadbare deficiencies. He longed to send for the + children; to have them there beside him, their supple bodies + against his knees; to hear Jolly’s: “Hallo, Gran!” and see his + rush; and feel Holly’s soft little hand stealing up against his + cheek. But he would not. There was solemnity in what he had come + to do, and until it was over he would not play. He amused himself + by thinking how with two strokes of his pen he was going to + restore the look of caste so conspicuously absent from everything + in that little house; how he could fill these rooms, or others in + some larger mansion, with triumphs of art from Baple and + Pullbred’s; how he could send little Jolly to Harrow and Oxford + (he no longer had faith in Eton and Cambridge, for his son had + been there); how he could procure little Holly the best musical + instruction, the child had a remarkable aptitude. + + As these visions crowded before him, causing emotion to swell his + heart, he rose, and stood at the window, looking down into the + little walled strip of garden, where the pear-tree, bare of + leaves before its time, stood with gaunt branches in the + slow-gathering mist of the autumn afternoon. The dog Balthasar, + his tail curled tightly over a piebald, furry back, was walking + at the farther end, sniffing at the plants, and at intervals + placing his leg for support against the wall. + + And old Jolyon mused. + + What pleasure was there left but to give? It was pleasant to + give, when you could find one who would be thankful for what you + gave—one of your own flesh and blood! There was no such + satisfaction to be had out of giving to those who did not belong + to you, to those who had no claim on you! Such giving as that was + a betrayal of the individualistic convictions and actions of his + life, of all his enterprise, his labour, and his moderation, of + the great and proud fact that, like tens of thousands of Forsytes + before him, tens of thousands in the present, tens of thousands + in the future, he had always made his own, and held his own, in + the world. + + And, while he stood there looking down on the smut-covered + foliage of the laurels, the black-stained grass-plot, the + progress of the dog Balthasar, all the suffering of the fifteen + years during which he had been baulked of legitimate enjoyment + mingled its gall with the sweetness of the approaching moment. + + Young Jolyon came at last, pleased with his work, and fresh from + long hours in the open air. On hearing that his father was in the + drawing room, he inquired hurriedly whether Mrs. Forsyte was at + home, and being informed that she was not, heaved a sigh of + relief. Then putting his painting materials carefully in the + little coat-closet out of sight, he went in. + + With characteristic decision old Jolyon came at once to the + point. “I’ve been altering my arrangements, Jo,” he said. “You + can cut your coat a bit longer in the future—I’m settling a + thousand a year on you at once. June will have fifty thousand at + my death; and you the rest. That dog of yours is spoiling the + garden. I shouldn’t keep a dog, if I were you!” + + The dog Balthasar, seated in the centre of the lawn, was + examining his tail. + + Young Jolyon looked at the animal, but saw him dimly, for his + eyes were misty. + + “Yours won’t come short of a hundred thousand, my boy,” said old + Jolyon; “I thought you’d better know. I haven’t much longer to + live at my age. I shan’t allude to it again. How’s your wife? + And—give her my love.” + + Young Jolyon put his hand on his father’s shoulder, and, as + neither spoke, the episode closed. + + Having seen his father into a hansom, young Jolyon came back to + the drawing-room and stood, where old Jolyon had stood, looking + down on the little garden. He tried to realize all that this + meant to him, and, Forsyte that he was, vistas of property were + opened out in his brain; the years of half rations through which + he had passed had not sapped his natural instincts. In extremely + practical form, he thought of travel, of his wife’s costume, the + children’s education, a pony for Jolly, a thousand things; but in + the midst of all he thought, too, of Bosinney and his mistress, + and the broken song of the thrush. Joy—tragedy! Which? Which? + + The old past—the poignant, suffering, passionate, wonderful past, + that no money could buy, that nothing could restore in all its + burning sweetness—had come back before him. + + When his wife came in he went straight up to her and took her in + his arms; and for a long time he stood without speaking, his eyes + closed, pressing her to him, while she looked at him with a + wondering, adoring, doubting look in her eyes. + + + + + CHAPTER IV VOYAGE INTO THE INFERNO + + The morning after a certain night on which Soames at last + asserted his rights and acted like a man, he breakfasted alone. + + He breakfasted by gaslight, the fog of late November wrapping the + town as in some monstrous blanket till the trees of the Square + even were barely visible from the dining-room window. + + He ate steadily, but at times a sensation as though he could not + swallow attacked him. Had he been right to yield to his + overmastering hunger of the night before, and break down the + resistance which he had suffered now too long from this woman who + was his lawful and solemnly constituted helpmate? + + He was strangely haunted by the recollection of her face, from + before which, to soothe her, he had tried to pull her hands—of + her terrible smothered sobbing, the like of which he had never + heard, and still seemed to hear; and he was still haunted by the + odd, intolerable feeling of remorse and shame he had felt, as he + stood looking at her by the flame of the single candle, before + silently slinking away. + + And somehow, now that he had acted like this, he was surprised at + himself. + + Two nights before, at Winifred Dartie’s, he had taken Mrs. + MacAnder into dinner. She had said to him, looking in his face + with her sharp, greenish eyes: “And so your wife is a great + friend of that Mr. Bosinney’s?” + + Not deigning to ask what she meant, he had brooded over her + words. + + They had roused in him a fierce jealousy, which, with the + peculiar perversion of this instinct, had turned to fiercer + desire. + + Without the incentive of Mrs. MacAnder’s words he might never + have done what he had done. Without their incentive and the + accident of finding his wife’s door for once unlocked, which had + enabled him to steal upon her asleep. + + Slumber had removed his doubts, but the morning brought them + again. One thought comforted him: No one would know—it was not + the sort of thing that she would speak about. + + And, indeed, when the vehicle of his daily business life, which + needed so imperatively the grease of clear and practical thought, + started rolling once more with the reading of his letters, those + nightmare-like doubts began to assume less extravagant importance + at the back of his mind. The incident was really not of great + moment; women made a fuss about it in books; but in the cool + judgment of right-thinking men, of men of the world, of such as + he recollected often received praise in the Divorce Court, he had + but done his best to sustain the sanctity of marriage, to prevent + her from abandoning her duty, possibly, if she were still seeing + Bosinney, from.... + + No, he did not regret it. + + Now that the first step towards reconciliation had been taken, + the rest would be comparatively—comparatively.... + + He, rose and walked to the window. His nerve had been shaken. The + sound of smothered sobbing was in his ears again. He could not + get rid of it. + + He put on his fur coat, and went out into the fog; having to go + into the City, he took the underground railway from Sloane Square + station. + + In his corner of the first-class compartment filled with City men + the smothered sobbing still haunted him, so he opened _The Times_ + with the rich crackle that drowns all lesser sounds, and, + barricaded behind it, set himself steadily to con the news. + + He read that a Recorder had charged a grand jury on the previous + day with a more than usually long list of offences. He read of + three murders, five manslaughters, seven arsons, and as many as + eleven rapes—a surprisingly high number—in addition to many less + conspicuous crimes, to be tried during a coming Sessions; and + from one piece of news he went on to another, keeping the paper + well before his face. + + And still, inseparable from his reading, was the memory of + Irene’s tear-stained face, and the sounds from her broken heart. + + The day was a busy one, including, in addition to the ordinary + affairs of his practice, a visit to his brokers, Messrs. Grin and + Grinning, to give them instructions to sell his shares in the New + Colliery Co., Ltd., whose business he suspected, rather than + knew, was stagnating (this enterprise afterwards slowly declined, + and was ultimately sold for a song to an American syndicate); and + a long conference at Waterbuck, Q.C.’s chambers, attended by + Boulter, by Fiske, the junior counsel, and Waterbuck, Q.C., + himself. + + The case of Forsyte _v_. Bosinney was expected to be reached on + the morrow, before Mr. Justice Bentham. + + Mr. Justice Bentham, a man of common-sense rather than too great + legal knowledge, was considered to be about the best man they + could have to try the action. He was a “strong” Judge. + + Waterbuck, Q.C., in pleasing conjunction with an almost rude + neglect of Boulter and Fiske paid to Soames a good deal of + attention, by instinct or the sounder evidence of rumour, feeling + him to be a man of property. + + He held with remarkable consistency to the opinion he had already + expressed in writing, that the issue would depend to a great + extent on the evidence given at the trial, and in a few well + directed remarks he advised Soames not to be too careful in + giving that evidence. “A little bluffness, Mr. Forsyte,” he said, + “a little bluffness,” and after he had spoken he laughed firmly, + closed his lips tight, and scratched his head just below where he + had pushed his wig back, for all the world like the + gentleman-farmer for whom he loved to be taken. He was considered + perhaps the leading man in breach of promise cases. + + Soames used the underground again in going home. + + The fog was worse than ever at Sloane Square station. Through the + still, thick blur, men groped in and out; women, very few, + grasped their reticules to their bosoms and handkerchiefs to + their mouths; crowned with the weird excrescence of the driver, + haloed by a vague glow of lamp-light that seemed to drown in + vapour before it reached the pavement, cabs loomed dim-shaped + ever and again, and discharged citizens, bolting like rabbits to + their burrows. + + And these shadowy figures, wrapped each in his own little shroud + of fog, took no notice of each other. In the great warren, each + rabbit for himself, especially those clothed in the more + expensive fur, who, afraid of carriages on foggy days, are driven + underground. + + One figure, however, not far from Soames, waited at the station + door. + + Some buccaneer or lover, of whom each Forsyte thought: “Poor + devil! looks as if he were having a bad time!” Their kind hearts + beat a stroke faster for that poor, waiting, anxious lover in the + fog; but they hurried by, well knowing that they had neither time + nor money to spare for any suffering but their own. + + Only a policeman, patrolling slowly and at intervals, took an + interest in that waiting figure, the brim of whose slouch hat + half hid a face reddened by the cold, all thin, and haggard, over + which a hand stole now and again to smooth away anxiety, or renew + the resolution that kept him waiting there. But the waiting lover + (if lover he were) was used to policemen’s scrutiny, or too + absorbed in his anxiety, for he never flinched. A hardened case, + accustomed to long trysts, to anxiety, and fog, and cold, if only + his mistress came at last. Foolish lover! Fogs last until the + spring; there is also snow and rain, no comfort anywhere; gnawing + fear if you bring her out, gnawing fear if you bid her stay at + home! + + “Serve him right; he should arrange his affairs better!” + + So any respectable Forsyte. Yet, if that sounder citizen could + have listened at the waiting lover’s heart, out there in the fog + and the cold, he would have said again: “Yes, poor devil he’s + having a bad time!” + + Soames got into his cab, and, with the glass down, crept along + Sloane Street, and so along the Brompton Road, and home. He + reached his house at five. + + His wife was not in. She had gone out a quarter of an hour + before. Out at such a time of night, into this terrible fog! What + was the meaning of that? + + He sat by the dining-room fire, with the door open, disturbed to + the soul, trying to read the evening paper. A book was no good—in + daily papers alone was any narcotic to such worry as his. From + the customary events recorded in the journal he drew some + comfort. “Suicide of an actress”—“Grave indisposition of a + Statesman” (that chronic sufferer)—“Divorce of an army + officer”—“Fire in a colliery”—he read them all. They helped him a + little—prescribed by the greatest of all doctors, our natural + taste. + + It was nearly seven when he heard her come in. + + The incident of the night before had long lost its importance + under stress of anxiety at her strange sortie into the fog. But + now that Irene was home, the memory of her broken-hearted sobbing + came back to him, and he felt nervous at the thought of facing + her. + + She was already on the stairs; her grey fur coat hung to her + knees, its high collar almost hid her face, she wore a thick + veil. + + She neither turned to look at him nor spoke. No ghost or stranger + could have passed more silently. + + Bilson came to lay dinner, and told him that Mrs. Forsyte was not + coming down; she was having the soup in her room. + + For once Soames did not “change”; it was, perhaps, the first time + in his life that he had sat down to dinner with soiled cuffs, + and, not even noticing them, he brooded long over his wine. He + sent Bilson to light a fire in his picture-room, and presently + went up there himself. + + Turning on the gas, he heaved a deep sigh, as though amongst + these treasures, the backs of which confronted him in stacks, + around the little room, he had found at length his peace of mind. + He went straight up to the greatest treasure of them all, an + undoubted Turner, and, carrying it to the easel, turned its face + to the light. There had been a movement in Turners, but he had + not been able to make up his mind to part with it. He stood for a + long time, his pale, clean-shaven face poked forward above his + stand-up collar, looking at the picture as though he were adding + it up; a wistful expression came into his eyes; he found, + perhaps, that it came to too little. He took it down from the + easel to put it back against the wall; but, in crossing the room, + stopped, for he seemed to hear sobbing. + + It was nothing—only the sort of thing that had been bothering him + in the morning. And soon after, putting the high guard before the + blazing fire, he stole downstairs. + + Fresh for the morrow! was his thought. It was long before he went + to sleep.... + + It is now to George Forsyte that the mind must turn for light on + the events of that fog-engulfed afternoon. + + The wittiest and most sportsmanlike of the Forsytes had passed + the day reading a novel in the paternal mansion at Princes’ + Gardens. Since a recent crisis in his financial affairs he had + been kept on parole by Roger, and compelled to reside “at home.” + + Towards five o’clock he went out, and took train at South + Kensington Station (for everyone to-day went Underground). His + intention was to dine, and pass the evening playing billiards at + the Red Pottle—that unique hostel, neither club, hotel, nor good + gilt restaurant. + + He got out at Charing Cross, choosing it in preference to his + more usual St. James’s Park, that he might reach Jermyn Street by + better lighted ways. + + On the platform his eyes—for in combination with a composed and + fashionable appearance, George had sharp eyes, and was always on + the look-out for fillips to his sardonic humour—his eyes were + attracted by a man, who, leaping from a first-class compartment, + staggered rather than walked towards the exit. + + “So ho, my bird!” said George to himself; “why, it’s “the + Buccaneer!”” and he put his big figure on the trail. Nothing + afforded him greater amusement than a drunken man. + + Bosinney, who wore a slouch hat, stopped in front of him, spun + around, and rushed back towards the carriage he had just left. He + was too late. A porter caught him by the coat; the train was + already moving on. + + George’s practised glance caught sight of the face of a lady clad + in a grey fur coat at the carriage window. It was Mrs. Soames—and + George felt that this was interesting! + + And now he followed Bosinney more closely than ever—up the + stairs, past the ticket collector into the street. In that + progress, however, his feelings underwent a change; no longer + merely curious and amused, he felt sorry for the poor fellow he + was shadowing. “The Buccaneer” was not drunk, but seemed to be + acting under the stress of violent emotion; he was talking to + himself, and all that George could catch were the words “Oh, + God!” Nor did he appear to know what he was doing, or where + going; but stared, hesitated, moved like a man out of his mind; + and from being merely a joker in search of amusement, George felt + that he must see the poor chap through. + + He had “taken the knock”—“taken the knock!” And he wondered what + on earth Mrs. Soames had been saying, what on earth she had been + telling him in the railway carriage. She had looked bad enough + herself! It made George sorry to think of her travelling on with + her trouble all alone. + + He followed close behind Bosinney’s elbow—tall, burly figure, + saying nothing, dodging warily—and shadowed him out into the fog. + + There was something here beyond a jest! He kept his head + admirably, in spite of some excitement, for in addition to + compassion, the instincts of the chase were roused within him. + + Bosinney walked right out into the thoroughfare—a vast muffled + blackness, where a man could not see six paces before him; where, + all around, voices or whistles mocked the sense of direction; and + sudden shapes came rolling slow upon them; and now and then a + light showed like a dim island in an infinite dark sea. + + And fast into this perilous gulf of night walked Bosinney, and + fast after him walked George. If the fellow meant to put his + “twopenny” under a ’bus, he would stop it if he could! Across the + street and back the hunted creature strode, not groping as other + men were groping in that gloom, but driven forward as though the + faithful George behind wielded a knout; and this chase after a + haunted man began to have for George the strangest fascination. + + But it was now that the affair developed in a way which ever + afterwards caused it to remain green in his mind. Brought to a + stand-still in the fog, he heard words which threw a sudden light + on these proceedings. What Mrs. Soames had said to Bosinney in + the train was now no longer dark. George understood from those + mutterings that Soames had exercised his rights over an estranged + and unwilling wife in the greatest—the supreme act of property. + + His fancy wandered in the fields of this situation; it impressed + him; he guessed something of the anguish, the sexual confusion + and horror in Bosinney’s heart. And he thought: “Yes, it’s a bit + thick! I don’t wonder the poor fellow is half-cracked!” + + He had run his quarry to earth on a bench under one of the lions + in Trafalgar Square, a monster sphynx astray like themselves in + that gulf of darkness. Here, rigid and silent, sat Bosinney, and + George, in whose patience was a touch of strange brotherliness, + took his stand behind. He was not lacking in a certain delicacy—a + sense of form—that did not permit him to intrude upon this + tragedy, and he waited, quiet as the lion above, his fur collar + hitched above his ears concealing the fleshy redness of his + cheeks, concealing all but his eyes with their sardonic, + compassionate stare. And men kept passing back from business on + the way to their clubs—men whose figures shrouded in cocoons of + fog came into view like spectres, and like spectres vanished. + Then even in his compassion George’s Quilpish humour broke forth + in a sudden longing to pluck these spectres by the sleeve, and + say: + + “Hi, you Johnnies! You don’t often see a show like this! Here’s a + poor devil whose mistress has just been telling him a pretty + little story of her husband; walk up, walk up! He’s taken the + knock, you see.” + + In fancy he saw them gaping round the tortured lover; and grinned + as he thought of some respectable, newly-married spectre enabled + by the state of his own affections to catch an inkling of what + was going on within Bosinney; he fancied he could see his mouth + getting wider and wider, and the fog going down and down. For in + George was all that contempt of the middle-class—especially of + the married middle-class—peculiar to the wild and sportsmanlike + spirits in its ranks. + + But he began to be bored. Waiting was not what he had bargained + for. + + “After all,” he thought, “the poor chap will get over it; not the + first time such a thing has happened in this little city!” But + now his quarry again began muttering words of violent hate and + anger. And following a sudden impulse George touched him on the + shoulder. + + Bosinney spun round. + + “Who are you? What do you want?” + + George could have stood it well enough in the light of the gas + lamps, in the light of that everyday world of which he was so + hardy a connoisseur; but in this fog, where all was gloomy and + unreal, where nothing had that matter-of-fact value associated by + Forsytes with earth, he was a victim to strange qualms, and as he + tried to stare back into the eyes of this maniac, he thought: + + “If I see a bobby, I’ll hand him over; he’s not fit to be at + large.” + + But waiting for no answer, Bosinney strode off into the fog, and + George followed, keeping perhaps a little further off, yet more + than ever set on tracking him down. + + “He can’t go on long like this,” he thought. “It’s God’s own + miracle he’s not been run over already.” He brooded no more on + policemen, a sportsman’s sacred fire alive again within him. + + Into a denser gloom than ever Bosinney held on at a furious pace; + but his pursuer perceived more method in his madness—he was + clearly making his way westwards. + + “He’s really going for Soames!” thought George. The idea was + attractive. It would be a sporting end to such a chase. He had + always disliked his cousin. + + The shaft of a passing cab brushed against his shoulder and made + him leap aside. He did not intend to be killed for the Buccaneer, + or anyone. Yet, with hereditary tenacity, he stuck to the trail + through vapour that blotted out everything but the shadow of the + hunted man and the dim moon of the nearest lamp. + + Then suddenly, with the instinct of a town-stroller, George knew + himself to be in Piccadilly. Here he could find his way + blindfold; and freed from the strain of geographical uncertainty, + his mind returned to Bosinney’s trouble. + + Down the long avenue of his man-about-town experience, bursting, + as it were, through a smirch of doubtful amours, there stalked to + him a memory of his youth. A memory, poignant still, that brought + the scent of hay, the gleam of moonlight, a summer magic, into + the reek and blackness of this London fog—the memory of a night + when in the darkest shadow of a lawn he had overheard from a + woman’s lips that he was not her sole possessor. And for a moment + George walked no longer in black Piccadilly, but lay again, with + hell in his heart, and his face to the sweet-smelling, dewy + grass, in the long shadow of poplars that hid the moon. + + A longing seized him to throw his arm round the Buccaneer, and + say, “Come, old boy. Time cures all. Let’s go and drink it off!” + + But a voice yelled at him, and he started back. A cab rolled out + of blackness, and into blackness disappeared. And suddenly George + perceived that he had lost Bosinney. He ran forward and back, + felt his heart clutched by a sickening fear, the dark fear which + lives in the wings of the fog. Perspiration started out on his + brow. He stood quite still, listening with all his might. + + “And then,” as he confided to Dartie the same evening in the + course of a game of billiards at the Red Pottle, “I lost him.” + + Dartie twirled complacently at his dark moustache. He had just + put together a neat break of twenty-three,—failing at a “Jenny.” + “And who was _she?_” he asked. + + George looked slowly at the “man of the world’s” fattish, sallow + face, and a little grim smile lurked about the curves of his + cheeks and his heavy-lidded eyes. + + “No, no, my fine fellow,” he thought, “I’m not going to tell + _you_.” For though he mixed with Dartie a good deal, he thought + him a bit of a cad. + + “Oh, some little love-lady or other,” he said, and chalked his + cue. + + “A love-lady!” exclaimed Dartie—he used a more figurative + expression. “I made sure it was our friend Soa....” + + “Did you?” said George curtly. “Then damme you’ve made an error.” + + He missed his shot. He was careful not to allude to the subject + again till, towards eleven o’clock, having, in his poetic + phraseology, “looked upon the drink when it was yellow,” he drew + aside the blind, and gazed out into the street. The murky + blackness of the fog was but faintly broken by the lamps of the + “Red Pottle,” and no shape of mortal man or thing was in sight. + + “I can’t help thinking of that poor Buccaneer,” he said. “He may + be wandering out there now in that fog. If he’s not a corpse,” he + added with strange dejection. + + “Corpse!” said Dartie, in whom the recollection of his defeat at + Richmond flared up. “_He’s_ all right. Ten to one if he wasn’t + tight!” + + George turned on him, looking really formidable, with a sort of + savage gloom on his big face. + + “Dry up!” he said. “Don’t I tell you he’s ‘taken the knock!’” + + + + + CHAPTER V THE TRIAL + + In the morning of his case, which was second in the list, Soames + was again obliged to start without seeing Irene, and it was just + as well, for he had not as yet made up his mind what attitude to + adopt towards her. + + He had been requested to be in court by half-past ten, to provide + against the event of the first action (a breach of promise) + collapsing, which however it did not, both sides showing a + courage that afforded Waterbuck, Q.C., an opportunity for + improving his already great reputation in this class of case. He + was opposed by Ram, the other celebrated breach of promise man. + It was a battle of giants. + + The court delivered judgment just before the luncheon interval. + The jury left the box for good, and Soames went out to get + something to eat. He met James standing at the little + luncheon-bar, like a pelican in the wilderness of the galleries, + bent over a sandwich with a glass of sherry before him. The + spacious emptiness of the great central hall, over which father + and son brooded as they stood together, was marred now and then + for a fleeting moment by barristers in wig and gown hurriedly + bolting across, by an occasional old lady or rusty-coated man, + looking up in a frightened way, and by two persons, bolder than + their generation, seated in an embrasure arguing. The sound of + their voices arose, together with a scent as of neglected wells, + which, mingling with the odour of the galleries, combined to form + the savour, like nothing but the emanation of a refined cheese, + so indissolubly connected with the administration of British + Justice. + + It was not long before James addressed his son. + + “When’s your case coming on? I suppose it’ll be on directly. I + shouldn’t wonder if this Bosinney’d say anything; I should think + he’d have to. He’ll go bankrupt if it goes against him.” He took + a large bite at his sandwich and a mouthful of sherry. “Your + mother,” he said, “wants you and Irene to come and dine + to-night.” + + A chill smile played round Soames’s lips; he looked back at his + father. Anyone who had seen the look, cold and furtive, thus + interchanged, might have been pardoned for not appreciating the + real understanding between them. James finished his sherry at a + draught. + + “How much?” he asked. + + On returning to the court Soames took at once his rightful seat + on the front bench beside his solicitor. He ascertained where his + father was seated with a glance so sidelong as to commit nobody. + + James, sitting back with his hands clasped over the handle of his + umbrella, was brooding on the end of the bench immediately behind + counsel, whence he could get away at once when the case was over. + He considered Bosinney’s conduct in every way outrageous, but he + did not wish to run up against him, feeling that the meeting + would be awkward. + + Next to the Divorce Court, this court was, perhaps, the favourite + emporium of justice, libel, breach of promise, and other + commercial actions being frequently decided there. Quite a + sprinkling of persons unconnected with the law occupied the back + benches, and the hat of a woman or two could be seen in the + gallery. + + The two rows of seats immediately in front of James were + gradually filled by barristers in wigs, who sat down to make + pencil notes, chat, and attend to their teeth; but his interest + was soon diverted from these lesser lights of justice by the + entrance of Waterbuck, Q.C., with the wings of his silk gown + rustling, and his red, capable face supported by two short, brown + whiskers. The famous Q.C. looked, as James freely admitted, the + very picture of a man who could heckle a witness. + + For all his experience, it so happened that he had never seen + Waterbuck, Q.C., before, and, like many Forsytes in the lower + branch of the profession, he had an extreme admiration for a good + cross-examiner. The long, lugubrious folds in his cheeks relaxed + somewhat after seeing him, especially as he now perceived that + Soames alone was represented by silk. + + Waterbuck, Q.C., had barely screwed round on his elbow to chat + with his Junior before Mr. Justice Bentham himself appeared—a + thin, rather hen-like man, with a little stoop, clean-shaven + under his snowy wig. Like all the rest of the court, Waterbuck + rose, and remained on his feet until the judge was seated. James + rose but slightly; he was already comfortable, and had no opinion + of Bentham, having sat next but one to him at dinner twice at the + Bumley Tomms’. Bumley Tomm was rather a poor thing, though he had + been so successful. James himself had given him his first brief. + He was excited, too, for he had just found out that Bosinney was + not in court. + + “Now, what’s he mean by that?” he kept on thinking. + + The case having been called on, Waterbuck, Q.C., pushing back his + papers, hitched his gown on his shoulder, and, with a + semi-circular look around him, like a man who is going to bat, + arose and addressed the Court. + + The facts, he said, were not in dispute, and all that his + Lordship would be asked was to interpret the correspondence which + had taken place between his client and the defendant, an + architect, with reference to the decoration of a house. He would, + however, submit that this correspondence could only mean one very + plain thing. After briefly reciting the history of the house at + Robin Hill, which he described as a mansion, and the actual facts + of expenditure, he went on as follows: + + “My client, Mr. Soames Forsyte, is a gentleman, a man of + property, who would be the last to dispute any legitimate claim + that might be made against him, but he has met with such + treatment from his architect in the matter of this house, over + which he has, as your lordship has heard, already spent some + twelve—some twelve thousand pounds, a sum considerably in advance + of the amount he had originally contemplated, that as a matter of + principle—and this I cannot too strongly emphasize—as a matter of + principle, and in the interests of others, he has felt himself + compelled to bring this action. The point put forward in defence + by the architect I will suggest to your lordship is not worthy of + a moment’s serious consideration.” He then read the + correspondence. + + His client, “a man of recognised position,” was prepared to go + into the box, and to swear that he never did authorize, that it + was never in his mind to authorize, the expenditure of any money + beyond the extreme limit of twelve thousand and fifty pounds, + which he had clearly fixed; and not further to waste the time of + the court, he would at once call Mr. Forsyte. + + Soames then went into the box. His whole appearance was striking + in its composure. His face, just supercilious enough, pale and + clean-shaven, with a little line between the eyes, and compressed + lips; his dress in unostentatious order, one hand neatly gloved, + the other bare. He answered the questions put to him in a + somewhat low, but distinct voice. His evidence under + cross-examination savoured of taciturnity. + + Had he not used the expression, “a free hand”? No. + + “Come, come!” + + The expression he had used was “a free hand in the terms of this + correspondence.” + + “Would you tell the Court that that was English?” + + “Yes!” + + “What do you say it means?” + + “What it says!” + + “Are you prepared to deny that it is a contradiction in terms?” + + “Yes.” + + “You are not an Irishman?” + + “No.” + + “Are you a well-educated man?” + + “Yes.” + + “And yet you persist in that statement?” + + “Yes.” + + Throughout this and much more cross-examination, which turned + again and again around the “nice point,” James sat with his hand + behind his ear, his eyes fixed upon his son. + + He was proud of him! He could not but feel that in similar + circumstances he himself would have been tempted to enlarge his + replies, but his instinct told him that this taciturnity was the + very thing. He sighed with relief, however, when Soames, slowly + turning, and without any change of expression, descended from the + box. + + When it came to the turn of Bosinney’s Counsel to address the + Judge, James redoubled his attention, and he searched the Court + again and again to see if Bosinney were not somewhere concealed. + + Young Chankery began nervously; he was placed by Bosinney’s + absence in an awkward position. He therefore did his best to turn + that absence to account. + + He could not but fear—he said—that his client had met with an + accident. He had fully expected him there to give evidence; they + had sent round that morning both to Mr. Bosinney’s office and to + his rooms (though he knew they were one and the same, he thought + it was as well not to say so), but it was not known where he was, + and this he considered to be ominous, knowing how anxious Mr. + Bosinney had been to give his evidence. He had not, however, been + instructed to apply for an adjournment, and in default of such + instruction he conceived it his duty to go on. The plea on which + he somewhat confidently relied, and which his client, had he not + unfortunately been prevented in some way from attending, would + have supported by his evidence, was that such an expression as a + “free hand” could not be limited, fettered, and rendered + unmeaning, by any verbiage which might follow it. He would go + further and say that the correspondence showed that whatever he + might have said in his evidence, Mr. Forsyte had in fact never + contemplated repudiating liability on any of the work ordered or + executed by his architect. The defendant had certainly never + contemplated such a contingency, or, as was demonstrated by his + letters, he would never have proceeded with the work—a work of + extreme delicacy, carried out with great care and efficiency, to + meet and satisfy the fastidious taste of a connoisseur, a rich + man, a man of property. He felt strongly on this point, and + feeling strongly he used, perhaps, rather strong words when he + said that this action was of a most unjustifiable, unexpected, + indeed—unprecedented character. If his Lordship had had the + opportunity that he himself had made it his duty to take, to go + over this very fine house and see the great delicacy and beauty + of the decorations executed by his client—an artist in his most + honourable profession—he felt convinced that not for one moment + would his Lordship tolerate this, he would use no stronger word + than daring attempt to evade legitimate responsibility. + + Taking the text of Soames’s letters, he lightly touched on + “Boileau _v_. The Blasted Cement Company, Limited.” “It is + doubtful,” he said, “what that authority has decided; in any case + I would submit that it is just as much in my favour as in my + friend’s.” He then argued the “nice point” closely. With all due + deference he submitted that Mr. Forsyte’s expression nullified + itself. His client not being a rich man, the matter was a serious + one for him; he was a very talented architect, whose professional + reputation was undoubtedly somewhat at stake. He concluded with a + perhaps too personal appeal to the Judge, as a lover of the arts, + to show himself the protector of artists, from what was + occasionally—he said occasionally—the too iron hand of capital. + “What,” he said, “will be the position of the artistic + professions, if men of property like this Mr. Forsyte refuse, and + are allowed to refuse, to carry out the obligations of the + commissions which they have given.” He would now call his client, + in case he should at the last moment have found himself able to + be present. + + The name Philip Baynes Bosinney was called three times by the + Ushers, and the sound of the calling echoed with strange + melancholy throughout the Court and Galleries. + + The crying of this name, to which no answer was returned, had + upon James a curious effect: it was like calling for your lost + dog about the streets. And the creepy feeling that it gave him, + of a man missing, grated on his sense of comfort and security—on + his cosiness. Though he could not have said why, it made him feel + uneasy. + + He looked now at the clock—a quarter to three! It would be all + over in a quarter of an hour. Where could the young fellow be? + + It was only when Mr. Justice Bentham delivered judgment that he + got over the turn he had received. + + Behind the wooden erection, by which he was fenced from more + ordinary mortals, the learned Judge leaned forward. The electric + light, just turned on above his head, fell on his face, and + mellowed it to an orange hue beneath the snowy crown of his wig; + the amplitude of his robes grew before the eye; his whole figure, + facing the comparative dusk of the Court, radiated like some + majestic and sacred body. He cleared his throat, took a sip of + water, broke the nib of a quill against the desk, and, folding + his bony hands before him, began. + + To James he suddenly loomed much larger than he had ever thought + Bentham would loom. It was the majesty of the law; and a person + endowed with a nature far less matter-of-fact than that of James + might have been excused for failing to pierce this halo, and + disinter therefrom the somewhat ordinary Forsyte, who walked and + talked in every-day life under the name of Sir Walter Bentham. + + He delivered judgment in the following words: + + “The facts in this case are not in dispute. On May 15 last the + defendant wrote to the plaintiff, requesting to be allowed to + withdraw from his professional position in regard to the + decoration of the plaintiff’s house, unless he were given ‘a free + hand.’ The plaintiff, on May 17, wrote back as follows: ‘In + giving you, in accordance with your request, this free hand, I + wish you to clearly understand that the total cost of the house + as handed over to me completely decorated, inclusive of your fee + (as arranged between us) must not exceed twelve thousand pounds.’ + To this letter the defendant replied on May 18: ‘If you think + that in such a delicate matter as decoration I can bind myself to + the exact pound, I am afraid you are mistaken.’ On May 19 the + plaintiff wrote as follows: ‘I did not mean to say that if you + should exceed the sum named in my letter to you by ten or twenty + or even fifty pounds there would be any difficulty between us. + You have a free hand in the terms of this correspondence, and I + hope you will see your way to completing the decorations.’ On May + 20 the defendant replied thus shortly: ‘Very well.’ + + “In completing these decorations, the defendant incurred + liabilities and expenses which brought the total cost of this + house up to the sum of twelve thousand four hundred pounds, all + of which expenditure has been defrayed by the plaintiff. This + action has been brought by the plaintiff to recover from the + defendant the sum of three hundred and fifty pounds expended by + him in excess of a sum of twelve thousand and fifty pounds, + alleged by the plaintiff to have been fixed by this + correspondence as the maximum sum that the defendant had + authority to expend. + + “The question for me to decide is whether or no the defendant is + liable to refund to the plaintiff this sum. In my judgment he is + so liable. + + “What in effect the plaintiff has said is this ‘I give you a free + hand to complete these decorations, provided that you keep within + a total cost to me of twelve thousand pounds. If you exceed that + sum by as much as fifty pounds, I will not hold you responsible; + beyond that point you are no agent of mine, and I shall repudiate + liability.’ It is not quite clear to me whether, had the + plaintiff in fact repudiated liability under his agent’s + contracts, he would, under all the circumstances, have been + successful in so doing; but he has not adopted this course. He + has accepted liability, and fallen back upon his rights against + the defendant under the terms of the latter’s engagement. + + “In my judgment the plaintiff is entitled to recover this sum + from the defendant. + + “It has been sought, on behalf of the defendant, to show that no + limit of expenditure was fixed or intended to be fixed by this + correspondence. If this were so, I can find no reason for the + plaintiff’s importation into the correspondence of the figures of + twelve thousand pounds and subsequently of fifty pounds. The + defendant’s contention would render these figures meaningless. It + is manifest to me that by his letter of May 20 he assented to a + very clear proposition, by the terms of which he must be held to + be bound. + + “For these reasons there will be judgment for the plaintiff for + the amount claimed with costs.” + + James sighed, and stooping, picked up his umbrella which had + fallen with a rattle at the words “importation into this + correspondence.” + + Untangling his legs, he rapidly left the Court; without waiting + for his son, he snapped up a hansom cab (it was a clear, grey + afternoon) and drove straight to Timothy’s where he found + Swithin; and to him, Mrs. Septimus Small, and Aunt Hester, he + recounted the whole proceedings, eating two muffins not + altogether in the intervals of speech. + + “Soames did very well,” he ended; “he’s got his head screwed on + the right way. This won’t please Jolyon. It’s a bad business for + that young Bosinney; he’ll go bankrupt, I shouldn’t wonder,” and + then after a long pause, during which he had stared disquietly + into the fire, he added: + + “He wasn’t there—now why?” + + There was a sound of footsteps. The figure of a thick-set man, + with the ruddy brown face of robust health, was seen in the back + drawing-room. The forefinger of his upraised hand was outlined + against the black of his frock coat. He spoke in a grudging + voice. + + “Well, James,” he said, “I can’t—I can’t stop,” and turning + round, he walked out. + + It was Timothy. + + James rose from his chair. “There!” he said, “there! I knew there + was something wro....” He checked himself, and was silent, + staring before him, as though he had seen a portent. + + + + + CHAPTER VI SOAMES BREAKS THE NEWS + + In leaving the Court Soames did not go straight home. He felt + disinclined for the City, and drawn by need for sympathy in his + triumph, he, too, made his way, but slowly and on foot, to + Timothy’s in the Bayswater Road. + + His father had just left; Mrs. Small and Aunt Hester, in + possession of the whole story, greeted him warmly. They were sure + he was hungry after all that evidence. Smither should toast him + some more muffins, his dear father had eaten them all. He must + put his legs up on the sofa; and he must have a glass of prune + brandy too. It was so strengthening. + + Swithin was still present, having lingered later than his wont, + for he felt in want of exercise. On hearing this suggestion, he + “pished.” A pretty pass young men were coming to! His own liver + was out of order, and he could not bear the thought of anyone + else drinking prune brandy. + + He went away almost immediately, saying to Soames: “And how’s + your wife? You tell her from me that if she’s dull, and likes to + come and dine with me quietly, I’ll give her such a bottle of + champagne as she doesn’t get every day.” Staring down from his + height on Soames he contracted his thick, puffy, yellow hand as + though squeezing within it all this small fry, and throwing out + his chest he waddled slowly away. + + Mrs. Small and Aunt Hester were left horrified. Swithin was so + droll! + + They themselves were longing to ask Soames how Irene would take + the result, yet knew that they must not; he would perhaps say + something of his own accord, to throw some light on this, the + present burning question in their lives, the question that from + necessity of silence tortured them almost beyond bearing; for + even Timothy had now been told, and the effect on his health was + little short of alarming. And what, too, would June do? This, + also, was a most exciting, if dangerous speculation! + + They had never forgotten old Jolyon’s visit, since when he had + not once been to see them; they had never forgotten the feeling + it gave all who were present, that the family was no longer what + it had been—that the family was breaking up. + + But Soames gave them no help, sitting with his knees crossed, + talking of the Barbizon school of painters, whom he had just + discovered. These were the coming men, he said; he should not + wonder if a lot of money were made over them; he had his eye on + two pictures by a man called Corot, charming things; if he could + get them at a reasonable price he was going to buy them—they + would, he thought, fetch a big price some day. + + Interested as they could not but be, neither Mrs. Septimus Small + nor Aunt Hester could entirely acquiesce in being thus put off. + + It was interesting—most interesting—and then Soames was so clever + that they were sure he would do something with those pictures if + anybody could; but what was his plan now that he had won his + case; was he going to leave London at once, and live in the + country, or what was he going to do? + + Soames answered that he did not know, he thought they should be + moving soon. He rose and kissed his aunts. + + No sooner had Aunt Juley received this emblem of departure than a + change came over her, as though she were being visited by + dreadful courage; every little roll of flesh on her face seemed + trying to escape from an invisible, confining mask. + + She rose to the full extent of her more than medium height, and + said: “It has been on my mind a long time, dear, and if nobody + else will tell you, I have made up my mind that....” + + Aunt Hester interrupted her: “Mind, Julia, you do it....” she + gasped—“on your own responsibility!” + + Mrs. Small went on as though she had not heard: “I think you + _ought_ to know, dear, that Mrs. MacAnder saw Irene walking in + Richmond Park with Mr. Bosinney.” + + Aunt Hester, who had also risen, sank back in her chair, and + turned her face away. Really Juley was too—she should not do such + things when she—Aunt Hester, was in the room; and, breathless + with anticipation, she waited for what Soames would answer. + + He had flushed the peculiar flush which always centred between + his eyes; lifting his hand, and, as it were, selecting a finger, + he bit a nail delicately; then, drawling it out between set lips, + he said: “Mrs. MacAnder is a cat!” + + Without waiting for any reply, he left the room. + + When he went into Timothy’s he had made up his mind what course + to pursue on getting home. He would go up to Irene and say: + + “Well, I’ve won my case, and there’s an end of it! I don’t want + to be hard on Bosinney; I’ll see if we can’t come to some + arrangement; he shan’t be pressed. And now let’s turn over a new + leaf! We’ll let the house, and get out of these fogs. We’ll go + down to Robin Hill at once. I—I never meant to be rough with you! + Let’s shake hands—and—” Perhaps she would let him kiss her, and + forget! + + When he came out of Timothy’s his intentions were no longer so + simple. The smouldering jealousy and suspicion of months blazed + up within him. He would put an end to that sort of thing once and + for all; he would not have her drag his name in the dirt! If she + could not or would not love him, as was her duty and his + right—she should not play him tricks with anyone else! He would + tax her with it; threaten to divorce her! That would make her + behave; she would never face that. But—but—what if she did? He + was staggered; this had not occurred to him. + + What if she did? What if she made him a confession? How would he + stand then? He would have to bring a divorce! + + A divorce! Thus close, the word was paralyzing, so utterly at + variance with all the principles that had hitherto guided his + life. Its lack of compromise appalled him; he felt—like the + captain of a ship, going to the side of his vessel, and, with his + own hands throwing over the most precious of his bales. This + jettisoning of his property with his own hand seemed uncanny to + Soames. It would injure him in his profession: He would have to + get rid of the house at Robin Hill, on which he had spent so much + money, so much anticipation—and at a sacrifice. And she! She + would no longer belong to him, not even in name! She would pass + out of his life, and he—he should never see her again! + + He traversed in the cab the length of a street without getting + beyond the thought that he should never see her again! + + But perhaps there was nothing to confess, even now very likely + there was nothing to confess. Was it wise to push things so far? + Was it wise to put himself into a position where he might have to + eat his words? The result of this case would ruin Bosinney; a + ruined man was desperate, but—what could he do? He might go + abroad, ruined men always went abroad. What could _they_ do—if + indeed it _was_ “_they_”—without money? It would be better to + wait and see how things turned out. If necessary, he could have + her watched. The agony of his jealousy (for all the world like + the crisis of an aching tooth) came on again; and he almost cried + out. But he must decide, fix on some course of action before he + got home. When the cab drew up at the door, he had decided + nothing. + + He entered, pale, his hands moist with perspiration, dreading to + meet her, burning to meet her, ignorant of what he was to say or + do. + + The maid Bilson was in the hall, and in answer to his question: + “Where is your mistress?” told him that Mrs. Forsyte had left the + house about noon, taking with her a trunk and bag. + + Snatching the sleeve of his fur coat away from her grasp, he + confronted her: + + “What?” he exclaimed; “what’s that you said?” Suddenly + recollecting that he must not betray emotion, he added: “What + message did she leave?” and noticed with secret terror the + startled look of the maid’s eyes. + + “Mrs. Forsyte left no message, sir.” + + “No message; very well, thank you, that will do. I shall be + dining out.” + + The maid went downstairs, leaving him still in his fur coat, idly + turning over the visiting cards in the porcelain bowl that stood + on the carved oak rug chest in the hall. + + Mr. and Mrs. Bareham Culcher. + Mrs. Septimus Small. + Mrs. Baynes. + Mr. Solomon Thornworthy. + Lady Bellis. + Miss Hermione Bellis. + Miss Winifred Bellis. + Miss Ella Bellis. + + Who the devil were all these people? He seemed to have forgotten + all familiar things. The words “no message—a trunk, and a bag,” + played a hide-and-seek in his brain. It was incredible that she + had left no message, and, still in his fur coat, he ran upstairs + two steps at a time, as a young married man when he comes home + will run up to his wife’s room. + + Everything was dainty, fresh, sweet-smelling; everything in + perfect order. On the great bed with its lilac silk quilt, was + the bag she had made and embroidered with her own hands to hold + her sleeping things; her slippers ready at the foot; the sheets + even turned over at the head as though expecting her. + + On the table stood the silver-mounted brushes and bottles from + her dressing bag, his own present. There must, then, be some + mistake. What bag had she taken? He went to the bell to summon + Bilson, but remembered in time that he must assume knowledge of + where Irene had gone, take it all as a matter of course, and + grope out the meaning for himself. + + He locked the doors, and tried to think, but felt his brain going + round; and suddenly tears forced themselves into his eyes. + + Hurriedly pulling off his coat, he looked at himself in the + mirror. + + He was too pale, a greyish tinge all over his face; he poured out + water, and began feverishly washing. + + Her silver-mounted brushes smelt faintly of the perfumed lotion + she used for her hair; and at this scent the burning sickness of + his jealousy seized him again. + + Struggling into his fur, he ran downstairs and out into the + street. + + He had not lost all command of himself, however, and as he went + down Sloane Street he framed a story for use, in case he should + not find her at Bosinney’s. But if he should? His power of + decision again failed; he reached the house without knowing what + he should do if he did find her there. + + It was after office hours, and the street door was closed; the + woman who opened it could not say whether Mr. Bosinney were in or + no; she had not seen him that day, not for two or three days; she + did not attend to him now, nobody attended to him, he.... + + Soames interrupted her, he would go up and see for himself. He + went up with a dogged, white face. + + The top floor was unlighted, the door closed, no one answered his + ringing, he could hear no sound. He was obliged to descend, + shivering under his fur, a chill at his heart. Hailing a cab, he + told the man to drive to Park Lane. + + On the way he tried to recollect when he had last given her a + cheque; she could not have more than three or four pounds, but + there were her jewels; and with exquisite torture he remembered + how much money she could raise on these; enough to take them + abroad; enough for them to live on for months! He tried to + calculate; the cab stopped, and he got out with the calculation + unmade. + + The butler asked whether Mrs. Soames was in the cab, the master + had told him they were both expected to dinner. + + Soames answered: “No. Mrs. Forsyte has a cold.” + + The butler was sorry. + + Soames thought he was looking at him inquisitively, and + remembering that he was not in dress clothes, asked: “Anybody + here to dinner, Warmson?” + + “Nobody but Mr. and Mrs. Dartie, sir.” + + Again it seemed to Soames that the butler was looking curiously + at him. His composure gave way. + + “What are you looking at?” he said. “What’s the matter with me, + eh?” + + The butler blushed, hung up the fur coat, murmured something that + sounded like: “Nothing, sir, I’m sure, sir,” and stealthily + withdrew. + + Soames walked upstairs. Passing the drawing-room without a look, + he went straight up to his mother’s and father’s bedroom. + + James, standing sideways, the concave lines of his tall, lean + figure displayed to advantage in shirt-sleeves and evening + waistcoat, his head bent, the end of his white tie peeping askew + from underneath one white Dundreary whisker, his eyes peering + with intense concentration, his lips pouting, was hooking the top + hooks of his wife’s bodice. Soames stopped; he felt half-choked, + whether because he had come upstairs too fast, or for some other + reason. He—he himself had never—never been asked to.... + + He heard his father’s voice, as though there were a pin in his + mouth, saying: “Who’s that? Who’s there? What d’you want?” His + mother’s: “Here, Félice, come and hook this; your master’ll never + get done.” + + He put his hand up to his throat, and said hoarsely: + + “It’s I—Soames!” + + He noticed gratefully the affectionate surprise in Emily’s: + “Well, my dear boy?” and James’, as he dropped the hook: “What, + Soames! What’s brought you up? Aren’t you well?” + + He answered mechanically: “I’m all right,” and looked at them, + and it seemed impossible to bring out his news. + + James, quick to take alarm, began: “You don’t look well. I expect + you’ve taken a chill—it’s liver, I shouldn’t wonder. Your + mother’ll give you....” + + But Emily broke in quietly: “Have you brought Irene?” + + Soames shook his head. + + “No,” he stammered, “she—she’s left me!” + + Emily deserted the mirror before which she was standing. Her + tall, full figure lost its majesty and became very human as she + came running over to Soames. + + “My dear boy! My _dear_ boy!” + + She put her lips to his forehead, and stroked his hand. + + James, too, had turned full towards his son; his face looked + older. + + “Left you?” he said. “What d’you mean—left you? You never told me + she was going to leave you.” + + Soames answered surlily: “How could I tell? What’s to be done?” + + James began walking up and down; he looked strange and stork-like + without a coat. “What’s to be done!” he muttered. “How should I + know what’s to be done? What’s the good of asking me? Nobody + tells me anything, and then they come and ask me what’s to be + done; and I should like to know how I’m to tell them! Here’s your + mother, there she stands; _she_ doesn’t say anything. What _I_ + should say you’ve got to do is to follow her..” + + Soames smiled; his peculiar, supercilious smile had never before + looked pitiable. + + “I don’t know where she’s gone,” he said. + + “Don’t know where she’s gone!” said James. “How d’you mean, don’t + know where she’s gone? Where d’you suppose she’s gone? She’s gone + after that young Bosinney, that’s where she’s gone. I knew how it + would be.” + + Soames, in the long silence that followed, felt his mother + pressing his hand. And all that passed seemed to pass as though + his own power of thinking or doing had gone to sleep. + + His father’s face, dusky red, twitching as if he were going to + cry, and words breaking out that seemed rent from him by some + spasm in his soul. + + “There’ll be a scandal; I always said so.” Then, no one saying + anything: “And there you stand, you and your mother!” + + And Emily’s voice, calm, rather contemptuous: “Come, now, James! + Soames will do all that he can.” + + And James, staring at the floor, a little brokenly: “Well, I + can’t help you; I’m getting old. Don’t you be in too great a + hurry, my boy.” + + And his mother’s voice again: “Soames will do all he can to get + her back. We won’t talk of it. It’ll all come right, I dare say.” + + And James: “Well, I can’t see how it can come right. And if she + hasn’t gone off with that young Bosinney, my advice to you is not + to listen to her, but to follow her and get her back.” + + Once more Soames felt his mother stroking his hand, in token of + her approval, and as though repeating some form of sacred oath, + he muttered between his teeth: “I will!” + + All three went down to the drawing-room together. There, were + gathered the three girls and Dartie; had Irene been present, the + family circle would have been complete. + + James sank into his armchair, and except for a word of cold + greeting to Dartie, whom he both despised and dreaded, as a man + likely to be always in want of money, he said nothing till dinner + was announced. Soames, too, was silent; Emily alone, a woman of + cool courage, maintained a conversation with Winifred on trivial + subjects. She was never more composed in her manner and + conversation than that evening. + + A decision having been come to not to speak of Irene’s flight, no + view was expressed by any other member of the family as to the + right course to be pursued; there can be little doubt, from the + general tone adopted in relation to events as they afterwards + turned out, that James’s advice: “Don’t you listen to her, follow + her and get her back!” would, with here and there an exception, + have been regarded as sound, not only in Park Lane, but amongst + the Nicholases, the Rogers, and at Timothy’s. Just as it would + surely have been endorsed by that wider body of Forsytes all over + London, who were merely excluded from judgment by ignorance of + the story. + + In spite then of Emily’s efforts, the dinner was served by + Warmson and the footman almost in silence. Dartie was sulky, and + drank all he could get; the girls seldom talked to each other at + any time. James asked once where June was, and what she was doing + with herself in these days. No one could tell him. He sank back + into gloom. Only when Winifred recounted how little Publius had + given his bad penny to a beggar, did he brighten up. + + “Ah!” he said, “that’s a clever little chap. I don’t know what’ll + become of him, if he goes on like this. An intelligent little + chap, I call him!” But it was only a flash. + + The courses succeeded one another solemnly, under the electric + light, which glared down onto the table, but barely reached the + principal ornament of the walls, a so-called “Sea Piece by + Turner,” almost entirely composed of cordage and drowning men. + + Champagne was handed, and then a bottle of James’ prehistoric + port, but as by the chill hand of some skeleton. + + At ten o’clock Soames left; twice in reply to questions, he had + said that Irene was not well; he felt he could no longer trust + himself. His mother kissed him with her large soft kiss, and he + pressed her hand, a flush of warmth in his cheeks. He walked away + in the cold wind, which whistled desolately round the corners of + the streets, under a sky of clear steel-blue, alive with stars; + he noticed neither their frosty greeting, nor the crackle of the + curled-up plane-leaves, nor the night-women hurrying in their + shabby furs, nor the pinched faces of vagabonds at street + corners. Winter was come! But Soames hastened home, oblivious; + his hands trembled as he took the late letters from the gilt wire + cage into which they had been thrust through the slit in the + door. + + None from Irene! + + He went into the dining-room; the fire was bright there, his + chair drawn up to it, slippers ready, spirit case, and carven + cigarette box on the table; but after staring at it all for a + minute or two, he turned out the light and went upstairs. There + was a fire too in his dressing-room, but her room was dark and + cold. It was into this room that Soames went. + + He made a great illumination with candles, and for a long time + continued pacing up and down between the bed and the door. He + could not get used to the thought that she had really left him, + and as though still searching for some message, some reason, some + reading of all the mystery of his married life, he began opening + every recess and drawer. + + There were her dresses; he had always liked, indeed insisted, + that she should be well-dressed—she had taken very few; two or + three at most, and drawer after drawer; full of linen and silk + things, was untouched. + + Perhaps after all it was only a freak, and she had gone to the + seaside for a few days’ change. If only that were so, and she + were really coming back, he would never again do as he had done + that fatal night before last, never again run that risk—though it + was her duty, her duty as a wife; though she did belong to him—he + would never again run that risk; she was evidently not quite + right in her head! + + He stooped over the drawer where she kept her jewels; it was not + locked, and came open as he pulled; the jewel box had the key in + it. This surprised him until he remembered that it was sure to be + empty. He opened it. + + It was far from empty. Divided, in little green velvet + compartments, were all the things he had given her, even her + watch, and stuck into the recess that contained the watch was a + three-cornered note addressed “Soames Forsyte,” in Irene’s + handwriting: + + “I think I have taken nothing that you or your people have given + me.” And that was all. + + He looked at the clasps and bracelets of diamonds and pearls, at + the little flat gold watch with a great diamond set in sapphires, + at the chains and rings, each in its nest, and the tears rushed + up in his eyes and dropped upon them. + + Nothing that she could have done, nothing that she _had_ done, + brought home to him like this the inner significance of her act. + For the moment, perhaps, he understood nearly all there was to + understand—understood that she loathed him, that she had loathed + him for years, that for all intents and purposes they were like + people living in different worlds, that there was no hope for + him, never had been; even, that she had suffered—that she was to + be pitied. + + In that moment of emotion he betrayed the Forsyte in him—forgot + himself, his interests, his property—was capable of almost + anything; was lifted into the pure ether of the selfless and + unpractical. + + Such moments pass quickly. + + And as though with the tears he had purged himself of weakness, + he got up, locked the box, and slowly, almost trembling, carried + it with him into the other room. + + + + + CHAPTER VII JUNE’S VICTORY + + June had waited for her chance, scanning the duller columns of + the journals, morning and evening with an assiduity which at + first puzzled old Jolyon; and when her chance came, she took it + with all the promptitude and resolute tenacity of her character. + + She will always remember best in her life that morning when at + last she saw amongst the reliable Cause List of the _Times_ + newspaper, under the heading of Court XIII, Mr. Justice Bentham, + the case of Forsyte _v_. Bosinney. + + Like a gambler who stakes his last piece of money, she had + prepared to hazard her all upon this throw; it was not her nature + to contemplate defeat. How, unless with the instinct of a woman + in love, she knew that Bosinney’s discomfiture in this action was + assured, cannot be told—on this assumption, however, she laid her + plans, as upon a certainty. + + Half past eleven found her at watch in the gallery of Court + XIII., and there she remained till the case of Forsyte _v_. + Bosinney was over. Bosinney’s absence did not disquiet her; she + had felt instinctively that he would not defend himself. At the + end of the judgment she hastened down, and took a cab to his + rooms. + + She passed the open street-door and the offices on the three + lower floors without attracting notice; not till she reached the + top did her difficulties begin. + + Her ring was not answered; she had now to make up her mind + whether she would go down and ask the caretaker in the basement + to let her in to await Mr. Bosinney’s return, or remain patiently + outside the door, trusting that no one would come up. She decided + on the latter course. + + A quarter of an hour had passed in freezing vigil on the landing, + before it occurred to her that Bosinney had been used to leave + the key of his rooms under the door-mat. She looked and found it + there. For some minutes she could not decide to make use of it; + at last she let herself in and left the door open that anyone who + came might see she was there on business. + + This was not the same June who had paid the trembling visit five + months ago; those months of suffering and restraint had made her + less sensitive; she had dwelt on this visit so long, with such + minuteness, that its terrors were discounted beforehand. She was + not there to fail this time, for if she failed no one could help + her. + + Like some mother beast on the watch over her young, her little + quick figure never stood still in that room, but wandered from + wall to wall, from window to door, fingering now one thing, now + another. There was dust everywhere, the room could not have been + cleaned for weeks, and June, quick to catch at anything that + should buoy up her hope, saw in it a sign that he had been + obliged, for economy’s sake, to give up his servant. + + She looked into the bedroom; the bed was roughly made, as though + by the hand of man. Listening intently, she darted in, and peered + into his cupboards. A few shirts and collars, a pair of muddy + boots—the room was bare even of garments. + + She stole back to the sitting-room, and now she noticed the + absence of all the little things he had set store by. The clock + that had been his mother’s, the field-glasses that had hung over + the sofa; two really valuable old prints of Harrow, where his + father had been at school, and last, not least, the piece of + Japanese pottery she herself had given him. All were gone; and in + spite of the rage roused within her championing soul at the + thought that the world should treat him thus, their disappearance + augured happily for the success of her plan. + + It was while looking at the spot where the piece of Japanese + pottery had stood that she felt a strange certainty of being + watched, and, turning, saw Irene in the open doorway. + + The two stood gazing at each other for a minute in silence; then + June walked forward and held out her hand. Irene did not take it. + + When her hand was refused, June put it behind her. Her eyes grew + steady with anger; she waited for Irene to speak; and thus + waiting, took in, with who-knows-what rage of jealousy, + suspicion, and curiosity, every detail of her friend’s face and + dress and figure. + + Irene was clothed in her long grey fur; the travelling cap on her + head left a wave of gold hair visible above her forehead. The + soft fullness of the coat made her face as small as a child’s. + + Unlike Jun’s cheeks, her cheeks had no colour in them, but were + ivory white and pinched as if with cold. Dark circles lay round + her eyes. In one hand she held a bunch of violets. + + She looked back at June, no smile on her lips; and with those + great dark eyes fastened on her, the girl, for all her startled + anger, felt something of the old spell. + + She spoke first, after all. + + “What have you come for?” But the feeling that she herself was + being asked the same question, made her add: “This horrible case. + I came to tell him—he has lost it.” + + Irene did not speak, her eyes never moved from Jun’s face, and + the girl cried: + + “Don’t stand there as if you were made of stone!” + + Irene laughed: “I wish to God I were!” + + But June turned away: “Stop!” she cried, “don’t tell me! I don’t + want to hear! I don’t want to hear what you’ve come for. I don’t + want to hear!” And like some uneasy spirit, she began swiftly + walking to and fro. Suddenly she broke out: + + “I was here first. We can’t both stay here together!” + + On Irene’s face a smile wandered up, and died out like a flicker + of firelight. She did not move. And then it was that June + perceived under the softness and immobility of this figure + something desperate and resolved; something not to be turned + away, something dangerous. She tore off her hat, and, putting + both hands to her brow, pressed back the bronze mass of her hair. + + “You have no right here!” she cried defiantly. + + Irene answered: “I have no right anywhere——” + + “What do you mean?” + + “I have left Soames. You always wanted me to!” + + June put her hands over her ears. + + “Don’t! I don’t want to hear anything—I don’t want to know + anything. It’s impossible to fight with you! What makes you stand + like that? Why don’t you go?” + + Irene’s lips moved; she seemed to be saying: “Where should I go?” + + June turned to the window. She could see the face of a clock down + in the street. It was nearly four. At any moment he might come! + She looked back across her shoulder, and her face was distorted + with anger. + + But Irene had not moved; in her gloved hands she ceaselessly + turned and twisted the little bunch of violets. + + The tears of rage and disappointment rolled down Jun’s cheeks. + + “How _could_ you come?” she said. “You have been a false friend + to me!” + + Again Irene laughed. June saw that she had played a wrong card, + and broke down. + + “Why have you come?” she sobbed. “You’ve ruined my life, and now + you want to ruin his!” + + Irene’s mouth quivered; her eyes met Jun’s with a look so + mournful that the girl cried out in the midst of her sobbing, + “No, no!” + + But Irene’s head bent till it touched her breast. She turned, and + went quickly out, hiding her lips with the little bunch of + violets. + + June ran to the door. She heard the footsteps going down and + down. She called out: “Come back, Irene! Come back!” + + The footsteps died away.... + + Bewildered and torn, the girl stood at the top of the stairs. Why + had Irene gone, leaving her mistress of the field? What did it + mean? Had she really given him up to her? Or had she...? And she + was the prey of a gnawing uncertainty.... Bosinney did not + come.... + + About six o’clock that afternoon old Jolyon returned from + Wistaria Avenue, where now almost every day he spent some hours, + and asked if his grand-daughter were upstairs. On being told that + she had just come in, he sent up to her room to request her to + come down and speak to him. + + He had made up his mind to tell her that he was reconciled with + her father. In future bygones must be bygones. He would no longer + live alone, or practically alone, in this great house; he was + going to give it up, and take one in the country for his son, + where they could all go and live together. If June did not like + this, she could have an allowance and live by herself. It + wouldn’t make much difference to her, for it was a long time + since she had shown him any affection. + + But when June came down, her face was pinched and piteous; there + was a strained, pathetic look in her eyes. She snuggled up in her + old attitude on the arm of his chair, and what he said compared + but poorly with the clear, authoritative, injured statement he + had thought out with much care. His heart felt sore, as the great + heart of a mother-bird feels sore when its youngling flies and + bruises its wing. His words halted, as though he were apologizing + for having at last deviated from the path of virtue, and + succumbed, in defiance of sounder principles, to his more natural + instincts. + + He seemed nervous lest, in thus announcing his intentions, he + should be setting his granddaughter a bad example; and now that + he came to the point, his way of putting the suggestion that, if + she didn’t like it, she could live by herself and lump it, was + delicate in the extreme. + + “And if, by any chance, my darling,” he said, “you found you + didn’t get on—with them, why, I could make that all right. You + could have what you liked. We could find a little flat in London + where you could set up, and I could be running to continually. + But the children,” he added, “are dear little things!” + + Then, in the midst of this grave, rather transparent, explanation + of changed policy, his eyes twinkled. “This’ll astonish Timothy’s + weak nerves. That precious young thing will have something to say + about this, or I’m a Dutchman!” + + June had not yet spoken. Perched thus on the arm of his chair, + with her head above him, her face was invisible. But presently he + felt her warm cheek against his own, and knew that, at all + events, there was nothing very alarming in her attitude towards + his news. He began to take courage. + + “You’ll like your father,” he said—“an amiable chap. Never was + much push about him, but easy to get on with. You’ll find him + artistic and all that.” + + And old Jolyon bethought him of the dozen or so water-colour + drawings all carefully locked up in his bedroom; for now that his + son was going to become a man of property he did not think them + quite such poor things as heretofore. + + “As to your—your stepmother,” he said, using the word with some + little difficulty, “I call her a refined woman—a bit of a Mrs. + Gummidge, I shouldn’t wonder—but very fond of Jo. And the + children,” he repeated—indeed, this sentence ran like music + through all his solemn self-justification—“are sweet little + things!” + + If June had known, those words but reincarnated that tender love + for little children, for the young and weak, which in the past + had made him desert his son for her tiny self, and now, as the + cycle rolled, was taking him from her. + + But he began to get alarmed at her silence, and asked + impatiently: “Well, what do you say?” + + June slid down to his knee, and she in her turn began her tale. + She thought it would all go splendidly; she did not see any + difficulty, and she did not care a bit what people thought. + + Old Jolyon wriggled. H’m! then people _would_ think! He had + thought that after all these years perhaps they wouldn’t! Well, + he couldn’t help it! Nevertheless, he could not approve of his + granddaughter’s way of putting it—she ought to mind what people + thought! + + Yet he said nothing. His feelings were too mixed, too + inconsistent for expression. + + No—went on June—she did not care; what business was it of theirs? + There was only one thing—and with her cheek pressing against his + knee, old Jolyon knew at once that this something was no trifle: + As he was going to buy a house in the country, would he not—to + please her—buy that splendid house of Soames’ at Robin Hill? It + was finished, it was perfectly beautiful, and no one would live + in it now. They would all be so happy there. + + Old Jolyon was on the alert at once. Wasn’t the “man of property” + going to live in his new house, then? He never alluded to Soames + now but under this title. + + “No”—June said—“he was not; she knew that he was not!” + + How did she know? + + She could not tell him, but she knew. She knew nearly for + certain! It was most unlikely; circumstances had changed! Irene’s + words still rang in her head: “I have left Soames. Where should I + go?” + + But she kept silence about that. + + If her grandfather would only buy it and settle that wretched + claim that ought never to have been made on Phil! It would be the + very best thing for everybody, and everything—everything might + come straight. + + And June put her lips to his forehead, and pressed them close. + + But old Jolyon freed himself from her caress, his face wore the + judicial look which came upon it when he dealt with affairs. He + asked: What did she mean? There was something behind all this—had + she been seeing Bosinney? + + June answered: “No; but I have been to his rooms.” + + “Been to his rooms? Who took you there?” + + June faced him steadily. “I went alone. He has lost that case. I + don’t care whether it was right or wrong. I want to help him; and + _I will!_” + + Old Jolyon asked again: “Have you seen him?” His glance seemed to + pierce right through the girl’s eyes into her soul. + + Again June answered: “No; he was not there. I waited, but he did + not come.” + + Old Jolyon made a movement of relief. She had risen and looked + down at him; so slight, and light, and young, but so fixed, and + so determined; and disturbed, vexed, as he was, he could not + frown away that fixed look. The feeling of being beaten, of the + reins having slipped, of being old and tired, mastered him. + + “Ah!” he said at last, “you’ll get yourself into a mess one of + these days, I can see. You want your own way in everything.” + + Visited by one of his strange bursts of philosophy, he added: + “Like that you were born; and like that you’ll stay until you + die!” + + And he, who in his dealings with men of business, with Boards, + with Forsytes of all descriptions, with such as were not + Forsytes, had always had his own way, looked at his indomitable + grandchild sadly—for he felt in her that quality which above all + others he unconsciously admired. + + “Do you know what they say is going on?” he said slowly. + + June crimsoned. + + “Yes—no! I know—and I don’t know—I don’t care!” and she stamped + her foot. + + “I believe,” said old Jolyon, dropping his eyes, “that you’d have + him if he were dead!” + + There was a long silence before he spoke again. + + “But as to buying this house—you don’t know what you’re talking + about!” + + June said that she did. She knew that he could get it if he + wanted. He would only have to give what it cost. + + “What it cost! You know nothing about it. I won’t go to + Soames—I’ll have nothing more to do with that young man.” + + “But you needn’t; you can go to Uncle James. If you can’t buy the + house, will you pay his lawsuit claim? I know he is terribly hard + up—I’ve seen it. You can stop it out of my money!” + + A twinkle came into old Jolyon’s eyes. + + “Stop it out of your money! A pretty way. And what will you do, + pray, without your money?” + + But secretly, the idea of wresting the house from James and his + son had begun to take hold of him. He had heard on Forsyte + ’Change much comment, much rather doubtful praise of this house. + It was “too artistic,” but a fine place. To take from the “man of + property” that on which he had set his heart, would be a crowning + triumph over James, practical proof that he was going to make a + man of property of Jo, to put him back in his proper position, + and there to keep him secure. Justice once for all on those who + had chosen to regard his son as a poor, penniless outcast. + + He would see, he would see! It might be out of the question; he + was not going to pay a fancy price, but if it could be done, why, + perhaps he would do it! + + And still more secretly he knew that he could not refuse her. + + But he did not commit himself. He would think it over—he said to + June. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII BOSINNEY’S DEPARTURE + + Old Jolyon was not given to hasty decisions; it is probable that + he would have continued to think over the purchase of the house + at Robin Hill, had not Jun’s face told him that he would have no + peace until he acted. + + At breakfast next morning she asked him what time she should + order the carriage. + + “Carriage!” he said, with some appearance of innocence; “what + for? _I’m_ not going out!” + + She answered: “If you don’t go early, you won’t catch Uncle James + before he goes into the City.” + + “James! what about your Uncle James?” + + “The house,” she replied, in such a voice that he no longer + pretended ignorance. + + “I’ve not made up my mind,” he said. + + “You must! You must! Oh! Gran—think of me!” + + Old Jolyon grumbled out: “Think of you—I’m always thinking of + you, but you don’t think of yourself; you don’t think what you’re + letting yourself in for. Well, order the carriage at ten!” + + At a quarter past he was placing his umbrella in the stand at + Park Lane—he did not choose to relinquish his hat and coat; + telling Warmson that he wanted to see his master, he went, + without being announced, into the study, and sat down. + + James was still in the dining-room talking to Soames, who had + come round again before breakfast. On hearing who his visitor + was, he muttered nervously: “Now, what’s _he_ want, I wonder?” + + He then got up. + + “Well,” he said to Soames, “don’t you go doing anything in a + hurry. The first thing is to find out where she is—I should go to + Stainer’s about it; they’re the best men, if they can’t find her, + nobody can.” And suddenly moved to strange softness, he muttered + to himself, “Poor little thing, _I_ can’t tell what she was + thinking about!” and went out blowing his nose. + + Old Jolyon did not rise on seeing his brother, but held out his + hand, and exchanged with him the clasp of a Forsyte. + + James took another chair by the table, and leaned his head on his + hand. + + “Well,” he said, “how are you? We don’t see much of _you_ + nowadays!” + + Old Jolyon paid no attention to the remark. + + “How’s Emily?” he asked; and waiting for no reply, went on “I’ve + come to see you about this affair of young Bosinney’s. I’m told + that new house of his is a white elephant.” + + “I don’t know anything about a white elephant,” said James, “I + know he’s lost his case, and I should say he’ll go bankrupt.” + + Old Jolyon was not slow to seize the opportunity this gave him. + + “I shouldn’t wonder a bit!” he agreed; “and if he goes bankrupt, + the ‘man of property’—that is, Soames’ll be out of pocket. Now, + what I was thinking was this: If he’s not going to live + there....” + + Seeing both surprise and suspicion in James’ eye, he quickly went + on: “I don’t want to know anything; I suppose Irene’s put her + foot down—it’s not material to me. But I’m thinking of a house in + the country myself, not too far from London, and if it suited me + I don’t say that I mightn’t look at it, at a price.” + + James listened to this statement with a strange mixture of doubt, + suspicion, and relief, merging into a dread of something behind, + and tinged with the remains of his old undoubted reliance upon + his elder brother’s good faith and judgment. There was anxiety, + too, as to what old Jolyon could have heard and how he had heard + it; and a sort of hopefulness arising from the thought that if + Jun’s connection with Bosinney were completely at an end, her + grandfather would hardly seem anxious to help the young fellow. + Altogether he was puzzled; as he did not like either to show + this, or to commit himself in any way, he said: + + “They tell me you’re altering your Will in favour of your son.” + + He had not been told this; he had merely added the fact of having + seen old Jolyon with his son and grandchildren to the fact that + he had taken his Will away from Forsyte, Bustard and Forsyte. The + shot went home. + + “Who told you that?” asked old Jolyon. + + “I’m sure I don’t know,” said James; “I can’t remember names—I + know somebody told me Soames spent a lot of money on this house; + he’s not likely to part with it except at a good price.” + + “Well,” said old Jolyon, “if, he thinks I’m going to pay a fancy + price, he’s mistaken. I’ve not got the money to throw away that + he seems to have. Let him try and sell it at a forced sale, and + see what he’ll get. It’s not every man’s house, I hear!” + + James, who was secretly also of this opinion, answered: “It’s a + gentleman’s house. Soames is here now if you’d like to see him.” + + “No,” said old Jolyon, “I haven’t got as far as that; and I’m not + likely to, I can see that very well if I’m met in this manner!” + + James was a little cowed; when it came to the actual figures of a + commercial transaction he was sure of himself, for then he was + dealing with facts, not with men; but preliminary negotiations + such as these made him nervous—he never knew quite how far he + could go. + + “Well,” he said, “I know nothing about it. Soames, he tells me + nothing; I should think he’d entertain it—it’s a question of + price.” + + “Oh!” said old Jolyon, “don’t let him make a favour of it!” He + placed his hat on his head in dudgeon. + + The door was opened and Soames came in. + + “There’s a policeman out here,” he said with his half smile, “for + Uncle Jolyon.” + + Old Jolyon looked at him angrily, and James said: “A policeman? I + don’t know anything about a policeman. But I suppose you know + something about him,” he added to old Jolyon with a look of + suspicion: “I suppose you’d better see him!” + + In the hall an Inspector of Police stood stolidly regarding with + heavy-lidded pale-blue eyes the fine old English furniture picked + up by James at the famous Mavrojano sale in Portman Square. + “You’ll find my brother in there,” said James. + + The Inspector raised his fingers respectfully to his peaked cap, + and entered the study. + + James saw him go in with a strange sensation. + + “Well,” he said to Soames, “I suppose we must wait and see what + he wants. Your uncle’s been here about the house!” + + He returned with Soames into the dining-room, but could not rest. + + “Now what _does_ he want?” he murmured again. + + “Who?” replied Soames: “the Inspector? They sent him round from + Stanhope Gate, that’s all I know. That ‘nonconformist’ of Uncle + Jolyon’s has been pilfering, I shouldn’t wonder!” + + But in spite of his calmness, he too was ill at ease. + + At the end of ten minutes old Jolyon came in. He walked up to the + table, and stood there perfectly silent pulling at his long white + moustaches. James gazed up at him with opening mouth; he had + never seen his brother look like this. + + Old Jolyon raised his hand, and said slowly: + + “Young Bosinney has been run over in the fog and killed.” + + Then standing above his brother and his nephew, and looking down + at him with his deep eyes: + + “There’s—some—talk—of—suicide,” he said. + + James’ jaw dropped. “_Suicide!_ What should he do that for?” + + Old Jolyon answered sternly: “God knows, if you and your son + don’t!” + + But James did not reply. + + For all men of great age, even for all Forsytes, life has had + bitter experiences. The passer-by, who sees them wrapped in + cloaks of custom, wealth, and comfort, would never suspect that + such black shadows had fallen on their roads. To every man of + great age—to Sir Walter Bentham himself—the idea of suicide has + once at least been present in the ante-room of his soul; on the + threshold, waiting to enter, held out from the inmost chamber by + some chance reality, some vague fear, some painful hope. To + Forsytes that final renunciation of property is hard. Oh! it is + hard! Seldom—perhaps never—can they achieve, it; and yet, how + near have they not sometimes been! + + So even with James! Then in the medley of his thoughts, he broke + out: “Why I saw it in the paper yesterday: ‘Run over in the fog!’ + They didn’t know his name!” He turned from one face to the other + in his confusion of soul; but instinctively all the time he was + rejecting that rumour of suicide. He dared not entertain this + thought, so against his interest, against the interest of his + son, of every Forsyte. He strove against it; and as his nature + ever unconsciously rejected that which it could not with safety + accept, so gradually he overcame this fear. It was an accident! + It must have been! + + Old Jolyon broke in on his reverie. + + “Death was instantaneous. He lay all day yesterday at the + hospital. There was nothing to tell them who he was. I am going + there now; you and your son had better come too.” + + No one opposing this command he led the way from the room. + + The day was still and clear and bright, and driving over to Park + Lane from Stanhope Gate, old Jolyon had had the carriage open. + Sitting back on the padded cushions, finishing his cigar, he had + noticed with pleasure the keen crispness of the air, the bustle + of the cabs and people; the strange, almost Parisian, alacrity + that the first fine day will bring into London streets after a + spell of fog or rain. And he had felt so happy; he had not felt + like it for months. His confession to June was off his mind; he + had the prospect of his son’s, above all, of his grandchildren’s + company in the future—(he had appointed to meet young Jolyon at + the Hotch Potch that very morning to discuss it again); and there + was the pleasurable excitement of a coming encounter, a coming + victory, over James and the “man of property” in the matter of + the house. + + He had the carriage closed now; he had no heart to look on + gaiety; nor was it right that Forsytes should be seen driving + with an Inspector of Police. + + In that carriage the Inspector spoke again of the death: + + “It was not so very thick—Just there. The driver says the + gentleman must have had time to see what he was about, he seemed + to walk right into it. It appears that he was very hard up, we + found several pawn tickets at his rooms, his account at the bank + is overdrawn, and there’s this case in to-day’s papers;” his cold + blue eyes travelled from one to another of the three Forsytes in + the carriage. + + Old Jolyon watching from his corner saw his brother’s face + change, and the brooding, worried, look deepen on it. At the + Inspector’s words, indeed, all James’ doubts and fears revived. + Hard-up—pawn-tickets—an overdrawn account! These words that had + all his life been a far-off nightmare to him, seemed to make + uncannily real that suspicion of suicide which must on no account + be entertained. He sought his son’s eye; but lynx-eyed, taciturn, + immovable, Soames gave no answering look. And to old Jolyon + watching, divining the league of mutual defence between them, + there came an overmastering desire to have his own son at his + side, as though this visit to the dead man’s body was a battle in + which otherwise he must single-handed meet those two. And the + thought of how to keep Jun’s name out of the business kept + whirring in his brain. James had his son to support him! Why + should he not send for Jo? + + Taking out his card-case, he pencilled the following message: + + “Come round at once. I’ve sent the carriage for you.” + + On getting out he gave this card to his coachman, telling him to + drive—as fast as possible to the Hotch Potch Club, and if Mr. + Jolyon Forsyte were there to give him the card and bring him at + once. If not there yet, he was to wait till he came. + + He followed the others slowly up the steps, leaning on his + umbrella, and stood a moment to get his breath. The Inspector + said: “This is the mortuary, sir. But take your time.” + + In the bare, white-walled room, empty of all but a streak of + sunshine smeared along the dustless floor, lay a form covered by + a sheet. With a huge steady hand the Inspector took the hem and + turned it back. A sightless face gazed up at them, and on either + side of that sightless defiant face the three Forsytes gazed + down; in each one of them the secret emotions, fears, and pity of + his own nature rose and fell like the rising, falling waves of + life, whose wash those white walls barred out now for ever from + Bosinney. And in each one of them the trend of his nature, the + odd essential spring, which moved him in fashions minutely, + unalterably different from those of every other human being, + forced him to a different attitude of thought. Far from the + others, yet inscrutably close, each stood thus, alone with death, + silent, his eyes lowered. + + The Inspector asked softly: + + “You identify the gentleman, sir?” + + Old Jolyon raised his head and nodded. He looked at his brother + opposite, at that long lean figure brooding over the dead man, + with face dusky red, and strained grey eyes; and at the figure of + Soames white and still by his father’s side. And all that he had + felt against those two was gone like smoke in the long white + presence of Death. Whence comes it, how comes it—Death? Sudden + reverse of all that goes before; blind setting forth on a path + that leads to where? Dark quenching of the fire! The heavy, + brutal crushing-out that all men must go through, keeping their + eyes clear and brave unto the end! Small and of no import, + insects though they are! And across old Jolyon’s face there + flitted a gleam, for Soames, murmuring to the Inspector, crept + noiselessly away. + + Then suddenly James raised his eyes. There was a queer appeal in + that suspicious troubled look: “I know I’m no match for you,” it + seemed to say. And, hunting for handkerchief he wiped his brow; + then, bending sorrowful and lank over the dead man, he too turned + and hurried out. + + Old Jolyon stood, still as death, his eyes fixed on the body. Who + shall tell of what he was thinking? Of himself, when his hair was + brown like the hair of that young fellow dead before him? Of + himself, with his battle just beginning, the long, long battle he + had loved; the battle that was over for this young man almost + before it had begun? Of his grand-daughter, with her broken + hopes? Of that other woman? Of the strangeness, and the pity of + it? And the irony, inscrutable, and bitter of that end? Justice! + There was no justice for men, for they were ever in the dark! + + Or perhaps in his philosophy he thought: Better to be out of it + all! Better to have done with it, like this poor youth.... + + Some one touched him on the arm. + + A tear started up and wetted his eyelash. “Well,” he said, “I’m + no good here. I’d better be going. You’ll come to me as soon as + you can, Jo,” and with his head bowed he went away. + + It was young Jolyon’s turn to take his stand beside the dead man, + round whose fallen body he seemed to see all the Forsytes + breathless, and prostrated. The stroke had fallen too swiftly. + + The forces underlying every tragedy—forces that take no denial, + working through cross currents to their ironical end, had met and + fused with a thunder-clap, flung out the victim, and flattened to + the ground all those that stood around. + + Or so at all events young Jolyon seemed to see them, lying around + Bosinney’s body. + + He asked the Inspector to tell him what had happened, and the + latter, like a man who does not every day get such a chance, + again detailed such facts as were known. + + “There’s more here, sir, however,” he said, “than meets the eye. + I don’t believe in suicide, nor in pure accident, myself. It’s + more likely I think that he was suffering under great stress of + mind, and took no notice of things about him. Perhaps you can + throw some light on these.” + + He took from his pocket a little packet and laid it on the table. + Carefully undoing it, he revealed a lady’s handkerchief, pinned + through the folds with a pin of discoloured Venetian gold, the + stone of which had fallen from the socket. A scent of dried + violets rose to young Jolyon’s nostrils. + + “Found in his breast pocket,” said the Inspector; “the name has + been cut away!” + + Young Jolyon with difficulty answered: “I’m afraid I cannot help + you!” But vividly there rose before him the face he had seen + light up, so tremulous and glad, at Bosinney’s coming! Of her he + thought more than of his own daughter, more than of them all—of + her with the dark, soft glance, the delicate passive face, + waiting for the dead man, waiting even at that moment, perhaps, + still and patient in the sunlight. + + He walked sorrowfully away from the hospital towards his father’s + house, reflecting that this death would break up the Forsyte + family. The stroke had indeed slipped past their defences into + the very wood of their tree. They might flourish to all + appearance as before, preserving a brave show before the eyes of + London, but the trunk was dead, withered by the same flash that + had stricken down Bosinney. And now the saplings would take its + place, each one a new custodian of the sense of property. + + Good forest of Forsytes! thought young Jolyon—soundest timber of + our land! + + Concerning the cause of this death—his family would doubtless + reject with vigour the suspicion of suicide, which was so + compromising! They would take it as an accident, a stroke of + fate. In their hearts they would even feel it an intervention of + Providence, a retribution—had not Bosinney endangered their two + most priceless possessions, the pocket and the hearth? And they + would talk of “that unfortunate accident of young Bosinney’s,” + but perhaps they would not talk—silence might be better! + + As for himself, he regarded the bus-driver’s account of the + accident as of very little value. For no one so madly in love + committed suicide for want of money; nor was Bosinney the sort of + fellow to set much store by a financial crisis. And so he too, + rejected this theory of suicide, the dead man’s face rose too + clearly before him. Gone in the heyday of his summer—and to + believe thus that an accident had cut Bosinney off in the full + sweep of his passion was more than ever pitiful to young Jolyon. + + Then came a vision of Soames’ home as it now was, and must be + hereafter. The streak of lightning had flashed its clear uncanny + gleam on bare bones with grinning spaces between, the disguising + flesh was gone.... + + In the dining-room at Stanhope Gate old Jolyon was sitting alone + when his son came in. He looked very wan in his great armchair. + And his eyes travelling round the walls with their pictures of + still life, and the masterpiece “Dutch fishing-boats at Sunset” + seemed as though passing their gaze over his life with its hopes, + its gains, its achievements. + + “Ah! Jo!” he said, “is that you? I’ve told poor little June. But + that’s not all of it. Are you going to Soames’? _She’s_ brought + it on herself, I suppose; but somehow I can’t bear to think of + her, shut up there—and all alone.” And holding up his thin, + veined hand, he clenched it. + + + + + CHAPTER IX IRENE’S RETURN + + After leaving James and old Jolyon in the mortuary of the + hospital, Soames hurried aimlessly along the streets. + + The tragic event of Bosinney’s death altered the complexion of + everything. There was no longer the same feeling that to lose a + minute would be fatal, nor would he now risk communicating the + fact of his wife’s flight to anyone till the inquest was over. + + That morning he had risen early, before the postman came, had + taken the first-post letters from the box himself, and, though + there had been none from Irene, he had made an opportunity of + telling Bilson that her mistress was at the sea; he would + probably, he said, be going down himself from Saturday to Monday. + This had given him time to breathe, time to leave no stone + unturned to find her. + + But now, cut off from taking steps by Bosinney’s death—that + strange death, to think of which was like putting a hot iron to + his heart, like lifting a great weight from it—he did not know + how to pass his day; and he wandered here and there through the + streets, looking at every face he met, devoured by a hundred + anxieties. + + And as he wandered, he thought of him who had finished his + wandering, his prowling, and would never haunt his house again. + + Already in the afternoon he passed posters announcing the + identity of the dead man, and bought the papers to see what they + said. He would stop their mouths if he could, and he went into + the City, and was closeted with Boulter for a long time. + + On his way home, passing the steps of Jobson’s about half past + four, he met George Forsyte, who held out an evening paper to + Soames, saying: + + “Here! Have you seen this about the poor Buccaneer?” + + Soames answered stonily: “Yes.” + + George stared at him. He had never liked Soames; he now held him + responsible for Bosinney’s death. Soames had done for him—done + for him by that act of property that had sent the Buccaneer to + run amok that fatal afternoon. + + “The poor fellow,” he was thinking, “was so cracked with + jealousy, so cracked for his vengeance, that he heard nothing of + the omnibus in that infernal fog.” + + Soames had done for him! And this judgment was in George’s eyes. + + “They talk of suicide here,” he said at last. “_That_ cat won’t + jump.” + + Soames shook his head. “An accident,” he muttered. + + Clenching his fist on the paper, George crammed it into his + pocket. He could not resist a parting shot. + + “H’mm! All flourishing at home? Any little Soameses yet?” + + With a face as white as the steps of Jobson’s, and a lip raised + as if snarling, Soames brushed past him and was gone.... + + On reaching home, and entering the little lighted hall with his + latchkey, the first thing that caught his eye was his wife’s + gold-mounted umbrella lying on the rug chest. Flinging off his + fur coat, he hurried to the drawing-room. + + The curtains were drawn for the night, a bright fire of + cedar-logs burned in the grate, and by its light he saw Irene + sitting in her usual corner on the sofa. He shut the door softly, + and went towards her. She did not move, and did not seem to see + him. + + “So you’ve come back?” he said. “Why are you sitting here in the + dark?” + + Then he caught sight of her face, so white and motionless that it + seemed as though the blood must have stopped flowing in her + veins; and her eyes, that looked enormous, like the great, wide, + startled brown eyes of an owl. + + Huddled in her grey fur against the sofa cushions, she had a + strange resemblance to a captive owl, bunched in its soft + feathers against the wires of a cage. The supple erectness of her + figure was gone, as though she had been broken by cruel exercise; + as though there were no longer any reason for being beautiful, + and supple, and erect. + + “So you’ve come back,” he repeated. + + She never looked up, and never spoke, the firelight playing over + her motionless figure. + + Suddenly she tried to rise, but he prevented her; it was then + that he understood. + + She had come back like an animal wounded to death, not knowing + where to turn, not knowing what she was doing. The sight of her + figure, huddled in the fur, was enough. + + He knew then for certain that Bosinney had been her lover; knew + that she had seen the report of his death—perhaps, like himself, + had bought a paper at the draughty corner of a street, and read + it. + + She had come back then of her own accord, to the cage she had + pined to be free of—and taking in all the tremendous significance + of this, he longed to cry: “Take your hated body, that I love, + out of my house! Take away that pitiful white face, so cruel and + soft—before I crush it. Get out of my sight; never let me see you + again!” + + And, at those unspoken words, he seemed to see her rise and move + away, like a woman in a terrible dream, from which she was + fighting to awake—rise and go out into the dark and cold, without + a thought of him, without so much as the knowledge of his + presence. + + Then he cried, contradicting what he had not yet spoken, “No; + stay there!” And turning away from her, he sat down in his + accustomed chair on the other side of the hearth. + + They sat in silence. + + And Soames thought: “Why is all this? Why should I suffer so? + What have I done? It is not my fault!” + + Again he looked at her, huddled like a bird that is shot and + dying, whose poor breast you see panting as the air is taken from + it, whose poor eyes look at you who have shot it, with a slow, + soft, unseeing look, taking farewell of all that is good—of the + sun, and the air, and its mate. + + So they sat, by the firelight, in the silence, one on each side + of the hearth. + + And the fume of the burning cedar logs, that he loved so well, + seemed to grip Soames by the throat till he could bear it no + longer. And going out into the hall he flung the door wide, to + gulp down the cold air that came in; then without hat or overcoat + went out into the Square. + + Along the garden rails a half-starved cat came rubbing her way + towards him, and Soames thought: “Suffering! when will it cease, + my suffering?” + + At a front door across the way was a man of his acquaintance + named Rutter, scraping his boots, with an air of “I am master + here.” And Soames walked on. + + From far in the clear air the bells of the church where he and + Irene had been married were pealing in “practice” for the advent + of Christ, the chimes ringing out above the sound of traffic. He + felt a craving for strong drink, to lull him to indifference, or + rouse him to fury. If only he could burst out of himself, out of + this web that for the first time in his life he felt around him. + If only he could surrender to the thought: “Divorce her—turn her + out! She has forgotten you. Forget her!” + + If only he could surrender to the thought: “Let her go—she has + suffered enough!” + + If only he could surrender to the desire: “Make a slave of + her—she is in your power!” + + If only even he could surrender to the sudden vision: “What does + it all matter?” Forget himself for a minute, forget that it + mattered what he did, forget that whatever he did he must + sacrifice something. + + If only he could act on an impulse! + + He could forget nothing; surrender to no thought, vision, or + desire; it was all too serious; too close around him, an + unbreakable cage. + + On the far side of the Square newspaper boys were calling their + evening wares, and the ghoulish cries mingled and jangled with + the sound of those church bells. + + Soames covered his ears. The thought flashed across him that but + for a chance, he himself, and not Bosinney, might be lying dead, + and she, instead of crouching there like a shot bird with those + dying eyes.... + + Something soft touched his legs, the cat was rubbing herself + against them. And a sob that shook him from head to foot burst + from Soames’ chest. Then all was still again in the dark, where + the houses seemed to stare at him, each with a master and + mistress of its own, and a secret story of happiness or sorrow. + + And suddenly he saw that his own door was open, and black against + the light from the hall a man standing with his back turned. + Something slid too in his breast, and he stole up close behind. + + He could see his own fur coat flung across the carved oak chair; + the Persian rugs; the silver bowls, the rows of porcelain plates + arranged along the walls, and this unknown man who was standing + there. + + And sharply he asked: “What is it you want, sir?” + + The visitor turned. It was young Jolyon. + + “The door was open,” he said. “Might I see your wife for a + minute, I have a message for her?” + + Soames gave him a strange, sidelong stare. + + “My wife can see no one,” he muttered doggedly. + + Young Jolyon answered gently: “I shouldn’t keep her a minute.” + + Soames brushed by him and barred the way. + + “She can see no one,” he said again. + + Young Jolyon’s glance shot past him into the hall, and Soames + turned. There in the drawing-room doorway stood Irene, her eyes + were wild and eager, her lips were parted, her hands + outstretched. In the sight of both men that light vanished from + her face; her hands dropped to her sides; she stood like stone. + + Soames spun round, and met his visitor’s eyes, and at the look he + saw in them, a sound like a snarl escaped him. He drew his lips + back in the ghost of a smile. + + “This is my house,” he said; “I manage my own affairs. I’ve told + you once—I tell you again; we are not at home.” + + And in young Jolyon’s face he slammed the door. + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Forsyte Saga, The Man Of Property, by John Galsworthy + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FORSYTE SAGA, THE MAN OF PROPERTY *** + +***** This file should be named 2559-0.txt or 2559-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/5/2559/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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