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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 + + +Title: The Forsyte Saga, Awakening and To Let + +Author: John Galsworthy + +Release Date: June 14, 2006 [EBook #2596] +Last Updated: February 22, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE AWAKENING AND TO LET *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> + <img alt="spines (203K)" src="images/spines.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> + <img alt="subscription (12K)" src="images/subscription.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> + <img alt="editon (10K)" src="images/editon.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + FORSYTE SAGA + </h1> + <h3> + AWAKENING AND TO LET + </h3> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By John Galsworthy + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0094"> <big><b>AWAKENING</b></big> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0095"> <big><b>TO LET</b></big> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PARTc1"> <b>PART I</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0097"> I.—ENCOUNTER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0098"> II.—FINE FLEUR FORSYTE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0099"> III.—AT ROBIN HILL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0100"> IV.—THE MAUSOLEUM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0101"> V.—THE NATIVE HEATH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0102"> VI.—JON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0103"> VII.—FLEUR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0104"> VIII.—IDYLL ON GRASS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0105"> IX. GOYA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0106"> X.—TRIO </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0107"> XI.—DUET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0108"> XII.—CAPRICE </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PARTc2"> <b>PART II</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0110"> I.—MOTHER AND SON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0111"> II.—FATHERS AND DAUGHTERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0112"> III.—MEETINGS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0113"> IV.—IN GREEN STREET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0114"> V.—PURELY FORSYTE AFFAIRS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0115"> VI.—SOAMES' PRIVATE LIFE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0116"> VII.—JUNE TAKES A HAND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0117"> VIII.—THE BIT BETWEEN THE TEETH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0118"> IX.—THE FAT IN THE FIRE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0119"> X.—DECISION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0120"> XI.—TIMOTHY PROPHESIES </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PARTc3"> <b>PART III</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0122"> I.—OLD JOLYON WALKS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0123"> II.—CONFESSION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0124"> III.—IRENE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0125"> IV.—SOAMES COGITATES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0126"> V.—THE FIXED IDEA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0127"> VI.—DESPERATE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0128"> VII.—EMBASSY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0129"> VIII.—THE DARK TUNE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0130"> IX.—UNDER THE OAK-TREE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0131"> X.—FLEUR'S WEDDING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0132"> XI.—THE LAST OF THE OLD FORSYTES </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_TOC" id="link2H_TOC"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0092" id="link2H_4_0092"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> + <img alt="titlepage3 (37K)" src="images/titlepage3.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> + <img alt="frontis3 (120K)" src="images/frontis3.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + THE FORSYTE SAGA—VOLUME III. + </h2> + <h3> + By John Galsworthy + </h3> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0093" id="link2H_4_0093"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AWAKENING + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + TO CHARLES SCRIBNER + </h3> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0094" id="link2H_4_0094"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AWAKENING + </h2> + <p> + Through the massive skylight illuminating the hall at Robin Hill, the July + sunlight at five o'clock fell just where the broad stairway turned; + and in that radiant streak little Jon Forsyte stood, blue-linen-suited. + His hair was shining, and his eyes, from beneath a frown, for he was + considering how to go downstairs, this last of innumerable times, before + the car brought his father and mother home. Four at a time, and five at + the bottom? Stale! Down the banisters? But in which fashion? On his face, + feet foremost? Very stale. On his stomach, sideways? Paltry! On his back, + with his arms stretched down on both sides? Forbidden! Or on his face, + head foremost, in a manner unknown as yet to any but himself? Such was the + cause of the frown on the illuminated face of little Jon.... + </p> + <p> + In that Summer of 1909 the simple souls who even then desired to simplify + the English tongue, had, of course, no cognizance of little Jon, or they + would have claimed him for a disciple. But one can be too simple in this + life, for his real name was Jolyon, and his living father and dead + half-brother had usurped of old the other shortenings, Jo and Jolly. As a + fact little Jon had done his best to conform to convention and spell + himself first Jhon, then John; not till his father had explained the sheer + necessity, had he spelled his name Jon. + </p> + <p> + Up till now that father had possessed what was left of his heart by the + groom, Bob, who played the concertina, and his nurse “Da,” who + wore the violet dress on Sundays, and enjoyed the name of Spraggins in + that private life lived at odd moments even by domestic servants. His + mother had only appeared to him, as it were in dreams, smelling delicious, + smoothing his forehead just before he fell asleep, and sometimes docking + his hair, of a golden brown colour. When he cut his head open against the + nursery fender she was there to be bled over; and when he had nightmare + she would sit on his bed and cuddle his head against her neck. She was + precious but remote, because “Da” was so near, and there is + hardly room for more than one woman at a time in a man's heart. With + his father, too, of course, he had special bonds of union; for little Jon + also meant to be a painter when he grew up—with the one small + difference, that his father painted pictures, and little Jon intended to + paint ceilings and walls, standing on a board between two step-ladders, in + a dirty-white apron, and a lovely smell of whitewash. His father also took + him riding in Richmond Park, on his pony, Mouse, so-called because it was + so-coloured. + </p> + <p> + Little Jon had been born with a silver spoon in a mouth which was rather + curly and large. He had never heard his father or his mother speak in an + angry voice, either to each other, himself, or anybody else; the groom, + Bob, Cook, Jane, Bella and the other servants, even “Da,” who + alone restrained him in his courses, had special voices when they talked + to him. He was therefore of opinion that the world was a place of perfect + and perpetual gentility and freedom. + </p> + <p> + A child of 1901, he had come to consciousness when his country, just over + that bad attack of scarlet fever, the Boer War, was preparing for the + Liberal revival of 1906. Coercion was unpopular, parents had exalted + notions of giving their offspring a good time. They spoiled their rods, + spared their children, and anticipated the results with enthusiasm. In + choosing, moreover, for his father an amiable man of fifty-two, who had + already lost an only son, and for his mother a woman of thirty-eight, + whose first and only child he was, little Jon had done well and wisely. + What had saved him from becoming a cross between a lap dog and a little + prig, had been his father's adoration of his mother, for even little + Jon could see that she was not merely just his mother, and that he played + second fiddle to her in his father's heart: What he played in his + mother's heart he knew not yet. As for “Auntie” June, + his half-sister (but so old that she had grown out of the relationship) + she loved him, of course, but was too sudden. His devoted “Da,” + too, had a Spartan touch. His bath was cold and his knees were bare; he + was not encouraged to be sorry for himself. As to the vexed question of + his education, little Jon shared the theory of those who considered that + children should not be forced. He rather liked the Mademoiselle who came + for two hours every morning to teach him her language, together with + history, geography and sums; nor were the piano lessons which his mother + gave him disagreeable, for she had a way of luring him from tune to tune, + never making him practise one which did not give him pleasure, so that he + remained eager to convert ten thumbs into eight fingers. Under his father + he learned to draw pleasure-pigs and other animals. He was not a highly + educated little boy. Yet, on the whole, the silver spoon stayed in his + mouth without spoiling it, though “Da” sometimes said that + other children would do him a “world of good.” + </p> + <p> + It was a disillusionment, then, when at the age of nearly seven she held + him down on his back, because he wanted to do something of which she did + not approve. This first interference with the free individualism of a + Forsyte drove him almost frantic. There was something appalling in the + utter helplessness of that position, and the uncertainty as to whether it + would ever come to an end. Suppose she never let him get up any more! He + suffered torture at the top of his voice for fifty seconds. Worse than + anything was his perception that “Da” had taken all that time + to realise the agony of fear he was enduring. Thus, dreadfully, was + revealed to him the lack of imagination in the human being. + </p> + <p> + When he was let up he remained convinced that “Da” had done a + dreadful thing. Though he did not wish to bear witness against her, he had + been compelled, by fear of repetition, to seek his mother and say: “Mum, + don't let 'Da' hold me down on my back again.” + </p> + <p> + His mother, her hands held up over her head, and in them two plaits of + hair—“couleur de feuille morte,” as little Jon had not + yet learned to call it—had looked at him with eyes like little bits + of his brown velvet tunic, and answered: + </p> + <p> + “No, darling, I won't.” + </p> + <p> + She, being in the nature of a goddess, little Jon was satisfied; + especially when, from under the dining-table at breakfast, where he + happened to be waiting for a mushroom, he had overheard her say to his + father: + </p> + <p> + “Then, will you tell 'Da,' dear, or shall I? She's + so devoted to him”; and his father's answer: + </p> + <p> + “Well, she mustn't show it that way. I know exactly what it + feels like to be held down on one's back. No Forsyte can stand it + for a minute.” + </p> + <p> + Conscious that they did not know him to be under the table, little Jon was + visited by the quite new feeling of embarrassment, and stayed where he + was, ravaged by desire for the mushroom. + </p> + <p> + Such had been his first dip into the dark abysses of existence. Nothing + much had been revealed to him after that, till one day, having gone down + to the cow-house for his drink of milk fresh from the cow, after Garratt + had finished milking, he had seen Clover's calf, dead. Inconsolable, + and followed by an upset Garratt, he had sought “Da”; but + suddenly aware that she was not the person he wanted, had rushed away to + find his father, and had run into the arms of his mother. + </p> + <p> + “Clover's calf's dead! Oh! Oh! It looked so soft!” + </p> + <p> + His mother's clasp, and her: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, darling, there, there!” had stayed his sobbing. But if + Clover's calf could die, anything could—not only bees, flies, + beetles and chickens—and look soft like that! This was appalling—and + soon forgotten! + </p> + <p> + The next thing had been to sit on a bumble bee, a poignant experience, + which his mother had understood much better than “Da”; and + nothing of vital importance had happened after that till the year turned; + when, following a day of utter wretchedness, he had enjoyed a disease + composed of little spots, bed, honey in a spoon, and many Tangerine + oranges. It was then that the world had flowered. To “Auntie” + June he owed that flowering, for no sooner was he a little lame duck than + she came rushing down from London, bringing with her the books which had + nurtured her own Berserker spirit, born in the noted year of 1869. Aged, + and of many colours, they were stored with the most formidable happenings. + Of these she read to little Jon, till he was allowed to read to himself; + whereupon she whisked back to London and left them with him in a heap. + Those books cooked his fancy, till he thought and dreamed of nothing but + midshipmen and dhows, pirates, rafts, sandal-wood traders, iron horses, + sharks, battles, Tartars, Red Indians, balloons, North Poles and other + extravagant delights. The moment he was suffered to get up, he rigged his + bed fore and aft, and set out from it in a narrow bath across green seas + of carpet, to a rock, which he climbed by means of its mahogany drawer + knobs, to sweep the horizon with his drinking tumbler screwed to his eye, + in search of rescuing sails. He made a daily raft out of the towel stand, + the tea tray, and his pillows. He saved the juice from his French plums, + bottled it in an empty medicine bottle, and provisioned the raft with the + rum that it became; also with pemmican made out of little saved-up bits of + chicken sat on and dried at the fire; and with lime juice against scurvy, + extracted from the peel of his oranges and a little economised juice. He + made a North Pole one morning from the whole of his bedclothes except the + bolster, and reached it in a birch-bark canoe (in private life the + fender), after a terrible encounter with a polar bear fashioned from the + bolster and four skittles dressed up in “Da's” + nightgown. After that, his father, seeking to steady his imagination, + brought him Ivanhoe, Bevis, a book about King Arthur, and Tom Brown's + Schooldays. He read the first, and for three days built, defended and + stormed Front de Boeuf's castle, taking every part in the piece + except those of Rebecca and Rowena; with piercing cries of: “En + avant, de Bracy!” and similar utterances. After reading the book + about King Arthur he became almost exclusively Sir Lamorac de Galis, + because, though there was very little about him, he preferred his name to + that of any other knight; and he rode his old rocking-horse to death, + armed with a long bamboo. Bevis he found tame; besides, it required woods + and animals, of which he had none in his nursery, except his two cats, + Fitz and Puck Forsyte, who permitted no liberties. For Tom Brown he was as + yet too young. There was relief in the house when, after the fourth week, + he was permitted to go down and out. + </p> + <p> + The month being March the trees were exceptionally like the masts of + ships, and for little Jon that was a wonderful Spring, extremely hard on + his knees, suits, and the patience of “Da,” who had the + washing and reparation of his clothes. Every morning the moment his + breakfast was over, he could be viewed by his mother and father, whose + windows looked out that way, coming from the study, crossing the terrace, + climbing the old oak tree, his face resolute and his hair bright. He began + the day thus because there was not time to go far afield before his + lessons. The old tree's variety never staled; it had mainmast, + foremast, top-gallant mast, and he could always come down by the halyards—or + ropes of the swing. After his lessons, completed by eleven, he would go to + the kitchen for a thin piece of cheese, a biscuit and two French plums—provision + enough for a jolly-boat at least—and eat it in some imaginative way; + then, armed to the teeth with gun, pistols, and sword, he would begin the + serious climbing of the morning, encountering by the way innumerable + slavers, Indians, pirates, leopards, and bears. He was seldom seen at that + hour of the day without a cutlass in his teeth (like Dick Needham) amid + the rapid explosion of copper caps. And many were the gardeners he brought + down with yellow peas shot out of his little gun. He lived a life of the + most violent action. + </p> + <p> + “Jon,” said his father to his mother, under the oak tree, + “is terrible. I'm afraid he's going to turn out a + sailor, or something hopeless. Do you see any sign of his appreciating + beauty?” + </p> + <p> + “Not the faintest.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, thank heaven he's no turn for wheels or engines! I can + bear anything but that. But I wish he'd take more interest in + Nature.” + </p> + <p> + “He's imaginative, Jolyon.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, in a sanguinary way. Does he love anyone just now?” + </p> + <p> + “No; only everyone. There never was anyone born more loving or more + lovable than Jon.” + </p> + <p> + “Being your boy, Irene.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment little Jon, lying along a branch high above them, brought + them down with two peas; but that fragment of talk lodged, thick, in his + small gizzard. Loving, lovable, imaginative, sanguinary! + </p> + <p> + The leaves also were thick by now, and it was time for his birthday, + which, occurring every year on the twelfth of May, was always memorable + for his chosen dinner of sweetbread, mushrooms, macaroons, and ginger + beer. + </p> + <p> + Between that eighth birthday, however, and the afternoon when he stood in + the July radiance at the turning of the stairway, several important things + had happened. + </p> + <p> + “Da,” worn out by washing his knees, or moved by that + mysterious instinct which forces even nurses to desert their nurslings, + left the very day after his birthday in floods of tears “to be + married”—of all things—“to a man.” Little + Jon, from whom it had been kept, was inconsolable for an afternoon. It + ought not to have been kept from him! Two large boxes of soldiers and some + artillery, together with The Young Buglers, which had been among his + birthday presents, cooperated with his grief in a sort of conversion, and + instead of seeking adventures in person and risking his own life, he began + to play imaginative games, in which he risked the lives of countless tin + soldiers, marbles, stones and beans. Of these forms of “chair a + canon” he made collections, and, using them alternately, fought the + Peninsular, the Seven Years, the Thirty Years, and other wars, about which + he had been reading of late in a big History of Europe which had been his + grandfather's. He altered them to suit his genius, and fought them + all over the floor in his day nursery, so that nobody could come in, for + fearing of disturbing Gustavus Adolphus, King of Sweden, or treading on an + army of Austrians. Because of the sound of the word he was passionately + addicted to the Austrians, and finding there were so few battles in which + they were successful he had to invent them in his games. His favourite + generals were Prince Eugene, the Archduke Charles and Wallenstein. Tilly + and Mack (“music-hall turns” he heard his father call them one + day, whatever that might mean) one really could not love very much, + Austrian though they were. For euphonic reasons, too, he doted on Turenne. + </p> + <p> + This phase, which caused his parents anxiety, because it kept him indoors + when he ought to have been out, lasted through May and half of June, till + his father killed it by bringing home to him Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry + Finn. When he read those books something happened in him, and he went out + of doors again in passionate quest of a river. There being none on the + premises at Robin Hill, he had to make one out of the pond, which + fortunately had water lilies, dragonflies, gnats, bullrushes, and three + small willow trees. On this pond, after his father and Garratt had + ascertained by sounding that it had a reliable bottom and was nowhere more + than two feet deep, he was allowed a little collapsible canoe, in which he + spent hours and hours paddling, and lying down out of sight of Indian Joe + and other enemies. On the shore of the pond, too, he built himself a + wigwam about four feet square, of old biscuit tins, roofed in by boughs. + In this he would make little fires, and cook the birds he had not shot + with his gun, hunting in the coppice and fields, or the fish he did not + catch in the pond because there were none. This occupied the rest of June + and that July, when his father and mother were away in Ireland. He led a + lonely life of “make believe” during those five weeks of + summer weather, with gun, wigwam, water and canoe; and, however hard his + active little brain tried to keep the sense of beauty away, she did creep + in on him for a second now and then, perching on the wing of a dragon-fly, + glistening on the water lilies, or brushing his eyes with her blue as he + lay on his back in ambush. + </p> + <p> + “Auntie” June, who had been left in charge, had a “grown-up” + in the house, with a cough and a large piece of putty which he was making + into a face; so she hardly ever came down to see him in the pond. Once, + however, she brought with her two other “grown-ups.” Little + Jon, who happened to have painted his naked self bright blue and yellow in + stripes out of his father's water-colour box, and put some duck's + feathers in his hair, saw them coming, and—ambushed himself among + the willows. As he had foreseen, they came at once to his wigwam and knelt + down to look inside, so that with a blood-curdling yell he was able to + take the scalps of “Auntie” June and the woman “grown-up” + in an almost complete manner before they kissed him. The names of the two + grown-ups were “Auntie” Holly and “Uncle” Val, who + had a brown face and a little limp, and laughed at him terribly. He took a + fancy to “Auntie” Holly, who seemed to be a sister too; but + they both went away the same afternoon and he did not see them again. + Three days before his father and mother were to come home “Auntie” + June also went off in a great hurry, taking the “grown-up” who + coughed and his piece of putty; and Mademoiselle said: “Poor man, he + was veree ill. I forbid you to go into his room, Jon.” Little Jon, + who rarely did things merely because he was told not to, refrained from + going, though he was bored and lonely. In truth the day of the pond was + past, and he was filled to the brim of his soul with restlessness and the + want of something—not a tree, not a gun—something soft. Those + last two days had seemed months in spite of Cast Up by the Sea, wherein he + was reading about Mother Lee and her terrible wrecking bonfire. He had + gone up and down the stairs perhaps a hundred times in those two days, and + often from the day nursery, where he slept now, had stolen into his mother's + room, looked at everything, without touching, and on into the + dressing-room; and standing on one leg beside the bath, like Slingsby, had + whispered: + </p> + <p> + “Ho, ho, ho! Dog my cats!” mysteriously, to bring luck. Then, + stealing back, he had opened his mother's wardrobe, and taken a long + sniff which seemed to bring him nearer to—he didn't know what. + </p> + <p> + He had done this just before he stood in the streak of sunlight, debating + in which of the several ways he should slide down the banisters. They all + seemed silly, and in a sudden languor he began descending the steps one by + one. During that descent he could remember his father quite distinctly—the + short grey beard, the deep eyes twinkling, the furrow between them, the + funny smile, the thin figure which always seemed so tall to little Jon; + but his mother he couldn't see. All that represented her was + something swaying with two dark eyes looking back at him; and the scent of + her wardrobe. + </p> + <p> + Bella was in the hall, drawing aside the big curtains, and opening the + front door. Little Jon said, wheedling, + </p> + <p> + “Bella!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Master Jon.” + </p> + <p> + “Do let's have tea under the oak tree when they come; I know + they'd like it best.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean you'd like it best.” + </p> + <p> + Little Jon considered. + </p> + <p> + “No, they would, to please me.” + </p> + <p> + Bella smiled. “Very well, I'll take it out if you'll + stay quiet here and not get into mischief before they come.” + </p> + <p> + Little Jon sat down on the bottom step, and nodded. Bella came close, and + looked him over. + </p> + <p> + “Get up!” she said. + </p> + <p> + Little Jon got up. She scrutinized him behind; he was not green, and his + knees seemed clean. + </p> + <p> + “All right!” she said. “My! Aren't you brown? Give + me a kiss!” + </p> + <p> + And little Jon received a peck on his hair. + </p> + <p> + “What jam?” he asked. “I'm so tired of waiting.” + </p> + <p> + “Gooseberry and strawberry.” + </p> + <p> + Num! They were his favourites! + </p> + <p> + When she was gone he sat still for quite a minute. It was quiet in the big + hall open to its East end so that he could see one of his trees, a brig + sailing very slowly across the upper lawn. In the outer hall shadows were + slanting from the pillars. Little Jon got up, jumped one of them, and + walked round the clump of iris plants which filled the pool of grey-white + marble in the centre. The flowers were pretty, but only smelled a very + little. He stood in the open doorway and looked out. Suppose!—suppose + they didn't come! He had waited so long that he felt he could not + bear that, and his attention slid at once from such finality to the dust + motes in the bluish sunlight coming in: Thrusting his hand up, he tried to + catch some. Bella ought to have dusted that piece of air! But perhaps they + weren't dust—only what sunlight was made of, and he looked to + see whether the sunlight out of doors was the same. It was not. He had + said he would stay quiet in the hall, but he simply couldn't any + more; and crossing the gravel of the drive he lay down on the grass + beyond. Pulling six daisies he named them carefully, Sir Lamorac, Sir + Tristram, Sir Lancelot, Sir Palimedes, Sir Bors, Sir Gawain, and fought + them in couples till only Sir Lamorac, whom he had selected for a + specially stout stalk, had his head on, and even he, after three + encounters, looked worn and waggly. A beetle was moving slowly in the + grass, which almost wanted cutting. Every blade was a small tree, round + whose trunk the beetle had to glide. Little Jon stretched out Sir Lamorac, + feet foremost, and stirred the creature up. It scuttled painfully. Little + Jon laughed, lost interest, and sighed. His heart felt empty. He turned + over and lay on his back. There was a scent of honey from the lime trees + in flower, and in the sky the blue was beautiful, with a few white clouds + which looked and perhaps tasted like lemon ice. He could hear Bob playing: + “Way down upon de Suwannee ribber” on his concertina, and it + made him nice and sad. He turned over again and put his ear to the ground—Indians + could hear things coming ever so far—but he could hear nothing—only + the concertina! And almost instantly he did hear a grinding sound, a faint + toot. Yes! it was a car—coming—coming! Up he jumped. Should he + wait in the porch, or rush upstairs, and as they came in, shout: “Look!” + and slide slowly down the banisters, head foremost? Should he? The car + turned in at the drive. It was too late! And he only waited, jumping up + and down in his excitement. The car came quickly, whirred, and stopped. + His father got out, exactly like life. He bent down and little Jon bobbed + up—they bumped. His father said, + </p> + <p> + “Bless us! Well, old man, you are brown!” Just as he would; + and the sense of expectation—of something wanted—bubbled + unextinguished in little Jon. Then, with a long, shy look he saw his + mother, in a blue dress, with a blue motor scarf over her cap and hair, + smiling. He jumped as high as ever he could, twined his legs behind her + back, and hugged. He heard her gasp, and felt her hugging back. His eyes, + very dark blue just then, looked into hers, very dark brown, till her lips + closed on his eyebrow, and, squeezing with all his might, he heard her + creak and laugh, and say: + </p> + <p> + “You are strong, Jon!” + </p> + <p> + He slid down at that, and rushed into the hall, dragging her by the hand. + </p> + <p> + While he was eating his jam beneath the oak tree, he noticed things about + his mother that he had never seemed to see before, her cheeks for instance + were creamy, there were silver threads in her dark goldy hair, her throat + had no knob in it like Bella's, and she went in and out softly. He + noticed, too, some little lines running away from the corners of her eyes, + and a nice darkness under them. She was ever so beautiful, more beautiful + than “Da” or Mademoiselle, or “Auntie” June or + even “Auntie” Holly, to whom he had taken a fancy; even more + beautiful than Bella, who had pink cheeks and came out too suddenly in + places. This new beautifulness of his mother had a kind of particular + importance, and he ate less than he had expected to. + </p> + <p> + When tea was over his father wanted him to walk round the gardens. He had + a long conversation with his father about things in general, avoiding his + private life—Sir Lamorac, the Austrians, and the emptiness he had + felt these last three days, now so suddenly filled up. His father told him + of a place called Glensofantrim, where he and his mother had been; and of + the little people who came out of the ground there when it was very quiet. + Little Jon came to a halt, with his heels apart. + </p> + <p> + “Do you really believe they do, Daddy?” “No, Jon, but I + thought you might.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “You're younger than I; and they're fairies.” + Little Jon squared the dimple in his chin. + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe in fairies. I never see any.” “Ha!” + said his father. + </p> + <p> + “Does Mum?” + </p> + <p> + His father smiled his funny smile. + </p> + <p> + “No; she only sees Pan.” + </p> + <p> + “What's Pan?” + </p> + <p> + “The Goaty God who skips about in wild and beautiful places.” + </p> + <p> + “Was he in Glensofantrim?” + </p> + <p> + “Mum said so.” + </p> + <p> + Little Jon took his heels up, and led on. + </p> + <p> + “Did you see him?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I only saw Venus Anadyomene.” + </p> + <p> + Little Jon reflected; Venus was in his book about the Greeks and Trojans. + Then Anna was her Christian and Dyomene her surname? + </p> + <p> + But it appeared, on inquiry, that it was one word, which meant rising from + the foam. + </p> + <p> + “Did she rise from the foam in Glensofantrim?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; every day.” + </p> + <p> + “What is she like, Daddy?” + </p> + <p> + “Like Mum.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Then she must be...” but he stopped at that, rushed at a + wall, scrambled up, and promptly scrambled down again. The discovery that + his mother was beautiful was one which he felt must absolutely be kept to + himself. His father's cigar, however, took so long to smoke, that at + last he was compelled to say: + </p> + <p> + “I want to see what Mum's brought home. Do you mind, Daddy?” + </p> + <p> + He pitched the motive low, to absolve him from unmanliness, and was a + little disconcerted when his father looked at him right through, heaved an + important sigh, and answered: + </p> + <p> + “All right, old man, you go and love her.” + </p> + <p> + He went, with a pretence of slowness, and then rushed, to make up. He + entered her bedroom from his own, the door being open. She was still + kneeling before a trunk, and he stood close to her, quite still. + </p> + <p> + She knelt up straight, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, Jon?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought I'd just come and see.” + </p> + <p> + Having given and received another hug, he mounted the window-seat, and + tucking his legs up under him watched her unpack. He derived a pleasure + from the operation such as he had not yet known, partly because she was + taking out things which looked suspicious, and partly because he liked to + look at her. She moved differently from anybody else, especially from + Bella; she was certainly the refinedest-looking person he had ever seen. + She finished the trunk at last, and knelt down in front of him. + </p> + <p> + “Have you missed us, Jon?” + </p> + <p> + Little Jon nodded, and having thus admitted his feelings, continued to + nod. + </p> + <p> + “But you had 'Auntie' June?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! she had a man with a cough.” + </p> + <p> + His mother's face changed, and looked almost angry. He added + hastily: + </p> + <p> + “He was a poor man, Mum; he coughed awfully; I—I liked him.” + </p> + <p> + His mother put her hands behind his waist. + </p> + <p> + “You like everybody, Jon?” + </p> + <p> + Little Jon considered. + </p> + <p> + “Up to a point,” he said: “Auntie June took me to church + one Sunday.” + </p> + <p> + “To church? Oh!” + </p> + <p> + “She wanted to see how it would affect me.” “And did it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I came over all funny, so she took me home again very quick. I + wasn't sick after all. I went to bed and had hot brandy and water, + and read The Boys of Beechwood. It was scrumptious.” + </p> + <p> + His mother bit her lip. + </p> + <p> + “When was that?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! about—a long time ago—I wanted her to take me + again, but she wouldn't. You and Daddy never go to church, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, we don't.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you?” + </p> + <p> + His mother smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear, we both of us went when we were little. Perhaps we went + when we were too little.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” said little Jon, “it's dangerous.” + </p> + <p> + “You shall judge for yourself about all those things as you grow up.” + </p> + <p> + Little Jon replied in a calculating manner: + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to grow up, much. I don't want to go to + school.” A sudden overwhelming desire to say something more, to say + what he really felt, turned him red. “I—I want to stay with + you, and be your lover, Mum.” + </p> + <p> + Then with an instinct to improve the situation, he added quickly “I + don't want to go to bed to-night, either. I'm simply tired of + going to bed, every night.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you had any more nightmares?” + </p> + <p> + “Only about one. May I leave the door open into your room to-night, + Mum?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, just a little.” Little Jon heaved a sigh of + satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + “What did you see in Glensofantrim?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing but beauty, darling.” + </p> + <p> + “What exactly is beauty?” + </p> + <p> + “What exactly is—Oh! Jon, that's a poser.” + </p> + <p> + “Can I see it, for instance?” His mother got up, and sat + beside him. “You do, every day. The sky is beautiful, the stars, and + moonlit nights, and then the birds, the flowers, the trees—they're + all beautiful. Look out of the window—there's beauty for you, + Jon.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! yes, that's the view. Is that all?” + </p> + <p> + “All? no. The sea is wonderfully beautiful, and the waves, with + their foam flying back.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you rise from it every day, Mum?” + </p> + <p> + His mother smiled. “Well, we bathed.” + </p> + <p> + Little Jon suddenly reached out and caught her neck in his hands. + </p> + <p> + “I know,” he said mysteriously, “you're it, + really, and all the rest is make-believe.” + </p> + <p> + She sighed, laughed, said: “Oh! Jon!” + </p> + <p> + Little Jon said critically: + </p> + <p> + “Do you think Bella beautiful, for instance? I hardly do.” + </p> + <p> + “Bella is young; that's something.” + </p> + <p> + “But you look younger, Mum. If you bump against Bella she hurts.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe 'Da' was beautiful, when I come + to think of it; and Mademoiselle's almost ugly.” + </p> + <p> + “Mademoiselle has a very nice face.” “Oh! yes; nice. I + love your little rays, Mum.” + </p> + <p> + “Rays?” + </p> + <p> + Little Jon put his finger to the outer corner of her eye. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Those? But they're a sign of age.” + </p> + <p> + “They come when you smile.” + </p> + <p> + “But they usen't to.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! well, I like them. Do you love me, Mum?” + </p> + <p> + “I do—I do love you, darling.” + </p> + <p> + “Ever so?” + </p> + <p> + “Ever so!” + </p> + <p> + “More than I thought you did?” + </p> + <p> + “Much—much more.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, so do I; so that makes it even.” + </p> + <p> + Conscious that he had never in his life so given himself away, he felt a + sudden reaction to the manliness of Sir Lamorac, Dick Needham, Huck Finn, + and other heroes. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I show you a thing or two?” he said; and slipping out + of her arms, he stood on his head. Then, fired by her obvious admiration, + he mounted the bed, and threw himself head foremost from his feet on to + his back, without touching anything with his hands. He did this several + times. + </p> + <p> + That evening, having inspected what they had brought, he stayed up to + dinner, sitting between them at the little round table they used when they + were alone. He was extremely excited. His mother wore a French-grey dress, + with creamy lace made out of little scriggly roses, round her neck, which + was browner than the lace. He kept looking at her, till at last his father's + funny smile made him suddenly attentive to his slice of pineapple. It was + later than he had ever stayed up, when he went to bed. His mother went up + with him, and he undressed very slowly so as to keep her there. When at + last he had nothing on but his pyjamas, he said: + </p> + <p> + “Promise you won't go while I say my prayers!” + </p> + <p> + “I promise.” + </p> + <p> + Kneeling down and plunging his face into the bed, little Jon hurried up, + under his breath, opening one eye now and then, to see her standing + perfectly still with a smile on her face. “Our Father”—so + went his last prayer, “which art in heaven, hallowed be thy Mum, thy + Kingdom Mum—on Earth as it is in heaven, give us this day our daily + Mum and forgive us our trespasses on earth as it is in heaven and trespass + against us, for thine is the evil the power and the glory for ever and + ever. Amum! Look out!” He sprang, and for a long minute remained in + her arms. Once in bed, he continued to hold her hand. + </p> + <p> + “You won't shut the door any more than that, will you? Are you + going to be long, Mum?” + </p> + <p> + “I must go down and play to Daddy.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! well, I shall hear you.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope not; you must go to sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “I can sleep any night.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, this is just a night like any other.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! no—it's extra special.” + </p> + <p> + “On extra special nights one always sleeps soundest.” + </p> + <p> + “But if I go to sleep, Mum, I shan't hear you come up.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, when I do, I'll come in and give you a kiss, then if + you're awake you'll know, and if you're not you'll + still know you've had one.” + </p> + <p> + Little Jon sighed, “All right!” he said: “I suppose I + must put up with that. Mum?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “What was her name that Daddy believes in? Venus Anna Diomedes?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! my angel! Anadyomene.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes! but I like my name for you much better.” + </p> + <p> + “What is yours, Jon?” + </p> + <p> + Little Jon answered shyly: + </p> + <p> + “Guinevere! it's out of the Round Table—I've only + just thought of it, only of course her hair was down.” + </p> + <p> + His mother's eyes, looking past him, seemed to float. + </p> + <p> + “You won't forget to come, Mum?” + </p> + <p> + “Not if you'll go to sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “That's a bargain, then.” And little Jon screwed up his + eyes. + </p> + <p> + He felt her lips on his forehead, heard her footsteps; opened his eyes to + see her gliding through the doorway, and, sighing, screwed them up again. + </p> + <p> + Then Time began. + </p> + <p> + For some ten minutes of it he tried loyally to sleep, counting a great + number of thistles in a row, “Da's” old recipe for + bringing slumber. He seemed to have been hours counting. It must, he + thought, be nearly time for her to come up now. He threw the bedclothes + back. “I'm hot!” he said, and his voice sounded funny in + the darkness, like someone else's. Why didn't she come? He sat + up. He must look! He got out of bed, went to the window and pulled the + curtain a slice aside. It wasn't dark, but he couldn't tell + whether because of daylight or the moon, which was very big. It had a + funny, wicked face, as if laughing at him, and he did not want to look at + it. Then, remembering that his mother had said moonlit nights were + beautiful, he continued to stare out in a general way. The trees threw + thick shadows, the lawn looked like spilt milk, and a long, long way he + could see; oh! very far; right over the world, and it all looked different + and swimmy. There was a lovely smell, too, in his open window. + </p> + <p> + 'I wish I had a dove like Noah!' he thought. + </p> + <p> + “The moony moon was round and bright, It shone and shone and made it + light.” + </p> + <p> + After that rhyme, which came into his head all at once, he became + conscious of music, very soft-lovely! Mum playing! He bethought himself of + a macaroon he had, laid up in his chest of drawers, and, getting it, came + back to the window. He leaned out, now munching, now holding his jaws to + hear the music better. “Da” used to say that angels played on + harps in heaven; but it wasn't half so lovely as Mum playing in the + moony night, with him eating a macaroon. A cockchafer buzzed by, a moth + flew in his face, the music stopped, and little Jon drew his head in. She + must be coming! He didn't want to be found awake. He got back into + bed and pulled the clothes nearly over his head; but he had left a streak + of moonlight coming in. It fell across the floor, near the foot of the + bed, and he watched it moving ever so slowly towards him, as if it were + alive. The music began again, but he could only just hear it now; sleepy + music, pretty—sleepy—music—sleepy—slee..... + </p> + <p> + And time slipped by, the music rose, fell, ceased; the moonbeam crept + towards his face. Little Jon turned in his sleep till he lay on his back, + with one brown fist still grasping the bedclothes. The corners of his eyes + twitched—he had begun to dream. He dreamed he was drinking milk out + of a pan that was the moon, opposite a great black cat which watched him + with a funny smile like his father's. He heard it whisper: “Don't + drink too much!” It was the cat's milk, of course, and he put + out his hand amicably to stroke the creature; but it was no longer there; + the pan had become a bed, in which he was lying, and when he tried to get + out he couldn't find the edge; he couldn't find it—he—he—couldn't + get out! It was dreadful! + </p> + <p> + He whimpered in his sleep. The bed had begun to go round too; it was + outside him and inside him; going round and round, and getting fiery, and + Mother Lee out of Cast up by the Sea was stirring it! Oh! so horrible she + looked! Faster and faster!—till he and the bed and Mother Lee and + the moon and the cat were all one wheel going round and round and up and + up—awful—awful—awful! + </p> + <p> + He shrieked. + </p> + <p> + A voice saying: “Darling, darling!” got through the wheel, and + he awoke, standing on his bed, with his eyes wide open. + </p> + <p> + There was his mother, with her hair like Guinevere's, and, clutching + her, he buried his face in it. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! oh!” + </p> + <p> + “It's all right, treasure. You're awake now. There! + There! It's nothing!” + </p> + <p> + But little Jon continued to say: “Oh! oh!” + </p> + <p> + Her voice went on, velvety in his ear: + </p> + <p> + “It was the moonlight, sweetheart, coming on your face.” + </p> + <p> + Little Jon burbled into her nightgown + </p> + <p> + “You said it was beautiful. Oh!” + </p> + <p> + “Not to sleep in, Jon. Who let it in? Did you draw the curtains?” + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to see the time; I—I looked out, I—I heard you + playing, Mum; I—I ate my macaroon.” But he was growing slowly + comforted; and the instinct to excuse his fear revived within him. + </p> + <p> + “Mother Lee went round in me and got all fiery,” he mumbled. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Jon, what can you expect if you eat macaroons after you've + gone to bed?” + </p> + <p> + “Only one, Mum; it made the music ever so more beautiful. I was + waiting for you—I nearly thought it was to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “My ducky, it's only just eleven now.” + </p> + <p> + Little Jon was silent, rubbing his nose on her neck. + </p> + <p> + “Mum, is Daddy in your room?” + </p> + <p> + “Not to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Can I come?” + </p> + <p> + “If you wish, my precious.” + </p> + <p> + Half himself again, little Jon drew back. + </p> + <p> + “You look different, Mum; ever so younger.” + </p> + <p> + “It's my hair, darling.” + </p> + <p> + Little Jon laid hold of it, thick, dark gold, with a few silver threads. + </p> + <p> + “I like it,” he said: “I like you best of all like this.” + </p> + <p> + Taking her hand, he had begun dragging her towards the door. He shut it as + they passed, with a sigh of relief. + </p> + <p> + “Which side of the bed do you like, Mum?” + </p> + <p> + “The left side.” + </p> + <p> + “All right.” + </p> + <p> + Wasting no time, giving her no chance to change her mind, little Jon got + into the bed, which seemed much softer than his own. He heaved another + sigh, screwed his head into the pillow and lay examining the battle of + chariots and swords and spears which always went on outside blankets, + where the little hairs stood up against the light. + </p> + <p> + “It wasn't anything, really, was it?” he said. + </p> + <p> + From before her glass his mother answered: + </p> + <p> + “Nothing but the moon and your imagination heated up. You mustn't + get so excited, Jon.” + </p> + <p> + But, still not quite in possession of his nerves, little Jon answered + boastfully: + </p> + <p> + “I wasn't afraid, really, of course!” And again he lay + watching the spears and chariots. It all seemed very long. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Mum, do hurry up!” + </p> + <p> + “Darling, I have to plait my hair.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! not to-night. You'll only have to unplait it again + to-morrow. I'm sleepy now; if you don't come, I shan't + be sleepy soon.” + </p> + <p> + His mother stood up white and flowey before the winged mirror: he could + see three of her, with her neck turned and her hair bright under the + light, and her dark eyes smiling. It was unnecessary, and he said: + </p> + <p> + “Do come, Mum; I'm waiting.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, my love, I'll come.” + </p> + <p> + Little Jon closed his eyes. Everything was turning out most satisfactory, + only she must hurry up! He felt the bed shake, she was getting in. And, + still with his eyes closed, he said sleepily: “It's nice, isn't + it?” + </p> + <p> + He heard her voice say something, felt her lips touching his nose, and, + snuggling up beside her who lay awake and loved him with her thoughts, he + fell into the dreamless sleep, which rounded off his past. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0095" id="link2H_4_0095"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO LET + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “From out the fatal loins of those two foes + A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life.” + —Romeo and Juliet. +</pre> + <p> + TO CHARLES SCRIBNER <a name="link2H_PARTc1" id="link2H_PARTc1"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART I + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0097" id="link2H_4_0097"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I.—ENCOUNTER + </h2> + <p> + Soames Forsyte emerged from the Knightsbridge Hotel, where he was staying, + in the afternoon of the 12th of May, 1920, with the intention of visiting + a collection of pictures in a Gallery off Cork Street, and looking into + the Future. He walked. Since the War he never took a cab if he could help + it. Their drivers were, in his view, an uncivil lot, though now that the + War was over and supply beginning to exceed demand again, getting more + civil in accordance with the custom of human nature. Still, he had not + forgiven them, deeply identifying them with gloomy memories, and now, + dimly, like all members, of their class, with revolution. The considerable + anxiety he had passed through during the War, and the more considerable + anxiety he had since undergone in the Peace, had produced psychological + consequences in a tenacious nature. He had, mentally, so frequently + experienced ruin, that he had ceased to believe in its material + probability. Paying away four thousand a year in income and super tax, one + could not very well be worse off! A fortune of a quarter of a million, + encumbered only by a wife and one daughter, and very diversely invested, + afforded substantial guarantee even against that “wildcat notion” + a levy on capital. And as to confiscation of war profits, he was entirely + in favour of it, for he had none, and “serve the beggars right!” + The price of pictures, moreover, had, if anything, gone up, and he had + done better with his collection since the War began than ever before. + Air-raids, also, had acted beneficially on a spirit congenitally cautious, + and hardened a character already dogged. To be in danger of being entirely + dispersed inclined one to be less apprehensive of the more partial + dispersions involved in levies and taxation, while the habit of condemning + the impudence of the Germans had led naturally to condemning that of + Labour, if not openly at least in the sanctuary of his soul. + </p> + <p> + He walked. There was, moreover, time to spare, for Fleur was to meet him + at the Gallery at four o'clock, and it was as yet but half-past two. + It was good for him to walk—his liver was a little constricted, and + his nerves rather on edge. His wife was always out when she was in Town, + and his daughter would flibberty-gibbet all over the place like most young + women since the War. Still, he must be thankful that she had been too + young to do anything in that War itself. Not, of course, that he had not + supported the War from its inception, with all his soul, but between that + and supporting it with the bodies of his wife and daughter, there had been + a gap fixed by something old-fashioned within him which abhorred emotional + extravagance. He had, for instance, strongly objected to Annette, so + attractive, and in 1914 only thirty-four, going to her native France, her + “chere patrie” as, under the stimulus of war, she had begun to + call it, to nurse her “braves poilus,” forsooth! Ruining her + health and her looks! As if she were really a nurse! He had put a stopper + on it. Let her do needlework for them at home, or knit! She had not gone, + therefore, and had never been quite the same woman since. A bad tendency + of hers to mock at him, not openly, but in continual little ways, had + grown. As for Fleur, the War had resolved the vexed problem whether or not + she should go to school. She was better away from her mother in her war + mood, from the chance of air-raids, and the impetus to do extravagant + things; so he had placed her in a seminary as far West as had seemed to + him compatible with excellence, and had missed her horribly. Fleur! He had + never regretted the somewhat outlandish name by which at her birth he had + decided so suddenly to call her—marked concession though it had been + to the French. Fleur! A pretty name—a pretty child! But restless—too + restless; and wilful! Knowing her power too over her father! Soames often + reflected on the mistake it was to dote on his daughter. To get old and + dote! Sixty-five! He was getting on; but he didn't feel it, for, + fortunately perhaps, considering Annette's youth and good looks, his + second marriage had turned out a cool affair. He had known but one real + passion in his life—for that first wife of his—Irene. Yes, and + that fellow, his cousin Jolyon, who had gone off with her, was looking + very shaky, they said. No wonder, at seventy-two, after twenty years of a + third marriage! + </p> + <p> + Soames paused a moment in his march to lean over the railings of the Row. + A suitable spot for reminiscence, half-way between that house in Park Lane + which had seen his birth and his parents' deaths, and the little + house in Montpellier Square where thirty-five years ago he had enjoyed his + first edition of matrimony. Now, after twenty years of his second edition, + that old tragedy seemed to him like a previous existence—which had + ended when Fleur was born in place of the son he had hoped for. For many + years he had ceased regretting, even vaguely, the son who had not been + born; Fleur filled the bill in his heart. After all, she bore his name; + and he was not looking forward at all to the time when she would change + it. Indeed, if he ever thought of such a calamity, it was seasoned by the + vague feeling that he could make her rich enough to purchase perhaps and + extinguish the name of the fellow who married her—why not, since, as + it seemed, women were equal to men nowadays? And Soames, secretly + convinced that they were not, passed his curved hand over his face + vigorously, till it reached the comfort of his chin. Thanks to abstemious + habits, he had not grown fat and gabby; his nose was pale and thin, his + grey moustache close-clipped, his eyesight unimpaired. A slight stoop + closened and corrected the expansion given to his face by the heightening + of his forehead in the recession of his grey hair. Little change had Time + wrought in the “warmest” of the young Forsytes, as the last of + the old Forsytes—Timothy-now in his hundred and first year, would + have phrased it. + </p> + <p> + The shade from the plane-trees fell on his neat Homburg hat; he had given + up top hats—it was no use attracting attention to wealth in days + like these. Plane-trees! His thoughts travelled sharply to Madrid—the + Easter before the War, when, having to make up his mind about that Goya + picture, he had taken a voyage of discovery to study the painter on his + spot. The fellow had impressed him—great range, real genius! Highly + as the chap ranked, he would rank even higher before they had finished + with him. The second Goya craze would be greater even than the first; oh, + yes! And he had bought. On that visit he had—as never before—commissioned + a copy of a fresco painting called “La Vendimia,” wherein was + the figure of a girl with an arm akimbo, who had reminded him of his + daughter. He had it now in the Gallery at Mapledurham, and rather poor it + was—you couldn't copy Goya. He would still look at it, + however, if his daughter were not there, for the sake of something + irresistibly reminiscent in the light, erect balance of the figure, the + width between the arching eyebrows, the eager dreaming of the dark eyes. + Curious that Fleur should have dark eyes, when his own were grey—no + pure Forsyte had brown eyes—and her mother's blue! But of + course her grandmother Lamotte's eyes were dark as treacle! + </p> + <p> + He began to walk on again toward Hyde Park Corner. No greater change in + all England than in the Row! Born almost within hail of it, he could + remember it from 1860 on. Brought there as a child between the crinolines + to stare at tight-trousered dandies in whiskers, riding with a cavalry + seat; to watch the doffing of curly-brimmed and white top hats; the + leisurely air of it all, and the little bow-legged man in a long red + waistcoat who used to come among the fashion with dogs on several strings, + and try to sell one to his mother: King Charles spaniels, Italian + greyhounds, affectionate to her crinoline—you never saw them now. + You saw no quality of any sort, indeed, just working people sitting in + dull rows with nothing to stare at but a few young bouncing females in pot + hats, riding astride, or desultory Colonials charging up and down on + dismal-looking hacks; with, here and there, little girls on ponies, or old + gentlemen jogging their livers, or an orderly trying a great galumphing + cavalry horse; no thoroughbreds, no grooms, no bowing, no scraping, no + gossip—nothing; only the trees the same—the trees indifferent + to the generations and declensions of mankind. A democratic England—dishevelled, + hurried, noisy, and seemingly without an apex. And that something + fastidious in the soul of Soames turned over within him. Gone forever, the + close borough of rank and polish! Wealth there was—oh, yes! wealth—he + himself was a richer man than his father had ever been; but manners, + flavour, quality, all gone, engulfed in one vast, ugly, shoulder-rubbing, + petrol-smelling Cheerio. Little half-beaten pockets of gentility and caste + lurking here and there, dispersed and chetif, as Annette would say; but + nothing ever again firm and coherent to look up to. And into this new + hurly-burly of bad manners and loose morals his daughter—flower of + his life—was flung! And when those Labour chaps got power—if + they ever did—the worst was yet to come. + </p> + <p> + He passed out under the archway, at last no longer—thank goodness!—disfigured + by the gungrey of its search-light. 'They'd better put a + search-light on to where they're all going,' he thought, + 'and light up their precious democracy!' And he directed his + steps along the Club fronts of Piccadilly. George Forsyte, of course, + would be sitting in the bay window of the Iseeum. The chap was so big now + that he was there nearly all his time, like some immovable, sardonic, + humorous eye noting the decline of men and things. And Soames hurried, + ever constitutionally uneasy beneath his cousin's glance. George, + who, as he had heard, had written a letter signed “Patriot” in + the middle of the War, complaining of the Government's hysteria in + docking the oats of race-horses. Yes, there he was, tall, ponderous, neat, + clean-shaven, with his smooth hair, hardly thinned, smelling, no doubt, of + the best hair-wash, and a pink paper in his hand. Well, he didn't + change! And for perhaps the first time in his life Soames felt a kind of + sympathy tapping in his waistcoat for that sardonic kinsman. With his + weight, his perfectly parted hair, and bull-like gaze, he was a guarantee + that the old order would take some shifting yet. He saw George move the + pink paper as if inviting him to ascend—the chap must want to ask + something about his property. It was still under Soames' control; + for in the adoption of a sleeping partnership at that painful period + twenty years back when he had divorced Irene, Soames had found himself + almost insensibly retaining control of all purely Forsyte affairs. + </p> + <p> + Hesitating for just a moment, he nodded and went in. Since the death of + his brother-in-law Montague Dartie, in Paris, which no one had quite known + what to make of, except that it was certainly not suicide—the Iseeum + Club had seemed more respectable to Soames. George, too, he knew, had sown + the last of his wild oats, and was committed definitely to the joys of the + table, eating only of the very best so as to keep his weight down, and + owning, as he said, “just one or two old screws to give me an + interest in life.” He joined his cousin, therefore, in the bay + window without the embarrassing sense of indiscretion he had been used to + feel up there. George put out a well-kept hand. + </p> + <p> + “Haven't seen you since the War,” he said. “How's + your wife?” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” said Soames coldly, “well enough.” + </p> + <p> + Some hidden jest curved, for a moment, George's fleshy face, and + gloated from his eye. + </p> + <p> + “That Belgian chap, Profond,” he said, “is a member here + now. He's a rum customer.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite!” muttered Soames. “What did you want to see me + about?” + </p> + <p> + “Old Timothy; he might go off the hooks at any moment. I suppose he's + made his Will.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you or somebody ought to give him a look up—last of the + old lot; he's a hundred, you know. They say he's like a mummy. + Where are you goin' to put him? He ought to have a pyramid by + rights.” + </p> + <p> + Soames shook his head. “Highgate, the family vault.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I suppose the old girls would miss him, if he was anywhere + else. They say he still takes an interest in food. He might last on, you + know. Don't we get anything for the old Forsytes? Ten of them—average + age eighty-eight—I worked it out. That ought to be equal to + triplets.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that all?” said Soames, “I must be getting on.” + </p> + <p> + 'You unsociable devil,' George's eyes seemed to answer. + “Yes, that's all: Look him up in his mausoleum—the old + chap might want to prophesy.” The grin died on the rich curves of + his face, and he added: “Haven't you attorneys invented a way + yet of dodging this damned income tax? It hits the fixed inherited income + like the very deuce. I used to have two thousand five hundred a year; now + I've got a beggarly fifteen hundred, and the price of living + doubled.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” murmured Soames, “the turf's in danger.” + </p> + <p> + Over George's face moved a gleam of sardonic self-defence. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, “they brought me up to do nothing, and + here I am in the sear and yellow, getting poorer every day. These Labour + chaps mean to have the lot before they've done. What are you going + to do for a living when it comes? I shall work a six-hour day teaching + politicians how to see a joke. Take my tip, Soames; go into Parliament, + make sure of your four hundred—and employ me.” + </p> + <p> + And, as Soames retired, he resumed his seat in the bay window. + </p> + <p> + Soames moved along Piccadilly deep in reflections excited by his cousin's + words. He himself had always been a worker and a saver, George always a + drone and a spender; and yet, if confiscation once began, it was he—the + worker and the saver—who would be looted! That was the negation of + all virtue, the overturning of all Forsyte principles. Could civilization + be built on any other? He did not think so. Well, they wouldn't + confiscate his pictures, for they wouldn't know their worth. But + what would they be worth, if these maniacs once began to milk capital? A + drug on the market. 'I don't care about myself,' he + thought; 'I could live on five hundred a year, and never know the + difference, at my age.' But Fleur! This fortune, so widely invested, + these treasures so carefully chosen and amassed, were all for—her. + And if it should turn out that he couldn't give or leave them to her—well, + life had no meaning, and what was the use of going in to look at this + crazy, futuristic stuff with the view of seeing whether it had any future? + </p> + <p> + Arriving at the Gallery off Cork Street, however, he paid his shilling, + picked up a catalogue, and entered. Some ten persons were prowling round. + Soames took steps and came on what looked to him like a lamp-post bent by + collision with a motor omnibus. It was advanced some three paces from the + wall, and was described in his catalogue as “Jupiter.” He + examined it with curiosity, having recently turned some of his attention + to sculpture. 'If that's Jupiter,' he thought, 'I + wonder what Juno's like.' And suddenly he saw her, opposite. + She appeared to him like nothing so much as a pump with two handles, + lightly clad in snow. He was still gazing at her, when two of the prowlers + halted on his left. “Epatant!” he heard one say. + </p> + <p> + “Jargon!” growled Soames to himself. + </p> + <p> + The other's boyish voice replied + </p> + <p> + “Missed it, old bean; he's pulling your leg. When Jove and + Juno created he them, he was saying: 'I'll see how much these + fools will swallow.' And they've lapped up the lot.” + </p> + <p> + “You young duffer! Vospovitch is an innovator. Don't you see + that he's brought satire into sculpture? The future of plastic art, + of music, painting, and even architecture, has set in satiric. It was + bound to. People are tired—the bottom's tumbled out of + sentiment.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm quite equal to taking a little interest in beauty. + I was through the War. You've dropped your handkerchief, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Soames saw a handkerchief held out in front of him. He took it with some + natural suspicion, and approached it to his nose. It had the right scent—of + distant Eau de Cologne—and his initials in a corner. Slightly + reassured, he raised his eyes to the young man's face. It had rather + fawn-like ears, a laughing mouth, with half a toothbrush growing out of it + on each side, and small lively eyes, above a normally dressed appearance. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” he said; and moved by a sort of irritation, + added: “Glad to hear you like beauty; that's rare, nowadays.” + </p> + <p> + “I dote on it,” said the young man; “but you and I are + the last of the old guard, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Soames smiled. + </p> + <p> + “If you really care for pictures,” he said, “here's + my card. I can show you some quite good ones any Sunday, if you're + down the river and care to look in.” + </p> + <p> + “Awfully nice of you, sir. I'll drop in like a bird. My name's + Mont-Michael.” And he took off his hat. + </p> + <p> + Soames, already regretting his impulse, raised his own slightly in + response, with a downward look at the young man's companion, who had + a purple tie, dreadful little sluglike whiskers, and a scornful look—as + if he were a poet! + </p> + <p> + It was the first indiscretion he had committed for so long that he went + and sat down in an alcove. What had possessed him to give his card to a + rackety young fellow, who went about with a thing like that? And Fleur, + always at the back of his thoughts, started out like a filigree figure + from a clock when the hour strikes. On the screen opposite the alcove was + a large canvas with a great many square tomato-coloured blobs on it, and + nothing else, so far as Soames could see from where he sat. He looked at + his catalogue: “No. 32 'The Future Town'—Paul + Post.” 'I suppose that's satiric too,' he thought. + 'What a thing!' But his second impulse was more cautious. It + did not do to condemn hurriedly. There had been those stripey, streaky + creations of Monet's, which had turned out such trumps; and then the + stippled school; and Gauguin. Why, even since the Post-Impressionists + there had been one or two painters not to be sneezed at. During the + thirty-eight years of his connoisseur's life, indeed, he had marked + so many “movements,” seen the tides of taste and technique so + ebb and flow, that there was really no telling anything except that there + was money to be made out of every change of fashion. This too might quite + well be a case where one must subdue primordial instinct, or lose the + market. He got up and stood before the picture, trying hard to see it with + the eyes of other people. Above the tomato blobs was what he took to be a + sunset, till some one passing said: “He's got the airplanes + wonderfully, don't you think!” Below the tomato blobs was a + band of white with vertical black stripes, to which he could assign no + meaning whatever, till some one else came by, murmuring: “What + expression he gets with his foreground!” Expression? Of what? Soames + went back to his seat. The thing was “rich,” as his father + would have said, and he wouldn't give a damn for it. Expression! Ah! + they were all Expressionists now, he had heard, on the Continent. So it + was coming here too, was it? He remembered the first wave of influenza in + 1887—or '8—hatched in China, so they said. He wondered + where this—this Expressionism had been hatched. The thing was a + regular disease! + </p> + <p> + He had become conscious of a woman and a youth standing between him and + the “Future Town.” Their backs were turned; but very suddenly + Soames put his catalogue before his face, and drawing his hat forward, + gazed through the slit between. No mistaking that back, elegant as ever + though the hair above had gone grey. Irene! His divorced wife—Irene! + And this, no doubt, was—her son—by that fellow Jolyon Forsyte—their + boy, six months older than his own girl! And mumbling over in his mind the + bitter days of his divorce, he rose to get out of sight, but quickly sat + down again. She had turned her head to speak to her boy; her profile was + still so youthful that it made her grey hair seem powdery, as if + fancy-dressed; and her lips were smiling as Soames, first possessor of + them, had never seen them smile. Grudgingly he admitted her still + beautiful and in figure almost as young as ever. And how that boy smiled + back at her! Emotion squeezed Soames' heart. The sight infringed his + sense of justice. He grudged her that boy's smile—it went + beyond what Fleur gave him, and it was undeserved. Their son might have + been his son; Fleur might have been her daughter, if she had kept + straight! He lowered his catalogue. If she saw him, all the better! A + reminder of her conduct in the presence of her son, who probably knew + nothing of it, would be a salutary touch from the finger of that Nemesis + which surely must soon or late visit her! Then, half-conscious that such a + thought was extravagant for a Forsyte of his age, Soames took out his + watch. Past four! Fleur was late. She had gone to his niece Imogen + Cardigan's, and there they would keep her smoking cigarettes and + gossiping, and that. He heard the boy laugh, and say eagerly: “I + say, Mum, is this by one of Auntie June's lame ducks?” + </p> + <p> + “Paul Post—I believe it is, darling.” + </p> + <p> + The word produced a little shock in Soames; he had never heard her use it. + And then she saw him. His eyes must have had in them something of George + Forsyte's sardonic look; for her gloved hand crisped the folds of + her frock, her eyebrows rose, her face went stony. She moved on. + </p> + <p> + “It is a caution,” said the boy, catching her arm again. + </p> + <p> + Soames stared after them. That boy was good-looking, with a Forsyte chin, + and eyes deep-grey, deep in; but with something sunny, like a glass of old + sherry spilled over him; his smile perhaps, his hair. Better than they + deserved—those two! They passed from his view into the next room, + and Soames continued to regard the Future Town, but saw it not. A little + smile snarled up his lips. He was despising the vehemence of his own + feelings after all these years. Ghosts! And yet as one grew old—was + there anything but what was ghost-like left? Yes, there was Fleur! He + fixed his eyes on the entrance. She was due; but she would keep him + waiting, of course! And suddenly he became aware of a sort of human breeze—a + short, slight form clad in a sea-green djibbah with a metal belt and a + fillet binding unruly red-gold hair all streaked with grey. She was + talking to the Gallery attendants, and something familiar riveted his gaze—in + her eyes, her chin, her hair, her spirit—something which suggested a + thin Skye terrier just before its dinner. Surely June Forsyte! His cousin + June—and coming straight to his recess! She sat down beside him, + deep in thought, took out a tablet, and made a pencil note. Soames sat + unmoving. A confounded thing, cousinship! “Disgusting!” he + heard her murmur; then, as if resenting the presence of an overhearing + stranger, she looked at him. The worst had happened. + </p> + <p> + “Soames!” + </p> + <p> + Soames turned his head a very little. + </p> + <p> + “How are you?” he said. “Haven't seen you for + twenty years.” + </p> + <p> + “No. Whatever made you come here?” + </p> + <p> + “My sins,” said Soames. “What stuff!” + </p> + <p> + “Stuff? Oh, yes—of course; it hasn't arrived yet. + </p> + <p> + “It never will,” said Soames; “it must be making a dead + loss.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course it is.” + </p> + <p> + “How d'you know?” + </p> + <p> + “It's my Gallery.” + </p> + <p> + Soames sniffed from sheer surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Yours? What on earth makes you run a show like this?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't treat Art as if it were grocery.” + </p> + <p> + Soames pointed to the Future Town. “Look at that! Who's going + to live in a town like that, or with it on his walls?” + </p> + <p> + June contemplated the picture for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “It's a vision,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “The deuce!” + </p> + <p> + There was silence, then June rose. 'Crazylooking creature!' he + thought. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, “you'll find your young + stepbrother here with a woman I used to know. If you take my advice, you'll + close this exhibition.” + </p> + <p> + June looked back at him. “Oh! You Forsyte!” she said, and + moved on. About her light, fly-away figure, passing so suddenly away, was + a look of dangerous decisions. Forsyte! Of course, he was a Forsyte! And + so was she! But from the time when, as a mere girl, she brought Bosinney + into his life to wreck it, he had never hit it off with June and never + would! And here she was, unmarried to this day, owning a Gallery!... And + suddenly it came to Soames how little he knew now of his own family. The + old aunts at Timothy's had been dead so many years; there was no + clearing-house for news. What had they all done in the War? Young Roger's + boy had been wounded, St. John Hayman's second son killed; young + Nicholas' eldest had got an O. B. E., or whatever they gave them. + They had all joined up somehow, he believed. That boy of Jolyon's + and Irene's, he supposed, had been too young; his own generation, of + course, too old, though Giles Hayman had driven a car for the Red Cross—and + Jesse Hayman been a special constable—those “Dromios” + had always been of a sporting type! As for himself, he had given a motor + ambulance, read the papers till he was sick of them, passed through much + anxiety, bought no clothes, lost seven pounds in weight; he didn't + know what more he could have done at his age. Indeed, thinking it over, it + struck him that he and his family had taken this war very differently to + that affair with the Boers, which had been supposed to tax all the + resources of the Empire. In that old war, of course, his nephew Val Dartie + had been wounded, that fellow Jolyon's first son had died of + enteric, “the Dromios” had gone out on horses, and June had + been a nurse; but all that had seemed in the nature of a portent, while in + this war everybody had done “their bit,” so far as he could + make out, as a matter of course. It seemed to show the growth of something + or other—or perhaps the decline of something else. Had the Forsytes + become less individual, or more Imperial, or less provincial? Or was it + simply that one hated Germans?... Why didn't Fleur come, so that he + could get away? He saw those three return together from the other room and + pass back along the far side of the screen. The boy was standing before + the Juno now. And, suddenly, on the other side of her, Soames saw—his + daughter, with eyebrows raised, as well they might be. He could see her + eyes glint sideways at the boy, and the boy look back at her. Then Irene + slipped her hand through his arm, and drew him on. Soames saw him glancing + round, and Fleur looking after them as the three went out. + </p> + <p> + A voice said cheerfully: “Bit thick, isn't it, sir?” + </p> + <p> + The young man who had handed him his handkerchief was again passing. + Soames nodded. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know what we're coming to.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! That's all right, sir,” answered the young man + cheerfully; “they don't either.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur's voice said: “Hallo, Father! Here you are!” + precisely as if he had been keeping her waiting. + </p> + <p> + The young man, snatching off his hat, passed on. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Soames, looking her up and down, “you're + a punctual sort of young woman!” + </p> + <p> + This treasured possession of his life was of medium height and colour, + with short, dark chestnut hair; her wide-apart brown eyes were set in + whites so clear that they glinted when they moved, and yet in repose were + almost dreamy under very white, black-lashed lids, held over them in a + sort of suspense. She had a charming profile, and nothing of her father in + her face save a decided chin. Aware that his expression was softening as + he looked at her, Soames frowned to preserve the unemotionalism proper to + a Forsyte. He knew she was only too inclined to take advantage of his + weakness. + </p> + <p> + Slipping her hand under his arm, she said: + </p> + <p> + “Who was that?” + </p> + <p> + “He picked up my handkerchief. We talked about the pictures.” + </p> + <p> + “You're not going to buy that, Father?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Soames grimly; “nor that Juno you've + been looking at.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur dragged at his arm. “Oh! Let's go! It's a ghastly + show.” + </p> + <p> + In the doorway they passed the young man called Mont and his partner. But + Soames had hung out a board marked “Trespassers will be prosecuted,” + and he barely acknowledged the young fellow's salute. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said in the street, “whom did you meet at + Imogen's?” + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Winifred, and that Monsieur Profond.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” muttered Soames; “that chap! What does your aunt + see in him?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. He looks pretty deep—mother says she + likes him.” + </p> + <p> + Soames grunted. + </p> + <p> + “Cousin Val and his wife were there, too.” + </p> + <p> + “What!” said Soames. “I thought they were back in South + Africa.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! They've sold their farm. Cousin Val is going to train + race-horses on the Sussex Downs. They've got a jolly old + manor-house; they asked me down there.” + </p> + <p> + Soames coughed: the news was distasteful to him. “What's his + wife like now?” + </p> + <p> + “Very quiet, but nice, I think.” + </p> + <p> + Soames coughed again. “He's a rackety chap, your Cousin Val.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! no, Father; they're awfully devoted. I promised to go—Saturday + to Wednesday next.” + </p> + <p> + “Training race-horses!” said Soames. It was extravagant, but + not the reason for his distaste. Why the deuce couldn't his nephew + have stayed out in South Africa? His own divorce had been bad enough, + without his nephew's marriage to the daughter of the co-respondent; + a half-sister too of June, and of that boy whom Fleur had just been + looking at from under the pump-handle. If he didn't look out, she + would come to know all about that old disgrace! Unpleasant things! They + were round him this afternoon like a swarm of bees! + </p> + <p> + “I don't like it!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I want to see the race-horses,” murmured Fleur; “and + they've promised I shall ride. Cousin Val can't walk much, you + know; but he can ride perfectly. He's going to show me their + gallops.” + </p> + <p> + “Racing!” said Soames. “It's a pity the War didn't + knock that on the head. He's taking after his father, I'm + afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know anything about his father.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Soames, grimly. “He took an interest in + horses and broke his neck in Paris, walking down-stairs. Good riddance for + your aunt.” He frowned, recollecting the inquiry into those stairs + which he had attended in Paris six years ago, because Montague Dartie + could not attend it himself—perfectly normal stairs in a house where + they played baccarat. Either his winnings or the way he had celebrated + them had gone to his brother-in-law's head. The French procedure had + been very loose; he had had a lot of trouble with it. + </p> + <p> + A sound from Fleur distracted his attention. “Look! The people who + were in the Gallery with us.” + </p> + <p> + “What people?” muttered Soames, who knew perfectly well. + </p> + <p> + “I think that woman's beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + “Come into this pastry-cook's,” said Soames abruptly, + and tightening his grip on her arm he turned into a confectioner's. + It was—for him—a surprising thing to do, and he said rather + anxiously: “What will you have?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I don't want anything. I had a cocktail and a tremendous + lunch.” + </p> + <p> + “We must have something now we're here,” muttered + Soames, keeping hold of her arm. + </p> + <p> + “Two teas,” he said; “and two of those nougat things.” + </p> + <p> + But no sooner was his body seated than his soul sprang up. Those three—those + three were coming in! He heard Irene say something to her boy, and his + answer: + </p> + <p> + “Oh! no, Mum; this place is all right. My stunt.” And the + three sat down. + </p> + <p> + At that moment, most awkward of his existence, crowded with ghosts and + shadows from his past, in presence of the only two women he had ever loved—his + divorced wife and his daughter by her successor—Soames was not so + much afraid of them as of his cousin June. She might make a scene—she + might introduce those two children—she was capable of anything. He + bit too hastily at the nougat, and it stuck to his plate. Working at it + with his finger, he glanced at Fleur. She was masticating dreamily, but + her eyes were on the boy. The Forsyte in him said: “Think, feel, and + you're done for!” And he wiggled his finger desperately. + Plate! Did Jolyon wear a plate? Did that woman wear a plate? Time had been + when he had seen her wearing nothing! That was something, anyway, which + had never been stolen from him. And she knew it, though she might sit + there calm and self-possessed, as if she had never been his wife. An acid + humour stirred in his Forsyte blood; a subtle pain divided by hair's + breadth from pleasure. If only June did not suddenly bring her hornets + about his ears! The boy was talking. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, Auntie June”—so he called his half-sister + “Auntie,” did he?—well, she must be fifty, if she was a + day!—“it's jolly good of you to encourage them. Only—hang + it all!” Soames stole a glance. Irene's startled eyes were + bent watchfully on her boy. She—she had these devotions—for + Bosinney—for that boy's father—for this boy! He touched + Fleur's arm, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, have you had enough?” + </p> + <p> + “One more, Father, please.” + </p> + <p> + She would be sick! He went to the counter to pay. When he turned round + again he saw Fleur standing near the door, holding a handkerchief which + the boy had evidently just handed to her. + </p> + <p> + “F. F.,” he heard her say. “Fleur Forsyte—it's + mine all right. Thank you ever so.” + </p> + <p> + Good God! She had caught the trick from what he'd told her in the + Gallery—monkey! + </p> + <p> + “Forsyte? Why—that's my name too. Perhaps we're + cousins.” + </p> + <p> + “Really! We must be. There aren't any others. I live at + Mapledurham; where do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Robin Hill.” + </p> + <p> + Question and answer had been so rapid that all was over before he could + lift a finger. He saw Irene's face alive with startled feeling, gave + the slightest shake of his head, and slipped his arm through Fleur's. + </p> + <p> + “Come along!” he said. + </p> + <p> + She did not move. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't you hear, Father? Isn't it queer—our name's + the same. Are we cousins?” + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” he said. “Forsyte? Distant, + perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “My name's Jolyon, sir. Jon, for short.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Ah!” said Soames. “Yes. Distant. How are you? Very + good of you. Good-bye!” + </p> + <p> + He moved on. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks awfully,” Fleur was saying. “Au revoir!” + </p> + <p> + “Au revoir!” he heard the boy reply. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0098" id="link2H_4_0098"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II.—FINE FLEUR FORSYTE + </h2> + <p> + Emerging from the “pastry-cook's,” Soames' first + impulse was to vent his nerves by saying to his daughter: 'Dropping + your hand-kerchief!' to which her reply might well be: 'I + picked that up from you!' His second impulse therefore was to let + sleeping dogs lie. But she would surely question him. He gave her a + sidelong look, and found she was giving him the same. She said softly: + </p> + <p> + “Why don't you like those cousins, Father?” Soames + lifted the corner of his lip. + </p> + <p> + “What made you think that?” + </p> + <p> + “Cela se voit.” + </p> + <p> + 'That sees itself!' What a way of putting it! After twenty + years of a French wife Soames had still little sympathy with her language; + a theatrical affair and connected in his mind with all the refinements of + domestic irony. + </p> + <p> + “How?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “You must know them; and you didn't make a sign. I saw them + looking at you.” + </p> + <p> + “I've never seen the boy in my life,” replied Soames + with perfect truth. + </p> + <p> + “No; but you've seen the others, dear.” + </p> + <p> + Soames gave her another look. What had she picked up? Had her Aunt + Winifred, or Imogen, or Val Dartie and his wife, been talking? Every + breath of the old scandal had been carefully kept from her at home, and + Winifred warned many times that he wouldn't have a whisper of it + reach her for the world. So far as she ought to know, he had never been + married before. But her dark eyes, whose southern glint and clearness + often almost frightened him, met his with perfect innocence. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, “your grandfather and his brother had a + quarrel. The two families don't know each other.” + </p> + <p> + “How romantic!” + </p> + <p> + 'Now, what does she mean by that?' he thought. The word was to + him extravagant and dangerous—it was as if she had said: “How + jolly!” + </p> + <p> + “And they'll continue not to know each, other,” he + added, but instantly regretted the challenge in those words. Fleur was + smiling. In this age, when young people prided themselves on going their + own ways and paying no attention to any sort of decent prejudice, he had + said the very thing to excite her wilfulness. Then, recollecting the + expression on Irene's face, he breathed again. + </p> + <p> + “What sort of a quarrel?” he heard Fleur say. + </p> + <p> + “About a house. It's ancient history for you. Your grandfather + died the day you were born. He was ninety.” + </p> + <p> + “Ninety? Are there many Forsytes besides those in the Red Book?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” said Soames. “They're all + dispersed now. The old ones are dead, except Timothy.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur clasped her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Timothy? Isn't that delicious?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” said Soames. It offended him that she should + think “Timothy” delicious—a kind of insult to his breed. + This new generation mocked at anything solid and tenacious. “You go + and see the old boy. He might want to prophesy.” Ah! If Timothy + could see the disquiet England of his great-nephews and great-nieces, he + would certainly give tongue. And involuntarily he glanced up at the + Iseeum; yes—George was still in the window, with the same pink paper + in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Where is Robin Hill, Father?” + </p> + <p> + Robin Hill! Robin Hill, round which all that tragedy had centred! What did + she want to know for? + </p> + <p> + “In Surrey,” he muttered; “not far from Richmond. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Is the house there?” + </p> + <p> + “What house?” + </p> + <p> + “That they quarrelled about.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But what's all that to do with you? We're going + home to-morrow—you'd better be thinking about your frocks.” + </p> + <p> + “Bless you! They're all thought about. A family feud? It's + like the Bible, or Mark Twain—awfully exciting. What did you do in + the feud, Father?” + </p> + <p> + “Never you mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! But if I'm to keep it up?” + </p> + <p> + “Who said you were to keep it up?” + </p> + <p> + “You, darling.” + </p> + <p> + “I? I said it had nothing to do with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Just what I think, you know; so that's all right.” + </p> + <p> + She was too sharp for him; fine, as Annette sometimes called her. Nothing + for it but to distract her attention. + </p> + <p> + “There's a bit of rosaline point in here,” he said, + stopping before a shop, “that I thought you might like.” + </p> + <p> + When he had paid for it and they had resumed their progress, Fleur said: + </p> + <p> + “Don't you think that boy's mother is the most beautiful + woman of her age you've ever seen?” + </p> + <p> + Soames shivered. Uncanny, the way she stuck to it! + </p> + <p> + “I don't know that I noticed her.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear, I saw the corner of your eye.” + </p> + <p> + “You see everything—and a great deal more, it seems to me!” + </p> + <p> + “What's her husband like? He must be your first cousin, if + your fathers were brothers.” + </p> + <p> + “Dead, for all I know,” said Soames, with sudden vehemence. + “I haven't seen him for twenty years.” + </p> + <p> + “What was he?” + </p> + <p> + “A painter.” + </p> + <p> + “That's quite jolly.” + </p> + <p> + The words: “If you want to please me you'll put those people + out of your head,” sprang to Soames' lips, but he choked them + back—he must not let her see his feelings. + </p> + <p> + “He once insulted me,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Her quick eyes rested on his face. + </p> + <p> + “I see! You didn't avenge it, and it rankles. Poor Father! You + let me have a go!” + </p> + <p> + It was really like lying in the dark with a mosquito hovering above his + face. Such pertinacity in Fleur was new to him, and, as they reached the + hotel, he said grimly: + </p> + <p> + “I did my best. And that's enough about these people. I'm + going up till dinner.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall sit here.” + </p> + <p> + With a parting look at her extended in a chair—a look + half-resentful, half-adoring—Soames moved into the lift and was + transported to their suite on the fourth floor. He stood by the window of + the sitting-room which gave view over Hyde Park, and drummed a finger on + its pane. His feelings were confused, tetchy, troubled. The throb of that + old wound, scarred over by Time and new interests, was mingled with + displeasure and anxiety, and a slight pain in his chest where that nougat + stuff had disagreed. Had Annette come in? Not that she was any good to him + in such a difficulty. Whenever she had questioned him about his first + marriage, he had always shut her up; she knew nothing of it, save that it + had been the great passion of his life, and his marriage with herself but + domestic makeshift. She had always kept the grudge of that up her sleeve, + as it were, and used it commercially. He listened. A sound—the vague + murmur of a woman's movements—was coming through the door. She + was in. He tapped. + </p> + <p> + “Who?” + </p> + <p> + “I,” said Soames. + </p> + <p> + She had been changing her frock, and was still imperfectly clothed; a + striking figure before her glass. There was a certain magnificence about + her arms, shoulders, hair, which had darkened since he first knew her, + about the turn of her neck, the silkiness of her garments, her + dark-lashed, greyblue eyes—she was certainly as handsome at forty as + she had ever been. A fine possession, an excellent housekeeper, a sensible + and affectionate enough mother. If only she weren't always so + frankly cynical about the relations between them! Soames, who had no more + real affection for her than she had for him, suffered from a kind of + English grievance in that she had never dropped even the thinnest veil of + sentiment over their partnership. Like most of his countrymen and women, + he held the view that marriage should be based on mutual love, but that + when from a marriage love had disappeared, or, been found never to have + really existed—so that it was manifestly not based on love—you + must not admit it. There it was, and the love was not—but there you + were, and must continue to be! Thus you had it both ways, and were not + tarred with cynicism, realism, and immorality like the French. Moreover, + it was necessary in the interests of property. He knew that she knew that + they both knew there was no love between them, but he still expected her + not to admit in words or conduct such a thing, and he could never + understand what she meant when she talked of the hypocrisy of the English. + He said: + </p> + <p> + “Whom have you got at 'The Shelter' next week?” + </p> + <p> + Annette went on touching her lips delicately with salve—he always + wished she wouldn't do that. + </p> + <p> + “Your sister Winifred, and the Car-r-digans”—she took up + a tiny stick of black—“and Prosper Profond.” + </p> + <p> + “That Belgian chap? Why him?” + </p> + <p> + Annette turned her neck lazily, touched one eyelash, and said: + </p> + <p> + “He amuses Winifred.” + </p> + <p> + “I want some one to amuse Fleur; she's restive.” + </p> + <p> + “R-restive?” repeated Annette. “Is it the first time you + see that, my friend? She was born r-restive, as you call it.” + </p> + <p> + Would she never get that affected roll out of her r's? + </p> + <p> + He touched the dress she had taken off, and asked: + </p> + <p> + “What have you been doing?” + </p> + <p> + Annette looked at him, reflected in her glass. Her just-brightened lips + smiled, rather full, rather ironical. + </p> + <p> + “Enjoying myself,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” answered Soames glumly. “Ribbandry, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + It was his word for all that incomprehensible running in and out of shops + that women went in for. “Has Fleur got her summer dresses?” + </p> + <p> + “You don't ask if I have mine.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't care whether I do or not.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite right. Well, she has; and I have mine—terribly + expensive.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm!” said Soames. “What does that chap Profond + do in England?” + </p> + <p> + Annette raised the eyebrows she had just finished. + </p> + <p> + “He yachts.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Soames; “he's a sleepy chap.” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes,” answered Annette, and her face had a sort of + quiet enjoyment. “But sometimes very amusing.” + </p> + <p> + “He's got a touch of the tar-brush about him.” + </p> + <p> + Annette stretched herself. + </p> + <p> + “Tar-brush?” she said. “What is that? His mother was + Armenienne.” + </p> + <p> + “That's it, then,” muttered Soames. “Does he know + anything about pictures?” + </p> + <p> + “He knows about everything—a man of the world.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, get some one for Fleur. I want to distract her. She's + going off on Saturday to Val Dartie and his wife; I don't like it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + Since the reason could not be explained without going into family history, + Soames merely answered: + </p> + <p> + “Racketing about. There's too much of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I like that little Mrs. Val; she is very quiet and clever.” + </p> + <p> + “I know nothing of her except—This thing's new.” + And Soames took up a creation from the bed. + </p> + <p> + Annette received it from him. + </p> + <p> + “Would you hook me?” she said. + </p> + <p> + Soames hooked. Glancing once over her shoulder into the glass, he saw the + expression on her face, faintly amused, faintly contemptuous, as much as + to say: “Thanks! You will never learn!” No, thank God, he wasn't + a Frenchman! He finished with a jerk, and the words: “It's too + low here.” And he went to the door, with the wish to get away from + her and go down to Fleur again. + </p> + <p> + Annette stayed a powder-puff, and said with startling suddenness + </p> + <p> + “Que tu es grossier!” + </p> + <p> + He knew the expression—he had reason to. The first time she had used + it he had thought it meant “What a grocer you are!” and had + not known whether to be relieved or not when better informed. He resented + the word—he was not coarse! If he was coarse, what was that chap in + the room beyond his, who made those horrible noises in the morning when he + cleared his throat, or those people in the Lounge who thought it well-bred + to say nothing but what the whole world could hear at the top of their + voices—quacking inanity! Coarse, because he had said her dress was + low! Well, so it was! He went out without reply. + </p> + <p> + Coming into the Lounge from the far end, he at once saw Fleur where he had + left her. She sat with crossed knees, slowly balancing a foot in silk + stocking and grey shoe, sure sign that she was dreaming. Her eyes showed + it too—they went off like that sometimes. And then, in a moment, she + would come to life, and be as quick and restless as a monkey. And she knew + so much, so self-assured, and not yet nineteen. What was that odious word? + Flapper! Dreadful young creatures—squealing and squawking and + showing their legs! The worst of them bad dreams, the best of them + powdered angels! Fleur was not a flapper, not one of those slangy, + ill-bred young females. And yet she was frighteningly self-willed, and + full of life, and determined to enjoy it. Enjoy! The word brought no + puritan terror to Soames; but it brought the terror suited to his + temperament. He had always been afraid to enjoy to-day for fear he might + not enjoy tomorrow so much. And it was terrifying to feel that his + daughter was divested of that safeguard. The very way she sat in that + chair showed it—lost in her dream. He had never been lost in a dream + himself—there was nothing to be had out of it; and where she got it + from he did not know! Certainly not from Annette! And yet Annette, as a + young girl, when he was hanging about her, had once had a flowery look. + Well, she had lost it now! + </p> + <p> + Fleur rose from her chair-swiftly, restlessly; and flung herself down at a + writing-table. Seizing ink and writing paper, she began to write as if she + had not time to breathe before she got her letter written. And suddenly + she saw him. The air of desperate absorption vanished, she smiled, waved a + kiss, made a pretty face as if she were a little puzzled and a little + bored. + </p> + <p> + Ah! She was “fine”—“fine!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0099" id="link2H_4_0099"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III.—AT ROBIN HILL + </h2> + <p> + Jolyon Forsyte had spent his boy's nineteenth birthday at Robin + Hill, quietly going into his affairs. He did everything quietly now, + because his heart was in a poor way, and, like all his family, he disliked + the idea of dying. He had never realised how much till one day, two years + ago, he had gone to his doctor about certain symptoms, and been told: + </p> + <p> + “At any moment, on any overstrain.” + </p> + <p> + He had taken it with a smile—the natural Forsyte reaction against an + unpleasant truth. But with an increase of symptoms in the train on the way + home, he had realised to the full the sentence hanging over him. To leave + Irene, his boy, his home, his work—though he did little enough work + now! To leave them for unknown darkness, for the unimaginable state, for + such nothingness that he would not even be conscious of wind stirring + leaves above his grave, nor of the scent of earth and grass. Of such + nothingness that, however hard he might try to conceive it, he never + could, and must still hover on the hope that he might see again those he + loved! To realise this was to endure very poignant spiritual anguish. + Before he reached home that day he had determined to keep it from Irene. + He would have to be more careful than man had ever been, for the least + thing would give it away and make her as wretched as himself, almost. His + doctor had passed him sound in other respects, and seventy was nothing of + an age—he would last a long time yet, if he could. + </p> + <p> + Such a conclusion, followed out for nearly two years, develops to the full + the subtler side of character. Naturally not abrupt, except when nervously + excited, Jolyon had become control incarnate. The sad patience of old + people who cannot exert themselves was masked by a smile which his lips + preserved even in private. He devised continually all manner of cover to + conceal his enforced lack of exertion. + </p> + <p> + Mocking himself for so doing, he counterfeited conversion to the Simple + Life; gave up wine and cigars, drank a special kind of coffee with no + coffee in it. In short, he made himself as safe as a Forsyte in his + condition could, under the rose of his mild irony. Secure from discovery, + since his wife and son had gone up to Town, he had spent the fine May day + quietly arranging his papers, that he might die to-morrow without + inconveniencing any one, giving in fact a final polish to his terrestrial + state. Having docketed and enclosed it in his father's old Chinese + cabinet, he put the key into an envelope, wrote the words outside: “Key + of the Chinese cabinet, wherein will be found the exact state of me, J. + F.,” and put it in his breast-pocket, where it would be always about + him, in case of accident. Then, ringing for tea, he went out to have it + under the old oak-tree. + </p> + <p> + All are under sentence of death; Jolyon, whose sentence was but a little + more precise and pressing, had become so used to it that he thought + habitually, like other people, of other things. He thought of his son now. + </p> + <p> + Jon was nineteen that day, and Jon had come of late to a decision. + Educated neither at Eton like his father, nor at Harrow, like his dead + half-brother, but at one of those establishments which, designed to avoid + the evil and contain the good of the Public School system, may or may not + contain the evil and avoid the good, Jon had left in April perfectly + ignorant of what he wanted to become. The War, which had promised to go on + for ever, had ended just as he was about to join the Army, six months + before his time. It had taken him ever since to get used to the idea that + he could now choose for himself. He had held with his father several + discussions, from which, under a cheery show of being ready for anything—except, + of course, the Church, Army, Law, Stage, Stock Exchange, Medicine, + Business, and Engineering—Jolyon had gathered rather clearly that + Jon wanted to go in for nothing. He himself had felt exactly like that at + the same age. With him that pleasant vacuity had soon been ended by an + early marriage, and its unhappy consequences. Forced to become an + underwriter at Lloyd's, he had regained prosperity before his + artistic talent had outcropped. But having—as the simple say—“learned” + his boy to draw pigs and other animals, he knew that Jon would never be a + painter, and inclined to the conclusion that his aversion from everything + else meant that he was going to be a writer. Holding, however, the view + that experience was necessary even for that profession, there seemed to + Jolyon nothing in the meantime, for Jon, but University, travel, and + perhaps the eating of dinners for the Bar. After that one would see, or + more probably one would not. In face of these proffered allurements, + however, Jon had remained undecided. + </p> + <p> + Such discussions with his son had confirmed in Jolyon a doubt whether the + world had really changed. People said that it was a new age. With the + profundity of one not too long for any age, Jolyon perceived that under + slightly different surfaces the era was precisely what it had been. + Mankind was still divided into two species: The few who had “speculation” + in their souls, and the many who had none, with a belt of hybrids like + himself in the middle. Jon appeared to have speculation; it seemed to his + father a bad lookout. + </p> + <p> + With something deeper, therefore, than his usual smile, he had heard the + boy say, a fortnight ago: “I should like to try farming, Dad; if it + won't cost you too much. It seems to be about the only sort of life + that doesn't hurt anybody; except art, and of course that's + out of the question for me.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon subdued his smile, and answered: + </p> + <p> + “All right; you shall skip back to where we were under the first + Jolyon in 1760. It'll prove the cycle theory, and incidentally, no + doubt, you may grow a better turnip than he did.” + </p> + <p> + A little dashed, Jon had answered: + </p> + <p> + “But don't you think it's a good scheme, Dad?” + </p> + <p> + “'Twill serve, my dear; and if you should really take to it, + you'll do more good than most men, which is little enough.” + </p> + <p> + To himself, however, he had said: 'But he won't take to it. I + give him four years. Still, it's healthy, and harmless.' + </p> + <p> + After turning the matter over and consulting with Irene, he wrote to his + daughter, Mrs. Val Dartie, asking if they knew of a farmer near them on + the Downs who would take Jon as an apprentice. Holly's answer had + been enthusiastic. There was an excellent man quite close; she and Val + would love Jon to live with them. + </p> + <p> + The boy was due to go to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + Sipping weak tea with lemon in it, Jolyon gazed through the leaves of the + old oak-tree at that view which had appeared to him desirable for + thirty-two years. The tree beneath which he sat seemed not a day older! So + young, the little leaves of brownish gold; so old, the whitey-grey-green + of its thick rough trunk. A tree of memories, which would live on hundreds + of years yet, unless some barbarian cut it down—would see old + England out at the pace things were going! He remembered a night three + years before, when, looking from his window, with his arm close round + Irene, he had watched a German aeroplane hovering, it seemed, right over + the old tree. Next day they had found a bomb hole in a field on Gage's + farm. That was before he knew that he was under sentence of death. He + could almost have wished the bomb had finished him. It would have saved a + lot of hanging about, many hours of cold fear in the pit of his stomach. + He had counted on living to the normal Forsyte age of eighty-five or more, + when Irene would be seventy. As it was, she would miss him. Still there + was Jon, more important in her life than himself; Jon, who adored his + mother. + </p> + <p> + Under that tree, where old Jolyon—waiting for Irene to come to him + across the lawn—had breathed his last, Jolyon wondered, whimsically, + whether, having put everything in such perfect order, he had not better + close his own eyes and drift away. There was something undignified in + parasitically clinging on to the effortless close of a life wherein he + regretted two things only—the long division between his father and + himself when he was young, and the lateness of his union with Irene. + </p> + <p> + From where he sat he could see a cluster of apple-trees in blossom. + Nothing in Nature moved him so much as fruit-trees in blossom; and his + heart ached suddenly because he might never see them flower again. Spring! + Decidedly no man ought to have to die while his heart was still young + enough to love beauty! Blackbirds sang recklessly in the shrubbery, + swallows were flying high, the leaves above him glistened; and over the + fields was every imaginable tint of early foliage, burnished by the level + sunlight, away to where the distant “smoke-bush” blue was + trailed along the horizon. Irene's flowers in their narrow beds had + startling individuality that evening, little deep assertions of gay life. + Only Chinese and Japanese painters, and perhaps Leonardo, had known how to + get that startling little ego into each painted flower, and bird, and + beast—the ego, yet the sense of species, the universality of life as + well. They were the fellows! 'I've made nothing that will + live!' thought Jolyon; 'I've been an amateur—a + mere lover, not a creator. Still, I shall leave Jon behind me when I go.' + What luck that the boy had not been caught by that ghastly war! He might + so easily have been killed, like poor Jolly twenty years ago out in the + Transvaal. Jon would do something some day—if the Age didn't + spoil him—an imaginative chap! His whim to take up farming was but a + bit of sentiment, and about as likely to last. And just then he saw them + coming up the field: Irene and the boy; walking from the station, with + their arms linked. And getting up, he strolled down through the new rose + garden to meet them.... + </p> + <p> + Irene came into his room that night and sat down by the window. She sat + there without speaking till he said: + </p> + <p> + “What is it, my love?” + </p> + <p> + “We had an encounter to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “With whom?” + </p> + <p> + “Soames.” + </p> + <p> + Soames! He had kept that name out of his thoughts these last two years; + conscious that it was bad for him. And, now, his heart moved in a + disconcerting manner, as if it had side-slipped within his chest. + </p> + <p> + Irene went on quietly: + </p> + <p> + “He and his daughter were in the Gallery, and afterward at the + confectioner's where we had tea.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon went over and put his hand on her shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “How did he look?” + </p> + <p> + “Grey; but otherwise much the same.” + </p> + <p> + “And the daughter?” + </p> + <p> + “Pretty. At least, Jon thought so.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon's heart side-slipped again. His wife's face had a + strained and puzzled look. + </p> + <p> + “You didn't-?” he began. + </p> + <p> + “No; but Jon knows their name. The girl dropped her handkerchief and + he picked it up.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon sat down on his bed. An evil chance! + </p> + <p> + “June was with you. Did she put her foot into it?” + </p> + <p> + “No; but it was all very queer and strained, and Jon could see it + was.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon drew a long breath, and said: + </p> + <p> + “I've often wondered whether we've been right to keep it + from him. He'll find out some day.” + </p> + <p> + “The later the better, Jolyon; the young have such cheap, hard + judgment. When you were nineteen what would you have thought of your + mother if she had done what I have?” + </p> + <p> + Yes! There it was! Jon worshipped his mother; and knew nothing of the + tragedies, the inexorable necessities of life, nothing of the prisoned + grief in an unhappy marriage, nothing of jealousy or passion—knew + nothing at all, as yet! + </p> + <p> + “What have you told him?” he said at last. + </p> + <p> + “That they were relations, but we didn't know them; that you + had never cared much for your family, or they for you. I expect he will be + asking you.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon smiled. “This promises to take the place of air-raids,” + he said. “After all, one misses them.” + </p> + <p> + Irene looked up at him. + </p> + <p> + “We've known it would come some day.” + </p> + <p> + He answered her with sudden energy: + </p> + <p> + “I could never stand seeing Jon blame you. He shan't do that, + even in thought. He has imagination; and he'll understand if it's + put to him properly. I think I had better tell him before he gets to know + otherwise.” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet, Jolyon.” + </p> + <p> + That was like her—she had no foresight, and never went to meet + trouble. Still—who knew?—she might be right. It was ill going + against a mother's instinct. It might be well to let the boy go on, + if possible, till experience had given him some touchstone by which he + could judge the values of that old tragedy; till love, jealousy, longing, + had deepened his charity. All the same, one must take precautions—every + precaution possible! And, long after Irene had left him, he lay awake + turning over those precautions. He must write to Holly, telling her that + Jon knew nothing as yet of family history. Holly was discreet, she would + make sure of her husband, she would see to it! Jon could take the letter + with him when he went to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + And so the day on which he had put the polish on his material estate died + out with the chiming of the stable clock; and another began for Jolyon in + the shadow of a spiritual disorder which could not be so rounded off and + polished.... + </p> + <p> + But Jon, whose room had once been his day nursery, lay awake too, the prey + of a sensation disputed by those who have never known it, “love at + first sight!” He had felt it beginning in him with the glint of + those dark eyes gazing into his athwart the Juno—a conviction that + this was his 'dream'. so that what followed had seemed to him + at once natural and miraculous. Fleur! Her name alone was almost enough + for one who was terribly susceptible to the charm of words. In a + homoeopathic Age, when boys and girls were co-educated, and mixed up in + early life till sex was almost abolished, Jon was singularly + old-fashioned. His modern school took boys only, and his holidays had been + spent at Robin Hill with boy friends, or his parents alone. He had never, + therefore, been inoculated against the germs of love by small doses of the + poison. And now in the dark his temperature was mounting fast. He lay + awake, featuring Fleur—as they called it—recalling her words, + especially that “Au revoir!” so soft and sprightly. + </p> + <p> + He was still so wide awake at dawn that he got up, slipped on tennis + shoes, trousers, and a sweater, and in silence crept downstairs and out + through the study window. It was just light; there was a smell of grass. + 'Fleur!' he thought; 'Fleur!' It was mysteriously + white out of doors, with nothing awake except the birds just beginning to + chirp. 'I'll go down into the coppice,' he thought. He + ran down through the fields, reached the pond just as the sun rose, and + passed into the coppice. Bluebells carpeted the ground there; among the + larch-trees there was mystery—the air, as it were, composed of that + romantic quality. Jon sniffed its freshness, and stared at the bluebells + in the sharpening light. Fleur! It rhymed with her! And she lived at + Mapleduram—a jolly name, too, on the river somewhere. He could find + it in the atlas presently. He would write to her. But would she answer? + Oh! She must. She had said “Au revoir!” Not good-bye! What + luck that she had dropped her handkerchief! He would never have known her + but for that. And the more he thought of that handkerchief, the more + amazing his luck seemed. Fleur! It certainly rhymed with her! Rhythm + thronged his head; words jostled to be joined together; he was on the + verge of a poem. + </p> + <p> + Jon remained in this condition for more than half an hour, then returned + to the house, and getting a ladder, climbed in at his bedroom window out + of sheer exhilaration. Then, remembering that the study window was open, + he went down and shut it, first removing the ladder, so as to obliterate + all traces of his feeling. The thing was too deep to be revealed to mortal + soul-even-to his mother. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0100" id="link2H_4_0100"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV.—THE MAUSOLEUM + </h2> + <p> + There are houses whose souls have passed into the limbo of Time, leaving + their bodies in the limbo of London. Such was not quite the condition of + “Timothy's” on the Bayswater Road, for Timothy's + soul still had one foot in Timothy Forsyte's body, and Smither kept + the atmosphere unchanging, of camphor and port wine and house whose + windows are only opened to air it twice a day. + </p> + <p> + To Forsyte imagination that house was now a sort of Chinese pill-box, a + series of layers in the last of which was Timothy. One did not reach him, + or so it was reported by members of the family who, out of old-time habit + or absentmindedness, would drive up once in a blue moon and ask after + their surviving uncle. Such were Francie, now quite emancipated from God + (she frankly avowed atheism), Euphemia, emancipated from old Nicholas, and + Winifred Dartie from her “man of the world.” But, after all, + everybody was emancipated now, or said they were—perhaps not quite + the same thing! + </p> + <p> + When Soames, therefore, took it on his way to Paddington station on the + morning after that encounter, it was hardly with the expectation of seeing + Timothy in the flesh. His heart made a faint demonstration within him + while he stood in full south sunlight on the newly whitened doorstep of + that little house where four Forsytes had once lived, and now but one + dwelt on like a winter fly; the house into which Soames had come and out + of which he had gone times without number, divested of, or burdened with, + fardels of family gossip; the house of the “old people” of + another century, another age. + </p> + <p> + The sight of Smither—still corseted up to the armpits because the + new fashion which came in as they were going out about 1903 had never been + considered “nice” by Aunts Juley and Hester—brought a + pale friendliness to Soames' lips; Smither, still faithfully + arranged to old pattern in every detail, an invaluable servant—none + such left—smiling back at him, with the words: “Why! it's + Mr. Soames, after all this time! And how are you, sir? Mr. Timothy will be + so pleased to know you've been.” + </p> + <p> + “How is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! he keeps fairly bobbish for his age, sir; but of course he's + a wonderful man. As I said to Mrs. Dartie when she was here last: It would + please Miss Forsyte and Mrs. Juley and Miss Hester to see how he relishes + a baked apple still. But he's quite deaf. And a mercy, I always + think. For what we should have done with him in the air-raids, I don't + know.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Soames. “What did you do with him?” + </p> + <p> + “We just left him in his bed, and had the bell run down into the + cellar, so that Cook and I could hear him if he rang. It would never have + done to let him know there was a war on. As I said to Cook, 'If Mr. + Timothy rings, they may do what they like—I'm going up. My + dear mistresses would have a fit if they could see him ringing and nobody + going to him.' But he slept through them all beautiful. And the one + in the daytime he was having his bath. It was a mercy, because he might + have noticed the people in the street all looking up—he often looks + out of the window.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite!” murmured Soames. Smither was getting garrulous! + “I just want to look round and see if there's anything to be + done.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir. I don't think there's anything except a smell + of mice in the dining-room that we don't know how to get rid of. It's + funny they should be there, and not a crumb, since Mr. Timothy took to not + coming down, just before the War. But they're nasty little things; + you never know where they'll take you next.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he leave his bed?”— + </p> + <p> + “Oh! yes, sir; he takes nice exercise between his bed and the window + in the morning, not to risk a change of air. And he's quite + comfortable in himself; has his Will out every day regular. It's a + great consolation to him—that.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Smither, I want to see him, if I can; in case he has anything + to say to me.” + </p> + <p> + Smither coloured up above her corsets. + </p> + <p> + “It will be an occasion!” she said. “Shall I take you + round the house, sir, while I send Cook to break it to him?” + </p> + <p> + “No, you go to him,” said Soames. “I can go round the + house by myself.” + </p> + <p> + One could not confess to sentiment before another, and Soames felt that he + was going to be sentimental nosing round those rooms so saturated with the + past. When Smither, creaking with excitement, had left him, Soames entered + the dining-room and sniffed. In his opinion it wasn't mice, but + incipient wood-rot, and he examined the panelling. Whether it was worth a + coat of paint, at Timothy's age, he was not sure. The room had + always been the most modern in the house; and only a faint smile curled + Soames' lips and nostrils. Walls of a rich green surmounted the oak + dado; a heavy metal chandelier hung by a chain from a ceiling divided by + imitation beams. The pictures had been bought by Timothy, a bargain, one + day at Jobson's sixty years ago—three Snyder “still + lifes,” two faintly coloured drawings of a boy and a girl, rather + charming, which bore the initials “J. R.”—Timothy had + always believed they might turn out to be Joshua Reynolds, but Soames, who + admired them, had discovered that they were only John Robinson; and a + doubtful Morland of a white pony being shod. Deep-red plush curtains, ten + high-backed dark mahogany chairs with deep-red plush seats, a Turkey + carpet, and a mahogany dining-table as large as the room was small, such + was an apartment which Soames could remember unchanged in soul or body + since he was four years old. He looked especially at the two drawings, and + thought: 'I shall buy those at the sale.' + </p> + <p> + From the dining-room he passed into Timothy's study. He did not + remember ever having been in that room. It was lined from floor to ceiling + with volumes, and he looked at them with curiosity. One wall seemed + devoted to educational books, which Timothy's firm had published two + generations back-sometimes as many as twenty copies of one book. Soames + read their titles and shuddered. The middle wall had precisely the same + books as used to be in the library at his own father's in Park Lane, + from which he deduced the fancy that James and his youngest brother had + gone out together one day and bought a brace of small libraries. The third + wall he approached with more excitement. Here, surely, Timothy's own + taste would be found. It was. The books were dummies. The fourth wall was + all heavily curtained window. And turned toward it was a large chair with + a mahogany reading-stand attached, on which a yellowish and folded copy of + The Times, dated July 6, 1914, the day Timothy first failed to come down, + as if in preparation for the War, seemed waiting for him still. In a + corner stood a large globe of that world never visited by Timothy, deeply + convinced of the unreality of everything but England, and permanently + upset by the sea, on which he had been very sick one Sunday afternoon in + 1836, out of a pleasure boat off the pier at Brighton, with Juley and + Hester, Swithin and Hatty Chessman; all due to Swithin, who was always + taking things into his head, and who, thank goodness, had been sick too. + Soames knew all about it, having heard the tale fifty times at least from + one or other of them. He went up to the globe, and gave it a spin; it + emitted a faint creak and moved about an inch, bringing into his purview a + daddy-long-legs which had died on it in latitude 44. + </p> + <p> + 'Mausoleum!' he thought. 'George was right!' And + he went out and up the stairs. On the half-landing he stopped before the + case of stuffed humming-birds which had delighted his childhood. They + looked not a day older, suspended on wires above pampas-grass. If the case + were opened the birds would not begin to hum, but the whole thing would + crumble, he suspected. It wouldn't be worth putting that into the + sale! And suddenly he was caught by a memory of Aunt Ann—dear old + Aunt Ann—holding him by the hand in front of that case and saying: + “Look, Soamey! Aren't they bright and pretty, dear little + humming-birds!” Soames remembered his own answer: “They don't + hum, Auntie.” He must have been six, in a black velveteen suit with + a light-blue collar-he remembered that suit well! Aunt Ann with her + ringlets, and her spidery kind hands, and her grave old aquiline smile—a + fine old lady, Aunt Ann! He moved on up to the drawing-room door. There on + each side of it were the groups of miniatures. Those he would certainly + buy in! The miniatures of his four aunts, one of his Uncle Swithin + adolescent, and one of his Uncle Nicholas as a boy. They had all been + painted by a young lady friend of the family at a time, 1830, about, when + miniatures were considered very genteel, and lasting too, painted as they + were on ivory. Many a time had he heard the tale of that young lady: + “Very talented, my dear; she had quite a weakness for Swithin, and + very soon after she went into a consumption and died: so like Keats—we + often spoke of it.” + </p> + <p> + Well, there they were! Ann, Juley, Hester, Susan—quite a small + child; Swithin, with sky-blue eyes, pink cheeks, yellow curls, white + waistcoat-large as life; and Nicholas, like Cupid with an eye on heaven. + Now he came to think of it, Uncle Nick had always been rather like that—a + wonderful man to the last. Yes, she must have had talent, and miniatures + always had a certain back-watered cachet of their own, little subject to + the currents of competition on aesthetic Change. Soames opened the + drawing-room door. The room was dusted, the furniture uncovered, the + curtains drawn back, precisely as if his aunts still dwelt there patiently + waiting. And a thought came to him: When Timothy died—why not? Would + it not be almost a duty to preserve this house—like Carlyle's—and + put up a tablet, and show it? “Specimen of mid-Victorian abode—entrance, + one shilling, with catalogue.” After all, it was the completest + thing, and perhaps the deadest in the London of to-day. Perfect in its + special taste and culture, if, that is, he took down and carried over to + his own collection the four Barbizon pictures he had given them. The still + sky-blue walls, tile green curtains patterned with red flowers and ferns; + the crewel-worked fire-screen before the cast-iron grate; the mahogany + cupboard with glass windows, full of little knickknacks; the beaded + footstools; Keats, Shelley, Southey, Cowper, Coleridge, Byron's + Corsair (but nothing else), and the Victorian poets in a bookshelf row; + the marqueterie cabinet lined with dim red plush, full of family relics: + Hester's first fan; the buckles of their mother's father's + shoes; three bottled scorpions; and one very yellow elephant's tusk, + sent home from India by Great-uncle Edgar Forsyte, who had been in jute; a + yellow bit of paper propped up, with spidery writing on it, recording God + knew what! And the pictures crowding on the walls—all water-colours + save those four Barbizons looking like the foreigners they were, and + doubtful customers at that—pictures bright and illustrative, “Telling + the Bees,” “Hey for the Ferry!” and two in the style of + Frith, all thimblerig and crinolines, given them by Swithin. Oh! many, + many pictures at which Soames had gazed a thousand times in supercilious + fascination; a marvellous collection of bright, smooth gilt frames. + </p> + <p> + And the boudoir-grand piano, beautifully dusted, hermetically sealed as + ever; and Aunt Juley's album of pressed seaweed on it. And the + gilt-legged chairs, stronger than they looked. And on one side of the + fireplace the sofa of crimson silk, where Aunt Ann, and after her Aunt + Juley, had been wont to sit, facing the light and bolt upright. And on the + other side of the fire the one really easy chair, back to the light, for + Aunt Hester. Soames screwed up his eyes; he seemed to see them sitting + there. Ah! and the atmosphere—even now, of too many stuffs and + washed lace curtains, lavender in bags, and dried bees' wings. + 'No,' he thought, 'there's nothing like it left; + it ought to be preserved.' And, by George, they might laugh at it, + but for a standard of gentle life never departed from, for fastidiousness + of skin and eye and nose and feeling, it beat to-day hollow—to-day + with its Tubes and cars, its perpetual smoking, its cross-legged, + bare-necked girls visible up to the knees and down to the waist if you + took the trouble (agreeable to the satyr within each Forsyte but hardly + his idea of a lady), with their feet, too, screwed round the legs of their + chairs while they ate, and their “So longs,” and their “Old + Beans,” and their laughter—girls who gave him the shudders + whenever he thought of Fleur in contact with them; and the hard-eyed, + capable, older women who managed life and gave him the shudders too. No! + his old aunts, if they never opened their minds, their eyes, or very much + their windows, at least had manners, and a standard, and reverence for + past and future. + </p> + <p> + With rather a choky feeling he closed the door and went tiptoeing + upstairs. He looked in at a place on the way: H'm! in perfect order + of the eighties, with a sort of yellow oilskin paper on the walls. At the + top of the stairs he hesitated between four doors. Which of them was + Timothy's? And he listened. A sound, as of a child slowly dragging a + hobby-horse about, came to his ears. That must be Timothy! He tapped, and + a door was opened by Smither, very red in the face. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Timothy was taking his walk, and she had not been able to get him to + attend. If Mr. Soames would come into the back-room, he could see him + through the door. + </p> + <p> + Soames went into the back-room and stood watching. + </p> + <p> + The last of the old Forsytes was on his feet, moving with the most + impressive slowness, and an air of perfect concentration on his own + affairs, backward and forward between the foot of his bed and the window, + a distance of some twelve feet. The lower part of his square face, no + longer clean-shaven, was covered with snowy beard clipped as short as it + could be, and his chin looked as broad as his brow where the hair was also + quite white, while nose and cheeks and brow were a good yellow. One hand + held a stout stick, and the other grasped the skirt of his Jaeger + dressing-gown, from under which could be seen his bed-socked ankles and + feet thrust into Jaeger slippers. The expression on his face was that of a + crossed child, intent on something that he has not got. Each time he + turned he stumped the stick, and then dragged it, as if to show that he + could do without it: + </p> + <p> + “He still looks strong,” said Soames under his breath. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! yes, sir. You should see him take his bath—it's + wonderful; he does enjoy it so.” + </p> + <p> + Those quite loud words gave Soames an insight. Timothy had resumed his + babyhood. + </p> + <p> + “Does he take any interest in things generally?” he said, also + loud. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! yes, sir; his food and his Will. It's quite a sight to + see him turn it over and over, not to read it, of course; and every now + and then he asks the price of Consols, and I write it on a slate for him—very + large. Of course, I always write the same, what they were when he last + took notice, in 1914. We got the doctor to forbid him to read the paper + when the War broke out. Oh! he did take on about that at first. But he + soon came round, because he knew it tired him; and he's a wonder to + conserve energy as he used to call it when my dear mistresses were alive, + bless their hearts! How he did go on at them about that; they were always + so active, if you remember, Mr. Soames.” + </p> + <p> + “What would happen if I were to go in?” asked Soames: “Would + he remember me? I made his Will, you know, after Miss Hester died in 1907.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! that, sir,” replied Smither doubtfully, “I couldn't + take on me to say. I think he might; he really is a wonderful man for his + age.” + </p> + <p> + Soames moved into the doorway, and waiting for Timothy to turn, said in a + loud voice: “Uncle Timothy!” + </p> + <p> + Timothy trailed back half-way, and halted. + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Soames,” cried Soames at the top of his voice, holding out + his hand, “Soames Forsyte!” + </p> + <p> + “No!” said Timothy, and stumping his stick loudly on the + floor, he continued his walk. + </p> + <p> + “It doesn't seem to work,” said Soames. + </p> + <p> + “No, sir,” replied Smither, rather crestfallen; “you + see, he hasn't finished his walk. It always was one thing at a time + with him. I expect he'll ask me this afternoon if you came about the + gas, and a pretty job I shall have to make him understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think he ought to have a man about him?” + </p> + <p> + Smither held up her hands. “A man! Oh! no. Cook and me can manage + perfectly. A strange man about would send him crazy in no time. And my + mistresses wouldn't like the idea of a man in the house. Besides, we're + so—proud of him.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose the doctor comes?” + </p> + <p> + “Every morning. He makes special terms for such a quantity, and Mr. + Timothy's so used, he doesn't take a bit of notice, except to + put out his tongue.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Soames, turning away, “it's rather + sad and painful to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! sir,” returned Smither anxiously, “you mustn't + think that. Now that he can't worry about things, he quite enjoys + his life, really he does. As I say to Cook, Mr. Timothy is more of a man + than he ever was. You see, when he's not walkin', or takin' + his bath, he's eatin', and when he's not eatin', + he's sleepin'. and there it is. There isn't an ache or a + care about him anywhere.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Soames, “there's something in that. I'll + go down. By the way, let me see his Will.” + </p> + <p> + “I should have to take my time about that, sir; he keeps it under + his pillow, and he'd see me, while he's active.” + </p> + <p> + “I only want to know if it's the one I made,” said + Soames; “you take a look at its date some time, and let me know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; but I'm sure it's the same, because me and + Cook witnessed, you remember, and there's our names on it still, and + we've only done it once.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite,” said Soames. He did remember. Smither and Jane had + been proper witnesses, having been left nothing in the Will that they + might have no interest in Timothy's death. It had been—he + fully admitted—an almost improper precaution, but Timothy had wished + it, and, after all, Aunt Hester had provided for them amply. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” he said; “good-bye, Smither. Look after + him, and if he should say anything at any time, put it down, and let me + know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! yes, Mr. Soames; I'll be sure to do that. It's been + such a pleasant change to see you. Cook will be quite excited when I tell + her.” + </p> + <p> + Soames shook her hand and went down-stairs. He stood for fully two minutes + by the hat-stand whereon he had hung his hat so many times. 'So it + all passes,' he was thinking; 'passes and begins again. Poor + old chap!' And he listened, if perchance the sound of Timothy + trailing his hobby-horse might come down the well of the stairs; or some + ghost of an old face show over the bannisters, and an old voice say: + 'Why, it's dear Soames, and we were only saying that we hadn't + seen him for a week!' + </p> + <p> + Nothing—nothing! Just the scent of camphor, and dust-motes in a + sunbeam through the fanlight over the door. The little old house! A + mausoleum! And, turning on his heel, he went out, and caught his train. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0101" id="link2H_4_0101"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V.—THE NATIVE HEATH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “His foot's upon his native heath, + His name's—Val Dartie.” + </pre> + <p> + With some such feeling did Val Dartie, in the fortieth year of his age, + set out that same Thursday morning very early from the old manor-house he + had taken on the north side of the Sussex Downs. His destination was + Newmarket, and he had not been there since the autumn of 1899, when he + stole over from Oxford for the Cambridgeshire. He paused at the door to + give his wife a kiss, and put a flask of port into his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Don't overtire your leg, Val, and don't bet too much.” + </p> + <p> + With the pressure of her chest against his own, and her eyes looking into + his, Val felt both leg and pocket safe. He should be moderate; Holly was + always right—she had a natural aptitude. It did not seem so + remarkable to him, perhaps, as it might to others, that—half Dartie + as he was—he should have been perfectly faithful to his young first + cousin during the twenty years since he married her romantically out in + the Boer War; and faithful without any feeling of sacrifice or boredom—she + was so quick, so slyly always a little in front of his mood. Being first + cousins they had decided, rather needlessly, to have no children; and, + though a little sallower, she had kept her looks, her slimness, and the + colour of her dark hair. Val particularly admired the life of her own she + carried on, besides carrying on his, and riding better every year. She + kept up her music, she read an awful lot—novels, poetry, all sorts + of stuff. Out on their farm in Cape colony she had looked after all the + “nigger” babies and women in a miraculous manner. She was, in + fact, clever; yet made no fuss about it, and had no “side.” + Though not remarkable for humility, Val had come to have the feeling that + she was his superior, and he did not grudge it—a great tribute. It + might be noted that he never looked at Holly without her knowing of it, + but that she looked at him sometimes unawares. + </p> + <p> + He had kissed her in the porch because he should not be doing so on the + platform, though she was going to the station with him, to drive the car + back. Tanned and wrinkled by Colonial weather and the wiles inseparable + from horses, and handicapped by the leg which, weakened in the Boer War, + had probably saved his life in the War just past, Val was still much as he + had been in the days of his courtship; his smile as wide and charming, his + eyelashes, if anything, thicker and darker, his eyes screwed up under + them, as bright a grey, his freckles rather deeper, his hair a little + grizzled at the sides. He gave the impression of one who has lived + actively with horses in a sunny climate. + </p> + <p> + Twisting the car sharp round at the gate, he said: + </p> + <p> + “When is young Jon coming?” + </p> + <p> + “To-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there anything you want for him? I could bring it down on + Saturday.” + </p> + <p> + “No; but you might come by the same train as Fleur—one-forty.” + </p> + <p> + Val gave the Ford full rein; he still drove like a man in a new country on + bad roads, who refuses to compromise, and expects heaven at every hole. + </p> + <p> + “That's a young woman who knows her way about,” he said. + “I say, has it struck you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Holly. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle Soames and your Dad—bit awkward, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “She won't know, and he won't know, and nothing must be + said, of course. It's only for five days, Val.” + </p> + <p> + “Stable secret! Righto!” If Holly thought it safe, it was. + Glancing slyly round at him, she said: “Did you notice how + beautifully she asked herself?” + </p> + <p> + “No!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she did. What do you think of her, Val?” + </p> + <p> + “Pretty and clever; but she might run out at any corner if she got + her monkey up, I should say.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm wondering,” Holly murmured, “whether she is + the modern young woman. One feels at sea coming home into all this.” + </p> + <p> + “You? You get the hang of things so quick.” + </p> + <p> + Holly slid her hand into his coat-pocket. + </p> + <p> + “You keep one in the know,” said Val encouraged. “What + do you think of that Belgian fellow, Profond?” + </p> + <p> + “I think he's rather 'a good devil.'” + </p> + <p> + Val grinned. + </p> + <p> + “He seems to me a queer fish for a friend of our family. In fact, + our family is in pretty queer waters, with Uncle Soames marrying a + Frenchwoman, and your Dad marrying Soames's first. Our grandfathers + would have had fits!” + </p> + <p> + “So would anybody's, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “This car,” Val said suddenly, “wants rousing; she doesn't + get her hind legs under her uphill. I shall have to give her her head on + the slope if I'm to catch that train.” + </p> + <p> + There was that about horses which had prevented him from ever really + sympathising with a car, and the running of the Ford under his guidance + compared with its running under that of Holly was always noticeable. He + caught the train. + </p> + <p> + “Take care going home; she'll throw you down if she can. + Good-bye, darling.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” called Holly, and kissed her hand. + </p> + <p> + In the train, after quarter of an hour's indecision between thoughts + of Holly, his morning paper, the look of the bright day, and his dim + memory of Newmarket, Val plunged into the recesses of a small square book, + all names, pedigrees, tap-roots, and notes about the make and shape of + horses. The Forsyte in him was bent on the acquisition of a certain strain + of blood, and he was subduing resolutely as yet the Dartie hankering for a + Nutter. On getting back to England, after the profitable sale of his South + African farm and stud, and observing that the sun seldom shone, Val had + said to himself: “I've absolutely got to have an interest in + life, or this country will give me the blues. Hunting's not enough, + I'll breed and I'll train.” With just that extra pinch + of shrewdness and decision imparted by long residence in a new country, + Val had seen the weak point of modern breeding. They were all hypnotised + by fashion and high price. He should buy for looks, and let names go hang! + And here he was already, hypnotised by the prestige of a certain strain of + blood! Half-consciously, he thought: 'There's something in + this damned climate which makes one go round in a ring. All the same, I + must have a strain of Mayfly blood.' + </p> + <p> + In this mood he reached the Mecca of his hopes. It was one of those quiet + meetings favourable to such as wish to look into horses, rather than into + the mouths of bookmakers; and Val clung to the paddock. His twenty years + of Colonial life, divesting him of the dandyism in which he had been bred, + had left him the essential neatness of the horseman, and given him a queer + and rather blighting eye over what he called “the silly haw-haw” + of some Englishmen, the “flapping cockatoory” of some + English-women—Holly had none of that and Holly was his model. + Observant, quick, resourceful, Val went straight to the heart of a + transaction, a horse, a drink; and he was on his way to the heart of a + Mayfly filly, when a slow voice said at his elbow: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Val Dartie? How's Mrs. Val Dartie? She's well, I + hope.” And he saw beside him the Belgian he had met at his sister + Imogen's. + </p> + <p> + “Prosper Profond—I met you at lunch,” said the voice. + </p> + <p> + “How are you?” murmured Val. + </p> + <p> + “I'm very well,” replied Monsieur Profond, smiling with + a certain inimitable slowness. “A good devil,” Holly had + called him. Well! He looked a little like a devil, with his dark, clipped, + pointed beard; a sleepy one though, and good-humoured, with fine eyes, + unexpectedly intelligent. + </p> + <p> + “Here's a gentleman wants to know you—cousin of yours—Mr. + George Forsyde.” + </p> + <p> + Val saw a large form, and a face clean-shaven, bull-like, a little + lowering, with sardonic humour bubbling behind a full grey eye; he + remembered it dimly from old days when he would dine with his father at + the Iseeum Club. + </p> + <p> + “I used to go racing with your father,” George was saying: + “How's the stud? Like to buy one of my screws?” + </p> + <p> + Val grinned, to hide the sudden feeling that the bottom had fallen out of + breeding. They believed in nothing over here, not even in horses. George + Forsyte, Prosper Profond! The devil himself was not more disillusioned + than those two. + </p> + <p> + “Didn't know you were a racing man,” he said to Monsieur + Profond. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not. I don't care for it. I'm a yachtin' + man. I don't care for yachtin' either, but I like to see my + friends. I've got some lunch, Mr. Val Dartie, just a small lunch, if + you'd like to 'ave some; not much—just a small one—in + my car.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” said Val; “very good of you. I'll come + along in about quarter of an hour.” + </p> + <p> + “Over there. Mr. Forsyde's comin',” and Monsieur + Profond “poinded” with a yellow-gloved finger; “small + car, with a small lunch”; he moved on, groomed, sleepy, and remote, + George Forsyte following, neat, huge, and with his jesting air. + </p> + <p> + Val remained gazing at the Mayfly filly. George Forsyte, of course, was an + old chap, but this Profond might be about his own age; Val felt extremely + young, as if the Mayfly filly were a toy at which those two had laughed. + The animal had lost reality. + </p> + <p> + “That 'small' mare”—he seemed to hear the + voice of Monsieur Profond—“what do you see in her?—we + must all die!” + </p> + <p> + And George Forsyte, crony of his father, racing still! The Mayfly strain—was + it any better than any other? He might just as well have a flutter with + his money instead. + </p> + <p> + “No, by gum!” he muttered suddenly, “if it's no + good breeding horses, it's no good doing anything. What did I come + for? I'll buy her.” + </p> + <p> + He stood back and watched the ebb of the paddock visitors toward the + stand. Natty old chips, shrewd portly fellows, Jews, trainers looking as + if they had never been guilty of seeing a horse in their lives; tall, + flapping, languid women, or brisk, loud-voiced women; young men with an + air as if trying to take it seriously—two or three of them with only + one arm. + </p> + <p> + 'Life over here's a game!' thought Val. 'Muffin + bell rings, horses run, money changes hands; ring again, run again, money + changes back.' + </p> + <p> + But, alarmed at his own philosophy, he went to the paddock gate to watch + the Mayfly filly canter down. She moved well; and he made his way over to + the “small” car. The “small” lunch was the sort a + man dreams of but seldom gets; and when it was concluded Monsieur Profond + walked back with him to the paddock. + </p> + <p> + “Your wife's a nice woman,” was his surprising remark. + </p> + <p> + “Nicest woman I know,” returned Val dryly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Monsieur Profond; “she has a nice face. I + admire nice women.” + </p> + <p> + Val looked at him suspiciously, but something kindly and direct in the + heavy diabolism of his companion disarmed him for the moment. + </p> + <p> + “Any time you like to come on my yacht, I'll give her a small + cruise.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks,” said Val, in arms again, “she hates the sea.” + </p> + <p> + “So do I,” said Monsieur Profond. + </p> + <p> + “Then why do you yacht?” + </p> + <p> + The Belgian's eyes smiled. “Oh! I don't know. I've + done everything; it's the last thing I'm doin'.” + </p> + <p> + “It must be d-d expensive. I should want more reason than that.” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Prosper Profond raised his eyebrows, and puffed out a heavy lower + lip. + </p> + <p> + “I'm an easy-goin' man,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Were you in the War?” asked Val. + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es. I've done that too. I was gassed; it was a small bit + unpleasant.” He smiled with a deep and sleepy air of prosperity, as + if he had caught it from his name. + </p> + <p> + Whether his saying “small” when he ought to have said “little” + was genuine mistake or affectation Val could not decide; the fellow was + evidently capable of anything. + </p> + <p> + Among the ring of buyers round the Mayfly filly who had won her race, + Monsieur Profond said: + </p> + <p> + “You goin' to bid?” + </p> + <p> + Val nodded. With this sleepy Satan at his elbow, he felt in need of faith. + Though placed above the ultimate blows of Providence by the forethought of + a grand-father who had tied him up a thousand a year to which was added + the thousand a year tied up for Holly by her grand-father, Val was not + flush of capital that he could touch, having spent most of what he had + realised from his South African farm on his establishment in Sussex. And + very soon he was thinking: 'Dash it! she's going beyond me!' + His limit-six hundred-was exceeded; he dropped out of the bidding. The + Mayfly filly passed under the hammer at seven hundred and fifty guineas. + He was turning away vexed when the slow voice of Monsieur Profond said in + his ear: + </p> + <p> + “Well, I've bought that small filly, but I don't want + her; you take her and give her to your wife.” + </p> + <p> + Val looked at the fellow with renewed suspicion, but the good humour in + his eyes was such that he really could not take offence. + </p> + <p> + “I made a small lot of money in the War,” began Monsieur + Profond in answer to that look. “I 'ad armament shares. I like + to give it away. I'm always makin' money. I want very small + lot myself. I like my friends to 'ave it.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll buy her of you at the price you gave,” said Val + with sudden resolution. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Monsieur Profond. “You take her. I don' + want her.” + </p> + <p> + “Hang it! one doesn't—” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” smiled Monsieur Profond. “I'm a friend + of your family.” + </p> + <p> + “Seven hundred and fifty guineas is not a box of cigars,” said + Val impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “All right; you keep her for me till I want her, and do what you + like with her.” + </p> + <p> + “So long as she's yours,” said Val. “I don't + mind that.” + </p> + <p> + “That's all right,” murmured Monsieur Profond, and moved + away. + </p> + <p> + Val watched; he might be “a good devil,” but then again he + might not. He saw him rejoin George Forsyte, and thereafter saw him no + more. + </p> + <p> + He spent those nights after racing at his mother's house in Green + Street. + </p> + <p> + Winifred Dartie at sixty-two was marvellously preserved, considering the + three-and-thirty years during which she had put up with Montague Dartie, + till almost happily released by a French staircase. It was to her a + vehement satisfaction to have her favourite son back from South Africa + after all this time, to feel him so little changed, and to have taken a + fancy to his wife. Winifred, who in the late seventies, before her + marriage, had been in the vanguard of freedom, pleasure, and fashion, + confessed her youth outclassed by the donzellas of the day. They seemed, + for instance, to regard marriage as an incident, and Winifred sometimes + regretted that she had not done the same; a second, third, fourth incident + might have secured her a partner of less dazzling inebriety; though, after + all, he had left her Val, Imogen, Maud, Benedict (almost a colonel and + unharmed by the War)—none of whom had been divorced as yet. The + steadiness of her children often amazed one who remembered their father; + but, as she was fond of believing, they were really all Forsytes, + favouring herself, with the exception, perhaps, of Imogen. Her brother's + “little girl” Fleur frankly puzzled Winifred. The child was as + restless as any of these modern young women—“She's a + small flame in a draught,” Prosper Profond had said one day after + dinner—but she did not flap, or talk at the top of her voice. The + steady Forsyteism in Winifred's own character instinctively resented + the feeling in the air, the modern girl's habits and her motto: + “All's much of a muchness! Spend, to-morrow we shall be poor!” + She found it a saving grace in Fleur that, having set her heart on a + thing, she had no change of heart until she got it—though—what + happened after, Fleur was, of course, too young to have made evident. The + child was a “very pretty little thing,” too, and quite a + credit to take about, with her mother's French taste and gift for + wearing clothes; everybody turned to look at Fleur—great + consideration to Winifred, a lover of the style and distinction which had + so cruelly deceived her in the case of Montague Dartie. + </p> + <p> + In discussing her with Val, at breakfast on Saturday morning, Winifred + dwelt on the family skeleton. + </p> + <p> + “That little affair of your father-in-law and your Aunt Irene, Val—it's + old as the hills, of course, Fleur need know nothing about it—making + a fuss. Your Uncle Soames is very particular about that. So you'll + be careful.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes! But it's dashed awkward—Holly's young + half-brother is coming to live with us while he learns farming. He's + there already.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Winifred. “That is a gaff! What is he like?” + </p> + <p> + “Only saw him once—at Robin Hill, when we were home in 1909; + he was naked and painted blue and yellow in stripes—a jolly little + chap.” + </p> + <p> + Winifred thought that “rather nice,” and added comfortably: + “Well, Holly's sensible; she'll know how to deal with + it. I shan't tell your uncle. It'll only bother him. It's + a great comfort to have you back, my dear boy, now that I'm getting + on.” + </p> + <p> + “Getting on! Why! you're as young as ever. That chap Profond, + Mother, is he all right?” + </p> + <p> + “Prosper Profond! Oh! the most amusing man I know.” + </p> + <p> + Val grunted, and recounted the story of the Mayfly filly. + </p> + <p> + “That's so like him,” murmured Winifred. “He does + all sorts of things.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Val shrewdly, “our family haven't + been too lucky with that kind of cattle; they're too light-hearted + for us.” + </p> + <p> + It was true, and Winifred's blue study lasted a full minute before + she answered: + </p> + <p> + “Oh! well! He's a foreigner, Val; one must make allowances.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, I'll use his filly and make it up to him, somehow.” + </p> + <p> + And soon after he gave her his blessing, received a kiss, and left her for + his bookmaker's, the Iseeum Club, and Victoria station. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0102" id="link2H_4_0102"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI.—JON + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Val Dartie, after twenty years of South Africa, had fallen deeply in + love, fortunately with something of her own, for the object of her passion + was the prospect in front of her windows, the cool clear light on the + green Downs. It was England again, at last! England more beautiful than + she had dreamed. Chance had, in fact, guided the Val Darties to a spot + where the South Downs had real charm when the sun shone. Holly had enough + of her father's eye to apprehend the rare quality of their outlines + and chalky radiance; to go up there by the ravine-like lane and wander + along toward Chanctonbury or Amberley, was still a delight which she + hardly attempted to share with Val, whose admiration of Nature was + confused by a Forsyte's instinct for getting something out of it, + such as the condition of the turf for his horses' exercise. + </p> + <p> + Driving the Ford home with a certain humouring, smoothness, she promised + herself that the first use she would make of Jon would be to take him up + there, and show him “the view” under this May-day sky. + </p> + <p> + She was looking forward to her young half-brother with a motherliness not + exhausted by Val. A three-day visit to Robin Hill, soon after their + arrival home, had yielded no sight of him—he was still at school; so + that her recollection, like Val's, was of a little sunny-haired boy, + striped blue and yellow, down by the pond. + </p> + <p> + Those three days at Robin Hill had been exciting, sad, embarrassing. + Memories of her dead brother, memories of Val's courtship; the + ageing of her father, not seen for twenty years, something funereal in his + ironic gentleness which did not escape one who had much subtle instinct; + above all, the presence of her stepmother, whom she could still vaguely + remember as the “lady in grey” of days when she was little and + grandfather alive and Mademoiselle Beauce so cross because that intruder + gave her music lessons—all these confused and tantalised a spirit + which had longed to find Robin Hill untroubled. But Holly was adept at + keeping things to herself, and all had seemed to go quite well. + </p> + <p> + Her father had kissed her when she left him, with lips which she was sure + had trembled. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear,” he said, “the War hasn't changed + Robin Hill, has it? If only you could have brought Jolly back with you! I + say, can you stand this spiritualistic racket? When the oak-tree dies, it + dies, I'm afraid.” + </p> + <p> + From the warmth of her embrace he probably divined that he had let the cat + out of the bag, for he rode off at once on irony. + </p> + <p> + “Spiritualism—queer word, when the more they manifest the more + they prove that they've got hold of matter.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” said Holly. + </p> + <p> + “Why! Look at their photographs of auric presences. You must have + something material for light and shade to fall on before you can take a + photograph. No, it'll end in our calling all matter spirit, or all + spirit matter—I don't know which.” + </p> + <p> + “But don't you believe in survival, Dad?” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon had looked at her, and the sad whimsicality of his face impressed + her deeply. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear, I should like to get something out of death. I've + been looking into it a bit. But for the life of me I can't find + anything that telepathy, sub-consciousness, and emanation from the + storehouse of this world can't account for just as well. Wish I + could! Wishes father thought but they don't breed evidence.” + Holly had pressed her lips again to his forehead with the feeling that it + confirmed his theory that all matter was becoming spirit—his brow + felt, somehow, so insubstantial. + </p> + <p> + But the most poignant memory of that little visit had been watching, + unobserved, her stepmother reading to herself a letter from Jon. It was—she + decided—the prettiest sight she had ever seen. Irene, lost as it + were in the letter of her boy, stood at a window where the light fell on + her face and her fine grey hair; her lips were moving, smiling, her dark + eyes laughing, dancing, and the hand which did not hold the letter was + pressed against her breast. Holly withdrew as from a vision of perfect + love, convinced that Jon must be nice. + </p> + <p> + When she saw him coming out of the station with a kit-bag in either hand, + she was confirmed in her predisposition. He was a little like Jolly, that + long-lost idol of her childhood, but eager-looking and less formal, with + deeper eyes and brighter-coloured hair, for he wore no hat; altogether a + very interesting “little” brother! + </p> + <p> + His tentative politeness charmed one who was accustomed to assurance in + the youthful manner; he was disturbed because she was to drive him home, + instead of his driving her. Shouldn't he have a shot? They hadn't + a car at Robin Hill since the War, of course, and he had only driven once, + and landed up a bank, so she oughtn't to mind his trying. His laugh, + soft and infectious, was very attractive, though that word, she had heard, + was now quite old-fashioned. When they reached the house he pulled out a + crumpled letter which she read while he was washing—a quite short + letter, which must have cost her father many a pang to write. + </p> + <p> + “MY DEAR, + </p> + <p> + “You and Val will not forget, I trust, that Jon knows nothing of + family history. His mother and I think he is too young at present. The boy + is very dear, and the apple of her eye. Verbum sapientibus, + </p> + <p> + “Your loving father, + </p> + <p> + “J. F.” + </p> + <p> + That was all; but it renewed in Holly an uneasy regret that Fleur was + coming. + </p> + <p> + After tea she fulfilled that promise to herself and took Jon up the hill. + They had a long talk, sitting above an old chalk-pit grown over with + brambles and goosepenny. Milkwort and liverwort starred the green slope, + the larks sang, and thrushes in the brake, and now and then a gull + flighting inland would wheel very white against the paling sky, where the + vague moon was coming up. Delicious fragrance came to them, as if little + invisible creatures were running and treading scent out of the blades of + grass. + </p> + <p> + Jon, who had fallen silent, said rather suddenly: + </p> + <p> + “I say, this is wonderful! There's no fat on it at all. Gull's + flight and sheep-bells.” + </p> + <p> + “'Gull's flight and sheep-bells'. You're a + poet, my dear!” + </p> + <p> + Jon sighed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Golly! No go!” + </p> + <p> + “Try! I used to at your age.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you? Mother says 'try' too; but I'm so + rotten. Have you any of yours for me to see?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” Holly murmured, “I've been married + nineteen years. I only wrote verses when I wanted to be.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Jon, and turned over on his face: the one cheek she + could see was a charming colour. Was Jon “touched in the wind,” + then, as Val would have called it? Already? But, if so, all the better, he + would take no notice of young Fleur. Besides, on Monday he would begin his + farming. And she smiled. Was it Burns who followed the plough, or only + Piers Plowman? Nearly every young man and most young women seemed to be + poets now, judging from the number of their books she had read out in + South Africa, importing them from Hatchus and Bumphards; and quite good—oh! + quite; much better than she had been herself! But then poetry had only + really come in since her day—with motor-cars. Another long talk + after dinner over a wood fire in the low hall, and there seemed little + left to know about Jon except anything of real importance. Holly parted + from him at his bedroom door, having seen twice over that he had + everything, with the conviction that she would love him, and Val would + like him. He was eager, but did not gush; he was a splendid listener, + sympathetic, reticent about himself. He evidently loved their father, and + adored his mother. He liked riding, rowing, and fencing better than games. + He saved moths from candles, and couldn't bear spiders, but put them + out of doors in screws of paper sooner than kill them. In a word, he was + amiable. She went to sleep, thinking that he would suffer horribly if + anybody hurt him; but who would hurt him? + </p> + <p> + Jon, on the other hand, sat awake at his window with a bit of paper and a + pencil, writing his first “real poem” by the light of a candle + because there was not enough moon to see by, only enough to make the night + seem fluttery and as if engraved on silver. Just the night for Fleur to + walk, and turn her eyes, and lead on-over the hills and far away. And Jon, + deeply furrowed in his ingenuous brow, made marks on the paper and rubbed + them out and wrote them in again, and did all that was necessary for the + completion of a work of art; and he had a feeling such as the winds of + Spring must have, trying their first songs among the coming blossom. Jon + was one of those boys (not many) in whom a home-trained love of beauty had + survived school life. He had had to keep it to himself, of course, so that + not even the drawing-master knew of it; but it was there, fastidious and + clear within him. And his poem seemed to him as lame and stilted as the + night was winged. But he kept it, all the same. It was a “beast,” + but better than nothing as an expression of the inexpressible. And he + thought with a sort of discomfiture: 'I shan't be able to show + it to Mother.' He slept terribly well, when he did sleep, + overwhelmed by novelty. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0103" id="link2H_4_0103"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII.—FLEUR + </h2> + <p> + To avoid the awkwardness of questions which could not be answered, all + that had been told Jon was: + </p> + <p> + “There's a girl coming down with Val for the week-end.” + </p> + <p> + For the same reason, all that had been told Fleur was: “We've + got a youngster staying with us.” + </p> + <p> + The two yearlings, as Val called them in his thoughts, met therefore in a + manner which for unpreparedness left nothing to be desired. They were thus + introduced by Holly: + </p> + <p> + “This is Jon, my little brother; Fleur's a cousin of ours, + Jon.” + </p> + <p> + Jon, who was coming in through a French window out of strong sunlight, was + so confounded by the providential nature of this miracle, that he had time + to hear Fleur say calmly: “Oh, how do you do?” as if he had + never seen her, and to understand dimly from the quickest imaginable + little movement of her head that he never had seen her. He bowed therefore + over her hand in an intoxicated manner, and became more silent than the + grave. He knew better than to speak. Once in his early life, surprised + reading by a nightlight, he had said fatuously “I was just turning + over the leaves, Mum,” and his mother had replied: “Jon, never + tell stories, because of your face nobody will ever believe them.” + </p> + <p> + The saying had permanently undermined the confidence necessary to the + success of spoken untruth. He listened therefore to Fleur's swift + and rapt allusions to the jolliness of everything, plied her with scones + and jam, and got away as soon as might be. They say that in delirium + tremens you see a fixed object, preferably dark, which suddenly changes + shape and position. Jon saw the fixed object; it had dark eyes and + passably dark hair, and changed its position, but never its shape. The + knowledge that between him and that object there was already a secret + understanding (however impossible to understand) thrilled him so that he + waited feverishly, and began to copy out his poem—which of course he + would never dare to—show her—till the sound of horses' + hoofs roused him, and, leaning from his window, he saw her riding forth + with Val. It was clear that she wasted no time, but the sight filled him + with grief. He wasted his. If he had not bolted, in his fearful ecstasy, + he might have been asked to go too. And from his window he sat and watched + them disappear, appear again in the chine of the road, vanish, and emerge + once more for a minute clear on the outline of the Down. 'Silly + brute!' he thought; 'I always miss my chances.' + </p> + <p> + Why couldn't he be self-confident and ready? And, leaning his chin + on his hands, he imagined the ride he might have had with her. A week-end + was but a week-end, and he had missed three hours of it. Did he know any + one except himself who would have been such a flat? He did not. + </p> + <p> + He dressed for dinner early, and was first down. He would miss no more. + But he missed Fleur, who came down last. He sat opposite her at dinner, + and it was terrible—impossible to say anything for fear of saying + the wrong thing, impossible to keep his eyes fixed on her in the only + natural way; in sum, impossible to treat normally one with whom in fancy + he had already been over the hills and far away; conscious, too, all the + time, that he must seem to her, to all of them, a dumb gawk. Yes, it was + terrible! And she was talking so well—swooping with swift wing this + way and that. Wonderful how she had learned an art which he found so + disgustingly difficult. She must think him hopeless indeed! + </p> + <p> + His sister's eyes, fixed on him with a certain astonishment, obliged + him at last to look at Fleur; but instantly her eyes, very wide and eager, + seeming to say, “Oh! for goodness' sake!” obliged him to + look at Val, where a grin obliged him to look at his cutlet—that, at + least, had no eyes, and no grin, and he ate it hastily. + </p> + <p> + “Jon is going to be a farmer,” he heard Holly say; “a + farmer and a poet.” + </p> + <p> + He glanced up reproachfully, caught the comic lift of her eyebrow just + like their father's, laughed, and felt better. + </p> + <p> + Val recounted the incident of Monsieur Prosper Profond; nothing could have + been more favourable, for, in relating it, he regarded Holly, who in turn + regarded him, while Fleur seemed to be regarding with a slight frown some + thought of her own, and Jon was really free to look at her at last. She + had on a white frock, very simple and well made; her arms were bare, and + her hair had a white rose in it. In just that swift moment of free vision, + after such intense discomfort, Jon saw her sublimated, as one sees in the + dark a slender white fruit-tree; caught her like a verse of poetry flashed + before the eyes of the mind, or a tune which floats out in the distance + and dies. He wondered giddily how old she was—she seemed so much + more self-possessed and experienced than himself. Why mustn't he say + they had met? He remembered suddenly his mother's face; puzzled, + hurt-looking, when she answered: “Yes, they're relations, but + we don't know them.” Impossible that his mother, who loved + beauty, should not admire Fleur if she did know her. + </p> + <p> + Alone with Val after dinner, he sipped port deferentially and answered the + advances of this new-found brother-in-law. As to riding (always the first + consideration with Val) he could have the young chestnut, saddle and + unsaddle it himself, and generally look after it when he brought it in. + Jon said he was accustomed to all that at home, and saw that he had gone + up one in his host's estimation. + </p> + <p> + “Fleur,” said Val, “can't ride much yet, but she's + keen. Of course, her father doesn't know a horse from a cart-wheel. + Does your Dad ride?” + </p> + <p> + “He used to; but now he's—you know, he's—” + He stopped, so hating the word “old.” His father was old, and + yet not old; no—never! + </p> + <p> + “Quite,” muttered Val. “I used to know your brother up + at Oxford, ages ago, the one who died in the Boer War. We had a fight in + New College Gardens. That was a queer business,” he added, musing; + “a good deal came out of it.” + </p> + <p> + Jon's eyes opened wide; all was pushing him toward historical + research, when his sister's voice said gently from the doorway: + </p> + <p> + “Come along, you two,” and he rose, his heart pushing him + toward something far more modern. + </p> + <p> + Fleur having declared that it was “simply too wonderful to stay + indoors,” they all went out. Moonlight was frosting the dew, and an + old sundial threw a long shadow. Two box hedges at right angles, dark and + square, barred off the orchard. Fleur turned through that angled opening. + </p> + <p> + “Come on!” she called. Jon glanced at the others, and + followed. She was running among the trees like a ghost. All was lovely and + foamlike above her, and there was a scent of old trunks, and of nettles. + She vanished. He thought he had lost her, then almost ran into her + standing quite still. + </p> + <p> + “Isn't it jolly?” she cried, and Jon answered: + </p> + <p> + “Rather!” + </p> + <p> + She reached up, twisted off a blossom and, twirling it in her fingers, + said: + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I can call you Jon?” + </p> + <p> + “I should think so just.” + </p> + <p> + “All right! But you know there's a feud between our families?” + </p> + <p> + Jon stammered: “Feud? Why?” + </p> + <p> + “It's ever so romantic and silly. That's why I pretended + we hadn't met. Shall we get up early to-morrow morning and go for a + walk before breakfast and have it out? I hate being slow about things, don't + you?” + </p> + <p> + Jon murmured a rapturous assent. + </p> + <p> + “Six o'clock, then. I think your mother's beautiful” + </p> + <p> + Jon said fervently: “Yes, she is.” + </p> + <p> + “I love all kinds of beauty,” went on Fleur, “when it's + exciting. I don't like Greek things a bit.” + </p> + <p> + “What! Not Euripides?” + </p> + <p> + “Euripides? Oh! no, I can't bear Greek plays; they're so + long. I think beauty's always swift. I like to look at one picture, + for instance, and then run off. I can't bear a lot of things + together. Look!” She held up her blossom in the moonlight. “That's + better than all the orchard, I think.” + </p> + <p> + And, suddenly, with her other hand she caught Jon's. + </p> + <p> + “Of all things in the world, don't you think caution's + the most awful? Smell the moonlight!” + </p> + <p> + She thrust the blossom against his face; Jon agreed giddily that of all + things in the world caution was the worst, and bending over, kissed the + hand which held his. + </p> + <p> + “That's nice and old-fashioned,” said Fleur calmly. + “You're frightfully silent, Jon. Still I like silence when it's + swift.” She let go his hand. “Did you think I dropped my + handkerchief on purpose?” + </p> + <p> + “No!” cried Jon, intensely shocked. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I did, of course. Let's get back, or they'll + think we're doing this on purpose too.” And again she ran like + a ghost among the trees. Jon followed, with love in his heart, Spring in + his heart, and over all the moonlit white unearthly blossom. They came out + where they had gone in, Fleur walking demurely. + </p> + <p> + “It's quite wonderful in there,” she said dreamily to + Holly. + </p> + <p> + Jon preserved silence, hoping against hope that she might be thinking it + swift. + </p> + <p> + She bade him a casual and demure good-night, which made him think he had + been dreaming.... + </p> + <p> + In her bedroom Fleur had flung off her gown, and, wrapped in a shapeless + garment, with the white flower still in her hair, she looked like a + mousme, sitting cross-legged on her bed, writing by candlelight. + </p> + <p> + “DEAREST CHERRY, + </p> + <p> + “I believe I'm in love. I've got it in the neck, only + the feeling is really lower down. He's a second cousin-such a child, + about six months older and ten years younger than I am. Boys always fall + in love with their seniors, and girls with their juniors or with old men + of forty. Don't laugh, but his eyes are the truest things I ever + saw; and he's quite divinely silent! We had a most romantic first + meeting in London under the Vospovitch Juno. And now he's sleeping + in the next room and the moonlight's on the blossom; and to-morrow + morning, before anybody's awake, we're going to walk off into + Down fairyland. There's a feud between our families, which makes it + really exciting. Yes! and I may have to use subterfuge and come on you for + invitations—if so, you'll know why! My father doesn't + want us to know each other, but I can't help that. Life's too + short. He's got the most beautiful mother, with lovely silvery hair + and a young face with dark eyes. I'm staying with his sister—who + married my cousin; it's all mixed up, but I mean to pump her + to-morrow. We've often talked about love being a spoil-sport; well, + that's all tosh, it's the beginning of sport, and the sooner + you feel it, my dear, the better for you. + </p> + <p> + “Jon (not simplified spelling, but short for Jolyon, which is a name + in my family, they say) is the sort that lights up and goes out; about + five feet ten, still growing, and I believe he's going to be a poet. + If you laugh at me I've done with you forever. I perceive all sorts + of difficulties, but you know when I really want a thing I get it. One of + the chief effects of love is that you see the air sort of inhabited, like + seeing a face in the moon; and you feel—you feel dancey and soft at + the same time, with a funny sensation—like a continual first sniff + of orange—blossom—Just above your stays. This is my first, and + I feel as if it were going to be my last, which is absurd, of course, by + all the laws of Nature and morality. If you mock me I will smite you, and + if you tell anybody I will never forgive you. So much so, that I almost + don't think I'll send this letter. Anyway, I'll sleep + over it. So good-night, my Cherry—oh! + </p> + <p> + “Your, + </p> + <p> + “FLEUR.” <a name="link2H_4_0104" id="link2H_4_0104"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIII.—IDYLL ON GRASS + </h2> + <p> + When those two young Forsytes emerged from the chine lane, and set their + faces east toward the sun, there was not a cloud in heaven, and the Downs + were dewy. They had come at a good bat up the slope and were a little out + of breath; if they had anything to say they did not say it, but marched in + the early awkwardness of unbreakfasted morning under the songs of the + larks. The stealing out had been fun, but with the freedom of the tops the + sense of conspiracy ceased, and gave place to dumbness. + </p> + <p> + “We've made one blooming error,” said Fleur, when they + had gone half a mile. “I'm hungry.” + </p> + <p> + Jon produced a stick of chocolate. They shared it and their tongues were + loosened. They discussed the nature of their homes and previous + existences, which had a kind of fascinating unreality up on that lonely + height. There remained but one thing solid in Jon's past—his + mother; but one thing solid in Fleur's—her father; and of + these figures, as though seen in the distance with disapproving faces, + they spoke little. + </p> + <p> + The Down dipped and rose again toward Chanctonbury Ring; a sparkle of far + sea came into view, a sparrow-hawk hovered in the sun's eye so that + the blood-nourished brown of his wings gleamed nearly red. Jon had a + passion for birds, and an aptitude for sitting very still to watch them; + keen-sighted, and with a memory for what interested him, on birds he was + almost worth listening to. But in Chanctonbury Ring there were none—its + great beech temple was empty of life, and almost chilly at this early + hour; they came out willingly again into the sun on the far side. It was + Fleur's turn now. She spoke of dogs, and the way people treated + them. It was wicked to keep them on chains! She would like to flog people + who did that. Jon was astonished to find her so humanitarian. She knew a + dog, it seemed, which some farmer near her home kept chained up at the end + of his chicken run, in all weathers, till it had almost lost its voice + from barking! + </p> + <p> + “And the misery is,” she said vehemently, “that if the + poor thing didn't bark at every one who passes it wouldn't be + kept there. I do think men are cunning brutes. I've let it go twice, + on the sly; it's nearly bitten me both times, and then it goes + simply mad with joy; but it always runs back home at last, and they chain + it up again. If I had my way, I'd chain that man up.” Jon saw + her teeth and her eyes gleam. “I'd brand him on his forehead + with the word 'Brute'. that would teach him!” + </p> + <p> + Jon agreed that it would be a good remedy. + </p> + <p> + “It's their sense of property,” he said, “which + makes people chain things. The last generation thought of nothing but + property; and that's why there was the War.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Fleur, “I never thought of that. Your people + and mine quarrelled about property. And anyway we've all got it—at + least, I suppose your people have.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! yes, luckily; I don't suppose I shall be any good at + making money.” + </p> + <p> + “If you were, I don't believe I should like you.” + </p> + <p> + Jon slipped his hand tremulously under her arm. Fleur looked straight + before her and chanted: + </p> + <p> + “Jon, Jon, the farmer's son, Stole a pig, and away he run!” + </p> + <p> + Jon's arm crept round her waist. + </p> + <p> + “This is rather sudden,” said Fleur calmly; “do you + often do it?” + </p> + <p> + Jon dropped his arm. But when she laughed his arm stole back again; and + Fleur began to sing: + </p> + <p> + “O who will oer the downs so free, O who will with me ride? O who + will up and follow me—-” + </p> + <p> + “Sing, Jon!” + </p> + <p> + Jon sang. The larks joined in, sheep-bells, and an early morning church + far away over in Steyning. They went on from tune to tune, till Fleur + said: + </p> + <p> + “My God! I am hungry now!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I am sorry!” + </p> + <p> + She looked round into his face. + </p> + <p> + “Jon, you're rather a darling.” + </p> + <p> + And she pressed his hand against her waist. Jon almost reeled from + happiness. A yellow-and-white dog coursing a hare startled them apart. + They watched the two vanish down the slope, till Fleur said with a sigh: + “He'll never catch it, thank goodness! What's the time? + Mine's stopped. I never wound it.” + </p> + <p> + Jon looked at his watch. “By Jove!” he said, “mine's + stopped; too.” + </p> + <p> + They walked on again, but only hand in hand. + </p> + <p> + “If the grass is dry,” said Fleur, “let's sit down + for half a minute.” + </p> + <p> + Jon took off his coat, and they shared it. + </p> + <p> + “Smell! Actually wild thyme!” + </p> + <p> + With his arm round her waist again, they sat some minutes in silence. + </p> + <p> + “We are goats!” cried Fleur, jumping up; “we shall be + most fearfully late, and look so silly, and put them on their guard. Look + here, Jon We only came out to get an appetite for breakfast, and lost our + way. See?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jon. + </p> + <p> + “It's serious; there'll be a stopper put on us. Are you + a good liar?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe not very; but I can try.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur frowned. + </p> + <p> + “You know,” she said, “I realize that they don't + mean us to be friends.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “I told you why.” + </p> + <p> + “But that's silly.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but you don't know my father!” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose he's fearfully fond of you.” + </p> + <p> + “You see, I'm an only child. And so are you—of your + mother. Isn't it a bore? There's so much expected of one. By + the time they've done expecting, one's as good as dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” muttered Jon, “life's beastly short. One + wants to live forever, and know everything.” + </p> + <p> + “And love everybody?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” cried Jon; “I only want to love once—you.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! You're coming on! Oh! Look! There's the + chalk-pit; we can't be very far now. Let's run.” + </p> + <p> + Jon followed, wondering fearfully if he had offended her. + </p> + <p> + The chalk-pit was full of sunshine and the murmuration of bees. Fleur + flung back her hair. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she said, “in case of accidents, you may give me + one kiss, Jon,” and she pushed her cheek forward. With ecstasy he + kissed that hot soft cheek. + </p> + <p> + “Now, remember! We lost our way; and leave it to me as much as you + can. I'm going to be rather beastly to you; it's safer; try + and be beastly to me!” + </p> + <p> + Jon shook his head. “That's impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “Just to please me; till five o'clock, at all events.” + </p> + <p> + “Anybody will be able to see through it,” said Jon gloomily. + </p> + <p> + “Well, do your best. Look! There they are! Wave your hat! Oh! you + haven't got one. Well, I'll cooee! Get a little away from me, + and look sulky.” + </p> + <p> + Five minutes later, entering the house and doing his utmost to look sulky, + Jon heard her clear voice in the dining-room: + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I'm simply ravenous! He's going to be a farmer—and + he loses his way! The boy's an idiot!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0105" id="link2H_4_0105"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IX. GOYA + </h2> + <p> + Lunch was over and Soames mounted to the picture-gallery in his house near + Mapleduram. He had what Annette called “a grief.” Fleur was + not yet home. She had been expected on Wednesday; had wired that it would + be Friday; and again on Friday that it would be Sunday afternoon; and here + were her aunt, and her cousins the Cardigans, and this fellow Profond, and + everything flat as a pancake for the want of her. He stood before his + Gauguin—sorest point of his collection. He had bought the ugly great + thing with two early Matisses before the War, because there was such a + fuss about those Post-Impressionist chaps. He was wondering whether + Profond would take them off his hands—the fellow seemed not to know + what to do with his money—when he heard his sister's voice + say: “I think that's a horrid thing, Soames,” and saw + that Winifred had followed him up. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! you do?” he said dryly; “I gave five hundred for + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Fancy! Women aren't made like that even if they are black.” + </p> + <p> + Soames uttered a glum laugh. “You didn't come up to tell me + that.” + </p> + <p> + “No. Do you know that Jolyon's boy is staying with Val and his + wife?” + </p> + <p> + Soames spun round. + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” drawled Winifred; “he's gone to live with + them there while he learns farming.” + </p> + <p> + Soames had turned away, but her voice pursued him as he walked up and + down. “I warned Val that neither of them was to be spoken to about + old matters.” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn't you tell me before?” + </p> + <p> + Winifred shrugged her substantial shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Fleur does what she likes. You've always spoiled her. + Besides, my dear boy, what's the harm?” + </p> + <p> + “The harm!” muttered Soames. “Why, she—” he + checked himself. The Juno, the handkerchief, Fleur's eyes, her + questions, and now this delay in her return—the symptoms seemed to + him so sinister that, faithful to his nature, he could not part with them. + </p> + <p> + “I think you take too much care,” said Winifred. “If I + were you, I should tell her of that old matter. It's no good + thinking that girls in these days are as they used to be. Where they pick + up their knowledge I can't tell, but they seem to know everything.” + </p> + <p> + Over Soames' face, closely composed, passed a sort of spasm, and + Winifred added hastily: + </p> + <p> + “If you don't like to speak of it, I could for you.” + </p> + <p> + Soames shook his head. Unless there was absolute necessity the thought + that his adored daughter should learn of that old scandal hurt his pride + too much. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said, “not yet. Never if I can help it. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, my dear. Think what people are!” + </p> + <p> + “Twenty years is a long time,” muttered Soames. “Outside + our family, who's likely to remember?” + </p> + <p> + Winifred was silenced. She inclined more and more to that peace and + quietness of which Montague Dartie had deprived her in her youth. And, + since pictures always depressed her, she soon went down again. + </p> + <p> + Soames passed into the corner where, side by side, hung his real Goya and + the copy of the fresco “La Vendimia.” His acquisition of the + real Goya rather beautifully illustrated the cobweb of vested interests + and passions which mesh the bright-winged fly of human life. The real Goya's + noble owner's ancestor had come into possession of it during some + Spanish war—it was in a word loot. The noble owner had remained in + ignorance of its value until in the nineties an enterprising critic + discovered that a Spanish painter named Goya was a genius. It was only a + fair Goya, but almost unique in England, and the noble owner became a + marked man. Having many possessions and that aristocratic culture which, + independent of mere sensuous enjoyment, is founded on the sounder + principle that one must know everything and be fearfully interested in + life, he had fully intended to keep an article which contributed to his + reputation while he was alive, and to leave it to the nation after he was + dead. Fortunately for Soames, the House of Lords was violently attacked in + 1909, and the noble owner became alarmed and angry. 'If,' he + said to himself, 'they think they can have it both ways they are + very much mistaken. So long as they leave me in quiet enjoyment the nation + can have some of my pictures at my death. But if the nation is going to + bait me, and rob me like this, I'm damned if I won't sell the + lot. They can't have my private property and my public spirit-both.' + He brooded in this fashion for several months till one morning, after + reading the speech of a certain statesman, he telegraphed to his agent to + come down and bring Bodkin. On going over the collection Bodkin, than + whose opinion on market values none was more sought, pronounced that with + a free hand to sell to America, Germany, and other places where there was + an interest in art, a lot more money could be made than by selling in + England. The noble owner's public spirit—he said—was + well known but the pictures were unique. The noble owner put this opinion + in his pipe and smoked it for a year. At the end of that time he read + another speech by the same statesman, and telegraphed to his agents: + “Give Bodkin a free hand.” It was at this juncture that Bodkin + conceived the idea which saved the Goya and two other unique pictures for + the native country of the noble owner. With one hand Bodkin proffered the + pictures to the foreign market, with the other he formed a list of private + British collectors. Having obtained what he considered the highest + possible bids from across the seas, he submitted pictures and bids to the + private British collectors, and invited them, of their public spirit, to + outbid. In three instances (including the Goya) out of twenty-one he was + successful. And why? One of the private collectors made buttons—he + had made so many that he desired that his wife should be called Lady + “Buttons.” He therefore bought a unique picture at great cost, + and gave it to the nation. It was “part,” his friends said, + “of his general game.” The second of the private collectors + was an Americophobe, and bought an unique picture to “spite the + damned Yanks.” The third of the private collectors was Soames, who—more + sober than either of the, others—bought after a visit to Madrid, + because he was certain that Goya was still on the up grade. Goya was not + booming at the moment, but he would come again; and, looking at that + portrait, Hogarthian, Manetesque in its directness, but with its own queer + sharp beauty of paint, he was perfectly satisfied still that he had made + no error, heavy though the price had been—heaviest he had ever paid. + And next to it was hanging the copy of “La Vendimia.” There + she was—the little wretch—looking back at him in her dreamy + mood, the mood he loved best because he felt so much safer when she looked + like that. + </p> + <p> + He was still gazing when the scent of a cigar impinged on his nostrils, + and a voice said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Forsyde, what you goin' to do with this small lot?” + </p> + <p> + That Belgian chap, whose mother—as if Flemish blood were not enough—had + been Armenian! Subduing a natural irritation, he said: + </p> + <p> + “Are you a judge of pictures?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I've got a few myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Any Post-Impressionists?” + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es, I rather like them.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of this?” said Soames, pointing to the + Gauguin. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Profond protruded his lower lip and short pointed beard. + </p> + <p> + “Rather fine, I think,” he said; “do you want to sell + it?” + </p> + <p> + Soames checked his instinctive “Not particularly”—he + would not chaffer with this alien. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want for it?” + </p> + <p> + “What I gave.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Monsieur Profond. “I'll be glad + to take that small picture. Post-Impressionists—they're awful + dead, but they're amusin'. I don' care for pictures + much, but I've got some, just a small lot.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you care for?” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Profond shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Life's awful like a lot of monkeys scramblin' for empty + nuts.” + </p> + <p> + “You're young,” said Soames. If the fellow must make a + generalization, he needn't suggest that the forms of property lacked + solidity! + </p> + <p> + “I don' worry,” replied Monsieur Profond smiling; + “we're born, and we die. Half the world's starvin'. + I feed a small lot of babies out in my mother's country; but what's + the use? Might as well throw my money in the river.” + </p> + <p> + Soames looked at him, and turned back toward his Goya. He didn't + know what the fellow wanted. + </p> + <p> + “What shall I make my cheque for?” pursued Monsieur Profond. + </p> + <p> + “Five hundred,” said Soames shortly; “but I don't + want you to take it if you don't care for it more than that.” + </p> + <p> + “That's all right,” said Monsieur Profond; “I'll + be 'appy to 'ave that picture.” + </p> + <p> + He wrote a cheque with a fountain-pen heavily chased with gold. Soames + watched the process uneasily. How on earth had the fellow known that he + wanted to sell that picture? Monsieur Profond held out the cheque. + </p> + <p> + “The English are awful funny about pictures,” he said. “So + are the French, so are my people. They're all awful funny.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't understand you,” said Soames stiffly. + </p> + <p> + “It's like hats,” said Monsieur Profond enigmatically, + “small or large, turnin' up or down—just the fashion. + Awful funny.” And, smiling, he drifted out of the gallery again, + blue and solid like the smoke of his excellent cigar. + </p> + <p> + Soames had taken the cheque, feeling as if the intrinsic value of + ownership had been called in question. 'He's a cosmopolitan,' + he thought, watching Profond emerge from under the verandah with Annette, + and saunter down the lawn toward the river. What his wife saw in the + fellow he didn't know, unless it was that he could speak her + language; and there passed in Soames what Monsieur Profond would have + called a “small doubt” whether Annette was not too handsome to + be walking with any one so “cosmopolitan.” Even at that + distance he could see the blue fumes from Profond's cigar wreath out + in the quiet sunlight; and his grey buckskin shoes, and his grey hat—the + fellow was a dandy! And he could see the quick turn of his wife's + head, so very straight on her desirable neck and shoulders. That turn of + her neck always seemed to him a little too showy, and in the “Queen + of all I survey” manner—not quite distinguished. He watched + them walk along the path at the bottom of the garden. A young man in + flannels joined them down there—a Sunday caller no doubt, from up + the river. He went back to his Goya. He was still staring at that replica + of Fleur, and worrying over Winifred's news, when his wife's + voice said: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Michael Mont, Soames. You invited him to see your pictures.” + </p> + <p> + There was the cheerful young man of the Gallery off Cork Street! + </p> + <p> + “Turned up, you see, sir; I live only four miles from Pangbourne. + Jolly day, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + Confronted with the results of his expansiveness, Soames scrutinized his + visitor. The young man's mouth was excessively large and curly—he + seemed always grinning. Why didn't he grow the rest of those idiotic + little moustaches, which made him look like a music-hall buffoon? What on + earth were young men about, deliberately lowering their class with these + tooth-brushes, or little slug whiskers? Ugh! Affected young idiots! In + other respects he was presentable, and his flannels very clean. + </p> + <p> + “Happy to see you!” he said. + </p> + <p> + The young man, who had been turning his head from side to side, became + transfixed. “I say!” he said, “'some' + picture!” + </p> + <p> + Soames saw, with mixed sensations, that he had addressed the remark to the + Goya copy. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said dryly, “that's not a Goya. It's + a copy. I had it painted because it reminded me of my daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “By Jove! I thought I knew the face, sir. Is she here?” + </p> + <p> + The frankness of his interest almost disarmed Soames. + </p> + <p> + “She'll be in after tea,” he said. “Shall we go + round the pictures?” + </p> + <p> + And Soames began that round which never tired him. He had not anticipated + much intelligence from one who had mistaken a copy for an original, but as + they passed from section to section, period to period, he was startled by + the young man's frank and relevant remarks. Natively shrewd himself, + and even sensuous beneath his mask, Soames had not spent thirty-eight + years over his one hobby without knowing something more about pictures + than their market values. He was, as it were, the missing link between the + artist and the commercial public. Art for art's sake and all that, + of course, was cant. But aesthetics and good taste were necessary. The + appreciation of enough persons of good taste was what gave a work of art + its permanent market value, or in other words made it “a work of + art.” There was no real cleavage. And he was sufficiently accustomed + to sheep-like and unseeing visitors, to be intrigued by one who did not + hesitate to say of Mauve: “Good old haystacks!” or of James + Maris: “Didn't he just paint and paper 'em! Mathew was + the real swell, sir; you could dig into his surfaces!” It was after + the young man had whistled before a Whistler, with the words, “D'you + think he ever really saw a naked woman, sir?” that Soames remarked: + </p> + <p> + “What are you, Mr. Mont, if I may ask?” + </p> + <p> + “I, sir? I was going to be a painter, but the War knocked that. Then + in the trenches, you know, I used to dream of the Stock Exchange, snug and + warm and just noisy enough. But the Peace knocked that, shares seem off, + don't they? I've only been demobbed about a year. What do you + recommend, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you got money?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” answered the young man, “I've got a + father; I kept him alive during the War, so he's bound to keep me + alive now. Though, of course, there's the question whether he ought + to be allowed to hang on to his property. What do you think about that, + sir?” + </p> + <p> + Soames, pale and defensive, smiled. + </p> + <p> + “The old man has fits when I tell him he may have to work yet. He's + got land, you know; it's a fatal disease.” + </p> + <p> + “This is my real Goya,” said Soames dryly. + </p> + <p> + “By George! He was a swell. I saw a Goya in Munich once that bowled + me middle stump. A most evil-looking old woman in the most gorgeous lace. + He made no compromise with the public taste. That old boy was 'some' + explosive; he must have smashed up a lot of convention in his day. Couldn't + he just paint! He makes Velasquez stiff, don't you think?” + </p> + <p> + “I have no Velasquez,” said Soames. + </p> + <p> + The young man stared. “No,” he said; “only nations or + profiteers can afford him, I suppose. I say, why shouldn't all the + bankrupt nations sell their Velasquez and Titians and other swells to the + profiteers by force, and then pass a law that any one who holds a picture + by an Old Master—see schedule—must hang it in a public + gallery? There seems something in that.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall we go down to tea?” said Soames. + </p> + <p> + The young man's ears seemed to droop on his skull. 'He's + not dense,' thought Soames, following him off the premises. + </p> + <p> + Goya, with his satiric and surpassing precision, his original “line,” + and the daring of his light and shade, could have reproduced to admiration + the group assembled round Annette's tea-tray in the inglenook below. + He alone, perhaps, of painters would have done justice to the sunlight + filtering through a screen of creeper, to the lovely pallor of brass, the + old cut glasses, the thin slices of lemon in pale amber tea; justice to + Annette in her black lacey dress; there was something of the fair Spaniard + in her beauty, though it lacked the spirituality of that rare type; to + Winifred's grey-haired, corseted solidity; to Soames, of a certain + grey and flat-cheeked distinction; to the vivacious Michael Mont, pointed + in ear and eye; to Imogen, dark, luscious of glance, growing a little + stout; to Prosper Profond, with his expression as who should say, “Well, + Mr. Goya, what's the use of paintin' this small party?” + finally, to Jack Cardigan, with his shining stare and tanned sanguinity + betraying the moving principle: “I'm English, and I live to be + fit.” + </p> + <p> + Curious, by the way, that Imogen, who as a girl had declared solemnly one + day at Timothy's that she would never marry a good man—they + were so dull—should have married Jack Cardigan, in whom health had + so destroyed all traces of original sin, that she might have retired to + rest with ten thousand other Englishmen without knowing the difference + from the one she had chosen to repose beside. “Oh!” she would + say of him, in her “amusing” way, “Jack keeps himself so + fearfully fit; he's never had a day's illness in his life. He + went right through the War without a finger-ache. You really can't + imagine how fit he is!” Indeed, he was so “fit” that he + couldn't see when she was flirting, which was such a comfort in a + way. All the same she was quite fond of him, so far as one could be of a + sports-machine, and of the two little Cardigans made after his pattern. + Her eyes just then were comparing him maliciously with Prosper Profond. + There was no “small” sport or game which Monsieur Profond had + not played at too, it seemed, from skittles to tarpon-fishing, and worn + out every one. Imogen would sometimes wish that they had worn out Jack, + who continued to play at them and talk of them with the simple zeal of a + school-girl learning hockey; at the age of Great-uncle Timothy she well + knew that Jack would be playing carpet golf in her bedroom, and “wiping + somebody's eye.” + </p> + <p> + He was telling them now how he had “pipped the pro—a charmin' + fellow, playin' a very good game,” at the last hole this + morning; and how he had pulled down to Caversham since lunch, and trying + to incite Prosper Profond to play him a set of tennis after tea—do + him good—“keep him fit. + </p> + <p> + “But what's the use of keepin' fit?” said Monsieur + Profond. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” murmured Michael Mont, “what do you keep fit + for?” + </p> + <p> + “Jack,” cried Imogen, enchanted, “what do you keep fit + for?” + </p> + <p> + Jack Cardigan stared with all his health. The questions were like the buzz + of a mosquito, and he put up his hand to wipe them away. During the War, + of course, he had kept fit to kill Germans; now that it was over he either + did not know, or shrank in delicacy from explanation of his moving + principle. + </p> + <p> + “But he's right,” said Monsieur Profond unexpectedly, + “there's nothin' left but keepin' fit.” + </p> + <p> + The saying, too deep for Sunday afternoon, would have passed unanswered, + but for the mercurial nature of young Mont. + </p> + <p> + “Good!” he cried. “That's the great discovery of + the War. We all thought we were progressing—now we know we're + only changing.” + </p> + <p> + “For the worse,” said Monsieur Profond genially. + </p> + <p> + “How you are cheerful, Prosper!” murmured Annette. + </p> + <p> + “You come and play tennis!” said Jack Cardigan; “you've + got the hump. We'll soon take that down. D'you play, Mr. Mont?” + </p> + <p> + “I hit the ball about, sir.” + </p> + <p> + At this juncture Soames rose, ruffled in that deep instinct of preparation + for the future which guided his existence. + </p> + <p> + “When Fleur comes—” he heard Jack Cardigan say. + </p> + <p> + Ah! and why didn't she come? He passed through drawing-room, hall, + and porch out on to the drive, and stood there listening for the car. All + was still and Sundayfied; the lilacs in full flower scented the air. There + were white clouds, like the feathers of ducks gilded by the sunlight. + Memory of the day when Fleur was born, and he had waited in such agony + with her life and her mother's balanced in his hands, came to him + sharply. He had saved her then, to be the flower of his life. And now! was + she going to give him trouble—pain—give him trouble? He did + not like the look of things! A blackbird broke in on his reverie with an + evening song—a great big fellow up in that acacia-tree. Soames had + taken quite an interest in his birds of late years; he and Fleur would + walk round and watch them; her eyes were sharp as needles, and she knew + every nest. He saw her dog, a retriever, lying on the drive in a patch of + sunlight, and called to him. “Hallo, old fellow-waiting for her too!” + The dog came slowly with a grudging tail, and Soames mechanically laid a + pat on his head. The dog, the bird, the lilac, all were part of Fleur for + him; no more, no less. 'Too fond of her!' he thought, 'too + fond!' He was like a man uninsured, with his ships at sea. Uninsured + again—as in that other time, so long ago, when he would wander dumb + and jealous in the wilderness of London, longing for that woman—his + first wife—the mother of this infernal boy. Ah! There was the car at + last! It drew up, it had luggage, but no Fleur. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Fleur is walking up, sir, by the towing-path.” + </p> + <p> + Walking all those miles? Soames stared. The man's face had the + beginning of a smile on it. What was he grinning at? And very quickly he + turned, saying, “All right, Sims!” and went into the house. He + mounted to the picture-gallery once more. He had from there a view of the + river bank, and stood with his eyes fixed on it, oblivious of the fact + that it would be an hour at least before her figure showed there. Walking + up! And that fellow's grin! The boy—! He turned abruptly from + the window. He couldn't spy on her. If she wanted to keep things + from him—she must; he could not spy on her. His heart felt empty, + and bitterness mounted from it into his very mouth. The staccato shouts of + Jack Cardigan pursuing the ball, the laugh of young Mont rose in the + stillness and came in. He hoped they were making that chap Profond run. + And the girl in “La Vendimia” stood with her arm akimbo and + her dreamy eyes looking past him. 'I've done all I could for + you,' he thought, 'since you were no higher than my knee. You + aren't going to—to—hurt me, are you?' + </p> + <p> + But the Goya copy answered not, brilliant in colour just beginning to tone + down. 'There's no real life in it,' thought Soames. + 'Why doesn't she come?' + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0106" id="link2H_4_0106"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + X.—TRIO + </h2> + <p> + Among those four Forsytes of the third, and, as one might say, fourth + generation, at Wansdon under the Downs, a week-end prolonged unto the + ninth day had stretched the crossing threads of tenacity almost to + snapping-point. Never had Fleur been so “fine,” Holly so + watchful, Val so stable-secretive, Jon so silent and disturbed. What he + learned of farming in that week might have been balanced on the point of a + penknife and puffed off. He, whose nature was essentially averse from + intrigue, and whose adoration of Fleur disposed him to think that any need + for concealing it was “skittles,” chafed and fretted, yet + obeyed, taking what relief he could in the few moments when they were + alone. On Thursday, while they were standing in the bay window of the + drawing-room, dressed for dinner, she said to him: + </p> + <p> + “Jon, I'm going home on Sunday by the 3.40 from Paddington; if + you were to go home on Saturday you could come up on Sunday and take me + down, and just get back here by the last train, after. You were going home + anyway, weren't you?” + </p> + <p> + Jon nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Anything to be with you,” he said; “only why need I + pretend—” + </p> + <p> + Fleur slipped her little finger into his palm: + </p> + <p> + “You have no instinct, Jon; you must leave things to me. It's + serious about our people. We've simply got to be secret at present, + if we want to be together.” The door was opened, and she added + loudly: “You are a duffer, Jon.” + </p> + <p> + Something turned over within Jon; he could not bear this subterfuge about + a feeling so natural, so overwhelming, and so sweet. + </p> + <p> + On Friday night about eleven he had packed his bag, and was leaning out of + his window, half miserable, and half lost in a dream of Paddington + station, when he heard a tiny sound, as of a finger-nail tapping on his + door. He rushed to it and listened. Again the sound. It was a nail. He + opened. Oh! What a lovely thing came in! + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to show you my fancy dress,” it said, and struck an + attitude at the foot of his bed. + </p> + <p> + Jon drew a long breath and leaned against the door. The apparition wore + white muslin on its head, a fichu round its bare neck over a wine-coloured + dress, fulled out below its slender waist. + </p> + <p> + It held one arm akimbo, and the other raised, right-angled, holding a fan + which touched its head. + </p> + <p> + “This ought to be a basket of grapes,” it whispered, “but + I haven't got it here. It's my Goya dress. And this is the + attitude in the picture. Do you like it?” + </p> + <p> + “It's a dream.” + </p> + <p> + The apparition pirouetted. “Touch it, and see.” + </p> + <p> + Jon knelt down and took the skirt reverently. + </p> + <p> + “Grape colour,” came the whisper, “all grapes—La + Vendimia—the vintage.” + </p> + <p> + Jon's fingers scarcely touched each side of the waist; he looked up, + with adoring eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Jon,” it whispered; bent, kissed his forehead, pirouetted + again, and, gliding out, was gone. + </p> + <p> + Jon stayed on his knees, and his head fell forward against the bed. How + long he stayed like that he did not know. The little noises—of the + tapping nail, the feet, the skirts rustling—as in a dream—went + on about him; and before his closed eyes the figure stood and smiled and + whispered, a faint perfume of narcissus lingering in the air. And his + forehead where it had been kissed had a little cool place between the + brows, like the imprint of a flower. Love filled his soul, that love of + boy for girl which knows so little, hopes so much, would not brush the + down off for the world, and must become in time a fragrant memory—a + searing passion—a humdrum mateship—or, once in many times, + vintage full and sweet with sunset colour on the grapes. + </p> + <p> + Enough has been said about Jon Forsyte here and in another place to show + what long marches lay between him and his great-great-grandfather, the + first Jolyon, in Dorset down by the sea. Jon was sensitive as a girl, more + sensitive than nine out of ten girls of the day; imaginative as one of his + half-sister June's “lame duck” painters; affectionate as + a son of his father and his mother naturally would be. And yet, in his + inner tissue, there was something of the old founder of his family, a + secret tenacity of soul, a dread of showing his feelings, a determination + not to know when he was beaten. Sensitive, imaginative, affectionate boys + get a bad time at school, but Jon had instinctively kept his nature dark, + and been but normally unhappy there. Only with his mother had he, up till + then, been absolutely frank and natural; and when he went home to Robin + Hill that Saturday his heart was heavy because Fleur had said that he must + not be frank and natural with her from whom he had never yet kept + anything, must not even tell her that they had met again, unless he found + that she knew already. So intolerable did this seem to him that he was + very near to telegraphing an excuse and staying up in London. And the + first thing his mother said to him was: + </p> + <p> + “So you've had our little friend of the confectioner's + there, Jon. What is she like on second thoughts?” + </p> + <p> + With relief, and a high colour, Jon answered: + </p> + <p> + “Oh! awfully jolly, Mum.” + </p> + <p> + Her arm pressed his. + </p> + <p> + Jon had never loved her so much as in that minute which seemed to falsify + Fleur's fears and to release his soul. He turned to look at her, but + something in her smiling face—something which only he perhaps would + have caught—stopped the words bubbling up in him. Could fear go with + a smile? If so, there was fear in her face. And out of Jon tumbled quite + other words, about farming, Holly, and the Downs. Talking fast, he waited + for her to come back to Fleur. But she did not. Nor did his father mention + her, though of course he, too, must know. What deprivation, and killing of + reality was in his silence about Fleur—when he was so full of her; + when his mother was so full of Jon, and his father so full of his mother! + And so the trio spent the evening of that Saturday. + </p> + <p> + After dinner his mother played; she seemed to play all the things he liked + best, and he sat with one knee clasped, and his hair standing up where his + fingers had run through it. He gazed at his mother while she played, but + he saw Fleur—Fleur in the moonlit orchard, Fleur in the sunlit + gravel-pit, Fleur in that fancy dress, swaying, whispering, stooping, + kissing his forehead. Once, while he listened, he forgot himself and + glanced at his father in that other easy chair. What was Dad looking like + that for? The expression on his face was so sad and puzzling. It filled + him with a sort of remorse, so that he got up and went and sat on the arm + of his father's chair. From there he could not see his face; and + again he saw Fleur—in his mother's hands, slim and white on + the keys, in the profile of her face and her powdery hair; and down the + long room in the open window where the May night walked outside. + </p> + <p> + When he went up to bed his mother came into his room. She stood at the + window, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Those cypresses your grandfather planted down there have done + wonderfully. I always think they look beautiful under a dropping moon. I + wish you had known your grandfather, Jon.” + </p> + <p> + “Were you married to father when he was alive?” asked Jon + suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “No, dear; he died in '92—very old—eighty-five, I + think.” + </p> + <p> + “Is Father like him?” + </p> + <p> + “A little, but more subtle, and not quite so solid.” + </p> + <p> + “I know, from grandfather's portrait; who painted that?” + </p> + <p> + “One of June's 'lame ducks.' But it's quite + good.” + </p> + <p> + Jon slipped his hand through his mother's arm. “Tell me about + the family quarrel, Mum.” + </p> + <p> + He felt her arm quivering. “No, dear; that's for your Father + some day, if he thinks fit.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it was serious,” said Jon, with a catch in his breath. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” And there was a silence, during which neither knew + whether the arm or the hand within it were quivering most. + </p> + <p> + “Some people,” said Irene softly, “think the moon on her + back is evil; to me she's always lovely. Look at those cypress + shadows! Jon, Father says we may go to Italy, you and I, for two months. + Would you like?” + </p> + <p> + Jon took his hand from under her arm; his sensation was so sharp and so + confused. Italy with his mother! A fortnight ago it would have been + perfection; now it filled him with dismay; he felt that the sudden + suggestion had to do with Fleur. He stammered out: + </p> + <p> + “Oh! yes; only—I don't know. Ought I—now I've + just begun? I'd like to think it over.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice answered, cool and gentle: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear; think it over. But better now than when you've + begun farming seriously. Italy with you! It would be nice!” + </p> + <p> + Jon put his arm round her waist, still slim and firm as a girl's. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think you ought to leave Father?” he said feebly, + feeling very mean. + </p> + <p> + “Father suggested it; he thinks you ought to see Italy at least + before you settle down to anything.” + </p> + <p> + The sense of meanness died in Jon; he knew, yes—he knew—that + his father and his mother were not speaking frankly, no more than he + himself. They wanted to keep him from Fleur. His heart hardened. And, as + if she felt that process going on, his mother said: + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, darling. Have a good sleep and think it over. But it + would be lovely!” + </p> + <p> + She pressed him to her so quickly that he did not see her face. Jon stood + feeling exactly as he used to when he was a naughty little boy; sore + because he was not loving, and because he was justified in his own eyes. + </p> + <p> + But Irene, after she had stood a moment in her own room, passed through + the dressing-room between it and her husband's. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “He will think it over, Jolyon.” + </p> + <p> + Watching her lips that wore a little drawn smile, Jolyon said quietly: + </p> + <p> + “You had better let me tell him, and have done with it. After all, + Jon has the instincts of a gentleman. He has only to understand—” + </p> + <p> + “Only! He can't understand; that's impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe I could have at his age.” + </p> + <p> + Irene caught his hand. “You were always more of a realist than Jon; + and never so innocent.” + </p> + <p> + “That's true,” said Jolyon. “It's queer, isn't + it? You and I would tell our stories to the world without a particle of + shame; but our own boy stumps us.” + </p> + <p> + “We've never cared whether the world approves or not.” + </p> + <p> + “Jon would not disapprove of us!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Jolyon, yes. He's in love, I feel he's in love. And + he'd say: 'My mother once married without love! How could she + have!' It'll seem to him a crime! And so it was!” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon took her hand, and said with a wry smile: + </p> + <p> + “Ah! why on earth are we born young? Now, if only we were born old + and grew younger year by year, we should understand how things happen, and + drop all our cursed intolerance. But you know if the boy is really in + love, he won't forget, even if he goes to Italy. We're a + tenacious breed; and he'll know by instinct why he's being + sent. Nothing will really cure him but the shock of being told.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me try, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon stood a moment without speaking. Between this devil and this deep + sea—the pain of a dreaded disclosure and the grief of losing his + wife for two months—he secretly hoped for the devil; yet if she + wished for the deep sea he must put up with it. After all, it would be + training for that departure from which there would be no return. And, + taking her in his arms, he kissed her eyes, and said: + </p> + <p> + “As you will, my love.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0107" id="link2H_4_0107"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XI.—DUET + </h2> + <p> + That “small” emotion, love, grows amazingly when threatened + with extinction. Jon reached Paddington station half an hour before his + time and a full week after, as it seemed to him. He stood at the appointed + bookstall, amid a crowd of Sunday travellers, in a Harris tweed suit + exhaling, as it were, the emotion of his thumping heart. He read the names + of the novels on the book-stall, and bought one at last, to avoid being + regarded with suspicion by the book-stall clerk. It was called “The + Heart of the Trail!” which must mean something, though it did not + seem to. He also bought “The Lady's Mirror” and “The + Landsman.” Every minute was an hour long, and full of horrid + imaginings. After nineteen had passed, he saw her with a bag and a porter + wheeling her luggage. She came swiftly; she came cool. She greeted him as + if he were a brother. + </p> + <p> + “First class,” she said to the porter, “corner seats; + opposite.” + </p> + <p> + Jon admired her frightful self-possession. + </p> + <p> + “Can't we get a carriage to ourselves,” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “No good; it's a stopping train. After Maidenhead perhaps. + Look natural, Jon.” + </p> + <p> + Jon screwed his features into a scowl. They got in—with two other + beasts!—oh! heaven! He tipped the porter unnaturally, in his + confusion. The brute deserved nothing for putting them in there, and + looking as if he knew all about it into the bargain. + </p> + <p> + Fleur hid herself behind “The Lady's Mirror.” Jon + imitated her behind “The Landsman.” The train started. Fleur + let “The Lady's Mirror” fall and leaned forward. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “It's seemed about fifteen days.” + </p> + <p> + She nodded, and Jon's face lighted up at once. + </p> + <p> + “Look natural,” murmured Fleur, and went off into a bubble of + laughter. It hurt him. How could he look natural with Italy hanging over + him? He had meant to break it to her gently, but now he blurted it out. + </p> + <p> + “They want me to go to Italy with Mother for two months.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur drooped her eyelids; turned a little pale, and bit her lips. “Oh!” + she said. It was all, but it was much. + </p> + <p> + That “Oh!” was like the quick drawback of the wrist in fencing + ready for riposte. It came. + </p> + <p> + “You must go!” + </p> + <p> + “Go?” said Jon in a strangled voice. + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “But—two months—it's ghastly.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Fleur, “six weeks. You'll have + forgotten me by then. We'll meet in the National Gallery the day + after you get back.” + </p> + <p> + Jon laughed. + </p> + <p> + “But suppose you've forgotten me,” he muttered into the + noise of the train. + </p> + <p> + Fleur shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Some other beast—” murmured Jon. + </p> + <p> + Her foot touched his. + </p> + <p> + “No other beast,” she said, lifting “The Lady's + Mirror.” + </p> + <p> + The train stopped; two passengers got out, and one got in. + </p> + <p> + 'I shall die,' thought Jon, 'if we're not alone at + all.' + </p> + <p> + The train went on; and again Fleur leaned forward. + </p> + <p> + “I never let go,” she said; “do you?” + </p> + <p> + Jon shook his head vehemently. + </p> + <p> + “Never!” he said. “Will you write to me?” + </p> + <p> + “No; but you can—to my Club.” + </p> + <p> + She had a Club; she was wonderful! + </p> + <p> + “Did you pump Holly?” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but I got nothing. I didn't dare pump hard.” + </p> + <p> + “What can it be?” cried Jon. + </p> + <p> + “I shall find out all right.” + </p> + <p> + A long silence followed till Fleur said: “This is Maidenhead; stand + by, Jon!” + </p> + <p> + The train stopped. The remaining passenger got out. Fleur drew down her + blind. + </p> + <p> + “Quick!” she cried. “Hang out! Look as much of a beast + as you can.” + </p> + <p> + Jon blew his nose, and scowled; never in all his life had he scowled like + that! An old lady recoiled, a young one tried the handle. It turned, but + the door would not open. The train moved, the young lady darted to another + carriage. + </p> + <p> + “What luck!” cried Jon. “It Jammed.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Fleur; “I was holding it.” + </p> + <p> + The train moved out, and Jon fell on his knees. + </p> + <p> + “Look out for the corridor,” she whispered; “and—quick!” + </p> + <p> + Her lips met his. And though their kiss only lasted perhaps ten seconds, + Jon's soul left his body and went so far beyond, that, when he was + again sitting opposite that demure figure, he was pale as death. He heard + her sigh, and the sound seemed to him the most precious he had ever heard—an + exquisite declaration that he meant something to her. + </p> + <p> + “Six weeks isn't really long,” she said; “and you + can easily make it six if you keep your head out there, and never seem to + think of me.” + </p> + <p> + Jon gasped. + </p> + <p> + “This is just what's really wanted, Jon, to convince them, don't + you see? If we're just as bad when you come back they'll stop + being ridiculous about it. Only, I'm sorry it's not Spain; + there's a girl in a Goya picture at Madrid who's like me, + Father says. Only she isn't—we've got a copy of her.” + </p> + <p> + It was to Jon like a ray of sunshine piercing through a fog. “I'll + make it Spain,” he said, “Mother won't mind; she's + never been there. And my Father thinks a lot of Goya.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! yes, he's a painter—isn't he?” + </p> + <p> + “Only water-colour,” said Jon, with honesty. + </p> + <p> + “When we come to Reading, Jon, get out first and go down to + Caversham lock and wait for me. I'll send the car home and we'll + walk by the towing-path.” + </p> + <p> + Jon seized her hand in gratitude, and they sat silent, with the world well + lost, and one eye on the corridor. But the train seemed to run twice as + fast now, and its sound was almost lost in that of Jon's sighing. + </p> + <p> + “We're getting near,” said Fleur; “the towing-path's + awfully exposed. One more! Oh! Jon, don't forget me.” + </p> + <p> + Jon answered with his kiss. And very soon, a flushed, distracted-looking + youth could have been seen—as they say—leaping from the train + and hurrying along the platform, searching his pockets for his ticket. + </p> + <p> + When at last she rejoined him on the towing-path a little beyond Caversham + lock he had made an effort, and regained some measure of equanimity. If + they had to part, he would not make a scene! A breeze by the bright river + threw the white side of the willow leaves up into the sunlight, and + followed those two with its faint rustle. + </p> + <p> + “I told our chauffeur that I was train-giddy,” said Fleur. + “Did you look pretty natural as you went out?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. What is natural?” + </p> + <p> + “It's natural to you to look seriously happy. When I first saw + you I thought you weren't a bit like other people.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly what I thought when I saw you. I knew at once I should + never love anybody else.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur laughed. + </p> + <p> + “We're absurdly young. And love's young dream is out of + date, Jon. Besides, it's awfully wasteful. Think of all the fun you + might have. You haven't begun, even; it's a shame, really. And + there's me. I wonder!” + </p> + <p> + Confusion came on Jon's spirit. How could she say such things just + as they were going to part? + </p> + <p> + “If you feel like that,” he said, “I can't go. I + shall tell Mother that I ought to try and work. There's always the + condition of the world!” + </p> + <p> + “The condition of the world!” + </p> + <p> + Jon thrust his hands deep into his pockets. + </p> + <p> + “But there is,” he said; “think of the people starving!” + </p> + <p> + Fleur shook her head. “No, no, I never, never will make myself + miserable for nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing! But there's an awful state of things, and of course + one ought to help.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! yes, I know all that. But you can't help people, Jon; + they're hopeless. When you pull them out they only get into another + hole. Look at them, still fighting and plotting and struggling, though + they're dying in heaps all the time. Idiots!” + </p> + <p> + “Aren't you sorry for them?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! sorry—yes, but I'm not going to make myself unhappy + about it; that's no good.” + </p> + <p> + And they were silent, disturbed by this first glimpse of each other's + natures. + </p> + <p> + “I think people are brutes and idiots,” said Fleur stubbornly. + </p> + <p> + “I think they're poor wretches,” said Jon. It was as if + they had quarrelled—and at this supreme and awful moment, with + parting visible out there in that last gap of the willows! + </p> + <p> + “Well, go and help your poor wretches, and don't think of me.” + </p> + <p> + Jon stood still. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his limbs trembled. + Fleur too had stopped, and was frowning at the river. + </p> + <p> + “I must believe in things,” said Jon with a sort of agony; + “we're all meant to enjoy life.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur laughed. “Yes; and that's what you won't do, if + you don't take care. But perhaps your idea of enjoyment is to make + yourself wretched. There are lots of people like that, of course.” + </p> + <p> + She was pale, her eyes had darkened, her lips had thinned. Was it Fleur + thus staring at the water? Jon had an unreal feeling as if he were passing + through the scene in a book where the lover has to choose between love and + duty. But just then she looked round at him. Never was anything so + intoxicating as that vivacious look. It acted on him exactly as the tug of + a chain acts on a dog—brought him up to her with his tail wagging + and his tongue out. + </p> + <p> + “Don't let's be silly,” she said, “time's + too short. Look, Jon, you can just see where I've got to cross the + river. There, round the bend, where the woods begin.” + </p> + <p> + Jon saw a gable, a chimney or two, a patch of wall through the trees—and + felt his heart sink. + </p> + <p> + “I mustn't dawdle any more. It's no good going beyond + the next hedge, it gets all open. Let's get on to it and say + good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + They went side by side, hand in hand, silently toward the hedge, where the + may-flower, both pink and white, was in full bloom. + </p> + <p> + “My Club's the 'Talisman,' Stratton Street, + Piccadilly. Letters there will be quite safe, and I'm almost always + up once a week.” + </p> + <p> + Jon nodded. His face had become extremely set, his eyes stared straight + before him. + </p> + <p> + “To-day's the twenty-third of May,” said Fleur; “on + the ninth of July I shall be in front of the 'Bacchus and Ariadne' + at three o'clock; will you?” + </p> + <p> + “I will.” + </p> + <p> + “If you feel as bad as I it's all right. Let those people + pass!” + </p> + <p> + A man and woman airing their children went by strung out in Sunday + fashion. + </p> + <p> + The last of them passed the wicket gate. + </p> + <p> + “Domesticity!” said Fleur, and blotted herself against the + hawthorn hedge. The blossom sprayed out above her head, and one pink + cluster brushed her cheek. Jon put up his hand jealously to keep it off. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Jon.” For a second they stood with hands hard + clasped. Then their lips met for the third time, and when they parted + Fleur broke away and fled through the wicket gate. Jon stood where she had + left him, with his forehead against that pink cluster. Gone! For an + eternity—for seven weeks all but two days! And here he was, wasting + the last sight of her! He rushed to the gate. She was walking swiftly on + the heels of the straggling children. She turned her head, he saw her hand + make a little flitting gesture; then she sped on, and the trailing family + blotted her out from his view. + </p> + <p> + The words of a comic song— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Paddington groan-worst ever known + He gave a sepulchral Paddington groan—” + </pre> + <p> + came into his head, and he sped incontinently back to Reading station. All + the way up to London and down to Wansdon he sat with “The Heart of + the Trail” open on his knee, knitting in his head a poem so full of + feeling that it would not rhyme. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0108" id="link2H_4_0108"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XII.—CAPRICE + </h2> + <p> + Fleur sped on. She had need of rapid motion; she was late, and wanted all + her wits about her when she got in. She passed the islands, the station, + and hotel, and was about to take the ferry, when she saw a skiff with a + young man standing up in it, and holding to the bushes. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Forsyte,” he said; “let me put you across. I've + come on purpose.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him in blank amazement. + </p> + <p> + “It's all right, I've been having tea with your people. + I thought I'd save you the last bit. It's on my way, I'm + just off back to Pangbourne. My name's Mont. I saw you at the + picture-gallery—you remember—when your father invited me to + see his pictures.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Fleur; “yes—the handkerchief.” + </p> + <p> + To this young man she owed Jon; and, taking his hand, she stepped down + into the skiff. Still emotional, and a little out of breath, she sat + silent; not so the young man. She had never heard any one say so much in + so short a time. He told her his age, twenty-four; his weight, ten stone + eleven; his place of residence, not far away; described his sensations + under fire, and what it felt like to be gassed; criticized the Juno, + mentioned his own conception of that goddess; commented on the Goya copy, + said Fleur was not too awfully like it; sketched in rapidly the condition + of England; spoke of Monsieur Profond—or whatever his name was—as + “an awful sport”; thought her father had some “ripping” + pictures and some rather “dug-up”; hoped he might row down + again and take her on the river because he was quite trustworthy; inquired + her opinion of Tchekov, gave her his own; wished they could go to the + Russian ballet together some time—considered the name Fleur Forsyte + simply topping; cursed his people for giving him the name of Michael on + the top of Mont; outlined his father, and said that if she wanted a good + book she should read “Job”; his father was rather like Job + while Job still had land. + </p> + <p> + “But Job didn't have land,” Fleur murmured; “he + only had flocks and herds and moved on.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” answered Michael Mont, “I wish my gov'nor + would move on. Not that I want his land. Land's an awful bore in + these days, don't you think?” + </p> + <p> + “We never have it in my family,” said Fleur. “We have + everything else. I believe one of my great-uncles once had a sentimental + farm in Dorset, because we came from there originally, but it cost him + more than it made him happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he sell it?” + </p> + <p> + “No; he kept it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because nobody would buy it.” + </p> + <p> + “Good for the old boy!” + </p> + <p> + “No, it wasn't good for him. Father says it soured him. His + name was Swithin.” + </p> + <p> + “What a corking name!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know that we're getting farther off, not nearer? This + river flows.” + </p> + <p> + “Splendid!” cried Mont, dipping his sculls vaguely; “it's + good to meet a girl who's got wit.” + </p> + <p> + “But better to meet a young man who's got it in the plural.” + </p> + <p> + Young Mont raised a hand to tear his hair. + </p> + <p> + “Look out!” cried Fleur. “Your scull!” + </p> + <p> + “All right! It's thick enough to bear a scratch.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind sculling?” said Fleur severely. “I want to + get in.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Mont; “but when you get in, you see, I shan't + see you any more to-day. Fini, as the French girl said when she jumped on + her bed after saying her prayers. Don't you bless the day that gave + you a French mother, and a name like yours?” + </p> + <p> + “I like my name, but Father gave it me. Mother wanted me called + Marguerite.” + </p> + <p> + “Which is absurd. Do you mind calling me M. M. and letting me call + you F. F.? It's in the spirit of the age.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't mind anything, so long as I get in.” + </p> + <p> + Mont caught a little crab, and answered: “That was a nasty one!” + </p> + <p> + “Please row.” + </p> + <p> + “I am.” And he did for several strokes, looking at her with + rueful eagerness. “Of course, you know,” he ejaculated, + pausing, “that I came to see you, not your father's pictures.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur rose. + </p> + <p> + “If you don't row, I shall get out and swim.” + </p> + <p> + “Really and truly? Then I could come in after you.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Mont, I'm late and tired; please put me on shore at once.” + </p> + <p> + When she stepped out on to the garden landing-stage he rose, and grasping + his hair with both hands, looked at her. + </p> + <p> + Fleur smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Don't!” cried the irrepressible Mont. “I know you're + going to say: 'Out, damned hair!'” + </p> + <p> + Fleur whisked round, threw him a wave of her hand. “Good-bye, Mr. + M.M.!” she called, and was gone among the rose-trees. She looked at + her wrist-watch and the windows of the house. It struck her as curiously + uninhabited. Past six! The pigeons were just gathering to roost, and + sunlight slanted on the dovecot, on their snowy feathers, and beyond in a + shower on the top boughs of the woods. The click of billiard-balls came + from the ingle-nook—Jack Cardigan, no doubt; a faint rustling, too, + from an eucalyptus-tree, startling Southerner in this old English garden. + She reached the verandah and was passing in, but stopped at the sound of + voices from the drawing-room to her left. Mother! Monsieur Profond! From + behind the verandah screen which fenced the ingle-nook she heard these + words: + </p> + <p> + “I don't, Annette.” + </p> + <p> + Did Father know that he called her mother “Annette”? Always on + the side of her Father—as children are ever on one side or the other + in houses where relations are a little strained—she stood, + uncertain. Her mother was speaking in her low, pleasing, slightly metallic + voice—one word she caught: “Demain.” And Profond's + answer: “All right.” Fleur frowned. A little sound came out + into the stillness. Then Profond's voice: “I'm takin' + a small stroll.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur darted through the window into the morning-room. There he came from + the drawing-room, crossing the verandah, down the lawn; and the click of + billiard-balls which, in listening for other sounds, she had ceased to + hear, began again. She shook herself, passed into the hall, and opened the + drawing-room door. Her mother was sitting on the sofa between the windows, + her knees crossed, her head resting on a cushion, her lips half parted, + her eyes half closed. She looked extraordinarily handsome. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Here you are, Fleur! Your father is beginning to fuss.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is he?” + </p> + <p> + “In the picture-gallery. Go up!” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do to-morrow, Mother?” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow? I go up to London with your aunt.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you might be. Will you get me a quite plain parasol?” + </p> + <p> + “What colour?” + </p> + <p> + “Green. They're all going back, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, all; you will console your father. Kiss me, then.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur crossed the room, stooped, received a kiss on her forehead, and went + out past the impress of a form on the sofa-cushions in the other corner. + She ran up-stairs. + </p> + <p> + Fleur was by no means the old-fashioned daughter who demands the + regulation of her parents' lives in accordance with the standard + imposed upon herself. She claimed to regulate her own life, not those of + others; besides, an unerring instinct for what was likely to advantage her + own case was already at work. In a disturbed domestic atmosphere the heart + she had set on Jon would have a better chance. None the less was she + offended, as a flower by a crisping wind. If that man had really been + kissing her mother it was—serious, and her father ought to know. + “Demain!” “All right!” And her mother going up to + Town! She turned into her bedroom and hung out of the window to cool her + face, which had suddenly grown very hot. Jon must be at the station by + now! What did her father know about Jon? Probably everything—pretty + nearly! + </p> + <p> + She changed her dress, so as to look as if she had been in some time, and + ran up to the gallery. + </p> + <p> + Soames was standing stubbornly still before his Alfred Stevens—the + picture he loved best. He did not turn at the sound of the door, but she + knew he had heard, and she knew he was hurt. She came up softly behind + him, put her arms round his neck, and poked her face over his shoulder + till her cheek lay against his. It was an advance which had never yet + failed, but it failed her now, and she augured the worst. “Well,” + he said stonily, “so you've come!” + </p> + <p> + “Is that all,” murmured Fleur, “from a bad parent?” + And she rubbed her cheek against his. + </p> + <p> + Soames shook his head so far as that was possible. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you keep me on tenterhooks like this, putting me off and + off?” + </p> + <p> + “Darling, it was very harmless.” + </p> + <p> + “Harmless! Much you know what's harmless and what isn't.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur dropped her arms. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, dear, suppose you tell me; and be quite frank about it.” + </p> + <p> + And she went over to the window-seat. + </p> + <p> + Her father had turned from his picture, and was staring at his feet. He + looked very grey. 'He has nice small feet,' she thought, + catching his eye, at once averted from her. + </p> + <p> + “You're my only comfort,” said Soames suddenly, “and + you go on like this.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur's heart began to beat. + </p> + <p> + “Like what, dear?” + </p> + <p> + Again Soames gave her a look which, but for the affection in it, might + have been called furtive. + </p> + <p> + “You know what I told you,” he said. “I don't + choose to have anything to do with that branch of our family.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ducky, but I don't know why I shouldn't.” + </p> + <p> + Soames turned on his heel. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not going into the reasons,” he said; “you + ought to trust me, Fleur!” + </p> + <p> + The way he spoke those words affected Fleur, but she thought of Jon, and + was silent, tapping her foot against the wainscot. Unconsciously she had + assumed a modern attitude, with one leg twisted in and out of the other, + with her chin on one bent wrist, her other arm across her chest, and its + hand hugging her elbow; there was not a line of her that was not + involuted, and yet—in spite of all—she retained a certain + grace. + </p> + <p> + “You knew my wishes,” Soames went on, “and yet you + stayed on there four days. And I suppose that boy came with you to-day.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur kept her eyes on him. + </p> + <p> + “I don't ask you anything,” said Soames; “I make + no inquisition where you're concerned.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur suddenly stood up, leaning out at the window with her chin on her + hands. The sun had sunk behind trees, the pigeons were perched, quite + still, on the edge of the dove-cot; the click of the billiard-balls + mounted, and a faint radiance shone out below where Jack Cardigan had + turned the light up. + </p> + <p> + “Will it make you any happier,” she said suddenly, “if I + promise you not to see him for say—the next six weeks?” She + was not prepared for a sort of tremble in the blankness of his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Six weeks? Six years—sixty years more like. Don't + delude yourself, Fleur; don't delude yourself!” + </p> + <p> + Fleur turned in alarm. + </p> + <p> + “Father, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + Soames came close enough to see her face. + </p> + <p> + “Don't tell me,” he said, “that you're + foolish enough to have any feeling beyond caprice. That would be too much!” + And he laughed. + </p> + <p> + Fleur, who had never heard him laugh like that, thought: 'Then it is + deep! Oh! what is it?' And putting her hand through his arm she said + lightly: + </p> + <p> + “No, of course; caprice. Only, I like my caprices and I don't + like yours, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Mine!” said Soames bitterly, and turned away. + </p> + <p> + The light outside had chilled, and threw a chalky whiteness on the river. + The trees had lost all gaiety of colour. She felt a sudden hunger for Jon's + face, for his hands, and the feel of his lips again on hers. And pressing + her arms tight across her breast she forced out a little light laugh. + </p> + <p> + “O la! la! What a small fuss! as Profond would say. Father, I don't + like that man.” + </p> + <p> + She saw him stop, and take something out of his breast pocket. + </p> + <p> + “You don't?” he said. “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” murmured Fleur; “just caprice!” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Soames; “not caprice!” And he tore what + was in his hands across. “You're right. I don't like him + either!” + </p> + <p> + “Look!” said Fleur softly. “There he goes! I hate his + shoes; they don't make any noise.” + </p> + <p> + Down in the failing light Prosper Profond moved, his hands in his side + pockets, whistling softly in his beard; he stopped, and glanced up at the + sky, as if saying: “I don't think much of that small moon.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur drew back. “Isn't he a great cat?” she whispered; + and the sharp click of the billiard-balls rose, as if Jack Cardigan had + capped the cat, the moon, caprice, and tragedy with: “In off the + red!” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Profond had resumed his stroll, to a teasing little tune in his + beard. What was it? Oh! yes, from “Rigoletto”: “Donna a + mobile.” Just what he would think! She squeezed her father's + arm. + </p> + <p> + “Prowling!” she muttered, as he turned the corner of the + house. It was past that disillusioned moment which divides the day and + night-still and lingering and warm, with hawthorn scent and lilac scent + clinging on the riverside air. A blackbird suddenly burst out. Jon would + be in London by now; in the Park perhaps, crossing the Serpentine, + thinking of her! A little sound beside her made her turn her eyes; her + father was again tearing the paper in his hands. Fleur saw it was a + cheque. + </p> + <p> + “I shan't sell him my Gauguin,” he said. “I don't + know what your aunt and Imogen see in him.” + </p> + <p> + “Or Mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Your mother!” said Soames. + </p> + <p> + 'Poor Father!' she thought. 'He never looks happy—not + really happy. I don't want to make him worse, but of course I shall + have to, when Jon comes back. Oh! well, sufficient unto the night!' + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to dress,” she said. + </p> + <p> + In her room she had a fancy to put on her “freak” dress. It + was of gold tissue with little trousers of the same, tightly drawn in at + the ankles, a page's cape slung from the shoulders, little gold + shoes, and a gold-winged Mercury helmet; and all over her were tiny gold + bells, especially on the helmet; so that if she shook her head she pealed. + When she was dressed she felt quite sick because Jon could not see her; it + even seemed a pity that the sprightly young man Michael Mont would not + have a view. But the gong had sounded, and she went down. + </p> + <p> + She made a sensation in the drawing-room. Winifred thought it “Most + amusing.” Imogen was enraptured. Jack Cardigan called it “stunning,” + “ripping,” “topping,” and “corking.” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Profond, smiling with his eyes, said: “That's a nice + small dress!” Her mother, very handsome in black, sat looking at + her, and said nothing. It remained for her father to apply the test of + common sense. “What did you put on that thing for? You're not + going to dance.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur spun round, and the bells pealed. + </p> + <p> + “Caprice!” + </p> + <p> + Soames stared at her, and, turning away, gave his arm to Winifred. Jack + Cardigan took her mother. Prosper Profond took Imogen. Fleur went in by + herself, with her bells jingling.... + </p> + <p> + The “small” moon had soon dropped down, and May night had + fallen soft and warm, enwrapping with its grape-bloom colour and its + scents the billion caprices, intrigues, passions, longings, and regrets of + men and women. Happy was Jack Cardigan who snored into Imogen's + white shoulder, fit as a flea; or Timothy in his “mausoleum,” + too old for anything but baby's slumber. For so many lay awake, or + dreamed, teased by the criss-cross of the world. + </p> + <p> + The dew fell and the flowers closed; cattle grazed on in the river + meadows, feeling with their tongues for the grass they could not see; and + the sheep on the Downs lay quiet as stones. Pheasants in the tall trees of + the Pangbourne woods, larks on their grassy nests above the gravel-pit at + Wansdon, swallows in the eaves at Robin Hill, and the sparrows of Mayfair, + all made a dreamless night of it, soothed by the lack of wind. The Mayfly + filly, hardly accustomed to her new quarters, scraped at her straw a + little; and the few night-flitting things—bats, moths, owls—were + vigorous in the warm darkness; but the peace of night lay in the brain of + all day-time Nature, colourless and still. Men and women, alone, riding + the hobby-horses of anxiety or love, burned their wavering tapers of dream + and thought into the lonely hours. + </p> + <p> + Fleur, leaning out of her window, heard the hall clock's muffled + chime of twelve, the tiny splash of a fish, the sudden shaking of an aspen's + leaves in the puffs of breeze that rose along the river, the distant + rumble of a night train, and time and again the sounds which none can put + a name to in the darkness, soft obscure expressions of uncatalogued + emotions from man and beast, bird and machine, or, maybe, from departed + Forsytes, Darties, Cardigans, taking night strolls back into a world which + had once suited their embodied spirits. But Fleur heeded not these sounds; + her spirit, far from disembodied, fled with swift wing from + railway-carriage to flowery hedge, straining after Jon, tenacious of his + forbidden image, and the sound of his voice, which was taboo. And she + crinkled her nose, retrieving from the perfume of the riverside night that + moment when his hand slipped between the mayflowers and her cheek. Long + she leaned out in her freak dress, keen to burn her wings at life's + candle; while the moths brushed her cheeks on their pilgrimage to the lamp + on her dressing-table, ignorant that in a Forsyte's house there is + no open flame. But at last even she felt sleepy, and, forgetting her + bells, drew quickly in. + </p> + <p> + Through the open window of his room, alongside Annette's, Soames, + wakeful too, heard their thin faint tinkle, as it might be shaken from + stars, or the dewdrops falling from a flower, if one could hear such + sounds. + </p> + <p> + 'Caprice!' he thought. 'I can't tell. She's + wilful. What shall I do? Fleur!' + </p> + <p> + And long into the “small” night he brooded. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PARTc2" id="link2H_PARTc2"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART II + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0110" id="link2H_4_0110"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I.—MOTHER AND SON + </h2> + <p> + To say that Jon Forsyte accompanied his mother to Spain unwillingly would + scarcely have been adequate. He went as a well-natured dog goes for a walk + with its mistress, leaving a choice mutton-bone on the lawn. He went + looking back at it. Forsytes deprived of their mutton-bones are wont to + sulk. But Jon had little sulkiness in his composition. He adored his + mother, and it was his first travel. Spain had become Italy by his simply + saying: “I'd rather go to Spain, Mum; you've been to + Italy so many times; I'd like it new to both of us.” + </p> + <p> + The fellow was subtle besides being naive. He never forgot that he was + going to shorten the proposed two months into six weeks, and must + therefore show no sign of wishing to do so. For one with so enticing a + mutton-bone and so fixed an idea, he made a good enough travelling + companion, indifferent to where or when he arrived, superior to food, and + thoroughly appreciative of a country strange to the most travelled + Englishman. Fleur's wisdom in refusing to write to him was profound, + for he reached each new place entirely without hope or fever, and could + concentrate immediate attention on the donkeys and tumbling bells, the + priests, patios, beggars, children, crowing cocks, sombreros, + cactus-hedges, old high white villages, goats, olive-trees, greening + plains, singing birds in tiny cages, watersellers, sunsets, melons, mules, + great churches, pictures, and swimming grey-brown mountains of a + fascinating land. + </p> + <p> + It was already hot, and they enjoyed an absence of their compatriots. Jon, + who, so far as he knew, had no blood in him which was not English, was + often innately unhappy in the presence of his own countrymen. He felt they + had no nonsense about them, and took a more practical view of things than + himself. He confided to his mother that he must be an unsociable beast—it + was jolly to be away from everybody who could talk about the things people + did talk about. To which Irene had replied simply: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Jon, I know.” + </p> + <p> + In this isolation he had unparalleled opportunities of appreciating what + few sons can apprehend, the whole-heartedness of a mother's love. + Knowledge of something kept from her made him, no doubt, unduly sensitive; + and a Southern people stimulated his admiration for her type of beauty, + which he had been accustomed to hear called Spanish, but which he now + perceived to be no such thing. Her beauty was neither English, French, + Spanish, nor Italian—it was special! He appreciated, too, as never + before, his mother's subtlety of instinct. He could not tell, for + instance, whether she had noticed his absorption in that Goya picture, + “La Vendimia,” or whether she knew that he had slipped back + there after lunch and again next morning, to stand before it full half an + hour, a second and third time. It was not Fleur, of course, but like + enough to give him heartache—so dear to lovers—remembering her + standing at the foot of his bed with her hand held above her head. To keep + a postcard reproduction of this picture in his pocket and slip it out to + look at became for Jon one of those bad habits which soon or late disclose + themselves to eyes sharpened by love, fear, or jealousy. And his mother's + were sharpened by all three. In Granada he was fairly caught, sitting on a + sun-warmed stone bench in a little battlemented garden on the Alhambra + hill, whence he ought to have been looking at the view. His mother, he had + thought, was examining the potted stocks between the polled acacias, when + her voice said: + </p> + <p> + “Is that your favourite Goya, Jon?” + </p> + <p> + He checked, too late, a movement such as he might have made at school to + conceal some surreptitious document, and answered: “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “It certainly is most charming; but I think I prefer the 'Quitasol' + Your father would go crazy about Goya; I don't believe he saw them + when he was in Spain in '92.” + </p> + <p> + In '92—nine years before he had been born! What had been the + previous existences of his father and his mother? If they had a right to + share in his future, surely he had a right to share in their pasts. He + looked up at her. But something in her face—a look of life + hard-lived, the mysterious impress of emotions, experience, and + suffering-seemed, with its incalculable depth, its purchased sanctity, to + make curiosity impertinent. His mother must have had a wonderfully + interesting life; she was so beautiful, and so—so—but he could + not frame what he felt about her. He got up, and stood gazing down at the + town, at the plain all green with crops, and the ring of mountains + glamorous in sinking sunlight. Her life was like the past of this old + Moorish city, full, deep, remote—his own life as yet such a baby of + a thing, hopelessly ignorant and innocent! They said that in those + mountains to the West, which rose sheer from the blue-green plain, as if + out of a sea, Phoenicians had dwelt—a dark, strange, secret race, + above the land! His mother's life was as unknown to him, as secret, + as that Phoenician past was to the town down there, whose cocks crowed and + whose children played and clamoured so gaily, day in, day out. He felt + aggrieved that she should know all about him and he nothing about her + except that she loved him and his father, and was beautiful. His callow + ignorance—he had not even had the advantage of the War, like nearly + everybody else!—made him small in his own eyes. + </p> + <p> + That night, from the balcony of his bedroom, he gazed down on the roof of + the town—as if inlaid with honeycomb of jet, ivory, and gold; and, + long after, he lay awake, listening to the cry of the sentry as the hours + struck, and forming in his head these lines: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Voice in the night crying, down in the old sleeping + Spanish city darkened under her white stars! + + “What says the voice-its clear-lingering anguish? + Just the watchman, telling his dateless tale of safety? + Just a road-man, flinging to the moon his song? + + “No! Tis one deprived, whose lover's heart is weeping, + Just his cry: 'How long?'” + </pre> + <p> + The word “deprived” seemed to him cold and unsatisfactory, but + “bereaved” was too final, and no other word of two syllables + short-long came to him, which would enable him to keep “whose lover's + heart is weeping.” It was past two by the time he had finished it, + and past three before he went to sleep, having said it over to himself at + least twenty-four times. Next day he wrote it out and enclosed it in one + of those letters to Fleur which he always finished before he went down, so + as to have his mind free and companionable. + </p> + <p> + About noon that same day, on the tiled terrace of their hotel, he felt a + sudden dull pain in the back of his head, a queer sensation in the eyes, + and sickness. The sun had touched him too affectionately. The next three + days were passed in semi-darkness, and a dulled, aching indifference to + all except the feel of ice on his forehead and his mother's smile. + She never moved from his room, never relaxed her noiseless vigilance, + which seemed to Jon angelic. But there were moments when he was extremely + sorry for himself, and wished terribly that Fleur could see him. Several + times he took a poignant imaginary leave of her and of the earth, tears + oozing out of his eyes. He even prepared the message he would send to her + by his mother—who would regret to her dying day that she had ever + sought to separate them—his poor mother! He was not slow, however, + in perceiving that he had now his excuse for going home. + </p> + <p> + Toward half-past six each evening came a “gasgacha” of bells—a + cascade of tumbling chimes, mounting from the city below and falling back + chime on chime. After listening to them on the fourth day he said + suddenly: + </p> + <p> + “I'd like to be back in England, Mum, the sun's too hot.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, darling. As soon as you're fit to travel” + And at once he felt better, and—meaner. + </p> + <p> + They had been out five weeks when they turned toward home. Jon's + head was restored to its pristine clarity, but he was confined to a hat + lined by his mother with many layers of orange and green silk and he still + walked from choice in the shade. As the long struggle of discretion + between them drew to its close, he wondered more and more whether she + could see his eagerness to get back to that which she had brought him away + from. Condemned by Spanish Providence to spend a day in Madrid between + their trains, it was but natural to go again to the Prado. Jon was + elaborately casual this time before his Goya girl. Now that he was going + back to her, he could afford a lesser scrutiny. It was his mother who + lingered before the picture, saying: + </p> + <p> + “The face and the figure of the girl are exquisite.” + </p> + <p> + Jon heard her uneasily. Did she understand? But he felt once more that he + was no match for her in self-control and subtlety. She could, in some + supersensitive way, of which he had not the secret, feel the pulse of his + thoughts; she knew by instinct what he hoped and feared and wished. It + made him terribly uncomfortable and guilty, having, beyond most boys, a + conscience. He wished she would be frank with him, he almost hoped for an + open struggle. But none came, and steadily, silently, they travelled + north. Thus did he first learn how much better than men women play a + waiting game. In Paris they had again to pause for a day. Jon was grieved + because it lasted two, owing to certain matters in connection with a + dressmaker; as if his mother, who looked beautiful in anything, had any + need of dresses! The happiest moment of his travel was that when he + stepped on to the Folkestone boat. + </p> + <p> + Standing by the bulwark rail, with her arm in his, she said + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid you haven't enjoyed it much, Jon. But you've + been very sweet to me.” + </p> + <p> + Jon squeezed her arm. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! yes, I've enjoyed it awfully-except for my head lately.” + </p> + <p> + And now that the end had come, he really had, feeling a sort of glamour + over the past weeks—a kind of painful pleasure, such as he had tried + to screw into those lines about the voice in the night crying; a feeling + such as he had known as a small boy listening avidly to Chopin, yet + wanting to cry. And he wondered why it was that he couldn't say to + her quite simply what she had said to him: + </p> + <p> + “You were very sweet to me.” Odd—one never could be nice + and natural like that! He substituted the words: “I expect we shall + be sick.” + </p> + <p> + They were, and reached London somewhat attenuated, having been away six + weeks and two days, without a single allusion to the subject which had + hardly ever ceased to occupy their minds. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0111" id="link2H_4_0111"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II.—FATHERS AND DAUGHTERS + </h2> + <p> + Deprived of his wife and son by the Spanish adventure, Jolyon found the + solitude at Robin Hill intolerable. A philosopher when he has all that he + wants is different from a philosopher when he has not. Accustomed, + however, to the idea, if not to the reality of resignation, he would + perhaps have faced it out but for his daughter June. He was a “lame + duck” now, and on her conscience. Having achieved—momentarily—the + rescue of an etcher in low circumstances, which she happened to have in + hand, she appeared at Robin Hill a fortnight after Irene and Jon had gone. + June was living now in a tiny house with a big studio at Chiswick. A + Forsyte of the best period, so far as the lack of responsibility was + concerned, she had overcome the difficulty of a reduced income in a manner + satisfactory to herself and her father. The rent of the Gallery off Cork + Street which he had bought for her and her increased income tax happening + to balance, it had been quite simple—she no longer paid him the + rent. The Gallery might be expected now at any time, after eighteen years + of barren usufruct, to pay its way, so that she was sure her father would + not feel it. Through this device she still had twelve hundred a year, and + by reducing what she ate, and, in place of two Belgians in a poor way, + employing one Austrian in a poorer, practically the same surplus for the + relief of genius. After three days at Robin Hill she carried her father + back with her to Town. In those three days she had stumbled on the secret + he had kept for two years, and had instantly decided to cure him. She + knew, in fact, the very man. He had done wonders with. Paul Post—that + painter a little in advance of Futurism; and she was impatient with her + father because his eyebrows would go up, and because he had heard of + neither. Of course, if he hadn't “faith” he would never + get well! It was absurd not to have faith in the man who had healed Paul + Post so that he had only just relapsed, from having overworked, or + overlived, himself again. The great thing about this healer was that he + relied on Nature. He had made a special study of the symptoms of Nature—when + his patient failed in any natural symptom he supplied the poison which + caused it—and there you were! She was extremely hopeful. Her father + had clearly not been living a natural life at Robin Hill, and she intended + to provide the symptoms. He was—she felt—out of touch with the + times, which was not natural; his heart wanted stimulating. In the little + Chiswick house she and the Austrian—a grateful soul, so devoted to + June for rescuing her that she was in danger of decease from overwork—stimulated + Jolyon in all sorts of ways, preparing him for his cure. But they could + not keep his eyebrows down; as, for example, when the Austrian woke him at + eight o'clock just as he was going to sleep, or June took The Times + away from him, because it was unnatural to read “that stuff” + when he ought to be taking an interest in “life.” He never + failed, indeed, to be astonished at her resource, especially in the + evenings. For his benefit, as she declared, though he suspected that she + also got something out of it, she assembled the Age so far as it was + satellite to genius; and with some solemnity it would move up and down the + studio before him in the Fox-trot, and that more mental form of dancing—the + One-step—which so pulled against the music, that Jolyon's + eyebrows would be almost lost in his hair from wonder at the strain it + must impose on the dancer's will-power. Aware that, hung on the line + in the Water Colour Society, he was a back number to those with any + pretension to be called artists, he would sit in the darkest corner he + could find, and wonder about rhythm, on which so long ago he had been + raised. And when June brought some girl or young man up to him, he would + rise humbly to their level so far as that was possible, and think: 'Dear + me! This is very dull for them!' Having his father's perennial + sympathy with Youth, he used to get very tired from entering into their + points of view. But it was all stimulating, and he never failed in + admiration of his daughter's indomitable spirit. Even genius itself + attended these gatherings now and then, with its nose on one side; and + June always introduced it to her father. This, she felt, was exceptionally + good for him, for genius was a natural symptom he had never had—fond + as she was of him. + </p> + <p> + Certain as a man can be that she was his own daughter, he often wondered + whence she got herself—her red-gold hair, now greyed into a special + colour; her direct, spirited face, so different from his own rather folded + and subtilised countenance, her little lithe figure, when he and most of + the Forsytes were tall. And he would dwell on the origin of species, and + debate whether she might be Danish or Celtic. Celtic, he thought, from her + pugnacity, and her taste in fillets and djibbahs. It was not too much to + say that he preferred her to the Age with which she was surrounded, + youthful though, for the greater part, it was. She took, however, too much + interest in his teeth, for he still had some of those natural symptoms. + Her dentist at once found “Staphylococcus aureus present in pure + culture” (which might cause boils, of course), and wanted to take + out all the teeth he had and supply him with two complete sets of + unnatural symptoms. Jolyon's native tenacity was roused, and in the + studio that evening he developed his objections. He had never had any + boils, and his own teeth would last his time. Of course—June + admitted—they would last his time if he didn't have them out! + But if he had more teeth he would have a better heart and his time would + be longer. His recalcitrance—she said—was a symptom of his + whole attitude; he was taking it lying down. He ought to be fighting. When + was he going to see the man who had cured Paul Post? Jolyon was very + sorry, but the fact was he was not going to see him. June chafed. + Pondridge—she said—the healer, was such a fine man, and he had + such difficulty in making two ends meet, and getting his theories + recognised. It was just such indifference and prejudice as her father + manifested which was keeping him back. It would be so splendid for both of + them! + </p> + <p> + “I perceive,” said Jolyon, “that you are trying to kill + two birds with one stone.” + </p> + <p> + “To cure, you mean!” cried June. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, it's the same thing.” + </p> + <p> + June protested. It was unfair to say that without a trial. + </p> + <p> + Jolyon thought he might not have the chance, of saying it after. + </p> + <p> + “Dad!” cried June, “you're hopeless.” + </p> + <p> + “That,” said Jolyon, “is a fact, but I wish to remain + hopeless as long as possible. I shall let sleeping dogs lie, my child. + They are quiet at present.” + </p> + <p> + “That's not giving science a chance,” cried June. + “You've no idea how devoted Pondridge is. He puts his science + before everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Just,” replied Jolyon, puffing the mild cigarette to which he + was reduced, “as Mr. Paul Post puts his art, eh? Art for Art's + sake—Science for the sake of Science. I know those enthusiastic + egomaniac gentry. They vivisect you without blinking. I'm enough of + a Forsyte to give them the go-by, June.” + </p> + <p> + “Dad,” said June, “if you only knew how old-fashioned + that sounds! Nobody can afford to be half-hearted nowadays.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid,” murmured Jolyon, with his smile, “that's + the only natural symptom with which Mr. Pondridge need not supply me. We + are born to be extreme or to be moderate, my dear; though, if you'll + forgive my saying so, half the people nowadays who believe they're + extreme are really very moderate. I'm getting on as well as I can + expect, and I must leave it at that.” + </p> + <p> + June was silent, having experienced in her time the inexorable character + of her father's amiable obstinacy so far as his own freedom of + action was concerned. + </p> + <p> + How he came to let her know why Irene had taken Jon to Spain puzzled + Jolyon, for he had little confidence in her discretion. After she had + brooded on the news, it brought a rather sharp discussion, during which he + perceived to the full the fundamental opposition between her active + temperament and his wife's passivity. He even gathered that a little + soreness still remained from that generation-old struggle between them + over the body of Philip Bosinney, in which the passive had so signally + triumphed over the active principle. + </p> + <p> + According to June, it was foolish and even cowardly to hide the past from + Jon. Sheer opportunism, she called it. + </p> + <p> + “Which,” Jolyon put in mildly, “is the working principle + of real life, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” cried June, “you don't really defend her for + not telling Jon, Dad. If it were left to you, you would.” + </p> + <p> + “I might, but simply because I know he must find out, which will be + worse than if we told him.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why don't you tell him? It's just sleeping dogs + again.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” said Jolyon, “I wouldn't for the world + go against Irene's instinct. He's her boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yours too,” cried June. + </p> + <p> + “What is a man's instinct compared with a mother's?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I think it's very weak of you.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say,” said Jolyon, “I dare say.” + </p> + <p> + And that was all she got from him; but the matter rankled in her brain. + She could not bear sleeping dogs. And there stirred in her a tortuous + impulse to push the matter toward decision. Jon ought to be told, so that + either his feeling might be nipped in the bud, or, flowering in spite of + the past, come to fruition. And she determined to see Fleur, and judge for + herself. When June determined on anything, delicacy became a somewhat + minor consideration. After all, she was Soames' cousin, and they + were both interested in pictures. She would go and tell him that he ought + to buy a Paul Post, or perhaps a piece of sculpture by Boris Strumolowski, + and of course she would say nothing to her father. She went on the + following Sunday, looking so determined that she had some difficulty in + getting a cab at Reading station. The river country was lovely in those + days of her own month, and June ached at its loveliness. She who had + passed through this life without knowing what union was had a love of + natural beauty which was almost madness. And when she came to that choice + spot where Soames had pitched his tent, she dismissed her cab, because, + business over, she wanted to revel in the bright water and the woods. She + appeared at his front door, therefore, as a mere pedestrian, and sent in + her card. It was in June's character to know that when her nerves + were fluttering she was doing something worth while. If one's nerves + did not flutter, she was taking the line of least resistance, and knew + that nobleness was not obliging her. She was conducted to a drawing-room, + which, though not in her style, showed every mark of fastidious elegance. + Thinking, 'Too much taste—too many knick-knacks,' she + saw in an old lacquer-framed mirror the figure of a girl coming in from + the verandah. Clothed in white, and holding some white roses in her hand, + she had, reflected in that silvery-grey pool of glass, a vision-like + appearance, as if a pretty ghost had come out of the green garden. + </p> + <p> + “How do you do?” said June, turning round. “I'm a + cousin of your father's.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes; I saw you in that confectioner's.” + </p> + <p> + “With my young stepbrother. Is your father in?” + </p> + <p> + “He will be directly. He's only gone for a little walk.” + </p> + <p> + June slightly narrowed her blue eyes, and lifted her decided chin. + </p> + <p> + “Your name's Fleur, isn't it? I've heard of you + from Holly. What do you think of Jon?” + </p> + <p> + The girl lifted the roses in her hand, looked at them, and answered + calmly: + </p> + <p> + “He's quite a nice boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit like Holly or me, is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit.” + </p> + <p> + 'She's cool,' thought June. + </p> + <p> + And suddenly the girl said: “I wish you'd tell me why our + families don't get on?” + </p> + <p> + Confronted with the question she had advised her father to answer, June + was silent; whether because this girl was trying to get something out of + her, or simply because what one would do theoretically is not always what + one will do when it comes to the point. + </p> + <p> + “You know,” said the girl, “the surest way to make + people find out the worst is to keep them ignorant. My father's told + me it was a quarrel about property. But I don't believe it; we've + both got heaps. They wouldn't have been so bourgeois as all that.” + </p> + <p> + June flushed. The word applied to her grandfather and father offended her. + </p> + <p> + “My grandfather,” she said, “was very generous, and my + father is, too; neither of them was in the least bourgeois.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what was it then?” repeated the girl: Conscious that + this young Forsyte meant having what she wanted, June at once determined + to prevent her, and to get something for herself instead. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you want to know?” + </p> + <p> + The girl smelled at her roses. “I only want to know because they won't + tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it was about property, but there's more than one kind.” + </p> + <p> + “That makes it worse. Now I really must know.” + </p> + <p> + June's small and resolute face quivered. She was wearing a round + cap, and her hair had fluffed out under it. She looked quite young at that + moment, rejuvenated by encounter. + </p> + <p> + “You know,” she said, “I saw you drop your handkerchief. + Is there anything between you and Jon? Because, if so, you'd better + drop that too.” + </p> + <p> + The girl grew paler, but she smiled. + </p> + <p> + “If there were, that isn't the way to make me.” + </p> + <p> + At the gallantry of that reply, June held out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “I like you; but I don't like your father; I never have. We + may as well be frank.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you come down to tell him that?” + </p> + <p> + June laughed. “No; I came down to see you.” + </p> + <p> + “How delightful of you.” + </p> + <p> + This girl could fence. + </p> + <p> + “I'm two and a half times your age,” said June, “but + I quite sympathize. It's horrid not to have one's own way.” + </p> + <p> + The girl smiled again. “I really think you might tell me.” + </p> + <p> + How the child stuck to her point + </p> + <p> + “It's not my secret. But I'll see what I can do, because + I think both you and Jon ought to be told. And now I'll say + good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “Won't you wait and see Father?” + </p> + <p> + June shook her head. “How can I get over to the other side?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll row you across.” + </p> + <p> + “Look!” said June impulsively, “next time you're + in London, come and see me. This is where I live. I generally have young + people in the evening. But I shouldn't tell your father that you're + coming.” + </p> + <p> + The girl nodded. + </p> + <p> + Watching her scull the skiff across, June thought: 'She's + awfully pretty and well made. I never thought Soames would have a daughter + as pretty as this. She and Jon would make a lovely couple. + </p> + <p> + The instinct to couple, starved within herself, was always at work in + June. She stood watching Fleur row back; the girl took her hand off a + scull to wave farewell, and June walked languidly on between the meadows + and the river, with an ache in her heart. Youth to youth, like the + dragon-flies chasing each other, and love like the sun warming them + through and through. Her youth! So long ago—when Phil and she—And + since? Nothing—no one had been quite what she had wanted. And so she + had missed it all. But what a coil was round those two young things, if + they really were in love, as Holly would have it—as her father, and + Irene, and Soames himself seemed to dread. What a coil, and what a + barrier! And the itch for the future, the contempt, as it were, for what + was overpast, which forms the active principle, moved in the heart of one + who ever believed that what one wanted was more important than what other + people did not want. From the bank, awhile, in the warm summer stillness, + she watched the water-lily plants and willow leaves, the fishes rising; + sniffed the scent of grass and meadow-sweet, wondering how she could force + everybody to be happy. Jon and Fleur! Two little lame ducks—charming + callow yellow little ducks! A great pity! Surely something could be done! + One must not take such situations lying down. She walked on, and reached a + station, hot and cross. + </p> + <p> + That evening, faithful to the impulse toward direct action, which made + many people avoid her, she said to her father: + </p> + <p> + “Dad, I've been down to see young Fleur. I think she's + very attractive. It's no good hiding our heads under our wings, is + it?” + </p> + <p> + The startled Jolyon set down his barley-water, and began crumbling his + bread. + </p> + <p> + “It's what you appear to be doing,” he said. “Do + you realise whose daughter she is?” + </p> + <p> + “Can't the dead past bury its dead?” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon rose. + </p> + <p> + “Certain things can never be buried.” + </p> + <p> + “I disagree,” said June. “It's that which stands + in the way of all happiness and progress. You don't understand the + Age, Dad. It's got no use for outgrown things. Why do you think it + matters so terribly that Jon should know about his mother? Who pays any + attention to that sort of thing now? The marriage laws are just as they + were when Soames and Irene couldn't get a divorce, and you had to + come in. We've moved, and they haven't. So nobody cares. + Marriage without a decent chance of relief is only a sort of slave-owning; + people oughtn't to own each other. Everybody sees that now. If Irene + broke such laws, what does it matter?” + </p> + <p> + “It's not for me to disagree there,” said Jolyon; + “but that's all quite beside the mark. This is a matter of + human feeling.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course it is,” cried June, “the human feeling of + those two young things.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” said Jolyon with gentle exasperation; “you're + talking nonsense.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not. If they prove to be really fond of each other, why + should they be made unhappy because of the past?” + </p> + <p> + “You haven't lived that past. I have—through the + feelings of my wife; through my own nerves and my imagination, as only one + who is devoted can.” + </p> + <p> + June, too, rose, and began to wander restlessly. + </p> + <p> + “If,” she said suddenly, “she were the daughter of + Philip Bosinney, I could understand you better. Irene loved him, she never + loved Soames.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon uttered a deep sound-the sort of noise an Italian peasant woman + utters to her mule. His heart had begun beating furiously, but he paid no + attention to it, quite carried away by his feelings. + </p> + <p> + “That shows how little you understand. Neither I nor Jon, if I know + him, would mind a love-past. It's the brutality of a union without + love. This girl is the daughter of the man who once owned Jon's + mother as a negro-slave was owned. You can't lay that ghost; don't + try to, June! It's asking us to see Jon joined to the flesh and + blood of the man who possessed Jon's mother against her will. It's + no good mincing words; I want it clear once for all. And now I mustn't + talk any more, or I shall have to sit up with this all night.” And, + putting his hand over his heart, Jolyon turned his back on his daughter + and stood looking at the river Thames. + </p> + <p> + June, who by nature never saw a hornet's nest until she had put her + head into it, was seriously alarmed. She came and slipped her arm through + his. Not convinced that he was right, and she herself wrong, because that + was not natural to her, she was yet profoundly impressed by the obvious + fact that the subject was very bad for him. She rubbed her cheek against + his shoulder, and said nothing. + </p> + <p> + After taking her elderly cousin across, Fleur did not land at once, but + pulled in among the reeds, into the sunshine. The peaceful beauty of the + afternoon seduced for a little one not much given to the vague and poetic. + In the field beyond the bank where her skiff lay up, a machine drawn by a + grey horse was turning an early field of hay. She watched the grass + cascading over and behind the light wheels with fascination—it + looked so cool and fresh. The click and swish blended with the rustle of + the willows and the poplars, and the cooing of a wood-pigeon, in a true + river song. Alongside, in the deep green water, weeds, like yellow snakes, + were writhing and nosing with the current; pied cattle on the farther side + stood in the shade lazily swishing their tails. It was an afternoon to + dream. And she took out Jon's letters—not flowery effusions, + but haunted in their recital of things seen and done by a longing very + agreeable to her, and all ending “Your devoted J.” Fleur was + not sentimental, her desires were ever concrete and concentrated, but what + poetry there was in the daughter of Soames and Annette had certainly in + those weeks of waiting gathered round her memories of Jon. They all + belonged to grass and blossom, flowers and running water. She enjoyed him + in the scents absorbed by her crinkling nose. The stars could persuade her + that she was standing beside him in the centre of the map of Spain; and of + an early morning the dewy cobwebs, the hazy sparkle and promise of the day + down in the garden, were Jon personified to her. + </p> + <p> + Two white swans came majestically by, while she was reading his letters, + followed by their brood of six young swans in a line, with just so much + water between each tail and head, a flotilla of grey destroyers. Fleur + thrust her letters back, got out her sculls, and pulled up to the + landing-stage. Crossing the lawn, she wondered whether she should tell her + father of June's visit. If he learned of it from the butler, he + might think it odd if she did not. It gave her, too, another chance to + startle out of him the reason of the feud. She went, therefore, up the + road to meet him. + </p> + <p> + Soames had gone to look at a patch of ground on which the Local + Authorities were proposing to erect a Sanatorium for people with weak + lungs. Faithful to his native individualism, he took no part in local + affairs, content to pay the rates which were always going up. He could + not, however, remain indifferent to this new and dangerous scheme. The + site was not half a mile from his own house. He was quite of opinion that + the country should stamp out tuberculosis; but this was not the place. It + should be done farther away. He took, indeed, an attitude common to all + true Forsytes, that disability of any sort in other people was not his + affair, and the State should do its business without prejudicing in any + way the natural advantages which he had acquired or inherited. Francie, + the most free-spirited Forsyte of his generation (except perhaps that + fellow Jolyon) had once asked him in her malicious way: “Did you + ever see the name Forsyte in a subscription list, Soames?” That was + as it might be, but a Sanatorium would depreciate the neighbourhood, and + he should certainly sign the petition which was being got up against it. + Returning with this decision fresh within him, he saw Fleur coming. + </p> + <p> + She was showing him more affection of late, and the quiet time down here + with her in this summer weather had been making him feel quite young; + Annette was always running up to Town for one thing or another, so that he + had Fleur to himself almost as much as he could wish. To be sure, young + Mont had formed a habit of appearing on his motor-cycle almost every other + day. Thank goodness, the young fellow had shaved off his + half-toothbrushes, and no longer looked like a mountebank! With a girl + friend of Fleur's who was staying in the house, and a neighbouring + youth or so, they made two couples after dinner, in the hall, to the music + of the electric pianola, which performed Fox-trots unassisted, with a + surprised shine on its expressive surface. Annette, even, now and then + passed gracefully up and down in the arms of one or other of the young + men. And Soames, coming to the drawing-room door, would lift his nose a + little sideways, and watch them, waiting to catch a smile from Fleur; then + move back to his chair by the drawing-room hearth, to peruse The Times or + some other collector's price list. To his ever-anxious eyes Fleur + showed no signs of remembering that caprice of hers. + </p> + <p> + When she reached him on the dusty road, he slipped his hand within her + arm. + </p> + <p> + “Who, do you think, has been to see you, Dad? She couldn't + wait! Guess!” + </p> + <p> + “I never guess,” said Soames uneasily. “Who?” + </p> + <p> + “Your cousin, June Forsyte.” + </p> + <p> + Quite unconsciously Soames gripped her arm. “What did she want?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. But it was rather breaking through the feud, + wasn't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Feud? What feud?” + </p> + <p> + “The one that exists in your imagination, dear.” + </p> + <p> + Soames dropped her arm. Was she mocking, or trying to draw him on? + </p> + <p> + “I suppose she wanted me to buy a picture,” he said at last. + </p> + <p> + “I don't think so. Perhaps it was just family affection.” + </p> + <p> + “She's only a first cousin once removed,” muttered + Soames. + </p> + <p> + “And the daughter of your enemy.” + </p> + <p> + “What d'you mean by that?” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, dear; I thought he was.” + </p> + <p> + “Enemy!” repeated Soames. “It's ancient history. I + don't know where you get your notions.” + </p> + <p> + “From June Forsyte.” + </p> + <p> + It had come to her as an inspiration that if he thought she knew, or were + on the edge of knowledge, he would tell her. + </p> + <p> + Soames was startled, but she had underrated his caution and tenacity. + </p> + <p> + “If you know,” he said coldly, “why do you plague me?” + </p> + <p> + Fleur saw that she had overreached herself. + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to plague you, darling. As you say, why want to + know more? Why want to know anything of that 'small' mystery—Je + m'en fiche, as Profond says?” + </p> + <p> + “That chap!” said Soames profoundly. + </p> + <p> + That chap, indeed, played a considerable, if invisible, part this summer—for + he had not turned up again. Ever since the Sunday when Fleur had drawn + attention to him prowling on the lawn, Soames had thought of him a good + deal, and always in connection with Annette, for no reason, except that + she was looking handsomer than for some time past. His possessive + instinct, subtle, less formal, more elastic since the War, kept all + misgiving underground. As one looks on some American river, quiet and + pleasant, knowing that an alligator perhaps is lying in the mud with his + snout just raised and indistinguishable from a snag of wood—so + Soames looked on the river of his own existence, subconscious of Monsieur + Profond, refusing to see more than the suspicion of his snout. He had at + this epoch in his life practically all he wanted, and was as nearly happy + as his nature would permit. His senses were at rest; his affections found + all the vent they needed in his daughter; his collection was well known, + his money well invested; his health excellent, save for a touch of liver + now and again; he had not yet begun to worry seriously about what would + happen after death, inclining to think that nothing would happen. He + resembled one of his own gilt-edged securities, and to knock the gilt off + by seeing anything he could avoid seeing would be, he felt instinctively, + perverse and retrogressive. Those two crumpled rose-leaves, Fleur's + caprice and Monsieur Profond's snout, would level away if he lay on + them industriously. + </p> + <p> + That evening Chance, which visits the lives of even the best-invested + Forsytes, put a clue into Fleur's hands. Her father came down to + dinner without a handkerchief, and had occasion to blow his nose. + </p> + <p> + “I'll get you one, dear,” she had said, and ran + upstairs. In the sachet where she sought for it—an old sachet of + very faded silk—there were two compartments: one held handkerchiefs; + the other was buttoned, and contained something flat and hard. By some + childish impulse Fleur unbuttoned it. There was a frame and in it a + photograph of herself as a little girl. She gazed at it, fascinated, as + one is by one's own presentment. It slipped under her fidgeting + thumb, and she saw that another photograph was behind. She pressed her own + down further, and perceived a face, which she seemed to know, of a young + woman, very good-looking, in a very old style of evening dress. Slipping + her own photograph up over it again, she took out a handkerchief and went + down. Only on the stairs did she identify that face. Surely—surely + Jon's mother! The conviction came as a shock. And she stood still in + a flurry of thought. Why, of course! Jon's father had married the + woman her father had wanted to marry, had cheated him out of her, perhaps. + Then, afraid of showing by her manner that she had lighted on his secret, + she refused to think further, and, shaking out the silk handkerchief, + entered the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + “I chose the softest, Father.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm!” said Soames; “I only use those after a + cold. Never mind!” + </p> + <p> + That evening passed for Fleur in putting two and two together; recalling + the look on her father's face in the confectioner's shop—a + look strange and coldly intimate, a queer look. He must have loved that + woman very much to have kept her photograph all this time, in spite of + having lost her. Unsparing and matter-of-fact, her mind darted to his + relations with her own mother. Had he ever really loved her? She thought + not. Jon was the son of the woman he had really loved. Surely, then, he + ought not to mind his daughter loving him; it only wanted getting used to. + And a sigh of sheer relief was caught in the folds of her nightgown + slipping over her head. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0112" id="link2H_4_0112"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III.—MEETINGS + </h2> + <p> + Youth only recognises Age by fits and starts. Jon, for one, had never + really seen his father's age till he came back from Spain. The face + of the fourth Jolyon, worn by waiting, gave him quite a shock—it + looked so wan and old. His father's mask had been forced awry by the + emotion of the meeting, so that the boy suddenly realised how much he must + have felt their absence. He summoned to his aid the thought: 'Well, + I didn't want to go!' It was out of date for Youth to defer to + Age. But Jon was by no means typically modern. His father had always been + “so jolly” to him, and to feel that one meant to begin again + at once the conduct which his father had suffered six weeks' + loneliness to cure was not agreeable. + </p> + <p> + At the question, “Well, old man, how did the great Goya strike you?” + his conscience pricked him badly. The great Goya only existed because he + had created a face which resembled Fleur's. + </p> + <p> + On the night of their return, he went to bed full of compunction; but + awoke full of anticipation. It was only the fifth of July, and no meeting + was fixed with Fleur until the ninth. He was to have three days at home + before going back to farm. Somehow he must contrive to see her! + </p> + <p> + In the lives of men an inexorable rhythm, caused by the need for trousers, + not even the fondest parents can deny. On the second day, therefore, Jon + went to Town, and having satisfied his conscience by ordering what was + indispensable in Conduit Street, turned his face toward Piccadilly. + Stratton Street, where her Club was, adjoined Devonshire House. It would + be the merest chance that she should be at her Club. But he dawdled down + Bond Street with a beating heart, noticing the superiority of all other + young men to himself. They wore their clothes with such an air; they had + assurance; they were old. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the conviction + that Fleur must have forgotten him. Absorbed in his own feeling for her + all these weeks, he had mislaid that possibility. The corners of his mouth + drooped, his hands felt clammy. Fleur with the pick of youth at the beck + of her smile-Fleur incomparable! It was an evil moment. Jon, however, had + a great idea that one must be able to face anything. And he braced himself + with that dour reflection in front of a bric-a-brac shop. At this + high-water mark of what was once the London season, there was nothing to + mark it out from any other except a grey top hat or two, and the sun. Jon + moved on, and turning the corner into Piccadilly, ran into Val Dartie + moving toward the Iseeum Club, to which he had just been elected. + </p> + <p> + “Hallo! young man! Where are you off to?” + </p> + <p> + Jon gushed. “I've just been to my tailor's.” + </p> + <p> + Val looked him up and down. “That's good! I'm going in + here to order some cigarettes; then come and have some lunch.” + </p> + <p> + Jon thanked him. He might get news of her from Val! + </p> + <p> + The condition of England, that nightmare of its Press and Public men, was + seen in different perspective within the tobacconist's which they + now entered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; precisely the cigarette I used to supply your father + with. Bless me! Mr. Montague Dartie was a customer here from—let me + see—the year Melton won the Derby. One of my very best customers he + was.” A faint smile illumined the tobacconist's face. “Many's + the tip he's given me, to be sure! I suppose he took a couple of + hundred of these every week, year in, year out, and never changed his + cigarette. Very affable gentleman, brought me a lot of custom. I was sorry + he met with that accident. One misses an old customer like him.” + </p> + <p> + Val smiled. His father's decease had closed an account which had + been running longer, probably, than any other; and in a ring of smoke + puffed out from that time-honoured cigarette he seemed to see again his + father's face, dark, good-looking, moustachioed, a little puffy, in + the only halo it had earned. His father had his fame here, anyway—a + man who smoked two hundred cigarettes a week, who could give tips, and run + accounts for ever! To his tobacconist a hero! Even that was some + distinction to inherit! + </p> + <p> + “I pay cash,” he said; “how much?” + </p> + <p> + “To his son, sir, and cash—ten and six. I shall never forget + Mr. Montague Dartie. I've known him stand talkin' to me half + an hour. We don't get many like him now, with everybody in such a + hurry. The War was bad for manners, sir—it was bad for manners. You + were in it, I see.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Val, tapping his knee, “I got this in the war + before. Saved my life, I expect. Do you want any cigarettes, Jon?” + </p> + <p> + Rather ashamed, Jon murmured, “I don't smoke, you know,” + and saw the tobacconist's lips twisted, as if uncertain whether to + say “Good God!” or “Now's your chance, sir!” + </p> + <p> + “That's right,” said Val; “keep off it while you + can. You'll want it when you take a knock. This is really the same + tobacco, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Identical, sir; a little dearer, that's all. Wonderful + staying power—the British Empire, I always say.” + </p> + <p> + “Send me down a hundred a week to this address, and invoice it + monthly. Come on, Jon.” + </p> + <p> + Jon entered the Iseeum with curiosity. Except to lunch now and then at the + Hotch-Potch with his father, he had never been in a London Club. The + Iseeum, comfortable and unpretentious, did not move, could not, so long as + George Forsyte sat on its Committee, where his culinary acumen was almost + the controlling force. The Club had made a stand against the newly rich, + and it had taken all George Forsyte's prestige, and praise of him as + a “good sportsman,” to bring in Prosper Profond. + </p> + <p> + The two were lunching together when the half-brothers-in-law entered the + dining-room, and attracted by George's forefinger, sat down at their + table, Val with his shrewd eyes and charming smile, Jon with solemn lips + and an attractive shyness in his glance. There was an air of privilege + around that corner table, as though past masters were eating there. Jon + was fascinated by the hypnotic atmosphere. The waiter, lean in the chaps, + pervaded with such free-masonical deference. He seemed to hang on George + Forsyte's lips, to watch the gloat in his eye with a kind of + sympathy, to follow the movements of the heavy club-marked silver fondly. + His liveried arm and confidential voice alarmed Jon, they came so secretly + over his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + Except for George's “Your grandfather tipped me once; he was a + deuced good judge of a cigar!” neither he nor the other past master + took any notice of him, and he was grateful for this. The talk was all + about the breeding, points, and prices of horses, and he listened to it + vaguely at first, wondering how it was possible to retain so much + knowledge in a head. He could not take his eyes off the dark past master—what + he said was so deliberate and discouraging—such heavy, queer, + smiled-out words. Jon was thinking of butterflies, when he heard him say: + </p> + <p> + “I want to see Mr. Soames Forsyde take an interest in 'orses.” + </p> + <p> + “Old Soames! He's too dry a file!” + </p> + <p> + With all his might Jon tried not to grow red, while the dark past master + went on. + </p> + <p> + “His daughter's an attractive small girl. Mr. Soames Forsyde + is a bit old-fashioned. I want to see him have a pleasure some day.” + George Forsyte grinned. + </p> + <p> + “Don't you worry; he's not so miserable as he looks. He'll + never show he's enjoying anything—they might try and take it + from him. Old Soames! Once bit, twice shy!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Jon,” said Val, hastily, “if you've + finished, we'll go and have coffee.” + </p> + <p> + “Who were those?” Jon asked, on the stairs. “I didn't + quite—-” + </p> + <p> + “Old George Forsyte is a first cousin of your father's and of + my Uncle Soames. He's always been here. The other chap, Profond, is + a queer fish. I think he's hanging round Soames' wife, if you + ask me!” + </p> + <p> + Jon looked at him, startled. “But that's awful,” he + said: “I mean—for Fleur.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't suppose Fleur cares very much; she's very + up-to-date.” + </p> + <p> + “Her mother!” + </p> + <p> + “You're very green, Jon.” + </p> + <p> + Jon grew red. “Mothers,” he stammered angrily, “are + different.” + </p> + <p> + “You're right,” said Val suddenly; “but things + aren't what they were when I was your age. There's a 'To-morrow + we die' feeling. That's what old George meant about my Uncle + Soames. He doesn't mean to die to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + Jon said, quickly: “What's the matter between him and my + father?” + </p> + <p> + “Stable secret, Jon. Take my advice, and bottle up. You'll do + no good by knowing. Have a liqueur?” + </p> + <p> + Jon shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I hate the way people keep things from one,” he muttered, + “and then sneer at one for being green.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you can ask Holly. If she won't tell you, you'll + believe it's for your own good, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + Jon got up. “I must go now; thanks awfully for the lunch.” + </p> + <p> + Val smiled up at him half-sorry, and yet amused. The boy looked so upset. + </p> + <p> + “All right! See you on Friday.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” murmured Jon. + </p> + <p> + And he did not. This conspiracy of silence made him desperate. It was + humiliating to be treated like a child! He retraced his moody steps to + Stratton Street. But he would go to her Club now, and find out the worst! + To his enquiry the reply was that Miss Forsyte was not in the Club. She + might be in perhaps later. She was often in on Monday—they could not + say. Jon said he would call again, and, crossing into the Green Park, + flung himself down under a tree. The sun was bright, and a breeze + fluttered the leaves of the young lime-tree beneath which he lay; but his + heart ached. Such darkness seemed gathered round his happiness. He heard + Big Ben chime “Three” above the traffic. The sound moved + something in him, and, taking out a piece of paper, he began to scribble + on it with a pencil. He had jotted a stanza, and was searching the grass + for another verse, when something hard touched his shoulder-a green + parasol. There above him stood Fleur! + </p> + <p> + “They told me you'd been, and were coming back. So I thought + you might be out here; and you are—it's rather wonderful!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Fleur! I thought you'd have forgotten me.” + </p> + <p> + “When I told you that I shouldn't!” + </p> + <p> + Jon seized her arm. + </p> + <p> + “It's too much luck! Let's get away from this side.” + He almost dragged her on through that too thoughtfully regulated Park, to + find some cover where they could sit and hold each other's hands. + </p> + <p> + “Hasn't anybody cut in?” he said, gazing round at her + lashes, in suspense above her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “There is a young idiot, but he doesn't count.” + </p> + <p> + Jon felt a twitch of compassion for the-young idiot. + </p> + <p> + “You know I've had sunstroke; I didn't tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “Really! Was it interesting?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Mother was an angel. Has anything happened to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. Except that I think I've found out what's + wrong between our families, Jon.” + </p> + <p> + His heart began beating very fast. + </p> + <p> + “I believe my father wanted to marry your mother, and your father + got her instead.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + “I came on a photo of her; it was in a frame behind a photo of me. + Of course, if he was very fond of her, that would have made him pretty + mad, wouldn't it?” + </p> + <p> + Jon thought for a minute. “Not if she loved my father best.” + </p> + <p> + “But suppose they were engaged?” + </p> + <p> + “If we were engaged, and you found you loved somebody better, I + might go cracked, but I shouldn't grudge it you.” + </p> + <p> + “I should. You mustn't ever do that with me, Jon. + </p> + <p> + “My God! Not much!” + </p> + <p> + “I don't believe that he's ever really cared for my + mother.” + </p> + <p> + Jon was silent. Val's words—the two past masters in the Club! + </p> + <p> + “You see, we don't know,” went on Fleur; “it may + have been a great shock. She may have behaved badly to him. People do.” + </p> + <p> + “My mother wouldn't.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur shrugged her shoulders. “I don't think we know much + about our fathers and mothers. We just see them in the light of the way + they treat us; but they've treated other people, you know, before we + were born-plenty, I expect. You see, they're both old. Look at your + father, with three separate families!” + </p> + <p> + “Isn't there any place,” cried Jon, “in all this + beastly London where we can be alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Only a taxi.” + </p> + <p> + “Let's get one, then.” + </p> + <p> + When they were installed, Fleur asked suddenly: “Are you going back + to Robin Hill? I should like to see where you live, Jon. I'm staying + with my aunt for the night, but I could get back in time for dinner. I + wouldn't come to the house, of course.” + </p> + <p> + Jon gazed at her enraptured. + </p> + <p> + “Splendid! I can show it you from the copse, we shan't meet + anybody. There's a train at four.” + </p> + <p> + The god of property and his Forsytes great and small, leisured, official, + commercial, or professional, like the working classes, still worked their + seven hours a day, so that those two of the fourth generation travelled + down to Robin Hill in an empty first-class carriage, dusty and sun-warmed, + of that too early train. They travelled in blissful silence, holding each + other's hands. + </p> + <p> + At the station they saw no one except porters, and a villager or two + unknown to Jon, and walked out up the lane, which smelled of dust and + honeysuckle. + </p> + <p> + For Jon—sure of her now, and without separation before him—it + was a miraculous dawdle, more wonderful than those on the Downs, or along + the river Thames. It was love-in-a-mist—one of those illumined pages + of Life, where every word and smile, and every light touch they gave each + other were as little gold and red and blue butterflies and flowers and + birds scrolled in among the text—a happy communing, without + afterthought, which lasted thirty-seven minutes. They reached the coppice + at the milking hour. Jon would not take her as far as the farmyard; only + to where she could see the field leading up to the gardens, and the house + beyond. They turned in among the larches, and suddenly, at the winding of + the path, came on Irene, sitting on an old log seat. + </p> + <p> + There are various kinds of shocks: to the vertebrae; to the nerves; to + moral sensibility; and, more potent and permanent, to personal dignity. + This last was the shock Jon received, coming thus on his mother. He became + suddenly conscious that he was doing an indelicate thing. To have brought + Fleur down openly—yes! But to sneak her in like this! Consumed with + shame, he put on a front as brazen as his nature would permit. + </p> + <p> + Fleur was smiling, a little defiantly; his mother's startled face + was changing quickly to the impersonal and gracious. It was she who + uttered the first words: + </p> + <p> + “I'm very glad to see you. It was nice of Jon to think of + bringing you down to us.” + </p> + <p> + “We weren't coming to the house,” Jon blurted out. + “I just wanted Fleur to see where I lived.” + </p> + <p> + His mother said quietly: + </p> + <p> + “Won't you come up and have tea?” + </p> + <p> + Feeling that he had but aggravated his breach of breeding, he heard Fleur + answer: + </p> + <p> + “Thanks very much; I have to get back to dinner. I met Jon by + accident, and we thought it would be rather jolly just to see his home.” + </p> + <p> + How self-possessed she was! + </p> + <p> + “Of course; but you must have tea. We'll send you down to the + station. My husband will enjoy seeing you.” + </p> + <p> + The expression of his mother's eyes, resting on him for a moment, + cast Jon down level with the ground—a true worm. Then she led on, + and Fleur followed her. He felt like a child, trailing after those two, + who were talking so easily about Spain and Wansdon, and the house up there + beyond the trees and the grassy slope. He watched the fencing of their + eyes, taking each other in—the two beings he loved most in the + world. + </p> + <p> + He could see his father sitting under the oaktree; and suffered in advance + all the loss of caste he must go through in the eyes of that tranquil + figure, with his knees crossed, thin, old, and elegant; already he could + feel the faint irony which would come into his voice and smile. + </p> + <p> + “This is Fleur Forsyte, Jolyon; Jon brought her down to see the + house. Let's have tea at once—she has to catch a train. Jon, + tell them, dear, and telephone to the Dragon for a car.” + </p> + <p> + To leave her alone with them was strange, and yet, as no doubt his mother + had foreseen, the least of evils at the moment; so he ran up into the + house. Now he would not see Fleur alone again—not for a minute, and + they had arranged no further meeting! When he returned under cover of the + maids and teapots, there was not a trace of awkwardness beneath the tree; + it was all within himself, but not the less for that. They were talking of + the Gallery off Cork Street. + </p> + <p> + “We back numbers,” his father was saying, “are awfully + anxious to find out why we can't appreciate the new stuff; you and + Jon must tell us.” + </p> + <p> + “It's supposed to be satiric, isn't it?” said + Fleur. + </p> + <p> + He saw his father's smile. + </p> + <p> + “Satiric? Oh! I think it's more than that. What do you say, + Jon?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know at all,” stammered Jon. His father's + face had a sudden grimness. + </p> + <p> + “The young are tired of us, our gods and our ideals. Off with their + heads, they say—smash their idols! And let's get back + to-nothing! And, by Jove, they've done it! Jon's a poet. He'll + be going in, too, and stamping on what's left of us. Property, + beauty, sentiment—all smoke. We mustn't own anything nowadays, + not even our feelings. They stand in the way of—Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + Jon listened, bewildered, almost outraged by his father's words, + behind which he felt a meaning that he could not reach. He didn't + want to stamp on anything! + </p> + <p> + “Nothing's the god of to-day,” continued Jolyon; “we're + back where the Russians were sixty years ago, when they started Nihilism.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Dad,” cried Jon suddenly, “we only want to live, + and we don't know how, because of the Past—that's all!” + </p> + <p> + “By George!” said Jolyon, “that's profound, Jon. + Is it your own? The Past! Old ownerships, old passions, and their + aftermath. Let's have cigarettes.” + </p> + <p> + Conscious that his mother had lifted her hand to her lips, quickly, as if + to hush something, Jon handed the cigarettes. He lighted his father's + and Fleur's, then one for himself. Had he taken the knock that Val + had spoken of? The smoke was blue when he had not puffed, grey when he + had; he liked the sensation in his nose, and the sense of equality it gave + him. He was glad no one said: “So you've begun!” He felt + less young. + </p> + <p> + Fleur looked at her watch, and rose. His mother went with her into the + house. Jon stayed with his father, puffing at the cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “See her into the car, old man,” said Jolyon; “and when + she's gone, ask your mother to come back to me.” + </p> + <p> + Jon went. He waited in the hall. He saw her into the car. There was no + chance for any word; hardly for a pressure of the hand. He waited all that + evening for something to be said to him. Nothing was said. Nothing might + have happened. He went up to bed, and in the mirror on his dressing-table + met himself. He did not speak, nor did the image; but both looked as if + they thought the more. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0113" id="link2H_4_0113"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV.—IN GREEN STREET + </h2> + <p> + Uncertain whether the impression that Prosper Profond was dangerous should + be traced to his attempt to give Val the Mayfly filly; to a remark of + Fleur's: “He's like the hosts of Midian—he prowls + and prowls around”; to his preposterous inquiry of Jack Cardigan: + “What's the use of keepin' fit?” or, more simply, + to the fact that he was a foreigner, or alien as it was now called. + Certain, that Annette was looking particularly handsome, and that Soames—had + sold him a Gauguin and then torn up the cheque, so that Monsieur Profond + himself had said: “I didn't get that small picture I bought + from Mr. Forsyde.” + </p> + <p> + However suspiciously regarded, he still frequented Winifred's + evergreen little house in Green Street, with a good-natured obtuseness + which no one mistook for naivete, a word hardly applicable to Monsieur + Prosper Profond. Winifred still found him “amusing,” and would + write him little notes saying: “Come and have a 'jolly' + with us”—it was breath of life to her to keep up with the + phrases of the day. + </p> + <p> + The mystery, with which all felt him to be surrounded, was due to his + having done, seen, heard, and known everything, and found nothing in it—which + was unnatural. The English type of disillusionment was familiar enough to + Winifred, who had always moved in fashionable circles. It gave a certain + cachet or distinction, so that one got something out of it. But to see + nothing in anything, not as a pose, but because there was nothing in + anything, was not English; and that which was not English one could not + help secretly feeling dangerous, if not precisely bad form. It was like + having the mood which the War had left, seated—dark, heavy, smiling, + indifferent—in your Empire chair; it was like listening to that mood + talking through thick pink lips above a little diabolic beard. It was, as + Jack Cardigan expressed it—for the English character at large—“a + bit too thick”—for if nothing was really worth getting excited + about, there were always games, and one could make it so! Even Winifred, + ever a Forsyte at heart, felt that there was nothing to be had out of such + a mood of disillusionment, so that it really ought not to be there. + Monsieur Profond, in fact, made the mood too plain in a country which + decently veiled such realities. + </p> + <p> + When Fleur, after her hurried return from Robin Hill, came down to dinner + that evening, the mood was standing at the window of Winifred's + little drawing-room, looking out into Green Street, with an air of seeing + nothing in it. And Fleur gazed promptly into the fireplace with an air of + seeing a fire which was not there. + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Profond came from the window. He was in full fig, with a white + waistcoat and a white flower in his buttonhole. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Miss Forsyde,” he said, “I'm awful pleased + to see you. Mr. Forsyde well? I was sayin' to-day I want to see him + have some pleasure. He worries.” + </p> + <p> + “You think so?” said Fleur shortly. + </p> + <p> + “Worries,” repeated Monsieur Profond, burring the r's. + </p> + <p> + Fleur spun round. “Shall I tell you,” she said, “what + would give him pleasure?” But the words, “To hear that you had + cleared out,” died at the expression on his face. All his fine white + teeth were showing. + </p> + <p> + “I was hearin' at the Club to-day about his old trouble.” + Fleur opened her eyes. “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Profond moved his sleek head as if to minimize his statement. + </p> + <p> + “Before you were born,” he said; “that small business.” + </p> + <p> + Though conscious that he had cleverly diverted her from his own share in + her father's worry, Fleur was unable to withstand a rush of nervous + curiosity. “Tell me what you heard.” + </p> + <p> + “Why!” murmured Monsieur Profond, “you know all that.” + </p> + <p> + “I expect I do. But I should like to know that you haven't + heard it all wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “His first wife,” murmured Monsieur Profond. + </p> + <p> + Choking back the words, “He was never married before,” she + said: “Well, what about her?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. George Forsyde was tellin' me about your father's + first wife marryin' his cousin Jolyon afterward. It was a small bit + unpleasant, I should think. I saw their boy—nice boy!” + </p> + <p> + Fleur looked up. Monsieur Profond was swimming, heavily diabolical, before + her. That—the reason! With the most heroic effort of her life so + far, she managed to arrest that swimming figure. She could not tell + whether he had noticed. And just then Winifred came in. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! here you both are already; Imogen and I have had the most + amusing afternoon at the Babies' bazaar.” + </p> + <p> + “What babies?” said Fleur mechanically. + </p> + <p> + “The 'Save the Babies.' I got such a bargain, my dear. A + piece of old Armenian work—from before the Flood. I want your + opinion on it, Prosper.” + </p> + <p> + “Auntie,” whispered Fleur suddenly. + </p> + <p> + At the tone in the girl's voice Winifred closed in on her.' + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter? Aren't you well?” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Profond had withdrawn into the window, where he was practically + out of hearing. + </p> + <p> + “Auntie, he-he told me that father has been married before. Is it + true that he divorced her, and she married Jon Forsyte's father?” + </p> + <p> + Never in all the life of the mother of four little Darties had Winifred + felt more seriously embarrassed. Her niece's face was so pale, her + eyes so dark, her voice so whispery and strained. + </p> + <p> + “Your father didn't wish you to hear,” she said, with + all the aplomb she could muster. “These things will happen. I've + often told him he ought to let you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Fleur, and that was all, but it made Winifred pat + her shoulder—a firm little shoulder, nice and white! She never could + help an appraising eye and touch in the matter of her niece, who would + have to be married, of course—though not to that boy Jon. + </p> + <p> + “We've forgotten all about it years and years ago,” she + said comfortably. “Come and have dinner!” + </p> + <p> + “No, Auntie. I don't feel very well. May I go upstairs?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear!” murmured Winifred, concerned, “you're + not taking this to heart? Why, you haven't properly come out yet! + That boy's a child!” + </p> + <p> + “What boy? I've only got a headache. But I can't stand + that man to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, well,” said Winifred, “go and lie down. I'll + send you some bromide, and I shall talk to Prosper Profond. What business + had he to gossip? Though I must say I think it's much better you + should know.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur smiled. “Yes,” she said, and slipped from the room. + </p> + <p> + She went up with her head whirling, a dry sensation in her throat, a + guttered frightened feeling in her breast. Never in her life as yet had + she suffered from even momentary fear that she would not get what she had + set her heart on. The sensations of the afternoon had been full and + poignant, and this gruesome discovery coming on the top of them had really + made her head ache. No wonder her father had hidden that photograph, so + secretly behind her own-ashamed of having kept it! But could he hate Jon's + mother and yet keep her photograph? She pressed her hands over her + forehead, trying to see things clearly. Had they told Jon—had her + visit to Robin Hill forced them to tell him? Everything now turned on + that! She knew, they all knew, except—perhaps—Jon! + </p> + <p> + She walked up and down, biting her lip and thinking desperately hard. Jon + loved his mother. If they had told him, what would he do? She could not + tell. But if they had not told him, should she not—could she not get + him for herself—get married to him, before he knew? She searched her + memories of Robin Hill. His mother's face so passive—with its + dark eyes and as if powdered hair, its reserve, its smile—baffled + her; and his father's—kindly, sunken, ironic. Instinctively + she felt they would shrink from telling Jon, even now, shrink from hurting + him—for of course it would hurt him awfully to know! + </p> + <p> + Her aunt must be made not to tell her father that she knew. So long as + neither she herself nor Jon were supposed to know, there was still a + chance—freedom to cover one's tracks, and get what her heart + was set on. But she was almost overwhelmed by her isolation. Every one's + hand was against her—every one's! It was as Jon had said—he + and she just wanted to live and the past was in their way, a past they + hadn't shared in, and didn't understand! Oh! What a shame! And + suddenly she thought of June. Would she help them? For somehow June had + left on her the impression that she would be sympathetic with their love, + impatient of obstacle. Then, instinctively, she thought: 'I won't + give anything away, though, even to her. I daren't. I mean to have + Jon; against them all.' + </p> + <p> + Soup was brought up to her, and one of Winifred's pet headache + cachets. She swallowed both. Then Winifred herself appeared. Fleur opened + her campaign with the words: + </p> + <p> + “You know, Auntie, I do wish people wouldn't think I'm + in love with that boy. Why, I've hardly seen him!” + </p> + <p> + Winifred, though experienced, was not “fine.” She accepted the + remark with considerable relief. Of course, it was not pleasant for the + girl to hear of the family scandal, and she set herself to minimise the + matter, a task for which she was eminently qualified, “raised” + fashionably under a comfortable mother and a father whose nerves might not + be shaken, and for many years the wife of Montague Dartie. Her description + was a masterpiece of understatement. Fleur's father's first + wife had been very foolish. There had been a young man who had got run + over, and she had left Fleur's father. Then, years after, when it + might all have come—right again, she had taken up with their cousin + Jolyon; and, of course, her father had been obliged to have a divorce. + Nobody remembered anything of it now, except just the family. And, + perhaps, it had all turned out for the best; her father had Fleur; and + Jolyon and Irene had been quite happy, they said, and their boy was a nice + boy. “Val having Holly, too, is a sort of plaster, don't you + know?” With these soothing words, Winifred patted her niece's + shoulder; thought: 'She's a nice, plump little thing!' + and went back to Prosper Profond, who, in spite of his indiscretion, was + very “amusing” this evening. + </p> + <p> + For some minutes after her aunt had gone Fleur remained under influence of + bromide material and spiritual. But then reality came back. Her aunt had + left out all that mattered—all the feeling, the hate, the love, the + unforgivingness of passionate hearts. She, who knew so little of life, and + had touched only the fringe of love, was yet aware by instinct that words + have as little relation to fact and feeling as coin to the bread it buys. + 'Poor Father!' she thought. 'Poor me! Poor Jon! But I + don't care, I mean to have him!' From the window of her + darkened room she saw “that man” issue from the door below and + “prowl” away. If he and her mother—how would that affect + her chance? Surely it must make her father cling to her more closely, so + that he would consent in the end to anything she wanted, or become + reconciled the sooner to what she did without his knowledge. + </p> + <p> + She took some earth from the flower-box in the window, and with all her + might flung it after that disappearing figure. It fell short, but the + action did her good. + </p> + <p> + And a little puff of air came up from Green Street, smelling of petrol, + not sweet. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0114" id="link2H_4_0114"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V.—PURELY FORSYTE AFFAIRS + </h2> + <p> + Soames, coming up to the City, with the intention of calling in at Green + Street at the end of his day and taking Fleur back home with him, suffered + from rumination. Sleeping partner that he was, he seldom visited the City + now, but he still had a room of his own at Cuthcott, Kingson and Forsyte's, + and one special clerk and a half assigned to the management of purely + Forsyte affairs. They were somewhat in flux just now—an auspicious + moment for the disposal of house property. And Soames was unloading the + estates of his father and Uncle Roger, and to some extent of his Uncle + Nicholas. His shrewd and matter-of-course probity in all money concerns + had made him something of an autocrat in connection with these trusts. If + Soames thought this or thought that, one had better save oneself the + bother of thinking too. He guaranteed, as it were, irresponsibility to + numerous Forsytes of the third and fourth generations. His fellow + trustees, such as his cousins Roger or Nicholas, his cousins-in-law + Tweetyman and Spender, or his sister Cicely's husband, all trusted + him; he signed first, and where he signed first they signed after, and + nobody was a penny the worse. Just now they were all a good many pennies + the better, and Soames was beginning to see the close of certain trusts, + except for distribution of the income from securities as gilt-edged as was + compatible with the period. + </p> + <p> + Passing the more feverish parts of the City toward the most perfect + backwater in London, he ruminated. Money was extraordinarily tight; and + morality extraordinarily loose! The War had done it. Banks were not + lending; people breaking contracts all over the place. There was a feeling + in the air and a look on faces that he did not like. The country seemed in + for a spell of gambling and bankruptcies. There was satisfaction in the + thought that neither he nor his trusts had an investment which could be + affected by anything less maniacal than national repudiation or a levy on + capital. If Soames had faith, it was in what he called “English + common sense”—or the power to have things, if not one way then + another. He might—like his father James before him—say he didn't + know what things were coming to, but he never in his heart believed they + were. If it rested with him, they wouldn't—and, after all, he + was only an Englishman like any other, so quietly tenacious of what he had + that he knew he would never really part with it without something more or + less equivalent in exchange. His mind was essentially equilibristic in + material matters, and his way of putting the national situation difficult + to refute in a world composed of human beings. Take his own case, for + example! He was well off. Did that do anybody harm? He did not eat ten + meals a day; he ate no more than, perhaps not so much as, a poor man. He + spent no money on vice; breathed no more air, used no more water to speak + of than the mechanic or the porter. He certainly had pretty things about + him, but they had given employment in the making, and somebody must use + them. He bought pictures, but Art must be encouraged. He was, in fact, an + accidental channel through which money flowed, employing labour. What was + there objectionable in that? In his charge money was in quicker and more + useful flux than it would be in charge of the State and a lot of slow-fly + money-sucking officials. And as to what he saved each year—it was + just as much in flux as what he didn't save, going into Water Board + or Council Stocks, or something sound and useful. The State paid him no + salary for being trustee of his own or other people's money he did + all that for nothing. Therein lay the whole case against nationalisation—owners + of private property were unpaid, and yet had every incentive to quicken up + the flux. Under nationalisation—just the opposite! In a country + smarting from officialism he felt that he had a strong case. + </p> + <p> + It particularly annoyed him, entering that backwater of perfect peace, to + think that a lot of unscrupulous Trusts and Combinations had been + cornering the market in goods of all kinds, and keeping prices at an + artificial height. Such abusers of the individualistic system were the + ruffians who caused all the trouble, and it was some satisfaction to see + them getting into a stew at last lest the whole thing might come down with + a run—and land them in the soup. + </p> + <p> + The offices of Cuthcott, Kingson and Forsyte occupied the ground and first + floors of a house on the right-hand side; and, ascending to his room, + Soames thought: 'Time we had a coat of paint.' + </p> + <p> + His old clerk Gradman was seated, where he always was, at a huge bureau + with countless pigeonholes. Half-the-clerk stood beside him, with a broker's + note recording investment of the proceeds from sale of the Bryanston + Square house, in Roger Forsyte's estate. Soames took it, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Vancouver City Stock. H'm. It's down today!” + </p> + <p> + With a sort of grating ingratiation old Gradman answered him: + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es; but everything's down, Mr. Soames.” And + half-the-clerk withdrew. + </p> + <p> + Soames skewered the document on to a number of other papers and hung up + his hat. + </p> + <p> + “I want to look at my Will and Marriage Settlement, Gradman.” + </p> + <p> + Old Gradman, moving to the limit of his swivel chair, drew out two drafts + from the bottom lefthand drawer. Recovering his body, he raised his + grizzle-haired face, very red from stooping. + </p> + <p> + “Copies, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + Soames took them. It struck him suddenly how like Gradman was to the stout + brindled yard dog they had been wont to keep on his chain at The Shelter, + till one day Fleur had come and insisted it should be let loose, so that + it had at once bitten the cook and been destroyed. If you let Gradman off + his chain, would he bite the cook? + </p> + <p> + Checking this frivolous fancy, Soames unfolded his Marriage Settlement. He + had not looked at it for over eighteen years, not since he remade his Will + when his father died and Fleur was born. He wanted to see whether the + words “during coverture” were in. Yes, they were—odd + expression, when you thought of it, and derived perhaps from + horse-breeding! Interest on fifteen thousand pounds (which he paid her + without deducting income tax) so long as she remained his wife, and + afterward during widowhood “dum casta”—old-fashioned and + rather pointed words, put in to insure the conduct of Fleur's + mother. His Will made it up to an annuity of a thousand under the same + conditions. All right! He returned the copies to Gradman, who took them + without looking up, swung the chair, restored the papers to their drawer, + and went on casting up. + </p> + <p> + “Gradman! I don't like the condition of the country; there are + a lot of people about without any common sense. I want to find a way by + which I can safeguard Miss Fleur against anything which might arise.” + </p> + <p> + Gradman wrote the figure “2” on his blotting-paper. + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es,” he said; “there's a nahsty spirit.” + </p> + <p> + “The ordinary restraint against anticipation doesn't meet the + case.” + </p> + <p> + “Nao,” said Gradman. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose those Labour fellows come in, or worse! It's these + people with fixed ideas who are the danger. Look at Ireland!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Gradman. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I were to make a settlement on her at once with myself as + beneficiary for life, they couldn't take anything but the interest + from me, unless of course they alter the law.” + </p> + <p> + Gradman moved his head and smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” he said, “they wouldn't do tha-at!” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” muttered Soames; “I don't + trust them.” + </p> + <p> + “It'll take two years, sir, to be valid against death duties.” + </p> + <p> + Soames sniffed. Two years! He was only sixty-five! + </p> + <p> + “That's not the point. Draw a form of settlement that passes + all my property to Miss Fleur's children in equal shares, with + antecedent life-interests first to myself and then to her without power of + anticipation, and add a clause that in the event of anything happening to + divert her life-interest, that interest passes to the trustees, to apply + for her benefit, in their absolute discretion.” + </p> + <p> + Gradman grated: “Rather extreme at your age, sir; you lose control.” + </p> + <p> + “That's my business,” said Soames sharply. + </p> + <p> + Gradman wrote on a piece of paper: “Life-interest—anticipation—divert + interest—absolute discretion....” and said: + </p> + <p> + “What trustees? There's young Mr. Kingson; he's a nice + steady young fellow.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he might do for one. I must have three. There isn't a + Forsyte now who appeals to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Not young Mr. Nicholas? He's at the Bar. We've given + 'im briefs.” + </p> + <p> + “He'll never set the Thames on fire,” said Soames. + </p> + <p> + A smile oozed out on Gradman's face, greasy from countless + mutton-chops, the smile of a man who sits all day. + </p> + <p> + “You can't expect it, at his age, Mr. Soames.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? What is he? Forty?” + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es, quite a young fellow.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, put him in; but I want somebody who'll take a personal + interest. There's no one that I can see.” + </p> + <p> + “What about Mr. Valerius, now he's come home?” + </p> + <p> + “Val Dartie? With that father?” + </p> + <p> + “We-ell,” murmured Gradman, “he's been dead seven + years—the Statute runs against him.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Soames. “I don't like the connection.” + He rose. Gradman said suddenly: + </p> + <p> + “If they were makin' a levy on capital, they could come on the + trustees, sir. So there you'd be just the same. I'd think it + over, if I were you.” + </p> + <p> + “That's true,” said Soames. “I will. What have you + done about that dilapidation notice in Vere Street?” + </p> + <p> + “I 'aven't served it yet. The party's very old. + She won't want to go out at her age.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know. This spirit of unrest touches every one.” + </p> + <p> + “Still, I'm lookin' at things broadly, sir. She's + eighty-one.” + </p> + <p> + “Better serve it,” said Soames, “and see what she says. + Oh! and Mr. Timothy? Is everything in order in case of—” + </p> + <p> + “I've got the inventory of his estate all ready; had the + furniture and pictures valued so that we know what reserves to put on. I + shall be sorry when he goes, though. Dear me! It is a time since I first + saw Mr. Timothy!” + </p> + <p> + “We can't live for ever,” said Soames, taking down his + hat. + </p> + <p> + “Nao,” said Gradman; “but it'll be a pity—the + last of the old family! Shall I take up the matter of that nuisance in Old + Compton Street? Those organs—they're nahsty things.” + </p> + <p> + “Do. I must call for Miss Fleur and catch the four o'clock. + Good-day, Gradman.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-day, Mr. Soames. I hope Miss Fleur—” + </p> + <p> + “Well enough, but gads about too much.” + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es,” grated Gradman; “she's young.” + </p> + <p> + Soames went out, musing: “Old Gradman! If he were younger I'd + put him in the trust. There's nobody I can depend on to take a real + interest.” + </p> + <p> + Leaving the bilious and mathematical exactitude, the preposterous peace of + that backwater, he thought suddenly: 'During coverture! Why can't + they exclude fellows like Profond, instead of a lot of hard-working + Germans?' and was surprised at the depth of uneasiness which could + provoke so unpatriotic a thought. But there it was! One never got a moment + of real peace. There was always something at the back of everything! And + he made his way toward Green Street. + </p> + <p> + Two hours later by his watch, Thomas Gradman, stirring in his swivel + chair, closed the last drawer of his bureau, and putting into his + waistcoat pocket a bunch of keys so fat that they gave him a protuberance + on the liver side, brushed his old top hat round with his sleeve, took his + umbrella, and descended. Thick, short, and buttoned closely into his old + frock coat, he walked toward Covent Garden market. He never missed that + daily promenade to the Tube for Highgate, and seldom some critical + transaction on the way in connection with vegetables and fruit. + Generations might be born, and hats might change, wars be fought, and + Forsytes fade away, but Thomas Gradman, faithful and grey, would take his + daily walk and buy his daily vegetable. Times were not what they were, and + his son had lost a leg, and they never gave him those nice little plaited + baskets to carry the stuff in now, and these Tubes were convenient things—still + he mustn't complain; his health was good considering his time of + life, and after fifty-four years in the Law he was getting a round eight + hundred a year and a little worried of late, because it was mostly + collector's commission on the rents, and with all this conversion of + Forsyte property going on, it looked like drying up, and the price of + living still so high; but it was no good worrying—“The good + God made us all”—as he was in the habit of saying; still, + house property in London—he didn't know what Mr. Roger or Mr. + James would say if they could see it being sold like this—seemed to + show a lack of faith; but Mr. Soames—he worried. Life and lives in + being and twenty-one years after—beyond that you couldn't go; + still, he kept his health wonderfully—and Miss Fleur was a pretty + little thing—she was; she'd marry; but lots of people had no + children nowadays—he had had his first child at twenty-two; and Mr. + Jolyon, married while he was at Cambridge, had his child the same year—gracious + Peter! That was back in '69, a long time before old Mr. Jolyon—fine + judge of property—had taken his Will away from Mr. James—dear, + yes! Those were the days when they were buyin' property right and + left, and none of this khaki and fallin' over one another to get out + of things; and cucumbers at twopence; and a melon—the old melons, + that made your mouth water! Fifty years since he went into Mr. James' + office, and Mr. James had said to him: “Now, Gradman, you're + only a shaver—you pay attention, and you'll make your five + hundred a year before you've done.” And he had, and feared + God, and served the Forsytes, and kept a vegetable diet at night. And, + buying a copy of John Bull—not that he approved of it, an + extravagant affair—he entered the Tube elevator with his mere + brown-paper parcel, and was borne down into the bowels of the earth. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0115" id="link2H_4_0115"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI.—SOAMES' PRIVATE LIFE + </h2> + <p> + On his way to Green Street it occurred to Soames that he ought to go into + Dumetrius' in Suffolk Street about the possibility of the Bolderby + Old Crome. Almost worth while to have fought the war to have the Bolderby + Old Crome, as it were, in flux! Old Bolderby had died, his son and + grandson had been killed—a cousin was coming into the estate, who + meant to sell it, some said because of the condition of England, others + said because he had asthma. + </p> + <p> + If Dumetrius once got hold of it the price would become prohibitive; it + was necessary for Soames to find out whether Dumetrius had got it, before + he tried to get it himself. He therefore confined himself to discussing + with Dumetrius whether Monticellis would come again now that it was the + fashion for a picture to be anything except a picture; and the future of + Johns, with a side-slip into Buxton Knights. It was only when leaving that + he added: “So they're not selling the Bolderby Old Crome, + after all?” In sheer pride of racial superiority, as he had + calculated would be the case, Dumetrius replied: + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I shall get it, Mr. Forsyte, sir!” + </p> + <p> + The flutter of his eyelid fortified Soames in a resolution to write direct + to the new Bolderby, suggesting that the only dignified way of dealing + with an Old Crome was to avoid dealers. He therefore said, “Well, + good-day!” and went, leaving Dumetrius the wiser. + </p> + <p> + At Green Street he found that Fleur was out and would be all the evening; + she was staying one more night in London. He cabbed on dejectedly, and + caught his train. + </p> + <p> + He reached his house about six o'clock. The air was heavy, midges + biting, thunder about. Taking his letters he went up to his dressing-room + to cleanse himself of London. + </p> + <p> + An uninteresting post. A receipt, a bill for purchases on behalf of Fleur. + A circular about an exhibition of etchings. A letter beginning: + </p> + <p> + “SIR, + </p> + <p> + “I feel it my duty...” + </p> + <p> + That would be an appeal or something unpleasant. He looked at once for the + signature. There was none! Incredulously he turned the page over and + examined each corner. Not being a public man, Soames had never yet had an + anonymous letter, and his first impulse was to tear it up, as a dangerous + thing; his second to read it, as a thing still more dangerous. + </p> + <p> + “SIR, + </p> + <p> + “I feel it my duty to inform you that having no interest in the + matter your lady is carrying on with a foreigner—” + </p> + <p> + Reaching that word Soames stopped mechanically and examined the postmark. + So far as he could pierce the impenetrable disguise in which the Post + Office had wrapped it, there was something with a “sea” at the + end and a “t” in it. Chelsea? No! Battersea? Perhaps! He read + on. + </p> + <p> + “These foreigners are all the same. Sack the lot. This one meets + your lady twice a week. I know it of my own knowledge—and to see an + Englishman put on goes against the grain. You watch it and see if what I + say isn't true. I shouldn't meddle if it wasn't a dirty + foreigner that's in it. + </p> + <p> + “Yours obedient.” + </p> + <p> + The sensation with which Soames dropped the letter was similar to that he + would have had entering his bedroom and finding it full of black-beetles. + The meanness of anonymity gave a shuddering obscenity to the moment. And + the worst of it was that this shadow had been at the back of his mind ever + since the Sunday evening when Fleur had pointed down at Prosper Profond + strolling on the lawn, and said: “Prowling cat!” Had he not in + connection therewith, this very day, perused his Will and Marriage + Settlement? And now this anonymous ruffian, with nothing to gain, + apparently, save the venting of his spite against foreigners, had wrenched + it out of the obscurity in which he had hoped and wished it would remain. + To have such knowledge forced on him, at his time of life, about Fleur's + mother! He picked the letter up from the carpet, tore it across, and then, + when it hung together by just the fold at the back, stopped tearing, and + reread it. He was taking at that moment one of the decisive resolutions of + his life. He would not be forced into another scandal. No! However he + decided to deal with this matter—and it required the most + far-sighted and careful consideration he would do nothing that might + injure Fleur. That resolution taken, his mind answered the helm again, and + he made his ablutions. His hands trembled as he dried them. Scandal he + would not have, but something must be done to stop this sort of thing! He + went into his wife's room and stood looking around him. The idea of + searching for anything which would incriminate, and entitle him to hold a + menace over her, did not even come to him. There would be nothing—she + was much too practical. The idea of having her watched had been dismissed + before it came—too well he remembered his previous experience of + that. No! He had nothing but this torn-up letter from some anonymous + ruffian, whose impudent intrusion into his private life he so violently + resented. It was repugnant to him to make use of it, but he might have to. + What a mercy Fleur was not at home to-night! A tap on the door broke up + his painful cogitations. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Michael Mont, sir, is in the drawing-room. Will you see him?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Soames; “yes. I'll come down.” + </p> + <p> + Anything that would take his mind off for a few minutes! + </p> + <p> + Michael Mont in flannels stood on the verandah smoking a cigarette. He + threw it away as Soames came up, and ran his hand through his hair. + </p> + <p> + Soames' feeling toward this young man was singular. He was no doubt + a rackety, irresponsible young fellow according to old standards, yet + somehow likeable, with his extraordinarily cheerful way of blurting out + his opinions. + </p> + <p> + “Come in,” he said; “have you had tea?” + </p> + <p> + Mont came in. + </p> + <p> + “I thought Fleur would have been back, sir; but I'm glad she + isn't. The fact is, I—I'm fearfully gone on her; so + fearfully gone that I thought you'd better know. It's + old-fashioned, of course, coming to fathers first, but I thought you'd + forgive that. I went to my own Dad, and he says if I settle down he'll + see me through. He rather cottons to the idea, in fact. I told him about + your Goya.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Soames, inexpressibly dry. “He rather + cottons?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; do you?” + </p> + <p> + Soames smiled faintly. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” resumed Mont, twiddling his straw hat, while his + hair, ears, eyebrows, all seemed to stand up from excitement, “when + you've been through the War you can't help being in a hurry.” + </p> + <p> + “To get married; and unmarried afterward,” said Soames slowly. + </p> + <p> + “Not from Fleur, sir. Imagine, if you were me!” + </p> + <p> + Soames cleared his throat. That way of putting it was forcible enough. + </p> + <p> + “Fleur's too young,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! no, sir. We're awfully old nowadays. My Dad seems to me a + perfect babe; his thinking apparatus hasn't turned a hair. But he's + a Baronight, of course; that keeps him back.” + </p> + <p> + “Baronight,” repeated Soames; “what may that be?” + </p> + <p> + “Bart, sir. I shall be a Bart some day. But I shall live it down, + you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Go away and live this down,” said Soames. + </p> + <p> + Young Mont said imploringly: “Oh! no, sir. I simply must hang + around, or I shouldn't have a dog's chance. You'll let + Fleur do what she likes, I suppose, anyway. Madame passes me.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” said Soames frigidly. + </p> + <p> + “You don't really bar me, do you?” and the young man + looked so doleful that Soames smiled. + </p> + <p> + “You may think you're very old,” he said; “but you + strike me as extremely young. To rattle ahead of everything is not a proof + of maturity.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, sir; I give you our age. But to show you I mean business—I've + got a job.” + </p> + <p> + “Glad to hear it.” + </p> + <p> + “Joined a publisher; my governor is putting up the stakes.” + </p> + <p> + Soames put his hand over his mouth—he had so very nearly said: + “God help the publisher!” His grey eyes scrutinised the + agitated young man. + </p> + <p> + “I don't dislike you, Mr. Mont, but Fleur is everything to me: + Everything—do you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, I know; but so she is to me.” + </p> + <p> + “That's as may be. I'm glad you've told me, + however. And now I think there's nothing more to be said.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it rests with her, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “It will rest with her a long time, I hope.” + </p> + <p> + “You aren't cheering,” said Mont suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Soames, “my experience of life has not made + me anxious to couple people in a hurry. Good-night, Mr. Mont. I shan't + tell Fleur what you've said.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” murmured Mont blankly; “I really could knock my + brains out for want of her. She knows that perfectly well.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say.” And Soames held out his hand. A distracted + squeeze, a heavy sigh, and soon after sounds from the young man's + motor-cycle called up visions of flying dust and broken bones. + </p> + <p> + 'The younger generation!' he thought heavily, and went out on + to the lawn. The gardeners had been mowing, and there was still the smell + of fresh-cut grass—the thundery air kept all scents close to earth. + The sky was of a purplish hue—the poplars black. Two or three boats + passed on the river, scuttling, as it were, for shelter before the storm. + 'Three days' fine weather,' thought Soames, 'and + then a storm!' Where was Annette? With that chap, for all he knew—she + was a young woman! Impressed with the queer charity of that thought, he + entered the summerhouse and sat down. The fact was—and he admitted + it—Fleur was so much to him that his wife was very little—very + little; French—had never been much more than a mistress, and he was + getting indifferent to that side of things! It was odd how, with all this + ingrained care for moderation and secure investment, Soames ever put his + emotional eggs into one basket. First Irene—now Fleur. He was dimly + conscious of it, sitting there, conscious of its odd dangerousness. It had + brought him to wreck and scandal once, but now—now it should save + him! He cared so much for Fleur that he would have no further scandal. If + only he could get at that anonymous letter-writer, he would teach him not + to meddle and stir up mud at the bottom of water which he wished should + remain stagnant!... A distant flash, a low rumble, and large drops of rain + spattered on the thatch above him. He remained indifferent, tracing a + pattern with his finger on the dusty surface of a little rustic table. + Fleur's future! 'I want fair sailing for her,' he + thought. 'Nothing else matters at my time of life.' A lonely + business—life! What you had you never could keep to yourself! As you + warned one off, you let another in. One could make sure of nothing! He + reached up and pulled a red rambler rose from a cluster which blocked the + window. Flowers grew and dropped—Nature was a queer thing! The + thunder rumbled and crashed, travelling east along a river, the paling + flashes flicked his eyes; the poplar tops showed sharp and dense against + the sky, a heavy shower rustled and rattled and veiled in the little house + wherein he sat, indifferent, thinking. + </p> + <p> + When the storm was over, he left his retreat and went down the wet path to + the river bank. + </p> + <p> + Two swans had come, sheltering in among the reeds. He knew the birds well, + and stood watching the dignity in the curve of those white necks and + formidable snake-like heads. 'Not dignified—what I have to do!' + he thought. And yet it must be tackled, lest worse befell. Annette must be + back by now from wherever she had gone, for it was nearly dinner-time, and + as the moment for seeing her approached, the difficulty of knowing what to + say and how to say it had increased. A new and scaring thought occurred to + him. Suppose she wanted her liberty to marry this fellow! Well, if she + did, she couldn't have it. He had not married her for that. The + image of Prosper Profond dawdled before him reassuringly. Not a marrying + man! No, no! Anger replaced that momentary scare. 'He had better not + come my way,' he thought. The mongrel represented—-! But what + did Prosper Profond represent? Nothing that mattered surely. And yet + something real enough in the world—unmorality let off its chain, + disillusionment on the prowl! That expression Annette had caught from him: + “Je m'en fiche!” A fatalistic chap! A continental—a + cosmopolitan—a product of the age! If there were condemnation more + complete, Soames felt that he did not know it. + </p> + <p> + The swans had turned their heads, and were looking past him into some + distance of their own. One of them uttered a little hiss, wagged its tail, + turned as if answering to a rudder, and swam away. The other followed. + Their white bodies, their stately necks, passed out of his sight, and he + went toward the house. + </p> + <p> + Annette was in the drawing-room, dressed for dinner, and he thought as he + went up-stairs 'Handsome is as handsome does.' Handsome! + Except for remarks about the curtains in the drawing-room, and the storm, + there was practically no conversation during a meal distinguished by + exactitude of quantity and perfection of quality. Soames drank nothing. He + followed her into the drawing-room afterward, and found her smoking a + cigarette on the sofa between the two French windows. She was leaning + back, almost upright, in a low black frock, with her knees crossed and her + blue eyes half-closed; grey-blue smoke issued from her red, rather full + lips, a fillet bound her chestnut hair, she wore the thinnest silk + stockings, and shoes with very high heels showing off her instep. A fine + piece in any room! Soames, who held that torn letter in a hand thrust deep + into the side-pocket of his dinner-jacket, said: + </p> + <p> + “I'm going to shut the window; the damp's lifting in.” + </p> + <p> + He did so, and stood looking at a David Cox adorning the cream-panelled + wall close by. + </p> + <p> + What was she thinking of? He had never understood a woman in his life—except + Fleur—and Fleur not always! His heart beat fast. But if he meant to + do it, now was the moment. Turning from the David Cox, he took out the + torn letter. + </p> + <p> + “I've had this.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes widened, stared at him, and hardened. + </p> + <p> + Soames handed her the letter. + </p> + <p> + “It's torn, but you can read it.” And he turned back to + the David Cox—a sea-piece, of good tone—but without movement + enough. 'I wonder what that chap's doing at this moment?' + he thought. 'I'll astonish him yet.' Out of the corner + of his eye he saw Annette holding the letter rigidly; her eyes moved from + side to side under her darkened lashes and frowning darkened eyes. She + dropped the letter, gave a little shiver, smiled, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Dirrty!” + </p> + <p> + “I quite agree,” said Soames; “degrading. Is it true?” + </p> + <p> + A tooth fastened on her red lower lip. “And what if it were?” + </p> + <p> + She was brazen! + </p> + <p> + “Is that all you have to say?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, speak out!” + </p> + <p> + “What is the good of talking?” + </p> + <p> + Soames said icily: “So you admit it?” + </p> + <p> + “I admit nothing. You are a fool to ask. A man like you should not + ask. It is dangerous.” + </p> + <p> + Soames made a tour of the room, to subdue his rising anger. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember,” he said, halting in front of her, “what + you were when I married you? Working at accounts in a restaurant.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember that I was not half your age?” + </p> + <p> + Soames broke off the hard encounter of their eyes, and went back to the + David Cox. + </p> + <p> + “I am not going to bandy words. I require you to give up this—friendship. + I think of the matter entirely as it affects Fleur.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!—Fleur!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Soames stubbornly; “Fleur. She is your child + as well as mine.” + </p> + <p> + “It is kind to admit that!” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to do what I say?” + </p> + <p> + “I refuse to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I must make you.” + </p> + <p> + Annette smiled. + </p> + <p> + “No, Soames,” she said. “You are helpless. Do not say + things that you will regret.” + </p> + <p> + Anger swelled the veins on his forehead. He opened his mouth to vent that + emotion, and could not. Annette went on: + </p> + <p> + “There shall be no more such letters, I promise you. That is enough.” + </p> + <p> + Soames writhed. He had a sense of being treated like a child by this woman + who had deserved he did not know what. + </p> + <p> + “When two people have married, and lived like us, Soames, they had + better be quiet about each other. There are things one does not drag up + into the light for people to laugh at. You will be quiet, then; not for my + sake for your own. You are getting old; I am not, yet. You have made me + ver-ry practical” + </p> + <p> + Soames, who had passed through all the sensations of being choked, + repeated dully: + </p> + <p> + “I require you to give up this friendship.” + </p> + <p> + “And if I do not?” + </p> + <p> + “Then—then I will cut you out of my Will.” + </p> + <p> + Somehow it did not seem to meet the case. Annette laughed. + </p> + <p> + “You will live a long time, Soames.” + </p> + <p> + “You—you are a bad woman,” said Soames suddenly. + </p> + <p> + Annette shrugged her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “I do not think so. Living with you has killed things in me, it is + true; but I am not a bad woman. I am sensible—that is all. And so + will you be when you have thought it over.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall see this man,” said Soames sullenly, “and warn + him off.” + </p> + <p> + “Mon cher, you are funny. You do not want me, you have as much of me + as you want; and you wish the rest of me to be dead. I admit nothing, but + I am not going to be dead, Soames, at my age; so you had better be quiet, + I tell you. I myself will make no scandal; none. Now, I am not saying any + more, whatever you do.” + </p> + <p> + She reached out, took a French novel off a little table, and opened it. + Soames watched her, silenced by the tumult of his feelings. The thought of + that man was almost making him want her, and this was a revelation of + their relationship, startling to one little given to introspective + philosophy. Without saying another word he went out and up to the + picture-gallery. This came of marrying a Frenchwoman! And yet, without her + there would have been no Fleur! She had served her purpose. + </p> + <p> + 'She's right,' he thought; 'I can do nothing. I + don't even know that there's anything in it.' The + instinct of self-preservation warned him to batten down his hatches, to + smother the fire with want of air. Unless one believed there was something + in a thing, there wasn't. + </p> + <p> + That night he went into her room. She received him in the most + matter-of-fact way, as if there had been no scene between them. And he + returned to his own room with a curious sense of peace. If one didn't + choose to see, one needn't. And he did not choose—in future he + did not choose. There was nothing to be gained by it—nothing! + Opening the drawer he took from the sachet a handkerchief, and the framed + photograph of Fleur. When he had looked at it a little he slipped it down, + and there was that other one—that old one of Irene. An owl hooted + while he stood in his window gazing at it. The owl hooted, the red + climbing roses seemed to deepen in colour, there came a scent of + lime-blossom. God! That had been a different thing! Passion—Memory! + Dust! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0116" id="link2H_4_0116"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII.—JUNE TAKES A HAND + </h2> + <p> + One who was a sculptor, a Slav, a sometime resident in New York, an + egoist, and impecunious, was to be found of an evening in June Forsyte's + studio on the bank of the Thames at Chiswick. On the evening of July 6, + Boris Strumolowski—several of whose works were on show there because + they were as yet too advanced to be on show anywhere else—had begun + well, with that aloof and rather Christ-like silence which admirably + suited his youthful, round, broad cheek-boned countenance framed in bright + hair banged like a girl's. June had known him three weeks, and he + still seemed to her the principal embodiment of genius, and hope of the + future; a sort of Star of the East which had strayed into an + unappreciative West. Until that evening he had conversationally confined + himself to recording his impressions of the United States, whose dust he + had just shaken from off his feet—a country, in his opinion, so + barbarous in every way that he had sold practically nothing there, and + become an object of suspicion to the police; a country, as he said, + without a race of its own, without liberty, equality, or fraternity, + without principles, traditions, taste, without—in a word—a + soul. He had left it for his own good, and come to the only other country + where he could live well. June had dwelt unhappily on him in her lonely + moments, standing before his creations—frightening, but powerful and + symbolic once they had been explained! That he, haloed by bright hair like + an early Italian painting, and absorbed in his genius to the exclusion of + all else—the only sign of course by which real genius could be told—should + still be a “lame duck” agitated her warm heart almost to the + exclusion of Paul Post. And she had begun to take steps to clear her + Gallery, in order to fill it with Strumolowski masterpieces. She had at + once encountered trouble. Paul Post had kicked; Vospovitch had stung. With + all the emphasis of a genius which she did not as yet deny them, they had + demanded another six weeks at least of her Gallery. The American stream, + still flowing in, would soon be flowing out. The American stream was their + right, their only hope, their salvation—since nobody in this “beastly” + country cared for Art. June had yielded to the demonstration. After all + Boris would not mind their having the full benefit of an American stream, + which he himself so violently despised. + </p> + <p> + This evening she had put that to Boris with nobody else present, except + Hannah Hobdey, the mediaeval black-and-whitist, and Jimmy Portugal, editor + of the Neo-Artist. She had put it to him with that sudden confidence which + continual contact with the neo-artistic world had never been able to dry + up in her warm and generous nature. He had not broken his Christ-like + silence, however, for more than two minutes before she began to move her + blue eyes from side to side, as a cat moves its tail. This—he said—was + characteristic of England, the most selfish country in the world; the + country which sucked the blood of other countries; destroyed the brains + and hearts of Irishmen, Hindus, Egyptians, Boers, and Burmese, all the + best races in the world; bullying, hypocritical England! This was what he + had expected, coming to, such a country, where the climate was all fog, + and the people all tradesmen perfectly blind to Art, and sunk in + profiteering and the grossest materialism. Conscious that Hannah Hobdey + was murmuring, “Hear, hear!” and Jimmy Portugal sniggering, + June grew crimson, and suddenly rapped out: + </p> + <p> + “Then why did you ever come? We didn't ask you.” + </p> + <p> + The remark was so singularly at variance with all she had led him to + expect from her, that Strumolowski stretched out his hand and took a + cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “England never wants an idealist,” he said. + </p> + <p> + But in June something primitively English was thoroughly upset; old Jolyon's + sense of justice had risen, as it were, from bed. “You come and + sponge on us,” she said, “and then abuse us. If you think that's + playing the game, I don't.” + </p> + <p> + She now discovered that which others had discovered before her—the + thickness of hide beneath which the sensibility of genius is sometimes + veiled. Strumolowski's young and ingenuous face became the + incarnation of a sneer. + </p> + <p> + “Sponge, one does not sponge, one takes what is owing—a tenth + part of what is owing. You will repent to say that, Miss Forsyte.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no,” said June, “I shan't.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! We know very well, we artists—you take us to get what you + can out of us. I want nothing from you”—and he blew out a + cloud of June's smoke. + </p> + <p> + Decision rose in an icy puff from the turmoil of insulted shame within + her. “Very well, then, you can take your things away.” + </p> + <p> + And, almost in the same moment, she thought: 'Poor boy! He's + only got a garret, and probably not a taxi fare. In front of these people, + too; it's positively disgusting!' + </p> + <p> + Young Strumolowski shook his head violently; his hair, thick, smooth, + close as a golden plate, did not fall off. + </p> + <p> + “I can live on nothing,” he said shrilly; “I have often + had to for the sake of my Art. It is you bourgeois who force us to spend + money.” + </p> + <p> + The words hit June like a pebble, in the ribs. After all she had done for + Art, all her identification with its troubles and lame ducks. She was + struggling for adequate words when the door was opened, and her Austrian + murmured: + </p> + <p> + “A young lady, gnadiges Fraulein.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “In the little meal-room.” + </p> + <p> + With a glance at Boris Strumolowski, at Hannah Hobdey, at Jimmy Portugal, + June said nothing, and went out, devoid of equanimity. Entering the + “little meal-room,” she perceived the young lady to be Fleur—looking + very pretty, if pale. At this disenchanted moment a little lame duck of + her own breed was welcome to June, so homoeopathic by instinct. + </p> + <p> + The girl must have come, of course, because of Jon; or, if not, at least + to get something out of her. And June felt just then that to assist + somebody was the only bearable thing. + </p> + <p> + “So you've remembered to come,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. What a jolly little duck of a house! But please don't + let me bother you, if you've got people.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” said June. “I want to let them stew in + their own juice for a bit. Have you come about Jon?” + </p> + <p> + “You said you thought we ought to be told. Well, I've found + out.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said June blankly. “Not nice, is it?” + </p> + <p> + They were standing one on each side of the little bare table at which June + took her meals. A vase on it was full of Iceland poppies; the girl raised + her hand and touched them with a gloved finger. To her new-fangled dress, + frilly about the hips and tight below the knees, June took a sudden liking—a + charming colour, flax-blue. + </p> + <p> + 'She makes a picture,' thought June. Her little room, with its + whitewashed walls, its floor and hearth of old pink brick, its black + paint, and latticed window athwart which the last of the sunlight was + shining, had never looked so charming, set off by this young figure, with + the creamy, slightly frowning face. She remembered with sudden vividness + how nice she herself had looked in those old days when her heart was set + on Philip Bosinney, that dead lover, who had broken from her to destroy + for ever Irene's allegiance to this girl's father. Did Fleur + know of that, too? + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she said, “what are you going to do?” + </p> + <p> + It was some seconds before Fleur answered. + </p> + <p> + “I don't want Jon to suffer. I must see him once more to put + an end to it.” + </p> + <p> + “You're going to put an end to it!” + </p> + <p> + “What else is there to do?” + </p> + <p> + The girl seemed to June, suddenly, intolerably spiritless. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you're right,” she muttered. “I know my + father thinks so; but—I should never have done it myself. I can't + take things lying down.” + </p> + <p> + How poised and watchful that girl looked; how unemotional her voice + sounded! + </p> + <p> + “People will assume that I'm in love.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + Fleur shrugged her shoulders. 'I might have known it,' thought + June; 'she's Soames' daughter—fish! And yet—he!' + </p> + <p> + “What do you want me to do then?” she said with a sort of + disgust. + </p> + <p> + “Could I see Jon here to-morrow on his way down to Holly's? He'd + come if you sent him a line to-night. And perhaps afterward you'd + let them know quietly at Robin Hill that it's all over, and that + they needn't tell Jon about his mother.” + </p> + <p> + “All right!” said June abruptly. “I'll write now, + and you can post it. Half-past two tomorrow. I shan't be in, myself.” + </p> + <p> + She sat down at the tiny bureau which filled one corner. When she looked + round with the finished note Fleur was still touching the poppies with her + gloved finger. + </p> + <p> + June licked a stamp. “Well, here it is. If you're not in love, + of course, there's no more to be said. Jon's lucky.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur took the note. “Thanks awfully!” + </p> + <p> + 'Cold-blooded little baggage!' thought June. Jon, son of her + father, to love, and not to be loved by the daughter of—Soames! It + was humiliating! + </p> + <p> + “Is that all?” + </p> + <p> + Fleur nodded; her frills shook and trembled as she swayed toward the door. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye!” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye!... Little piece of fashion!” muttered June, closing + the door. “That family!” And she marched back toward her + studio. Boris Strumolowski had regained his Christ-like silence and Jimmy + Portugal was damning everybody, except the group in whose behalf he ran + the Neo-Artist. Among the condemned were Eric Cobbley, and several other + “lame-duck” genii who at one time or another had held first + place in the repertoire of June's aid and adoration. She experienced + a sense of futility and disgust, and went to the window to let the + river-wind blow those squeaky words away. + </p> + <p> + But when at length Jimmy Portugal had finished, and gone with Hannah + Hobdey, she sat down and mothered young Strumolowski for half an hour, + promising him a month, at least, of the American stream; so that he went + away with his halo in perfect order. 'In spite of all,' June + thought, 'Boris is wonderful.' + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0117" id="link2H_4_0117"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIII.—THE BIT BETWEEN THE TEETH + </h2> + <p> + To know that your hand is against every one's is—for some + natures—to experience a sense of moral release. Fleur felt no + remorse when she left June's house. Reading condemnatory resentment + in her little kinswoman's blue eyes-she was glad that she had fooled + her, despising June because that elderly idealist had not seen what she + was after. + </p> + <p> + End it, forsooth! She would soon show them all that she was only just + beginning. And she smiled to herself on the top of the bus which carried + her back to Mayfair. But the smile died, squeezed out by spasms of + anticipation and anxiety. Would she be able to manage Jon? She had taken + the bit between her teeth, but could she make him take it too? She knew + the truth and the real danger of delay—he knew neither; therein lay + all the difference in the world. + </p> + <p> + 'Suppose I tell him,' she thought; 'wouldn't it + really be safer?' This hideous luck had no right to spoil their + love; he must see that! They could not let it! People always accepted an + accomplished fact in time! From that piece of philosophy—profound + enough at her age—she passed to another consideration less + philosophic. If she persuaded Jon to a quick and secret marriage, and he + found out afterward that she had known the truth. What then? Jon hated + subterfuge. Again, then, would it not be better to tell him? But the + memory of his mother's face kept intruding on that impulse. Fleur + was afraid. His mother had power over him; more power perhaps than she + herself. Who could tell? It was too great a risk. Deep-sunk in these + instinctive calculations she was carried on past Green Street as far as + the Ritz Hotel. She got down there, and walked back on the Green Park + side. The storm had washed every tree; they still dripped. Heavy drops + fell on to her frills, and to avoid them she crossed over under the eyes + of the Iseeum Club. Chancing to look up she saw Monsieur Profond with a + tall stout man in the bay window. Turning into Green Street she heard her + name called, and saw “that prowler” coming up. He took off his + hat—a glossy “bowler” such as she particularly detested. + </p> + <p> + “Good evenin'. Miss Forsyde. Isn't there a small thing I + can do for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, pass by on the other side.” + </p> + <p> + “I say! Why do you dislike me?” + </p> + <p> + “Do I?” + </p> + <p> + “It looks like it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, because you make me feel life isn't worth living.” + </p> + <p> + Monsieur Profond smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Miss Forsyde, don't worry. It'll be all + right. Nothing lasts.” + </p> + <p> + “Things do last,” cried Fleur; “with me anyhow—especially + likes and dislikes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that makes me a bit un'appy.” + </p> + <p> + “I should have thought nothing could ever make you happy or unhappy.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't like to annoy other people. I'm goin' on + my yacht.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur looked at him, startled. + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “Small voyage to the South Seas or somewhere,” said Monsieur + Profond. + </p> + <p> + Fleur suffered relief and a sense of insult. Clearly he meant to convey + that he was breaking with her mother. How dared he have anything to break, + and yet how dared he break it? + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Miss Forsyde! Remember me to Mrs. Dartie. I'm not + so bad really. Good-night!” Fleur left him standing there with his + hat raised. Stealing a look round, she saw him stroll—immaculate and + heavy—back toward his Club. + </p> + <p> + 'He can't even love with conviction,' she thought. + 'What will Mother do?' + </p> + <p> + Her dreams that night were endless and uneasy; she rose heavy and + unrested, and went at once to the study of Whitaker's Almanac. A + Forsyte is instinctively aware that facts are the real crux of any + situation. She might conquer Jon's prejudice, but without exact + machinery to complete their desperate resolve, nothing would happen. From + the invaluable tome she learned that they must each be twenty-one; or some + one's consent would be necessary, which of course was unobtainable; + then she became lost in directions concerning licenses, certificates, + notices, districts, coming finally to the word “perjury.” But + that was nonsense! Who would really mind their giving wrong ages in order + to be married for love! She ate hardly any breakfast, and went back to + Whitaker. The more she studied the less sure she became; till, idly + turning the pages, she came to Scotland. People could be married there + without any of this nonsense. She had only to go and stay there twenty-one + days, then Jon could come, and in front of two people they could declare + themselves married. And what was more—they would be! It was far the + best way; and at once she ran over her schoolfellows. There was Mary Lambe + who lived in Edinburgh and was “quite a sport!” + </p> + <p> + She had a brother too. She could stay with Mary Lambe, who with her + brother would serve for witnesses. She well knew that some girls would + think all this unnecessary, and that all she and Jon need do was to go + away together for a weekend and then say to their people: “We are + married by Nature, we must now be married by Law.” But Fleur was + Forsyte enough to feel such a proceeding dubious, and to dread her father's + face when he heard of it. Besides, she did not believe that Jon would do + it; he had an opinion of her such as she could not bear to diminish. No! + Mary Lambe was preferable, and it was just the time of year to go to + Scotland. More at ease now she packed, avoided her aunt, and took a bus to + Chiswick. She was too early, and went on to Kew Gardens. She found no + peace among its flower-beds, labelled trees, and broad green spaces, and + having lunched off anchovy-paste sandwiches and coffee, returned to + Chiswick and rang June's bell. The Austrian admitted her to the + “little meal-room.” Now that she knew what she and Jon were up + against, her longing for him had increased tenfold, as if he were a toy + with sharp edges or dangerous paint such as they had tried to take from + her as a child. If she could not have her way, and get Jon for good and + all, she felt like dying of privation. By hook or crook she must and would + get him! A round dim mirror of very old glass hung over the pink brick + hearth. She stood looking at herself reflected in it, pale, and rather + dark under the eyes; little shudders kept passing through her nerves. Then + she heard the bell ring, and, stealing to the window, saw him standing on + the doorstep smoothing his hair and lips, as if he too were trying to + subdue the fluttering of his nerves. + </p> + <p> + She was sitting on one of the two rush-seated chairs, with her back to the + door, when he came in, and she said at once— + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, Jon, I want to talk seriously.” + </p> + <p> + Jon sat on the table by her side, and without looking at him she went on: + </p> + <p> + “If you don't want to lose me, we must get married.” + </p> + <p> + Jon gasped. + </p> + <p> + “Why? Is there anything new?” + </p> + <p> + “No, but I felt it at Robin Hill, and among my people.” + </p> + <p> + “But—” stammered Jon, “at Robin Hill—it was + all smooth—and they've said nothing to me.” + </p> + <p> + “But they mean to stop us. Your mother's face was enough. And + my father's.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen him since?” + </p> + <p> + Fleur nodded. What mattered a few supplementary lies? + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Jon eagerly, “I can't see how they can + feel like that after all these years.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur looked up at him. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you don't love me enough.” “Not love you + enough! Why—!” + </p> + <p> + “Then make sure of me.” + </p> + <p> + “Without telling them?” + </p> + <p> + “Not till after.” + </p> + <p> + Jon was silent. How much older he looked than on that day, barely two + months ago, when she first saw him—quite two years older! + </p> + <p> + “It would hurt Mother awfully,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Fleur drew her hand away. + </p> + <p> + “You've got to choose.” + </p> + <p> + Jon slid off the table on to his knees. + </p> + <p> + “But why not tell them? They can't really stop us, Fleur!” + </p> + <p> + “They can! I tell you, they can.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “We're utterly dependent—by putting money pressure, and + all sorts of other pressure. I'm not patient, Jon.” + </p> + <p> + “But it's deceiving them.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur got up. + </p> + <p> + “You can't really love me, or you wouldn't hesitate. + 'He either fears his fate too much!'” + </p> + <p> + Lifting his hands to her waist, Jon forced her to sit down again. She + hurried on: + </p> + <p> + “I've planned it all out. We've only to go to Scotland. + When we're married they'll soon come round. People always come + round to facts. Don't you see, Jon?” + </p> + <p> + “But to hurt them so awfully!” + </p> + <p> + So he would rather hurt her than those people of his! “All right, + then; let me go!” + </p> + <p> + Jon got up and put his back against the door. + </p> + <p> + “I expect you're right,” he said slowly; “but I + want to think it over.” + </p> + <p> + She could see that he was seething with feelings he wanted to express; but + she did not mean to help him. She hated herself at this moment and almost + hated him. Why had she to do all the work to secure their love? It wasn't + fair. And then she saw his eyes, adoring and distressed. + </p> + <p> + “Don't look like that! I only don't want to lose you, + Jon.” + </p> + <p> + “You can't lose me so long as you want me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, I can.” + </p> + <p> + Jon put his hands on her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Fleur, do you know anything you haven't told me?” + </p> + <p> + It was the point-blank question she had dreaded. She looked straight at + him, and answered: “No.” She had burnt her boats; but what did + it matter, if she got him? He would forgive her. And throwing her arms + round his neck, she kissed him on the lips. She was winning! She felt it + in the beating of his heart against her, in the closing of his eyes. + “I want to make sure! I want to make sure!” she whispered. + “Promise!” + </p> + <p> + Jon did not answer. His face had the stillness of extreme trouble. At last + he said: + </p> + <p> + “It's like hitting them. I must think a little, Fleur. I + really must.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur slipped out of his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Very well!” And suddenly she burst into tears of + disappointment, shame, and overstrain. Followed five minutes of acute + misery. Jon's remorse and tenderness knew no bounds; but he did not + promise. Despite her will to cry, “Very well, then, if you don't + love me enough-goodbye!” she dared not. From birth accustomed to her + own way, this check from one so young, so tender, so devoted, baffled and + surprised her. She wanted to push him away from her, to try what anger and + coldness would do, and again she dared not. The knowledge that she was + scheming to rush him blindfold into the irrevocable weakened everything—weakened + the sincerity of pique, and the sincerity of passion; even her kisses had + not the lure she wished for them. That stormy little meeting ended + inconclusively. + </p> + <p> + “Will you some tea, gnadiges Fraulein?” + </p> + <p> + Pushing Jon from her, she cried out: + </p> + <p> + “No-no, thank you! I'm just going.” + </p> + <p> + And before he could prevent her she was gone. + </p> + <p> + She went stealthily, mopping her gushed, stained cheeks, frightened, + angry, very miserable. She had stirred Jon up so fearfully, yet nothing + definite was promised or arranged! But the more uncertain and hazardous + the future, the more “the will to have” worked its tentacles + into the flesh of her heart—like some burrowing tick! + </p> + <p> + No one was at Green Street. Winifred had gone with Imogen to see a play + which some said was allegorical, and others “very exciting, don't + you know.” It was because of what others said that Winifred and + Imogen had gone. Fleur went on to Paddington. Through the carriage the air + from the brick-kilns of West Drayton and the late hayfields fanned her + still gushed cheeks. Flowers had seemed to be had for the picking; now + they were all thorned and prickled. But the golden flower within the crown + of spikes seemed to her tenacious spirit all the fairer and more + desirable. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0118" id="link2H_4_0118"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IX.—THE FAT IN THE FIRE + </h2> + <p> + On reaching home Fleur found an atmosphere so peculiar that it penetrated + even the perplexed aura of her own private life. Her mother was + inaccessibly entrenched in a brown study; her father contemplating fate in + the vinery. Neither of them had a word to throw to a dog. 'Is it + because of me?' thought Fleur. 'Or because of Profond?' + To her mother she said: + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter with Father?” + </p> + <p> + Her mother answered with a shrug of her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + To her father: + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter with Mother?” + </p> + <p> + Her father answered: + </p> + <p> + “Matter? What should be the matter?” and gave her a sharp + look. + </p> + <p> + “By the way,” murmured Fleur, “Monsieur Profond is going + a 'small' voyage on his yacht, to the South Seas.” + </p> + <p> + Soames examined a branch on which no grapes were growing. + </p> + <p> + “This vine's a failure,” he said. “I've had + young Mont here. He asked me something about you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! How do you like him, Father?” + </p> + <p> + “He—he's a product—like all these young people.” + </p> + <p> + “What were you at his age, dear?” + </p> + <p> + Soames smiled grimly. + </p> + <p> + “We went to work, and didn't play about—flying and + motoring, and making love.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn't you ever make love?” + </p> + <p> + She avoided looking at him while she said that, but she saw him well + enough. His pale face had reddened, his eyebrows, where darkness was still + mingled with the grey, had come close together. + </p> + <p> + “I had no time or inclination to philander.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you had a grand passion.” + </p> + <p> + Soames looked at her intently. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—if you want to know—and much good it did me.” + He moved away, along by the hot-water pipes. Fleur tiptoed silently after + him. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about it, Father!” + </p> + <p> + Soames became very still. + </p> + <p> + “What should you want to know about such things, at your age?” + </p> + <p> + “Is she alive?” + </p> + <p> + He nodded. + </p> + <p> + “And married?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “It's Jon Forsyte's mother, isn't it? And she was + your wife first.” + </p> + <p> + It was said in a flash of intuition. Surely his opposition came from his + anxiety that she should not know of that old wound to his pride. But she + was startled. To see some one so old and calm wince as if struck, to hear + so sharp a note of pain in his voice! + </p> + <p> + “Who told you that? If your aunt! I can't bear the affair + talked of.” + </p> + <p> + “But, darling,” said Fleur, softly, “it's so long + ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Long ago or not, I....” + </p> + <p> + Fleur stood stroking his arm. + </p> + <p> + “I've tried to forget,” he said suddenly; “I don't + wish to be reminded.” And then, as if venting some long and secret + irritation, he added: “In these days people don't understand. + Grand passion, indeed! No one knows what it is.” + </p> + <p> + “I do,” said Fleur, almost in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + Soames, who had turned his back on her, spun round. + </p> + <p> + “What are you talking of—a child like you!” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I've inherited it, Father.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “For her son, you see.” + </p> + <p> + He was pale as a sheet, and she knew that she was as bad. They stood + staring at each other in the steamy heat, redolent of the mushy scent of + earth, of potted geranium, and of vines coming along fast. + </p> + <p> + “This is crazy,” said Soames at last, between dry lips. + </p> + <p> + Scarcely moving her own, she murmured: + </p> + <p> + “Don't be angry, Father. I can't help it.” + </p> + <p> + But she could see he wasn't angry; only scared, deeply scared. + </p> + <p> + “I thought that foolishness,” he stammered, “was all + forgotten.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no! It's ten times what it was.” + </p> + <p> + Soames kicked at the hot-water pipe. The hapless movement touched her, who + had no fear of her father—none. + </p> + <p> + “Dearest!” she said. “What must be, must, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Must!” repeated Soames. “You don't know what you're + talking of. Has that boy been told?” + </p> + <p> + The blood rushed into her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “Not yet.” + </p> + <p> + He had turned from her again, and, with one shoulder a little raised, + stood staring fixedly at a joint in the pipes. + </p> + <p> + “It's most distasteful to me,” he said suddenly; “nothing + could be more so. Son of that fellow! It's—it's—perverse!” + </p> + <p> + She had noted, almost unconsciously, that he did not say “son of + that woman,” and again her intuition began working. + </p> + <p> + Did the ghost of that grand passion linger in some corner of his heart? + </p> + <p> + She slipped her hand under his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Jon's father is quite ill and old; I saw him.” + </p> + <p> + “You—?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I went there with Jon; I saw them both.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, and what did they say to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. They were very polite.” + </p> + <p> + “They would be.” He resumed his contemplation of the + pipe-joint, and then said suddenly: + </p> + <p> + “I must think this over—I'll speak to you again + to-night.” + </p> + <p> + She knew this was final for the moment, and stole away, leaving him still + looking at the pipe-joint. She wandered into the fruit-garden, among the + raspberry and currant bushes, without impetus to pick and eat. Two months + ago—she was light-hearted! Even two days ago—light-hearted, + before Prosper Profond told her. Now she felt tangled in a web-of + passions, vested rights, oppressions and revolts, the ties of love and + hate. At this dark moment of discouragement there seemed, even to her + hold-fast nature, no way out. How deal with it—how sway and bend + things to her will, and get her heart's desire? And, suddenly, round + the corner of the high box hedge, she came plump on her mother, walking + swiftly, with an open letter in her hand. Her bosom was heaving, her eyes + dilated, her cheeks flushed. Instantly Fleur thought: 'The yacht! + Poor Mother!' + </p> + <p> + Annette gave her a wide startled look, and said: + </p> + <p> + “J'ai la migraine.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm awfully sorry, Mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes! you and your father—sorry!” + </p> + <p> + “But, Mother—I am. I know what it feels like.” + </p> + <p> + Annette's startled eyes grew wide, till the whites showed above + them. + </p> + <p> + “Poor innocent!” she said. + </p> + <p> + Her mother—so self-possessed, and commonsensical—to look and + speak like this! It was all frightening! Her father, her mother, herself! + And only two months back they had seemed to have everything they wanted in + this world. + </p> + <p> + Annette crumpled the letter in her hand. Fleur knew that she must ignore + the sight. + </p> + <p> + “Can't I do anything for your head, Mother?” + </p> + <p> + Annette shook that head and walked on, swaying her hips. + </p> + <p> + 'It's cruel,' thought Fleur, 'and I was glad! That + man! What do men come prowling for, disturbing everything! I suppose he's + tired of her. What business has he to be tired of my mother? What + business!' And at that thought, so natural and so peculiar, she + uttered a little choked laugh. + </p> + <p> + She ought, of course, to be delighted, but what was there to be delighted + at? Her father didn't really care! Her mother did, perhaps? She + entered the orchard, and sat down under a cherry-tree. A breeze sighed in + the higher boughs; the sky seen through their green was very blue and very + white in cloud—those heavy white clouds almost always present in + river landscape. Bees, sheltering out of the wind, hummed softly, and over + the lush grass fell the thick shade from those fruit-trees planted by her + father five-and-twenty, years ago. Birds were almost silent, the cuckoos + had ceased to sing, but wood-pigeons were cooing. The breath and drone and + cooing of high summer were not for long a sedative to her excited nerves. + Crouched over her knees she began to scheme. Her father must be made to + back her up. Why should he mind so long as she was happy? She had not + lived for nearly nineteen years without knowing that her future was all he + really cared about. She had, then, only to convince him that her future + could not be happy without Jon. He thought it a mad fancy. How foolish the + old were, thinking they could tell what the young felt! Had not he + confessed that he—when young—had loved with a grand passion? + He ought to understand! 'He piles up his money for me,' she + thought; 'but what's the use, if I'm not going to be + happy?' Money, and all it bought, did not bring happiness. Love only + brought that. The ox-eyed daisies in this orchard, which gave it such a + moony look sometimes, grew wild and happy, and had their hour. 'They + oughtn't to have called me Fleur,' she mused, 'if they + didn't mean me to have my hour, and be happy while it lasts.' + Nothing real stood in the way, like poverty, or disease—sentiment + only, a ghost from the unhappy past! Jon was right. They wouldn't + let you live, these old people! They made mistakes, committed crimes, and + wanted their children to go on paying! The breeze died away; midges began + to bite. She got up, plucked a piece of honeysuckle, and went in. + </p> + <p> + It was hot that night. Both she and her mother had put on thin, pale low + frocks. The dinner flowers were pale. Fleur was struck with the pale look + of everything; her father's face, her mother's shoulders; the + pale panelled walls, the pale grey velvety carpet, the lamp-shade, even + the soup was pale. There was not one spot of colour in the room, not even + wine in the pale glasses, for no one drank it. What was not pale was black—her + father's clothes, the butler's clothes, her retriever + stretched out exhausted in the window, the curtains black with a cream + pattern. A moth came in, and that was pale. And silent was that + half-mourning dinner in the heat. + </p> + <p> + Her father called her back as she was following her mother out. + </p> + <p> + She sat down beside him at the table, and, unpinning the pale honeysuckle, + put it to her nose. + </p> + <p> + “I've been thinking,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “It's extremely painful for me to talk, but there's no + help for it. I don't know if you understand how much you are to me I've + never spoken of it, I didn't think it necessary; but—but you're + everything. Your mother—” he paused, staring at his + finger-bowl of Venetian glass. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?”' + </p> + <p> + “I've only you to look to. I've never had—never + wanted anything else, since you were born.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” Fleur murmured. + </p> + <p> + Soames moistened his lips. + </p> + <p> + “You may think this a matter I can smooth over and arrange for you. + You're mistaken. I'm helpless.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur did not speak. + </p> + <p> + “Quite apart from my own feelings,” went on Soames with more + resolution, “those two are not amenable to anything I can say. They—they + hate me, as people always hate those whom they have injured.” + “But he—Jon—” + </p> + <p> + “He's their flesh and blood, her only child. Probably he means + to her what you mean to me. It's a deadlock.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” cried Fleur, “no, Father!” + </p> + <p> + Soames leaned back, the image of pale patience, as if resolved on the + betrayal of no emotion. + </p> + <p> + “Listen!” he said. “You're putting the feelings of + two months—two months—against the feelings of thirty-five + years! What chance do you think you have? Two months—your very first + love affair, a matter of half a dozen meetings, a few walks and talks, a + few kisses—against, against what you can't imagine, what no + one could who hasn't been through it. Come, be reasonable, Fleur! It's + midsummer madness!” + </p> + <p> + Fleur tore the honeysuckle into little, slow bits. + </p> + <p> + “The madness is in letting the past spoil it all. + </p> + <p> + “What do we care about the past? It's our lives, not yours.” + </p> + <p> + Soames raised his hand to his forehead, where suddenly she saw moisture + shining. + </p> + <p> + “Whose child are you?” he said. “Whose child is he? The + present is linked with the past, the future with both. There's no + getting away from that.” + </p> + <p> + She had never heard philosophy pass those lips before. Impressed even in + her agitation, she leaned her elbows on the table, her chin on her hands. + </p> + <p> + “But, Father, consider it practically. We want each other. There's + ever so much money, and nothing whatever in the way but sentiment. Let's + bury the past, Father.” + </p> + <p> + His answer was a sigh. + </p> + <p> + “Besides,” said Fleur gently, “you can't prevent + us.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't suppose,” said Soames, “that if left to + myself I should try to prevent you; I must put up with things, I know, to + keep your affection. But it's not I who control this matter. That's + what I want you to realise before it's too late. If you go on + thinking you can get your way and encourage this feeling, the blow will be + much heavier when you find you can't.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” cried Fleur, “help me, Father; you can help me, + you know.” + </p> + <p> + Soames made a startled movement of negation. “I?” he said + bitterly. “Help? I am the impediment—the just cause and + impediment—isn't that the jargon? You have my blood in your + veins.” + </p> + <p> + He rose. + </p> + <p> + “Well, the fat's in the fire. If you persist in your + wilfulness you'll have yourself to blame. Come! Don't be + foolish, my child—my only child!” + </p> + <p> + Fleur laid her forehead against his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + All was in such turmoil within her. But no good to show it! No good at + all! She broke away from him, and went out into the twilight, distraught, + but unconvinced. All was indeterminate and vague within her, like the + shapes and shadows in the garden, except—her will to have. A poplar + pierced up into the dark-blue sky and touched a white star there. The dew + wetted her shoes, and chilled her bare shoulders. She went down to the + river bank, and stood gazing at a moonstreak on the darkening water. + Suddenly she smelled tobacco smoke, and a white figure emerged as if + created by the moon. It was young Mont in flannels, standing in his boat. + She heard the tiny hiss of his cigarette extinguished in the water. + </p> + <p> + “Fleur,” came his voice, “don't be hard on a poor + devil! I've been waiting hours.” + </p> + <p> + “For what?” + </p> + <p> + “Come in my boat!” + </p> + <p> + “Not I.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not a water-nymph.” + </p> + <p> + “Haven't you any romance in you? Don't be modern, Fleur!” + </p> + <p> + He appeared on the path within a yard of her. + </p> + <p> + “Go away!” + </p> + <p> + “Fleur, I love you. Fleur!” + </p> + <p> + Fleur uttered a short laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Come again,” she said, “when I haven't got my + wish.” + </p> + <p> + “What is your wish?” + </p> + <p> + “Ask another.” + </p> + <p> + “Fleur,” said Mont, and his voice sounded strange, “don't + mock me! Even vivisected dogs are worth decent treatment before they're + cut up for good.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur shook her head; but her lips were trembling. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you shouldn't make me jump. Give me a cigarette.” + </p> + <p> + Mont gave her one, lighted it, and another for himself. + </p> + <p> + “I don't want to talk rot,” he said, “but please + imagine all the rot that all the lovers that ever were have talked, and + all my special rot thrown in.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, I have imagined it. Good-night!” They stood for a + moment facing each other in the shadow of an acacia-tree with very moonlit + blossoms, and the smoke from their cigarettes mingled in the air between + them. + </p> + <p> + “Also ran: 'Michael Mont'.” he said. Fleur turned + abruptly toward the house. On the lawn she stopped to look back. Michael + Mont was whirling his arms above him; she could see them dashing at his + head; then waving at the moonlit blossoms of the acacia. His voice just + reached her. “Jolly-jolly!” Fleur shook herself. She couldn't + help him, she had too much trouble of her own! On the verandah she stopped + very suddenly again. Her mother was sitting in the drawing-room at her + writing bureau, quite alone. There was nothing remarkable in the + expression of her face except its utter immobility. But she looked + desolate! Fleur went upstairs. At the door of her room she paused. She + could hear her father walking up and down, up and down the + picture-gallery. + </p> + <p> + 'Yes,' she thought, jolly! Oh, Jon!' + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0119" id="link2H_4_0119"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + X.—DECISION + </h2> + <p> + When Fleur left him Jon stared at the Austrian. She was a thin woman with + a dark face and the concerned expression of one who has watched every + little good that life once had slip from her, one by one. “No tea?” + she said. + </p> + <p> + Susceptible to the disappointment in her voice, Jon murmured: + </p> + <p> + “No, really; thanks.” + </p> + <p> + “A lil cup—it ready. A lil cup and cigarette.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur was gone! Hours of remorse and indecision lay before him! And with a + heavy sense of disproportion he smiled, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Well—thank you!” + </p> + <p> + She brought in a little pot of tea with two little cups, and a silver box + of cigarettes on a little tray. + </p> + <p> + “Sugar? Miss Forsyte has much sugar—she buy my sugar, my + friend's sugar also. Miss Forsyte is a veree kind lady. I am happy + to serve her. You her brother?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jon, beginning to puff the second cigarette of his + life. + </p> + <p> + “Very young brother,” said the Austrian, with a little anxious + smile, which reminded him of the wag of a dog's tail. + </p> + <p> + “May I give you some?” he said. “And won't you sit + down, please?” + </p> + <p> + The Austrian shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Your father a very nice old man—the most nice old man I ever + see. Miss Forsyte tell me all about him. Is he better?” + </p> + <p> + Her words fell on Jon like a reproach. “Oh Yes, I think he's + all right.” + </p> + <p> + “I like to see him again,” said the Austrian, putting a hand + on her heart; “he have veree kind heart.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Jon. And again her words seemed to him a reproach. + </p> + <p> + “He never give no trouble to no one, and smile so gentle.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, doesn't he?” + </p> + <p> + “He look at Miss Forsyte so funny sometimes. I tell him all my + story; he so sympatisch. Your mother—she nice and well?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, very.” + </p> + <p> + “He have her photograph on his dressing-table. Veree beautiful” + </p> + <p> + Jon gulped down his tea. This woman, with her concerned face and her + reminding words, was like the first and second murderers. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” he said; “I must go now. May—may I + leave this with you?” + </p> + <p> + He put a ten-shilling note on the tray with a doubting hand and gained the + door. He heard the Austrian gasp, and hurried out. He had just time to + catch his train, and all the way to Victoria looked at every face that + passed, as lovers will, hoping against hope. On reaching Worthing he put + his luggage into the local train, and set out across the Downs for + Wansdon, trying to walk off his aching irresolution. So long as he went + full bat, he could enjoy the beauty of those green slopes, stopping now + and again to sprawl on the grass, admire the perfection of a wild rose or + listen to a lark's song. But the war of motives within him was but + postponed—the longing for Fleur, and the hatred of deception. He + came to the old chalk-pit above Wansdon with his mind no more made up than + when he started. To see both sides of a question vigorously was at once + Jon's strength and weakness. He tramped in, just as the first + dinner-bell rang. His things had already been brought up. He had a hurried + bath and came down to find Holly alone—Val had gone to Town and + would not be back till the last train. + </p> + <p> + Since Val's advice to him to ask his sister what was the matter + between the two families, so much had happened—Fleur's + disclosure in the Green Park, her visit to Robin Hill, to-day's + meeting—that there seemed nothing to ask. He talked of Spain, his + sunstroke, Val's horses, their father's health. Holly startled + him by saying that she thought their father not at all well. She had been + twice to Robin Hill for the week-end. He had seemed fearfully languid, + sometimes even in pain, but had always refused to talk about himself. + </p> + <p> + “He's awfully dear and unselfish—don't you think, + Jon?” + </p> + <p> + Feeling far from dear and unselfish himself, Jon answered: “Rather!” + </p> + <p> + “I think, he's been a simply perfect father, so long as I can + remember.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered Jon, very subdued. + </p> + <p> + “He's never interfered, and he's always seemed to + understand. I shall never forget his letting me go to South Africa in the + Boer War when I was in love with Val.” + </p> + <p> + “That was before he married Mother, wasn't it?” said Jon + suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! nothing. Only, wasn't she engaged to Fleur's father + first?” + </p> + <p> + Holly put down the spoon she was using, and raised her eyes. Her stare was + circumspect. What did the boy know? Enough to make it better to tell him? + She could not decide. He looked strained and worried, altogether older, + but that might be the sunstroke. + </p> + <p> + “There was something,” she said. “Of course we were out + there, and got no news of anything.” She could not take the risk. + </p> + <p> + It was not her secret. Besides, she was in the dark about his feelings + now. Before Spain she had made sure he was in love; but boys were boys; + that was seven weeks ago, and all Spain between. + </p> + <p> + She saw that he knew she was putting him off, and added: + </p> + <p> + “Have you heard anything of Fleur?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + His face told her, then, more than the most elaborate explanations. So he + had not forgotten! + </p> + <p> + She said very quietly: “Fleur is awfully attractive, Jon, but you + know—Val and I don't really like her very much.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “We think she's got rather a 'having' nature.” + </p> + <p> + “'Having'. I don't know what you mean. She—she—” + he pushed his dessert plate away, got up, and went to the window. + </p> + <p> + Holly, too, got up, and put her arm round his waist. + </p> + <p> + “Don't be angry, Jon dear. We can't all see people in + the same light, can we? You know, I believe each of us only has about one + or two people who can see the best that's in us, and bring it out. + For you I think it's your mother. I once saw her looking at a letter + of yours; it was wonderful to see her face. I think she's the most + beautiful woman I ever saw—Age doesn't seem to touch her.” + </p> + <p> + Jon's face softened; then again became tense. Everybody—everybody + was against him and Fleur! It all strengthened the appeal of her words: + “Make sure of me—marry me, Jon!” + </p> + <p> + Here, where he had passed that wonderful week with her—the tug of + her enchantment, the ache in his heart increased with every minute that + she was not there to make the room, the garden, the very air magical. + Would he ever be able to live down here, not seeing her? And he closed up + utterly, going early to bed. It would not make him healthy, wealthy, and + wise, but it closeted him with memory of Fleur in her fancy frock. He + heard Val's arrival—the Ford discharging cargo, then the + stillness of the summer night stole back—with only the bleating of + very distant sheep, and a night-Jar's harsh purring. He leaned far + out. Cold moon—warm air—the Downs like silver! Small wings, a + stream bubbling, the rambler roses! God—how empty all of it without + her! In the Bible it was written: Thou shalt leave father and mother and + cleave to—Fleur! + </p> + <p> + Let him have pluck, and go and tell them! They couldn't stop him + marrying her—they wouldn't want to stop him when they knew how + he felt. Yes! He would go! Bold and open—Fleur was wrong! + </p> + <p> + The night-jar ceased, the sheep were silent; the only sound in the + darkness was the bubbling of the stream. And Jon in his bed slept, freed + from the worst of life's evils—indecision. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0120" id="link2H_4_0120"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XI.—TIMOTHY PROPHESIES + </h2> + <p> + On the day of the cancelled meeting at the National Gallery began the + second anniversary of the resurrection of England's pride and glory—or, + more shortly, the top hat. “Lord's”—that festival + which the War had driven from the field—raised its light and dark + blue flags for the second time, displaying almost every feature of a + glorious past. Here, in the luncheon interval, were all species of female + and one species of male hat, protecting the multiple types of face + associated with “the classes.” The observing Forsyte might + discern in the free or unconsidered seats a certain number of the + squash-hatted, but they hardly ventured on the grass; the old school—or + schools—could still rejoice that the proletariat was not yet paying + the necessary half-crown. Here was still a close borough, the only one + left on a large scale—for the papers were about to estimate the + attendance at ten thousand. And the ten thousand, all animated by one + hope, were asking each other one question: “Where are you lunching?” + Something wonderfully uplifting and reassuring in that query and the sight + of so many people like themselves voicing it! What reserve power in the + British realm—enough pigeons, lobsters, lamb, salmon mayonnaise, + strawberries, and bottles of champagne to feed the lot! No miracle in + prospect—no case of seven loaves and a few fishes—faith rested + on surer foundations. Six thousand top hats, four thousand parasols would + be doffed and furled, ten thousand mouths all speaking the same English + would be filled. There was life in the old dog yet! Tradition! And again + Tradition! How strong and how elastic! Wars might rage, taxation prey, + Trades Unions take toll, and Europe perish of starvation; but the ten + thousand would be fed; and, within their ring fence, stroll upon green + turf, wear their top hats, and meet—themselves. The heart was sound, + the pulse still regular. E-ton! E-ton! Har-r-o-o-o-w! + </p> + <p> + Among the many Forsytes, present on a hunting-ground theirs, by personal + prescriptive right, or proxy, was Soames with his wife and daughter. He + had not been at either school, he took no interest in cricket, but he + wanted Fleur to show her frock, and he wanted to wear his top hat parade + it again in peace and plenty among his peers. He walked sedately with + Fleur between him and Annette. No women equalled them, so far as he could + see. They could walk, and hold themselves up; there was substance in their + good looks; the modern woman had no build, no chest, no anything! He + remembered suddenly with what intoxication of pride he had walked round + with Irene in the first years of his first marriage. And how they used to + lunch on the drag which his mother would make his father have, because it + was so “chic”—all drags and carriages in those days, not + these lumbering great Stands! And how consistently Montague Dartie had + drunk too much. He supposed that people drank too much still, but there + was not the scope for it there used to be. He remembered George Forsyte—whose + brothers Roger and Eustace had been at Harrow and Eton—towering up + on the top of the drag waving a light-blue flag with one hand and a + dark-blue flag with the other, and shouting “Etroow-Harrton!” + Just when everybody was silent, like the buffoon he had always been; and + Eustace got up to the nines below, too dandified to wear any colour or + take any notice. H'm! Old days, and Irene in grey silk shot with + palest green. He looked, sideways, at Fleur's face. Rather + colourless-no light, no eagerness! That love affair was preying on her—a + bad business! He looked beyond, at his wife's face, rather more + touched up than usual, a little disdainful—not that she had any + business to disdain, so far as he could see. She was taking Profond's + defection with curious quietude; or was his “small” voyage + just a blind? If so, he should refuse to see it! Having promenaded round + the pitch and in front of the pavilion, they sought Winifred's table + in the Bedouin Club tent. This Club—a new “cock and hen”—had + been founded in the interests of travel, and of a gentleman with an old + Scottish name, whose father had somewhat strangely been called Levi. + Winifred had joined, not because she had travelled, but because instinct + told her that a Club with such a name and such a founder was bound to go + far; if one didn't join at once one might never have the chance. Its + tent, with a text from the Koran on an orange ground, and a small green + camel embroidered over the entrance, was the most striking on the ground. + Outside it they found Jack Cardigan in a dark blue tie (he had once played + for Harrow), batting with a Malacca cane to show how that fellow ought to + have hit that ball. He piloted them in. Assembled in Winifred's + corner were Imogen, Benedict with his young wife, Val Dartie without + Holly, Maud and her husband, and, after Soames and his two were seated, + one empty place. + </p> + <p> + “I'm expecting Prosper,” said Winifred, “but he's + so busy with his yacht.” + </p> + <p> + Soames stole a glance. No movement in his wife's face! Whether that + fellow were coming or not, she evidently knew all about it. It did not + escape him that Fleur, too, looked at her mother. If Annette didn't + respect his feelings, she might think of Fleur's! The conversation, + very desultory, was syncopated by Jack Cardigan talking about “mid-off.” + He cited all the “great mid-offs” from the beginning of time, + as if they had been a definite racial entity in the composition of the + British people. Soames had finished his lobster, and was beginning on + pigeon-pie, when he heard the words, “I'm a small bit late, + Mrs. Dartie,” and saw that there was no longer any empty place. That + fellow was sitting between Annette and Imogen. Soames ate steadily on, + with an occasional word to Maud and Winifred. Conversation buzzed around + him. He heard the voice of Profond say: + </p> + <p> + “I think you're mistaken, Mrs. Forsyde; I'll—I'll + bet Miss Forsyde agrees with me.” + </p> + <p> + “In what?” came Fleur's clear voice across the table. + </p> + <p> + “I was sayin', young gurls are much the same as they always + were—there's very small difference.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know so much about them?” + </p> + <p> + That sharp reply caught the ears of all, and Soames moved uneasily on his + thin green chair. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don't know, I think they want their own small way, + and I think they always did.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but—Prosper,” Winifred interjected comfortably, + “the girls in the streets—the girls who've been in + munitions, the little flappers in the shops; their manners now really + quite hit you in the eye.” + </p> + <p> + At the word “hit” Jack Cardigan stopped his disquisition; and + in the silence Monsieur Profond said: + </p> + <p> + “It was inside before, now it's outside; that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “But their morals!” cried Imogen. + </p> + <p> + “Just as moral as they ever were, Mrs. Cardigan, but they've + got more opportunity.” + </p> + <p> + The saying, so cryptically cynical, received a little laugh from Imogen, a + slight opening of Jack Cardigan's mouth, and a creak from Soames' + chair. + </p> + <p> + Winifred said: “That's too bad, Prosper.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you say, Mrs. Forsyde; don't you think human nature's + always the same?” + </p> + <p> + Soames subdued a sudden longing to get up and kick the fellow. He heard + his wife reply: + </p> + <p> + “Human nature is not the same in England as anywhere else.” + That was her confounded mockery! + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don't know much about this small country”—'No, + thank God!' thought Soames—“but I should say the pot was + boilin' under the lid everywhere. We all want pleasure, and we + always did.” + </p> + <p> + Damn the fellow! His cynicism was—was outrageous! + </p> + <p> + When lunch was over they broke up into couples for the digestive + promenade. Too proud to notice, Soames knew perfectly that Annette and + that fellow had gone prowling round together. Fleur was with Val; she had + chosen him, no doubt, because he knew that boy. He himself had Winifred + for partner. They walked in the bright, circling stream, a little flushed + and sated, for some minutes, till Winifred sighed: + </p> + <p> + “I wish we were back forty years, old boy!” + </p> + <p> + Before the eyes of her spirit an interminable procession of her own + “Lord's” frocks was passing, paid for with the money of + her father, to save a recurrent crisis. “It's been very + amusing, after all. Sometimes I even wish Monty was back. What do you + think of people nowadays, Soames?” + </p> + <p> + “Precious little style. The thing began to go to pieces with + bicycles and motor-cars; the War has finished it.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder what's coming?” said Winifred in a voice + dreamy from pigeon-pie. “I'm not at all sure we shan't + go back to crinolines and pegtops. Look at that dress!” + </p> + <p> + Soames shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “There's money, but no faith in things. We don't lay by + for the future. These youngsters—it's all a short life and a + merry one with them.” + </p> + <p> + “There's a hat!” said Winifred. “I don't + know—when you come to think of the people killed and all that in the + War, it's rather wonderful, I think. There's no other country—Prosper + says the rest are all bankrupt, except America; and of course her men + always took their style in dress from us.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that chap,” said Soames, “really going to the South + Seas?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! one never knows where Prosper's going!” + </p> + <p> + “He's a sign of the times,” muttered Soames, “if + you like.” + </p> + <p> + Winifred's hand gripped his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Don't turn your head,” she said in a low voice, “but + look to your right in the front row of the Stand.” + </p> + <p> + Soames looked as best he could under that limitation. A man in a grey top + hat, grey-bearded, with thin brown, folded cheeks, and a certain elegance + of posture, sat there with a woman in a lawn-coloured frock, whose dark + eyes were fixed on himself. Soames looked quickly at his feet. How funnily + feet moved, one after the other like that! Winifred's voice said in + his ear: + </p> + <p> + “Jolyon looks very ill; but he always had style. She doesn't + change—except her hair.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did you tell Fleur about that business?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't; she picked it up. I always knew she would.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it's a mess. She's set her heart upon their boy.” + </p> + <p> + “The little wretch,” murmured Winifred. “She tried to + take me in about that. What shall you do, Soames?” + </p> + <p> + “Be guided by events.” + </p> + <p> + They moved on, silent, in the almost solid crowd. + </p> + <p> + “Really,” said Winifred suddenly; “it almost seems like + Fate. Only that's so old-fashioned. Look! there are George and + Eustace!” + </p> + <p> + George Forsyte's lofty bulk had halted before them. + </p> + <p> + “Hallo, Soames!” he said. “Just met Profond and your + wife. You'll catch 'em if you put on pace. Did you ever go to + see old Timothy?” + </p> + <p> + Soames nodded, and the streams forced them apart. + </p> + <p> + “I always liked old George,” said Winifred. “He's + so droll.” + </p> + <p> + “I never did,” said Soames. “Where's your seat? I + shall go to mine. Fleur may be back there.” + </p> + <p> + Having seen Winifred to her seat, he regained his own, conscious of small, + white, distant figures running, the click of the bat, the cheers and + counter-cheers. No Fleur, and no Annette! You could expect nothing of + women nowadays! They had the vote. They were “emancipated,” + and much good it was doing them! So Winifred would go back, would she, and + put up with Dartie all over again? To have the past once more—to be + sitting here as he had sat in '83 and '84, before he was + certain that his marriage with Irene had gone all wrong, before her + antagonism had become so glaring that with the best will in the world he + could not overlook it. The sight of her with that fellow had brought all + memory back. Even now he could not understand why she had been so + impracticable. She could love other men; she had it in her! To himself, + the one person she ought to have loved, she had chosen to refuse her + heart. It seemed to him, fantastically, as he looked back, that all this + modern relaxation of marriage—though its forms and laws were the + same as when he married her—that all this modern looseness had come + out of her revolt; it seemed to him, fantastically, that she had started + it, till all decent ownership of anything had gone, or was on the point of + going. All came from her! And now—a pretty state of things! Homes! + How could you have them without mutual ownership? Not that he had ever had + a real home! But had that been his fault? He had done his best. And his + rewards were—those two sitting in that Stand, and this affair of + Fleur's! + </p> + <p> + And overcome by loneliness he thought: 'Shan't wait any + longer! They must find their own way back to the hotel—if they mean + to come!' Hailing a cab outside the ground, he said: + </p> + <p> + “Drive me to the Bayswater Road.” His old aunts had never + failed him. To them he had meant an ever-welcome visitor. Though they were + gone, there, still, was Timothy! + </p> + <p> + Smither was standing in the open doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Soames! I was just taking the air. Cook will be so pleased.” + </p> + <p> + “How is Mr. Timothy?” + </p> + <p> + “Not himself at all these last few days, sir; he's been + talking a great deal. Only this morning he was saying: 'My brother + James, he's getting old.' His mind wanders, Mr. Soames, and + then he will talk of them. He troubles about their investments. The other + day he said: 'There's my brother Jolyon won't look at + Consols'—he seemed quite down about it. Come in, Mr. Soames, + come in! It's such a pleasant change!” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Soames, “just for a few minutes.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” murmured Smither in the hall, where the air had the + singular freshness of the outside day, “we haven't been very + satisfied with him, not all this week. He's always been one to leave + a titbit to the end; but ever since Monday he's been eating it + first. If you notice a dog, Mr. Soames, at its dinner, it eats the meat + first. We've always thought it such a good sign of Mr. Timothy at + his age to leave it to the last, but now he seems to have lost all his + self-control; and, of course, it makes him leave the rest. The doctor + doesn't make anything of it, but”—Smither shook her head—“he + seems to think he's got to eat it first, in case he shouldn't + get to it. That and his talking makes us anxious.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he said anything important?” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn't like to say that, Mr. Soames; but he's + turned against his Will. He gets quite pettish—and after having had + it out every morning for years, it does seem funny. He said the other day: + 'They want my money.' It gave me such a turn, because, as I + said to him, nobody wants his money, I'm sure. And it does seem a + pity he should be thinking about money at his time of life. I took my + courage in my 'ands. 'You know, Mr. Timothy,' I said, + 'my dear mistress'—that's Miss Forsyte, Mr. + Soames, Miss Ann that trained me—'she never thought about + money,' I said, 'it was all character with her.' He + looked at me, I can't tell you how funny, and he said quite dry: + 'Nobody wants my character.' Think of his saying a thing like + that! But sometimes he'll say something as sharp and sensible as + anything.” + </p> + <p> + Soames, who had been staring at an old print by the hat-rack, thinking, + 'That's got value!' murmured: “I'll go up + and see him, Smither.” + </p> + <p> + “Cook's with him,” answered Smither above her corsets; + “she will be pleased to see you.” + </p> + <p> + He mounted slowly, with the thought: 'Shan't care to live to + be that age.' + </p> + <p> + On the second floor, he paused, and tapped. The door was opened, and he + saw the round homely face of a woman about sixty. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Soames!” she said: “Why! Mr. Soames!” + </p> + <p> + Soames nodded. “All right, Cook!” and entered. + </p> + <p> + Timothy was propped up in bed, with his hands joined before his chest, and + his eyes fixed on the ceiling, where a fly was standing upside down. + Soames stood at the foot of the bed, facing him. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle Timothy,” he said, raising his voice. “Uncle + Timothy!” + </p> + <p> + Timothy's eyes left the fly, and levelled themselves on his visitor. + Soames could see his pale tongue passing over his darkish lips. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle Timothy,” he said again, “is there anything I can + do for you? Is there anything you'd like to say?” + </p> + <p> + “Ha!” said Timothy. + </p> + <p> + “I've come to look you up and see that everything's all + right.” + </p> + <p> + Timothy nodded. He seemed trying to get used to the apparition before him. + </p> + <p> + “Have you got everything you want?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Timothy. + </p> + <p> + “Can I get you anything?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Timothy. + </p> + <p> + “I'm Soames, you know; your nephew, Soames Forsyte. Your + brother James' son.” + </p> + <p> + Timothy nodded. + </p> + <p> + “I shall be delighted to do anything I can for you.” + </p> + <p> + Timothy beckoned. Soames went close to him: + </p> + <p> + “You—” said Timothy in a voice which seemed to have + outlived tone, “you tell them all from me—you tell them all—” + and his finger tapped on Soames' arm, “to hold on—hold + on—Consols are goin' up,” and he nodded thrice. + </p> + <p> + “All right!” said Soames; “I will.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Timothy, and, fixing his eyes again on the + ceiling, he added: “That fly!” + </p> + <p> + Strangely moved, Soames looked at the Cook's pleasant fattish face, + all little puckers from staring at fires. + </p> + <p> + “That'll do him a world of good, sir,” she said. + </p> + <p> + A mutter came from Timothy, but he was clearly speaking to himself, and + Soames went out with the cook. + </p> + <p> + “I wish I could make you a pink cream, Mr. Soames, like in old days; + you did so relish them. Good-bye, sir; it has been a pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + “Take care of him, Cook, he is old.” + </p> + <p> + And, shaking her crumpled hand, he went down-stairs. Smither was still + taking the air in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of him, Mr. Soames?” + </p> + <p> + “H'm!” Soames murmured: “He's lost touch.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Smither, “I was afraid you'd think + that coming fresh out of the world to see him like.” + </p> + <p> + “Smither,” said Soames, “we're all indebted to + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, Mr. Soames, don't say that! It's a pleasure—he's + such a wonderful man.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, good-bye!” said Soames, and got into his taxi. + </p> + <p> + 'Going up!' he thought; 'going up!' + </p> + <p> + Reaching the hotel at Knightsbridge he went to their sitting-room, and + rang for tea. Neither of them were in. And again that sense of loneliness + came over him. These hotels. What monstrous great places they were now! He + could remember when there was nothing bigger than Long's or Brown's, + Morley's or the Tavistock, and the heads that were shaken over the + Langham and the Grand. Hotels and Clubs—Clubs and Hotels; no end to + them now! And Soames, who had just been watching at Lord's a miracle + of tradition and continuity, fell into reverie over the changes in that + London where he had been born five-and-sixty years before. Whether Consols + were going up or not, London had become a terrific property. No such + property in the world, unless it were New York! There was a lot of + hysteria in the papers nowadays; but any one who, like himself, could + remember London sixty years ago, and see it now, realised the fecundity + and elasticity of wealth. They had only to keep their heads, and go at it + steadily. Why! he remembered cobblestones, and stinking straw on the floor + of your cab. And old Timothy—what could he not have told them, if he + had kept his memory! Things were unsettled, people in a funk or in a + hurry, but here were London and the Thames, and out there the British + Empire, and the ends of the earth. “Consols are goin' up!” + He should n't be a bit surprised. It was the breed that counted. And + all that was bull-dogged in Soames stared for a moment out of his grey + eyes, till diverted by the print of a Victorian picture on the walls. The + hotel had bought three dozen of that little lot! The old hunting or + “Rake's Progress” prints in the old inns were worth + looking at—but this sentimental stuff—well, Victorianism had + gone! “Tell them to hold on!” old Timothy had said. But to + what were they to hold on in this modern welter of the “democratic + principle”? Why, even privacy was threatened! And at the thought + that privacy might perish, Soames pushed back his teacup and went to the + window. Fancy owning no more of Nature than the crowd out there owned of + the flowers and trees and waters of Hyde Park! No, no! Private possession + underlay everything worth having. The world had slipped its sanity a bit, + as dogs now and again at full moon slipped theirs and went off for a night's + rabbiting; but the world, like the dog, knew where its bread was buttered + and its bed warm, and would come back sure enough to the only home worth + having—to private ownership. The world was in its second childhood + for the moment, like old Timothy—eating its titbit first! + </p> + <p> + He heard a sound behind him, and saw that his wife and daughter had come + in. + </p> + <p> + “So you're back!” he said. + </p> + <p> + Fleur did not answer; she stood for a moment looking at him and her + mother, then passed into her bedroom. Annette poured herself out a cup of + tea. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to Paris, to my mother, Soames.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! To your mother?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “For how long?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know.” + </p> + <p> + “And when are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “On Monday.” + </p> + <p> + Was she really going to her mother? Odd, how indifferent he felt! Odd, how + clearly she had perceived the indifference he would feel so long as there + was no scandal. And suddenly between her and himself he saw distinctly the + face he had seen that afternoon—Irene's. + </p> + <p> + “Will you want money?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you; I have enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. Let us know when you are coming back.” + </p> + <p> + Annette put down the cake she was fingering, and, looking up through + darkened lashes, said: + </p> + <p> + “Shall I give Maman any message?” + </p> + <p> + “My regards.” + </p> + <p> + Annette stretched herself, her hands on her waist, and said in French: + </p> + <p> + “What luck that you have never loved me, Soames!” Then rising, + she too left the room. Soames was glad she had spoken it in French—it + seemed to require no dealing with. Again that other face—pale, + dark-eyed, beautiful still! And there stirred far down within him the + ghost of warmth, as from sparks lingering beneath a mound of flaky ash. + And Fleur infatuated with her boy! Queer chance! Yet, was there such a + thing as chance? A man went down a street, a brick fell on his head. Ah! + that was chance, no doubt. But this! “Inherited,” his girl had + said. She—she was “holding on”! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PARTc3" id="link2H_PARTc3"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART III + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0122" id="link2H_4_0122"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I.—OLD JOLYON WALKS + </h2> + <p> + Twofold impulse had made Jolyon say to his wife at breakfast “Let's + go up to Lord's!” + </p> + <p> + “Wanted”—something to abate the anxiety in which those + two had lived during the sixty hours since Jon had brought Fleur down. + “Wanted”—too, that which might assuage the pangs of + memory in one who knew he might lose them any day! + </p> + <p> + Fifty-eight years ago Jolyon had become an Eton boy, for old Jolyon's + whim had been that he should be canonised at the greatest possible + expense. Year after year he had gone to Lord's from Stanhope Gate + with a father whose youth in the eighteen-twenties had been passed without + polish in the game of cricket. Old Jolyon would speak quite openly of + swipes, full tosses, half and three-quarter balls; and young Jolyon with + the guileless snobbery of youth had trembled lest his sire should be + overheard. Only in this supreme matter of cricket he had been nervous, for + his father—in Crimean whiskers then—had ever impressed him as + the beau ideal. Though never canonised himself, Old Jolyon's natural + fastidiousness and balance had saved him from the errors of the vulgar. + How delicious, after bowling in a top hat and a sweltering heat, to go + home with his father in a hansom cab, bathe, dress, and forth to the + “Disunion” Club, to dine off white bait, cutlets, and a tart, + and go—two “swells,” old and young, in lavender kid + gloves—to the opera or play. And on Sunday, when the match was over, + and his top hat duly broken, down with his father in a special hansom to + the “Crown and Sceptre,” and the terrace above the river—the + golden sixties when the world was simple, dandies glamorous, Democracy not + born, and the books of Whyte Melville coming thick and fast. + </p> + <p> + A generation later, with his own boy, Jolly, Harrow-buttonholed with + corn-flowers—by old Jolyon's whim his grandson had been + canonised at a trifle less expense—again Jolyon had experienced the + heat and counter-passions of the day, and come back to the cool and the + strawberry beds of Robin Hill, and billiards after dinner, his boy making + the most heart-breaking flukes and trying to seem languid and grown-up. + Those two days each year he and his son had been alone together in the + world, one on each side—and Democracy just born! + </p> + <p> + And so, he had unearthed a grey top hat, borrowed a tiny bit of light-blue + ribbon from Irene, and gingerly, keeping cool, by car and train and taxi, + had reached Lord's Ground. There, beside her in a lawn-coloured + frock with narrow black edges, he had watched the game, and felt the old + thrill stir within him. + </p> + <p> + When Soames passed, the day was spoiled. Irene's face was distorted + by compression of the lips. No good to go on sitting here with Soames or + perhaps his daughter recurring in front of them, like decimals. And he + said: + </p> + <p> + “Well, dear, if you've had enough—let's go!” + </p> + <p> + That evening Jolyon felt exhausted. Not wanting her to see him thus, he + waited till she had begun to play, and stole off to the little study. He + opened the long window for air, and the door, that he might still hear her + music drifting in; and, settled in his father's old armchair, closed + his eyes, with his head against the worn brown leather. Like that passage + of the Cesar Franck Sonata—so had been his life with her, a divine + third movement. And now this business of Jon's—this bad + business! Drifted to the edge of consciousness, he hardly knew if it were + in sleep that he smelled the scent of a cigar, and seemed to see his + father in the blackness before his closed eyes. That shape formed, went, + and formed again; as if in the very chair where he himself was sitting, he + saw his father, black-coated, with knees crossed, glasses balanced between + thumb and finger; saw the big white moustaches, and the deep eyes looking + up below a dome of forehead and seeming to search his own, seeming to + speak. “Are you facing it, Jo? It's for you to decide. She's + only a woman!” Ah! how well he knew his father in that phrase; how + all the Victorian Age came up with it! And his answer “No, I've + funked it—funked hurting her and Jon and myself. I've got a + heart; I've funked it.” But the old eyes, so much older, so + much younger than his own, kept at it; “It's your wife, your + son; your past. Tackle it, my boy!” Was it a message from walking + spirit; or but the instinct of his sire living on within him? And again + came that scent of cigar smoke-from the old saturated leather. Well! he + would tackle it, write to Jon, and put the whole thing down in black and + white! And suddenly he breathed with difficulty, with a sense of + suffocation, as if his heart were swollen. He got up and went out into the + air. The stars were very bright. He passed along the terrace round the + corner of the house, till, through the window of the music-room, he could + see Irene at the piano, with lamp-light falling on her powdery hair; + withdrawn into herself she seemed, her dark eyes staring straight before + her, her hands idle. Jolyon saw her raise those hands and clasp them over + her breast. 'It's Jon, with her,' he thought; 'all + Jon! I'm dying out of her—it's natural!' + </p> + <p> + And, careful not to be seen, he stole back. + </p> + <p> + Next day, after a bad night, he sat down to his task. He wrote with + difficulty and many erasures. + </p> + <p> + “MY DEAREST BOY, + </p> + <p> + “You are old enough to understand how very difficult it is for + elders to give themselves away to their young. Especially when—like + your mother and myself, though I shall never think of her as anything but + young—their hearts are altogether set on him to whom they must + confess. I cannot say we are conscious of having sinned exactly—people + in real life very seldom are, I believe—but most persons would say + we had, and at all events our conduct, righteous or not, has found us out. + The truth is, my dear, we both have pasts, which it is now my task to make + known to you, because they so grievously and deeply affect your future. + Many, very many years ago, as far back indeed as 1883, when she was only + twenty, your mother had the great and lasting misfortune to make an + unhappy marriage—no, not with me, Jon. Without money of her own, and + with only a stepmother—closely related to Jezebel—she was very + unhappy in her home life. It was Fleur's father that she married, my + cousin Soames Forsyte. He had pursued her very tenaciously and to do him + justice was deeply in love with her. Within a week she knew the fearful + mistake she had made. It was not his fault; it was her error of judgment—her + misfortune.” + </p> + <p> + So far Jolyon had kept some semblance of irony, but now his subject + carried him away. + </p> + <p> + “Jon, I want to explain to you if I can—and it's very + hard—how it is that an unhappy marriage such as this can so easily + come about. You will of course say: 'If she didn't really love + him how could she ever have married him?' You would be right if it + were not for one or two rather terrible considerations. From this initial + mistake of hers all the subsequent trouble, sorrow, and tragedy have come, + and so I must make it clear to you if I can. You see, Jon, in those days + and even to this day—indeed, I don't see, for all the talk of + enlightenment, how it can well be otherwise—most girls are married + ignorant of the sexual side of life. Even if they know what it means they + have not experienced it. That's the crux. It is this actual lack of + experience, whatever verbal knowledge they have, which makes all the + difference and all the trouble. In a vast number of marriages-and your + mother's was one—girls are not and cannot be certain whether + they love the man they marry or not; they do not know until after that act + of union which makes the reality of marriage. Now, in many, perhaps in + most doubtful cases, this act cements and strengthens the attachment, but + in other cases, and your mother's was one, it is a revelation of + mistake, a destruction of such attraction as there was. There is nothing + more tragic in a woman's life than such a revelation, growing daily, + nightly clearer. Coarse-grained and unthinking people are apt to laugh at + such a mistake, and say, 'What a fuss about nothing!' Narrow + and self-righteous people, only capable of judging the lives of others by + their own, are apt to condemn those who make this tragic error, to condemn + them for life to the dungeons they have made for themselves. You know the + expression: 'She has made her bed, she must lie on it!' It is + a hard-mouthed saying, quite unworthy of a gentleman or lady in the best + sense of those words; and I can use no stronger condemnation. I have not + been what is called a moral man, but I wish to use no words to you, my + dear, which will make you think lightly of ties or contracts into which + you enter. Heaven forbid! But with the experience of a life behind me I do + say that those who condemn the victims of these tragic mistakes, condemn + them and hold out no hands to help them, are inhuman, or rather they would + be if they had the understanding to know what they are doing. But they + haven't! Let them go! They are as much anathema to me as I, no + doubt, am to them. I have had to say all this, because I am going to put + you into a position to judge your mother, and you are very young, without + experience of what life is. To go on with the story. After three years of + effort to subdue her shrinking—I was going to say her loathing and + it's not too strong a word, for shrinking soon becomes loathing + under such circumstances—three years of what to a sensitive, + beauty-loving nature like your mother's, Jon, was torment, she met a + young man who fell in love with her. He was the architect of this very + house that we live in now, he was building it for her and Fleur's + father to live in, a new prison to hold her, in place of the one she + inhabited with him in London. Perhaps that fact played some part in what + came of it. But in any case she, too, fell in love with him. I know it's + not necessary to explain to you that one does not precisely choose with + whom one will fall in love. It comes. Very well! It came. I can imagine—though + she never said much to me about it—the struggle that then took place + in her, because, Jon, she was brought up strictly and was not light in her + ideas—not at all. However, this was an overwhelming feeling, and it + came to pass that they loved in deed as well as in thought. Then came a + fearful tragedy. I must tell you of it because if I don't you will + never understand the real situation that you have now to face. The man + whom she had married—Soames Forsyte, the father of Fleur one night, + at the height of her passion for this young man, forcibly reasserted his + rights over her. The next day she met her lover and told him of it. + Whether he committed suicide or whether he was accidentally run over in + his distraction, we never knew; but so it was. Think of your mother as she + was that evening when she heard of his death. I happened to see her. Your + grandfather sent me to help her if I could. I only just saw her, before + the door was shut against me by her husband. But I have never forgotten + her face, I can see it now. I was not in love with her then, not for + twelve years after, but I have never forgotten. My dear boy—it is + not easy to write like this. But you see, I must. Your mother is wrapped + up in you, utterly, devotedly. I don't wish to write harshly of + Soames Forsyte. I don't think harshly of him. I have long been sorry + for him; perhaps I was sorry even then. As the world judges she was in + error, he within his rights. He loved her—in his way. She was his + property. That is the view he holds of life—of human feelings and + hearts—property. It's not his fault—so was he born. To + me it is a view that has always been abhorrent—so was I born! + Knowing you as I do, I feel it cannot be otherwise than abhorrent to you. + Let me go on with the story. Your mother fled from his house that night; + for twelve years she lived quietly alone without companionship of any + sort, until in 1899 her husband—you see, he was still her husband, + for he did not attempt to divorce her, and she of course had no right to + divorce him—became conscious, it seems, of the want of children, and + commenced a long attempt to induce her to go back to him and give him a + child. I was her trustee then, under your Grandfather's Will, and I + watched this going on. While watching, I became attached to her, devotedly + attached. His pressure increased, till one day she came to me here and + practically put herself under my protection. Her husband, who was kept + informed of all her movements, attempted to force us apart by bringing a + divorce suit, or possibly he really meant it, I don't know; but + anyway our names were publicly joined. That decided us, and we became + united in fact. She was divorced, married me, and you were born. We have + lived in perfect happiness, at least I have, and I believe your mother + also. Soames, soon after the divorce, married Fleur's mother, and + she was born. That is the story, Jon. I have told it you, because by the + affection which we see you have formed for this man's daughter you + are blindly moving toward what must utterly destroy your mother's + happiness, if not your own. I don't wish to speak of myself, because + at my age there's no use supposing I shall cumber the ground much + longer, besides, what I should suffer would be mainly on her account, and + on yours. But what I want you to realise is that feelings of horror and + aversion such as those can never be buried or forgotten. They are alive in + her to-day. Only yesterday at Lord's we happened to see Soames + Forsyte. Her face, if you had seen it, would have convinced you. The idea + that you should marry his daughter is a nightmare to her, Jon. I have + nothing to say against Fleur save that she is his daughter. But your + children, if you married her, would be the grandchildren of Soames, as + much as of your mother, of a man who once owned your mother as a man might + own a slave. Think what that would mean. By such a marriage you enter the + camp which held your mother prisoner and wherein she ate her heart out. + You are just on the threshold of life, you have only known this girl two + months, and however deeply you think you love her, I appeal to you to + break it off at once. Don't give your mother this rankling pain and + humiliation during the rest of her life. Young though she will always seem + to me, she is fifty-seven. Except for us two she has no one in the world. + She will soon have only you. Pluck up your spirit, Jon, and break away. + Don't put this cloud and barrier between you. Don't break her + heart! Bless you, my dear boy, and again forgive me for all the pain this + letter must bring you—we tried to spare it you, but Spain—it + seems—-was no good. + </p> + <p> + “Ever your devoted father, + </p> + <p> + “JOLYON FORSYTE.” + </p> + <p> + Having finished his confession, Jolyon sat with a thin cheek on his hand, + re-reading. There were things in it which hurt him so much, when he + thought of Jon reading them, that he nearly tore the letter up. To speak + of such things at all to a boy—his own boy—to speak of them in + relation to his own wife and the boy's own mother, seemed dreadful + to the reticence of his Forsyte soul. And yet without speaking of them how + make Jon understand the reality, the deep cleavage, the ineffaceable scar? + Without them, how justify this stiffing of the boy's love? He might + just as well not write at all! + </p> + <p> + He folded the confession, and put it in his pocket. It was—thank + Heaven!—Saturday; he had till Sunday evening to think it over; for + even if posted now it could not reach Jon till Monday. He felt a curious + relief at this delay, and at the fact that, whether sent or not, it was + written. + </p> + <p> + In the rose garden, which had taken the place of the old fernery, he could + see Irene snipping and pruning, with a little basket on her arm. She was + never idle, it seemed to him, and he envied her now that he himself was + idle nearly all his time. He went down to her. She held up a stained glove + and smiled. A piece of lace tied under her chin concealed her hair, and + her oval face with its still dark brows looked very young. + </p> + <p> + “The green-fly are awful this year, and yet it's cold. You + look tired, Jolyon.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon took the confession from his pocket. “I've been writing + this. I think you ought to see it?” + </p> + <p> + “To Jon?” Her whole face had changed, in that instant, + becoming almost haggard. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; the murder's out.” + </p> + <p> + He gave it to her, and walked away among the roses. Presently, seeing that + she had finished reading and was standing quite still with the sheets of + the letter against her skirt, he came back to her. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “It's wonderfully put. I don't see how it could be put + better. Thank you, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there anything you would like left out?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “No; he must know all, if he's to understand.” + </p> + <p> + “That's what I thought, but—I hate it!” + </p> + <p> + He had the feeling that he hated it more than she—to him sex was so + much easier to mention between man and woman than between man and man; and + she had always been more natural and frank, not deeply secretive like his + Forsyte self. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if he will understand, even now, Jolyon? He's so + young; and he shrinks from the physical.” + </p> + <p> + “He gets that shrinking from my father, he was as fastidious as a + girl in all such matters. Would it be better to rewrite the whole thing, + and just say you hated Soames?” + </p> + <p> + Irene shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Hate's only a word. It conveys nothing. No, better as it is.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. It shall go to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + She raised her face to his, and in sight of the big house's many + creepered windows, he kissed her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0123" id="link2H_4_0123"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II.—CONFESSION + </h2> + <p> + Late that same afternoon, Jolyon had a nap in the old armchair. Face down + on his knee was La Rotisserie de la Refine Pedauque, and just before he + fell asleep he had been thinking: 'As a people shall we ever really + like the French? Will they ever really like us!' He himself had + always liked the French, feeling at home with their wit, their taste, + their cooking. Irene and he had paid many visits to France before the War, + when Jon had been at his private school. His romance with her had begun in + Paris—his last and most enduring romance. But the French—no + Englishman could like them who could not see them in some sort with the + detached aesthetic eye! And with that melancholy conclusion he had nodded + off. + </p> + <p> + When he woke he saw Jon standing between him and the window. The boy had + evidently come in from the garden and was waiting for him to wake. Jolyon + smiled, still half asleep. How nice the chap looked—sensitive, + affectionate, straight! Then his heart gave a nasty jump; and a quaking + sensation overcame him. Jon! That confession! He controlled himself with + an effort. “Why, Jon, where did you spring from?” + </p> + <p> + Jon bent over and kissed his forehead. + </p> + <p> + Only then he noticed the look on the boy's face. + </p> + <p> + “I came home to tell you something, Dad.” + </p> + <p> + With all his might Jolyon tried to get the better of the jumping, gurgling + sensations within his chest. + </p> + <p> + “Well, sit down, old man. Have you seen your mother?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” The boy's flushed look gave place to pallor; he + sat down on the arm of the old chair, as, in old days, Jolyon himself used + to sit beside his own father, installed in its recesses. Right up to the + time of the rupture in their relations he had been wont to perch there—had + he now reached such a moment with his own son? All his life he had hated + scenes like poison, avoided rows, gone on his own way quietly and let + others go on theirs. But now—it seemed—at the very end of + things, he had a scene before him more painful than any he had avoided. He + drew a visor down over his emotion, and waited for his son to speak. + </p> + <p> + “Father,” said Jon slowly, “Fleur and I are engaged.” + </p> + <p> + 'Exactly!' thought Jolyon, breathing with difficulty. + </p> + <p> + “I know that you and Mother don't like the idea. Fleur says + that Mother was engaged to her father before you married her. Of course I + don't know what happened, but it must be ages ago. I'm devoted + to her, Dad, and she says she is to me.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon uttered a queer sound, half laugh, half groan. + </p> + <p> + “You are nineteen, Jon, and I am seventy-two. How are we to + understand each other in a matter like this, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “You love Mother, Dad; you must know what we feel. It isn't + fair to us to let old things spoil our happiness, is it?” + </p> + <p> + Brought face to face with his confession, Jolyon resolved to do without it + if by any means he could. He laid his hand on the boy's arm. + </p> + <p> + “Look, Jon! I might put you off with talk about your both being too + young and not knowing your own minds, and all that, but you wouldn't + listen, besides, it doesn't meet the case—Youth, + unfortunately, cures itself. You talk lightly about 'old things like + that,' knowing nothing—as you say truly—of what + happened. Now, have I ever given you reason to doubt my love for you, or + my word?” + </p> + <p> + At a less anxious moment he might have been amused by the conflict his + words aroused—the boy's eager clasp, to reassure him on these + points, the dread on his face of what that reassurance would bring forth; + but he could only feel grateful for the squeeze. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, you can believe what I tell you. If you don't give + up this love affair, you will make Mother wretched to the end of her days. + Believe me, my dear, the past, whatever it was, can't be buried—it + can't indeed.” + </p> + <p> + Jon got off the arm of the chair. + </p> + <p> + 'The girl'—thought Jolyon—'there she goes—starting + up before him—life itself—eager, pretty, loving!' + </p> + <p> + “I can't, Father; how can I—just because you say that? + Of course, I can't!” + </p> + <p> + “Jon, if you knew the story you would give this up without + hesitation; you would have to! Can't you believe me?” + </p> + <p> + “How can you tell what I should think? Father, I love her better + than anything in the world.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon's face twitched, and he said with painful slowness: + </p> + <p> + “Better than your mother, Jon?” + </p> + <p> + From the boy's face, and his clenched fists Jolyon realised the + stress and struggle he was going through. + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” he burst out, “I don't know! + But to give Fleur up for nothing—for something I don't + understand, for something that I don't believe can really matter + half so much, will make me—make me....” + </p> + <p> + “Make you feel us unjust, put a barrier—yes. But that's + better than going on with this.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't. Fleur loves me, and I love her. You want me to trust + you; why don't you trust me, Father? We wouldn't want to know + anything—we wouldn't let it make any difference. It'll + only make us both love you and Mother all the more.” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon put his hand into his breast pocket, but brought it out again + empty, and sat, clucking his tongue against his teeth. + </p> + <p> + “Think what your mother's been to you, Jon! She has nothing + but you; I shan't last much longer.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? It isn't fair to—Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Jolyon, rather coldly, “because the doctors + tell me I shan't; that's all.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Dad!” cried Jon, and burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + This downbreak of his son, whom he had not seen cry since he was ten, + moved Jolyon terribly. He recognised to the full how fearfully soft the + boy's heart was, how much he would suffer in this business, and in + life generally. And he reached out his hand helplessly—not wishing, + indeed not daring to get up. + </p> + <p> + “Dear man,” he said, “don't—or you'll + make me!” + </p> + <p> + Jon smothered down his paroxysm, and stood with face averted, very still. + </p> + <p> + 'What now?' thought Jolyon. 'What can I say to move him?' + </p> + <p> + “By the way, don't speak of that to Mother,” he said; + “she has enough to frighten her with this affair of yours. I know + how you feel. But, Jon, you know her and me well enough to be sure we + wouldn't wish to spoil your happiness lightly. Why, my dear boy, we + don't care for anything but your happiness—at least, with me + it's just yours and Mother's and with her just yours. It's + all the future for you both that's at stake.” + </p> + <p> + Jon turned. His face was deadly pale; his eyes, deep in his head, seemed + to burn. + </p> + <p> + “What is it? What is it? Don't keep me like this!” + </p> + <p> + Jolyon, who knew that he was beaten, thrust his hand again into his breast + pocket, and sat for a full minute, breathing with difficulty, his eyes + closed. The thought passed through his mind: 'I've had a good + long innings—some pretty bitter moments—this is the worst!' + Then he brought his hand out with the letter, and said with a sort of + fatigue: “Well, Jon, if you hadn't come to-day, I was going to + send you this. I wanted to spare you—I wanted to spare your mother + and myself, but I see it's no good. Read it, and I think I'll + go into the garden.” He reached forward to get up. + </p> + <p> + Jon, who had taken the letter, said quickly, “No, I'll go”; + and was gone. + </p> + <p> + Jolyon sank back in his chair. A blue-bottle chose that moment to come + buzzing round him with a sort of fury; the sound was homely, better than + nothing.... Where had the boy gone to read his letter? The wretched letter—the + wretched story! A cruel business—cruel to her—to Soames—to + those two children—to himself!... His heart thumped and pained him. + Life—its loves—its work—its beauty—its aching, and—its + end! A good time; a fine time in spite of all; until—you regretted + that you had ever been born. Life—it wore you down, yet did not make + you want to die—that was the cunning evil! Mistake to have a heart! + Again the blue-bottle came buzzing—bringing in all the heat and hum + and scent of summer—yes, even the scent—as of ripe fruits, + dried grasses, sappy shrubs, and the vanilla breath of cows. And out there + somewhere in the fragrance Jon would be reading that letter, turning and + twisting its pages in his trouble, his bewilderment and trouble—breaking + his heart about it! The thought made Jolyon acutely miserable. Jon was + such a tender-hearted chap, affectionate to his bones, and conscientious, + too—it was so unfair, so damned unfair! He remembered Irene saying + to him once: “Never was any one born more loving and lovable than + Jon.” Poor little Jon! His world gone up the spout, all of a summer + afternoon! Youth took things so hard! And stirred, tormented by that + vision of Youth taking things hard, Jolyon got out of his chair, and went + to the window. The boy was nowhere visible. And he passed out. If one + could take any help to him now—one must! + </p> + <p> + He traversed the shrubbery, glanced into the walled garden—no Jon! + Nor where the peaches and the apricots were beginning to swell and colour. + He passed the Cupressus trees, dark and spiral, into the meadow. Where had + the boy got to? Had he rushed down to the coppice—his old + hunting-ground? Jolyon crossed the rows of hay. They would cock it on + Monday and be carrying the day after, if rain held off. Often they had + crossed this field together—hand in hand, when Jon was a little + chap. Dash it! The golden age was over by the time one was ten! He came to + the pond, where flies and gnats were dancing over a bright reedy surface; + and on into the coppice. It was cool there, fragrant of larches. Still no + Jon! He called. No answer! On the log seat he sat down, nervous, anxious, + forgetting his own physical sensations. He had been wrong to let the boy + get away with that letter; he ought to have kept him under his eye from + the start! Greatly troubled, he got up to retrace his steps. At the + farm-buildings he called again, and looked into the dark cow-house. There + in the cool, and the scent of vanilla and ammonia, away from flies, the + three Alderneys were chewing the quiet cud; just milked, waiting for + evening, to be turned out again into the lower field. One turned a lazy + head, a lustrous eye; Jolyon could see the slobber on its grey lower lip. + He saw everything with passionate clearness, in the agitation of his + nerves—all that in his time he had adored and tried to paint—wonder + of light and shade and colour. No wonder the legend put Christ into a + manger—what more devotional than the eyes and moon-white horns of a + chewing cow in the warm dusk! He called again. No answer! And he hurried + away out of the coppice, past the pond, up the hill. Oddly ironical—now + he came to think of it—if Jon had taken the gruel of his discovery + down in the coppice where his mother and Bosinney in those old days had + made the plunge of acknowledging their love. Where he himself, on the log + seat the Sunday morning he came back from Paris, had realised to the full + that Irene had become the world to him. That would have been the place for + Irony to tear the veil from before the eyes of Irene's boy! But he + was not here! Where had he got to? One must find the poor chap! + </p> + <p> + A gleam of sun had come, sharpening to his hurrying senses all the beauty + of the afternoon, of the tall trees and lengthening shadows, of the blue, + and the white clouds, the scent of the hay, and the cooing of the pigeons; + and the flower shapes standing tall. He came to the rosery, and the beauty + of the roses in that sudden sunlight seemed to him unearthly. “Rose, + you Spaniard!” Wonderful three words! There she had stood by that + bush of dark red roses; had stood to read and decide that Jon must know it + all! He knew all now! Had she chosen wrong? He bent and sniffed a rose, + its petals brushed his nose and trembling lips; nothing so soft as a + rose-leaf's velvet, except her neck—Irene! On across the lawn + he went, up the slope, to the oak-tree. Its top alone was glistening, for + the sudden sun was away over the house; the lower shade was thick, + blessedly cool—he was greatly overheated. He paused a minute with + his hand on the rope of the swing—Jolly, Holly—Jon! The old + swing! And suddenly, he felt horribly—deadly ill. 'I've + over done it!' he thought: 'by Jove! I've overdone it—after + all!' He staggered up toward the terrace, dragged himself up the + steps, and fell against the wall of the house. He leaned there gasping, + his face buried in the honey-suckle that he and she had taken such trouble + with that it might sweeten the air which drifted in. Its fragrance mingled + with awful pain. 'My love!' he thought; 'the boy!' + And with a great effort he tottered in through the long window, and sank + into old Jolyon's chair. The book was there, a pencil in it; he + caught it up, scribbled a word on the open page.... His hand dropped.... + So it was like this—was it?... + </p> + <p> + There was a great wrench; and darkness.... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0124" id="link2H_4_0124"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III.—IRENE + </h2> + <p> + When Jon rushed away with the letter in his hand, he ran along the terrace + and round the corner of the house, in fear and confusion. Leaning against + the creepered wall he tore open the letter. It was long—very long! + This added to his fear, and he began reading. When he came to the words: + “It was Fleur's father that she married,” everything + seemed to spin before him. He was close to a window, and entering by it, + he passed, through music-room and hall, up to his bedroom. Dipping his + face in cold water, he sat on his bed, and went on reading, dropping each + finished page on the bed beside him. His father's writing was easy + to read—he knew it so well, though he had never had a letter from + him one quarter so long. He read with a dull feeling—imagination + only half at work. He best grasped, on that first reading, the pain his + father must have had in writing such a letter. He let the last sheet fall, + and in a sort of mental, moral helplessness began to read the first again. + It all seemed to him disgusting—dead and disgusting. Then, suddenly, + a hot wave of horrified emotion tingled through him. He buried his face in + his hands. His mother! Fleur's father! He took up the letter again, + and read on mechanically. And again came the feeling that it was all dead + and disgusting; his own love so different! This letter said his mother—and + her father! An awful letter! + </p> + <p> + Property! Could there be men who looked on women as their property? Faces + seen in street and countryside came thronging up before him—red, + stock-fish faces; hard, dull faces; prim, dry faces; violent faces; + hundreds, thousands of them! How could he know what men who had such faces + thought and did? He held his head in his hands and groaned. His mother! He + caught up the letter and read on again: “horror and aversion-alive + in her to-day.... your children.... grandchildren.... of a man who once + owned your mother as a man might own a slave....” He got up from his + bed. This cruel shadowy past, lurking there to murder his love and Fleur's, + was true, or his father could never have written it. 'Why didn't + they tell me the first thing,' he thought, 'the day I first + saw Fleur? They knew I'd seen her. They were afraid, and—now—I've—got + it!' Overcome by misery too acute for thought or reason, he crept + into a dusky corner of the room and sat down on the floor. He sat there, + like some unhappy little animal. There was comfort in dusk, and the floor—as + if he were back in those days when he played his battles sprawling all + over it. He sat there huddled, his hair ruffled, his hands clasped round + his knees, for how long he did not know. He was wrenched from his blank + wretchedness by the sound of the door opening from his mother's + room. The blinds were down over the windows of his room, shut up in his + absence, and from where he sat he could only hear a rustle, her footsteps + crossing, till beyond the bed he saw her standing before his + dressing-table. She had something in her hand. He hardly breathed, hoping + she would not see him, and go away. He saw her touch things on the table + as if they had some virtue in them, then face the window-grey from head to + foot like a ghost. The least turn of her head, and she must see him! Her + lips moved: “Oh! Jon!” She was speaking to herself; the tone + of her voice troubled Jon's heart. He saw in her hand a little + photograph. She held it toward the light, looking at it—very small. + He knew it—one of himself as a tiny boy, which she always kept in + her bag. His heart beat fast. And, suddenly as if she had heard it, she + turned her eyes and saw him. At the gasp she gave, and the movement of her + hands pressing the photograph against her breast, he said: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it's me.” + </p> + <p> + She moved over to the bed, and sat down on it, quite close to him, her + hands still clasping her breast, her feet among the sheets of the letter + which had slipped to the floor. She saw them, and her hands grasped the + edge of the bed. She sat very upright, her dark eyes fixed on him. At last + she spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Jon, you know, I see.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You've seen Father?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence, till she said: + </p> + <p> + “Oh! my darling!” + </p> + <p> + “It's all right.” The emotions in him were so, violent + and so mixed that he dared not move—resentment, despair, and yet a + strange yearning for the comfort of her hand on his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + There was another long silence, then she got up. She stood a moment, very + still, made a little movement with her hand, and said: “My darling + boy, my most darling boy, don't think of me—think of yourself,” + and, passing round the foot of the bed, went back into her room. + </p> + <p> + Jon turned—curled into a sort of ball, as might a hedgehog—into + the corner made by the two walls. + </p> + <p> + He must have been twenty minutes there before a cry roused him. It came + from the terrace below. He got up, scared. Again came the cry: “Jon!” + His mother was calling! He ran out and down the stairs, through the empty + dining-room into the study. She was kneeling before the old armchair, and + his father was lying back quite white, his head on his breast, one of his + hands resting on an open book, with a pencil clutched in it—more + strangely still than anything he had ever seen. She looked round wildly, + and said: + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Jon—he's dead—he's dead!” + </p> + <p> + Jon flung himself down, and reaching over the arm of the chair, where he + had lately been sitting, put his lips to the forehead. Icy cold! How could—how + could Dad be dead, when only an hour ago—! His mother's arms + were round the knees; pressing her breast against them. “Why—why + wasn't I with him?” he heard her whisper. Then he saw the + tottering word “Irene” pencilled on the open page, and broke + down himself. It was his first sight of human death, and its unutterable + stillness blotted from him all other emotion; all else, then, was but + preliminary to this! All love and life, and joy, anxiety, and sorrow, all + movement, light and beauty, but a beginning to this terrible white + stillness. It made a dreadful mark on him; all seemed suddenly little, + futile, short. He mastered himself at last, got up, and raised her. + </p> + <p> + “Mother! don't cry—Mother!” + </p> + <p> + Some hours later, when all was done that had to be, and his mother was + lying down, he saw his father alone, on the bed, covered with a white + sheet. He stood for a long time gazing at that face which had never looked + angry—always whimsical, and kind. “To be kind and keep your + end up—there's nothing else in it,” he had once heard + his father say. How wonderfully Dad had acted up to that philosophy! He + understood now that his father had known for a long time past that this + would come suddenly—known, and not said a word. He gazed with an + awed and passionate reverence. The loneliness of it—just to spare + his mother and himself! His own trouble seemed small while he was looking + at that face. The word scribbled on the page! The farewell word! Now his + mother had no one but himself! He went up close to the dead face—not + changed at all, and yet completely changed. He had heard his father say + once that he did not believe in consciousness surviving death, or that if + it did it might be just survival till the natural age limit of the body + had been reached—the natural term of its inherent vitality; so that + if the body were broken by accident, excess, violent disease, + consciousness might still persist till, in the course of Nature + uninterfered with, it would naturally have faded out. It had struck him + because he had never heard any one else suggest it. When the heart failed + like this—surely it was not quite natural! Perhaps his father's + consciousness was in the room with him. Above the bed hung a picture of + his father's father. Perhaps his consciousness, too, was still + alive; and his brother's—his half-brother, who had died in the + Transvaal. Were they all gathered round this bed? Jon kissed the forehead, + and stole back to his own room. The door between it and his mother's + was ajar; she had evidently been in—everything was ready for him, + even some biscuits and hot milk, and the letter no longer on the floor. He + ate and drank, watching the last light fade. He did not try to see into + the future—just stared at the dark branches of the oak-tree, level + with his window, and felt as if life had stopped. Once in the night, + turning in his heavy sleep, he was conscious of something white and still, + beside his bed, and started up. + </p> + <p> + His mother's voice said: + </p> + <p> + “It's only I, Jon dear!” Her hand pressed his forehead + gently back; her white figure disappeared. + </p> + <p> + Alone! He fell heavily asleep again, and dreamed he saw his mother's + name crawling on his bed. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0125" id="link2H_4_0125"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV.—SOAMES COGITATES + </h2> + <p> + The announcement in The Times of his cousin Jolyon's death affected + Soames quite simply. So that chap was gone! There had never been a time in + their two lives when love had not been lost between them. That + quick-blooded sentiment hatred had run its course long since in Soames' + heart, and he had refused to allow any recrudescence, but he considered + this early decease a piece of poetic justice. For twenty years the fellow + had enjoyed the reversion of his wife and house, and—he was dead! + The obituary notice, which appeared a little later, paid Jolyon—he + thought—too much attention. It spoke of that “diligent and + agreeable painter whose work we have come to look on as typical of the + best late-Victorian water-colour art.” Soames, who had almost + mechanically preferred Mole, Morpin, and Caswell Baye, and had always + sniffed quite audibly when he came to one of his cousin's on the + line, turned The Times with a crackle. + </p> + <p> + He had to go up to Town that morning on Forsyte affairs, and was fully + conscious of Gradman's glance sidelong over his spectacles. The old + clerk had about him an aura of regretful congratulation. He smelled, as it + were, of old days. One could almost hear him thinking: “Mr. Jolyon, + ye-es—just my age, and gone—dear, dear! I dare say she feels + it. She was a nice-lookin' woman. Flesh is flesh! They've + given 'im a notice in the papers. Fancy!” His atmosphere in + fact caused Soames to handle certain leases and conversions with + exceptional swiftness. + </p> + <p> + “About that settlement on Miss Fleur, Mr. Soames?” + </p> + <p> + “I've thought better of that,” answered Soames shortly. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I'm glad of that. I thought you were a little hasty. The + times do change.” + </p> + <p> + How this death would affect Fleur had begun to trouble Soames. He was not + certain that she knew of it—she seldom looked at the paper, never at + the births, marriages, and deaths. + </p> + <p> + He pressed matters on, and made his way to Green Street for lunch. + Winifred was almost doleful. Jack Cardigan had broken a splashboard, so + far as one could make out, and would not be “fit” for some + time. She could not get used to the idea. + </p> + <p> + “Did Profond ever get off?” he said suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “He got off,” replied Winifred, “but where—I don't + know.” + </p> + <p> + Yes, there it was—impossible to tell anything! Not that he wanted to + know. Letters from Annette were coming from Dieppe, where she and her + mother were staying. + </p> + <p> + “You saw that fellow's death, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Winifred. “I'm sorry for—for his + children. He was very amiable.” Soames uttered a rather queer sound. + A suspicion of the old deep truth—that men were judged in this world + rather by what they were than by what they did—crept and knocked + resentfully at the back doors of his mind. + </p> + <p> + “I know there was a superstition to that effect,” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + “One must do him justice now he's dead.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to have done him justice before,” said Soames; + “but I never had the chance. Have you got a 'Baronetage' + here?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; in that bottom row.” + </p> + <p> + Soames took out a fat red book, and ran over the leaves. + </p> + <p> + “Mont-Sir Lawrence, 9th Bt., cr. 1620, e. s. of Geoffrey, 8th Bt., + and Lavinia, daur. of Sir Charles Muskham, Bt., of Muskham Hall, Shrops: + marr. 1890 Emily, daur. of Conway Charwell, Esq., of Condaford Grange, co. + Oxon; 1 son, heir Michael Conway, b. 1895, 2 daurs. Residence: Lippinghall + Manor, Folwell, Bucks. Clubs: Snooks'. Coffee House: Aeroplane. See + Bidicott.” + </p> + <p> + “H'm!” he said. “Did you ever know a publisher?” + </p> + <p> + “Uncle Timothy.” + </p> + <p> + “Alive, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Monty knew one at his Club. He brought him here to dinner once. + Monty was always thinking of writing a book, you know, about how to make + money on the turf. He tried to interest that man.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “He put him on to a horse—for the Two Thousand. We didn't + see him again. He was rather smart, if I remember.” + </p> + <p> + “Did it win?” + </p> + <p> + “No; it ran last, I think. You know Monty really was quite clever in + his way.” + </p> + <p> + “Was he?” said Soames. “Can you see any connection + between a sucking baronet and publishing?” + </p> + <p> + “People do all sorts of things nowadays,” replied Winifred. + “The great stunt seems not to be idle—so different from our + time. To do nothing was the thing then. But I suppose it'll come + again.” + </p> + <p> + “This young Mont that I'm speaking of is very sweet on Fleur. + If it would put an end to that other affair I might encourage it.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he got style?” asked Winifred. + </p> + <p> + “He's no beauty; pleasant enough, with some scattered brains. + There's a good deal of land, I believe. He seems genuinely attached. + But I don't know.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” murmured Winifred; “it's—very + difficult. I always found it best to do nothing. It is such a bore about + Jack; now we shan't get away till after Bank Holiday. Well, the + people are always amusing, I shall go into the Park and watch them.” + </p> + <p> + “If I were you,” said Soames, “I should have a country + cottage, and be out of the way of holidays and strikes when you want.” + </p> + <p> + “The country bores me,” answered Winifred, “and I found + the railway strike quite exciting.” + </p> + <p> + Winifred had always been noted for sang-froid. + </p> + <p> + Soames took his leave. All the way down to Reading he debated whether he + should tell Fleur of that boy's father's death. It did not + alter the situation except that he would be independent now, and only have + his mother's opposition to encounter. He would come into a lot of + money, no doubt, and perhaps the house—the house built for Irene and + himself—the house whose architect had wrought his domestic ruin. His + daughter—mistress of that house! That would be poetic justice! + Soames uttered a little mirthless laugh. He had designed that house to + re-establish his failing union, meant it for the seat of his descendants, + if he could have induced Irene to give him one! Her son and Fleur! Their + children would be, in some sort, offspring of the union between himself + and her! + </p> + <p> + The theatricality in that thought was repulsive to his sober sense. And + yet—it would be the easiest and wealthiest way out of the impasse, + now that Jolyon was gone. The juncture of two Forsyte fortunes had a kind + of conservative charm. And she—Irene-would be linked to him once + more. Nonsense! Absurd! He put the notion from his head. + </p> + <p> + On arriving home he heard the click of billiard-balls, and through the + window saw young Mont sprawling over the table. Fleur, with her cue + akimbo, was watching with a smile. How pretty she looked! No wonder that + young fellow was out of his mind about her. A title—land! There was + little enough in land, these days; perhaps less in a title. The old + Forsytes had always had a kind of contempt for titles, rather remote and + artificial things—not worth the money they cost, and having to do + with the Court. They had all had that feeling in differing measure—Soames + remembered. Swithin, indeed, in his most expansive days had once attended + a Levee. He had come away saying he shouldn't go again—“all + that small fry.” It was suspected that he had looked too big in + knee-breeches. Soames remembered how his own mother had wished to be + presented because of the fashionable nature of the performance, and how + his father had put his foot down with unwonted decision. What did she want + with that peacocking—wasting time and money; there was nothing in + it! + </p> + <p> + The instinct which had made and kept the English Commons the chief power + in the State, a feeling that their own world was good enough and a little + better than any other because it was their world, had kept the old + Forsytes singularly free of “flummery,” as Nicholas had been + wont to call it when he had the gout. Soames' generation, more + self-conscious and ironical, had been saved by a sense of Swithin in + knee-breeches. While the third and the fourth generation, as it seemed to + him, laughed at everything. + </p> + <p> + However, there was no harm in the young fellow's being heir to a + title and estate—a thing one couldn't help. He entered + quietly, as Mont missed his shot. He noted the young man's eyes, + fixed on Fleur bending over in her turn; and the adoration in them almost + touched him. + </p> + <p> + She paused with the cue poised on the bridge of her slim hand, and shook + her crop of short dark chestnut hair. + </p> + <p> + “I shall never do it.” + </p> + <p> + “'Nothing venture.'” + </p> + <p> + “All right.” The cue struck, the ball rolled. “There!” + </p> + <p> + “Bad luck! Never mind!” + </p> + <p> + Then they saw him, and Soames said: + </p> + <p> + “I'll mark for you.” + </p> + <p> + He sat down on the raised seat beneath the marker, trim and tired, + furtively studying those two young faces. When the game was over Mont came + up to him. + </p> + <p> + “I've started in, sir. Rum game, business, isn't it? I + suppose you saw a lot of human nature as a solicitor.” + </p> + <p> + “I did.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I tell you what I've noticed: People are quite on the + wrong tack in offering less than they can afford to give; they ought to + offer more, and work backward.” + </p> + <p> + Soames raised his eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose the more is accepted?” + </p> + <p> + “That doesn't matter a little bit,” said Mont; “it's + much more paying to abate a price than to increase it. For instance, say + we offer an author good terms—he naturally takes them. Then we go + into it, find we can't publish at a decent profit and tell him so. + He's got confidence in us because we've been generous to him, + and he comes down like a lamb, and bears us no malice. But if we offer him + poor terms at the start, he doesn't take them, so we have to advance + them to get him, and he thinks us damned screws into the bargain. + </p> + <p> + “Try buying pictures on that system,” said Soames; “an + offer accepted is a contract—haven't you learned that?” + </p> + <p> + Young Mont turned his head to where Fleur was standing in the window. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said, “I wish I had. Then there's another + thing. Always let a man off a bargain if he wants to be let off.” + </p> + <p> + “As advertisement?” said Soames dryly. + </p> + <p> + “Of course it is; but I meant on principle.” + </p> + <p> + “Does your firm work on those lines?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet,” said Mont, “but it'll come.” + </p> + <p> + “And they will go.” + </p> + <p> + “No, really, sir. I'm making any number of observations, and + they all confirm my theory. Human nature is consistently underrated in + business, people do themselves out of an awful lot of pleasure and profit + by that. Of course, you must be perfectly genuine and open, but that's + easy if you feel it. The more human and generous you are the better chance + you've got in business.” + </p> + <p> + Soames rose. + </p> + <p> + “Are you a partner?” + </p> + <p> + “Not for six months, yet.” + </p> + <p> + “The rest of the firm had better make haste and retire.” + </p> + <p> + Mont laughed. + </p> + <p> + “You'll see,” he said. “There's going to be + a big change. The possessive principle has got its shutters up.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” said Soames. + </p> + <p> + “The house is to let! Good-bye, sir; I'm off now.” + </p> + <p> + Soames watched his daughter give her hand, saw her wince at the squeeze it + received, and distinctly heard the young man's sigh as he passed + out. Then she came from the window, trailing her finger along the mahogany + edge of the billiard-table. Watching her, Soames knew that she was going + to ask him something. Her finger felt round the last pocket, and she + looked up. + </p> + <p> + “Have you done anything to stop Jon writing to me, Father?” + </p> + <p> + Soames shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “You haven't seen, then?” he said. “His father + died just a week ago to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + In her startled, frowning face he saw the instant struggle to apprehend + what this would mean. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Jon! Why didn't you tell me, Father?” + </p> + <p> + “I never know!” said Soames slowly; “you don't + confide in me.” + </p> + <p> + “I would, if you'd help me, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I shall.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur clasped her hands. “Oh! darling—when one wants a thing + fearfully, one doesn't think of other people. Don't be angry + with me.” + </p> + <p> + Soames put out his hand, as if pushing away an aspersion. + </p> + <p> + “I'm cogitating,” he said. What on earth had made him + use a word like that! “Has young Mont been bothering you again?” + </p> + <p> + Fleur smiled. “Oh! Michael! He's always bothering; but he's + such a good sort—I don't mind him.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Soames, “I'm tired; I shall go and + have a nap before dinner.” + </p> + <p> + He went up to his picture-gallery, lay down on the couch there, and closed + his eyes. A terrible responsibility this girl of his—whose mother + was—ah! what was she? A terrible responsibility! Help her—how + could he help her? He could not alter the fact that he was her father. Or + that Irene—! What was it young Mont had said—some nonsense + about the possessive instinct—shutters up—To let? Silly! + </p> + <p> + The sultry air, charged with a scent of meadow-sweet, of river and roses, + closed on his senses, drowsing them. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0126" id="link2H_4_0126"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + V.—THE FIXED IDEA + </h2> + <p> + “The fixed idea,” which has outrun more constables than any + other form of human disorder, has never more speed and stamina than when + it takes the avid guise of love. To hedges and ditches, and doors, to + humans without ideas fixed or otherwise, to perambulators and the contents + sucking their fixed ideas, even to the other sufferers from this fast + malady—the fixed idea of love pays no attention. It runs with eyes + turned inward to its own light, oblivious of all other stars. Those with + the fixed ideas that human happiness depends on their art, on vivisecting + dogs, on hating foreigners, on paying supertax, on remaining Ministers, on + making wheels go round, on preventing their neighbours from being + divorced, on conscientious objection, Greek roots, Church dogma, paradox + and superiority to everybody else, with other forms of ego-mania—all + are unstable compared with him or her whose fixed idea is the possession + of some her or him. And though Fleur, those chilly summer days, pursued + the scattered life of a little Forsyte whose frocks are paid for, and + whose business is pleasure, she was—as Winifred would have said in + the latest fashion of speech—“honest to God” indifferent + to it all. She wished and wished for the moon, which sailed in cold skies + above the river or the Green Park when she went to Town. She even kept Jon's + letters, covered with pink silk, on her heart, than which in days when + corsets were so low, sentiment so despised, and chests so out of fashion, + there could, perhaps, have been no greater proof of the fixity of her + idea. + </p> + <p> + After hearing of his father's death, she wrote to Jon, and received + his answer three days later on her return from a river picnic. It was his + first letter since their meeting at June's. She opened it with + misgiving, and read it with dismay. + </p> + <p> + “Since I saw you I've heard everything about the past. I won't + tell it you—I think you knew when we met at June's. She says + you did. If you did, Fleur, you ought to have told me. I expect you only + heard your father's side of it. I have heard my mother's. It's + dreadful. Now that she's so sad I can't do anything to hurt + her more. Of course, I long for you all day, but I don't believe now + that we shall ever come together—there's something too strong + pulling us apart.” + </p> + <p> + So! Her deception had found her out. But Jon—she felt—had + forgiven that. It was what he said of his mother which caused the + guttering in her heart and the weak sensation in her legs. + </p> + <p> + Her first impulse was to reply—her second, not to reply. These + impulses were constantly renewed in the days which followed, while + desperation grew within her. She was not her father's child for + nothing. The tenacity which had at once made and undone Soames was her + backbone, too, frilled and embroidered by French grace and quickness. + Instinctively she conjugated the verb “to have” always with + the pronoun “I.” She concealed, however, all signs of her + growing desperation, and pursued such river pleasures as the winds and + rain of a disagreeable July permitted, as if she had no care in the world; + nor did any “sucking baronet” ever neglect the business of a + publisher more consistently than her attendant spirit, Michael Mont. + </p> + <p> + To Soames she was a puzzle. He was almost deceived by this careless + gaiety. Almost—because he did not fail to mark her eyes often fixed + on nothing, and the film of light shining from her bedroom window late at + night. What was she thinking and brooding over into small hours when she + ought to have been asleep? But he dared not ask what was in her mind; and, + since that one little talk in the billiard-room, she said nothing to him. + </p> + <p> + In this taciturn condition of affairs it chanced that Winifred invited + them to lunch and to go afterward to “a most amusing little play, + 'The Beggar's Opera'” and would they bring a man + to make four? Soames, whose attitude toward theatres was to go to nothing, + accepted, because Fleur's attitude was to go to everything. They + motored up, taking Michael Mont, who, being in his seventh heaven, was + found by Winifred “very amusing.” “The Beggar's + Opera” puzzled Soames. The people were very unpleasant, the whole + thing very cynical. Winifred was “intrigued”—by the + dresses. The music, too, did not displease her. At the Opera, the night + before, she had arrived too early for the Russian Ballet, and found the + stage occupied by singers, for a whole hour pale or apoplectic from terror + lest by some dreadful inadvertence they might drop into a tune. Michael + Mont was enraptured with the whole thing. And all three wondered what + Fleur was thinking of it. But Fleur was not thinking of it. Her fixed idea + stood on the stage and sang with Polly Peachum, mimed with Filch, danced + with Jenny Diver, postured with Lucy Lockit, kissed, trolled, and cuddled + with Macheath. Her lips might smile, her hands applaud, but the comic old + masterpiece made no more impression on her than if it had been pathetic, + like a modern “Revue.” When they embarked in the car to + return, she ached because Jon was not sitting next her instead of Michael + Mont. When, at some jolt, the young man's arm touched hers as if by + accident, she only thought: 'If that were Jon's arm!' + When his cheerful voice, tempered by her proximity, murmured above the + sound of the car's progress, she smiled and answered, thinking: + 'If that were Jon's voice!' and when once he said, + “Fleur, you look a perfect angel in that dress!” she answered, + “Oh, do you like it?” thinking, 'If only Jon could see + it!' + </p> + <p> + During this drive she took a resolution. She would go to Robin Hill and + see him—alone; she would take the car, without word beforehand to + him or to her father. It was nine days since his letter, and she could + wait no longer. On Monday she would go! The decision made her well + disposed toward young Mont. With something to look forward to she could + afford to tolerate and respond. He might stay to dinner; propose to her as + usual; dance with her, press her hand, sigh—do what he liked. He was + only a nuisance when he interfered with her fixed idea. She was even sorry + for him so far as it was possible to be sorry for anybody but herself just + now. At dinner he seemed to talk more wildly than usual about what he + called “the death of the close borough”—she paid little + attention, but her father seemed paying a good deal, with the smile on his + face which meant opposition, if not anger. + </p> + <p> + “The younger generation doesn't think as you do, sir; does it, + Fleur?” + </p> + <p> + Fleur shrugged her shoulders—the younger generation was just Jon, + and she did not know what he was thinking. + </p> + <p> + “Young people will think as I do when they're my age, Mr. + Mont. Human nature doesn't change.” + </p> + <p> + “I admit that, sir; but the forms of thought change with the times. + The pursuit of self-interest is a form of thought that's going out.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! To mind one's own business is not a form of thought, + Mr. Mont, it's an instinct.” + </p> + <p> + Yes, when Jon was the business! + </p> + <p> + “But what is one's business, sir? That's the point. + Everybody's business is going to be one's business. Isn't + it, Fleur?” + </p> + <p> + Fleur only smiled. + </p> + <p> + “If not,” added young Mont, “there'll be blood.” + </p> + <p> + “People have talked like that from time immemorial” + </p> + <p> + “But you'll admit, sir, that the sense of property is dying + out?” + </p> + <p> + “I should say increasing among those who have none.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, look at me! I'm heir to an entailed estate. I don't + want the thing; I'd cut the entail to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “You're not married, and you don't know what you're + talking about.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur saw the young man's eyes turn rather piteously upon her. + </p> + <p> + “Do you really mean that marriage—?” he began. + </p> + <p> + “Society is built on marriage,” came from between her father's + close lips; “marriage and its consequences. Do you want to do away + with it?” + </p> + <p> + Young Mont made a distracted gesture. Silence brooded over the dinner + table, covered with spoons bearing the Forsyte crest—a pheasant + proper—under the electric light in an alabaster globe. And outside, + the river evening darkened, charged with heavy moisture and sweet scents. + </p> + <p> + 'Monday,' thought Fleur; 'Monday!' + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0127" id="link2H_4_0127"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VI.—DESPERATE + </h2> + <p> + The weeks which followed the death of his father were sad and empty to the + only Jolyon Forsyte left. The necessary forms and ceremonies—the + reading of the Will, valuation of the estate, distribution of the legacies—were + enacted over the head, as it were, of one not yet of age. Jolyon was + cremated. By his special wish no one attended that ceremony, or wore black + for him. The succession of his property, controlled to some extent by old + Jolyon's Will, left his widow in possession of Robin Hill, with two + thousand five hundred pounds a year for life. Apart from this the two + Wills worked together in some complicated way to insure that each of + Jolyon's three children should have an equal share in their + grandfather's and father's property in the future as in the + present, save only that Jon, by virtue of his sex, would have control of + his capital when he was twenty-one, while June and Holly would only have + the spirit of theirs, in order that their children might have the body + after them. If they had no children, it would all come to Jon if he + outlived them; and since June was fifty, and Holly nearly forty, it was + considered in Lincoln's Inn Fields that but for the cruelty of + income tax, young Jon would be as warm a man as his grandfather when he + died. All this was nothing to Jon, and little enough to his mother. It was + June who did everything needful for one who had left his affairs in + perfect order. When she had gone, and those two were alone again in the + great house, alone with death drawing them together, and love driving them + apart, Jon passed very painful days secretly disgusted and disappointed + with himself. His mother would look at him with such a patient sadness + which yet had in it an instinctive pride, as if she were reserving her + defence. If she smiled he was angry that his answering smile should be so + grudging and unnatural. He did not judge or condemn her; that was all too + remote—indeed, the idea of doing so had never come to him. No! he + was grudging and unnatural because he couldn't have what he wanted + because of her. There was one alleviation—much to do in connection + with his father's career, which could not be safely entrusted to + June, though she had offered to undertake it. Both Jon and his mother had + felt that if she took his portfolios, unexhibited drawings and unfinished + matter, away with her, the work would encounter such icy blasts from Paul + Post and other frequenters of her studio, that it would soon be frozen out + even of her warm heart. On its old-fashioned plane and of its kind the + work was good, and they could not bear the thought of its subjection to + ridicule. A one-man exhibition of his work was the least testimony they + could pay to one they had loved; and on preparation for this they spent + many hours together. Jon came to have a curiously increased respect for + his father. The quiet tenacity with which he had converted a mediocre + talent into something really individual was disclosed by these researches. + There was a great mass of work with a rare continuity of growth in depth + and reach of vision. Nothing certainly went very deep, or reached very + high—but such as the work was, it was thorough, conscientious, and + complete. And, remembering his father's utter absence of “side” + or self-assertion, the chaffing humility with which he had always spoken + of his own efforts, ever calling himself “an amateur,” Jon + could not help feeling that he had never really known his father. To take + himself seriously, yet never that he did so, seemed to have been his + ruling principle. There was something in this which appealed to the boy, + and made him heartily endorse his mother's comment: “He had + true refinement; he couldn't help thinking of others, whatever he + did. And when he took a resolution which went counter, he did it with the + minimum of defiance—not like the Age, is it? Twice in his life he + had to go against everything; and yet it never made him bitter.” Jon + saw tears running down her face, which she at once turned away from him. + She was so quiet about her loss that sometimes he had thought she didn't + feel it much. Now, as he looked at her, he felt how far he fell short of + the reserve power and dignity in both his father and his mother. And, + stealing up to her, he put his arm round her waist. She kissed him + swiftly, but with a sort of passion, and went out of the room. + </p> + <p> + The studio, where they had been sorting and labelling, had once been Holly's + schoolroom, devoted to her silkworms, dried lavender, music, and other + forms of instruction. Now, at the end of July, despite its northern and + eastern aspects, a warm and slumberous air came in between the long-faded + lilac linen curtains. To redeem a little the departed glory, as of a field + that is golden and gone, clinging to a room which its master has left, + Irene had placed on the paint-stained table a bowl of red roses. This, and + Jolyon's favourite cat, who still clung to the deserted habitat, + were the pleasant spots in that dishevelled, sad workroom. Jon, at the + north window, sniffing air mysteriously scented with warm strawberries, + heard a car drive up. The lawyers again about some nonsense! Why did that + scent so make one ache? And where did it come from—there were no + strawberry beds on this side of the house. Instinctively he took a + crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket, and wrote down some broken words. + A warmth began spreading in his chest; he rubbed the palms of his hands + together. Presently he had jotted this: + </p> + <p> + “If I could make a little song A little song to soothe my heart! I'd + make it all of little things The plash of water, rub of wings, The + puffing-off of dandies crown, The hiss of raindrop spilling down, The purr + of cat, the trill of bird, And ev'ry whispering I've heard + From willy wind in leaves and grass, And all the distant drones that pass. + A song as tender and as light As flower, or butterfly in flight; And when + I saw it opening, I'd let it fly and sing!” + </p> + <p> + He was still muttering it over to himself at the window, when he heard his + name called, and, turning round, saw Fleur. At that amazing apparition, he + made at first no movement and no sound, while her clear vivid glance + ravished his heart. Then he went forward to the table, saying, “How + nice of you to come!” and saw her flinch as if he had thrown + something at her. + </p> + <p> + “I asked for you,” she said, “and they showed me up + here. But I can go away again.” + </p> + <p> + Jon clutched the paint-stained table. Her face and figure in its frilly + frock photographed itself with such startling vividness upon his eyes, + that if she had sunk through the floor he must still have seen her. + </p> + <p> + “I know I told you a lie, Jon. But I told it out of love.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, oh! yes! That's nothing!” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't answer your letter. What was the use—there + wasn't anything to answer. I wanted to see you instead.” She + held out both her hands, and Jon grasped them across the table. He tried + to say something, but all his attention was given to trying not to hurt + her hands. His own felt so hard and hers so soft. She said almost + defiantly: + </p> + <p> + “That old story—was it so very dreadful?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” In his voice, too, there was a note of defiance. + </p> + <p> + She dragged her hands away. “I didn't think in these days boys + were tied to their mothers' apron-strings.” + </p> + <p> + Jon's chin went up as if he had been struck. + </p> + <p> + “Oh! I didn't mean it, Jon. What a horrible thing to say!” + Swiftly she came close to him. “Jon, dear; I didn't mean it.” + </p> + <p> + “All right.” + </p> + <p> + She had put her two hands on his shoulder, and her forehead down on them; + the brim of her hat touched his neck, and he felt it quivering. But, in a + sort of paralysis, he made no response. She let go of his shoulder and + drew away. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'll go, if you don't want me. But I never + thought you'd have given me up.” + </p> + <p> + “I haven't,” cried Jon, coming suddenly to life. “I + can't. I'll try again.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes gleamed, she swayed toward him. “Jon—I love you! Don't + give me up! If you do, I don't know what—I feel so desperate. + What does it matter—all that past-compared with this?” + </p> + <p> + She clung to him. He kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her lips. But while he + kissed her he saw, the sheets of that letter fallen down on the floor of + his bedroom—his father's white dead face—his mother + kneeling before it. Fleur's whispered, “Make her! Promise! Oh! + Jon, try!” seemed childish in his ear. He felt curiously old. + </p> + <p> + “I promise!” he muttered. “Only, you don't + understand.” + </p> + <p> + “She wants to spoil our lives, just because—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of what?” + </p> + <p> + Again that challenge in his voice, and she did not answer. Her arms + tightened round him, and he returned her kisses; but even while he + yielded, the poison worked in him, the poison of the letter. Fleur did not + know, she did not understand—she misjudged his mother; she came from + the enemy's camp! So lovely, and he loved her so—yet, even in + her embrace, he could not help the memory of Holly's words: “I + think she has a 'having' nature,” and his mother's + “My darling boy, don't think of me—think of yourself!” + </p> + <p> + When she was gone like a passionate dream, leaving her image on his eyes, + her kisses on his lips, such an ache in his heart, Jon leaned in the + window, listening to the car bearing her away. Still the scent as of warm + strawberries, still the little summer sounds that should make his song; + still all the promise of youth and happiness in sighing, floating, + fluttering July—and his heart torn; yearning strong in him; hope + high in him yet with its eyes cast down, as if ashamed. The miserable task + before him! If Fleur was desperate, so was he—watching the poplars + swaying, the white clouds passing, the sunlight on the grass. + </p> + <p> + He waited till evening, till after their almost silent dinner, till his + mother had played to him and still he waited, feeling that she knew what + he was waiting to say. She kissed him and went up-stairs, and still he + lingered, watching the moonlight and the moths, and that unreality of + colouring which steals along and stains a summer night. And he would have + given anything to be back again in the past—barely three months + back; or away forward, years, in the future. The present with this dark + cruelty of a decision, one way or the other, seemed impossible. He + realised now so much more keenly what his mother felt than he had at + first; as if the story in that letter had been a poisonous germ producing + a kind of fever of partisanship, so that he really felt there were two + camps, his mother's and his—Fleur's and her father's. + It might be a dead thing, that old tragic ownership and enmity, but dead + things were poisonous till time had cleaned them away. Even his love felt + tainted, less illusioned, more of the earth, and with a treacherous + lurking doubt lest Fleur, like her father, might want to own; not + articulate, just a stealing haunt, horribly unworthy, which crept in and + about the ardour of his memories, touched with its tarnishing breath the + vividness and grace of that charmed face and figure—a doubt, not + real enough to convince him of its presence, just real enough to deflower + a perfect faith. And perfect faith, to Jon, not yet twenty, was essential. + He still had Youth's eagerness to give with both hands, to take with + neither—to give lovingly to one who had his own impulsive + generosity. Surely she had! He got up from the window-seat and roamed in + the big grey ghostly room, whose walls were hung with silvered canvas. + This house his father said in that death-bed letter—had been built + for his mother to live in—with Fleur's father! He put out his + hand in the half-dark, as if to grasp the shadowy hand of the dead. He + clenched, trying to feel the thin vanished fingers of his father; to + squeeze them, and reassure him that he—he was on his father's + side. Tears, prisoned within him, made his eyes feel dry and hot. He went + back to the window. It was warmer, not so eerie, more comforting outside, + where the moon hung golden, three days off full; the freedom of the night + was comforting. If only Fleur and he had met on some desert island without + a past—and Nature for their house! Jon had still his high regard for + desert islands, where breadfruit grew, and the water was blue above the + coral. The night was deep, was free—there was enticement in it; a + lure, a promise, a refuge from entanglement, and love! Milksop tied to his + mother's...! His cheeks burned. He shut the window, drew curtains + over it, switched off the lighted sconce, and went up-stairs. + </p> + <p> + The door of his room was open, the light turned up; his mother, still in + her evening gown, was standing at the window. She turned and said: + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, Jon; let's talk.” She sat down on the + window-seat, Jon on his bed. She had her profile turned to him, and the + beauty and grace of her figure, the delicate line of the brow, the nose, + the neck, the strange and as it were remote refinement of her, moved him. + His mother never belonged to her surroundings. She came into them from + somewhere—as it were! What was she going to say to him, who had in + his heart such things to say to her? + </p> + <p> + “I know Fleur came to-day. I'm not surprised.” It was as + though she had added: “She is her father's daughter!” + And Jon's heart hardened. Irene went on quietly: + </p> + <p> + “I have Father's letter. I picked it up that night and kept + it. Would you like it back, dear?” + </p> + <p> + Jon shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “I had read it, of course, before he gave it to you. It didn't + quite do justice to my criminality.” + </p> + <p> + “Mother!” burst from Jon's lips. + </p> + <p> + “He put it very sweetly, but I know that in marrying Fleur's + father without love I did a dreadful thing. An unhappy marriage, Jon, can + play such havoc with other lives besides one's own. You are + fearfully young, my darling, and fearfully loving. Do you think you can + possibly be happy with this girl?” + </p> + <p> + Staring at her dark eyes, darker now from pain, Jon answered + </p> + <p> + “Yes; oh! yes—if you could be.” + </p> + <p> + Irene smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Admiration of beauty and longing for possession are not love. If + yours were another case like mine, Jon—where the deepest things are + stifled; the flesh joined, and the spirit at war!” + </p> + <p> + “Why should it, Mother? You think she must be like her father, but + she's not. I've seen him.” + </p> + <p> + Again the smile came on Irene's lips, and in Jon something wavered; + there was such irony and experience in that smile. + </p> + <p> + “You are a giver, Jon; she is a taker.” + </p> + <p> + That unworthy doubt, that haunting uncertainty again! He said with + vehemence: + </p> + <p> + “She isn't—she isn't. It's only because I + can't bear to make you unhappy, Mother, now that Father—” + He thrust his fists against his forehead. + </p> + <p> + Irene got up. + </p> + <p> + “I told you that night, dear, not to mind me. I meant it. Think of + yourself and your own happiness! I can stand what's left—I've + brought it on myself.” + </p> + <p> + Again the word “Mother!” burst from Jon's lips. + </p> + <p> + She came over to him and put her hands over his. + </p> + <p> + “Do you feel your head, darling?” + </p> + <p> + Jon shook it. What he felt was in his chest—a sort of tearing + asunder of the tissue there, by the two loves. + </p> + <p> + “I shall always love you the same, Jon, whatever you do. You won't + lose anything.” She smoothed his hair gently, and walked away. + </p> + <p> + He heard the door shut; and, rolling over on the bed, lay, stifling his + breath, with an awful held-up feeling within him. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0128" id="link2H_4_0128"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VII.—EMBASSY + </h2> + <p> + Enquiring for her at tea time Soames learned that Fleur had been out in + the car since two. Three hours! Where had she gone? Up to London without a + word to him? He had never become quite reconciled with cars. He had + embraced them in principle—like the born empiricist, or Forsyte, + that he was—adopting each symptom of progress as it came along with: + “Well, we couldn't do without them now.” But in fact he + found them tearing, great, smelly things. Obliged by Annette to have one—a + Rollhard with pearl-grey cushions, electric light, little mirrors, trays + for the ashes of cigarettes, flower vases—all smelling of petrol and + stephanotis—he regarded it much as he used to regard his + brother-in-law, Montague Dartie. The thing typified all that was fast, + insecure, and subcutaneously oily in modern life. As modern life became + faster, looser, younger, Soames was becoming older, slower, tighter, more + and more in thought and language like his father James before him. He was + almost aware of it himself. Pace and progress pleased him less and less; + there was an ostentation, too, about a car which he considered provocative + in the prevailing mood of Labour. On one occasion that fellow Sims had + driven over the only vested interest of a working man. Soames had not + forgotten the behaviour of its master, when not many people would have + stopped to put up with it. He had been sorry for the dog, and quite + prepared to take its part against the car, if that ruffian hadn't + been so outrageous. With four hours fast becoming five, and still no + Fleur, all the old car-wise feelings he had experienced in person and by + proxy balled within him, and sinking sensations troubled the pit of his + stomach. At seven he telephoned to Winifred by trunk call. No! Fleur had + not been to Green Street. Then where was she? Visions of his beloved + daughter rolled up in her pretty frills, all blood and dust-stained, in + some hideous catastrophe, began to haunt him. He went to her room and + spied among her things. She had taken nothing—no dressing-case, no + Jewellery. And this, a relief in one sense, increased his fears of an + accident. Terrible to be helpless when his loved one was missing, + especially when he couldn't bear fuss or publicity of any kind! What + should he do if she were not back by nightfall? + </p> + <p> + At a quarter to eight he heard the car. A great weight lifted from off his + heart; he hurried down. She was getting out—pale and tired-looking, + but nothing wrong. He met her in the hall. + </p> + <p> + “You've frightened me. Where have you been?” + </p> + <p> + “To Robin Hill. I'm sorry, dear. I had to go; I'll tell + you afterward.” And, with a flying kiss, she ran up-stairs. + </p> + <p> + Soames waited in the drawing-room. To Robin Hill! What did that portend? + </p> + <p> + It was not a subject they could discuss at dinner—consecrated to the + susceptibilities of the butler. The agony of nerves Soames had been + through, the relief he felt at her safety, softened his power to condemn + what she had done, or resist what she was going to do; he waited in a + relaxed stupor for her revelation. Life was a queer business. There he was + at sixty-five and no more in command of things than if he had not spent + forty years in building up security-always something one couldn't + get on terms with! In the pocket of his dinner-jacket was a letter from + Annette. She was coming back in a fortnight. He knew nothing of what she + had been doing out there. And he was glad that he did not. Her absence had + been a relief. Out of sight was out of mind! And now she was coming back. + Another worry! And the Bolderby Old Crome was gone—Dumetrius had got + it—all because that anonymous letter had put it out of his thoughts. + He furtively remarked the strained look on his daughter's face, as + if she too were gazing at a picture that she couldn't buy. He almost + wished the War back. Worries didn't seem, then, quite so worrying. + From the caress in her voice, the look on her face, he became certain that + she wanted something from him, uncertain whether it would be wise of him + to give it her. He pushed his savoury away uneaten, and even joined her in + a cigarette. + </p> + <p> + After dinner she set the electric piano-player going. And he augured the + worst when she sat down on a cushion footstool at his knee, and put her + hand on his. + </p> + <p> + “Darling, be nice to me. I had to see Jon—he wrote to me. He's + going to try what he can do with his mother. But I've been thinking. + It's really in your hands, Father. If you'd persuade her that + it doesn't mean renewing the past in any way! That I shall stay + yours, and Jon will stay hers; that you need never see him or her, and she + need never see you or me! Only you could persuade her, dear, because only + you could promise. One can't promise for other people. Surely it + wouldn't be too awkward for you to see her just this once now that + Jon's father is dead?” + </p> + <p> + “Too awkward?” Soames repeated. “The whole thing's + preposterous.” + </p> + <p> + “You know,” said Fleur, without looking up, “you wouldn't + mind seeing her, really.” + </p> + <p> + Soames was silent. Her words had expressed a truth too deep for him to + admit. She slipped her fingers between his own—hot, slim, eager, + they clung there. This child of his would corkscrew her way into a brick + wall! + </p> + <p> + “What am I to do if you won't, Father?” she said very + softly. + </p> + <p> + “I'll do anything for your happiness,” said Soanies; + “but this isn't for your happiness.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! it is; it is!” + </p> + <p> + “It'll only stir things up,” he said grimly. + </p> + <p> + “But they are stirred up. The thing is to quiet them. To make her + feel that this is just our lives, and has nothing to do with yours or + hers. You can do it, Father, I know you can.” + </p> + <p> + “You know a great deal, then,” was Soames' glum answer. + </p> + <p> + “If you will, Jon and I will wait a year—two years if you + like.” + </p> + <p> + “It seems to me,” murmured Soames, “that you care + nothing about what I feel.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur pressed his hand against her cheek. + </p> + <p> + “I do, darling. But you wouldn't like me to be awfully + miserable.” + </p> + <p> + How she wheedled to get her ends! And trying with all his might to think + she really cared for him—he was not sure—not sure. All she + cared for was this boy! Why should he help her to get this boy, who was + killing her affection for himself? Why should he? By the laws of the + Forsytes it was foolish! There was nothing to be had out of it—nothing! + To give her to that boy! To pass her into the enemy's camp, under + the influence of the woman who had injured him so deeply! Slowly—inevitably—he + would lose this flower of his life! And suddenly he was conscious that his + hand was wet. His heart gave a little painful jump. He couldn't bear + her to cry. He put his other hand quickly over hers, and a tear dropped on + that, too. He couldn't go on like this! “Well, well,” he + said, “I'll think it over, and do what I can. Come, come!” + If she must have it for her happiness—she must; he couldn't + refuse to help her. And lest she should begin to thank him he got out of + his chair and went up to the piano-player—making that noise! It ran + down, as he reached it, with a faint buzz. That musical box of his nursery + days: “The Harmonious Blacksmith,” “Glorious Port”—the + thing had always made him miserable when his mother set it going on Sunday + afternoons. Here it was again—the same thing, only larger, more + expensive, and now it played “The Wild, Wild Women,” and + “The Policeman's Holiday,” and he was no longer in black + velvet with a sky blue collar. 'Profond's right,' he + thought, 'there's nothing in it! We're all progressing + to the grave!' And with that surprising mental comment he walked + out. + </p> + <p> + He did not see Fleur again that night. But, at breakfast, her eyes + followed him about with an appeal he could not escape—not that he + intended to try. No! He had made up his mind to the nerve-racking + business. He would go to Robin Hill—to that house of memories. + Pleasant memory—the last! Of going down to keep that boy's + father and Irene apart by threatening divorce. He had often thought, + since, that it had clinched their union. And, now, he was going to clinch + the union of that boy with his girl. 'I don't know what I've + done,' he thought, 'to have such things thrust on me!' + He went up by train and down by train, and from the station walked by the + long rising lane, still very much as he remembered it over thirty years + ago. Funny—so near London! Some one evidently was holding on to the + land there. This speculation soothed him, moving between the high hedges + slowly, so as not to get overheated, though the day was chill enough. + After all was said and done there was something real about land, it didn't + shift. Land, and good pictures! The values might fluctuate a bit, but on + the whole they were always going up—worth holding on to, in a world + where there was such a lot of unreality, cheap building, changing + fashions, such a “Here to-day and gone to-morrow” spirit. The + French were right, perhaps, with their peasant proprietorship, though he + had no opinion of the French. One's bit of land! Something solid in + it! He had heard peasant proprietors described as a pig-headed lot; had + heard young Mont call his father a pigheaded Morning Poster—disrespectful + young devil. Well, there were worse things than being pig-headed or + reading the Morning Post. There was Profond and his tribe, and all these + Labour chaps, and loud-mouthed politicians and 'wild, wild women'. + A lot of worse things! And suddenly Soames became conscious of feeling + weak, and hot, and shaky. Sheer nerves at the meeting before him! As Aunt + Juley might have said—quoting “Superior Dosset”—his + nerves were “in a proper fautigue.” He could see the house now + among its trees, the house he had watched being built, intending it for + himself and this woman, who, by such strange fate, had lived in it with + another after all! He began to think of Dumetrius, Local Loans, and other + forms of investment. He could not afford to meet her with his nerves all + shaking; he who represented the Day of Judgment for her on earth as it was + in heaven; he, legal ownership, personified, meeting lawless beauty, + incarnate. His dignity demanded impassivity during this embassy designed + to link their offspring, who, if she had behaved herself, would have been + brother and sister. That wretched tune, “The Wild, Wild Women,” + kept running in his head, perversely, for tunes did not run there as a + rule. Passing the poplars in front of the house, he thought: 'How + they've grown; I had them planted!' A maid answered his ring. + </p> + <p> + “Will you say—Mr. Forsyte, on a very special matter.” + </p> + <p> + If she realised who he was, quite probably she would not see him. 'By + George!' he thought, hardening as the tug came. 'It's a + topsy-turvy affair!' + </p> + <p> + The maid came back. “Would the gentleman state his business, please?” + </p> + <p> + “Say it concerns Mr. Jon,” said Soames. + </p> + <p> + And once more he was alone in that hall with the pool of grey-white marble + designed by her first lover. Ah! she had been a bad lot—had loved + two men, and not himself! He must remember that when he came face to face + with her once more. And suddenly he saw her in the opening chink between + the long heavy purple curtains, swaying, as if in hesitation; the old + perfect poise and line, the old startled dark-eyed gravity, the old calm + defensive voice: “Will you come in, please?” + </p> + <p> + He passed through that opening. As in the picture-gallery and the + confectioner's shop, she seemed to him still beautiful. And this was + the first time—the very first—since he married her + seven-and-thirty years ago, that he was speaking to her without the legal + right to call her his. She was not wearing black—one of that fellow's + radical notions, he supposed. + </p> + <p> + “I apologise for coming,” he said glumly; “but this + business must be settled one way or the other.” + </p> + <p> + “Won't you sit down?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + Anger at his false position, impatience of ceremony between them, mastered + him, and words came tumbling out: + </p> + <p> + “It's an infernal mischance; I've done my best to + discourage it. I consider my daughter crazy, but I've got into the + habit of indulging her; that's why I'm here. I suppose you're + fond of your son.” + </p> + <p> + “Devotedly.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “It rests with him.” + </p> + <p> + He had a sense of being met and baffled. Always—always she had + baffled him, even in those old first married days. + </p> + <p> + “It's a mad notion,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “It is.” + </p> + <p> + “If you had only—! Well—they might have been—” + he did not finish that sentence “brother and sister and all this + saved,” but he saw her shudder as if he had, and stung by the sight + he crossed over to the window. Out there the trees had not grown—they + couldn't, they were old! + </p> + <p> + “So far as I'm concerned,” he said, “you may make + your mind easy. I desire to see neither you nor your son if this marriage + comes about. Young people in these days are—are unaccountable. But I + can't bear to see my daughter unhappy. What am I to say to her when + I go back?” + </p> + <p> + “Please say to her as I said to you, that it rests with Jon.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't oppose it?” + </p> + <p> + “With all my heart; not with my lips.” + </p> + <p> + Soames stood, biting his finger. + </p> + <p> + “I remember an evening—” he said suddenly; and was + silent. What was there—what was there in this woman that would not + fit into the four corners of his hate or condemnation? “Where is he—your + son?” + </p> + <p> + “Up in his father's studio, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you'd have him down.” + </p> + <p> + He watched her ring the bell, he watched the maid come in. + </p> + <p> + “Please tell Mr. Jon that I want him.” + </p> + <p> + “If it rests with him,” said Soames hurriedly, when the maid + was gone, “I suppose I may take it for granted that this unnatural + marriage will take place; in that case there'll be formalities. Whom + do I deal with—Herring's?” + </p> + <p> + Irene nodded. + </p> + <p> + “You don't propose to live with them?” + </p> + <p> + Irene shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “What happens to this house?” + </p> + <p> + “It will be as Jon wishes.” + </p> + <p> + “This house,” said Soames suddenly: “I had hopes when I + began it. If they live in it—their children! They say there's + such a thing as Nemesis. Do you believe in it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! You do!” + </p> + <p> + He had come back from the window, and was standing close to her, who, in + the curve of her grand piano, was, as it were, embayed. + </p> + <p> + “I'm not likely to see you again,” he said slowly. + “Will you shake hands”—his lip quivered, the words came + out jerkily—“and let the past die.” He held out his + hand. Her pale face grew paler, her eyes so dark, rested immovably on his, + her hands remained clasped in front of her. He heard a sound and turned. + That boy was standing in the opening of the curtains. Very queer he + looked, hardly recognisable as the young fellow he had seen in the Gallery + off Cork Street—very queer; much older, no youth in the face at all—haggard, + rigid, his hair ruffled, his eyes deep in his head. Soames made an effort, + and said with a lift of his lip, not quite a smile nor quite a sneer: + </p> + <p> + “Well, young man! I'm here for my daughter; it rests with you, + it seems—this matter. Your mother leaves it in your hands.” + </p> + <p> + The boy continued staring at his mother's face, and made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “For my daughter's sake I've brought myself to come,” + said Soames. “What am I to say to her when I go back?” + </p> + <p> + Still looking at his mother, the boy said, quietly: + </p> + <p> + “Tell Fleur that it's no good, please; I must do as my father + wished before he died.” + </p> + <p> + “Jon!” + </p> + <p> + “It's all right, Mother.” + </p> + <p> + In a kind of stupefaction Soames looked from one to the other; then, + taking up hat and umbrella which he had put down on a chair, he walked + toward the curtains. The boy stood aside for him to go by. He passed + through and heard the grate of the rings as the curtains were drawn behind + him. The sound liberated something in his chest. + </p> + <p> + 'So that's that!' he thought, and passed out of the + front door. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0129" id="link2H_4_0129"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VIII.—THE DARK TUNE + </h2> + <p> + As Soames walked away from the house at Robin Hill the sun broke through + the grey of that chill afternoon, in smoky radiance. So absorbed in + landscape painting that he seldom looked seriously for effects of Nature + out of doors—he was struck by that moody effulgence—it mourned + with a triumph suited to his own feeling. Victory in defeat. His embassy + had come to naught. But he was rid of those people, had regained his + daughter at the expense of—her happiness. What would Fleur say to + him? Would she believe he had done his best? And under that sunlight + faring on the elms, hazels, hollies of the lane and those unexploited + fields, Soames felt dread. She would be terribly upset! He must appeal to + her pride. That boy had given her up, declared part and lot with the woman + who so long ago had given her father up! Soames clenched his hands. Given + him up, and why? What had been wrong with him? And once more he felt the + malaise of one who contemplates himself as seen by another—like a + dog who chances on his refection in a mirror and is intrigued and anxious + at the unseizable thing. + </p> + <p> + Not in a hurry to get home, he dined in town at the Connoisseurs. While + eating a pear it suddenly occurred to him that, if he had not gone down to + Robin Hill, the boy might not have so decided. He remembered the + expression on his face while his mother was refusing the hand he had held + out. A strange, an awkward thought! Had Fleur cooked her own goose by + trying to make too sure? + </p> + <p> + He reached home at half-past nine. While the car was passing in at one + drive gate he heard the grinding sputter of a motor-cycle passing out by + the other. Young Mont, no doubt, so Fleur had not been lonely. But he went + in with a sinking heart. In the cream-panelled drawing-room she was + sitting with her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her clasped hands, + in front of a white camellia plant which filled the fireplace. That glance + at her before she saw him renewed his dread. What was she seeing among + those white camellias? + </p> + <p> + “Well, Father!” + </p> + <p> + Soames shook his head. His tongue failed him. This was murderous work! He + saw her eyes dilate, her lips quivering. + </p> + <p> + “What? What? Quick, Father!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” said Soames, “I—I did my best, but—” + And again he shook his head. + </p> + <p> + Fleur ran to him, and put a hand on each of his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “She?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” muttered Soames; “he. I was to tell you that it + was no use; he must do what his father wished before he died.” He + caught her by the waist. “Come, child, don't let them hurt + you. They're not worth your little finger.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur tore herself from his grasp. + </p> + <p> + “You didn't you—couldn't have tried. You—you + betrayed me, Father!” + </p> + <p> + Bitterly wounded, Soames gazed at her passionate figure writhing there in + front of him. + </p> + <p> + “You didn't try—you didn't—I was a fool! I + won't believe he could—he ever could! Only yesterday he—! + Oh! why did I ask you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Soames, quietly, “why did you? I swallowed + my feelings; I did my best for you, against my judgment—and this is + my reward. Good-night!” + </p> + <p> + With every nerve in his body twitching he went toward the door. + </p> + <p> + Fleur darted after him. + </p> + <p> + “He gives me up? You mean that? Father!” + </p> + <p> + Soames turned and forced himself to answer: + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” cried Fleur. “What did you—what could you + have done in those old days?” + </p> + <p> + The breathless sense of really monstrous injustice cut the power of speech + in Soames' throat. What had he done! What had they done to him! + </p> + <p> + And with quite unconscious dignity he put his hand on his breast, and + looked at her. + </p> + <p> + “It's a shame!” cried Fleur passionately. + </p> + <p> + Soames went out. He mounted, slow and icy, to his picture gallery, and + paced among his treasures. Outrageous! Oh! Outrageous! She was spoiled! + Ah! and who had spoiled her? He stood still before the Goya copy. + Accustomed to her own way in everything. Flower of his life! And now that + she couldn't have it! He turned to the window for some air. Daylight + was dying, the moon rising, gold behind the poplars! What sound was that? + Why! That piano thing! A dark tune, with a thrum and a throb! She had set + it going—what comfort could she get from that? His eyes caught + movement down there beyond the lawn, under the trellis of rambler roses + and young acacia-trees, where the moonlight fell. There she was, roaming + up and down. His heart gave a little sickening jump. What would she do + under this blow? How could he tell? What did he know of her—he had + only loved her all his life—looked on her as the apple of his eye! + He knew nothing—had no notion. There she was—and that dark + tune—and the river gleaming in the moonlight! + </p> + <p> + 'I must go out,' he thought. + </p> + <p> + He hastened down to the drawing-room, lighted just as he had left it, with + the piano thrumming out that waltz, or fox-trot, or whatever they called + it in these days, and passed through on to the verandah. + </p> + <p> + Where could he watch, without her seeing him? And he stole down through + the fruit garden to the boat-house. He was between her and the river now, + and his heart felt lighter. She was his daughter, and Annette's—she + wouldn't do anything foolish; but there it was—he didn't + know! From the boat house window he could see the last acacia and the spin + of her skirt when she turned in her restless march. That tune had run down + at last—thank goodness! He crossed the floor and looked through the + farther window at the water slow-flowing past the lilies. It made little + bubbles against them, bright where a moon-streak fell. He remembered + suddenly that early morning when he had slept on the house-boat after his + father died, and she had just been born—nearly nineteen years ago! + Even now he recalled the unaccustomed world when he woke up, the strange + feeling it had given him. That day the second passion of his life began—for + this girl of his, roaming under the acacias. What a comfort she had been + to him! And all the soreness and sense of outrage left him. If he could + make her happy again, he didn't care! An owl flew, queeking, + queeking; a bat flitted by; the moonlight brightened and broadened on the + water. How long was she going to roam about like this! He went back to the + window, and suddenly saw her coming down to the bank. She stood quite + close, on the landing-stage. And Soames watched, clenching his hands. + Should he speak to her? His excitement was intense. The stillness of her + figure, its youth, its absorption in despair, in longing, in—itself. + He would always remember it, moonlit like that; and the faint sweet reek + of the river and the shivering of the willow leaves. She had everything in + the world that he could give her, except the one thing that she could not + have because of him! The perversity of things hurt him at that moment, as + might a fish-bone in his throat. + </p> + <p> + Then, with an infinite relief, he saw her turn back toward the house. What + could he give her to make amends? Pearls, travel, horses, other young men—anything + she wanted—that he might lose the memory of her young figure lonely + by the water! There! She had set that tune going again! Why—it was a + mania! Dark, thrumming, faint, travelling from the house. It was as though + she had said: “If I can't have something to keep me going, I + shall die of this!” Soames dimly understood. Well, if it helped her, + let her keep it thrumming on all night! And, mousing back through the + fruit garden, he regained the verandah. Though he meant to go in and speak + to her now, he still hesitated, not knowing what to say, trying hard to + recall how it felt to be thwarted in love. He ought to know, ought to + remember—and he could not! Gone—all real recollection; except + that it had hurt him horribly. In this blankness he stood passing his + handkerchief over hands and lips, which were very dry. By craning his head + he could just see Fleur, standing with her back to that piano still + grinding out its tune, her arms tight crossed on her breast, a lighted + cigarette between her lips, whose smoke half veiled her face. The + expression on it was strange to Soames, the eyes shone and stared, and + every feature was alive with a sort of wretched scorn and anger. Once or + twice he had seen Annette look like that—the face was too vivid, too + naked, not his daughter's at that moment. And he dared not go in, + realising the futility of any attempt at consolation. He sat down in the + shadow of the ingle-nook. + </p> + <p> + Monstrous trick, that Fate had played him! Nemesis! That old unhappy + marriage! And in God's name-why? How was he to know, when he wanted + Irene so violently, and she consented to be his, that she would never love + him? The tune died and was renewed, and died again, and still Soames sat + in the shadow, waiting for he knew not what. The fag of Fleur's + cigarette, flung through the window, fell on the grass; he watched it + glowing, burning itself out. The moon had freed herself above the poplars, + and poured her unreality on the garden. Comfortless light, mysterious, + withdrawn—like the beauty of that woman who had never loved him—dappling + the nemesias and the stocks with a vesture not of earth. Flowers! And his + flower so unhappy! Ah! Why could one not put happiness into Local Loans, + gild its edges, insure it against going down? + </p> + <p> + Light had ceased to flow out now from the drawing-room window. All was + silent and dark in there. Had she gone up? He rose, and, tiptoeing, peered + in. It seemed so! He entered. The verandah kept the moonlight out; and at + first he could see nothing but the outlines of furniture blacker than the + darkness. He groped toward the farther window to shut it. His foot struck + a chair, and he heard a gasp. There she was, curled and crushed into the + corner of the sofa! His hand hovered. Did she want his consolation? He + stood, gazing at that ball of crushed frills and hair and graceful youth, + trying to burrow its way out of sorrow. How leave her there? At last he + touched her hair, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Come, darling, better go to bed. I'll make it up to you, + somehow.” How fatuous! But what could he have said? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0130" id="link2H_4_0130"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IX.—UNDER THE OAK-TREE + </h2> + <p> + When their visitor had disappeared Jon and his mother stood without + speaking, till he said suddenly: + </p> + <p> + “I ought to have seen him out.” + </p> + <p> + But Soames was already walking down the drive, and Jon went upstairs to + his father's studio, not trusting himself to go back. + </p> + <p> + The expression on his mother's face confronting the man she had once + been married to, had sealed a resolution growing within him ever since she + left him the night before. It had put the finishing touch of reality. To + marry Fleur would be to hit his mother in the face; to betray his dead + father! It was no good! Jon had the least resentful of natures. He bore + his parents no grudge in this hour of his distress. For one so young there + was a rather strange power in him of seeing things in some sort of + proportion. It was worse for Fleur, worse for his mother even, than it was + for him. Harder than to give up was to be given up, or to be the cause of + some one you loved giving up for you. He must not, would not behave + grudgingly! While he stood watching the tardy sunlight, he had again that + sudden vision of the world which had come to him the night before. Sea on + sea, country on country, millions on millions of people, all with their + own lives, energies, joys, griefs, and suffering—all with things + they had to give up, and separate struggles for existence. Even though he + might be willing to give up all else for the one thing he couldn't + have, he would be a fool to think his feelings mattered much in so vast a + world, and to behave like a cry-baby or a cad. He pictured the people who + had nothing—the millions who had given up life in the War, the + millions whom the War had left with life and little else; the hungry + children he had read of, the shattered men; people in prison, every kind + of unfortunate. And—they did not help him much. If one had to miss a + meal, what comfort in the knowledge that many others had to miss it too? + There was more distraction in the thought of getting away out into this + vast world of which he knew nothing yet. He could not go on staying here, + walled in and sheltered, with everything so slick and comfortable, and + nothing to do but brood and think what might have been. He could not go + back to Wansdon, and the memories of Fleur. If he saw her again he could + not trust himself; and if he stayed here or went back there, he would + surely see her. While they were within reach of each other that must + happen. To go far away and quickly was the only thing to do. But, however + much he loved his mother, he did not want to go away with her. Then + feeling that was brutal, he made up his mind desperately to propose that + they should go to Italy. For two hours in that melancholy room he tried to + master himself, then dressed solemnly for dinner. + </p> + <p> + His mother had done the same. They ate little, at some length, and talked + of his father's catalogue. The show was arranged for October, and + beyond clerical detail there was nothing more to do. + </p> + <p> + After dinner she put on a cloak and they went out; walked a little, talked + a little, till they were standing silent at last beneath the oak-tree. + Ruled by the thought: 'If I show anything, I show all,' Jon + put his arm through hers and said quite casually: + </p> + <p> + “Mother, let's go to Italy.” + </p> + <p> + Irene pressed his arm, and said as casually: + </p> + <p> + “It would be very nice; but I've been thinking you ought to + see and do more than you would if I were with you.” + </p> + <p> + “But then you'd be alone.” + </p> + <p> + “I was once alone for more than twelve years. Besides, I should like + to be here for the opening of Father's show.” + </p> + <p> + Jon's grip tightened round her arm; he was not deceived. + </p> + <p> + “You couldn't stay here all by yourself; it's too big.” + </p> + <p> + “Not here, perhaps. In London, and I might go to Paris, after the + show opens. You ought to have a year at least, Jon, and see the world.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I'd like to see the world and rough it. But I don't + want to leave you all alone.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, I owe you that at least. If it's for your good, it'll + be for mine. Why not start tomorrow? You've got your passport.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; if I'm going it had better be at once. Only—Mother—if—if + I wanted to stay out somewhere—America or anywhere, would you mind + coming presently?” + </p> + <p> + “Wherever and whenever you send for me. But don't send until + you really want me.” + </p> + <p> + Jon drew a deep breath. + </p> + <p> + “I feel England's choky.” + </p> + <p> + They stood a few minutes longer under the oak-tree—looking out to + where the grand stand at Epsom was veiled in evening. The branches kept + the moonlight from them, so that it only fell everywhere else—over + the fields and far away, and on the windows of the creepered house behind, + which soon would be to let. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0131" id="link2H_4_0131"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + X.—FLEUR'S WEDDING + </h2> + <p> + The October paragraphs describing the wedding of Fleur Forsyte to Michael + Mont hardly conveyed the symbolic significance of this event. In the union + of the great-granddaughter of “Superior Dosset” with the heir + of a ninth baronet was the outward and visible sign of that merger of + class in class which buttresses the political stability of a realm. The + time had come when the Forsytes might resign their natural resentment + against a “flummery” not theirs by birth, and accept it as the + still more natural due of their possessive instincts. Besides, they had to + mount to make room for all those so much more newly rich. In that quiet + but tasteful ceremony in Hanover Square, and afterward among the furniture + in Green Street, it had been impossible for those not in the know to + distinguish the Forsyte troop from the Mont contingent—so far away + was “Superior Dosset” now. Was there, in the crease of his + trousers, the expression of his moustache, his accent, or the shine on his + top-hat, a pin to choose between Soames and the ninth baronet himself? Was + not Fleur as self-possessed, quick, glancing, pretty, and hard as the + likeliest Muskham, Mont, or Charwell filly present? If anything, the + Forsytes had it in dress and looks and manners. They had become “upper + class” and now their name would be formally recorded in the Stud + Book, their money joined to land. Whether this was a little late in the + day, and those rewards of the possessive instinct, lands and money, + destined for the melting-pot—was still a question so moot that it + was not mooted. After all, Timothy had said Consols were goin' up. + Timothy, the last, the missing link; Timothy, in extremis on the Bayswater + Road—so Francie had reported. It was whispered, too, that this young + Mont was a sort of socialist—strangely wise of him, and in the + nature of insurance, considering the days they lived in. There was no + uneasiness on that score. The landed classes produced that sort of amiable + foolishness at times, turned to safe uses and confined to theory. As + George remarked to his sister Francie: “They'll soon be having + puppies—that'll give him pause.” + </p> + <p> + The church with white flowers and something blue in the middle of the East + window looked extremely chaste, as though endeavouring to counteract the + somewhat lurid phraseology of a Service calculated to keep the thoughts of + all on puppies. Forsytes, Haymans, Tweetymans, sat in the left aisle; + Monts, Charwells; Muskhams in the right; while a sprinkling of Fleur's + fellow-sufferers at school, and of Mont's fellow-sufferers in, the + War, gaped indiscriminately from either side, and three maiden ladies, who + had dropped in on their way from Skyward's brought up the rear, + together with two Mont retainers and Fleur's old nurse. In the + unsettled state of the country as full a house as could be expected. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Val Dartie, who sat with her husband in the third row, squeezed his + hand more than once during the performance. To her, who knew the plot of + this tragi-comedy, its most dramatic moment was well-nigh painful. 'I + wonder if Jon knows by instinct,' she thought—Jon, out in + British Columbia. She had received a letter from him only that morning + which had made her smile and say: + </p> + <p> + “Jon's in British Columbia, Val, because he wants to be in + California. He thinks it's too nice there.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Val, “so he's beginning to see a joke + again.” + </p> + <p> + “He's bought some land and sent for his mother.” + </p> + <p> + “What on earth will she do out there?” + </p> + <p> + “All she cares about is Jon. Do you still think it a happy release?” + </p> + <p> + Val's shrewd eyes narrowed to grey pin-points between their dark + lashes. + </p> + <p> + “Fleur wouldn't have suited him a bit. She's not bred + right.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor little Fleur!” sighed Holly. Ah! it was strange—this + marriage. The young man, Mont, had caught her on the rebound, of course, + in the reckless mood of one whose ship has just gone down. Such a plunge + could not but be—as Val put it—an outside chance. There was + little to be told from the back view of her young cousin's veil, and + Holly's eyes reviewed the general aspect of this Christian wedding. + She, who had made a love-match which had been successful, had a horror of + unhappy marriages. This might not be one in the end—but it was + clearly a toss-up; and to consecrate a toss-up in this fashion with + manufactured unction before a crowd of fashionable free-thinkers—for + who thought otherwise than freely, or not at all, when they were “dolled” + up—seemed to her as near a sin as one could find in an age which had + abolished them. Her eyes wandered from the prelate in his robes (a + Charwell-the Forsytes had not as yet produced a prelate) to Val, beside + her, thinking—she was certain—of the Mayfly filly at fifteen + to one for the Cambridgeshire. They passed on and caught the profile of + the ninth baronet, in counterfeitment of the kneeling process. She could + just see the neat ruck above his knees where he had pulled his trousers + up, and thought: 'Val's forgotten to pull up his!' Her + eyes passed to the pew in front of her, where Winifred's substantial + form was gowned with passion, and on again to Soames and Annette kneeling + side by side. A little smile came on her lips—Prosper Profond, back + from the South Seas of the Channel, would be kneeling too, about six rows + behind. Yes! This was a funny “small” business, however it + turned out; still it was in a proper church and would be in the proper + papers to-morrow morning. + </p> + <p> + They had begun a hymn; she could hear the ninth baronet across the aisle, + singing of the hosts of Midian. Her little finger touched Val's + thumb—they were holding the same hymn-book—and a tiny thrill + passed through her, preserved—from twenty years ago. He stooped and + whispered: + </p> + <p> + “I say, d'you remember the rat?” The rat at their + wedding in Cape Colony, which had cleaned its whiskers behind the table at + the Registrar's! And between her little and third forgers she + squeezed his thumb hard. + </p> + <p> + The hymn was over, the prelate had begun to deliver his discourse. He told + them of the dangerous times they lived in, and the awful conduct of the + House of Lords in connection with divorce. They were all soldiers—he + said—in the trenches under the poisonous gas of the Prince of + Darkness, and must be manful. The purpose of marriage was children, not + mere sinful happiness. + </p> + <p> + An imp danced in Holly's eyes—Val's eyelashes were + meeting. Whatever happened; he must not snore. Her finger and thumb closed + on his thigh till he stirred uneasily. + </p> + <p> + The discourse was over, the danger past. They were signing in the vestry; + and general relaxation had set in. + </p> + <p> + A voice behind her said: + </p> + <p> + “Will she stay the course?” + </p> + <p> + “Who's that?” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Old George Forsyte!” + </p> + <p> + Holly demurely scrutinized one of whom she had often heard. Fresh from + South Africa, and ignorant of her kith and kin, she never saw one without + an almost childish curiosity. He was very big, and very dapper; his eyes + gave her a funny feeling of having no particular clothes. + </p> + <p> + “They're off!” she heard him say. + </p> + <p> + They came, stepping from the chancel. Holly looked first in young Mont's + face. His lips and ears were twitching, his eyes, shifting from his feet + to the hand within his arm, stared suddenly before them as if to face a + firing party. He gave Holly the feeling that he was spiritually + intoxicated. But Fleur! Ah! That was different. The girl was perfectly + composed, prettier than ever, in her white robes and veil over her banged + dark chestnut hair; her eyelids hovered demure over her dark hazel eyes. + Outwardly, she seemed all there. But inwardly, where was she? As those two + passed, Fleur raised her eyelids—the restless glint of those clear + whites remained on Holly's vision as might the flutter of caged bird's + wings. + </p> + <p> + In Green Street Winifred stood to receive, just a little less composed + than usual. Soames' request for the use of her house had come on her + at a deeply psychological moment. Under the influence of a remark of + Prosper Profond, she had begun to exchange her Empire for Expressionistic + furniture. There were the most amusing arrangements, with violet, green, + and orange blobs and scriggles, to be had at Mealard's. Another + month and the change would have been complete. Just now, the very “intriguing” + recruits she had enlisted, did not march too well with the old guard. It + was as if her regiment were half in khaki, half in scarlet and bearskins. + But her strong and comfortable character made the best of it in a + drawing-room which typified, perhaps, more perfectly than she imagined, + the semi-bolshevized imperialism of her country. After all, this was a day + of merger, and you couldn't have too much of it! Her eyes travelled + indulgently among her guests. Soames had gripped the back of a buhl chair; + young Mont was behind that “awfully amusing” screen, which no + one as yet had been able to explain to her. The ninth baronet had shied + violently at a round scarlet table, inlaid under glass with blue + Australian butteries' wings, and was clinging to her Louis-Quinze + cabinet; Francie Forsyte had seized the new mantel-board, finely carved + with little purple grotesques on an ebony ground; George, over by the old + spinet, was holding a little sky-blue book as if about to enter bets; + Prosper Profond was twiddling the knob of the open door, black with + peacock-blue panels; and Annette's hands, close by, were grasping + her own waist; two Muskhams clung to the balcony among the plants, as if + feeling ill; Lady Mont, thin and brave-looking, had taken up her + long-handled glasses and was gazing at the central light shade, of ivory + and orange dashed with deep magenta, as if the heavens had opened. + Everybody, in fact, seemed holding on to something. Only Fleur, still in + her bridal dress, was detached from all support, flinging her words and + glances to left and right. + </p> + <p> + The room was full of the bubble and the squeak of conversation. Nobody + could hear anything that anybody said; which seemed of little consequence, + since no one waited for anything so slow as an answer. Modern conversation + seemed to Winifred so different from the days of her prime, when a drawl + was all the vogue. Still it was “amusing,” which, of course, + was all that mattered. Even the Forsytes were talking with extreme + rapidity—Fleur and Christopher, and Imogen, and young Nicholas's + youngest, Patrick. Soames, of course, was silent; but George, by the + spinet, kept up a running commentary, and Francie, by her mantel-shelf. + Winifred drew nearer to the ninth baronet. He seemed to promise a certain + repose; his nose was fine and drooped a little, his grey moustaches too; + and she said, drawling through her smile: + </p> + <p> + “It's rather nice, isn't it?” + </p> + <p> + His reply shot out of his smile like a snipped bread pellet + </p> + <p> + “D'you remember, in Frazer, the tribe that buries the bride up + to the waist?” + </p> + <p> + He spoke as fast as anybody! He had dark lively little eyes, too, all + crinkled round like a Catholic priest's. Winifred felt suddenly he + might say things she would regret. + </p> + <p> + “They're always so amusing—weddings,” she + murmured, and moved on to Soames. He was curiously still, and Winifred saw + at once what was dictating his immobility. To his right was George + Forsyte, to his left Annette and Prosper Profond. He could not move + without either seeing those two together, or the reflection of them in + George Forsyte's japing eyes. He was quite right not to be taking + notice. + </p> + <p> + “They say Timothy's sinking;” he said glumly. + </p> + <p> + “Where will you put him, Soames?” + </p> + <p> + “Highgate.” He counted on his fingers. “It'll make + twelve of them there, including wives. How do you think Fleur looks?” + </p> + <p> + “Remarkably well.” + </p> + <p> + Soames nodded. He had never seen her look prettier, yet he could not rid + himself of the impression that this business was unnatural—remembering + still that crushed figure burrowing into the corner of the sofa. From that + night to this day he had received from her no confidences. He knew from + his chauffeur that she had made one more attempt on Robin Hill and drawn + blank—an empty house, no one at home. He knew that she had received + a letter, but not what was in it, except that it had made her hide herself + and cry. He had remarked that she looked at him sometimes when she thought + he wasn't noticing, as if she were wondering still what he had done—forsooth—to + make those people hate him so. Well, there it was! Annette had come back, + and things had worn on through the summer—very miserable, till + suddenly Fleur had said she was going to marry young Mont. She had shown + him a little more affection when she told him that. And he had yielded—what + was the good of opposing it? God knew that he had never wished to thwart + her in anything! And the young man seemed quite delirious about her. No + doubt she was in a reckless mood, and she was young, absurdly young. But + if he opposed her, he didn't know what she would do; for all he + could tell she might want to take up a profession, become a doctor or + solicitor, some nonsense. She had no aptitude for painting, writing, + music, in his view the legitimate occupations of unmarried women, if they + must do something in these days. On the whole, she was safer married, for + he could see too well how feverish and restless she was at home. Annette, + too, had been in favour of it—Annette, from behind the veil of his + refusal to know what she was about, if she was about anything. Annette had + said: “Let her marry this young man. He is a nice boy—not so + highty-flighty as he seems.” Where she got her expressions, he didn't + know—but her opinion soothed his doubts. His wife, whatever her + conduct, had clear eyes and an almost depressing amount of common sense. + He had settled fifty thousand on Fleur, taking care that there was no + cross settlement in case it didn't turn out well. Could it turn out + well? She had not got over that other boy—he knew. They were to go + to Spain for the honeymoon. He would be even lonelier when she was gone. + But later, perhaps, she would forget, and turn to him again! Winifred's + voice broke on his reverie. + </p> + <p> + “Why! Of all wonders-June!” + </p> + <p> + There, in a djibbah—what things she wore!—with her hair + straying from under a fillet, Soames saw his cousin, and Fleur going + forward to greet her. The two passed from their view out on to the + stairway. + </p> + <p> + “Really,” said Winifred, “she does the most impossible + things! Fancy her coming!” + </p> + <p> + “What made you ask her?” muttered Soames. + </p> + <p> + “Because I thought she wouldn't accept, of course.” + </p> + <p> + Winifred had forgotten that behind conduct lies the main trend of + character; or, in other words, omitted to remember that Fleur was now a + “lame duck.” + </p> + <p> + On receiving her invitation, June had first thought, 'I wouldn't + go near them for the world!' and then, one morning, had awakened + from a dream of Fleur waving to her from a boat with a wild unhappy + gesture. And she had changed her mind. + </p> + <p> + When Fleur came forward and said to her, “Do come up while I'm + changing my dress,” she had followed up the stairs. The girl led the + way into Imogen's old bedroom, set ready for her toilet. + </p> + <p> + June sat down on the bed, thin and upright, like a little spirit in the + sear and yellow. Fleur locked the door. + </p> + <p> + The girl stood before her divested of her wedding dress. What a pretty + thing she was! + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you think me a fool,” she said, with quivering + lips, “when it was to have been Jon. But what does it matter? + Michael wants me, and I don't care. It'll get me away from + home.” Diving her hand into the frills on her breast, she brought + out a letter. “Jon wrote me this.” + </p> + <p> + June read: “Lake Okanagen, British Columbia. I'm not coming + back to England. Bless you always. Jon.” + </p> + <p> + “She's made safe, you see,” said Fleur. + </p> + <p> + June handed back the letter. + </p> + <p> + “That's not fair to Irene,” she said, “she always + told Jon he could do as he wished.” + </p> + <p> + Fleur smiled bitterly. “Tell me, didn't she spoil your life + too?” June looked up. “Nobody can spoil a life, my dear. That's + nonsense. Things happen, but we bob up.” + </p> + <p> + With a sort of terror she saw the girl sink on her knees and bury her face + in the djibbah. A strangled sob mounted to June's ears. + </p> + <p> + “It's all right—all right,” she murmured, “Don't! + There, there!” + </p> + <p> + But the point of the girl's chin was pressed ever closer into her + thigh, and the sound was dreadful of her sobbing. + </p> + <p> + Well, well! It had to come. She would feel better afterward! June stroked + the short hair of that shapely head; and all the scattered mother-sense in + her focussed itself and passed through the tips of her fingers into the + girl's brain. + </p> + <p> + “Don't sit down under it, my dear,” she said at last. + “We can't control life, but we can fight it. Make the best of + things. I've had to. I held on, like you; and I cried, as you're + crying now. And look at me!” + </p> + <p> + Fleur raised her head; a sob merged suddenly into a little choked laugh. + In truth it was a thin and rather wild and wasted spirit she was looking + at, but it had brave eyes. + </p> + <p> + “All right!” she said. “I'm sorry. I shall forget + him, I suppose, if I fly fast and far enough.” + </p> + <p> + And, scrambling to her feet, she went over to the wash-stand. + </p> + <p> + June watched her removing with cold water the traces of emotion. Save for + a little becoming pinkness there was nothing left when she stood before + the mirror. June got off the bed and took a pin-cushion in her hand. To + put two pins into the wrong places was all the vent she found for + sympathy. + </p> + <p> + “Give me a kiss,” she said when Fleur was ready, and dug her + chin into the girl's warm cheek. + </p> + <p> + “I want a whiff,” said Fleur; “don't wait.” + </p> + <p> + June left her, sitting on the bed with a cigarette between her lips and + her eyes half closed, and went down-stairs. In the doorway of the + drawing-room stood Soames as if unquiet at his daughter's tardiness. + June tossed her head and passed down on to the half-landing. Her cousin + Francie was standing there. + </p> + <p> + “Look!” said June, pointing with her chin at Soames. “That + man's fatal!” + </p> + <p> + “How do you mean,” said Francie, “fatal?” + </p> + <p> + June did not answer her. “I shan't wait to see them off,” + she said. “Good-bye!” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye!” said Francie, and her eyes, of a Celtic grey, + goggled. That old feud! Really, it was quite romantic! + </p> + <p> + Soames, moving to the well of the staircase, saw June go, and drew a + breath of satisfaction. Why didn't Fleur come? They would miss their + train. That train would bear her away from him, yet he could not help + fidgeting at the thought that they would lose it. And then she did come, + running down in her tan-coloured frock and black velvet cap, and passed + him into the drawing-room. He saw her kiss her mother, her aunt, Val's + wife, Imogen, and then come forth, quick and pretty as ever. How would she + treat him at this last moment of her girlhood? He couldn't hope for + much! + </p> + <p> + Her lips pressed the middle of his cheek. + </p> + <p> + “Daddy!” she said, and was past and gone! Daddy! She hadn't + called him that for years. He drew a long breath and followed slowly down. + There was all the folly with that confetti stuff and the rest of it to go + through with yet. But he would like just to catch her smile, if she leaned + out, though they would hit her in the eye with the shoe, if they didn't + take care. Young Mont's voice said fervently in his ear: + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, sir; and thank you! I'm so fearfully bucked.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” he said; “don't miss your train.” + </p> + <p> + He stood on the bottom step but three, whence he could see above the heads—the + silly hats and heads. They were in the car now; and there was that stuff, + showering, and there went the shoe. A flood of something welled up in + Soames, and—he didn't know—he couldn't see! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0132" id="link2H_4_0132"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + XI.—THE LAST OF THE OLD FORSYTES + </h2> + <p> + When they came to prepare that terrific symbol Timothy Forsyte—the + one pure individualist left, the only man who hadn't heard of the + Great War—they found him wonderful—not even death had + undermined his soundness. + </p> + <p> + To Smither and Cook that preparation came like final evidence of what they + had never believed possible—the end of the old Forsyte family on + earth. Poor Mr. Timothy must now take a harp and sing in the company of + Miss Forsyte, Mrs. Julia, Miss Hester; with Mr. Jolyon, Mr. Swithin, Mr. + James, Mr. Roger, and Mr. Nicholas of the party. Whether Mrs. Hayman would + be there was more doubtful, seeing that she had been cremated. Secretly + Cook thought that Mr. Timothy would be upset—he had always been so + set against barrel organs. How many times had she not said: “Drat + the thing! There it is again! Smither, you'd better run up and see + what you can do.” And in her heart she would so have enjoyed the + tunes, if she hadn't known that Mr. Timothy would ring the bell in a + minute and say: “Here, take him a halfpenny and tell him to move on.” + Often they had been obliged to add threepence of their own before the man + would go—Timothy had ever underrated the value of emotion. Luckily + he had taken the organs for blue-bottles in his last years, which had been + a comfort, and they had been able to enjoy the tunes. But a harp! Cook + wondered. It was a change! And Mr. Timothy had never liked change. But she + did not speak of this to Smither, who did so take a line of her own in + regard to heaven that it quite put one about sometimes. + </p> + <p> + She cried while Timothy was being prepared, and they all had sherry + afterward out of the yearly Christmas bottle, which would not be needed + now. Ah! dear! She had been there five-and-forty years and Smither + three-and-forty! And now they would be going to a tiny house in Tooting, + to live on their savings and what Miss Hester had so kindly left them—for + to take fresh service after the glorious past—No! But they would + like just to see Mr. Soames again, and Mrs. Dartie, and Miss Francie, and + Miss Euphemia. And even if they had to take their own cab, they felt they + must go to the funeral. For six years Mr. Timothy had been their baby, + getting younger and younger every day, till at last he had been too young + to live. + </p> + <p> + They spent the regulation hours of waiting in polishing and dusting, in + catching the one mouse left, and asphyxiating the last beetle so as to + leave it nice, discussing with each other what they would buy at the sale. + Miss Ann's workbox; Miss Juley's (that is Mrs. Julia's) + seaweed album; the fire-screen Miss Hester had crewelled; and Mr. Timothy's + hair—little golden curls, glued into a black frame. Oh! they must + have those—only the price of things had gone up so! + </p> + <p> + It fell to Soames to issue invitations for the funeral. He had them drawn + up by Gradman in his office—only blood relations, and no flowers. + Six carriages were ordered. The Will would be read afterward at the house. + </p> + <p> + He arrived at eleven o'clock to see that all was ready. At a quarter + past old Gradman came in black gloves and crape on his hat. He and Soames + stood in the drawing-room waiting. At half-past eleven the carriages drew + up in a long row. But no one else appeared. Gradman said: + </p> + <p> + “It surprises me, Mr. Soames. I posted them myself.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know,” said Soames; “he'd lost + touch with the family.” Soames had often noticed in old days how + much more neighbourly his family were to the dead than to the living. But, + now, the way they had flocked to Fleur's wedding and abstained from + Timothy's funeral, seemed to show some vital change. There might, of + course, be another reason; for Soames felt that if he had not known the + contents of Timothy's Will, he might have stayed away himself + through delicacy. Timothy had left a lot of money, with nobody in + particular to leave it to. They mightn't like to seem to expect + something. + </p> + <p> + At twelve o'clock the procession left the door; Timothy alone in the + first carriage under glass. Then Soames alone; then Gradman alone; then + Cook and Smither together. They started at a walk, but were soon trotting + under a bright sky. At the entrance to Highgate Cemetery they were delayed + by service in the Chapel. Soames would have liked to stay outside in the + sunshine. He didn't believe a word of it; on the other hand, it was + a form of insurance which could not safely be neglected, in case there + might be something in it after all. + </p> + <p> + They walked up two and two—he and Gradman, Cook and Smither—to + the family vault. It was not very distinguished for the funeral of the + last old Forsyte. + </p> + <p> + He took Gradman into his carriage on the way back to the Bayswater Road + with a certain glow in his heart. He had a surprise in pickle for the old + chap who had served the Forsytes four-and-fifty years-a treat that was + entirely his doing. How well he remembered saying to Timothy the day—after + Aunt Hester's funeral: “Well; Uncle Timothy, there's + Gradman. He's taken a lot of trouble for the family. What do you say + to leaving him five thousand?” and his surprise, seeing the + difficulty there had been in getting Timothy to leave anything, when + Timothy had nodded. And now the old chap would be as pleased as Punch, for + Mrs. Gradman, he knew, had a weak heart, and their son had lost a leg in + the War. It was extraordinarily gratifying to Soames to have left him five + thousand pounds of Timothy's money. They sat down together in the + little drawing-room, whose walls—like a vision of heaven—were + sky-blue and gold with every picture-frame unnaturally bright, and every + speck of dust removed from every piece of furniture, to read that little + masterpiece—the Will of Timothy. With his back to the light in Aunt + Hester's chair, Soames faced Gradman with his face to the light, on + Aunt Ann's sofa; and, crossing his legs, began: + </p> + <p> + “This is the last Will and Testament of me Timothy Forsyte of The + Bower Bayswater Road, London I appoint my nephew Soames Forsyte of The + Shelter Mapleduram and Thomas Gradman of 159 Folly Road Highgate + (hereinafter called my Trustees) to be the trustees and executors of this + my Will To the said Soames Forsyte I leave the sum of one thousand pounds + free of legacy duty and to the said Thomas Gradman I leave the sum of five + thousand pounds free of legacy duty.” + </p> + <p> + Soames paused. Old Gradman was leaning forward, convulsively gripping a + stout black knee with each of his thick hands; his mouth had fallen open + so that the gold fillings of three teeth gleamed; his eyes were blinking, + two tears rolled slowly out of them. Soames read hastily on. + </p> + <p> + “All the rest of my property of whatsoever description I bequeath to + my Trustees upon Trust to convert and hold the same upon the following + trusts namely To pay thereout all my debts funeral expenses and outgoings + of any kind in connection with my Will and to hold the residue thereof in + trust for that male lineal descendant of my father Jolyon Forsyte by his + marriage with Ann Pierce who after the decease of all lineal descendants + whether male or female of my said father by his said marriage in being at + the time of my death shall last attain the age of twenty-one years + absolutely it being my desire that my property shall be nursed to the + extreme limit permitted by the laws of England for the benefit of such + male lineal descendant as aforesaid.” + </p> + <p> + Soames read the investment and attestation clauses, and, ceasing, looked + at Gradman. The old fellow was wiping his brow with a large handkerchief, + whose brilliant colour supplied a sudden festive tinge to the proceedings. + </p> + <p> + “My word, Mr. Soames!” he said, and it was clear that the + lawyer in him had utterly wiped out the man: “My word! Why, there + are two babies now, and some quite young children—if one of them + lives to be eighty—it's not a great age—and add + twenty-one—that's a hundred years; and Mr. Timothy worth a + hundred and fifty thousand pound net if he's worth a penny. Compound + interest at five per cent. doubles you in fourteen years. In fourteen + years three hundred thousand-six hundred thousand in twenty-eight—twelve + hundred thousand in forty-two—twenty-four hundred thousand in + fifty-six—four million eight hundred thousand in seventy—nine + million six hundred thousand in eighty-four—Why, in a hundred years + it'll be twenty million! And we shan't live to use it! It is a + Will!” + </p> + <p> + Soames said dryly: “Anything may happen. The State might take the + lot; they're capable of anything in these days.” + </p> + <p> + “And carry five,” said Gradman to himself. “I forgot—Mr. + Timothy's in Consols; we shan't get more than two per cent. + with this income tax. To be on the safe side, say eight millions. Still, + that's a pretty penny.” + </p> + <p> + Soames rose and handed him the Will. “You're going into the + City. Take care of that, and do what's necessary. Advertise; but + there are no debts. When's the sale?” + </p> + <p> + “Tuesday week,” said Gradman. “Life or lives in bein' + and twenty-one years afterward—it's a long way off. But I'm + glad he's left it in the family....” + </p> + <p> + The sale—not at Jobson's, in view of the Victorian nature of + the effects—was far more freely attended than the funeral, though + not by Cook and Smither, for Soames had taken it on himself to give them + their heart's desires. Winifred was present, Euphemia, and Francie, + and Eustace had come in his car. The miniatures, Barbizons, and J. R. + drawings had been bought in by Soames; and relics of no marketable value + were set aside in an off-room for members of the family who cared to have + mementoes. These were the only restrictions upon bidding characterised by + an almost tragic languor. Not one piece of furniture, no picture or + porcelain figure appealed to modern taste. The humming birds had fallen + like autumn leaves when taken from where they had not hummed for sixty + years. It was painful to Soames to see the chairs his aunts had sat on, + the little grand piano they had practically never played, the books whose + outsides they had gazed at, the china they had dusted, the curtains they + had drawn, the hearth-rug which had warmed their feet; above all, the beds + they had lain and died in—sold to little dealers, and the housewives + of Fulham. And yet—what could one do? Buy them and stick them in a + lumber-room? No; they had to go the way of all flesh and furniture, and be + worn out. But when they put up Aunt Ann's sofa and were going to + knock it down for thirty shillings, he cried out, suddenly: “Five + pounds!” The sensation was considerable, and the sofa his. + </p> + <p> + When that little sale was over in the fusty saleroom, and those Victorian + ashes scattered, he went out into the misty October sunshine feeling as if + cosiness had died out of the world, and the board “To Let” was + up, indeed. Revolutions on the horizon; Fleur in Spain; no comfort in + Annette; no Timothy's on the Bayswater Road. In the irritable + desolation of his soul he went into the Goupenor Gallery. That chap Jolyon's + watercolours were on view there. He went in to look down his nose at them—it + might give him some faint satisfaction. The news had trickled through from + June to Val's wife, from her to Val, from Val to his mother, from + her to Soames, that the house—the fatal house at Robin Hill—was + for sale, and Irene going to join her boy out in British Columbia, or some + such place. For one wild moment the thought had come to Soames: 'Why + shouldn't I buy it back? I meant it for my!' No sooner come + than gone. Too lugubrious a triumph; with too many humiliating memories + for himself and Fleur. She would never live there after what had happened. + No, the place must go its way to some peer or profiteer. It had been a + bone of contention from the first, the shell of the feud; and with the + woman gone, it was an empty shell. “For Sale or To Let.” With + his mind's eye he could see that board raised high above the ivied + wall which he had built. + </p> + <p> + He passed through the first of the two rooms in the Gallery. There was + certainly a body of work! And now that the fellow was dead it did not seem + so trivial. The drawings were pleasing enough, with quite a sense of + atmosphere, and something individual in the brush work. 'His father + and my father; he and I; his child and mine!' thought Soames. So it + had gone on! And all about that woman! Softened by the events of the past + week, affected by the melancholy beauty of the autumn day, Soames came + nearer than he had ever been to realisation of that truth—passing + the understanding of a Forsyte pure—that the body of Beauty has a + spiritual essence, uncapturable save by a devotion which thinks not of + self. After all, he was near that truth in his devotion to his daughter; + perhaps that made him understand a little how he had missed the prize. And + there, among the drawings of his kinsman, who had attained to that which + he had found beyond his reach, he thought of him and her with a tolerance + which surprised him. But he did not buy a drawing. + </p> + <p> + Just as he passed the seat of custom on his return to the outer air he met + with a contingency which had not been entirely absent from his mind when + he went into the Gallery—Irene, herself, coming in. So she had not + gone yet, and was still paying farewell visits to that fellow's + remains! He subdued the little involuntary leap of his subconsciousness, + the mechanical reaction of his senses to the charm of this once-owned + woman, and passed her with averted eyes. But when he had gone by he could + not for the life of him help looking back. This, then, was finality—the + heat and stress of his life, the madness and the longing thereof, the only + defeat he had known, would be over when she faded from his view this time; + even such memories had their own queer aching value. + </p> + <p> + She, too, was looking back. Suddenly she lifted her gloved hand, her lips + smiled faintly, her dark eyes seemed to speak. It was the turn of Soames + to make no answer to that smile and that little farewell wave; he went out + into the fashionable street quivering from head to foot. He knew what she + had meant to say: “Now that I am going for ever out of the reach of + you and yours—forgive me; I wish you well.” That was the + meaning; last sign of that terrible reality—passing morality, duty, + common sense—her aversion from him who had owned her body, but had + never touched her spirit or her heart. It hurt; yes—more than if she + had kept her mask unmoved, her hand unlifted. + </p> + <p> + Three days later, in that fast-yellowing October, Soames took a taxi-cab + to Highgate Cemetery and mounted through its white forest to the Forsyte + vault. Close to the cedar, above catacombs and columbaria, tall, ugly, and + individual, it looked like an apex of the competitive system. He could + remember a discussion wherein Swithin had advocated the addition to its + face of the pheasant proper. The proposal had been rejected in favour of a + wreath in stone, above the stark words: “The family vault of Jolyon + Forsyte: 1850.” It was in good order. All trace of the recent + interment had been removed, and its sober grey gloomed reposefully in the + sunshine. The whole family lay there now, except old Jolyon's wife, + who had gone back under a contract to her own family vault in Suffolk; old + Jolyon himself lying at Robin Hill; and Susan Hayman, cremated so that + none knew where she might be. Soames gazed at it with satisfaction—massive, + needing little attention; and this was important, for he was well aware + that no one would attend to it when he himself was gone, and he would have + to be looking out for lodgings soon. He might have twenty years before + him, but one never knew. Twenty years without an aunt or uncle, with a + wife of whom one had better not know anything, with a daughter gone from + home. His mood inclined to melancholy and retrospection. + </p> + <p> + This cemetery was full, they said—of people with extraordinary + names, buried in extraordinary taste. Still, they had a fine view up here, + right over London. Annette had once given him a story to read by that + Frenchman, Maupassant, most lugubrious concern, where all the skeletons + emerged from their graves one night, and all the pious inscriptions on the + stones were altered to descriptions of their sins. Not a true story at + all. He didn't know about the French, but there was not much real + harm in English people except their teeth and their taste, which was + certainly deplorable. “The family vault of Jolyon Forsyte: 1850.” + A lot of people had been buried here since then—a lot of English + life crumbled to mould and dust! The boom of an airplane passing under the + gold-tinted clouds caused him to lift his eyes. The deuce of a lot of + expansion had gone on. But it all came back to a cemetery—to a name + and a date on a tomb. And he thought with a curious pride that he and his + family had done little or nothing to help this feverish expansion. Good + solid middlemen, they had gone to work with dignity to manage and possess. + “Superior Dosset,” indeed, had built in a dreadful, and Jolyon + painted in a doubtful, period, but so far as he remembered not another of + them all had soiled his hands by creating anything—unless you + counted Val Dartie and his horse-breeding. Collectors, solicitors, + barristers, merchants, publishers, accountants, directors, land agents, + even soldiers—there they had been! The country had expanded, as it + were, in spite of them. They had checked, controlled, defended, and taken + advantage of the process and when you considered how “Superior + Dosset” had begun life with next to nothing, and his lineal + descendants already owned what old Gradman estimated at between a million + and a million and a half, it was not so bad! And yet he sometimes felt as + if the family bolt was shot, their possessive instinct dying out. They + seemed unable to make money—this fourth generation; they were going + into art, literature, farming, or the army; or just living on what was + left them—they had no push and no tenacity. They would die out if + they didn't take care. + </p> + <p> + Soames turned from the vault and faced toward the breeze. The air up here + would be delicious if only he could rid his nerves of the feeling that + mortality was in it. He gazed restlessly at the crosses and the urns, the + angels, the “immortelles,” the flowers, gaudy or withering; + and suddenly he noticed a spot which seemed so different from anything + else up there that he was obliged to walk the few necessary yards and look + at it. A sober corner, with a massive queer-shaped cross of grey + rough-hewn granite, guarded by four dark yew-trees. The spot was free from + the pressure of the other graves, having a little box-hedged garden on the + far side, and in front a goldening birch-tree. This oasis in the desert of + conventional graves appealed to the aesthetic sense of Soames, and he sat + down there in the sunshine. Through those trembling gold birch leaves he + gazed out at London, and yielded to the waves of memory. He thought of + Irene in Montpellier Square, when her hair was rusty-golden and her white + shoulders his—Irene, the prize of his love-passion, resistant to his + ownership. He saw Bosinney's body lying in that white mortuary, and + Irene sitting on the sofa looking at space with the eyes of a dying bird. + Again he thought of her by the little green Niobe in the Bois de Boulogne, + once more rejecting him. His fancy took him on beside his drifting river + on the November day when Fleur was to be born, took him to the dead leaves + floating on the green-tinged water and the snake-headed weed for ever + swaying and nosing, sinuous, blind, tethered. And on again to the window + opened to the cold starry night above Hyde Park, with his father lying + dead. His fancy darted to that picture of “the future town,” + to that boy's and Fleur's first meeting; to the bluish trail + of Prosper Profond's cigar, and Fleur in the window pointing down to + where the fellow prowled. To the sight of Irene and that dead fellow + sitting side by side in the stand at Lord's. To her and that boy at + Robin Hill. To the sofa, where Fleur lay crushed up in the corner; to her + lips pressed into his cheek, and her farewell “Daddy.” And + suddenly he saw again Irene's grey-gloved hand waving its last + gesture of release. + </p> + <p> + He sat there a long time dreaming his career, faithful to the scut of his + possessive instinct, warming himself even with its failures. + </p> + <p> + “To Let”—the Forsyte age and way of life, when a man + owned his soul, his investments, and his woman, without check or question. + And now the State had, or would have, his investments, his woman had + herself, and God knew who had his soul. “To Let”—that + sane and simple creed! + </p> + <p> + The waters of change were foaming in, carrying the promise of new forms + only when their destructive flood should have passed its full. He sat + there, subconscious of them, but with his thoughts resolutely set on the + past—as a man might ride into a wild night with his face to the tail + of his galloping horse. Athwart the Victorian dykes the waters were + rolling on property, manners, and morals, on melody and the old forms of + art—waters bringing to his mouth a salt taste as of blood, lapping + to the foot of this Highgate Hill where Victorianism lay buried. And + sitting there, high up on its most individual spot, Soames—like a + figure of Investment—refused their restless sounds. Instinctively he + would not fight them—there was in him too much primeval wisdom, of + Man the possessive animal. They would quiet down when they had fulfilled + their tidal fever of dispossessing and destroying; when the creations and + the properties of others were sufficiently broken and defected—they + would lapse and ebb, and fresh forms would rise based on an instinct older + than the fever of change—the instinct of Home. + </p> + <p> + “Je m'en fiche,” said Prosper Profond. Soames did not + say “Je m'en fiche”—it was French, and the fellow + was a thorn in his side—but deep down he knew that change was only + the interval of death between two forms of life, destruction necessary to + make room for fresher property. What though the board was up, and cosiness + to let?—some one would come along and take it again some day. + </p> + <p> + And only one thing really troubled him, sitting there—the melancholy + craving in his heart—because the sun was like enchantment on his + face and on the clouds and on the golden birch leaves, and the wind's + rustle was so gentle, and the yewtree green so dark, and the sickle of a + moon pale in the sky. + </p> + <p> + He might wish and wish and never get it—the beauty and the loving in + the world! + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:80%;"> + <img alt="cutpages (132K)" src="images/cutpages.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Forsyte Saga, Awakening and To Let, by John Galsworthy + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AWAKENING AND TO LET *** + +***** This file should be named 2596-h.htm or 2596-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/9/2596/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions 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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