The Forsyte Saga, Volume 3

by John Galsworthy

  Dinny entered a small, almost empty room hung with the green Japanese silk of the antique dealer and carpeted with matting. A narrow spiral staircase wormed into it at the far corner, and a subdued light radiated from a single green-paper-shaded bulb hanging in the centre. A brass electric heater diffused no heat.

  ‘Nothing doing here so far,’ said Clare. ‘Come upstairs.’

  Dinny made the tortuous ascent, and stepped into a rather smaller sitting-room. It had two curtained windows looking over the mews, a couch with cushions, a little old bureau, three chairs, six Japanese prints, which Clare had evidently just been hanging, an old Persian rug over the matted floor, an almost empty bookcase, and some photographs of the family standing on it. The walls were distempered a pale grey, and a gas fire was burning.

  ‘Fleur gave me the prints and the rug, and Aunt Em stumped up the bureau. I took the other things over.’

  ‘Where do you sleep?’

  ‘On that couch – quite comfy. I’ve got a little bath-dressing-room next door, with a geyser, and a what-d’ye-call-it, and a cupboard for clothes.’

  ‘Mother told me to ask what you wanted.’

  ‘I could do with our old Primus stove, some blankets and a few knives and forks and spoons, and a small tea-set, if there’s one to spare, and any spare books.’

  ‘Right!’ said Dinny. ‘Now, darling, how are you?’

  ‘Bodily fine, mentally rather worried. I told you he was over.’

  ‘Does he know of this place?’

  ‘Not so far. You and Fleur and Aunt Em – oh! and Tony Croom – are the only people who know of it. My official address is Mount Street. But he’s bound to find out if he wants to.’

  ‘You saw him?’

  ‘Yes, and told him I wasn’t coming back; and I’m not, Dinny; that’s flat, to save breath. Have some tea? I can make it in a brown pot.’

  ‘No, thank you, I had it on the train.’ She was sitting on one of the taken-over chairs, in a bottle-green suit that went beautifully with her beech-leaf-coloured hair.

  ‘How jolly you look, sitting there !’ said Clare, curling up on the sofa. ‘Gasper?’

  Dinny was thinking the same about her sister. Graceful creature, one of those people who couldn’t look ungraceful; with her dark short hair, and dark, alive eyes, and ivory pale face, and not too brightened lips holding the cigarette, she looked – well, ‘desirable’. And, in all the circumstances, the word appeared to Dinny an awkward one. Clare had always been vivid and attractive, but without question marriage had subtly rounded, deepened, and in some sort bedevilled that attraction. She said suddenly:

  ‘Tony Croom, you said?’

  ‘He helped me distemper these walls; in fact, he practically did them, while I did the bathroom – these are better.’

  Dinny’s eyes took in the walls with apparent interest.

  ‘Quite neat. Mother and Father are nervous, darling.’

  ‘They would be.’

  ‘Naturally, don’t you think?’

  Clare’s brow drew down. Dinny suddenly remembered how strenuously they had once debated the question of whether eyebrows should be plucked. Thank heaven! Clare never had yet.

  ‘I can’t help it, Dinny. I don’t know what Jerry’s going to do.’

  ‘I suppose he can’t stay long, without giving up his job?’

  ‘Probably not. But I’m not going to bother. What will be will.’

  ‘How quickly could a divorce be got? I mean against him?’

  Clare shook her head, and a dark curl fell over her forehead, reminding Dinny of her as a child.

  ‘To have him watched would be pretty revolting. And I’m not going into court to describe being brutalized. It’s only my word against his. Men are safe enough.’

  Dinny got up and sat down beside her on the couch.

  ‘I could kill him!’ she said.

  Clare laughed.

  ‘He wasn’t so bad in many ways. Only I simply won’t go back. If you’ve once been skinned, you can’t.’

  Dinny sat, silent, with closed eyes.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, at last, ‘how you stand with Tony Croom.’

  ‘He’s on probation. So long as he behaves I like to see him.’

  ‘If,’ said Dinny slowly, ‘he were known to come here, it would be all that would be wanted, wouldn’t it?’

  Clare laughed again.

  ‘Quite enough for men of the world, I should think; I believe juries can never withstand being called that. But you see, Dinny, if I begin to look at things from a jury’s point of view, I might as well be dead. And, as a matter of fact, I feel very much alive. So I’m going straight ahead. Tony knows I’ve had enough physiology to last me a long time.’

  ‘Is he in love with you?’

  Their eyes, brown and blue, met.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you in love with him?’

  ‘I like him – quite a lot. Beyond that I’ve no feeling at present.’

  ‘Don’t you think that while Jerry is here –?’

  ‘No. I think I’m safer while he’s here than when he goes. If I don’t go back with him he’ll probably have me watched. That’s one thing about him – he does what he says he’ll do.’

  ‘I wonder if that’s an advantage. Come out and have some dinner.’

  Clare stretched herself.

  ‘Can’t darling. I’m dining with Tony in a little grubby restaurant suited to our joint means. This living on next to nothing is rather fun.’

  Dinny got up and began to straighten the Japanese prints. Clare’s recklessness was nothing new. To come the elder sister! To be a wet blanket! Impossible! She said:

  ‘These are good, my dear. Fleur has very jolly things.’

  ‘D’you mind if I change?’ said Clare, and vanished into the bathroom.

  Left alone with her sister’s problem, Dinny had the feeling of helplessness which comes to all but such as constitutionally ‘know better’. She went dejectedly to the window and drew aside the curtain. All was darkish and dingy. A car had drawn out of a neighbouring garage and stood waiting for its driver.

  ‘Imagine trying to sell antiques here!’ she thought. She saw a man come round the corner close by and stop, looking at the numbers. He moved along the opposite side, then came back and stood still just in front of No. 2. She noted the assurance and strength in that trim over-coated figure.

  ‘Good heavens!’ she thought: ‘Jerry!’ She dropped the curtain and crossed quickly to the bathroom door. As she opened it she heard the desolate tinkling of the sheep-bell installed by the antique dealer.

  Clare was standing in her underthings under the single bulb, examining her lips with a hand-glass. Dinny filled the remains of the four feet by two of standing room.

  ‘Clare,’ she said, ‘it’s him!’

  Clare turned. The gleam of her pale arms, the shimmer of her silk garments, the startled light in her dark eyes, made her even to her sister something of a vision.

  ‘Jerry?’

  Dinny nodded.

  ‘Well, I won’t see him.’ She looked at the watch on her wrist. ‘And I’m due at seven. Damn!’

  Dinny, who had not the faintest desire that she should keep her rash appointment, said, to her own surprise:

  ‘Shall I go? He must have seen the light.’

  ‘Could you take him away with you, Dinny?’

  ‘I can try.’

  ‘Then do, darling. It’d be ever so sweet of you. I wonder how he’s found out. Hell! It’s going to be a persecution.’

  Dinny stepped back into the sitting-room, turned out the light there, and went down the twisting stair. The sheep-bell tinkled again above her as she went. Crossing that little empty room to the door, she thought: ‘It opens inwards, I must pull it to behind me.’ Her heart beat fast, she took a deep breath, opened the door swiftly, stepped out and pulled it to with a slam. She was chest to chest with her brother-in-law, and she started back with an admirably impromptu: ‘Who is it?’

>   He raised his hat, and they stood looking at each other.

  ‘Dinny! Is Clare in?’

  ‘Yes; but she can’t see anyone.’

  ‘You mean she won’t see me?’

  ‘If you like to put it that way.’

  He stood looking intently at her with his daring eyes.

  ‘Another day will do. Which way are you going?’

  ‘To Mount Street.’

  ‘I’ll come with you, if I may.’

  ‘Do.’

  She moved along at his side, thinking: ‘Be careful!’ For in his company she did not feel towards him quite as in his absence. As everybody said, Jerry Corven had charm!

  ‘Clare’s been giving me bad marks, I suppose?’

  ‘We won’t discuss it, please; what ever she feels, I do too.’

  ‘Naturally. Your loyalty is proverbial. But consider, Dinny, how provocative she is.’ His eyes smiled round at her. That vision – of neck, and curve, and shimmer, dark hair and eyes! Sex appeal – horrible expression! ‘You’ve got no idea how tantalizing. Besides, I was always an experimentalist.’

  Dinny stood still suddenly: ‘This is my sister, you know.’

  ‘You’re sure, I suppose? It seems queer when one looks at you both.’

  Dinny walked on, and did not answer.

  ‘Now listen, Dinny,’ began that pleasant voice. ‘I’m a sensualist, if you like, but what does it matter? Sex is naturally aberrational. If anyone tells you it isn’t, don’t believe them. These things work themselves out, and anyway they’re not important. If Clare comes back to me, in two years’ time she won’t even remember. She likes the sort of life, and I’m not fussy. Marriage is very much a go-as-you-please affair.’

  ‘You mean that by that time you’ll be experimenting with someone else?’

  He shrugged, looked round at her, and smiled.

  ‘Almost embarrassing this conversation, isn’t it? What I want you to grasp is that I’m two men. One, and it’s the one that matters, has his work to do and means to do it. Clare should stick to that man, because he’ll give her a life in which she won’t rust; she’ll be in the thick of affairs and people who matter; she’ll have stir and movement – and she loves both. She’ll have a certain power, and she’s not averse from that. The other man – well, he wants his fling, he takes it, if you like; but the worst is over so far as she’s concerned – at least, it will be when we’ve settled down again. You see, I’m honest, or shameless if you like it better.’

  ‘I don’t see, in all this,’ said Dinny drily, ‘where love comes in.’

  ‘Perhaps it doesn’t. Marriage is composed of mutual interest and desire. The first increases with the years, the latter fades. That ought to be exactly what she wants.’

  ‘I can’t speak for Clare, but I don’t see it that way.’

  ‘You haven’t tried yourself out, my dear.’

  ‘No,’ said Dinny, ‘and on those lines, I trust I never may. 1 should dislike alternation between commerce and vice.’

  He laughed.

  ‘I like your bluntness. But seriously, Dinny, you ought to influence her. She’s making a great mistake.’

  A sudden fury seized on Dinny.

  ‘I think,’ she said, between her teeth, ‘it was you who made the great mistake. If you do certain things to certain horses you’re never on terms with them again.’

  He was silent at that.

  ‘You don’t want a divorce in the family,’ he said at last, and looked round at her steadily. ‘I’ve told Clare that I can’t let her divorce me. I’m sorry, but I mean that. Further, if she won’t come back to me, she can’t go as she pleases.’

  ‘You mean,’ said Dinny, between her teeth, ‘that if she does come back to you she can?’

  ‘That’s what it would come to, I daresay.’

  ‘I see. I think I’ll say good night.’

  ‘As you please. You think me cynical. That’s as may be. I shall do my best to get Clare back. If she won’t come she must watch out.’

  They had stopped under a lamp-post and with an effort Dinny forced her eyes to his. He was as formidable, shameless, and mesmerically implacable as a cat, with that thin smile and unflinching stare. She said quietly: ‘I quite understand. Good night!’

  ‘Good night, Dinny! I’m sorry, but it’s best to know where we stand. Shake hands?’

  Rather to her surprise she let him take her hand, then turned the corner into Mount Street.

  Chapter Nine

  SHE entered her Aunt’s house with all her passionate loyalty to her own breed roused, yet understanding better what had made Clare take Jerry Corven for husband. There was mesmerism about him, and a clear shameless daring which had its fascination. One could see what a power he might be among native peoples, how ruthlessly, yet smoothly, he would have his way with them; and how he might lay a spell over his associates. She could see, too, how difficult he might be to refuse physically, until he had outraged all personal pride.

  Her aunt’s voice broke her painful absorption with the words: ‘Here she is, Adrian.’

  At the top of the stairs her Uncle Adrian’s goatee-bearded face was looking over his sister’s shoulder.

  ‘Your things have come, my dear. Where have you been?’

  ‘With Clare, Auntie.’

  ‘Dinny,’ said Adrian, ‘I haven’t seen you for nearly a year.’

  ‘This is where we kiss, Uncle. Is all well in Bloomsbury, or has the slump affected bones?’

  ‘Bones in esse are all right; in posse they look dicky – no money for expeditions. The origin of Homo sapiens is more abstruse than ever.’

  ‘Dinny, we needn’t dress. Adrian’s stoppin’ for dinner. Lawrence will be so relieved. You can pow-wow while I loosen my belt, or do you want to tighten yours?’

  ‘No, thank you, Auntie.’

  ‘Then go in there.’

  Dinny entered the drawing-room and sat down beside her Uncle. Grave and thin and bearded, wrinkled, and brown even in November, with long legs crossed and a look of interest in her, he seemed as ever the ideal pillar-box for confidences.

  ‘Heard about Clare, Uncle?’

  ‘The bare facts, no whys or wherefores.’

  ‘They’re not “nice”. Did you ever know a sadist?’

  ‘Once – at Margate. My private school. I didn’t know at the time, of course, but I’ve gathered it since. Do you mean that Corven is one?’

  ‘So Clare says. I walked here with him from her rooms. He’s a very queer person.’

  ‘Not mentally abnormal?’ said Adrian, with a shudder.

  ‘Saner than you or I, dear; he wants his own way regardless of other people; and when he can’t get it he bites. Could Clare get a divorce from him without publicly going into their life together?’

  ‘Only by getting evidence of a definite act of misconduct.’

  ‘Would that have to be over here?’

  ‘Well, to get it over there would be very expensive, and doubtful at that.’

  ‘Clare doesn’t want to have him watched at present.’

  ‘It’s certainly an unclean process,’ said Adrian.

  ‘I know, Uncle; but if she won’t, what chance is there?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘At present she’s in the mood that they should leave each other severely alone; but if she won’t go back with him, he says she must “look out for herself”.’

  ‘Is there anybody else involved, then, Dinny?’

  ‘There’s a young man in love with her, but she says it’s quite all right.’

  ‘H’m! “Youth’s a stuff –” as Shakespeare said. Nice young man?’

  ‘I’ve only seen him a for a few minutes; he looked quite nice, I thought.’

  ‘That cuts both ways.’

  ‘I trust Clare completely.’

  ‘You know her better than I do, my dear; but I should say she might get very impatient. How long can Corven stay over here?’

  ‘Not more than a month at most, she thi
nks; he’s been here a week already.’

  ‘He’s seen her?’

  ‘Once. He tried to again today. I drew him off. She dreads seeing him, I know.’

  ‘As things are he has every right to see her, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dinny, and sighed.

  ‘Can’t your Member that she’s with suggest a way out? He’s a lawyer.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to tell him. It’s so private. Besides, people don’t like being involved in matrimonial squabbles.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘No.’

  She saw him look at her intently, and remembered Clare’s laugh and words: ‘Dinny, he’s in love with you.’

  ‘You’ll see him here tomorrow night,’ Adrian went on. ‘Em’s asked him to dinner, I gather; Clare too, I believe. Quite candidly, Dinny, I don’t see anything to be done. Clare may change her mind and go back, or Corven may change his and let her stay without bothering about her.’

  Dinny shook her head. ‘They’re neither of them like that. I must go and wash, Uncle.’

  Adrian reflected upon the undeniable proposition that everyone had his troubles. His own at the moment were confined to the fact that his step-children, Sheila and Ronald Ferse, had measles, so that he was something of a pariah in his own house, the sanctity attaching to an infectious disease having cast his wife into purdah. He was not vastly interested in Clare. She had always been to him one of those young women who took the bit between their teeth and were bound to fetch up now and again with broken knees. Dinny, to him, was worth three of her. But if Dinny were going to be worried out of her life by her sister’s troubles, then, indeed, they became important to Adrian. She seemed to have the knack of bearing vicarious burdens: Hubert’s, his own, Wilfrid Desert’s, and now Clare’s.

  And he said to his sister’s parakeet: ‘Not fair, Polly, is it?’

  The parakeet, who was used to him, came out of its open cage on to his shoulder and tweaked his ear.

  ‘You don’t approve, do you?’

  The green bird emitted a faint chattering sound and clutched its way on to his waistcoat. Adrian scratched its poll.

  ‘Who’s going to scratch her poll? Poor Dinny!’

  His sister’s voice startled him: