‘Yes,’ said Bicket; and put her hands to his eyes.
Chapter Seven
LOOKING INTO ELDERSON
SOAMES had left Danby and Winter divided in thought between Elderson and the White Monkey. As Fleur surmised, he had never forgotten Aubrey Greene’s words concerning that bit of salvage from the wreck of George Forsyte. ‘Eat the fruits of life, scatter the rinds, and get copped doing it.’ His application of them tended towards the field of business.
The country was still living on its capital. With the collapse of the carrying trade and European markets, they were importing food they couldn’t afford to pay for. In his opinion they would get copped doing it, and that before long. British credit was all very well, the wonder of the world and that, but you couldn’t live indefinitely on wonder. With shipping idle, concerns making a loss all over the place, and the unemployed in swarms, it was a pretty pair of shoes! Even insurance must suffer before long. Perhaps that chap Elderson had foreseen this already, and was simply feathering his nest in time. If one was to be copped in any case, why bother to be honest? This was cynicism so patent, that all the Forsyte in Soames rejected it; and yet it would keep coming back. In a general bankruptcy, why trouble with thrift, far-sightedness, integrity? Even the Conservatives were refusing to call themselves Conservatives again, as if there were something ridiculous about the word, and they knew there was really nothing left to conserve. ‘Eat the fruit, scatter the rinds and get copped doing it.’ That young painter had said a clever thing – yes, and his picture was clever, though Dumetrius had done one over the price – as usual! Where would Fleur hang it? In the hall, he shouldn’t be surprised – good light there; and the sort of people they knew wouldn’t jib at the nude. Curious – where all the nudes went to! You never saw a nude – no more than you saw the proverbial dead donkey! Soames had a momentary vision of dying donkeys laden with pictures of the nude, stepping off the edge of the world. Refusing its extravagance, he raised his eyes, just in time to see St Paul’s, as large as life. That little beggar with his balloons wasn’t there today! Well – he’d nothing for him! At a tangent his thoughts turned towards the object of his pilgrimage – the P.P.R.S. and its half-year’s accounts. At his suggestion, they were writing off that German business wholesale – a dead loss of two hundred and thirty thousand pounds. There would be no interim dividend, and even then they would be carrying forward a debit towards the next half-year. Well! better have a rotten tooth out at once and done with; the shareholders would have six months to get used to the gap before the general meeting. He himself had got used to it already, and so would they in time. Shareholders were seldom nasty unless startled – a long-suffering lot!
In the board-room the old clerk was still filling his ink-pots from the magnum.
‘Manager in?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Say I’m here, will you?’
The old clerk withdrew. Soames looked at the clock. Twelve! A little shaft of sunlight slanted down the wainscotting and floor. There was nothing else alive in the room save a bluebottle and the tick of the clock; not even a daily paper. Soames watched the bluebottle. He remembered how, as a boy, he had preferred bluebottles and greenbottles to the ordinary fly, because of their bright colour. It was a lesson. The showy things, the brilliant people, were the dangerous. Witness the Kaiser, and that precious Italian poet – what was his name! And this Jack-o’-lantern of their own! He shouldn’t be surprised if Elderson were brilliant in private life. Why didn’t the chap come? Was that encounter with young Butterfield giving him pause? The bluebottle crawled up the pane, buzzed down, crawled up again; the sunlight stole inward along the floor. All was vacuous in the board-room, as though embodying the principle of insurance: ‘Keep things as they are.’
‘Can’t kick my heels here for ever,’ thought Soames, and moved to the window. In that wide street leading to the river, sunshine illumined a few pedestrians and a brewer’s dray, but along the main artery at the end the traffic streamed and rattled. London! A monstrous place! And all insured! ‘What’ll it be like thirty years hence?’ he thought. To think that there would be London, without himself to see it! He felt sorry for the place, sorry for himself. Even old Gradman would be gone. He supposed the insurance societies would look after it, but he didn’t know. And suddenly he became aware of Elderson. The fellow looked quite jaunty, in a suit of dittoes and a carnation.
‘Contemplating the future, Mr Forsyte?’
‘No,’ said Soames. How had the fellow guessed his thoughts?
‘I’m glad you’ve come in. It gives me a chance to say how grateful I am for the interest you take in the concern. It’s rare. A manager has a lonely job.’
Was he mocking? He seemed altogether very spry and uppish. Light-heartedness always made Soames suspicious – there was generally some reason for it.
‘If every director were as conscientious as you, one would sleep in one’s bed. I don’t mind telling you that the amount of help I got from the Board before you came on it was – well – negligible.’
Flattery! The fellow must be leading up to something!
Elderson went on:
‘I can say to you what I couldn’t say to any of the others: I’m not at all happy about business, Mr Forsyte. England is just about to discover the state she’s really in.’
Faced with this startling confirmation of his own thoughts, Soames reacted.
‘No good crying out before we’re hurt,’ he said; ‘the pound’s still high. We’re good stayers.’
‘In the soup, I’m afraid. If something drastic isn’t done – we shall stay there. And anything drastic, as you know, means disorganization and lean years before you reap reward.’
How could the fellow talk like this, and look as bright and pink as a new penny? It confirmed the theory that he didn’t care what happened. And, suddenly, Soames resolved to try a shot.
‘Talking of lean years – I came in to say that I think we must call a meeting of the shareholders over this dead loss of the German business.’ He said it to the floor, and looked quickly up. The result was disappointing. The manager’s light-grey eyes met his without a blink.
‘I’ve been expecting that from you,’ he said.
‘The deuce you have!’ thought Soames, for it had but that moment come into his mind.
‘By all means call one,’ went on the manager; ‘but I’m afraid the Board won’t like it.’
Soames refrained from saying: ‘Nor do I.’
‘Nor the shareholders, Mr Forsyte. In a long experience I’ve found that the less you rub their noses in anything unpleasant, the better for everyone.’
‘That may be,’ said Soames, stiffening in contrariety; ‘but it’s all a part of the vice of not facing things.’
‘I don’t think, Mr Forsyte, that you will accuse me of not facing things, in the time to come.’
Time to come! Now, what on earth did the fellow mean by that?
‘Well, I shall moot it at the next Board,’ he said.
‘Quite!’ said the manager. ‘Nothing like bringing things to a head, is there?’
Again that indefinable mockery, as if he had something up his sleeve. Soames looked mechanically at the fellow’s cuffs – beautifully laundered, with a blue stripe; at his holland waistcoat, and his bird’s-eye tie – a regular dandy. He would give him a second barrel!
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘Mont’s written a book. I’ve taken a copy.’
Not a blink! A little more show of teeth, perhaps – false, no doubt!
‘I’ve taken two – poor, dear Mont!’
Soames had a sense of defeat. This chap was armoured like a crab, varnished like a Spanish table.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I must go.’
The manager held out his hand.
‘Good-bye, Mr Forsyte. I’m so grateful to you.’
The fellow was actually squeezing his hand. Soames went out confused. To have his hand squeezed was so rare! It undermined him. And yet, it might
be the crown of a consummate bit of acting. He couldn’t tell. He had, however, less intention even than before of moving for a meeting of the shareholders. No, no! That had just been a shot to get a rise; and it had failed. But the Butterfield shot had gone home, surely! If innocent, Elderson must certainly have alluded to the impudence of the young man’s call. And yet such a cool card was capable of failing to rise, just to tease you! No! nothing doing – as they said nowadays. He was as far as ever from a proof of guilt; and to speak truth, glad of it. Such a scandal could serve no purpose save that of blackening the whole concern, directors and all. People were so careless, they never stopped to think, or apportion blame where it was due. Keep a sharp eye open, and go on as they were! No good stirring hornets’ nests! He had got so far in thought and progress, when a voice said:
‘Well met, Forsyte! Are you going my way?’
‘Old Mont’, coming down the steps of ‘Snooks’!
‘I don’t know,’ said Soames.
‘I’m off to the Aeroplane for lunch.’
‘That new-fangled place?’
‘Rising, you know, Forsyte – rising.’
‘I’ve just been seeing Elderson. He’s bought two copies of your book.’
‘Dear me! Poor fellow!’
Soames smiled faintly. ‘That’s what he said of you! And who d’you think sold them to him? Young Butterfield.’
‘Is he still alive?’
‘He was this morning.’
Sir Lawrence’s face took on a twist:
‘I’ve been thinking, Forsyte. They tell me Elderson keeps two women.’
Soames stared. The idea was attractive; would account for everything.
‘My wife says it’s one too many, Forsyte. What do you say?’
‘I?’ said Soames. ‘I only know the chap’s as cool as a cucumber. I’m going in here. Good-bye!’
One could get no help from that baronet fellow; he couldn’t take anything seriously. Two women! At Elderson’s age! What a life! There were always men like that, not content with one thing at a time – living dangerously. It was mysterious to him. You might look and look into chaps like that, and see nothing. And yet, there they were! He crossed the hall, and went into the room where connoisseurs were lunching. Taking down the menu at the service table, he ordered himself a dozen oysters; but, suddenly remembering that the month contained no ‘r’, changed them to a fried sole.
Chapter Eight
LEVANTED
‘No, dear heart, Nature’s “off”!’
‘How d’you mean, Michael?’
‘Well, look at the Nature novels we get. Sedulous stuff pitched on Cornish cliffs or Yorkshire moors – ever been on a Yorkshire moor? – it comes off on you; and the Dartmoor brand. Gosh! Dartmoor, where the passions come from – ever been on Dart-moor? Well, they don’t, you know. And the South Sea bunch! Oh, la la! And the poets, the splash-and-splutter school don’t get within miles of Nature. The village idiot school is a bit better, certainly. After all, old Wordsworth made Nature, and she’s a bromide. Of course, there’s raw nature with the small “n”; but if you come up against that, it takes you all your time to keep alive – the Nature we gas about is licensed, nicely blended and bottled. She’s not modern enough for contemporary style.’
‘Oh! well, let’s go on the river, anyway, Michael. We can have tea at “The Shelter”.’
They were just reaching what Michael always called ‘this desirable residence’, when Fleur leaned forward, and, touching his knee, said:
‘I’m not half as nice to you as you deserve, Michael.’
‘Good Lord, darling! I thought you were.’
‘I know I’m selfish; especially just now.’
‘It’s only the eleventh baronet.’
‘Yes; it’s a great responsibility. I only hope he’ll be like you.’
Michael slid in to the landing-stage, shipped his sculls, and sat down beside her.
‘If he’s like me, I shall disown him. But sons take after their mothers.’
‘I meant in character. I want him frightfully to be cheerful and not restless, and have the feeling that life’s worth while.’
Michael stared at her lips – they were quivering; at her cheek, slightly browned by the afternoon’s sunning; and, bending sideways, he put his own against it.
‘He’ll be a sunny little cuss, I’m certain.’
Fleur shook her head.
‘I don’t want him greedy and self-centred; it’s in my blood, you know. I can see it’s ugly, but I can’t help it. How do you manage not to be?’
Michael ruffled his hair with his free hand.
‘The sun isn’t too hot for you, is it, ducky?’
‘No. Seriously, Michael – how?’
‘But I am. Look at the way I want you. Nothing will cure me of that.’
A slight pressure of her cheek on his own was heartening, and he said:
‘Do you remember coming down the garden one night, and finding me in a boat just here? When you’d gone, I stood on my head, to cool it. I was on my uppers; I didn’t think I’d got an earthly –’ He stopped. No! He would not remind her, but that was the night when she said: ‘Come again when I know I can’t get my wish!’ The unknown cousin!
Fleur said quietly:
‘I was a pig to you, Michael, but I was awfully unhappy. That’s gone. It’s gone at last; there’s nothing wrong now, except my own nature.’
Conscious that his feelings betrayed the period, Michael said:
‘Oh! if that’s all! What price tea?’
They went up the lawn arm-in-arm. Nobody was at home – Soames in London, Annette at a garden party.
‘We’ll have tea on the verandah, please,’ said Fleur.
Sitting there, happier than he ever remembered being, Michael conceded a certain value to Nature, to the sunshine stealing down, the scent of pinks and roses, the sighing in the aspens. Annette’s pet doves were cooing; and, beyond the quietly-flowing river, the spires of poplar trees rose along the further bank. But, after all, he was only enjoying them because of the girl beside him, whom he loved to touch and look at, and because, for the first time, he felt as if she did not want to get up and flutter off to someone or something else. Curious that there could be, outside oneself, a being who completely robbed the world of its importance, ‘snooped’, as it were, the whole ‘bag of tricks’ – and she one’s own wife! Very curious, considering what one was! He heard her say:
‘Of course, mother’s a Catholic; only, living with father down here, she left off practising. She didn’t even bother me much. I’ve been thinking, Michael – what shall we do about him?’
‘Let him rip.’
‘I don’t know. He must be taught something, because of going to school. The Catholics, you know, really do get things out of their religion.’
‘Yes; they go it blind; it’s the only logical way now.’
‘I think having no religion makes one feel that nothing matters.’
Michael suppressed the words: ‘We could bring him up as a sun-worshipper,’ and said, instead:
‘It seems to me that whatever he’s taught will only last till he can think for himself; then he’ll settle down to what suits him.’
‘But what do you think about things, Michael? You’re as good as anyone I know.’
‘Gosh!’ murmured Michael, strangely flattered: ‘Is that so?’
‘What do you think? Be serious!’
‘Well, darling, doctrinally nothing – which means, of course, that I haven’t got religion. I believe one has to play the game – but that’s ethics.’
‘But surely it’s a handicap not to be able to rely on anything but oneself? If there’s something to be had out of any form of belief, one might as well have it.’
Michael smiled, but not on the surface.
‘You’re going to do just as you like about the eleventh baronet, and I’m going to abet you. But considering his breeding – I fancy he’ll be a bit of a sceptic.’
&
nbsp; ‘But I don’t want him to be. I’d rather he were snug, and convinced and all that. Scepticism only makes one restless.’
‘No white monkey in him? Ah! I wonder! It’s in the air, I guess. The only thing will be to teach him a sense of other people, as young as possible, with a slipper, if necessary.’
Fleur gave him a clear look, and laughed.
‘Yes,’ she said: ‘Mother used to try, but Father wouldn’t let her.’
They did not reach home till past eight o’clock.
‘Either your father’s here, or mine,’ said Michael, in the hall; ‘there’s a prehistoric hat.’
‘It’s Dad’s. His is grey inside. Bart’s is buff.’
In the Chinese room Soames indeed was discovered, with an opened letter, and Ting-a-ling at his feet. He held the letter out to Michael, without a word.
There was no date, and no address; Michael read:
DEAR MR FORSYTE. – Perhaps you will be good enough to tell the Board at the meeting on Tuesday that I am on my way to immunity from the consequences of any peccadillo I may have been guilty of. By the time you receive this, I shall be there. I have always held that the secret of life, no less than that of business, is to know when not to stop. It will be no use to proceed against me, for my person will not be attachable, as I believe you call it in the law, and I have left no property behind. If your object was to corner me, I cannot congratulate you on your tactics. If, on the other hand, you inspired that young man’s visit as a warning that you were still pursuing the matter, I should like to add new thanks to those which I expressed when I saw you a few days ago.
Believe me, dear Mr Forsyte,
Faithfully yours,
ROBERT ELDERSON.
Michael said cheerfully:
‘Happy release! Now you’ll feel safer, sir.’
Soames passed his hand over his face, evidently wiping off its expression. ‘We’ll discuss it later,’ he said. ‘This dog’s been keeping me company.’
Michael admired him at that moment. He was obviously swallowing his ‘grief, to save Fleur.
The Forsyte Saga, Volume 2 Page 24