The Forsyte Saga, Volume 2

by John Galsworthy

  ‘It won’t,’ said Jon; ‘people love to divide things up. I say, I remember every stick in this room. How are the horses? Can I have a look at them and a ride tomorrow?’

  ‘We’ll go forth early and see them at exercise. We’ve only got three two-year-olds, but one of them’s most promising.’

  ‘Fine! After that I must go up and get a good, dirty job. I should like to stoke an engine. I’ve always wanted to know how stokers feel.’

  ‘We’ll all go. We can stay with Val’s mother. It is so lovely to see you, Jon. Dinner’s in half an hour.’

  Jon lingered five minutes at his window. That orchard in full bloom – not mathematically planted, like his just-sold North Carolinian peach trees – was as lovely as on that long-ago night when he chased Fleur therein. That was the beauty of England – nothing was planned! How home-sick he had been over there; yes, and his mother, too! He would never go back! How wonderful that sea of apple blossom! Cuckoo again! That alone was worth coming home for. He would find a place and grow fruit, down in the West, Worcestershire or Somerset, or near here – they grew a lot of figs and things at Worthing, he remembered. Turning out his suit-case, he began to dress. Just where he was sitting now, pulling on his American socks, had he sat when Fleur was showing him her Goya dress. Who would have believed then that, six years later, he would want Anne, not Fleur, beside him on this bed! The gong! Dabbing at his hair, bright and stivery, he straightened his tie and ran down.

  Val’s views on the strike, Val’s views on everything, shrewd and narrow as his horseman’s face! Those Labour johnnies were up against it this time with a vengeance; they’d have to heel up before it was over. How had Jon liked the Yanks? Had he seen ‘Man of War’? No? Good Lord! The thing best worth seeing in America! Was the grass in Kentucky really blue? Only from the distance? Oh! What were they going to abolish over there next? Wasn’t there a place down South where you were only allowed to cohabit under the eyes of the town watch? Parliament here were going to put a tax on betting; why not introduce the ‘Tote’ and have done with it? Personally he didn’t care, he’d given up betting! And he glanced at Holly. Jon, too, glanced at her lifted brows and slightly parted lips – a charming face – ironical and tolerant! She drove Val with silken reins!

  Val went on: Good job Jon had given up America; if he must farm out of England, why not South Africa, under the poor old British flag; though the Dutch weren’t done with yet! A tough lot! They had gone out there, of course, so bright and early that they were real settlers – none of your adventurers, failures-at-home, remittance-men. He didn’t like the beggars, but they were stout fellows, all the same. Going to stay in England? Good! What about coming in with them and breeding racing stock?

  After an awkward little silence, Holly said slyly:

  ‘Jon doesn’t think that’s quite a man’s job, Val’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Luxury trade.’

  ‘Blood stock – where would horses be without it?’

  ‘Very tempting,’ said Jon. ‘I’d like an interest in it. But I’d want to grow fruit and things for a main line.’

  ‘All right, my son; you can grow apples they eat on Sundays.’

  ‘You see, Jon,’ said Holly, ‘nobody believes in growing anything in England. We talk about it more and more, and do it less and less. Do you see any change in Jon, Val?’

  The cousins exchanged a stare.

  ‘A bit more solid; nothing American, anyway.’

  Holly murmured thoughtfully: ‘Why can one always tell an American?’

  ‘Why can one always tell an Englishman?’ said Jon.

  ‘Something guarded, my dear. But a national looks the most difficult thing in the world to define. Still, you can’t mistake the American expression.’

  ‘I don’t believe you’ll take Anne for one.’

  ‘Describe her, Jon.’

  ‘No. Wait till you see her.’

  When, after dinner, Val was going his last round of the stables, Jon said:

  ‘Do you ever see Fleur, Holly?’

  ‘I haven’t for eighteen months, I should think. I like her husband; he’s an awfully good sort. You were well out of that, Jon. She isn’t your kind – not that she isn’t charming; but she has to be plump centre of the stage. I suppose you knew that, really.’

  Jon looked at her and did not answer.

  ‘Of course,’ murmured Holly, ‘when one’s in love, one doesn’t know much.’

  Up in his room again, the house began to be haunted. Into it seemed to troop all his memories, of Fleur, of Robin Hill – old trees of his boyhood, his father’s cigars, his mother’s flowers and music; the nursery of his games, Holly’s nursery before his, with its window looking out over the clock tower above the stables, the room where latterly he had struggled with rhyme. In through his open bedroom window came the sweet-scented air – England’s self – from the loom of the Downs in the moon-scattered dusk, this first night of home for more than two thousand nights. With Robin Hill sold, this was the nearest he had to home in England now. But they must make one of their own – he and Anne. Home! On the English liner he had wanted to embrace the stewards and stewardesses just because they spoke with an English accent. It was, still, as music to his ears. Anne would pick it up faster now – she was very receptive! He had liked the Americans, but he was glad Val had said there was nothing American about him. An owl hooted. What a shadow that barn cast – how soft and old its angle! He got into bed. Sleep – if he wanted to be up to see the horses exercised! Once before, here, he had got up early – for another purpose! And soon he slept; and a form – was it Anne’s, was it Fleur’s – wandered in the corridors of his dreams.

  Chapter Four

  SOAMES GOES UP TO TOWN

  HAVING seen his wife off from Dover on the Wednesday, Soames Forsyte motored towards town. On the way he decided to make a considerable detour and enter London over Hammersmith, the farthest westerly bridge in reason. There was for him a fixed connexion between unpleasantness and the East End, in times of industrial disturbance. And feeling that, if he encountered a threatening proletariat, he would insist on going through with it, he acted in accordance with the other side of a Forsyte’s temperament, and looked ahead. Thus it was that he found his car held up in Hammersmith Broadway by the only threatening conduct of the afternoon. A number of persons had collected to interfere with a traffic of which they did not seem to approve. After sitting forward, to say to his chauffeur, ‘You’d better go round, Riggs,’ Soames did nothing but sit back. The afternoon was fine, and the car – a landaulette – open, so that he had a good view of the total impossibility of ‘going round’. Just like that fellow Riggs to have run bang into this! A terrific pack of cars crammed with people trying to run out of town; a few cars like his own, half empty, trying to creep past them into town; a motor-omnibus, not overturned precisely, but with every window broken, standing half across the road; and a number of blank-looking people eddying and shifting before a handful of constables! Such were the phenomena which Soames felt the authorities ought to be handling better.

  The words, ‘Look at that blighted plutocrat!’ assailed his ears; and in attempting to see the plutocrat in question, he became aware that it was himself. The epithets were unjust! He was modestly attired in a brown overcoat and soft felt hat; that fellow Riggs was plain enough in all conscience, and the car was an ordinary blue. True, he was alone in it, and all the other cars seemed full of people; but he did not see how he was to get over that, short of carrying into London persons desirous of going in the opposite direction. To shut the car, at all events, would look too pointed – so there was nothing for it but to sit still and take no notice! For this occupation no one could have been better framed by Nature than Soames, with his air of slightly despising creation. He sat, taking in little but his own nose, with the sun shining on his neck behind, and the crowd eddying round the police. Such violence as had been necessary to break the windows of the bus had ceased, and the blo
ck was rather what might have been caused by the Prince of Wales. With every appearance of not encouraging it by seeming to take notice, Soames was observing the crowd. And a vacant-looking lot they were, in his opinion; neither their eyes nor their hands had any of that close attention to business which alone made revolutionary conduct formidable. Youths, for the most part, with cigarettes drooping from their lips – they might have been looking at a fallen horse.

  People were born gaping nowadays. And a good thing, too! Cinemas, fags, and football matches – there would be no real revolution while they were on hand; and as there seemed to be more and more on hand every year, he was just feeling that the prospect was not too bleak, when a young woman put her head over the window of his car.

  ‘Could you take me into town?’

  Soames automatically consulted his watch. The hands pointing to seven o’clock gave him extraordinarily little help. Rather a smartly-dressed young woman, with a slight cockney accent and powder on her nose! That fellow Riggs would never have done grinning. And yet he had read in the British Gazette that everybody was doing it. Rather gruffly he said:

  ‘I suppose so. Where do you want to go?’

  ‘Oh, Leicester Square would do me all right.’

  Great Scott!

  The young woman seemed to sense his emotion. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘I got to get something to eat before my show.’

  Moreover, she was getting in! Soames nearly got out. Restraining himself, he gave her a sidelong look; actress or something – young – round face, made up, naturally – nose a little snub – eyes grey, rather goggly – mouth – h’m, pretty mouth, slightly common! Shingled – of course.

  ‘It’s awf’ly kind of you!’

  ‘Not at all!’ said Soames; and the car moved.

  ‘Think it’s going to last, the strike?’

  Soames leaned forward.

  ‘Go on, Riggs,’ he said; ‘and put this young lady down in – er – Coventry Street.’

  ‘It’s frightf’ly awk for us, all this,’ said the young lady. ‘I should never’ve got there in time. You seen our show, Dat Lubly Lady?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s rather good.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘We shall have to close, though, if this lasts.’

  ‘Ah!’

  The young lady was silent, seeming to recognize that she was not in the presence of a conversationalist.

  Soames re-crossed his legs. It was so long since he had spoken to a strange young woman, that he had almost forgotten how it was done. He did not want to encourage her, and yet was conscious that it was his car.

  ‘Comfortable?’ he said suddenly.

  The young lady smiled.

  ‘What d’you think?’ she said. ‘It’s a lovely car.’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Soames.

  The young lady’s mouth opened.

  ‘Why?’

  Soames shrugged his shoulders; he had only been keeping the conversation alive.

  ‘I think it’s rather fun, don’t you?’ said the young lady. ‘Carrying on – you know, like we’re all doing.’

  The car was now going at speed, and Soames began to calculate the minutes necessary to put an end to this juxtaposition.

  The Albert Memorial, already; he felt almost an affection for it – so guiltless of the times!

  ‘You must come and see our show,’ said the young lady.

  Soames made an effort and looked into her face.

  ‘What do you do in it?’ he asked.

  ‘Sing and dance.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I’ve rather a good bit in the third act, where we’re all in our nighties.’

  Soames smiled faintly.

  ‘You’ve got no one like Kate Vaughan now,’ he said.

  ‘Kate Vaughan? Who was she?’

  ‘Who was Kate Vaughan?’ repeated Soames; ‘greatest dancer that was ever in burlesque. Dancing was graceful in those days; now it’s all throwing your legs about. The faster you can move your legs, the more you think you’re dancing.’ And, disconcerted by an outburst that was bound to lead to something, he averted his eyes.

  ‘You don’t like jazz?’ queried the young lady.

  ‘I do not,’ said Soames.

  ‘Well, I don’t either – not reelly; it’s getting old-fashioned, too.’

  Hyde Park Corner already! And the car going a good twenty!

  ‘My word! Look at the lorries; it’s marvellous, isn’t it?’

  Soames emitted a confirmatory grunt. The young lady was powdering her nose now, and touching up her lips, with an almost staggering frankness. ‘Suppose anyone sees me?’ thought Soames. And he would never know whether anyone had or not. Turning up the high collar of his overcoat, he said:

  ‘Draughty things, these cars! Shall I put you down at Scott’s?’

  ‘Oh no. Lyons, please; I’ve only time f’r a snack; got to be on the stage at eight. It’s been awf’ly kind of you. I only hope somebody’ll take me home!’ Her eyes rolled suddenly, and she added: ‘If you know what I mean.’

  ‘Quite!’ said Soames, with a certain delicacy of perception. ‘Here you are. Stop – Riggs!’

  The car stopped, and the young lady extended her hand to Soames.

  ‘Good-bye, and thank you!’

  ‘Good-bye!’ said Soames. Nodding and smiling, she got out,

  ‘Go on, Riggs, sharp! South Square.’

  The car moved on. Soames did not look back; in his mind the thought formed like a bubble on the surface of water: ‘In the old days anyone who looked and talked like that would have left me her address.’ And she hadn’t! He could not decide whether or no this marked an advance.

  At South Square, on discovering that Michael and Fleur were out, he did not dress for dinner, but went to the nursery. His grandson, now nearly three years old, was still awake, and said: ‘Hallo!’

  ‘Hallo!’ Soames produced a toy watchman’s rattle. There followed five minutes of silent and complete absorption, broken fitfully by guttural sounds from the rattle. Then his grandson lay back in his cot, fixed his blue eyes on Soames and said: ‘Hallo!’

  ‘Hallo!’ replied Soames.

  ‘Ta, ta!’ said his grandson.

  ‘Ta, ta!’ said Soames, backing to the door and nearly falling over the silver dog. The interview then terminated, and Soames went downstairs. Fleur had telephoned to say he was not to wait dinner.

  Opposite the Goya he sat down. No good saying he remembered the Chartist riots of ‘48, because he had been born in ’55; but he knew his Uncle Swithin had been a ‘special’ at the time. This general strike was probably the most serious internal disturbance that had happened since; and, sitting over his soup, he bored further and further into its possibilities. Bolshevism round the corner – that was the trouble! That and the fixed nature of ideas in England. Because a thing like coal had once been profitable, they thought it must always be profitable. Political leaders, Trades Unionists, ‘newspaper chaps – they never looked an inch before their noses! They’d had since last August to do something about it, and what had they done? Drawn up a report that nobody would look at!

  ‘White wine, sir, or claret?’

  ‘Anything that’s open.’ To have said that in the ‘eighties, or even the ‘nineties, would have given his father a fit! The idea of drinking claret already opened was then almost equivalent to atheism. Another sign of the slump in ideals.

  ‘What do you think about this strike, Coaker?’

  The almost hairless man lowered the Sauterne.

  ‘Got no body in it, sir, if you ask me.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘If it had any body in it, sir, they’d have had the railings of Hyde Park up by now.’

  Soames poised a bit of his sole. ‘Shouldn’t be surprised if you were right,’ he said, with a certain approval.

  ‘They make a lot of fuss, but no – there’s nothing to it. The dole – that was a clever dodge, sir. Pannus et circesses
, as Mr Mont says, sir.’

  ‘Ha! Have you seen this canteen they’re running?’

  ‘No, sir; I believe they’ve got the beetle man in this evening. I’m told there’s a proper lot of beetles.’

  ‘Ugh!’

  ‘Yes, sir; it’s a nahsty insect.’

  Having finished dinner, Soames lighted the second of his two daily cigars and took up the ear-pieces of the wireless. He had resisted this invention as long as he could – but in times like these! ‘London calling!’ Yes, and the British Isles listening! Trouble in Glasgow? There would be – lot of Irish there. More ‘specials’ wanted? There’d soon be plenty of those. He must tell that fellow Riggs to enlist. This butler chap, too, could well be spared. Trains! They seemed to be running a lot of trains already. After listening with some attention to the Home Secretary, Soames put the ear-pieces down and took up the British Gazette. It was his first sustained look at this tenuous production, and he hoped it would be his last. The paper and printing were deplorable. Still, he supposed it was something to have got it out at all. Tampering with the freedom of the Press! Those fellows were not finding it so easy as they thought. They had tampered, and the result was a Press much more definitely against them than the Press they had suppressed. Burned their fingers there! And quite unnecessary – old-fashioned notion now – influence of the Press. The war had killed it. Without confidence in truth there was no influence. Politicians or the Press – if you couldn’t believe them, they didn’t count! Perhaps they would re-discover that some day. In the meantime the papers were like cocktails – titivators mostly of the appetite and the nerves. How sleepy he was! He hoped Fleur wouldn’t be very late coming in. Mad thing, this strike, making everybody do things they weren’t accustomed to, just as Industry, too, was beginning – or at least pretending – to recover. But that was it! With every year, in these times, it was more difficult to do what you said you would. Always something or other turning up! The world seemed to live from hand to mouth, and at such a pace, too! Sitting back in the Spanish chair, Soames covered his eyes from the light, and the surge of sleep mounted to his brain; strike or no strike, the soft, inexorable tide washed over him.