The Forsyte Saga, Volume 2

by John Galsworthy

  The swans! How well she remembered the six little grey destroyers following the old swans over the green-tinged water, that six-year-gone summer of her love! Crossing the grass down to the Serpentine, she felt a sort of creeping sweetness. But nobody – nobody should know of what went on inside her. Whatever happened – and, after all, most likely nothing would happen – she would save face this time – strongest motive in the world, as Michael said.

  ‘Your grandfather used to bring me here when I was a shaver,’ said her father’s voice beside her. It did not add: ‘And I used to bring that wife of mine when we were first married.’ Irene! She had liked water and trees. She had liked all beauty, and she hadn’t liked him!

  ‘Eton jackets. Sixty years ago and more. Who’d have thought it then?’

  ‘Who’d have’ thought what, Dad? That Eton jackets would still be in?’

  ‘That chap – Tennyson, wasn’t it? – “The old order changedi, giving place to new.” I can’t see you in high necks and skirts down to your feet, to say nothing of bustles. Women then were defended up to the nines, but you knew just as much about them as you do now – and that’s precious little.’

  ‘I wonder. Do you think people’s passions are what they used to be, Dad?’

  Soames brooded into his hand. Now, why had she said that? He had once told her that a grand passion was a thing of the past, and she had replied that she had one. And suddenly he was back in steamy heat, redolent of earth and potted pelargonium, kicking a hot water-pipe in a greenhouse at Maple-durham. Perhaps she’d been right; there was always a lot of human nature about.

  ‘Passions!’ he said. ‘Well, you still read of people putting their heads under the gas. In old days they used to drown themselves. Let’s go and have tea at that kiosk place.’

  When they were seated, and the pigeons were enjoying his cake, he took a long look at her. She had her legs crossed – and very nice they were! – and just that difference in her body from the waist up, from so many young women he saw about. She didn’t sit in a curve, but with a slight hollow in her back giving the impression of backbone and a poise to her head and neck. She was shingled again – the custom had unexpected life – but, after all, her neck was remarkably white and round. Her face – short, with its firm rounded chin, very little powder and no rouge, with its dark-lashed white lids, clear-glancing hazel eyes, short, straight nose and broad low brow, with the chestnut hair over its ears, and its sensibly kissable mouth – really it was a credit!

  ‘I should think,’ he said, ‘you’d be glad to have more time for Kit again. He’s a rascal. What d’you think he asked me for yesterday – a hammer!’

  ‘Yes; he’s always breaking things up. I smack him as little as possible, but it’s unavoidable at times – nobody else is allowed to. Mother got him used to it while we were away, so he looks on it as all in the day’s work.’

  ‘Children,’ said Soames, ‘are funny things. We weren’t made such a fuss of when I was young.’

  ‘Forgive me, Dad, but I think you make more fuss of him than anybody.’

  ‘What?’ said Soames. ‘I?’

  ‘You do exactly as he tells you. Did you give him the hammer?’

  ‘Hadn’t one – what should I carry hammers about for?’

  Fleur laughed. ‘No; but you take him so seriously. Michael takes him ironically.’

  ‘The little chap’s got a twinkle,’ said Soames.

  ‘Mercifully. Didn’t you spoil me, Dad?’

  Soames gaped at a pigeon.

  ‘Can’t tell,’ he said. ‘Do you feel spoiled?’

  ‘When I want things, I want things.’

  He knew that; but so long as she wanted the right things!

  ‘And when I don’t get them, I’m not safe.’

  ‘Who says that?’

  ‘No one ever says it, but I know it.’

  H’m! What was she wanting now? Should he ask? And, as if attending to the crumbs on his lapel, he took ‘a lunar’. That face of hers, whose eyes for a moment were off guard, was dark with some deep – he couldn’t tell I Secret! That’s what it was!

  Chapter Nine

  RENCOUNTER

  WITH the canteen accounts in her hand, Fleur stepped out between her tubbed bay trees. A quarter to nine by Big Ben! Twenty odd minutes to walk across the Green Park! She had drunk her coffee in bed to elude questions – and there, of course, was Dad with his nose glued to the dining-room window. She waved the accounts and he withdrew his face as if they had flicked him. He was ever so good, but he shouldn’t always be dusting her – she wasn’t a piece of china!

  She walked briskly. She had no honeysuckle sensations this morning, but felt hard and bright If Jon had come back to England to stay, she must get him over. The sooner the better, without fuss! Passing the geraniums in front of Buckingham Palace, just out and highly scarlet, she felt her blood heating. Not walk so fast or she would arrive damp! The trees were far advanced; the Green Park under breeze and sun, smelled of grass and leaves. Spring had not smelled so good for years. A longing for the country seized on Fleur. Grass and trees and water – her hours with Jon had been passed among them – one hour in this very Park, before he took her down to Robin Hill! Robin Hill had been sold to some peer or other, and she wished him joy of it – she knew its history as of some unlucky ship! That house had ‘done in’ her father, and Jon’s father, yes – and his grandfather, she believed, to say nothing of herself. One would not be ‘done in’ again so easily! And, passing into Piccadilly, Fleur smiled at her green youth. In the early windows of the club, nicknamed by George Forsyte the ‘Iseeum’, no one of his compeers sat as yet, above the moving humours of the street, sipping from glass or cup, and puffing his conclusions out in smoke. Fleur could just remember him, her old Cousin George Forsyte, who used to sit there, fleshy and sardonic behind the curving panes; Cousin George, who had owned the ‘White Monkey’ up in Michael’s study. Uncle Montague Dartie, too, whom she remembered because the only time she had seen him he had pinched her in a curving place, saying: ‘What are little girls made of?’ so that she had clapped her hands when she heard that he had broken his neck, soon after; a horrid man, with fat cheeks and a dark moustache, smelling of scent and cigars. Rounding the last corner, she felt breathless. Geraniums were in her aunt’s window-boxes – but not the fuchsias yet. Was their room the one she herself used to have? And, taking her hand from her heart, she rang the bell.

  ‘Ah! Smither, anybody down?’

  ‘Only Mr Jon’s down yet, Miss Fleur.’

  Why did hearts wobble? Sickening – when one was perfectly cool!

  ‘He’ll do for the moment, Smither. Where is he?’

  ‘Having breakfast, Miss Fleur.’

  ‘All right; show me in. I don’t mind having another cup myself.’

  Under her breath, she declined the creaking noun who was preceding her to the dining-room: ‘Smither: O Smither: Of a Smither: To a Smither: A Smither.’ Silly!

  ‘Mrs Michael Mont, Mr Jon. Shall I get you some fresh coffee, Miss Fleur?’

  ‘No, thank you, Smither.’ Stays creaked, the door was shut. Jon was standing up.

  ‘Fleur!’

  ‘Well, Jon?’

  She could hold his hand and keep her pallor, though the blood was in his cheeks, no longer smudged.

  ‘Did I feed you nicely?’

  ‘Splendidly. How are you, Fleur? Not tired after all that?’

  ‘Not a bit. How did you like stoking?’

  ‘Fine! My engine-driver was a real brick. Anne will be so disappointed; she’s having a lie-off.’

  ‘She was quite a help. Nearly six years, Jon; you haven’t changed much.’

  ‘Nor you.’

  ‘Oh! I have. Out of knowledge.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see it. Have you had breakfast?’

  ‘Yes. Sit down and go on with yours. I came round to see Holly about some accounts. Is she in bed, too?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘Well, I�
��ll go up directly. How does England feel, Jon?’

  ‘Topping. Can’t leave it again. Anne says she doesn’t mind.’

  ‘Where are you going to settle?’

  ‘Somewhere near Val and Holly, if we can get a place to grow things.’

  ‘Still keen on growing things?’

  ‘More than ever.’

  ‘How’s the poetry?’

  ‘Pretty dud.’

  Fleur quoted:

  ‘“Voice in the night crying, down in the old sleeping Spanish city darkened under her white stars.”’

  ‘Good Lord! Do you remember that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His eyes were as straight, his lashes as dark as ever.

  ‘Would you like to meet Michael, Jon, and see my infant?’

  ‘Rather!’

  ‘When do you go down to Wansdon?’

  ‘To-morrow or the day after.’

  ‘Then, won’t you both come and lunch to-morrow?’

  ‘We’d love to.’

  ‘Half-past one. Holly and Aunt Winifred, too. Is your mother still in Paris?’

  ‘Yes. She thinks of settling there.’

  ‘Well, Jon – things fall on their feet, don’t they?’

  ‘They do.’

  ‘Shall I give you some more coffee? Aunt Winifred prides herself on her coffee.’

  ‘Fleur, you do look splendid.’

  ‘Thank you! Have you been down to see Robin Hill?’

  ‘Not yet. Some potentate’s got it now.’

  ‘Does your – does Anne find things amusing here?’

  ‘She’s terribly impressed – says we’re a nation of gentlemen. Did you ever think that?’

  ‘Positively – no; comparatively – perhaps.’

  ‘It all smells so good here.’

  ‘The poet’s nose. D’you remember our walk at Wansdon?’

  ‘I remember everything, Fleur.’

  ‘That’s honest. So do I. It took me some time to remember that I’d forgotten. How long did it take you?’

  ‘Still longer, I expect.’

  ‘Well, Michael’s the best male I know.’

  ‘Anne’s the best female.’

  ‘How fortunate – isn’t it? How old is she?’

  ‘Twenty-one.’

  ‘Just right for you. Even if we hadn’t been star-crossed, I was always too old for you. God I Weren’t we young fools?’

  ‘I don’t see that. It was natural – it was beautiful.’

  ‘Still got ideals? Marmalade? It’s Oxford.’

  ‘Yes. They can’t make marmalade out of Oxford.’

  ‘Jon, your hair grows exactly as it used to. Have you noticed mine?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to.’

  ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘Not so much, quite; and yet –’

  ‘You mean I shouldn’t look well out of the fashion. Very acute! You don’t mind her being shingled, apparently.’

  ‘It suits Anne.’

  ‘Did her brother tell you much about me?’

  ‘He said you had a lovely house; and nursed him like an angel.’

  ‘Not like an angel; like a young woman of fashion. There’s still a difference.’

  ‘Anne was awfully grateful for that. She’s told you?’

  ‘Yes. But I’m afraid, between us, we sent Francis home rather cynical. Cynicism grows here; d’you notice it in me?’

  ‘I think you put it on.’

  ‘My dear! I take it off when I talk to you. You were always an innocent. Don’t smile – you were I That’s why you were well rid of me. Well, I never thought I should see you again.’

  ‘Nor I. I’m sorry Anne’s not down.’

  ‘You’ve never told her about me.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘By the way she looks at me.’

  ‘Why should I tell her?’

  ‘No reason in the world. Let the dead past – It’s fun to see you again, though. Shake hands. I’m going up to Holly now.’

  Their hands joined over the marmalade on his plate.

  ‘We’re not children now, Jon. Till to-morrow, then! You’ll like my house.A rivederci!’

  Going up the stairs she thought with resolution about nothing.

  ‘Can I come in, Holly?’

  ‘Fleur! My dear!’

  That thin, rather sallow face, so charmingly intelligent, was propped against a pillow. Fleur had the feeling that, of all people, it was most difficult to keep one’s thoughts from Holly.

  ‘These accounts,’ she said. ‘I’m to see that official ass at ten. Did you order all these sides of bacon?’

  The thin sallow hand took the accounts, and between the large grey eyes came a furrow.

  ‘Nine? No – yes; that’s right. Have you seen Jon?’

  ‘Yes; he’s the only early bird. Will you all come to lunch with us to-morrow?’

  ‘If you think it’ll be wise, Fleur.’

  ‘I think it’ll be pleasant.’

  She met the search of the grey eyes steadily, and with secret anger. No one should see into her – no one should interfere!

  ‘All right then, we’ll expect you all four at one-thirty. I must run now.’

  She did run; but since she really had no appointment with any ‘official ass’, she went back into the Green Park and sat down.

  So that was Jon – now! Terribly like Jon – then! His eyes deeper, his chin more obstinate – that perhaps was all the difference. He still had his sunny look; he still believed in things. He still – admired her. Ye-es! A little wind talked above her in a tree. The day was surprisingly fine – the first really fine day since Easter! What should she give them for lunch? How should she deal with Dad? He must not be there! To have perfect command of oneself was all very well; to have perfect command of one’s father was not so easy. A pattern of leaves covered her short skirt, the sun warmed her knees; she crossed them and leaned back. Eve’s first costume – a pattern of leaves…. ‘Wise?’ Holly had said. Who knew? Shrimp cocktails? No! English food. Pancakes – certainly!… To get rid of Dad, she must propose herself with Kit at Mapledurham for the day after; then he would go, to prepare for them. Her mother was still in France. The others would be gone to Wansdon. Nothing to wait for in town. A nice warm sun on her neck. A scent of grass – of honeysuckle! Oh! dear!

  Chapter Ten

  AFTER LUNCH

  THAT the most pregnant function of human life is the meal, will be admitted by all who take part in these recurrent crises. The impossibility of getting down from table renders it the most formidable of human activities among people civilized to the point of swallowing not only their food but their feelings.

  Such a conclusion at least was present to Fleur during that lunch. That her room was Spanish, reminded her that it was not with Jon that she had spent her honeymoon in Spain. There had been a curious moment, too, before lunch; for, the first words Jon had spoken on seeing Michael had been:

  ‘Hallo! This is queer! Was Fleur with you that day at Mount Vernon?’

  What was this? Had she been kept in the dark?

  Then Michael had said:

  ‘You remember, Fleur? The young Englishman I met at Mount Vernon.’

  ‘ “Ships that pass in the night!”’said Fleur.

  Mount Vernon! So they had met there! And she had not!

  ‘Mount Vernon is lovely. But you ought to see Richmond, Anne. We could go after lunch. You haven’t been to Richmond for ages, I expect, Aunt Winifred. We could take Robin Hill on the way home, Jon.’

  ‘Your old home, Jon? Oh! Do let’s!’

  At that moment she hated the girl’s eager face at which Jon was looking.

  ‘There’s the potentate,’ he said.

  ‘Oh!’ said Fleur, quickly, ‘he’s at Monte Carlo. I read it yesterday. Could you come, Michael?’

  ‘Afraid I’ve got a Committee. And the car can only manage five.’

  ‘It would be just too lovely!’

  Oh! that Amer
ican enthusiasm! It was comforting to hear her aunt’s flat voice opining that it would be a nice little run – the chestnuts would be out in the Park.

  Had Michael really a Committee? She often knew what Michael really had, she generally knew more or less what he was thinking, but now she did not seem to know. In telling him last night of this invitation to lunch, she had carefully obliterated the impression by an embrace warmer than usual – he must not get any nonsense into his head about Jon! When, too, to her father she had said:

  ‘Couldn’t Kit and I come down to you the day after tomorrow: but you’ll want a day there first, I’m afraid, if Mother’s not there,’ how carefully she had listened to the tone of his reply:

  ‘H’m! Ye – es! I’ll go down to-morrow morning.’

  Had he scented anything: had Michael scented anything? She turned to Jon.

  ‘Well, Jon, what d’you think of my house?’

  ‘It’s very like you.’

  ‘Is that a compliment?’

  ‘To the house? Of course.’

  ‘Francis didn’t exaggerate then?’

  ‘Not a bit.’

  ‘You haven’t seen Kit yet. We’ll have him down. Coaker, please ask Nurse to bring Kit down, unless he’s asleep…. He’ll be three in July; quite a good walker already. It makes one frightfully old!’

  The entrance of Kit and his silver dog caused a sort of cooing sound, speedily checked, for three of the women were of Forsyte stock, and the Forsytes did not coo. He stood there, blue and rather Dutch, with a slight frown and his hair bright, staring at the company.

  ‘Come here, my son. This is Jon – your second cousin once removed.’

  Kit advanced.

  ‘S’all I bwing my ‘orse in?’

  ‘Horse, Kit. No; shake hands.’

  The small hand went up; Jon’s hand came down.

  ‘You got dirty nails.’

  She saw Jon flush, heard Anne’s: ‘Isn’t he just too cunning?’ and said:

  ‘Kit, you’re very rude. So would you have, if you’d been stoking an engine.’

  ‘Yes, old man, I’ve been washing them ever since, but I can’t get them clean.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s got into the skin.’