The Forsyte Saga, Volume 2

by John Galsworthy

  It wouldn’t take long to throw them out. The Bonnington and the Turner – that fellow Turner wouldn’t have been so fond of sunsets if he’d known what fire was like. Each time now that he went to the wall his lungs felt as if they couldn’t stand another journey. But they must!

  ‘Dad!’

  Fleur with an extinguisher!

  ‘Go down! Go out!’ he cried. ‘D’you hear! Go out of the house! Get that blanket spread, and make them hold it tight.’

  ‘Dad! Let me! I must!’

  ‘Go down!’ cried Soames again, and pushed her to the stairs. He watched her to the bottom, then dashed the knob of the extinguisher on the floor and again sprayed the fire. He put out the bureau, and attacked the flames on the far wall. He could hardly hold the heavy thing, and when it dropped empty, he could barely see. But again he had gained on the fire. If only he could hold on!

  And then he saw that his Harpignies was gone – such a beauty! That wanton loss gave him strength. And rushing up to the wall – the long wall now – he detached picture after picture. But the flames were creeping back again, persistent as hell itself. He couldn’t reach the Sisley and the Picasso, high in the corner there, couldn’t face the flames so dose, for if he slipped against the wall he would be done. They must go! But he’d have the Daumier! His favourite – perhaps his very favourite. Safe! Gasping, and avidly drinking the fresher air, he could see from the window that they had the blanket down there now stretched between four maids, holding each a corner.

  ‘Hold tight!’ he cried; and tipped the Daumier out. He watched it falling. What a thing to do to a picture! The blanket dipped with the weight, but held.

  ‘Hold it tighter!’ he shouted. ‘Look out!’ And over went the Gauguin South Sea girl. Picture after picture he tipped from the sill; and picture after picture, they took them from the blanket, and laid them on the grass. When he had tipped them all, he turned to take the situation in. The flames had caught the floor now, in the corner, and were spreading fast along the beams.

  The engines would be in time to save the right-hand wall. The left-hand wall was hopeless, but most of the pictures were beginning to get hold; he must go for that now. He ran as near to the corner as he dared, and seized the Morland. It was hot to his touch, but he got it – six hundred pounds’ worth of white pony. He had promised it a good home! He tipped it from the window and saw it pitch headlong into the blanket.

  ‘My word!’

  Behind him, in the doorway, that fellow Riggs at last, in shirt and trousers, with two extinguishers and an open mouth!

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ he gasped, ‘and spray that wall!’

  He watched the stream and the flames recoiling from it. How he hated those inexorable red tongues. Ah! That was giving them pause!

  ‘Now the other! Save the Courbet! Sharp!’

  Again the stream spurted and the flames recoiled. Soames dashed for the Courbet. The glass had gone, but the picture was not harmed yet; he wrenched it away.

  ‘That’s the last of the bloomin’ extinguishers, sir,’ he heard Riggs mutter.

  ‘Here, then!’ he called. ‘Pull the pictures off that wall and tip them out of the window one by one. Mind you hit the blanket. Stir your stumps!’

  He, too, stirred his stumps, watching the discouraged flames regaining their lost ground. The two of them ran breathless to the wall, wrenched, ran back to the window, and back again – and the flames gained all the time.

  ‘That top one,’ said Soames; ‘I must have that! Get on that chair. Quick! No, I’ll do it. Lift me! –! can’t reachi’

  Uplifted in the grip of that fellow, Soames detached his James Maris, bought the very day the whole world broke into flames. ‘Murder of the Archduke!’ he could hear them at it now. A fine day; the sunlight coming in at the window of his cab, and he light-hearted, with that bargain on his knee. And there it went, pitching down! Ah! What a way to treat pictures!

  ‘Come on!’ he gasped.

  ‘Better go down, sir! It’s gettin’ too thick now.’

  ‘No!’ said Soames. ‘Come on I’

  Three more pictures salved.

  ‘If you don’t go down, sir, I’ll ‘ave to carry you – you been up ‘ere too long.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ gasped Soames. ‘Come on!’

  ‘’Ooray! The engines!’

  Soames stood still; besides the pumping of his heart and lungs he could hear another sound. Riggs seized his arm.

  ‘Come along, sir; when they begin to play there’ll be a proper smother.’

  Soames pointed throught the smoke.

  ‘I must have that one,’ he gasped. ‘Help me. It’s heavy.’

  The ‘Vendimia’ copy stood on an easel. Soames staggered up to it. Half carrying and half dragging, he bore that Spanish effigy of Fleur towards the window.

  ‘Now lift!’ They lifted till it balanced on the sill.

  ‘Come away there!’ called a voice from the doorway.

  ‘Tip!’ gasped Soames, but arms seized him, he was carried to the door, down the stairs, into the air half-conscious. He came to himself in a chair on the verandah. He could see the helmets of firemen and heard a hissing sound. His lungs hurt him, his eyes smarted terribly, and his hands were scorched, but he felt drugged and drowsy and triumphant in spite of his aches and smarting.

  The grass, the trees, the cool river under the moon! What a nightmare it had been up there among his pictures – his poor pictures! But he had saved them! The cigarette ash! The waste-paper-basket! Fleur! No doubt about the cause! What on earth had induced him to put his pictures into her head that evening of all others, when she didn’t know what she was doing? What awful luck! Mustn’t let her know – unless – unless she did know? The shock – however! The shock might do her good! His Degas! The Harpignies! He closed his eyes to listen to the hissing of the water. Good! A good noise! They’d save the rest! It might have been worse! Something cold was thrust against his drooped hand. A dog’s nose. They shouldn’t have let him out. And, suddenly, it seemed to Soames that he must see to things again. They’d go the wrong way to work with all that water! He staggered to his feet. He could see better now. Fleur? Ah! There she was, standing by herself – too near the house! And what a mess on the lawn – firemen – engines – maids, that fellow Riggs – the hose laid to the river – plenty of water, anyway! They mustn’t hurt the pictures with that water! Fools! He knew it! Why! They were squirting the untouched wall. Squirting though both windows. There was no need of that! The right-hand window only – only! He stumbled up to the fireman.

  ‘Not that wall! Not that! That wall’s all right. You’ll spoil my pictures! Shoot at the centre!’ The fireman shifted the angle of his arm, and Soames saw the jet strike the right-hand corner of the sill. The Vendimia! There went its precious –! Dislodged by the stream of water, it was tilting forward! And Fleur! Good God! Standing right under, looking up. She must see it, and she wasn’t moving! It flashed through Soames that she wanted to be killed.

  ‘It’s falling!’ he cried. ‘Look out! Look out!’ And, just as if he had seen her about to throw herself under a car, he darted forward, pushed her with his outstretched arms, and fell.

  The thing had struck him to the earth.

  Chapter Fourteen

  HUSH

  OLD Gradman, off the Poultry, eating his daily chop, took up the early edition of the evening paper, brought to him with that collation:

  FIRE IN A PICTURE GALLERY

  WELL-KNOWN CONNOISSEUR SEVERELY INJURED

  A fire, the cause of which is unknown, broke out last night in the picture gallery of Mr Soames Forsyte’s house at Mapledurham. It was extinguished by fire-engines from Reading, and most of the valuable pictures were saved. Mr Forsyte, who was in residence, fought the fire before the firemen were on the spot, and, single-handed, rescued many of the pictures, throwing them out of the window of the gallery into a blanket which was held stretched out on the lawn below. Unfortunately, after the engines had arrived, he was st
ruck on the head by the frame of a picture falling from the window of the gallery, which is on the second floor, and rendered unconscious. In view of his age and his exertions during the fire, very little hope is entertained of his recovery. Nobody else was injured, and no other part of the mansion was reached by the flames.

  Laying down his fork, old Gradman took his napkin, and passed it over a brow which had grown damp. Replacing it on the table, he pushed away his chop, and took up the paper again. You never knew what to believe, nowadays, but the paragraph was uncommonly sober; and he dropped it with a gesture singularly like the wringing of hands.

  ‘Mr Soames,’ he thought. ‘Mr Soames!’ His two wives, his daughter, his grandson, the Forsyte family, himself! He stood up, grasping the table. An accidental thing like that! Mr Soames! Why – he was a young man, comparatively! But perhaps they’d got hold of the wrong stick! Mechanically he went to the telephone. He found the number with difficulty, his eyes being misty.

  ‘Is that Mrs Dartie’s – Gradman speaking. Is it true, ma-am?… Not ‘opeless, I do trust? Aow! Saving Miss Fleur’s life? You don’t say! You’re goin’ down? I think I’d better, too. Everything’s in order, but he might want something, if he comes to… . Dear, dear!… Ah! I’m sure… . Dreadful shock – dreadful!’ He hung up the receiver, and stood quite still. Who would look after things now? There wasn’t one of the family with any sense of business, compared with Mr Soames, not one who remembered the old days, and could handle house property as they used to, then. No, he couldn’t relish any more chop – that was flat! Miss Fleur! Saving her life? Well, what a thing. She’d always been first with him. What must she be feelin’! He remembered her as a little girl; yes, and at her wedding. To think of it. She’d be a rich woman now. He took his hat. Must go home first and get some things – might have to wait there days! But for a full three minutes he still stood, as if stunned – a thick-set figure with a puggy face, in a round grey beard – confirming his uneasy grief. If the Bank of England had gone he couldn’t have felt it more. That he couldn’t.

  When he reached ‘The Shelter’ in a station fly, with a bag full of night things and papers, it was getting on for six o’clock. He was met in the hall by that young man, Mr Michael Mont, whom he remembered as making jokes about serious things – it was to be hoped he wouldn’t do it now!

  ‘Ah! Mr Gradman; so good of you to come! No! They hardly expect him to recover consciousness; it was a terrible knock. But if he does, he’s sure to want to see you, even if he can’t speak. We’ve got your room ready. Will you have some tea?’

  Yes, he could relish a cup of tea – he could indeed! ‘Miss Fleur?’

  The young man shook his head, his eyes looked distressed.

  ‘He saved her life.’

  Gradman nodded. ‘So they say. It, tt! To think that he –! His father lived to be ninety, and Mr Soames was always careful. Dear, dear!’

  He had drunk a nice hot cup of tea when he saw a figure in the doorway – Miss Fleur herself. Why! What a face! She came forward and took his hand. And, almost unconsciously, old Gradman lifted her other hand and imprisoned hers between his two.

  ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I feel for you. I remember you as a little girl.’

  She only answered: ‘Yes, Mr Gradman.’ and it seemed to him funny. She took him to his room, and left him there. He had never been in such a pleasant bedroom, with flowers and a nice smell, and a bathroom all to himself – really quite unnecessary. And to think that two doors off, Mr Soames was lying as good as gone!

  ‘Just breathing,’ she had said, passing the door. ‘They daren’t operate. My mother’s there.’

  What a face she had on her – so white, so hurt-looking – poor young thing! He stood at the open window, gazing out. It was warm – very warm for the end of September. A pleasant air – a smell of grass. It must be the river down there! Peaceful – and to think –! Moisture blurred the river out; he winked it away. Only the other day they’d been talking about something happening, and now it hadn’t happened to him, but to Mr Soames himself. The ways of Providence! For Jesus Christ’s sake – Our Lord! Dear, dear! To think of it! He would cut up a very warm man. Richer than his father. There were some birds out there on the water – geese or swans or something – ye-ce! Swans! What a lot! In a row, floating along. He hadn’t seen a swan since he took Mrs G. to Golder’s Hill Park the year after the war. And they said – hopeless! A dreadful thing – sudden like that, with no time to say your prayers. Lucky the will was quite straightforward. Annuity to Mrs F., and the rest to his daughter for life, the remainder to her children in equal shares. Only one child at present, but there’d be others, no doubt, with all that money. Dear! What a sight of money there was in the family altogether, and yet, of the present generation, Mr Soames was the only warm man. It was all divided up now, and none of the young ones seemed to make any. He would have to keep a tight hand on the estates, or they’d be wanting their capital out, and Mr Soames wouldn’t approve of that! To think of outliving Mr Soames! And something incorruptibly faithful within that puggy face and thick figure, something that for two generations had served and never expected more than it had got, so moved old Gradman that he subsided on the window-seat with the words: ‘I’m quite upset!’

  He was still sitting there with his head on his hand, and darkness thickening outside, when, with a knock on the door, that young man said:

  ‘Mr Gradman, will you come down for dinner, or would you like it up here?’

  ‘Up here, if it’s all the same to you. Cold beef and pickles or anything there is, and a glass of stout, if it’s quite convenient.’

  The young man drew nearer.

  ‘You must feel it awfully, Mr Gradman, having known him so long. Not an easy man to know, but one felt –’

  Something gave way in Gradman and he spoke:

  ‘Ah! I knew him from a little boy – took him to his first school – taught him how to draw a lease – never knew him to do a shady thing; very reserved man, Mr Soames, but no better judge of an investment, except his uncle Nicholas. He had his troubles, but he never said anything of them; good son to his father – good brother to his sisters – good father to his child, as you know, young man.’

  ‘Yes, indeed! And very good to me.’

  ‘Not much of a church-goer, I’m afraid, but straight as a die. Never one to wear his ’eart on his sleeve; a little uncomfortable sometimes, maybe, but you could depend on him. I’m sorry for your young wife, young man – I am that! ‘Ow did it ‘appen?’

  ‘She was standing below the window when the picture fell, and didn’t seem to realize. He pushed her out of the way, and it hit him instead.’

  ‘Why! What a thing!’

  ‘Yes. She can’t get over it.’

  Gradman looked up at the young man’s face in the twilight.

  ‘You mustn’t be down-’earted,’ he said. ‘She’ll come round. Misfortunes will happen. The family’s been told, I suppose. There’s just one thing, Mr Michael – his first wife, Mrs Irene, that married Mr Jolyon after; she’s still living, they say; she might like to send a message that byegones were byegones, in case he came round.’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Gradman, I don’t know.’

  ‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass – ’e was greatly attached to ‘er at one time.’

  ‘So I believe, but there are things that – Still, Mrs Dartie knows her address, if you like to ask her. She’s here, you know.’

  ‘I’ll turn it over. I remember Mrs Irene’s wedding – very pale she was; a beautiful young woman, too.’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘The present one – being French, I suppose, she shows her feelings. However – if he’s unconscious –’ It seemed to him that the young man’s face looked funny, and he added; ‘I’ve never heard much of her. Not very happy with his wives, I’m afraid, he hasn’t been.’

  ‘Some men aren’t, you know, Mr Gradman. It’s being too near, I suppose.’
>
  ‘Ah!’ said Gradman: ‘It’s one thing or the other, and that’s a fact. Mrs G. and I have never had a difference – not to speak of, in fifty-two years, and that’s going back, as the saying is. Well, I mustn’t keep you from Miss Fleur. She’ll need cossetting. Just cold beef and a pickle. You’ll let me know if I’m wanted – any time, day or night. And if Mrs Dartie’d like to see me I’m at her service.’

  The talk had done him good. That young man was a nicer young fellow than he’d thought. He felt that he could almost relish a pickle. After he had done so a message came: Would he go to Mrs Dartie in the drawing-room?

  ‘Wait for me, my dear,’ he said to the maid: ‘I’m strange here.’

  Having washed his hands and passed a towel over his face, he followed her down the stairs of the hushed house. What a room to be sure! Rather empty, but in apple-pie order, with its cream-coloured panels, and its china, and its grand piano. Winifred Dartie was sitting on a sofa before a wood fire. She rose and took his hand.

  ‘Such a comfort to see you, Gradman,’ she said: ‘You’re the oldest friend we have.’

  Her face looked strange, as if she wanted to cry and had forgotten how. He had known her as a child, as a fashionable young woman, had helped to draw her marriage settlement, and shaken his head over her husband many a time – the trouble he’d had in finding out exactly what that Gentleman owed, after he fell down the staircase in Paris and broke his neck! And every year still he prepared her income tax return.

  ‘A good cry,’ he said, ‘would do you good, and I shouldn’t blame you. But we mustn’t say “die”; Mr Soames has a good constitution, and it’s not as if he drank; perhaps he’ll pull round after all.’

  She shook her head. Her face had a square grim look that reminded him of her old aunt Ann. Underneath all her fashionableness she’d borne a lot – she had, when you came to think of it.

  ‘It struck him here,’ she said; ‘a glancing blow on the right side of the head. I shall miss him terribly; he’s the only –’ Gradman patted her hand.