Learn English Network
Forsyte Saga
Book 1 - The Man of Property - Part 2
Chapter 4 - James Goes To See For Himself
Those ignorant of Forsyte 'Change would not, perhaps, foresee all the
stir made by Irene's visit to the house.
After Swithin had related at Timothy's the full story of his memorable
drive, the same, with the least suspicion of curiosity, the merest touch
of malice, and a real desire to do good, was passed on to June.
"And what a dreadful thing to say, my dear!" ended Aunt Juley; "that
about not going home. What did she mean?"
It was a strange recital for the girl. She heard it flushing painfully,
and, suddenly, with a curt handshake, took her departure.
"Almost rude!" Mrs. Small said to Aunt Hester, when June was gone.
The proper construction was put on her reception of the news. She was
upset. Something was therefore very wrong. Odd! She and Irene had been
such friends!
It all tallied too well with whispers and hints that had been going
about for some time past. Recollections of Euphemia's account of the
visit to the theatre--Mr. Bosinney always at Soames's? Oh, indeed! Yes,
of course, he would be about the house! Nothing open. Only upon the
greatest, the most important provocation was it necessary to say
anything open on Forsyte 'Change. This machine was too nicely adjusted;
a hint, the merest trifling expression of regret or doubt, sufficed to
set the family soul so sympathetic--vibrating. No one desired that harm
should come of these vibrations--far from it; they were set in motion
with the best intentions, with the feeling, that each member of the
family had a stake in the family soul.
And much kindness lay at the bottom of the gossip; it would frequently
result in visits of condolence being made, in accordance with the
customs of Society, thereby conferring a real benefit upon the
sufferers, and affording consolation to the sound, who felt pleasantly
that someone at all events was suffering from that from which they
themselves were not suffering. In fact, it was simply a desire to keep
things well-aired, the desire which animates the Public Press, that
brought James, for instance, into communication with Mrs. Septimus,
Mrs. Septimus, with the little Nicholases, the little Nicholases with
who-knows-whom, and so on. That great class to which they had risen,
and now belonged, demanded a certain candour, a still more certain
reticence. This combination guaranteed their membership.
Many of the younger Forsytes felt, very naturally, and would openly
declare, that they did not want their affairs pried into; but so
powerful was the invisible, magnetic current of family gossip, that for
the life of them they could not help knowing all about everything. It
was felt to be hopeless.
One of them (young Roger) had made an heroic attempt to free the rising
generation, by speaking of Timothy as an 'old cat.' The effort had
justly recoiled upon himself; the words, coming round in the most
delicate way to Aunt Juley's ears, were repeated by her in a shocked
voice to Mrs. Roger, whence they returned again to young Roger.
And, after all, it was only the wrong-doers who suffered; as, for
instance, George, when he lost all that money playing billiards; or
young Roger himself, when he was so dreadfully near to marrying the girl
to whom, it was whispered, he was already married by the laws of Nature;
or again Irene, who was thought, rather than said, to be in danger.
All this was not only pleasant but salutary. And it made so many hours
go lightly at Timothy's in the Bayswater Road; so many hours that must
otherwise have been sterile and heavy to those three who lived there;
and Timothy's was but one of hundreds of such homes in this City of
London--the homes of neutral persons of the secure classes, who are out
of the battle themselves, and must find their reason for existing, in
the battles of others.
But for the sweetness of family gossip, it must indeed have been lonely
there. Rumours and tales, reports, surmises--were they not the children
of the house, as dear and precious as the prattling babes the brother
and sisters had missed in their own journey? To talk about them was
as near as they could get to the possession of all those children and
grandchildren, after whom their soft hearts yearned. For though it is
doubtful whether Timothy's heart yearned, it is indubitable that at the
arrival of each fresh Forsyte child he was quite upset.
Useless for young Roger to say, "Old cat!" for Euphemia to hold up her
hands and cry: "Oh! those three!" and break into her silent laugh with
the squeak at the end. Useless, and not too kind.
The situation which at this stage might seem, and especially to Forsyte
eyes, strange--not to say 'impossible'--was, in view of certain facts,
not so strange after all. Some things had been lost sight of. And first,
in the security bred of many harmless marriages, it had been forgotten
that Love is no hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night,
born of an hour of sunshine; sprung from wild seed, blown along the road
by a wild wind. A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the
hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we
call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always,
wild! And further--the facts and figures of their own lives being
against the perception of this truth--it was not generally recognised
by Forsytes that, where, this wild plant springs, men and women are but
moths around the pale, flame-like blossom.
It was long since young Jolyon's escapade--there was danger of a
tradition again arising that people in their position never cross the
hedge to pluck that flower; that one could reckon on having love, like
measles, once in due season, and getting over it comfortably for all
time--as with measles, on a soothing mixture of butter and honey--in the
arms of wedlock.
Of all those whom this strange rumour about Bosinney and Mrs. Soames
reached, James was the most affected. He had long forgotten how he had
hovered, lanky and pale, in side whiskers of chestnut hue, round Emily,
in the days of his own courtship. He had long forgotten the small house
in the purlieus of Mayfair, where he had spent the early days of his
married life, or rather, he had long forgotten the early days, not the
small house,--a Forsyte never forgot a house--he had afterwards sold it
at a clear profit of four hundred pounds.
He had long forgotten those days, with their hopes and fears and doubts
about the prudence of the match (for Emily, though pretty, had nothing,
and he himself at that time was making a bare thousand a year), and that
strange, irresistible attraction which had drawn him on, till he felt
he must die if he could not marry the girl with the fair hair, looped so
neatly back, the fair arms emerging from a skin-tight bodice, the fair
form decorously shielded by a cage of really stupendous circumference.
James had passed through the fire, but he had passed also through the
river of years which washes out the fire; he had experienced the saddest
experience of all--forgetfulness of what it was like to be in love.
Forgotten! Forgotten so long, that he had forgotten even that he had
forgotten.
And now this rumour had come upon him, this rumour about his son's
wife; very vague, a shadow dodging among the palpable, straightforward
appearances of things, unreal, unintelligible as a ghost, but carrying
with it, like a ghost, inexplicable terror.
He tried to bring it home to his mind, but it was no more use than
trying to apply to himself one of those tragedies he read of daily in
his evening paper. He simply could not. There could be nothing in it.
It was all their nonsense. She didn't get on with Soames as well as she
might, but she was a good little thing--a good little thing!
Like the not inconsiderable majority of men, James relished a nice
little bit of scandal, and would say, in a matter-of-fact tone, licking
his lips, "Yes, yes--she and young Dyson; they tell me they're living at
Monte Carlo!"
But the significance of an affair of this sort--of its past, its
present, or its future--had never struck him. What it meant, what
torture and raptures had gone to its construction, what slow,
overmastering fate had lurked within the facts, very naked, sometimes
sordid, but generally spicy, presented to his gaze. He was not in the
habit of blaming, praising, drawing deductions, or generalizing at all
about such things; he simply listened rather greedily, and repeated what
he was told, finding considerable benefit from the practice, as from the
consumption of a sherry and bitters before a meal.
Now, however, that such a thing--or rather the rumour, the breath of
it--had come near him personally, he felt as in a fog, which filled
his mouth full of a bad, thick flavour, and made it difficult to draw
breath.
A scandal! A possible scandal!
To repeat this word to himself thus was the only way in which he could
focus or make it thinkable. He had forgotten the sensations necessary
for understanding the progress, fate, or meaning of any such business;
he simply could no longer grasp the possibilities of people running any
risk for the sake of passion.
Amongst all those persons of his acquaintance, who went into the City
day after day and did their business there, whatever it was, and in
their leisure moments bought shares, and houses, and ate dinners, and
played games, as he was told, it would have seemed to him ridiculous to
suppose that there were any who would run risks for the sake of anything
so recondite, so figurative, as passion.
Passion! He seemed, indeed, to have heard of it, and rules such as 'A
young man and a young woman ought never to be trusted together' were
fixed in his mind as the parallels of latitude are fixed on a map (for
all Forsytes, when it comes to 'bed-rock' matters of fact, have quite
a fine taste in realism); but as to anything else--well, he could only
appreciate it at all through the catch-word 'scandal.'
Ah! but there was no truth in it--could not be. He was not afraid; she
was really a good little thing. But there it was when you got a thing
like that into your mind. And James was of a nervous temperament--one
of those men whom things will not leave alone, who suffer tortures from
anticipation and indecision. For fear of letting something slip that
he might otherwise secure, he was physically unable to make up his mind
until absolutely certain that, by not making it up, he would suffer
loss.
In life, however, there were many occasions when the business of making
up his mind did not even rest with himself, and this was one of them.
What could he do? Talk it over with Soames? That would only make matters
worse. And, after all, there was nothing in it, he felt sure.
It was all that house. He had mistrusted the idea from the first. What
did Soames want to go into the country for? And, if he must go spending
a lot of money building himself a house, why not have a first-rate man,
instead of this young Bosinney, whom nobody knew anything about? He had
told them how it would be. And he had heard that the house was costing
Soames a pretty penny beyond what he had reckoned on spending.
This fact, more than any other, brought home to James the real danger
of the situation. It was always like this with these 'artistic' chaps;
a sensible man should have nothing to say to them. He had warned Irene,
too. And see what had come of it!
And it suddenly sprang into James's mind that he ought to go and see for
himself. In the midst of that fog of uneasiness in which his mind was
enveloped the notion that he could go and look at the house afforded him
inexplicable satisfaction. It may have been simply the decision to
do something--more possibly the fact that he was going to look at a
house--that gave him relief. He felt that in staring at an edifice
of bricks and mortar, of wood and stone, built by the suspected man
himself, he would be looking into the heart of that rumour about Irene.
Without saying a word, therefore, to anyone, he took a hansom to the
station and proceeded by train to Robin Hill; thence--there being no
'flies,' in accordance with the custom of the neighbourhood--he found
himself obliged to walk.
He started slowly up the hill, his angular knees and high shoulders bent
complainingly, his eyes fixed on his feet, yet, neat for all that,
in his high hat and his frock-coat, on which was the speckless gloss
imparted by perfect superintendence. Emily saw to that; that is, she did
not, of course, see to it--people of good position not seeing to each
other's buttons, and Emily was of good position--but she saw that the
butler saw to it.
He had to ask his way three times; on each occasion he repeated the
directions given him, got the man to repeat them, then repeated them a
second time, for he was naturally of a talkative disposition, and one
could not be too careful in a new neighbourhood.
He kept assuring them that it was a new house he was looking for; it
was only, however, when he was shown the roof through the trees that
he could feel really satisfied that he had not been directed entirely
wrong.
A heavy sky seemed to cover the world with the grey whiteness of a
whitewashed ceiling. There was no freshness or fragrance in the air. On
such a day even British workmen scarcely cared to do more then they were
obliged, and moved about their business without the drone of talk which
whiles away the pangs of labour.
Through spaces of the unfinished house, shirt-sleeved figures worked
slowly, and sounds arose--spasmodic knockings, the scraping of metal,
the sawing of wood, with the rumble of wheelbarrows along boards; now
and again the foreman's dog, tethered by a string to an oaken beam,
whimpered feebly, with a sound like the singing of a kettle.
The fresh-fitted window-panes, daubed each with a white patch in the
centre, stared out at James like the eyes of a blind dog.
And the building chorus went on, strident and mirthless under the
grey-white sky. But the thrushes, hunting amongst the fresh-turned earth
for worms, were silent quite.
James picked his way among the heaps of gravel--the drive was being
laid--till he came opposite the porch. Here he stopped and raised his
eyes. There was but little to see from this point of view, and that
little he took in at once; but he stayed in this position many minutes,
and who shall know of what he thought.
His china-blue eyes under white eyebrows that jutted out in little
horns, never stirred; the long upper lip of his wide mouth, between the
fine white whiskers, twitched once or twice; it was easy to see from
that anxious rapt expression, whence Soames derived the handicapped
look which sometimes came upon his face. James might have been saying to
himself: 'I don't know--life's a tough job.'
In this position Bosinney surprised him.
James brought his eyes down from whatever bird's-nest they had been
looking for in the sky to Bosinney's face, on which was a kind of
humorous scorn.
"How do you do, Mr. Forsyte? Come down to see for yourself?"
It was exactly what James, as we know, had come for, and he was made
correspondingly uneasy. He held out his hand, however, saying:
"How are you?" without looking at Bosinney.
The latter made way for him with an ironical smile.
James scented something suspicious in this courtesy. "I should like
to walk round the outside first," he said, "and see what you've been
doing!"
A flagged terrace of rounded stones with a list of two or three inches
to port had been laid round the south-east and south-west sides of the
house, and ran with a bevelled edge into mould, which was in preparation
for being turfed; along this terrace James led the way.
"Now what did this cost?" he asked, when he saw the terrace extending
round the corner.
"What should you think?" inquired Bosinney.
"How should I know?" replied James somewhat nonplussed; "two or three
hundred, I dare say!"
"The exact sum!"
James gave him a sharp look, but the architect appeared unconscious, and
he put the answer down to mishearing.
On arriving at the garden entrance, he stopped to look at the view.
"That ought to come down," he said, pointing to the oak-tree.
"You think so? You think that with the tree there you don't get enough
view for your money."
Again James eyed him suspiciously--this young man had a peculiar way of
putting things: "Well!" he said, with a perplexed, nervous, emphasis, "I
don't see what you want with a tree."
"It shall come down to-morrow," said Bosinney.
James was alarmed. "Oh," he said, "don't go saying I said it was to come
down! I know nothing about it!"
"No?"
James went on in a fluster: "Why, what should I know about it? It's
nothing to do with me! You do it on your own responsibility."
"You'll allow me to mention your name?"
James grew more and more alarmed: "I don't know what you want mentioning
my name for," he muttered; "you'd better leave the tree alone. It's not
your tree!"
He took out a silk handkerchief and wiped his brow. They entered the
house. Like Swithin, James was impressed by the inner court-yard.
"You must have spent a deuce of a lot of money here," he said, after
staring at the columns and gallery for some time. "Now, what did it cost
to put up those columns?"
"I can't tell you off-hand," thoughtfully answered Bosinney, "but I know
it was a deuce of a lot!"
"I should think so," said James. "I should...." He caught the
architect's eye, and broke off. And now, whenever he came to anything of
which he desired to know the cost, he stifled that curiosity.
Bosinney appeared determined that he should see everything, and had not
James been of too 'noticing' a nature, he would certainly have found
himself going round the house a second time. He seemed so anxious to be
asked questions, too, that James felt he must be on his guard. He began
to suffer from his exertions, for, though wiry enough for a man of his
long build, he was seventy-five years old.
He grew discouraged; he seemed no nearer to anything, had not obtained
from his inspection any of the knowledge he had vaguely hoped for. He
had merely increased his dislike and mistrust of this young man, who had
tired him out with his politeness, and in whose manner he now certainly
detected mockery.
The fellow was sharper than he had thought, and better-looking than he
had hoped. He had a--a 'don't care' appearance that James, to whom risk
was the most intolerable thing in life, did not appreciate; a peculiar
smile, too, coming when least expected; and very queer eyes. He reminded
James, as he said afterwards, of a hungry cat. This was as near as he
could get, in conversation with Emily, to a description of the peculiar
exasperation, velvetiness, and mockery, of which Bosinney's manner had
been composed.
At last, having seen all that was to be seen, he came out again at the
door where he had gone in; and now, feeling that he was wasting time and
strength and money, all for nothing, he took the courage of a Forsyte in
both hands, and, looking sharply at Bosinney, said:
"I dare say you see a good deal of my daughter-in-law; now, what does
she think of the house? But she hasn't seen it, I suppose?"
This he said, knowing all about Irene's visit not, of course, that there
was anything in the visit, except that extraordinary remark she had made
about 'not caring to get home'--and the story of how June had taken the
news!
He had determined, by this way of putting the question, to give Bosinney
a chance, as he said to himself.
The latter was long in answering, but kept his eyes with uncomfortable
steadiness on James.
"She has seen the house, but I can't tell you what she thinks of it."
Nervous and baffled, James was constitutionally prevented from letting
the matter drop.
"Oh!" he said, "she has seen it? Soames brought her down, I suppose?"
Bosinney smilingly replied: "Oh, no!"
"What, did she come down alone?"
"Oh, no!"
"Then--who brought her?"
"I really don't know whether I ought to tell you who brought her."
To James, who knew that it was Swithin, this answer appeared
incomprehensible.
"Why!" he stammered, "you know that...." but he stopped, suddenly
perceiving his danger.
"Well," he said, "if you don't want to tell me I suppose you won't!
Nobody tells me anything."
Somewhat to his surprise Bosinney asked him a question.
"By the by," he said, "could you tell me if there are likely to be any
more of you coming down? I should like to be on the spot!"
"Any more?" said James bewildered, "who should there be more? I don't
know of any more. Good-bye?"
Looking at the ground he held out his hand, crossed the palm of it with
Bosinney's, and taking his umbrella just above the silk, walked away
along the terrace.
Before he turned the corner he glanced back, and saw Bosinney following
him slowly--'slinking along the wall' as he put it to himself, 'like a
great cat.' He paid no attention when the young fellow raised his hat.
Outside the drive, and out of sight, he slackened his pace still
more. Very slowly, more bent than when he came, lean, hungry, and
disheartened, he made his way back to the station.
The Buccaneer, watching him go so sadly home, felt sorry perhaps for his
behaviour to the old man.