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Forsyte Saga
Book 1 - The Man of Property - Part 2
Chapter 6 - Old Jolyon at the Zoo
Old Jolyon disposed of his second Meeting--an ordinary Board--summarily.
He was so dictatorial that his fellow directors were left in cabal over
the increasing domineeringness of old Forsyte, which they were far from
intending to stand much longer, they said.
He went out by Underground to Portland Road Station, whence he took a
cab and drove to the Zoo.
He had an assignation there, one of those assignations that had lately
been growing more frequent, to which his increasing uneasiness about
June and the 'change in her,' as he expressed it, was driving him.
She buried herself away, and was growing thin; if he spoke to her he got
no answer, or had his head snapped off, or she looked as if she would
burst into tears. She was as changed as she could be, all through this
Bosinney. As for telling him about anything, not a bit of it!
And he would sit for long spells brooding, his paper unread before him,
a cigar extinct between his lips. She had been such a companion to him
ever since she was three years old! And he loved her so!
Forces regardless of family or class or custom were beating down his
guard; impending events over which he had no control threw their shadows
on his head. The irritation of one accustomed to have his way was roused
against he knew not what.
Chafing at the slowness of his cab, he reached the Zoo door; but, with
his sunny instinct for seizing the good of each moment, he forgot his
vexation as he walked towards the tryst.
From the stone terrace above the bear-pit his son and his two
grandchildren came hastening down when they saw old Jolyon coming, and
led him away towards the lion-house. They supported him on either side,
holding one to each of his hands,--whilst Jolly, perverse like his
father, carried his grandfather's umbrella in such a way as to catch
people's legs with the crutch of the handle.
Young Jolyon followed.
It was as good as a play to see his father with the children, but such
a play as brings smiles with tears behind. An old man and two small
children walking together can be seen at any hour of the day; but the
sight of old Jolyon, with Jolly and Holly seemed to young Jolyon a
special peep-show of the things that lie at the bottom of our hearts.
The complete surrender of that erect old figure to those little figures
on either hand was too poignantly tender, and, being a man of an
habitual reflex action, young Jolyon swore softly under his breath. The
show affected him in a way unbecoming to a Forsyte, who is nothing if
not undemonstrative.
Thus they reached the lion-house.
There had been a morning fete at the Botanical Gardens, and a large
number of Forsy...'--that is, of well-dressed people who kept carriages
had brought them on to the Zoo, so as to have more, if possible, for
their money, before going back to Rutland Gate or Bryanston Square.
"Let's go on to the Zoo," they had said to each other; "it'll be great
fun!" It was a shilling day; and there would not be all those horrid
common people.
In front of the long line of cages they were collected in rows, watching
the tawny, ravenous beasts behind the bars await their only pleasure
of the four-and-twenty hours. The hungrier the beast, the greater the
fascination. But whether because the spectators envied his appetite,
or, more humanely, because it was so soon to be satisfied, young
Jolyon could not tell. Remarks kept falling on his ears: "That's a
nasty-looking brute, that tiger!" "Oh, what a love! Look at his little
mouth!" "Yes, he's rather nice! Don't go too near, mother."
And frequently, with little pats, one or another would clap their hands
to their pockets behind and look round, as though expecting young Jolyon
or some disinterested-looking person to relieve them of the contents.
A well-fed man in a white waistcoat said slowly through his teeth: "It's
all greed; they can't be hungry. Why, they take no exercise." At these
words a tiger snatched a piece of bleeding liver, and the fat man
laughed. His wife, in a Paris model frock and gold nose-nippers,
reproved him: "How can you laugh, Harry? Such a horrid sight!"
Young Jolyon frowned.
The circumstances of his life, though he had ceased to take a too
personal view of them, had left him subject to an intermittent contempt;
and the class to which he had belonged--the carriage class--especially
excited his sarcasm.
To shut up a lion or tiger in confinement was surely a horrible
barbarity. But no cultivated person would admit this.
The idea of its being barbarous to confine wild animals had probably
never even occurred to his father for instance; he belonged to the old
school, who considered it at once humanizing and educational to confine
baboons and panthers, holding the view, no doubt, that in course of time
they might induce these creatures not so unreasonably to die of misery
and heart-sickness against the bars of their cages, and put the society
to the expense of getting others! In his eyes, as in the eyes of all
Forsytes, the pleasure of seeing these beautiful creatures in a state
of captivity far outweighed the inconvenience of imprisonment to beasts
whom God had so improvidently placed in a state of freedom! It was for
the animals good, removing them at once from the countless dangers of
open air and exercise, and enabling them to exercise their functions
in the guaranteed seclusion of a private compartment! Indeed, it was
doubtful what wild animals were made for but to be shut up in cages!
But as young Jolyon had in his constitution the elements of
impartiality, he reflected that to stigmatize as barbarity that which
was merely lack of imagination must be wrong; for none who held these
views had been placed in a similar position to the animals they caged,
and could not, therefore, be expected to enter into their sensations. It
was not until they were leaving the gardens--Jolly and Holly in a state
of blissful delirium--that old Jolyon found an opportunity of speaking
to his son on the matter next his heart. "I don't know what to make of
it," he said; "if she's to go on as she's going on now, I can't tell
what's to come. I wanted her to see the doctor, but she won't. She's not
a bit like me. She's your mother all over. Obstinate as a mule! If she
doesn't want to do a thing, she won't, and there's an end of it!"
Young Jolyon smiled; his eyes had wandered to his father's chin. 'A pair
of you,' he thought, but he said nothing.
"And then," went on old Jolyon, "there's this Bosinney. I should like to
punch the fellow's head, but I can't, I suppose, though--I don't see why
you shouldn't," he added doubtfully.
"What has he done? Far better that it should come to an end, if they
don't hit it off!"
Old Jolyon looked at his son. Now they had actually come to discuss
a subject connected with the relations between the sexes he felt
distrustful. Jo would be sure to hold some loose view or other.
"Well, I don't know what you think," he said; "I dare say your
sympathy's with him--shouldn't be surprised; but I think he's behaving
precious badly, and if he comes my way I shall tell him so." He dropped
the subject.
It was impossible to discuss with his son the true nature and meaning of
Bosinney's defection. Had not his son done the very same thing (worse,
if possible) fifteen years ago? There seemed no end to the consequences
of that piece of folly.
Young Jolyon also was silent; he had quickly penetrated his father's
thought, for, dethroned from the high seat of an obvious and
uncomplicated view of things, he had become both perceptive and subtle.
The attitude he had adopted towards sexual matters fifteen years before,
however, was too different from his father's. There was no bridging the
gulf.
He said coolly: "I suppose he's fallen in love with some other woman?"
Old Jolyon gave him a dubious look: "I can't tell," he said; "they say
so!"
"Then, it's probably true," remarked young Jolyon unexpectedly; "and I
suppose they've told you who she is?"
"Yes," said old Jolyon, "Soames's wife!"
Young Jolyon did not whistle: The circumstances of his own life had
rendered him incapable of whistling on such a subject, but he looked at
his father, while the ghost of a smile hovered over his face.
If old Jolyon saw, he took no notice.
"She and June were bosom friends!" he muttered.
"Poor little June!" said young Jolyon softly. He thought of his daughter
still as a babe of three.
Old Jolyon came to a sudden halt.
"I don't believe a word of it," he said, "it's some old woman's tale.
Get me a cab, Jo, I'm tired to death!"
They stood at a corner to see if an empty cab would come along, while
carriage after carriage drove past, bearing Forsytes of all descriptions
from the Zoo. The harness, the liveries, the gloss on the horses' coats,
shone and glittered in the May sunlight, and each equipage, landau,
sociable, barouche, Victoria, or brougham, seemed to roll out proudly
from its wheels:
'I and my horses and my men you know,' Indeed the whole turn-out have
cost a pot. But we were worth it every penny. Look At Master and at
Missis now, the dawgs! Ease with security--ah! that's the ticket!
And such, as everyone knows, is fit accompaniment for a perambulating
Forsyte.
Amongst these carriages was a barouche coming at a greater pace than
the others, drawn by a pair of bright bay horses. It swung on its high
springs, and the four people who filled it seemed rocked as in a cradle.
This chariot attracted young Jolyon's attention; and suddenly, on the
back seat, he recognised his Uncle James, unmistakable in spite of the
increased whiteness of his whiskers; opposite, their backs defended by
sunshades, Rachel Forsyte and her elder but married sister, Winifred
Dartie, in irreproachable toilettes, had posed their heads haughtily,
like two of the birds they had been seeing at the Zoo; while by James'
side reclined Dartie, in a brand-new frock-coat buttoned tight and
square, with a large expanse of carefully shot linen protruding below
each wristband.
An extra, if subdued, sparkle, an added touch of the best gloss or
varnish characterized this vehicle, and seemed to distinguish it from
all the others, as though by some happy extravagance--like that which
marks out the real 'work of art' from the ordinary 'picture'--it were
designated as the typical car, the very throne of Forsytedom.
Old Jolyon did not see them pass; he was petting poor Holly who was
tired, but those in the carriage had taken in the little group; the
ladies' heads tilted suddenly, there was a spasmodic screening movement
of parasols; James' face protruded naively, like the head of a long
bird, his mouth slowly opening. The shield-like rounds of the parasols
grew smaller and smaller, and vanished.
Young Jolyon saw that he had been recognised, even by Winifred, who
could not have been more than fifteen when he had forfeited the right to
be considered a Forsyte.
There was not much change in them! He remembered the exact look of their
turn-out all that time ago: Horses, men, carriage--all different now, no
doubt--but of the precise stamp of fifteen years before; the same neat
display, the same nicely calculated arrogance ease with security! The
swing exact, the pose of the sunshades exact, exact the spirit of the
whole thing.
And in the sunlight, defended by the haughty shields of parasols,
carriage after carriage went by.
"Uncle James has just passed, with his female folk," said young Jolyon.
His father looked black. "Did your uncle see us? Yes? Hmph! What's he
want, coming down into these parts?"
An empty cab drove up at this moment, and old Jolyon stopped it.
"I shall see you again before long, my boy!" he said. "Don't you go
paying any attention to what I've been saying about young Bosinney--I
don't believe a word of it!"
Kissing the children, who tried to detain him, he stepped in and was
borne away.
Young Jolyon, who had taken Holly up in his arms, stood motionless at
the corner, looking after the cab.