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Forsyte Saga
Book 1 - The Man of Property - Part 2
Chapter 7 - Afternoon at Timothy's
If old Jolyon, as he got into his cab, had said: 'I won't believe a word
of it!' he would more truthfully have expressed his sentiments.
The notion that James and his womankind had seen him in the company of
his son had awakened in him not only the impatience he always felt when
crossed, but that secret hostility natural between brothers, the roots
of which--little nursery rivalries--sometimes toughen and deepen as life
goes on, and, all hidden, support a plant capable of producing in season
the bitterest fruits.
Hitherto there had been between these six brothers no more unfriendly
feeling than that caused by the secret and natural doubt that the others
might be richer than themselves; a feeling increased to the pitch of
curiosity by the approach of death--that end of all handicaps--and the
great 'closeness' of their man of business, who, with some sagacity,
would profess to Nicholas ignorance of James' income, to James ignorance
of old Jolyon's, to Jolyon ignorance of Roger's, to Roger ignorance of
Swithin's, while to Swithin he would say most irritatingly that Nicholas
must be a rich man. Timothy alone was exempt, being in gilt-edged
securities.
But now, between two of them at least, had arisen a very different sense
of injury. From the moment when James had the impertinence to pry into
his affairs--as he put it--old Jolyon no longer chose to credit this
story about Bosinney. His grand-daughter slighted through a member of
'that fellow's' family! He made up his mind that Bosinney was maligned.
There must be some other reason for his defection.
June had flown out at him, or something; she was as touchy as she could
be!
He would, however, let Timothy have a bit of his mind, and see if he
would go on dropping hints! And he would not let the grass grow under
his feet either, he would go there at once, and take very good care that
he didn't have to go again on the same errand.
He saw James' carriage blocking the pavement in front of 'The Bower.' So
they had got there before him--cackling about having seen him, he dared
say! And further on, Swithin's greys were turning their noses towards
the noses of James' bays, as though in conclave over the family, while
their coachmen were in conclave above.
Old Jolyon, depositing his hat on the chair in the narrow hall, where
that hat of Bosinney's had so long ago been mistaken for a cat, passed
his thin hand grimly over his face with its great drooping white
moustaches, as though to remove all traces of expression, and made his
way upstairs.
He found the front drawing-room full. It was full enough at the best
of times--without visitors--without any one in it--for Timothy and his
sisters, following the tradition of their generation, considered that a
room was not quite 'nice' unless it was 'properly' furnished. It
held, therefore, eleven chairs, a sofa, three tables, two cabinets,
innumerable knicknacks, and part of a large grand piano. And now,
occupied by Mrs. Small, Aunt Hester, by Swithin, James, Rachel,
Winifred, Euphemia, who had come in again to return 'Passion and
Paregoric' which she had read at lunch, and her chum Frances, Roger's
daughter (the musical Forsyte, the one who composed songs), there was
only one chair left unoccupied, except, of course, the two that nobody
ever sat on--and the only standing room was occupied by the cat, on whom
old Jolyon promptly stepped.
In these days it was by no means unusual for Timothy to have so many
visitors. The family had always, one and all, had a real respect
for Aunt Ann, and now that she was gone, they were coming far more
frequently to The Bower, and staying longer.
Swithin had been the first to arrive, and seated torpid in a red satin
chair with a gilt back, he gave every appearance of lasting the others
out. And symbolizing Bosinney's name 'the big one,' with his great
stature and bulk, his thick white hair, his puffy immovable shaven face,
he looked more primeval than ever in the highly upholstered room.
His conversation, as usual of late, had turned at once upon Irene, and
he had lost no time in giving Aunts Juley and Hester his opinion with
regard to this rumour he heard was going about. No--as he said--she
might want a bit of flirtation--a pretty woman must have her fling; but
more than that he did not believe. Nothing open; she had too much good
sense, too much proper appreciation of what was due to her position, and
to the family! No sc--, he was going to say 'scandal' but the very idea
was so preposterous that he waved his hand as though to say--'but let
that pass!'
Granted that Swithin took a bachelor's view of the situation--still what
indeed was not due to that family in which so many had done so well for
themselves, had attained a certain position? If he had heard in dark,
pessimistic moments the words 'yeomen' and 'very small beer' used in
connection with his origin, did he believe them?
No! he cherished, hugging it pathetically to his bosom the secret theory
that there was something distinguished somewhere in his ancestry.
"Must be," he once said to young Jolyon, before the latter went to
the bad. "Look at us, we've got on! There must be good blood in us
somewhere."
He had been fond of young Jolyon: the boy had been in a good set at
College, had known that old ruffian Sir Charles Fiste's sons--a pretty
rascal one of them had turned out, too; and there was style about
him--it was a thousand pities he had run off with that half-foreign
governess! If he must go off like that why couldn't he have chosen
someone who would have done them credit! And what was he now?--an
underwriter at Lloyd's; they said he even painted pictures--pictures!
Damme! he might have ended as Sir Jolyon Forsyte, Bart., with a seat in
Parliament, and a place in the country!
It was Swithin who, following the impulse which sooner or later urges
thereto some member of every great family, went to the Heralds' Office,
where they assured him that he was undoubtedly of the same family as the
well-known Forsites with an 'i,' whose arms were 'three dexter buckles
on a sable ground gules,' hoping no doubt to get him to take them up.
Swithin, however, did not do this, but having ascertained that the
crest was a 'pheasant proper,' and the motto 'For Forsite,' he had
the pheasant proper placed upon his carriage and the buttons of his
coachman, and both crest and motto on his writing-paper. The arms he
hugged to himself, partly because, not having paid for them, he thought
it would look ostentatious to put them on his carriage, and he hated
ostentation, and partly because he, like any practical man all over
the country, had a secret dislike and contempt for things he could not
understand he found it hard, as anyone might, to swallow 'three dexter
buckles on a sable ground gules.'
He never forgot, however, their having told him that if he paid for them
he would be entitled to use them, and it strengthened his conviction
that he was a gentleman. Imperceptibly the rest of the family absorbed
the 'pheasant proper,' and some, more serious than others, adopted the
motto; old Jolyon, however, refused to use the latter, saying that it
was humbug meaning nothing, so far as he could see.
Among the older generation it was perhaps known at bottom from what
great historical event they derived their crest; and if pressed on the
subject, sooner than tell a lie--they did not like telling lies, having
an impression that only Frenchmen and Russians told them--they would
confess hurriedly that Swithin had got hold of it somehow.
Among the younger generation the matter was wrapped in a discretion
proper. They did not want to hurt the feelings of their elders, nor to
feel ridiculous themselves; they simply used the crest....
"No," said Swithin, "he had had an opportunity of seeing for himself,
and what he should say was, that there was nothing in her manner to that
young Buccaneer or Bosinney or whatever his name was, different from
her manner to himself; in fact, he should rather say...." But here
the entrance of Frances and Euphemia put an unfortunate stop to the
conversation, for this was not a subject which could be discussed before
young people.
And though Swithin was somewhat upset at being stopped like this on the
point of saying something important, he soon recovered his affability.
He was rather fond of Frances--Francie, as she was called in the family.
She was so smart, and they told him she made a pretty little pot of
pin-money by her songs; he called it very clever of her.
He rather prided himself indeed on a liberal attitude towards women, not
seeing any reason why they shouldn't paint pictures, or write tunes,
or books even, for the matter of that, especially if they could turn a
useful penny by it; not at all--kept them out of mischief. It was not as
if they were men!
'Little Francie,' as she was usually called with good-natured contempt,
was an important personage, if only as a standing illustration of the
attitude of Forsytes towards the Arts. She was not really 'little,' but
rather tall, with dark hair for a Forsyte, which, together with a grey
eye, gave her what was called 'a Celtic appearance.' She wrote songs
with titles like 'Breathing Sighs,' or 'Kiss me, Mother, ere I die,'
with a refrain like an anthem:
'Kiss me, Mother, ere I die;
Kiss me-kiss me, Mother, ah!
Kiss, ah! kiss me e-ere I--
Kiss me, Mother, ere I d-d-die!'
She wrote the words to them herself, and other poems. In lighter moments
she wrote waltzes, one of which, the 'Kensington Coil,' was almost
national to Kensington, having a sweet dip in it.
It was very original. Then there were her 'Songs for Little People,'
at once educational and witty, especially 'Gran'ma's Porgie,' and that
ditty, almost prophetically imbued with the coming Imperial spirit,
entitled 'Black Him In His Little Eye.'
Any publisher would take these, and reviews like 'High Living,' and
the 'Ladies' Genteel Guide' went into raptures over: 'Another of Miss
Francie Forsyte's spirited ditties, sparkling and pathetic. We ourselves
were moved to tears and laughter. Miss Forsyte should go far.'
With the true instinct of her breed, Francie had made a point of knowing
the right people--people who would write about her, and talk about her,
and people in Society, too--keeping a mental register of just where
to exert her fascinations, and an eye on that steady scale of rising
prices, which in her mind's eye represented the future. In this way she
caused herself to be universally respected.
Once, at a time when her emotions were whipped by an attachment--for
the tenor of Roger's life, with its whole-hearted collection of
house property, had induced in his only daughter a tendency towards
passion--she turned to great and sincere work, choosing the sonata form,
for the violin. This was the only one of her productions that troubled
the Forsytes. They felt at once that it would not sell.
Roger, who liked having a clever daughter well enough, and often alluded
to the amount of pocket-money she made for herself, was upset by this
violin sonata.
"Rubbish like that!" he called it. Francie had borrowed young
Flageoletti from Euphemia, to play it in the drawing-room at Prince's
Gardens.
As a matter of fact Roger was right. It was rubbish, but--annoying! the
sort of rubbish that wouldn't sell. As every Forsyte knows, rubbish that
sells is not rubbish at all--far from it.
And yet, in spite of the sound common sense which fixed the worth of art
at what it would fetch, some of the Forsytes--Aunt Hester, for instance,
who had always been musical--could not help regretting that Francie's
music was not 'classical'; the same with her poems. But then, as Aunt
Hester said, they didn't see any poetry nowadays, all the poems were
'little light things.'
There was nobody who could write a poem like 'Paradise Lost,' or
'Childe Harold'; either of which made you feel that you really had read
something. Still, it was nice for Francie to have something to occupy
her; while other girls were spending money shopping she was making it!
And both Aunt Hester and Aunt Juley were always ready to listen to the
latest story of how Francie had got her price increased.
They listened now, together with Swithin, who sat pretending not to, for
these young people talked so fast and mumbled so, he never could catch
what they said.
"And I can't think," said Mrs. Septimus, "how you do it. I should never
have the audacity!"
Francie smiled lightly. "I'd much rather deal with a man than a woman.
Women are so sharp!"
"My dear," cried Mrs. Small, "I'm sure we're not."
Euphemia went off into her silent laugh, and, ending with the squeak,
said, as though being strangled: "Oh, you'll kill me some day, auntie."
Swithin saw no necessity to laugh; he detested people laughing when he
himself perceived no joke. Indeed, he detested Euphemia altogether, to
whom he always alluded as 'Nick's daughter, what's she called--the pale
one?' He had just missed being her god-father--indeed, would have been,
had he not taken a firm stand against her outlandish name. He hated
becoming a godfather. Swithin then said to Francie with dignity: "It's
a fine day--er--for the time of year." But Euphemia, who knew perfectly
well that he had refused to be her godfather, turned to Aunt Hester, and
began telling her how she had seen Irene--Mrs. Soames--at the Church and
Commercial Stores.
"And Soames was with her?" said Aunt Hester, to whom Mrs. Small had as
yet had no opportunity of relating the incident.
"Soames with her? Of course not!"
"But was she all alone in London?"
"Oh, no; there was Mr. Bosinney with her. She was perfectly dressed."
But Swithin, hearing the name Irene, looked severely at Euphemia, who,
it is true, never did look well in a dress, whatever she may have done
on other occasions, and said:
"Dressed like a lady, I've no doubt. It's a pleasure to see her."
At this moment James and his daughters were announced. Dartie, feeling
badly in want of a drink, had pleaded an appointment with his dentist,
and, being put down at the Marble Arch, had got into a hansom, and was
already seated in the window of his club in Piccadilly.
His wife, he told his cronies, had wanted to take him to pay some calls.
It was not in his line--not exactly. Haw!
Hailing the waiter, he sent him out to the hall to see what had won
the 4.30 race. He was dog-tired, he said, and that was a fact; had been
drivin' about with his wife to 'shows' all the afternoon. Had put his
foot down at last. A fellow must live his own life.
At this moment, glancing out of the bay window--for he loved this seat
whence he could see everybody pass--his eye unfortunately, or perhaps
fortunately, chanced to light on the figure of Soames, who was mousing
across the road from the Green Park-side, with the evident intention of
coming in, for he, too, belonged to 'The Iseeum.'
Dartie sprang to his feet; grasping his glass, he muttered something
about 'that 4.30 race,' and swiftly withdrew to the card-room, where
Soames never came. Here, in complete isolation and a dim light, he lived
his own life till half past seven, by which hour he knew Soames must
certainly have left the club.
It would not do, as he kept repeating to himself whenever he felt the
impulse to join the gossips in the bay-window getting too strong for
him--it absolutely would not do, with finances as low as his, and the
'old man' (James) rusty ever since that business over the oil shares,
which was no fault of his, to risk a row with Winifred.
If Soames were to see him in the club it would be sure to come round to
her that he wasn't at the dentist's at all. He never knew a family where
things 'came round' so. Uneasily, amongst the green baize card-tables,
a frown on his olive coloured face, his check trousers crossed, and
patent-leather boots shining through the gloom, he sat biting his
forefinger, and wondering where the deuce he was to get the money if
Erotic failed to win the Lancashire Cup.
His thoughts turned gloomily to the Forsytes. What a set they were!
There was no getting anything out of them--at least, it was a matter of
extreme difficulty. They were so d---d particular about money matters;
not a sportsman amongst the lot, unless it were George. That fellow
Soames, for instance, would have a fit if you tried to borrow a tenner
from him, or, if he didn't have a fit, he looked at you with his cursed
supercilious smile, as if you were a lost soul because you were in want
of money.
And that wife of his (Dartie's mouth watered involuntarily), he had
tried to be on good terms with her, as one naturally would with any
pretty sister-in-law, but he would be cursed if the (he mentally used
a coarse word)--would have anything to say to him--she looked at him,
indeed, as if he were dirt--and yet she could go far enough, he wouldn't
mind betting. He knew women; they weren't made with soft eyes and
figures like that for nothing, as that fellow Soames would jolly
soon find out, if there were anything in what he had heard about this
Buccaneer Johnny.
Rising from his chair, Dartie took a turn across the room, ending in
front of the looking-glass over the marble chimney-piece; and there he
stood for a long time contemplating in the glass the reflection of his
face. It had that look, peculiar to some men, of having been steeped in
linseed oil, with its waxed dark moustaches and the little distinguished
commencements of side whiskers; and concernedly he felt the promise of a
pimple on the side of his slightly curved and fattish nose.
In the meantime old Jolyon had found the remaining chair in Timothy's
commodious drawing-room. His advent had obviously put a stop to the
conversation, decided awkwardness having set in. Aunt Juley, with her
well-known kindheartedness, hastened to set people at their ease again.
"Yes, Jolyon," she said, "we were just saying that you haven't been here
for a long time; but we mustn't be surprised. You're busy, of course?
James was just saying what a busy time of year...."
"Was he?" said old Jolyon, looking hard at James. "It wouldn't be half
so busy if everybody minded their own business."
James, brooding in a small chair from which his knees ran uphill,
shifted his feet uneasily, and put one of them down on the cat, which
had unwisely taken refuge from old Jolyon beside him.
"Here, you've got a cat here," he said in an injured voice, withdrawing
his foot nervously as he felt it squeezing into the soft, furry body.
"Several," said old Jolyon, looking at one face and another; "I trod on
one just now."
A silence followed.
Then Mrs. Small, twisting her fingers and gazing round with 'pathetic
calm', asked: "And how is dear June?"
A twinkle of humour shot through the sternness of old Jolyon's eyes.
Extraordinary old woman, Juley! No one quite like her for saying the
wrong thing!
"Bad!" he said; "London don't agree with her--too many people about, too
much clatter and chatter by half." He laid emphasis on the words, and
again looked James in the face.
Nobody spoke.
A feeling of its being too dangerous to take a step in any direction, or
hazard any remark, had fallen on them all. Something of the sense of the
impending, that comes over the spectator of a Greek tragedy, had entered
that upholstered room, filled with those white-haired, frock-coated
old men, and fashionably attired women, who were all of the same blood,
between all of whom existed an unseizable resemblance.
Not that they were conscious of it--the visits of such fateful, bitter
spirits are only felt.
Then Swithin rose. He would not sit there, feeling like that--he was
not to be put down by anyone! And, manoeuvring round the room with added
pomp, he shook hands with each separately.
"You tell Timothy from me," he said, "that he coddles himself too much!"
Then, turning to Francie, whom he considered 'smart,' he added: "You
come with me for a drive one of these days." But this conjured up the
vision of that other eventful drive which had been so much talked about,
and he stood quite still for a second, with glassy eyes, as though
waiting to catch up with the significance of what he himself had said;
then, suddenly recollecting that he didn't care a damn, he turned to
old Jolyon: "Well, good-bye, Jolyon! You shouldn't go about without an
overcoat; you'll be getting sciatica or something!" And, kicking the cat
slightly with the pointed tip of his patent leather boot, he took his
huge form away.
When he had gone everyone looked secretly at the others, to see how they
had taken the mention of the word 'drive'--the word which had
become famous, and acquired an overwhelming importance, as the only
official--so to speak--news in connection with the vague and sinister
rumour clinging to the family tongue.
Euphemia, yielding to an impulse, said with a short laugh: "I'm glad
Uncle Swithin doesn't ask me to go for drives."
Mrs. Small, to reassure her and smooth over any little awkwardness the
subject might have, replied: "My dear, he likes to take somebody well
dressed, who will do him a little credit. I shall never forget the drive
he took me. It was an experience!" And her chubby round old face was
spread for a moment with a strange contentment; then broke into pouts,
and tears came into her eyes. She was thinking of that long ago driving
tour she had once taken with Septimus Small.
James, who had relapsed into his nervous brooding in the little chair,
suddenly roused himself: "He's a funny fellow, Swithin," he said, but in
a half-hearted way.
Old Jolyon's silence, his stern eyes, held them all in a kind of
paralysis. He was disconcerted himself by the effect of his own
words--an effect which seemed to deepen the importance of the very
rumour he had come to scotch; but he was still angry.
He had not done with them yet--No, no--he would give them another rub or
two.
He did not wish to rub his nieces, he had no quarrel with them--a young
and presentable female always appealed to old Jolyon's clemency--but
that fellow James, and, in a less degree perhaps, those others, deserved
all they would get. And he, too, asked for Timothy.
As though feeling that some danger threatened her younger brother, Aunt
Juley suddenly offered him tea: "There it is," she said, "all cold and
nasty, waiting for you in the back drawing room, but Smither shall make
you some fresh."
Old Jolyon rose: "Thank you," he said, looking straight at James, "but
I've no time for tea, and--scandal, and the rest of it! It's time I was
at home. Good-bye, Julia; good-bye, Hester; good-bye, Winifred."
Without more ceremonious adieux, he marched out.
Once again in his cab, his anger evaporated, for so it ever was with
his wrath--when he had rapped out, it was gone. Sadness came over his
spirit. He had stopped their mouths, maybe, but at what a cost! At the
cost of certain knowledge that the rumour he had been resolved not to
believe was true. June was abandoned, and for the wife of that fellow's
son! He felt it was true, and hardened himself to treat it as if it were
not; but the pain he hid beneath this resolution began slowly, surely,
to vent itself in a blind resentment against James and his son.
The six women and one man left behind in the little drawing-room began
talking as easily as might be after such an occurrence, for though each
one of them knew for a fact that he or she never talked scandal, each
one of them also knew that the other six did; all were therefore angry
and at a loss. James only was silent, disturbed, to the bottom of his
soul.
Presently Francie said: "Do you know, I think Uncle Jolyon is terribly
changed this last year. What do you think, Aunt Hester?"
Aunt Hester made a little movement of recoil: "Oh, ask your Aunt Julia!"
she said; "I know nothing about it."
No one else was afraid of assenting, and James muttered gloomily at the
floor: "He's not half the man he was."
"I've noticed it a long time," went on Francie; "he's aged
tremendously."
Aunt Juley shook her head; her face seemed suddenly to have become one
immense pout.
"Poor dear Jolyon," she said, "somebody ought to see to it for him!"
There was again silence; then, as though in terror of being left
solitarily behind, all five visitors rose simultaneously, and took their
departure.
Mrs. Small, Aunt Hester, and their cat were left once more alone,
the sound of a door closing in the distance announced the approach of
Timothy.
That evening, when Aunt Hester had just got off to sleep in the back
bedroom that used to be Aunt Juley's before Aunt Juley took Aunt Ann's,
her door was opened, and Mrs. Small, in a pink night-cap, a candle in
her hand, entered: "Hester!" she said. "Hester!"
Aunt Hester faintly rustled the sheet.
"Hester," repeated Aunt Juley, to make quite sure that she had awakened
her, "I am quite troubled about poor dear Jolyon. What," Aunt Juley
dwelt on the word, "do you think ought to be done?"
Aunt Hester again rustled the sheet, her voice was heard faintly
pleading: "Done? How should I know?"
Aunt Juley turned away satisfied, and closing the door with extra
gentleness so as not to disturb dear Hester, let it slip through her
fingers and fall to with a 'crack.'
Back in her own room, she stood at the window gazing at the moon over
the trees in the Park, through a chink in the muslin curtains, close
drawn lest anyone should see. And there, with her face all round and
pouting in its pink cap, and her eyes wet, she thought of 'dear Jolyon,'
so old and so lonely, and how she could be of some use to him; and how
he would come to love her, as she had never been loved since--since poor
Septimus went away.