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Forsyte Saga
Book 1 - The Man of Property - Part 2
Chapter 8 - Dance at Roger's
Roger's house in Prince's Gardens was brilliantly alight. Large numbers
of wax candles had been collected and placed in cut-glass chandeliers,
and the parquet floor of the long, double drawing-room reflected these
constellations. An appearance of real spaciousness had been secured by
moving out all the furniture on to the upper landings, and enclosing
the room with those strange appendages of civilization known as 'rout'
seats. In a remote corner, embowered in palms, was a cottage piano, with
a copy of the 'Kensington Coil' open on the music-stand.
Roger had objected to a band. He didn't see in the least what they
wanted with a band; he wouldn't go to the expense, and there was an end
of it. Francie (her mother, whom Roger had long since reduced to chronic
dyspepsia, went to bed on such occasions), had been obliged to content
herself with supplementing the piano by a young man who played the
cornet, and she so arranged with palms that anyone who did not look into
the heart of things might imagine there were several musicians secreted
there. She made up her mind to tell them to play loud--there was a lot
of music in a cornet, if the man would only put his soul into it.
In the more cultivated American tongue, she was 'through' at
last--through that tortuous labyrinth of make-shifts, which must be
traversed before fashionable display can be combined with the sound
economy of a Forsyte. Thin but brilliant, in her maize-coloured frock
with much tulle about the shoulders, she went from place to place,
fitting on her gloves, and casting her eye over it all.
To the hired butler (for Roger only kept maids) she spoke about the
wine. Did he quite understand that Mr. Forsyte wished a dozen bottles of
the champagne from Whiteley's to be put out? But if that were finished
(she did not suppose it would be, most of the ladies would drink water,
no doubt), but if it were, there was the champagne cup, and he must do
the best he could with that.
She hated having to say this sort of thing to a butler, it was so infra
dig.; but what could you do with father? Roger, indeed, after making
himself consistently disagreeable about the dance, would come down
presently, with his fresh colour and bumpy forehead, as though he had
been its promoter; and he would smile, and probably take the prettiest
woman in to supper; and at two o'clock, just as they were getting into
the swing, he would go up secretly to the musicians and tell them to
play 'God Save the Queen,' and go away.
Francie devoutly hoped he might soon get tired, and slip off to bed.
The three or four devoted girl friends who were staying in the house for
this dance had partaken with her, in a small, abandoned room upstairs,
of tea and cold chicken-legs, hurriedly served; the men had been sent
out to dine at Eustace's Club, it being felt that they must be fed up.
Punctually on the stroke of nine arrived Mrs. Small alone. She made
elaborate apologies for the absence of Timothy, omitting all mention
of Aunt Hester, who, at the last minute, had said she could not be
bothered. Francie received her effusively, and placed her on a rout
seat, where she left her, pouting and solitary in lavender-coloured
satin--the first time she had worn colour since Aunt Ann's death.
The devoted maiden friends came now from their rooms, each by magic
arrangement in a differently coloured frock, but all with the same
liberal allowance of tulle on the shoulders and at the bosom--for they
were, by some fatality, lean to a girl. They were all taken up to Mrs.
Small. None stayed with her more than a few seconds, but clustering
together talked and twisted their programmes, looking secretly at the
door for the first appearance of a man.
Then arrived in a group a number of Nicholases, always punctual--the
fashion up Ladbroke Grove way; and close behind them Eustace and his
men, gloomy and smelling rather of smoke.
Three or four of Francie's lovers now appeared, one after the other;
she had made each promise to come early. They were all clean-shaven and
sprightly, with that peculiar kind of young-man sprightliness which
had recently invaded Kensington; they did not seem to mind each other's
presence in the least, and wore their ties bunching out at the ends,
white waistcoats, and socks with clocks. All had handkerchiefs concealed
in their cuffs. They moved buoyantly, each armoured in professional
gaiety, as though he had come to do great deeds. Their faces when they
danced, far from wearing the traditional solemn look of the dancing
Englishman, were irresponsible, charming, suave; they bounded, twirling
their partners at great pace, without pedantic attention to the rhythm
of the music.
At other dancers they looked with a kind of airy scorn--they, the light
brigade, the heroes of a hundred Kensington 'hops'--from whom alone
could the right manner and smile and step be hoped.
After this the stream came fast; chaperones silting up along the wall
facing the entrance, the volatile element swelling the eddy in the
larger room.
Men were scarce, and wallflowers wore their peculiar, pathetic
expression, a patient, sourish smile which seemed to say: "Oh, no! don't
mistake me, I know you are not coming up to me. I can hardly expect
that!" And Francie would plead with one of her lovers, or with some
callow youth: "Now, to please me, do let me introduce you to Miss Pink;
such a nice girl, really!" and she would bring him up, and say: "Miss
Pink--Mr. Gathercole. Can you spare him a dance?" Then Miss Pink,
smiling her forced smile, colouring a little, answered: "Oh! I think
so!" and screening her empty card, wrote on it the name of Gathercole,
spelling it passionately in the district that he proposed, about the
second extra.
But when the youth had murmured that it was hot, and passed, she
relapsed into her attitude of hopeless expectation, into her patient,
sourish smile.
Mothers, slowly fanning their faces, watched their daughters, and in
their eyes could be read all the story of those daughters' fortunes. As
for themselves, to sit hour after hour, dead tired, silent, or talking
spasmodically--what did it matter, so long as the girls were having a
good time! But to see them neglected and passed by! Ah! they smiled,
but their eyes stabbed like the eyes of an offended swan; they longed to
pluck young Gathercole by the slack of his dandified breeches, and drag
him to their daughters--the jackanapes!
And all the cruelties and hardness of life, its pathos and unequal
chances, its conceit, self-forgetfulness, and patience, were presented
on the battle-field of this Kensington ball-room.
Here and there, too, lovers--not lovers like Francie's, a peculiar
breed, but simply lovers--trembling, blushing, silent, sought each other
by flying glances, sought to meet and touch in the mazes of the dance,
and now and again dancing together, struck some beholder by the light in
their eyes.
Not a second before ten o'clock came the Jameses--Emily, Rachel,
Winifred (Dartie had been left behind, having on a former occasion drunk
too much of Roger's champagne), and Cicely, the youngest, making her
debut; behind them, following in a hansom from the paternal mansion
where they had dined, Soames and Irene.
All these ladies had shoulder-straps and no tulle--thus showing at once,
by a bolder exposure of flesh, that they came from the more fashionable
side of the Park.
Soames, sidling back from the contact of the dancers, took up a position
against the wall. Guarding himself with his pale smile, he stood
watching. Waltz after waltz began and ended, couple after couple brushed
by with smiling lips, laughter, and snatches of talk; or with set lips,
and eyes searching the throng; or again, with silent, parted lips, and
eyes on each other. And the scent of festivity, the odour of flowers,
and hair, of essences that women love, rose suffocatingly in the heat of
the summer night.
Silent, with something of scorn in his smile, Soames seemed to notice
nothing; but now and again his eyes, finding that which they sought,
would fix themselves on a point in the shifting throng, and the smile
die off his lips.
He danced with no one. Some fellows danced with their wives; his sense
of 'form' had never permitted him to dance with Irene since their
marriage, and the God of the Forsytes alone can tell whether this was a
relief to him or not.
She passed, dancing with other men, her dress, iris-coloured, floating
away from her feet. She danced well; he was tired of hearing women say
with an acid smile: "How beautifully your wife dances, Mr. Forsyte--it's
quite a pleasure to watch her!" Tired of answering them with his
sidelong glance: "You think so?"
A young couple close by flirted a fan by turns, making an unpleasant
draught. Francie and one of her lovers stood near. They were talking of
love.
He heard Roger's voice behind, giving an order about supper to a
servant. Everything was very second-class! He wished that he had not
come! He had asked Irene whether she wanted him; she had answered with
that maddening smile of hers "Oh, no!"
Why had he come? For the last quarter of an hour he had not even seen
her. Here was George advancing with his Quilpish face; it was too late
to get out of his way.
"Have you seen 'The Buccaneer'?" said this licensed wag; "he's on the
warpath--hair cut and everything!"
Soames said he had not, and crossing the room, half-empty in an interval
of the dance, he went out on the balcony, and looked down into the
street.
A carriage had driven up with late arrivals, and round the door hung
some of those patient watchers of the London streets who spring up to
the call of light or music; their faces, pale and upturned above their
black and rusty figures, had an air of stolid watching that annoyed
Soames. Why were they allowed to hang about; why didn't the bobby move
them on?
But the policeman took no notice of them; his feet were planted apart
on the strip of crimson carpet stretched across the pavement; his face,
under the helmet, wore the same stolid, watching look as theirs.
Across the road, through the railings, Soames could see the branches
of trees shining, faintly stirring in the breeze, by the gleam of the
street lamps; beyond, again, the upper lights of the houses on the other
side, so many eyes looking down on the quiet blackness of the garden;
and over all, the sky, that wonderful London sky, dusted with the
innumerable reflection of countless lamps; a dome woven over between
its stars with the refraction of human needs and human fancies--immense
mirror of pomp and misery that night after night stretches its kindly
mocking over miles of houses and gardens, mansions and squalor, over
Forsytes, policemen, and patient watchers in the streets.
Soames turned away, and, hidden in the recess, gazed into the lighted
room. It was cooler out there. He saw the new arrivals, June and her
grandfather, enter. What had made them so late? They stood by the
doorway. They looked fagged. Fancy Uncle Jolyon turning out at this
time of night! Why hadn't June come to Irene, as she usually did, and
it occurred to him suddenly that he had seen nothing of June for a long
time now.
Watching her face with idle malice, he saw it change, grow so pale that
he thought she would drop, then flame out crimson. Turning to see at
what she was looking, he saw his wife on Bosinney's arm, coming from
the conservatory at the end of the room. Her eyes were raised to his,
as though answering some question he had asked, and he was gazing at her
intently.
Soames looked again at June. Her hand rested on old Jolyon's arm; she
seemed to be making a request. He saw a surprised look on his uncle's
face; they turned and passed through the door out of his sight.
The music began again--a waltz--and, still as a statue in the recess of
the window, his face unmoved, but no smile on his lips, Soames waited.
Presently, within a yard of the dark balcony, his wife and Bosinney
passed. He caught the perfume of the gardenias that she wore, saw the
rise and fall of her bosom, the languor in her eyes, her parted lips,
and a look on her face that he did not know. To the slow, swinging
measure they danced by, and it seemed to him that they clung to each
other; he saw her raise her eyes, soft and dark, to Bosinney's, and drop
them again.
Very white, he turned back to the balcony, and leaning on it, gazed down
on the Square; the figures were still there looking up at the light with
dull persistency, the policeman's face, too, upturned, and staring, but
he saw nothing of them. Below, a carriage drew up, two figures got in,
and drove away....
That evening June and old Jolyon sat down to dinner at the usual hour.
The girl was in her customary high-necked frock, old Jolyon had not
dressed.
At breakfast she had spoken of the dance at Uncle Roger's, she wanted to
go; she had been stupid enough, she said, not to think of asking anyone
to take her. It was too late now.
Old Jolyon lifted his keen eyes. June was used to go to dances with
Irene as a matter of course! and deliberately fixing his gaze on her, he
asked: "Why don't you get Irene?"
No! June did not want to ask Irene; she would only go if--if her
grandfather wouldn't mind just for once for a little time!
At her look, so eager and so worn, old Jolyon had grumblingly consented.
He did not know what she wanted, he said, with going to a dance like
this, a poor affair, he would wager; and she no more fit for it than a
cat! What she wanted was sea air, and after his general meeting of the
Globular Gold Concessions he was ready to take her. She didn't want to
go away? Ah! she would knock herself up! Stealing a mournful look at
her, he went on with his breakfast.
June went out early, and wandered restlessly about in the heat. Her
little light figure that lately had moved so languidly about its
business, was all on fire. She bought herself some flowers. She
wanted--she meant to look her best. He would be there! She knew well
enough that he had a card. She would show him that she did not care. But
deep down in her heart she resolved that evening to win him back. She
came in flushed, and talked brightly all lunch; old Jolyon was there,
and he was deceived.
In the afternoon she was overtaken by a desperate fit of sobbing. She
strangled the noise against the pillows of her bed, but when at last
it ceased she saw in the glass a swollen face with reddened eyes, and
violet circles round them. She stayed in the darkened room till dinner
time.
All through that silent meal the struggle went on within her.
She looked so shadowy and exhausted that old Jolyon told 'Sankey' to
countermand the carriage, he would not have her going out.... She was to
go to bed! She made no resistance. She went up to her room, and sat in
the dark. At ten o'clock she rang for her maid.
"Bring some hot water, and go down and tell Mr. Forsyte that I feel
perfectly rested. Say that if he's too tired I can go to the dance by
myself."
The maid looked askance, and June turned on her imperiously. "Go," she
said, "bring the hot water at once!"
Her ball-dress still lay on the sofa, and with a sort of fierce care she
arrayed herself, took the flowers in her hand, and went down, her small
face carried high under its burden of hair. She could hear old Jolyon in
his room as she passed.
Bewildered and vexed, he was dressing. It was past ten, they would not
get there till eleven; the girl was mad. But he dared not cross her--the
expression of her face at dinner haunted him.
With great ebony brushes he smoothed his hair till it shone like silver
under the light; then he, too, came out on the gloomy staircase.
June met him below, and, without a word, they went to the carriage.
When, after that drive which seemed to last for ever, she entered
Roger's drawing-room, she disguised under a mask of resolution a very
torment of nervousness and emotion. The feeling of shame at what might
be called 'running after him' was smothered by the dread that he might
not be there, that she might not see him after all, and by that dogged
resolve--somehow, she did not know how--to win him back.
The sight of the ballroom, with its gleaming floor, gave her a feeling
of joy, of triumph, for she loved dancing, and when dancing she floated,
so light was she, like a strenuous, eager little spirit. He would surely
ask her to dance, and if he danced with her it would all be as it was
before. She looked about her eagerly.
The sight of Bosinney coming with Irene from the conservatory, with that
strange look of utter absorption on his face, struck her too suddenly.
They had not seen--no one should see--her distress, not even her
grandfather.
She put her hand on Jolyon's arm, and said very low:
"I must go home, Gran; I feel ill."
He hurried her away, grumbling to himself that he had known how it would
be.
To her he said nothing; only when they were once more in the carriage,
which by some fortunate chance had lingered near the door, he asked her:
"What is it, my darling?"
Feeling her whole slender body shaken by sobs, he was terribly alarmed.
She must have Blank to-morrow. He would insist upon it. He could not
have her like this.... There, there!
June mastered her sobs, and squeezing his hand feverishly, she lay back
in her corner, her face muffled in a shawl.
He could only see her eyes, fixed and staring in the dark, but he did
not cease to stroke her hand with his thin fingers.