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Forsyte Saga
Book 1 - The Man of Property - Part 2
Chapter 9 - Evening at Richmond
Other eyes besides the eyes of June and of Soames had seen 'those
two' (as Euphemia had already begun to call them) coming from the
conservatory; other eyes had noticed the look on Bosinney's face.
There are moments when Nature reveals the passion hidden beneath the
careless calm of her ordinary moods--violent spring flashing white on
almond-blossom through the purple clouds; a snowy, moonlit peak, with
its single star, soaring up to the passionate blue; or against the
flames of sunset, an old yew-tree standing dark guardian of some fiery
secret.
There are moments, too, when in a picture-gallery, a work, noted by the
casual spectator as '......Titian--remarkably fine,' breaks through the
defences of some Forsyte better lunched perhaps than his fellows,
and holds him spellbound in a kind of ecstasy. There are things, he
feels--there are things here which--well, which are things. Something
unreasoning, unreasonable, is upon him; when he tries to define it with
the precision of a practical man, it eludes him, slips away, as the
glow of the wine he has drunk is slipping away, leaving him cross, and
conscious of his liver. He feels that he has been extravagant, prodigal
of something; virtue has gone out of him. He did not desire this glimpse
of what lay under the three stars of his catalogue. God forbid that
he should know anything about the forces of Nature! God forbid that he
should admit for a moment that there are such things! Once admit that,
and where was he? One paid a shilling for entrance, and another for the
programme.
The look which June had seen, which other Forsytes had seen, was like
the sudden flashing of a candle through a hole in some imaginary canvas,
behind which it was being moved--the sudden flaming-out of a vague,
erratic glow, shadowy and enticing. It brought home to onlookers the
consciousness that dangerous forces were at work. For a moment they
noticed it with pleasure, with interest, then felt they must not notice
it at all.
It supplied, however, the reason of June's coming so late and
disappearing again without dancing, without even shaking hands with her
lover. She was ill, it was said, and no wonder.
But here they looked at each other guiltily. They had no desire to
spread scandal, no desire to be ill-natured. Who would have? And to
outsiders no word was breathed, unwritten law keeping them silent.
Then came the news that June had gone to the seaside with old Jolyon.
He had carried her off to Broadstairs, for which place there was just
then a feeling, Yarmouth having lost caste, in spite of Nicholas, and no
Forsyte going to the sea without intending to have an air for his money
such as would render him bilious in a week. That fatally aristocratic
tendency of the first Forsyte to drink Madeira had left his descendants
undoubtedly accessible.
So June went to the sea. The family awaited developments; there was
nothing else to do.
But how far--how far had 'those two' gone? How far were they going to
go? Could they really be going at all? Nothing could surely come of it,
for neither of them had any money. At the most a flirtation, ending, as
all such attachments should, at the proper time.
Soames' sister, Winifred Dartie, who had imbibed with the breezes of
Mayfair--she lived in Green Street--more fashionable principles in
regard to matrimonial behaviour than were current, for instance, in
Ladbroke Grove, laughed at the idea of there being anything in it. The
'little thing'--Irene was taller than herself, and it was real testimony
to the solid worth of a Forsyte that she should always thus be a 'little
thing'--the little thing was bored. Why shouldn't she amuse herself?
Soames was rather tiring; and as to Mr. Bosinney--only that buffoon
George would have called him the Buccaneer--she maintained that he was
very chic.
This dictum--that Bosinney was chic--caused quite a sensation. It failed
to convince. That he was 'good-looking in a way' they were prepared to
admit, but that anyone could call a man with his pronounced cheekbones,
curious eyes, and soft felt hats chic was only another instance of
Winifred's extravagant way of running after something new.
It was that famous summer when extravagance was fashionable, when the
very earth was extravagant, chestnut-trees spread with blossom, and
flowers drenched in perfume, as they had never been before; when roses
blew in every garden; and for the swarming stars the nights had hardly
space; when every day and all day long the sun, in full armour, swung
his brazen shield above the Park, and people did strange things,
lunching and dining in the open air. Unprecedented was the tale of cabs
and carriages that streamed across the bridges of the shining river,
bearing the upper-middle class in thousands to the green glories of
Bushey, Richmond, Kew, and Hampton Court. Almost every family with any
pretensions to be of the carriage-class paid one visit that year to
the horse-chestnuts at Bushey, or took one drive amongst the Spanish
chestnuts of Richmond Park. Bowling smoothly, if dustily, along, in
a cloud of their own creation, they would stare fashionably at the
antlered heads which the great slow deer raised out of a forest of
bracken that promised to autumn lovers such cover as was never seen
before. And now and again, as the amorous perfume of chestnut flowers
and of fern was drifted too near, one would say to the other: "My dear!
What a peculiar scent!"
And the lime-flowers that year were of rare prime, near honey-coloured.
At the corners of London squares they gave out, as the sun went down, a
perfume sweeter than the honey bees had taken--a perfume that stirred a
yearning unnamable in the hearts of Forsytes and their peers, taking the
cool after dinner in the precincts of those gardens to which they alone
had keys.
And that yearning made them linger amidst the dim shapes of flower-beds
in the failing daylight, made them turn, and turn, and turn again, as
though lovers were waiting for them--waiting for the last light to die
away under the shadow of the branches.
Some vague sympathy evoked by the scent of the limes, some sisterly
desire to see for herself, some idea of demonstrating the soundness
of her dictum that there was 'nothing in it'; or merely the craving to
drive down to Richmond, irresistible that summer, moved the mother of
the little Darties (of little Publius, of Imogen, Maud, and Benedict) to
write the following note to her sister-in-law:
'DEAR IRENE, 'June 30.
'I hear that Soames is going to Henley tomorrow for the night. I thought
it would be great fun if we made up a little party and drove down to,
Richmond. Will you ask Mr. Bosinney, and I will get young Flippard.
'Emily (they called their mother Emily--it was so chic) will lend us the
carriage. I will call for you and your young man at seven o'clock.
'Your affectionate sister,
'WINIFRED DARTIE.
'Montague believes the dinner at the Crown and Sceptre to be quite
eatable.'
Montague was Dartie's second and better known name--his first being
Moses; for he was nothing if not a man of the world.
Her plan met with more opposition from Providence than so benevolent a
scheme deserved. In the first place young Flippard wrote:
'DEAR Mrs. DARTIE,
'Awfully sorry. Engaged two deep.
'Yours,
'AUGUSTUS FLIPPARD.'
It was late to send into the by-ways and hedges to remedy this
misfortune. With the promptitude and conduct of a mother, Winifred
fell back on her husband. She had, indeed, the decided but tolerant
temperament that goes with a good deal of profile, fair hair, and
greenish eyes. She was seldom or never at a loss; or if at a loss, was
always able to convert it into a gain.
Dartie, too, was in good feather. Erotic had failed to win the
Lancashire Cup. Indeed, that celebrated animal, owned as he was by a
pillar of the turf, who had secretly laid many thousands against him,
had not even started. The forty-eight hours that followed his scratching
were among the darkest in Dartie's life.
Visions of James haunted him day and night. Black thoughts about Soames
mingled with the faintest hopes. On the Friday night he got drunk, so
greatly was he affected. But on Saturday morning the true Stock
Exchange instinct triumphed within him. Owing some hundreds, which by
no possibility could he pay, he went into town and put them all on
Concertina for the Saltown Borough Handicap.
As he said to Major Scrotton, with whom he lunched at the Iseeum: "That
little Jew boy, Nathans, had given him the tip. He didn't care a cursh.
He wash in--a mucker. If it didn't come up--well then, damme, the old
man would have to pay!"
A bottle of Pol Roger to his own cheek had given him a new contempt for
James.
It came up. Concertina was squeezed home by her neck--a terrible squeak!
But, as Dartie said: There was nothing like pluck!
He was by no means averse to the expedition to Richmond. He would
'stand' it himself! He cherished an admiration for Irene, and wished to
be on more playful terms with her.
At half-past five the Park Lane footman came round to say: Mrs. Forsyte
was very sorry, but one of the horses was coughing!
Undaunted by this further blow, Winifred at once despatched little
Publius (now aged seven) with the nursery governess to Montpellier
Square.
They would go down in hansoms and meet at the Crown and Sceptre at 7.45.
Dartie, on being told, was pleased enough. It was better than going down
with your back to the horses! He had no objection to driving down with
Irene. He supposed they would pick up the others at Montpellier Square,
and swop hansoms there?
Informed that the meet was at the Crown and Sceptre, and that he would
have to drive with his wife, he turned sulky, and said it was d---d
slow!
At seven o'clock they started, Dartie offering to bet the driver
half-a-crown he didn't do it in the three-quarters of an hour.
Twice only did husband and wife exchange remarks on the way.
Dartie said: "It'll put Master Soames's nose out of joint to hear his
wife's been drivin' in a hansom with Master Bosinney!"
Winifred replied: "Don't talk such nonsense, Monty!"
"Nonsense!" repeated Dartie. "You don't know women, my fine lady!"
On the other occasion he merely asked: "How am I looking? A bit puffy
about the gills? That fizz old George is so fond of is a windy wine!"
He had been lunching with George Forsyte at the Haversnake.
Bosinney and Irene had arrived before them. They were standing in one of
the long French windows overlooking the river.
Windows that summer were open all day long, and all night too, and day
and night the scents of flowers and trees came in, the hot scent of
parching grass, and the cool scent of the heavy dews.
To the eye of the observant Dartie his two guests did not appear to
be making much running, standing there close together, without a word.
Bosinney was a hungry-looking creature--not much go about him.
He left them to Winifred, however, and busied himself to order the
dinner.
A Forsyte will require good, if not delicate feeding, but a Dartie will
tax the resources of a Crown and Sceptre. Living as he does, from hand
to mouth, nothing is too good for him to eat; and he will eat it. His
drink, too, will need to be carefully provided; there is much drink
in this country 'not good enough' for a Dartie; he will have the best.
Paying for things vicariously, there is no reason why he should stint
himself. To stint yourself is the mark of a fool, not of a Dartie.
The best of everything! No sounder principle on which a man can base
his life, whose father-in-law has a very considerable income, and a
partiality for his grandchildren.
With his not unable eye Dartie had spotted this weakness in James
the very first year after little Publius's arrival (an error); he had
profited by his perspicacity. Four little Darties were now a sort of
perpetual insurance.
The feature of the feast was unquestionably the red mullet. This
delectable fish, brought from a considerable distance in a state of
almost perfect preservation, was first fried, then boned, then served in
ice, with Madeira punch in place of sauce, according to a recipe known
to a few men of the world.
Nothing else calls for remark except the payment of the bill by Dartie.
He had made himself extremely agreeable throughout the meal; his bold,
admiring stare seldom abandoning Irene's face and figure. As he was
obliged to confess to himself, he got no change out of her--she was cool
enough, as cool as her shoulders looked under their veil of creamy lace.
He expected to have caught her out in some little game with Bosinney;
but not a bit of it, she kept up her end remarkably well. As for that
architect chap, he was as glum as a bear with a sore head--Winifred
could barely get a word out of him; he ate nothing, but he certainly
took his liquor, and his face kept getting whiter, and his eyes looked
queer.
It was all very amusing.
For Dartie himself was in capital form, and talked freely, with a
certain poignancy, being no fool. He told two or three stories verging
on the improper, a concession to the company, for his stories were not
used to verging. He proposed Irene's health in a mock speech. Nobody
drank it, and Winifred said: "Don't be such a clown, Monty!"
At her suggestion they went after dinner to the public terrace
overlooking the river.
"I should like to see the common people making love," she said, "it's
such fun!"
There were numbers of them walking in the cool, after the day's heat,
and the air was alive with the sound of voices, coarse and loud, or soft
as though murmuring secrets.
It was not long before Winifred's better sense--she was the only Forsyte
present--secured them an empty bench. They sat down in a row. A heavy
tree spread a thick canopy above their heads, and the haze darkened
slowly over the river.
Dartie sat at the end, next to him Irene, then Bosinney, then Winifred.
There was hardly room for four, and the man of the world could feel
Irene's arm crushed against his own; he knew that she could not withdraw
it without seeming rude, and this amused him; he devised every now and
again a movement that would bring her closer still. He thought: 'That
Buccaneer Johnny shan't have it all to himself! It's a pretty tight fit,
certainly!'
From far down below on the dark river came drifting the tinkle of a
mandoline, and voices singing the old round:
'A boat, a boat, unto the ferry, For we'll go over and be merry; And
laugh, and quaff, and drink brown sherry!'
And suddenly the moon appeared, young and tender, floating up on her
back from behind a tree; and as though she had breathed, the air was
cooler, but down that cooler air came always the warm odour of the
limes.
Over his cigar Dartie peered round at Bosinney, who was sitting with his
arms crossed, staring straight in front of him, and on his face the look
of a man being tortured.
And Dartie shot a glance at the face between, so veiled by the
overhanging shadow that it was but like a darker piece of the darkness
shaped and breathed on; soft, mysterious, enticing.
A hush had fallen on the noisy terrace, as if all the strollers were
thinking secrets too precious to be spoken.
And Dartie thought: 'Women!'
The glow died above the river, the singing ceased; the young moon hid
behind a tree, and all was dark. He pressed himself against Irene.
He was not alarmed at the shuddering that ran through the limbs he
touched, or at the troubled, scornful look of her eyes. He felt her
trying to draw herself away, and smiled.
It must be confessed that the man of the world had drunk quite as much
as was good for him.
With thick lips parted under his well-curled moustaches, and his bold
eyes aslant upon her, he had the malicious look of a satyr.
Along the pathway of sky between the hedges of the tree tops the stars
clustered forth; like mortals beneath, they seemed to shift and swarm
and whisper. Then on the terrace the buzz broke out once more, and
Dartie thought: 'Ah! he's a poor, hungry-looking devil, that Bosinney!'
and again he pressed himself against Irene.
The movement deserved a better success. She rose, and they all followed
her.
The man of the world was more than ever determined to see what she was
made of. Along the terrace he kept close at her elbow. He had within him
much good wine. There was the long drive home, the long drive and
the warm dark and the pleasant closeness of the hansom cab--with its
insulation from the world devised by some great and good man. That
hungry architect chap might drive with his wife--he wished him joy of
her! And, conscious that his voice was not too steady, he was careful
not to speak; but a smile had become fixed on his thick lips.
They strolled along toward the cabs awaiting them at the farther end.
His plan had the merit of all great plans, an almost brutal
simplicity--he would merely keep at her elbow till she got in, and get
in quickly after her.
But when Irene reached the cab she did not get in; she slipped, instead,
to the horse's head. Dartie was not at the moment sufficiently master
of his legs to follow. She stood stroking the horse's nose, and, to his
annoyance, Bosinney was at her side first. She turned and spoke to him
rapidly, in a low voice; the words 'That man' reached Dartie. He stood
stubbornly by the cab step, waiting for her to come back. He knew a
trick worth two of that!
Here, in the lamp-light, his figure (no more than medium height), well
squared in its white evening waistcoat, his light overcoat flung over
his arm, a pink flower in his button-hole, and on his dark face that
look of confident, good-humoured insolence, he was at his best--a
thorough man of the world.
Winifred was already in her cab. Dartie reflected that Bosinney would
have a poorish time in that cab if he didn't look sharp! Suddenly he
received a push which nearly overturned him in the road. Bosinney's
voice hissed in his ear: "I am taking Irene back; do you understand?" He
saw a face white with passion, and eyes that glared at him like a wild
cat's.
"Eh?" he stammered. "What? Not a bit. You take my wife!"
"Get away!" hissed Bosinney--"or I'll throw you into the road!"
Dartie recoiled; he saw as plainly as possible that the fellow meant it.
In the space he made Irene had slipped by, her dress brushed his legs.
Bosinney stepped in after her.
"Go on!" he heard the Buccaneer cry. The cabman flicked his horse. It
sprang forward.
Dartie stood for a moment dumbfounded; then, dashing at the cab where
his wife sat, he scrambled in.
"Drive on!" he shouted to the driver, "and don't you lose sight of that
fellow in front!"
Seated by his wife's side, he burst into imprecations. Calming himself
at last with a supreme effort, he added: "A pretty mess you've made of
it, to let the Buccaneer drive home with her; why on earth couldn't you
keep hold of him? He's mad with love; any fool can see that!"
He drowned Winifred's rejoinder with fresh calls to the Almighty; nor
was it until they reached Barnes that he ceased a Jeremiad, in the
course of which he had abused her, her father, her brother, Irene,
Bosinney, the name of Forsyte, his own children, and cursed the day when
he had ever married.
Winifred, a woman of strong character, let him have his say, at the end
of which he lapsed into sulky silence. His angry eyes never deserted
the back of that cab, which, like a lost chance, haunted the darkness in
front of him.
Fortunately he could not hear Bosinney's passionate pleading--that
pleading which the man of the world's conduct had let loose like a
flood; he could not see Irene shivering, as though some garment had
been torn from her, nor her eyes, black and mournful, like the eyes of a
beaten child. He could not hear Bosinney entreating, entreating, always
entreating; could not hear her sudden, soft weeping, nor see that poor,
hungry-looking devil, awed and trembling, humbly touching her hand.
In Montpellier Square their cabman, following his instructions to the
letter, faithfully drew up behind the cab in front. The Darties saw
Bosinney spring out, and Irene follow, and hasten up the steps with
bent head. She evidently had her key in her hand, for she disappeared
at once. It was impossible to tell whether she had turned to speak to
Bosinney.
The latter came walking past their cab; both husband and wife had an
admirable view of his face in the light of a street lamp. It was working
with violent emotion.
"Good-night, Mr. Bosinney!" called Winifred.
Bosinney started, clawed off his hat, and hurried on. He had obviously
forgotten their existence.
"There!" said Dartie, "did you see the beast's face? What did I say?
Fine games!" He improved the occasion.
There had so clearly been a crisis in the cab that Winifred was unable
to defend her theory.
She said: "I shall say nothing about it. I don't see any use in making a
fuss!"
With that view Dartie at once concurred; looking upon James as a private
preserve, he disapproved of his being disturbed by the troubles of
others.
"Quite right," he said; "let Soames look after himself. He's jolly well
able to!"
Thus speaking, the Darties entered their habitat in Green Street, the
rent of which was paid by James, and sought a well-earned rest. The hour
was midnight, and no Forsytes remained abroad in the streets to spy out
Bosinney's wanderings; to see him return and stand against the rails
of the Square garden, back from the glow of the street lamp; to see him
stand there in the shadow of trees, watching the house where in the dark
was hidden she whom he would have given the world to see for a single
minute--she who was now to him the breath of the lime-trees, the meaning
of the light and the darkness, the very beating of his own heart.