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Arnold Bennett - "The Grand Babylon Hotel"

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The Forsyte Saga, Complete

J >> John Galsworthy >> The Forsyte Saga, Complete




"How horrible!" cried June.

"What else can I do?"

"Out of the question," said Jolyon very quietly, "sans amour."

He thought she was going to cry; but, getting up quickly, she half
turned her back on them, and stood regaining control of herself.

June said suddenly:

"Well, I shall go to Soames and tell him he must leave you alone. What
does he want at his age?"

"A child. It's not unnatural"

"A child!" cried June scornfully. "Of course! To leave his money to. If
he wants one badly enough let him take somebody and have one; then you
can divorce him, and he can marry her."

Jolyon perceived suddenly that he had made a mistake to bring June--her
violent partizanship was fighting Soames' battle.

"It would be best for Irene to come quietly to us at Robin Hill, and see
how things shape."

"Of course," said June; "only...."

Irene looked full at Jolyon--in all his many attempts afterwards to
analyze that glance he never could succeed.

"No! I should only bring trouble on you all. I will go abroad."

He knew from her voice that this was final. The irrelevant thought
flashed through him: 'Well, I could see her there.' But he said:

"Don't you think you would be more helpless abroad, in case he
followed?"

"I don't know. I can but try."

June sprang up and paced the room. "It's all horrible," she said. "Why
should people be tortured and kept miserable and helpless year after
year by this disgusting sanctimonious law?" But someone had come into
the room, and June came to a standstill. Jolyon went up to Irene:

"Do you want money?"

"No."

"And would you like me to let your flat?"

"Yes, Jolyon, please."

"When shall you be going?"

"To-morrow."

"You won't go back there in the meantime, will you?" This he said with
an anxiety strange to himself.

"No; I've got all I want here."

"You'll send me your address?"

She put out her hand to him. "I feel you're a rock."

"Built on sand," answered Jolyon, pressing her hand hard; "but it's a
pleasure to do anything, at any time, remember that. And if you change
your mind...! Come along, June; say good-bye."

June came from the window and flung her arms round Irene.

"Don't think of him," she said under her breath; "enjoy yourself, and
bless you!"

With a memory of tears in Irene's eyes, and of a smile on her lips, they
went away extremely silent, passing the lady who had interrupted the
interview and was turning over the papers on the table.

Opposite the National Gallery June exclaimed:

"Of all undignified beasts and horrible laws!"

But Jolyon did not respond. He had something of his father's balance,
and could see things impartially even when his emotions were roused.
Irene was right; Soames' position was as bad or worse than her own. As
for the law--it catered for a human nature of which it took a naturally
low view. And, feeling that if he stayed in his daughter's company he
would in one way or another commit an indiscretion, he told her he must
catch his train back to Oxford; and hailing a cab, left her to Turner's
water-colours, with the promise that he would think over that Gallery.

But he thought over Irene instead. Pity, they said, was akin to love!
If so he was certainly in danger of loving her, for he pitied her
profoundly. To think of her drifting about Europe so handicapped and
lonely! 'I hope to goodness she'll keep her head!' he thought; 'she
might easily grow desperate.' In fact, now that she had cut loose from
her poor threads of occupation, he couldn't imagine how she would go
on--so beautiful a creature, hopeless, and fair game for anyone! In his
exasperation was more than a little fear and jealousy. Women did strange
things when they were driven into corners. 'I wonder what Soames will do
now!' he thought. 'A rotten, idiotic state of things! And I suppose they
would say it was her own fault.' Very preoccupied and sore at heart, he
got into his train, mislaid his ticket, and on the platform at Oxford
took his hat off to a lady whose face he seemed to remember without
being able to put a name to her, not even when he saw her having tea at
the Rainbow.




CHAPTER IV--WHERE FORSYTES FEAR TO TREAD

Quivering from the defeat of his hopes, with the green morocco case
still flat against his heart, Soames revolved thoughts bitter as death.
A spider's web! Walking fast, and noting nothing in the moonlight,
he brooded over the scene he had been through, over the memory of her
figure rigid in his grasp. And the more he brooded, the more certain
he became that she had a lover--her words, 'I would sooner die!' were
ridiculous if she had not. Even if she had never loved him, she had made
no fuss until Bosinney came on the scene. No; she was in love again, or
she would not have made that melodramatic answer to his proposal, which
in all the circumstances was reasonable! Very well! That simplified
matters.

'I'll take steps to know where I am,' he thought; 'I'll go to Polteed's
the first thing tomorrow morning.'

But even in forming that resolution he knew he would have trouble with
himself. He had employed Polteed's agency several times in the routine
of his profession, even quite lately over Dartie's case, but he had
never thought it possible to employ them to watch his own wife.

It was too insulting to himself!

He slept over that project and his wounded pride--or rather, kept vigil.
Only while shaving did he suddenly remember that she called herself
by her maiden name of Heron. Polteed would not know, at first at all
events, whose wife she was, would not look at him obsequiously and leer
behind his back. She would just be the wife of one of his clients. And
that would be true--for was he not his own solicitor?

He was literally afraid not to put his design into execution at the
first possible moment, lest, after all, he might fail himself. And
making Warmson bring him an early cup of coffee; he stole out of the
house before the hour of breakfast. He walked rapidly to one of those
small West End streets where Polteed's and other firms ministered to the
virtues of the wealthier classes. Hitherto he had always had Polteed to
see him in the Poultry; but he well knew their address, and reached it
at the opening hour. In the outer office, a room furnished so cosily
that it might have been a money-lender's, he was attended by a lady who
might have been a schoolmistress.

"I wish to see Mr. Claud Polteed. He knows me--never mind my name."

To keep everybody from knowing that he, Soames Forsyte, was reduced to
having his wife spied on, was the overpowering consideration.

Mr. Claud Polteed--so different from Mr. Lewis Polteed--was one of those
men with dark hair, slightly curved noses, and quick brown eyes, who
might be taken for Jews but are really Phoenicians; he received Soames
in a room hushed by thickness of carpet and curtains. It was, in fact,
confidentially furnished, without trace of document anywhere to be seen.

Greeting Soames deferentially, he turned the key in the only door with a
certain ostentation.

"If a client sends for me," he was in the habit of saying, "he takes
what precaution he likes. If he comes here, we convince him that we
have no leakages. I may safely say we lead in security, if in nothing
else....Now, sir, what can I do for you?"

Soames' gorge had risen so that he could hardly speak. It was absolutely
necessary to hide from this man that he had any but professional
interest in the matter; and, mechanically, his face assumed its sideway
smile.

"I've come to you early like this because there's not an hour to
lose"--if he lost an hour he might fail himself yet! "Have you a really
trustworthy woman free?"

Mr. Polteed unlocked a drawer, produced a memorandum, ran his eyes over
it, and locked the drawer up again.

"Yes," he said; "the very woman."

Soames had seated himself and crossed his legs--nothing but a faint
flush, which might have been his normal complexion, betrayed him.

"Send her off at once, then, to watch a Mrs. Irene Heron of Flat C,
Truro Mansions, Chelsea, till further notice."

"Precisely," said Mr. Polteed; "divorce, I presume?" and he blew into
a speaking-tube. "Mrs. Blanch in? I shall want to speak to her in ten
minutes."

"Deal with any reports yourself," resumed Soames, "and send them to me
personally, marked confidential, sealed and registered. My client exacts
the utmost secrecy."

Mr. Polteed smiled, as though saying, 'You are teaching your
grandmother, my dear sir;' and his eyes slid over Soames' face for one
unprofessional instant.

"Make his mind perfectly easy," he said. "Do you smoke?"

"No," said Soames. "Understand me: Nothing may come of this. If a
name gets out, or the watching is suspected, it may have very serious
consequences."

Mr. Polteed nodded. "I can put it into the cipher category. Under that
system a name is never mentioned; we work by numbers."

He unlocked another drawer and took out two slips of paper, wrote on
them, and handed one to Soames.

"Keep that, sir; it's your key. I retain this duplicate. The case we'll
call 7x. The party watched will be 17; the watcher 19; the Mansions 25;
yourself--I should say, your firm--31; my firm 32, myself 2. In case you
should have to mention your client in writing I have called him 43; any
person we suspect will be 47; a second person 51. Any special hint or
instruction while we're about it?"

"No," said Soames; "that is--every consideration compatible."

Again Mr. Polteed nodded. "Expense?"

Soames shrugged. "In reason," he answered curtly, and got up. "Keep it
entirely in your own hands."

"Entirely," said Mr. Polteed, appearing suddenly between him and the
door. "I shall be seeing you in that other case before long. Good
morning, sir." His eyes slid unprofessionally over Soames once more, and
he unlocked the door.

"Good morning," said Soames, looking neither to right nor left.

Out in the street he swore deeply, quietly, to himself. A spider's
web, and to cut it he must use this spidery, secret, unclean method,
so utterly repugnant to one who regarded his private life as his most
sacred piece of property. But the die was cast, he could not go back.
And he went on into the Poultry, and locked away the green morocco case
and the key to that cipher destined to make crystal-clear his domestic
bankruptcy.

Odd that one whose life was spent in bringing to the public eye all the
private coils of property, the domestic disagreements of others, should
dread so utterly the public eye turned on his own; and yet not odd,
for who should know so well as he the whole unfeeling process of legal
regulation.

He worked hard all day. Winifred was due at four o'clock; he was to take
her down to a conference in the Temple with Dreamer Q.C., and waiting
for her he re-read the letter he had caused her to write the day of
Dartie's departure, requiring him to return.


"DEAR MONTAGUE,

"I have received your letter with the news that you have left me for
ever and are on your way to Buenos Aires. It has naturally been a great
shock. I am taking this earliest opportunity of writing to tell you
that I am prepared to let bygones be bygones if you will return to me
at once. I beg you to do so. I am very much upset, and will not say any
more now. I am sending this letter registered to the address you left at
your Club. Please cable to me.

"Your still affectionate wife,

"WINIFRED DARTIE."


Ugh! What bitter humbug! He remembered leaning over Winifred while she
copied what he had pencilled, and how she had said, laying down her pen,
"Suppose he comes, Soames!" in such a strange tone of voice, as if she
did not know her own mind. "He won't come," he had answered, "till he's
spent his money. That's why we must act at once." Annexed to the copy of
that letter was the original of Dartie's drunken scrawl from the Iseeum
Club. Soames could have wished it had not been so manifestly penned in
liquor. Just the sort of thing the Court would pitch on. He seemed to
hear the Judge's voice say: "You took this seriously! Seriously enough
to write him as you did? Do you think he meant it?" Never mind! The fact
was clear that Dartie had sailed and had not returned. Annexed also was
his cabled answer: "Impossible return. Dartie." Soames shook his head.
If the whole thing were not disposed of within the next few months the
fellow would turn up again like a bad penny. It saved a thousand a year
at least to get rid of him, besides all the worry to Winifred and his
father. 'I must stiffen Dreamer's back,' he thought; 'we must push it
on.'

Winifred, who had adopted a kind of half-mourning which became her fair
hair and tall figure very well, arrived in James' barouche drawn by
James' pair. Soames had not seen it in the City since his father retired
from business five years ago, and its incongruity gave him a shock.
'Times are changing,' he thought; 'one doesn't know what'll go next!'
Top hats even were scarcer. He enquired after Val. Val, said Winifred,
wrote that he was going to play polo next term. She thought he was in a
very good set. She added with fashionably disguised anxiety: "Will there
be much publicity about my affair, Soames? Must it be in the papers?
It's so bad for him, and the girls."

With his own calamity all raw within him, Soames answered:

"The papers are a pushing lot; it's very difficult to keep things out.
They pretend to be guarding the public's morals, and they corrupt them
with their beastly reports. But we haven't got to that yet. We're
only seeing Dreamer to-day on the restitution question. Of course he
understands that it's to lead to a divorce; but you must seem genuinely
anxious to get Dartie back--you might practice that attitude to-day."

Winifred sighed.

"Oh! What a clown Monty's been!" she said.

Soames gave her a sharp look. It was clear to him that she could not
take her Dartie seriously, and would go back on the whole thing if given
half a chance. His own instinct had been firm in this matter from the
first. To save a little scandal now would only bring on his sister and
her children real disgrace and perhaps ruin later on if Dartie were
allowed to hang on to them, going down-hill and spending the money James
would leave his daughter. Though it was all tied up, that fellow would
milk the settlements somehow, and make his family pay through the
nose to keep him out of bankruptcy or even perhaps gaol! They left
the shining carriage, with the shining horses and the shining-hatted
servants on the Embankment, and walked up to Dreamer Q.C.'s Chambers in
Crown Office Row.

"Mr. Bellby is here, sir," said the clerk; "Mr. Dreamer will be ten
minutes."

Mr. Bellby, the junior--not as junior as he might have been, for Soames
only employed barristers of established reputation; it was, indeed,
something of a mystery to him how barristers ever managed to establish
that which made him employ them--Mr. Bellby was seated, taking a final
glance through his papers. He had come from Court, and was in wig and
gown, which suited a nose jutting out like the handle of a tiny pump,
his small shrewd blue eyes, and rather protruding lower lip--no better
man to supplement and stiffen Dreamer.

The introduction to Winifred accomplished, they leaped the weather and
spoke of the war. Soames interrupted suddenly:

"If he doesn't comply we can't bring proceedings for six months. I want
to get on with the matter, Bellby."

Mr. Bellby, who had the ghost of an Irish brogue, smiled at Winifred and
murmured: "The Law's delays, Mrs. Dartie."

"Six months!" repeated Soames; "it'll drive it up to June! We shan't
get the suit on till after the long vacation. We must put the screw on,
Bellby"--he would have all his work cut out to keep Winifred up to the
scratch.

"Mr. Dreamer will see you now, sir."

They filed in, Mr. Bellby going first, and Soames escorting Winifred
after an interval of one minute by his watch.

Dreamer Q.C., in a gown but divested of wig, was standing before the
fire, as if this conference were in the nature of a treat; he had the
leathery, rather oily complexion which goes with great learning,
a considerable nose with glasses perched on it, and little greyish
whiskers; he luxuriated in the perpetual cocking of one eye, and the
concealment of his lower with his upper lip, which gave a smothered turn
to his speech. He had a way, too, of coming suddenly round the corner on
the person he was talking to; this, with a disconcerting tone of
voice, and a habit of growling before he began to speak--had secured a
reputation second in Probate and Divorce to very few. Having listened,
eye cocked, to Mr. Bellby's breezy recapitulation of the facts, he
growled, and said:

"I know all that;" and coming round the corner at Winifred, smothered
the words:

"We want to get him back, don't we, Mrs. Dartie?"

Soames interposed sharply:

"My sister's position, of course, is intolerable."

Dreamer growled. "Exactly. Now, can we rely on the cabled refusal,
or must we wait till after Christmas to give him a chance to have
written--that's the point, isn't it?"

"The sooner...." Soames began.

"What do you say, Bellby?" said Dreamer, coming round his corner.

Mr. Bellby seemed to sniff the air like a hound.

"We won't be on till the middle of December. We've no need to give um
more rope than that."

"No," said Soames, "why should my sister be incommoded by his choosing
to go..."

"To Jericho!" said Dreamer, again coming round his corner; "quite so.
People oughtn't to go to Jericho, ought they, Mrs. Dartie?" And he
raised his gown into a sort of fantail. "I agree. We can go forward. Is
there anything more?"

"Nothing at present," said Soames meaningly; "I wanted you to see my
sister."

Dreamer growled softly: "Delighted. Good evening!" And let fall the
protection of his gown.

They filed out. Winifred went down the stairs. Soames lingered. In spite
of himself he was impressed by Dreamer.

"The evidence is all right, I think," he said to Bellby. "Between
ourselves, if we don't get the thing through quick, we never may. D'you
think he understands that?"

"I'll make um," said Bellby. "Good man though--good man."

Soames nodded and hastened after his sister. He found her in a draught,
biting her lips behind her veil, and at once said:

"The evidence of the stewardess will be very complete."

Winifred's face hardened; she drew herself up, and they walked to the
carriage. And, all through that silent drive back to Green Street, the
souls of both of them revolved a single thought: 'Why, oh! why should I
have to expose my misfortune to the public like this? Why have to employ
spies to peer into my private troubles? They were not of my making.'




CHAPTER V--JOLLY SITS IN JUDGMENT

The possessive instinct, which, so determinedly balked, was animating
two members of the Forsyte family towards riddance of what they could
no longer possess, was hardening daily in the British body politic.
Nicholas, originally so doubtful concerning a war which must affect
property, had been heard to say that these Boers were a pig-headed lot;
they were causing a lot of expense, and the sooner they had their lesson
the better. He would send out Wolseley! Seeing always a little further
than other people--whence the most considerable fortune of all the
Forsytes--he had perceived already that Buller was not the man--'a bull
of a chap, who just went butting, and if they didn't look out Ladysmith
would fall.' This was early in December, so that when Black Week came,
he was enabled to say to everybody: 'I told you so.' During that week of
gloom such as no Forsyte could remember, very young Nicholas attended
so many drills in his corps, 'The Devil's Own,' that young Nicholas
consulted the family physician about his son's health and was alarmed
to find that he was perfectly sound. The boy had only just eaten his
dinners and been called to the bar, at some expense, and it was in a
way a nightmare to his father and mother that he should be playing with
military efficiency at a time when military efficiency in the civilian
population might conceivably be wanted. His grandfather, of course,
pooh-poohed the notion, too thoroughly educated in the feeling that no
British war could be other than little and professional, and profoundly
distrustful of Imperial commitments, by which, moreover, he stood to
lose, for he owned De Beers, now going down fast, more than a sufficient
sacrifice on the part of his grandson.

At Oxford, however, rather different sentiments prevailed. The inherent
effervescence of conglomerate youth had, during the two months of the
term before Black Week, been gradually crystallising out into vivid
oppositions. Normal adolescence, ever in England of a conservative
tendency though not taking things too seriously, was vehement for a
fight to a finish and a good licking for the Boers. Of this larger
faction Val Dartie was naturally a member. Radical youth, on the other
hand, a small but perhaps more vocal body, was for stopping the war and
giving the Boers autonomy. Until Black Week, however, the groups were
amorphous, without sharp edges, and argument remained but academic.
Jolly was one of those who knew not where he stood. A streak of his
grandfather old Jolyon's love of justice prevented, him from seeing
one side only. Moreover, in his set of 'the best' there was a
'jumping-Jesus' of extremely advanced opinions and some personal
magnetism. Jolly wavered. His father, too, seemed doubtful in his views.
And though, as was proper at the age of twenty, he kept a sharp eye on
his father, watchful for defects which might still be remedied, still
that father had an 'air' which gave a sort of glamour to his creed of
ironic tolerance. Artists of course; were notoriously Hamlet-like, and
to this extent one must discount for one's father, even if one loved
him. But Jolyon's original view, that to 'put your nose in where you
aren't wanted' (as the Uitlanders had done) 'and then work the oracle
till you get on top is not being quite the clean potato,' had, whether
founded in fact or no, a certain attraction for his son, who thought a
deal about gentility. On the other hand Jolly could not abide such as
his set called 'cranks,' and Val's set called 'smugs,' so that he was
still balancing when the clock of Black Week struck. One--two--three,
came those ominous repulses at Stormberg, Magersfontein, Colenso. The
sturdy English soul reacting after the first cried, 'Ah! but Methuen!'
after the second: 'Ah! but Buller!' then, in inspissated gloom,
hardened. And Jolly said to himself: 'No, damn it! We've got to lick the
beggars now; I don't care whether we're right or wrong.' And, if he had
known it, his father was thinking the same thought.

That next Sunday, last of the term, Jolly was bidden to wine with 'one
of the best.' After the second toast, 'Buller and damnation to the
Boers,' drunk--no heel taps--in the college Burgundy, he noticed that
Val Dartie, also a guest, was looking at him with a grin and saying
something to his neighbour. He was sure it was disparaging. The last boy
in the world to make himself conspicuous or cause public disturbance,
Jolly grew rather red and shut his lips. The queer hostility he
had always felt towards his second-cousin was strongly and suddenly
reinforced. 'All right!' he thought, 'you wait, my friend!' More wine
than was good for him, as the custom was, helped him to remember, when
they all trooped forth to a secluded spot, to touch Val on the arm.

"What did you say about me in there?"

"Mayn't I say what I like?"

"No."

"Well, I said you were a pro-Boer--and so you are!"

"You're a liar!"

"D'you want a row?"

"Of course, but not here; in the garden."

"All right. Come on."

They went, eyeing each other askance, unsteady, and unflinching; they
climbed the garden railings. The spikes on the top slightly ripped Val's
sleeve, and occupied his mind. Jolly's mind was occupied by the thought
that they were going to fight in the precincts of a college foreign to
them both. It was not the thing, but never mind--the young beast!

They passed over the grass into very nearly darkness, and took off their
coats.

"You're not screwed, are you?" said Jolly suddenly. "I can't fight you
if you're screwed."

"No more than you."

"All right then."

Without shaking hands, they put themselves at once into postures of
defence. They had drunk too much for science, and so were especially
careful to assume correct attitudes, until Jolly smote Val almost
accidentally on the nose. After that it was all a dark and ugly
scrimmage in the deep shadow of the old trees, with no one to call
'time,' till, battered and blown, they unclinched and staggered back
from each other, as a voice said:

"Your names, young gentlemen?"

At this bland query spoken from under the lamp at the garden gate, like
some demand of a god, their nerves gave way, and snatching up their
coats, they ran at the railings, shinned up them, and made for the
secluded spot whence they had issued to the fight. Here, in dim light,
they mopped their faces, and without a word walked, ten paces apart, to
the college gate. They went out silently, Val going towards the Broad
along the Brewery, Jolly down the lane towards the High. His head, still
fumed, was busy with regret that he had not displayed more science,
passing in review the counters and knockout blows which he had not
delivered. His mind strayed on to an imagined combat, infinitely unlike
that which he had just been through, infinitely gallant, with sash and
sword, with thrust and parry, as if he were in the pages of his beloved
Dumas. He fancied himself La Mole, and Aramis, Bussy, Chicot, and
D'Artagnan rolled into one, but he quite failed to envisage Val as
Coconnas, Brissac, or Rochefort. The fellow was just a confounded cousin
who didn't come up to Cocker. Never mind! He had given him one or two.
'Pro-Boer!' The word still rankled, and thoughts of enlisting jostled
his aching head; of riding over the veldt, firing gallantly, while the
Boers rolled over like rabbits. And, turning up his smarting eyes, he
saw the stars shining between the housetops of the High, and himself
lying out on the Karoo (whatever that was) rolled in a blanket, with his
rifle ready and his gaze fixed on a glittering heaven.