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George Meredith - "The Adventures of Harry Richmond, Complete"

Gilbert Parker - "The Right of Way, Volume 3."

Heinrich Heine - "De Franse Pers"

Georg Ebers - "Serapis, Volume 5."

The Forsyte Saga, Complete

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




Fleur, leaning out of her window, heard the hall clock's muffled chime
of twelve, the tiny splash of a fish, the sudden shaking of an aspen's
leaves in the puffs of breeze that rose along the river, the distant
rumble of a night train, and time and again the sounds which none can
put a name to in the darkness, soft obscure expressions of uncatalogued
emotions from man and beast, bird and machine, or, maybe, from departed
Forsytes, Darties, Cardigans, taking night strolls back into a world
which had once suited their embodied spirits. But Fleur heeded not these
sounds; her spirit, far from disembodied, fled with swift wing from
railway-carriage to flowery hedge, straining after Jon, tenacious of his
forbidden image, and the sound of his voice, which was taboo. And she
crinkled her nose, retrieving from the perfume of the riverside night
that moment when his hand slipped between the mayflowers and her cheek.
Long she leaned out in her freak dress, keen to burn her wings at life's
candle; while the moths brushed her cheeks on their pilgrimage to the
lamp on her dressing-table, ignorant that in a Forsyte's house there
is no open flame. But at last even she felt sleepy, and, forgetting her
bells, drew quickly in.

Through the open window of his room, alongside Annette's, Soames,
wakeful too, heard their thin faint tinkle, as it might be shaken from
stars, or the dewdrops falling from a flower, if one could hear such
sounds.

'Caprice!' he thought. 'I can't tell. She's wilful. What shall I do?
Fleur!'

And long into the "small" night he brooded.




PART II




I.--MOTHER AND SON

To say that Jon Forsyte accompanied his mother to Spain unwillingly
would scarcely have been adequate. He went as a well-natured dog goes
for a walk with its mistress, leaving a choice mutton-bone on the lawn.
He went looking back at it. Forsytes deprived of their mutton-bones are
wont to sulk. But Jon had little sulkiness in his composition. He adored
his mother, and it was his first travel. Spain had become Italy by his
simply saying: "I'd rather go to Spain, Mum; you've been to Italy so
many times; I'd like it new to both of us."

The fellow was subtle besides being naive. He never forgot that he
was going to shorten the proposed two months into six weeks, and must
therefore show no sign of wishing to do so. For one with so enticing
a mutton-bone and so fixed an idea, he made a good enough travelling
companion, indifferent to where or when he arrived, superior to food,
and thoroughly appreciative of a country strange to the most travelled
Englishman. Fleur's wisdom in refusing to write to him was profound,
for he reached each new place entirely without hope or fever, and could
concentrate immediate attention on the donkeys and tumbling bells,
the priests, patios, beggars, children, crowing cocks, sombreros,
cactus-hedges, old high white villages, goats, olive-trees, greening
plains, singing birds in tiny cages, watersellers, sunsets, melons,
mules, great churches, pictures, and swimming grey-brown mountains of a
fascinating land.

It was already hot, and they enjoyed an absence of their compatriots.
Jon, who, so far as he knew, had no blood in him which was not English,
was often innately unhappy in the presence of his own countrymen. He
felt they had no nonsense about them, and took a more practical view
of things than himself. He confided to his mother that he must be an
unsociable beast--it was jolly to be away from everybody who could
talk about the things people did talk about. To which Irene had replied
simply:

"Yes, Jon, I know."

In this isolation he had unparalleled opportunities of appreciating
what few sons can apprehend, the whole-heartedness of a mother's
love. Knowledge of something kept from her made him, no doubt, unduly
sensitive; and a Southern people stimulated his admiration for her type
of beauty, which he had been accustomed to hear called Spanish, but
which he now perceived to be no such thing. Her beauty was neither
English, French, Spanish, nor Italian--it was special! He appreciated,
too, as never before, his mother's subtlety of instinct. He could not
tell, for instance, whether she had noticed his absorption in that Goya
picture, "La Vendimia," or whether she knew that he had slipped back
there after lunch and again next morning, to stand before it full half
an hour, a second and third time. It was not Fleur, of course, but
like enough to give him heartache--so dear to lovers--remembering her
standing at the foot of his bed with her hand held above her head. To
keep a postcard reproduction of this picture in his pocket and slip it
out to look at became for Jon one of those bad habits which soon or late
disclose themselves to eyes sharpened by love, fear, or jealousy. And
his mother's were sharpened by all three. In Granada he was fairly
caught, sitting on a sun-warmed stone bench in a little battlemented
garden on the Alhambra hill, whence he ought to have been looking at
the view. His mother, he had thought, was examining the potted stocks
between the polled acacias, when her voice said:

"Is that your favourite Goya, Jon?"

He checked, too late, a movement such as he might have made at school to
conceal some surreptitious document, and answered: "Yes."

"It certainly is most charming; but I think I prefer the 'Quitasol' Your
father would go crazy about Goya; I don't believe he saw them when he
was in Spain in '92."

In '92--nine years before he had been born! What had been the previous
existences of his father and his mother? If they had a right to share in
his future, surely he had a right to share in their pasts. He looked
up at her. But something in her face--a look of life hard-lived, the
mysterious impress of emotions, experience, and suffering-seemed,
with its incalculable depth, its purchased sanctity, to make curiosity
impertinent. His mother must have had a wonderfully interesting life;
she was so beautiful, and so--so--but he could not frame what he felt
about her. He got up, and stood gazing down at the town, at the plain
all green with crops, and the ring of mountains glamorous in sinking
sunlight. Her life was like the past of this old Moorish city, full,
deep, remote--his own life as yet such a baby of a thing, hopelessly
ignorant and innocent! They said that in those mountains to the
West, which rose sheer from the blue-green plain, as if out of a sea,
Phoenicians had dwelt--a dark, strange, secret race, above the land! His
mother's life was as unknown to him, as secret, as that Phoenician past
was to the town down there, whose cocks crowed and whose children played
and clamoured so gaily, day in, day out. He felt aggrieved that she
should know all about him and he nothing about her except that she loved
him and his father, and was beautiful. His callow ignorance--he had not
even had the advantage of the War, like nearly everybody else!--made him
small in his own eyes.

That night, from the balcony of his bedroom, he gazed down on the roof
of the town--as if inlaid with honeycomb of jet, ivory, and gold; and,
long after, he lay awake, listening to the cry of the sentry as the
hours struck, and forming in his head these lines:

"Voice in the night crying, down in the old sleeping
Spanish city darkened under her white stars!

"What says the voice-its clear-lingering anguish?
Just the watchman, telling his dateless tale of safety?
Just a road-man, flinging to the moon his song?

"No! Tis one deprived, whose lover's heart is weeping,
Just his cry: 'How long?'"

The word "deprived" seemed to him cold and unsatisfactory, but
"bereaved" was too final, and no other word of two syllables short-long
came to him, which would enable him to keep "whose lover's heart is
weeping." It was past two by the time he had finished it, and past
three before he went to sleep, having said it over to himself at least
twenty-four times. Next day he wrote it out and enclosed it in one of
those letters to Fleur which he always finished before he went down, so
as to have his mind free and companionable.

About noon that same day, on the tiled terrace of their hotel, he felt a
sudden dull pain in the back of his head, a queer sensation in the eyes,
and sickness. The sun had touched him too affectionately. The next three
days were passed in semi-darkness, and a dulled, aching indifference to
all except the feel of ice on his forehead and his mother's smile. She
never moved from his room, never relaxed her noiseless vigilance, which
seemed to Jon angelic. But there were moments when he was extremely
sorry for himself, and wished terribly that Fleur could see him. Several
times he took a poignant imaginary leave of her and of the earth, tears
oozing out of his eyes. He even prepared the message he would send to
her by his mother--who would regret to her dying day that she had ever
sought to separate them--his poor mother! He was not slow, however, in
perceiving that he had now his excuse for going home.

Toward half-past six each evening came a "gasgacha" of bells--a cascade
of tumbling chimes, mounting from the city below and falling back chime
on chime. After listening to them on the fourth day he said suddenly:

"I'd like to be back in England, Mum, the sun's too hot."

"Very well, darling. As soon as you're fit to travel" And at once he
felt better, and--meaner.

They had been out five weeks when they turned toward home. Jon's head
was restored to its pristine clarity, but he was confined to a hat lined
by his mother with many layers of orange and green silk and he still
walked from choice in the shade. As the long struggle of discretion
between them drew to its close, he wondered more and more whether she
could see his eagerness to get back to that which she had brought him
away from. Condemned by Spanish Providence to spend a day in Madrid
between their trains, it was but natural to go again to the Prado. Jon
was elaborately casual this time before his Goya girl. Now that he was
going back to her, he could afford a lesser scrutiny. It was his mother
who lingered before the picture, saying:

"The face and the figure of the girl are exquisite."

Jon heard her uneasily. Did she understand? But he felt once more that
he was no match for her in self-control and subtlety. She could, in some
supersensitive way, of which he had not the secret, feel the pulse of
his thoughts; she knew by instinct what he hoped and feared and wished.
It made him terribly uncomfortable and guilty, having, beyond most boys,
a conscience. He wished she would be frank with him, he almost hoped for
an open struggle. But none came, and steadily, silently, they travelled
north. Thus did he first learn how much better than men women play
a waiting game. In Paris they had again to pause for a day. Jon was
grieved because it lasted two, owing to certain matters in connection
with a dressmaker; as if his mother, who looked beautiful in anything,
had any need of dresses! The happiest moment of his travel was that when
he stepped on to the Folkestone boat.

Standing by the bulwark rail, with her arm in his, she said

"I'm afraid you haven't enjoyed it much, Jon. But you've been very sweet
to me."

Jon squeezed her arm.

"Oh I yes, I've enjoyed it awfully-except for my head lately."

And now that the end had come, he really had, feeling a sort of glamour
over the past weeks--a kind of painful pleasure, such as he had tried
to screw into those lines about the voice in the night crying; a feeling
such as he had known as a small boy listening avidly to Chopin, yet
wanting to cry. And he wondered why it was that he couldn't say to her
quite simply what she had said to him:

"You were very sweet to me." Odd--one never could be nice and natural
like that! He substituted the words: "I expect we shall be sick."

They were, and reached London somewhat attenuated, having been away six
weeks and two days, without a single allusion to the subject which had
hardly ever ceased to occupy their minds.




II.--FATHERS AND DAUGHTERS

Deprived of his wife and son by the Spanish adventure, Jolyon found the
solitude at Robin Hill intolerable. A philosopher when he has all that
he wants is different from a philosopher when he has not. Accustomed,
however, to the idea, if not to the reality of resignation, he would
perhaps have faced it out but for his daughter June. He was a "lame
duck" now, and on her conscience. Having achieved--momentarily--the
rescue of an etcher in low circumstances, which she happened to have
in hand, she appeared at Robin Hill a fortnight after Irene and Jon had
gone. June was living now in a tiny house with a big studio at Chiswick.
A Forsyte of the best period, so far as the lack of responsibility was
concerned, she had overcome the difficulty of a reduced income in a
manner satisfactory to herself and her father. The rent of the Gallery
off Cork Street which he had bought for her and her increased income tax
happening to balance, it had been quite simpl--she no longer paid him
the rent. The Gallery might be expected now at any time, after eighteen
years of barren usufruct, to pay its way, so that she was sure her
father would not feel it. Through this device she still had twelve
hundred a year, and by reducing what she ate, and, in place of two
Belgians in a poor way, employing one Austrian in a poorer, practically
the same surplus for the relief of genius. After three days at Robin
Hill she carried her father back with her to Town. In those three
days she had stumbled on the secret he had kept for two years, and had
instantly decided to cure him. She knew, in fact, the very man. He
had done wonders with. Paul Post--that painter a little in advance of
Futurism; and she was impatient with her father because his eyebrows
would go up, and because he had heard of neither. Of course, if he
hadn't "faith" he would never get well! It was absurd not to have faith
in the man who had healed Paul Post so that he had only just relapsed,
from having overworked, or overlived, himself again. The great thing
about this healer was that he relied on Nature. He had made a special
study of the symptoms of Nature--when his patient failed in any natural
symptom he supplied the poison which caused it--and there you were! She
was extremely hopeful. Her father had clearly not been living a natural
life at Robin Hill, and she intended to provide the symptoms. He
was--she felt--out of touch with the times, which was not natural;
his heart wanted stimulating. In the little Chiswick house she and the
Austrian--a grateful soul, so devoted to June for rescuing her that she
was in danger of decease from overwork--stimulated Jolyon in all
sorts of ways, preparing him for his cure. But they could not keep his
eyebrows down; as, for example, when the Austrian woke him at eight
o'clock just as he was going to sleep, or June took The Times away from
him, because it was unnatural to read "that stuff" when he ought to be
taking an interest in "life." He never failed, indeed, to be astonished
at her resource, especially in the evenings. For his benefit, as she
declared, though he suspected that she also got something out of it, she
assembled the Age so far as it was satellite to genius; and with
some solemnity it would move up and down the studio before him in the
Fox-trot, and that more mental form of dancing--the One-step--which so
pulled against the music, that Jolyon's eyebrows would be almost lost
in his hair from wonder at the strain it must impose on the dancer's
will-power. Aware that, hung on the line in the Water Colour Society, he
was a back number to those with any pretension to be called artists, he
would sit in the darkest corner he could find, and wonder about rhythm,
on which so long ago he had been raised. And when June brought some girl
or young man up to him, he would rise humbly to their level so far as
that was possible, and think: 'Dear me! This is very dull for them!'
Having his father's perennial sympathy with Youth, he used to get
very tired from entering into their points of view. But it was all
stimulating, and he never failed in admiration of his daughter's
indomitable spirit. Even genius itself attended these gatherings now and
then, with its nose on one side; and June always introduced it to her
father. This, she felt, was exceptionally good for him, for genius was a
natural symptom he had never had--fond as she was of him.

Certain as a man can be that she was his own daughter, he often wondered
whence she got herself--her red-gold hair, now greyed into a special
colour; her direct, spirited face, so different from his own rather
folded and subtilised countenance, her little lithe figure, when he
and most of the Forsytes were tall. And he would dwell on the origin of
species, and debate whether she might be Danish or Celtic. Celtic, he
thought, from her pugnacity, and her taste in fillets and djibbahs. It
was not too much to say that he preferred her to the Age with which she
was surrounded, youthful though, for the greater part, it was. She took,
however, too much interest in his teeth, for he still had some of those
natural symptoms. Her dentist at once found "Staphylococcus aureus
present in pure culture" (which might cause boils, of course), and
wanted to take out all the teeth he had and supply him with two complete
sets of unnatural symptoms. Jolyon's native tenacity was roused, and in
the studio that evening he developed his objections. He had never
had any boils, and his own teeth would last his time. Of course--June
admitted--they would last his time if he didn't have them out! But if
he had more teeth he would have a better heart and his time would
be longer. His recalcitrance--she said--was a symptom of his whole
attitude; he was taking it lying down. He ought to be fighting. When was
he going to see the man who had cured Paul Post? Jolyon was very
sorry, but the fact was he was not going to see him. June chafed.
Pondridge--she said--the healer, was such a fine man, and he had such
difficulty in making two ends meet, and getting his theories recognised.
It was just such indifference and prejudice as her father manifested
which was keeping him back. It would be so splendid for both of them!

"I perceive," said Jolyon, "that you are trying to kill two birds with
one stone."

"To cure, you mean!" cried June.

"My dear, it's the same thing."

June protested. It was unfair to say that without a trial.

Jolyon thought he might not have the chance, of saying it after.

"Dad!" cried June, "you're hopeless."

"That," said Jolyon, "is a fact, but I wish to remain hopeless as long
as possible. I shall let sleeping dogs lie, my child. They are quiet at
present."

"That's not giving science a chance," cried June. "You've no idea how
devoted Pondridge is. He puts his science before everything."

"Just," replied Jolyon, puffing the mild cigarette to which he was
reduced, "as Mr. Paul Post puts his art, eh? Art for Art's sake--Science
for the sake of Science. I know those enthusiastic egomaniac gentry.
They vivisect you without blinking. I'm enough of a Forsyte to give them
the go-by, June."

"Dad," said June, "if you only knew how old-fashioned that sounds!
Nobody can afford to be half-hearted nowadays."

"I'm afraid," murmured Jolyon, with his smile, "that's the only natural
symptom with which Mr. Pondridge need not supply me. We are born to be
extreme or to be moderate, my dear; though, if you'll forgive my saying
so, half the people nowadays who believe they're extreme are really very
moderate. I'm getting on as well as I can expect, and I must leave it at
that."

June was silent, having experienced in her time the inexorable character
of her father's amiable obstinacy so far as his own freedom of action
was concerned.

How he came to let her know why Irene had taken Jon to Spain puzzled
Jolyon, for he had little confidence in her discretion. After she had
brooded on the news, it brought a rather sharp discussion, during which
he perceived to the full the fundamental opposition between her active
temperament and his wife's passivity. He even gathered that a little
soreness still remained from that generation-old struggle between them
over the body of Philip Bosinney, in which the passive had so signally
triumphed over the active principle.

According to June, it was foolish and even cowardly to hide the past
from Jon. Sheer opportunism, she called it.

"Which," Jolyon put in mildly, "is the working principle of real life,
my dear."

"Oh!" cried June, "you don't really defend her for not telling Jon, Dad.
If it were left to you, you would."

"I might, but simply because I know he must find out, which will be
worse than if we told him."

"Then why don't you tell him? It's just sleeping dogs again."

"My dear," said Jolyon, "I wouldn't for the world go against Irene's
instinct. He's her boy."

"Yours too," cried June.

"What is a man's instinct compared with a mother's?"

"Well, I think it's very weak of you."

"I dare say," said Jolyon, "I dare say."

And that was all she got from him; but the matter rankled in her brain.
She could not bear sleeping dogs. And there stirred in her a tortuous
impulse to push the matter toward decision. Jon ought to be told, so
that either his feeling might be nipped in the bud, or, flowering in
spite of the past, come to fruition. And she determined to see Fleur,
and judge for herself. When June determined on anything, delicacy became
a somewhat minor consideration. After all, she was Soames' cousin, and
they were both interested in pictures. She would go and tell him that
he ought to buy a Paul Post, or perhaps a piece of sculpture by Boris
Strumolowski, and of course she would say nothing to her father. She
went on the following Sunday, looking so determined that she had some
difficulty in getting a cab at Reading station. The river country was
lovely in those days of her own month, and June ached at its loveliness.
She who had passed through this life without knowing what union was had
a love of natural beauty which was almost madness. And when she came to
that choice spot where Soames had pitched his tent, she dismissed her
cab, because, business over, she wanted to revel in the bright water
and the woods. She appeared at his front door, therefore, as a mere
pedestrian, and sent in her card. It was in June's character to know
that when her nerves were fluttering she was doing something worth
while. If one's nerves did not flutter, she was taking the line of
least resistance, and knew that nobleness was not obliging her. She
was conducted to a drawing-room, which, though not in her style, showed
every mark of fastidious elegance. Thinking, 'Too much taste--too many
knick-knacks,' she saw in an old lacquer-framed mirror the figure of
a girl coming in from the verandah. Clothed in white, and holding some
white roses in her hand, she had, reflected in that silvery-grey pool
of glass, a vision-like appearance, as if a pretty ghost had come out of
the green garden.

"How do you do?" said June, turning round. "I'm a cousin of your
father's."

"Oh, yes; I saw you in that confectioner's."

"With my young stepbrother. Is your father in?"

"He will be directly. He's only gone for a little walk."

June slightly narrowed her blue eyes, and lifted her decided chin.

"Your name's Fleur, isn't it? I've heard of you from Holly. What do you
think of Jon?"

The girl lifted the roses in her hand, looked at them, and answered
calmly:

"He's quite a nice boy."

"Not a bit like Holly or me, is he?"

"Not a bit."

'She's cool,' thought June.

And suddenly the girl said: "I wish you'd tell me why our families don't
get on?"

Confronted with the question she had advised her father to answer, June
was silent; whether because this girl was trying to get something out
of her, or simply because what one would do theoretically is not always
what one will do when it comes to the point.

"You know," said the girl, "the surest way to make people find out the
worst is to keep them ignorant. My father's told me it was a quarrel
about property. But I don't believe it; we've both got heaps. They
wouldn't have been so bourgeois as all that."

June flushed. The word applied to her grandfather and father offended
her.

"My grandfather," she said, "was very generous, and my father is, too;
neither of them was in the least bourgeois."

"Well, what was it then?" repeated the girl: Conscious that this young
Forsyte meant having what she wanted, June at once determined to prevent
her, and to get something for herself instead.

"Why do you want to know?"

The girl smelled at her roses. "I only want to know because they won't
tell me."

"Well, it was about property, but there's more than one kind."

"That makes it worse. Now I really must know."

June's small and resolute face quivered. She was wearing a round cap,
and her hair had fluffed out under it. She looked quite young at that
moment, rejuvenated by encounter.

"You know," she said, "I saw you drop your handkerchief. Is there
anything between you and Jon? Because, if so, you'd better drop that
too."