The Forsyte saga - Complete
the same. It was not. He had said he would stay quiet in the
hall, but he simply couldn't any more; and crossing the gravel of
the drive he lay down on the grass beyond. Pulling six daisies he
named them carefully, Sir Lamorac, Sir Tristram, Sir Lancelot,
Sir Palimedes, Sir Bors, Sir Gawain, and fought them in couples
till only Sir Lamorac, whom he had selected for a specially stout
stalk, had his head on, and even he, after three encounters,
looked worn and waggly. A beetle was moving slowly in the grass,
which almost wanted cutting. Every blade was a small tree, round
whose trunk the beetle had to glide. Little Jon stretched out Sir
Lamorac, feet foremost, and stirred the creature up. It scuttled
painfully. Little Jon laughed, lost interest, and sighed. His
heart felt empty. He turned over and lay on his back. There was a
scent of honey from the lime trees in flower, and in the sky the
blue was beautiful, with a few white clouds which looked and
perhaps tasted like lemon ice. He could hear Bob playing: “Way
down upon de Suwannee ribber” on his concertina, and it made him
nice and sad. He turned over again and put his ear to the
ground—Indians could hear things coming ever so far—but he could
hear nothing—only the concertina! And almost instantly he did
hear a grinding sound, a faint toot. Yes! it was a
car—coming—coming! Up he jumped. Should he wait in the porch, or
rush upstairs, and as they came in, shout: “Look!” and slide
slowly down the banisters, head foremost? Should he? The car
turned in at the drive. It was too late! And he only waited,
jumping up and down in his excitement. The car came quickly,
whirred, and stopped. His father got out, exactly like life. He
bent down and little Jon bobbed up—they bumped. His father said,
“Bless us! Well, old man, you are brown!” Just as he would; and
the sense of expectation—of something wanted—bubbled
unextinguished in little Jon. Then, with a long, shy look he saw
his mother, in a blue dress, with a blue motor scarf over her cap
and hair, smiling. He jumped as high as ever he could, twined his
legs behind her back, and hugged. He heard her gasp, and felt her
hugging back. His eyes, very dark blue just then, looked into
hers, very dark brown, till her lips closed on his eyebrow, and,
squeezing with all his might, he heard her creak and laugh, and
say:
“You are strong, Jon!”
He slid down at that, and rushed into the hall, dragging her by
the hand.
While he was eating his jam beneath the oak tree, he noticed
things about his mother that he had never seemed to see before,
her cheeks for instance were creamy, there were silver threads in
her dark goldy hair, her throat had no knob in it like Bella's,
and she went in and out softly. He noticed, too, some little
lines running away from the corners of her eyes, and a nice
darkness under them. She was ever so beautiful, more beautiful
than “Da” or Mademoiselle, or “Auntie” June or even “Auntie”
Holly, to whom he had taken a fancy; even more beautiful than
Bella, who had pink cheeks and came out too suddenly in places.
This new beautifulness of his mother had a kind of particular
importance, and he ate less than he had expected to.
When tea was over his father wanted him to walk round the
gardens. He had a long conversation with his father about things
in general, avoiding his private life—Sir Lamorac, the Austrians,
and the emptiness he had felt these last three days, now so
suddenly filled up. His father told him of a place called
Glensofantrim, where he and his mother had been; and of the
little people who came out of the ground there when it was very
quiet. Little Jon came to a halt, with his heels apart.
“Do you really believe they do, Daddy?” “No, Jon, but I thought
you might.”
“Why?”
“You're younger than I; and they're fairies.” Little Jon squared
the dimple in his chin.
“I don't believe in fairies. I never see any.” “Ha!” said his
father.
“Does Mum?”
His father smiled his funny smile.
“No; she only sees Pan.”
“What's Pan?”
“The Goaty God who skips about in wild and beautiful places.”
“Was he in Glensofantrim?”
“Mum said so.”
Little Jon took his heels up, and led on.
“Did you see him?”
“No; I only saw Venus Anadyomene.”
Little Jon reflected; Venus was in his book about the Greeks and
Trojans. Then Anna was her Christian and Dyomene her surname?
But it appeared, on inquiry, that it was one word, which meant
rising from the foam.
“Did she rise from the foam in Glensofantrim?”
“Yes; every day.”
“What is she like, Daddy?”
“Like Mum.”
“Oh! Then she must be...” but he stopped at that, rushed at a
wall, scrambled up, and promptly scrambled down again. The
discovery that his mother was beautiful was one which he felt
must absolutely be kept to himself. His father's cigar, however,
took so long to smoke, that at last he was compelled to say:
“I want to see what Mum's brought home. Do you mind, Daddy?”
He pitched the motive low, to absolve him from unmanliness, and
was a little disconcerted when his father looked at him right
through, heaved an important sigh, and answered:
“All right, old man, you go and love her.”
He went, with a pretence of slowness, and then rushed, to make
up. He entered her bedroom from his own, the door being open. She
was still kneeling before a trunk, and he stood close to her,
quite still.
She knelt up straight, and said:
“Well, Jon?”
“I thought I'd just come and see.”
Having given and received another hug, he mounted the
window-seat, and tucking his legs up under him watched her
unpack. He derived a pleasure from the operation such as he had
not yet known, partly because she was taking out things which
looked suspicious, and partly because he liked to look at her.
She moved differently from anybody else, especially from Bella;
she was certainly the refinedest-looking person he had ever seen.
She finished the trunk at last, and knelt down in front of him.
“Have you missed us, Jon?”
Little Jon nodded, and having thus admitted his feelings,
continued to nod.
“But you had 'Auntie' June?”
“Oh! she had a man with a cough.”
His mother's face changed, and looked almost angry. He added
hastily:
“He was a poor man, Mum; he coughed awfully; I—I liked him.”
His mother put her hands behind his waist.
“You like everybody, Jon?”
Little Jon considered.
“Up to a point,” he said: “Auntie June took me to church one
Sunday.”
“To church? Oh!”
“She wanted to see how it would affect me.” “And did it?”
“Yes. I came over all funny, so she took me home again very
quick. I wasn't sick after all. I went to bed and had hot brandy
and water, and read The Boys of Beechwood. It was scrumptious.”
His mother bit her lip.
“When was that?”
“Oh! about—a long time ago—I wanted her to take me again, but she
wouldn't. You and Daddy never go to church, do you?”
“No, we don't.”
“Why don't you?”
His mother smiled.
“Well, dear, we both of us went when we were little. Perhaps we
went when we were too little.”
“I see,” said little Jon, “it's dangerous.”
“You shall judge for yourself about all those things as you grow
up.”
Little Jon replied in a calculating manner:
“I don't want to grow up, much. I don't want to go to school.” A
sudden overwhelming desire to say something more, to say what he
really felt, turned him red. “I—I want to stay with you, and be
your lover, Mum.”
Then with an instinct to improve the situation, he added quickly
“I don't want to go to bed to-night, either. I'm simply tired of
going to bed, every night.”
“Have you had any more nightmares?”
“Only about one. May I leave the door open into your room
to-night, Mum?”
“Yes, just a little.” Little Jon heaved a sigh of satisfaction.
“What did you see in Glensofantrim?”
“Nothing but beauty, darling.”
“What exactly is beauty?”
“What exactly is—Oh! Jon, that's a poser.”
“Can I see it, for instance?” His mother got up, and sat beside
him. “You do, every day. The sky is beautiful, the stars, and
moonlit nights, and then the birds, the flowers, the
trees—they're all beautiful. Look out of the window—there's
beauty for you, Jon.”
“Oh! yes, that's the view. Is that all?”
“All? no. The sea is wonderfully beautiful, and the waves, with
their foam flying back.”
“Did you rise from it every day, Mum?”
His mother smiled. “Well, we bathed.”
Little Jon suddenly reached out and caught her neck in his hands.
“I know,” he said mysteriously, “you're it, really, and all the
rest is make-believe.”
She sighed, laughed, said: “Oh! Jon!”
Little Jon said critically:
“Do you think Bella beautiful, for instance? I hardly do.”
“Bella is young; that's something.”
“But you look younger, Mum. If you bump against Bella she hurts.”
“I don't believe 'Da' was beautiful, when I come to think of it;
and Mademoiselle's almost ugly.”
“Mademoiselle has a very nice face.” “Oh! yes; nice. I love your
little rays, Mum.”
“Rays?”
Little Jon put his finger to the outer corner of her eye.
“Oh! Those? But they're a sign of age.”
“They come when you smile.”
“But they usen't to.”
“Oh! well, I like them. Do you love me, Mum?”
“I do—I do love you, darling.”
“Ever so?”
“Ever so!”
“More than I thought you did?”
“Much—much more.”
“Well, so do I; so that makes it even.”
Conscious that he had never in his life so given himself away, he
felt a sudden reaction to the manliness of Sir Lamorac, Dick
Needham, Huck Finn, and other heroes.
“Shall I show you a thing or two?” he said; and slipping out of
her arms, he stood on his head. Then, fired by her obvious
admiration, he mounted the bed, and threw himself head foremost
from his feet on to his back, without touching anything with his
hands. He did this several times.
That evening, having inspected what they had brought, he stayed
up to dinner, sitting between them at the little round table they
used when they were alone. He was extremely excited. His mother
wore a French-grey dress, with creamy lace made out of little
scriggly roses, round her neck, which was browner than the lace.
He kept looking at her, till at last his father's funny smile
made him suddenly attentive to his slice of pineapple. It was
later than he had ever stayed up, when he went to bed. His mother
went up with him, and he undressed very slowly so as to keep her
there. When at last he had nothing on but his pyjamas, he said:
“Promise you won't go while I say my prayers!”
“I promise.”