The Forsyte saga - Complete
Kneeling down and plunging his face into the bed, little Jon
hurried up, under his breath, opening one eye now and then, to
see her standing perfectly still with a smile on her face. “Our
Father”—so went his last prayer, “which art in heaven, hallowed
be thy Mum, thy Kingdom Mum—on Earth as it is in heaven, give us
this day our daily Mum and forgive us our trespasses on earth as
it is in heaven and trespass against us, for thine is the evil
the power and the glory for ever and ever. Amum! Look out!” He
sprang, and for a long minute remained in her arms. Once in bed,
he continued to hold her hand.
“You won't shut the door any more than that, will you? Are you
going to be long, Mum?”
“I must go down and play to Daddy.”
“Oh! well, I shall hear you.”
“I hope not; you must go to sleep.”
“I can sleep any night.”
“Well, this is just a night like any other.”
“Oh! no—it's extra special.”
“On extra special nights one always sleeps soundest.”
“But if I go to sleep, Mum, I shan't hear you come up.”
“Well, when I do, I'll come in and give you a kiss, then if
you're awake you'll know, and if you're not you'll still know
you've had one.”
Little Jon sighed, “All right!” he said: “I suppose I must put up
with that. Mum?”
“Yes?”
“What was her name that Daddy believes in? Venus Anna Diomedes?”
“Oh! my angel! Anadyomene.”
“Yes! but I like my name for you much better.”
“What is yours, Jon?”
Little Jon answered shyly:
“Guinevere! it's out of the Round Table—I've only just thought of
it, only of course her hair was down.”
His mother's eyes, looking past him, seemed to float.
“You won't forget to come, Mum?”
“Not if you'll go to sleep.”
“That's a bargain, then.” And little Jon screwed up his eyes.
He felt her lips on his forehead, heard her footsteps; opened his
eyes to see her gliding through the doorway, and, sighing,
screwed them up again.
Then Time began.
For some ten minutes of it he tried loyally to sleep, counting a
great number of thistles in a row, “Da's” old recipe for bringing
slumber. He seemed to have been hours counting. It must, he
thought, be nearly time for her to come up now. He threw the
bedclothes back. “I'm hot!” he said, and his voice sounded funny
in the darkness, like someone else's. Why didn't she come? He sat
up. He must look! He got out of bed, went to the window and
pulled the curtain a slice aside. It wasn't dark, but he couldn't
tell whether because of daylight or the moon, which was very big.
It had a funny, wicked face, as if laughing at him, and he did
not want to look at it. Then, remembering that his mother had
said moonlit nights were beautiful, he continued to stare out in
a general way. The trees threw thick shadows, the lawn looked
like spilt milk, and a long, long way he could see; oh! very far;
right over the world, and it all looked different and swimmy.
There was a lovely smell, too, in his open window.
'I wish I had a dove like Noah!' he thought.
“The moony moon was round and bright, It shone and shone and made
it light.”
After that rhyme, which came into his head all at once, he became
conscious of music, very soft-lovely! Mum playing! He bethought
himself of a macaroon he had, laid up in his chest of drawers,
and, getting it, came back to the window. He leaned out, now
munching, now holding his jaws to hear the music better. “Da”
used to say that angels played on harps in heaven; but it wasn't
half so lovely as Mum playing in the moony night, with him eating
a macaroon. A cockchafer buzzed by, a moth flew in his face, the
music stopped, and little Jon drew his head in. She must be
coming! He didn't want to be found awake. He got back into bed
and pulled the clothes nearly over his head; but he had left a
streak of moonlight coming in. It fell across the floor, near the
foot of the bed, and he watched it moving ever so slowly towards
him, as if it were alive. The music began again, but he could
only just hear it now; sleepy music,
pretty—sleepy—music—sleepy—slee.....
And time slipped by, the music rose, fell, ceased; the moonbeam
crept towards his face. Little Jon turned in his sleep till he
lay on his back, with one brown fist still grasping the
bedclothes. The corners of his eyes twitched—he had begun to
dream. He dreamed he was drinking milk out of a pan that was the
moon, opposite a great black cat which watched him with a funny
smile like his father's. He heard it whisper: “Don't drink too
much!” It was the cat's milk, of course, and he put out his hand
amicably to stroke the creature; but it was no longer there; the
pan had become a bed, in which he was lying, and when he tried to
get out he couldn't find the edge; he couldn't find
it—he—he—couldn't get out! It was dreadful!
He whimpered in his sleep. The bed had begun to go round too; it
was outside him and inside him; going round and round, and
getting fiery, and Mother Lee out of Cast up by the Sea was
stirring it! Oh! so horrible she looked! Faster and faster!—till
he and the bed and Mother Lee and the moon and the cat were all
one wheel going round and round and up and up—awful—awful—awful!
He shrieked.
A voice saying: “Darling, darling!” got through the wheel, and he
awoke, standing on his bed, with his eyes wide open.
There was his mother, with her hair like Guinevere's, and,
clutching her, he buried his face in it.
“Oh! oh!”
“It's all right, treasure. You're awake now. There! There! It's
nothing!”
But little Jon continued to say: “Oh! oh!”
Her voice went on, velvety in his ear:
“It was the moonlight, sweetheart, coming on your face.”
Little Jon burbled into her nightgown
“You said it was beautiful. Oh!”
“Not to sleep in, Jon. Who let it in? Did you draw the curtains?”
“I wanted to see the time; I—I looked out, I—I heard you playing,
Mum; I—I ate my macaroon.” But he was growing slowly comforted;
and the instinct to excuse his fear revived within him.
“Mother Lee went round in me and got all fiery,” he mumbled.
“Well, Jon, what can you expect if you eat macaroons after you've
gone to bed?”
“Only one, Mum; it made the music ever so more beautiful. I was
waiting for you—I nearly thought it was to-morrow.”
“My ducky, it's only just eleven now.”
Little Jon was silent, rubbing his nose on her neck.
“Mum, is Daddy in your room?”
“Not to-night.”
“Can I come?”
“If you wish, my precious.”
Half himself again, little Jon drew back.
“You look different, Mum; ever so younger.”
“It's my hair, darling.”
Little Jon laid hold of it, thick, dark gold, with a few silver
threads.
“I like it,” he said: “I like you best of all like this.”
Taking her hand, he had begun dragging her towards the door. He
shut it as they passed, with a sigh of relief.
“Which side of the bed do you like, Mum?”
“The left side.”
“All right.”
Wasting no time, giving her no chance to change her mind, little
Jon got into the bed, which seemed much softer than his own. He
heaved another sigh, screwed his head into the pillow and lay
examining the battle of chariots and swords and spears which
always went on outside blankets, where the little hairs stood up
against the light.
“It wasn't anything, really, was it?” he said.
From before her glass his mother answered:
“Nothing but the moon and your imagination heated up. You mustn't
get so excited, Jon.”
But, still not quite in possession of his nerves, little Jon
answered boastfully:
“I wasn't afraid, really, of course!” And again he lay watching
the spears and chariots. It all seemed very long.
“Oh! Mum, do hurry up!”
“Darling, I have to plait my hair.”
“Oh! not to-night. You'll only have to unplait it again
to-morrow. I'm sleepy now; if you don't come, I shan't be sleepy
soon.”
His mother stood up white and flowey before the winged mirror: he
could see three of her, with her neck turned and her hair bright
under the light, and her dark eyes smiling. It was unnecessary,
and he said:
“Do come, Mum; I'm waiting.”
“Very well, my love, I'll come.”
Little Jon closed his eyes. Everything was turning out most
satisfactory, only she must hurry up! He felt the bed shake, she
was getting in. And, still with his eyes closed, he said
sleepily: “It's nice, isn't it?”
He heard her voice say something, felt her lips touching his
nose, and, snuggling up beside her who lay awake and loved him
with her thoughts, he fell into the dreamless sleep, which
rounded off his past.
TO LET
“From out the fatal loins of those two foes A pair of star-crossed
lovers take their life.” —Romeo and Juliet.
TO CHARLES SCRIBNER
PART I
I.—ENCOUNTER
Soames Forsyte emerged from the Knightsbridge Hotel, where he was
staying, in the afternoon of the 12th of May, 1920, with the
intention of visiting a collection of pictures in a Gallery off
Cork Street, and looking into the Future. He walked. Since the
War he never took a cab if he could help it. Their drivers were,
in his view, an uncivil lot, though now that the War was over and
supply beginning to exceed demand again, getting more civil in
accordance with the custom of human nature. Still, he had not
forgiven them, deeply identifying them with gloomy memories, and
now, dimly, like all members, of their class, with revolution.
The considerable anxiety he had passed through during the War,
and the more considerable anxiety he had since undergone in the
Peace, had produced psychological consequences in a tenacious
nature. He had, mentally, so frequently experienced ruin, that he
had ceased to believe in its material probability. Paying away
four thousand a year in income and super tax, one could not very
well be worse off! A fortune of a quarter of a million,
encumbered only by a wife and one daughter, and very diversely
invested, afforded substantial guarantee even against that
“wildcat notion” a levy on capital. And as to confiscation of war
profits, he was entirely in favour of it, for he had none, and
“serve the beggars right!” The price of pictures, moreover, had,
if anything, gone up, and he had done better with his collection
since the War began than ever before. Air-raids, also, had acted
beneficially on a spirit congenitally cautious, and hardened a
character already dogged. To be in danger of being entirely
dispersed inclined one to be less apprehensive of the more
partial dispersions involved in levies and taxation, while the
habit of condemning the impudence of the Germans had led
naturally to condemning that of Labour, if not openly at least in
the sanctuary of his soul.