The Forsyte saga - Complete
parts of himself, to whom he might transmit the money he saved,
was at the root of his saving; and, at seventy-five, what was
left that could give him pleasure, but—saving? The kernel of life
was in this saving for his children.
Than James Forsyte, notwithstanding all his “Jonah-isms,” there
was no saner man (if the leading symptom of sanity, as we are
told, is self-preservation, though without doubt Timothy went too
far) in all this London, of which he owned so much, and loved
with such a dumb love, as the centre of his opportunities. He had
the marvellous instinctive sanity of the middle class. In
him—more than in Jolyon, with his masterful will and his moments
of tenderness and philosophy—more than in Swithin, the martyr to
crankiness—Nicholas, the sufferer from ability—and Roger, the
victim of enterprise—beat the true pulse of compromise; of all
the brothers he was least remarkable in mind and person, and for
that reason more likely to live for ever.
To James, more than to any of the others, was “the family”
significant and dear. There had always been something primitive
and cosy in his attitude towards life; he loved the family
hearth, he loved gossip, and he loved grumbling. All his
decisions were formed of a cream which he skimmed off the family
mind; and, through that family, off the minds of thousands of
other families of similar fibre. Year after year, week after
week, he went to Timothy’s, and in his brother’s front
drawing-room—his legs twisted, his long white whiskers framing
his clean-shaven mouth—would sit watching the family pot simmer,
the cream rising to the top; and he would go away sheltered,
refreshed, comforted, with an indefinable sense of comfort.
Beneath the adamant of his self-preserving instinct there was
much real softness in James; a visit to Timothy’s was like an
hour spent in the lap of a mother; and the deep craving he
himself had for the protection of the family wing reacted in turn
on his feelings towards his own children; it was a nightmare to
him to think of them exposed to the treatment of the world, in
money, health, or reputation. When his old friend John Street’s
son volunteered for special service, he shook his head
querulously, and wondered what John Street was about to allow it;
and when young Street was assagaied, he took it so much to heart
that he made a point of calling everywhere with the special
object of saying: He knew how it would be—he’d no patience with
them!
When his son-in-law Dartie had that financial crisis, due to
speculation in Oil Shares, James made himself ill worrying over
it; the knell of all prosperity seemed to have sounded. It took
him three months and a visit to Baden-Baden to get better; there
was something terrible in the idea that but for his, James’s,
money, Dartie’s name might have appeared in the Bankruptcy List.
Composed of a physiological mixture so sound that if he had an
earache he thought he was dying, he regarded the occasional
ailments of his wife and children as in the nature of personal
grievances, special interventions of Providence for the purpose
of destroying his peace of mind; but he did not believe at all in
the ailments of people outside his own immediate family,
affirming them in every case to be due to neglected liver.
His universal comment was: “What can they expect? I have it
myself, if I’m not careful!”
When he went to Soames’s that evening he felt that life was hard
on him: There was Emily with a bad toe, and Rachel gadding about
in the country; he got no sympathy from anybody; and Ann, she was
ill—he did not believe she would last through the summer; he had
called there three times now without her being able to see him!
And this idea of Soames’s, building a house, _that_ would have to
be looked into. As to the trouble with Irene, he didn’t know what
was to come of that—anything might come of it!
He entered 62, Montpellier Square with the fullest intentions of
being miserable.
It was already half-past seven, and Irene, dressed for dinner,
was seated in the drawing-room. She was wearing her gold-coloured
frock—for, having been displayed at a dinner-party, a soirée, and
a dance, it was now to be worn at home—and she had adorned the
bosom with a cascade of lace, on which James’s eyes riveted
themselves at once.
“Where do you get your things?” he said in an aggravated voice.
“I never see Rachel and Cicely looking half so well. That
rose-point, now—that’s not real!”
Irene came close, to prove to him that he was in error.
And, in spite of himself, James felt the influence of her
deference, of the faint seductive perfume exhaling from her. No
self-respecting Forsyte surrendered at a blow; so he merely said:
He didn’t know—he expected she was spending a pretty penny on
dress.
The gong sounded, and, putting her white arm within his, Irene
took him into the dining-room. She seated him in Soames’s usual
place, round the corner on her left. The light fell softly there,
so that he would not be worried by the gradual dying of the day;
and she began to talk to him about himself.
Presently, over James came a change, like the mellowing that
steals upon a fruit in the sun; a sense of being caressed, and
praised, and petted, and all without the bestowal of a single
caress or word of praise. He felt that what he was eating was
agreeing with him; he could not get that feeling at home; he did
not know when he had enjoyed a glass of champagne so much, and,
on inquiring the brand and price, was surprised to find that it
was one of which he had a large stock himself, but could never
drink; he instantly formed the resolution to let his wine
merchant know that he had been swindled.
Looking up from his food, he remarked:
“You’ve a lot of nice things about the place. Now, what did you
give for that sugar-sifter? Shouldn’t wonder if it was worth
money!”
He was particularly pleased with the appearance of a picture, on
the wall opposite, which he himself had given them:
“I’d no idea it was so good!” he said.
They rose to go into the drawing-room, and James followed Irene
closely.
“That’s what I call a capital little dinner,” he murmured,
breathing pleasantly down on her shoulder; “nothing heavy—and not
too Frenchified. But _I_ can’t get it at home. I pay my cook
sixty pounds a year, but _she_ can’t give me a dinner like that!”
He had as yet made no allusion to the building of the house, nor
did he when Soames, pleading the excuse of business, betook
himself to the room at the top, where he kept his pictures.
James was left alone with his daughter-in-law. The glow of the
wine, and of an excellent liqueur, was still within him. He felt
quite warm towards her. She was really a taking little thing; she
listened to you, and seemed to understand what you were saying;
and, while talking, he kept examining her figure, from her
bronze-coloured shoes to the waved gold of her hair. She was
leaning back in an Empire chair, her shoulders poised against the
top—her body, flexibly straight and unsupported from the hips,
swaying when she moved, as though giving to the arms of a lover.
Her lips were smiling, her eyes half-closed.
It may have been a recognition of danger in the very charm of her
attitude, or a twang of digestion, that caused a sudden dumbness
to fall on James. He did not remember ever having been quite
alone with Irene before. And, as he looked at her, an odd feeling
crept over him, as though he had come across something strange
and foreign.
Now what was she thinking about—sitting back like that?
Thus when he spoke it was in a sharper voice, as if he had been
awakened from a pleasant dream.
“What d’you do with yourself all day?” he said. “You never come
round to Park Lane!”
She seemed to be making very lame excuses, and James did not look
at her. He did not want to believe that she was really avoiding
them—it would mean too much.
“I expect the fact is, you haven’t time,” he said; “You’re always
about with June. I expect you’re useful to her with her young
man, chaperoning, and one thing and another. They tell me she’s
never at home now; your Uncle Jolyon he doesn’t like it, I fancy,
being left so much alone as he is. They tell me she’s always
hanging about for this young Bosinney; I suppose he comes here
every day. Now, what do you think of him? D’you think he knows
his own mind? He seems to me a poor thing. I should say the grey
mare was the better horse!”
The colour deepened in Irene’s face; and James watched her
suspiciously.
“Perhaps you don’t quite understand Mr. Bosinney,” she said.
“Don’t understand him!” James hummed out: “Why not?—you can see
he’s one of these artistic chaps. They say he’s clever—they all
think they’re clever. You know more about him than I do,” he
added; and again his suspicious glance rested on her.
“He is designing a house for Soames,” she said softly, evidently
trying to smooth things over.
“That brings me to what I was going to say,” continued James; “I
don’t know what Soames wants with a young man like that; why
doesn’t he go to a first-rate man?”
“Perhaps Mr. Bosinney is first-rate!”
James rose, and took a turn with bent head.
“That’s it’,” he said, “you young people, you all stick together;
you all think you know best!”
Halting his tall, lank figure before her, he raised a finger, and
levelled it at her bosom, as though bringing an indictment
against her beauty:
“All I can say is, these artistic people, or whatever they call
themselves, they’re as unreliable as they can be; and my advice
to you is, don’t you have too much to do with him!”
Irene smiled; and in the curve of her lips was a strange
provocation. She seemed to have lost her deference. Her breast
rose and fell as though with secret anger; she drew her hands
inwards from their rest on the arms of her chair until the tips
of her fingers met, and her dark eyes looked unfathomably at
James.
The latter gloomily scrutinized the floor.
“I tell you my opinion,” he said, “it’s a pity you haven’t got a
child to think about, and occupy you!”
A brooding look came instantly on Irene’s face, and even James
became conscious of the rigidity that took possession of her
whole figure beneath the softness of its silk and lace clothing.
He was frightened by the effect he had produced, and like most
men with but little courage, he sought at once to justify himself
by bullying.
“You don’t seem to care about going about. Why don’t you drive
down to Hurlingham with us? And go to the theatre now and then.
At your time of life you ought to take an interest in things.
You’re a young woman!”
The brooding look darkened on her face; he grew nervous.