The Forsyte saga - Complete
She now discovered that which others had discovered before
her—the thickness of hide beneath which the sensibility of genius
is sometimes veiled. Strumolowski's young and ingenuous face
became the incarnation of a sneer.
“Sponge, one does not sponge, one takes what is owing—a tenth
part of what is owing. You will repent to say that, Miss
Forsyte.”
“Oh, no,” said June, “I shan't.”
“Ah! We know very well, we artists—you take us to get what you
can out of us. I want nothing from you”—and he blew out a cloud
of June's smoke.
Decision rose in an icy puff from the turmoil of insulted shame
within her. “Very well, then, you can take your things away.”
And, almost in the same moment, she thought: 'Poor boy! He's only
got a garret, and probably not a taxi fare. In front of these
people, too; it's positively disgusting!'
Young Strumolowski shook his head violently; his hair, thick,
smooth, close as a golden plate, did not fall off.
“I can live on nothing,” he said shrilly; “I have often had to
for the sake of my Art. It is you bourgeois who force us to spend
money.”
The words hit June like a pebble, in the ribs. After all she had
done for Art, all her identification with its troubles and lame
ducks. She was struggling for adequate words when the door was
opened, and her Austrian murmured:
“A young lady, gnadiges Fraulein.”
“Where?”
“In the little meal-room.”
With a glance at Boris Strumolowski, at Hannah Hobdey, at Jimmy
Portugal, June said nothing, and went out, devoid of equanimity.
Entering the “little meal-room,” she perceived the young lady to
be Fleur—looking very pretty, if pale. At this disenchanted
moment a little lame duck of her own breed was welcome to June,
so homoeopathic by instinct.
The girl must have come, of course, because of Jon; or, if not,
at least to get something out of her. And June felt just then
that to assist somebody was the only bearable thing.
“So you've remembered to come,” she said.
“Yes. What a jolly little duck of a house! But please don't let
me bother you, if you've got people.”
“Not at all,” said June. “I want to let them stew in their own
juice for a bit. Have you come about Jon?”
“You said you thought we ought to be told. Well, I've found out.”
“Oh!” said June blankly. “Not nice, is it?”
They were standing one on each side of the little bare table at
which June took her meals. A vase on it was full of Iceland
poppies; the girl raised her hand and touched them with a gloved
finger. To her new-fangled dress, frilly about the hips and tight
below the knees, June took a sudden liking—a charming colour,
flax-blue.
'She makes a picture,' thought June. Her little room, with its
whitewashed walls, its floor and hearth of old pink brick, its
black paint, and latticed window athwart which the last of the
sunlight was shining, had never looked so charming, set off by
this young figure, with the creamy, slightly frowning face. She
remembered with sudden vividness how nice she herself had looked
in those old days when her heart was set on Philip Bosinney, that
dead lover, who had broken from her to destroy for ever Irene's
allegiance to this girl's father. Did Fleur know of that, too?
“Well,” she said, “what are you going to do?”
It was some seconds before Fleur answered.
“I don't want Jon to suffer. I must see him once more to put an
end to it.”
“You're going to put an end to it!”
“What else is there to do?”
The girl seemed to June, suddenly, intolerably spiritless.
“I suppose you're right,” she muttered. “I know my father thinks
so; but—I should never have done it myself. I can't take things
lying down.”
How poised and watchful that girl looked; how unemotional her
voice sounded!
“People will assume that I'm in love.”
“Well, aren't you?”
Fleur shrugged her shoulders. 'I might have known it,' thought
June; 'she's Soames' daughter—fish! And yet—he!'
“What do you want me to do then?” she said with a sort of
disgust.
“Could I see Jon here to-morrow on his way down to Holly's? He'd
come if you sent him a line to-night. And perhaps afterward you'd
let them know quietly at Robin Hill that it's all over, and that
they needn't tell Jon about his mother.”
“All right!” said June abruptly. “I'll write now, and you can
post it. Half-past two tomorrow. I shan't be in, myself.”
She sat down at the tiny bureau which filled one corner. When she
looked round with the finished note Fleur was still touching the
poppies with her gloved finger.
June licked a stamp. “Well, here it is. If you're not in love, of
course, there's no more to be said. Jon's lucky.”
Fleur took the note. “Thanks awfully!”
'Cold-blooded little baggage!' thought June. Jon, son of her
father, to love, and not to be loved by the daughter of—Soames!
It was humiliating!
“Is that all?”
Fleur nodded; her frills shook and trembled as she swayed toward
the door.
“Good-bye!”
“Good-bye!... Little piece of fashion!” muttered June, closing
the door. “That family!” And she marched back toward her studio.
Boris Strumolowski had regained his Christ-like silence and Jimmy
Portugal was damning everybody, except the group in whose behalf
he ran the Neo-Artist. Among the condemned were Eric Cobbley, and
several other “lame-duck” genii who at one time or another had
held first place in the repertoire of June's aid and adoration.
She experienced a sense of futility and disgust, and went to the
window to let the river-wind blow those squeaky words away.
But when at length Jimmy Portugal had finished, and gone with
Hannah Hobdey, she sat down and mothered young Strumolowski for
half an hour, promising him a month, at least, of the American
stream; so that he went away with his halo in perfect order. 'In
spite of all,' June thought, 'Boris is wonderful.'
VIII.—THE BIT BETWEEN THE TEETH
To know that your hand is against every one's is—for some
natures—to experience a sense of moral release. Fleur felt no
remorse when she left June's house. Reading condemnatory
resentment in her little kinswoman's blue eyes-she was glad that
she had fooled her, despising June because that elderly idealist
had not seen what she was after.
End it, forsooth! She would soon show them all that she was only
just beginning. And she smiled to herself on the top of the bus
which carried her back to Mayfair. But the smile died, squeezed
out by spasms of anticipation and anxiety. Would she be able to
manage Jon? She had taken the bit between her teeth, but could
she make him take it too? She knew the truth and the real danger
of delay—he knew neither; therein lay all the difference in the
world.
'Suppose I tell him,' she thought; 'wouldn't it really be safer?'
This hideous luck had no right to spoil their love; he must see
that! They could not let it! People always accepted an
accomplished fact in time! From that piece of philosophy—profound
enough at her age—she passed to another consideration less
philosophic. If she persuaded Jon to a quick and secret marriage,
and he found out afterward that she had known the truth. What
then? Jon hated subterfuge. Again, then, would it not be better
to tell him? But the memory of his mother's face kept intruding
on that impulse. Fleur was afraid. His mother had power over him;
more power perhaps than she herself. Who could tell? It was too
great a risk. Deep-sunk in these instinctive calculations she was
carried on past Green Street as far as the Ritz Hotel. She got
down there, and walked back on the Green Park side. The storm had
washed every tree; they still dripped. Heavy drops fell on to her
frills, and to avoid them she crossed over under the eyes of the
Iseeum Club. Chancing to look up she saw Monsieur Profond with a
tall stout man in the bay window. Turning into Green Street she
heard her name called, and saw “that prowler” coming up. He took
off his hat—a glossy “bowler” such as she particularly detested.
“Good evenin'. Miss Forsyde. Isn't there a small thing I can do
for you?”
“Yes, pass by on the other side.”
“I say! Why do you dislike me?”
“Do I?”
“It looks like it.”
“Well, then, because you make me feel life isn't worth living.”
Monsieur Profond smiled.
“Look here, Miss Forsyde, don't worry. It'll be all right.
Nothing lasts.”
“Things do last,” cried Fleur; “with me anyhow—especially likes
and dislikes.”
“Well, that makes me a bit un'appy.”
“I should have thought nothing could ever make you happy or
unhappy.”
“I don't like to annoy other people. I'm goin' on my yacht.”
Fleur looked at him, startled.
“Where?”
“Small voyage to the South Seas or somewhere,” said Monsieur
Profond.
Fleur suffered relief and a sense of insult. Clearly he meant to
convey that he was breaking with her mother. How dared he have
anything to break, and yet how dared he break it?
“Good-night, Miss Forsyde! Remember me to Mrs. Dartie. I'm not so
bad really. Good-night!” Fleur left him standing there with his
hat raised. Stealing a look round, she saw him stroll—immaculate
and heavy—back toward his Club.
'He can't even love with conviction,' she thought. 'What will
Mother do?'
Her dreams that night were endless and uneasy; she rose heavy and
unrested, and went at once to the study of Whitaker's Almanac. A
Forsyte is instinctively aware that facts are the real crux of
any situation. She might conquer Jon's prejudice, but without
exact machinery to complete their desperate resolve, nothing
would happen. From the invaluable tome she learned that they must
each be twenty-one; or some one's consent would be necessary,
which of course was unobtainable; then she became lost in
directions concerning licenses, certificates, notices, districts,
coming finally to the word “perjury.” But that was nonsense! Who
would really mind their giving wrong ages in order to be married
for love! She ate hardly any breakfast, and went back to
Whitaker. The more she studied the less sure she became; till,
idly turning the pages, she came to Scotland. People could be
married there without any of this nonsense. She had only to go
and stay there twenty-one days, then Jon could come, and in front
of two people they could declare themselves married. And what was
more—they would be! It was far the best way; and at once she ran
over her schoolfellows. There was Mary Lambe who lived in
Edinburgh and was “quite a sport!”
She had a brother too. She could stay with Mary Lambe, who with
her brother would serve for witnesses. She well knew that some
girls would think all this unnecessary, and that all she and Jon
need do was to go away together for a weekend and then say to