The Forsyte saga - Complete
In the night she would be sure to throw her arms round his neck
and say: “Oh! Jo, how I make you suffer!” as she had done a
hundred times before.
He reached out his hand, and, unseen, slipped his razor-case into
his pocket. “I cannot stay here,” he thought, “I must go down!”
Without a word he left the room, and went back to the lawn.
Old Jolyon had little Holly on his knee; she had taken possession
of his watch; Jolly, very red in the face, was trying to show
that he could stand on his head. The dog Balthasar, as close as
he might be to the tea-table, had fixed his eyes on the cake.
Young Jolyon felt a malicious desire to cut their enjoyment
short.
What business had his father to come and upset his wife like
this? It was a shock, after all these years! He ought to have
known; he ought to have given them warning; but when did a
Forsyte ever imagine that his conduct could upset anybody! And in
his thoughts he did old Jolyon wrong.
He spoke sharply to the children, and told them to go in to their
tea. Greatly surprised, for they had never heard their father
speak sharply before, they went off, hand in hand, little Holly
looking back over her shoulder.
Young Jolyon poured out the tea.
“My wife’s not the thing today,” he said, but he knew well enough
that his father had penetrated the cause of that sudden
withdrawal, and almost hated the old man for sitting there so
calmly.
“You’ve got a nice little house here,” said old Jolyon with a
shrewd look; “I suppose you’ve taken a lease of it!”
Young Jolyon nodded.
“I don’t like the neighbourhood,” said old Jolyon; “a ramshackle
lot.”
Young Jolyon replied: “Yes, we’re a ramshackle lot.”
The silence was now only broken by the sound of the dog
Balthasar’s scratching.
Old Jolyon said simply: “I suppose I oughtn’t to have come here,
Jo; but I get so lonely!”
At these words young Jolyon got up and put his hand on his
father’s shoulder.
In the next house someone was playing over and over again: “La
Donna è mobile” on an untuned piano; and the little garden had
fallen into shade, the sun now only reached the wall at the end,
whereon basked a crouching cat, her yellow eyes turned sleepily
down on the dog Balthasar. There was a drowsy hum of very distant
traffic; the creepered trellis round the garden shut out
everything but sky, and house, and pear-tree, with its top
branches still gilded by the sun.
For some time they sat there, talking but little. Then old Jolyon
rose to go, and not a word was said about his coming again.
He walked away very sadly. What a poor miserable place; and he
thought of the great, empty house in Stanhope Gate, fit residence
for a Forsyte, with its huge billiard-room and drawing-room that
no one entered from one week’s end to another.
That woman, whose face he had rather liked, was too thin-skinned
by half; she gave Jo a bad time he knew! And those sweet
children! Ah! what a piece of awful folly!
He walked towards the Edgware Road, between rows of little
houses, all suggesting to him (erroneously no doubt, but the
prejudices of a Forsyte are sacred) shady histories of some sort
or kind.
Society, forsooth, the chattering hags and jackanapes—had set
themselves up to pass judgment on _his_ flesh and blood! A parcel
of old women! He stumped his umbrella on the ground, as though to
drive it into the heart of that unfortunate body, which had dared
to ostracize his son and his son’s son, in whom he could have
lived again!
He stumped his umbrella fiercely; yet he himself had followed
Society’s behaviour for fifteen years—had only today been false
to it!
He thought of June, and her dead mother, and the whole story,
with all his old bitterness. A wretched business!
He was a long time reaching Stanhope Gate, for, with native
perversity, being extremely tired, he walked the whole way.
After washing his hands in the lavatory downstairs, he went to
the dining-room to wait for dinner, the only room he used when
June was out—it was less lonely so. The evening paper had not yet
come; he had finished the Times, there was therefore nothing to
do.
The room faced the backwater of traffic, and was very silent. He
disliked dogs, but a dog even would have been company. His gaze,
travelling round the walls, rested on a picture entitled: “Group
of Dutch fishing boats at sunset”; the _chef d’œuvre_ of his
collection. It gave him no pleasure. He closed his eyes. He was
lonely! He oughtn’t to complain, he knew, but he couldn’t help
it: He was a poor thing—had always been a poor thing—no pluck!
Such was his thought.
The butler came to lay the table for dinner, and seeing his
master apparently asleep, exercised extreme caution in his
movements. This bearded man also wore a moustache, which had
given rise to grave doubts in the minds of many members—of the
family—, especially those who, like Soames, had been to public
schools, and were accustomed to niceness in such matters. Could
he really be considered a butler? Playful spirits alluded to him
as: “Uncle Jolyon’s Nonconformist”. George, the acknowledged wag,
had named him: “Sankey.”
He moved to and fro between the great polished sideboard and the
great polished table inimitably sleek and soft.
Old Jolyon watched him, feigning sleep. The fellow was a sneak—he
had always thought so—who cared about nothing but rattling
through his work, and getting out to his betting or his woman or
goodness knew what! A slug! Fat too! And didn’t care a pin about
his master!
But then against his will, came one of those moments of
philosophy which made old Jolyon different from other Forsytes:
After all why should the man care? He wasn’t paid to care, and
why expect it? In this world people couldn’t look for affection
unless they paid for it. It might be different in the next—he
didn’t know—couldn’t tell! And again he shut his eyes.
Relentless and stealthy, the butler pursued his labours, taking
things from the various compartments of the sideboard. His back
seemed always turned to old Jolyon; thus, he robbed his
operations of the unseemliness of being carried on in his
master’s presence; now and then he furtively breathed on the
silver, and wiped it with a piece of chamois leather. He appeared
to pore over the quantities of wine in the decanters, which he
carried carefully and rather high, letting his head droop over
them protectingly. When he had finished, he stood for over a
minute watching his master, and in his greenish eyes there was a
look of contempt:
After all, this master of his was an old buffer, who hadn’t much
left in him!
Soft as a tom-cat, he crossed the room to press the bell. His
orders were “dinner at seven.” What if his master were asleep; he
would soon have him out of that; there was the night to sleep in!
He had himself to think of, for he was due at his Club at
half-past eight!
In answer to the ring, appeared a page boy with a silver soup
tureen. The butler took it from his hands and placed it on the
table, then, standing by the open door, as though about to usher
company into the room, he said in a solemn voice:
“Dinner is on the table, sir!”
Slowly old Jolyon got up out of his chair, and sat down at the
table to eat his dinner.
CHAPTER VIII PLANS OF THE HOUSE
Forsytes, as is generally admitted, have shells, like that
extremely useful little animal which is made into Turkish
delight, in other words, they are never seen, or if seen would
not be recognised, without habitats, composed of circumstance,
property, acquaintances, and wives, which seem to move along with
them in their passage through a world composed of thousands of
other Forsytes with their habitats. Without a habitat a Forsyte
is inconceivable—he would be like a novel without a plot, which
is well-known to be an anomaly.
To Forsyte eyes Bosinney appeared to have no habitat, he seemed
one of those rare and unfortunate men who go through life
surrounded by circumstance, property, acquaintances, and wives
that do not belong to them.
His rooms in Sloane Street, on the top floor, outside which, on a
plate, was his name, “Philip Baynes Bosinney, Architect,” were
not those of a Forsyte. He had no sitting-room apart from his
office, but a large recess had been screened off to conceal the
necessaries of life—a couch, an easy chair, his pipes, spirit
case, novels and slippers. The business part of the room had the
usual furniture; an open cupboard with pigeon-holes, a round oak
table, a folding wash-stand, some hard chairs, a standing desk of
large dimensions covered with drawings and designs. June had
twice been to tea there under the chaperonage of his aunt.
He was believed to have a bedroom at the back.
As far as the family had been able to ascertain his income, it
consisted of two consulting appointments at twenty pounds a year,
together with an odd fee once in a way, and—more worthy item—a
private annuity under his father’s will of one hundred and fifty
pounds a year.
What had transpired concerning that father was not so reassuring.
It appeared that he had been a Lincolnshire country doctor of
Cornish extraction, striking appearance, and Byronic tendencies—a
well-known figure, in fact, in his county. Bosinney’s uncle by
marriage, Baynes, of Baynes and Bildeboy, a Forsyte in instincts
if not in name, had but little that was worthy to relate of his
brother-in-law.
“An odd fellow!” he would say: “always spoke of his three eldest
boys as ‘good creatures, but so dull’; they’re all doing
capitally in the Indian Civil! Philip was the only one _he_
liked. I’ve heard him talk in the queerest way; he once said to
me: ‘My dear fellow, never let your poor wife know what you’re
thinking of!’ But I didn’t follow his advice; not I! An eccentric
man! He would say to Phil: ‘Whether you live like a gentleman or
not, my boy, be sure you die like one!’ and he had himself
embalmed in a frock coat suit, with a satin cravat and a diamond
pin. Oh, quite an original, I can assure you!”
Of Bosinney himself Baynes would speak warmly, with a certain
compassion: “He’s got a streak of his father’s Byronism. Why,
look at the way he threw up his chances when he left my office;
going off like that for six months with a knapsack, and all for
what?—to study foreign architecture—foreign! What could he
expect? And there he is—a clever young fellow—doesn’t make his
hundred a year! Now this engagement is the best thing that could
have happened—keep him steady; he’s one of those that go to bed
all day and stay up all night, simply because they’ve no method;
but no vice about him—not an ounce of vice. Old Forsyte’s a rich
man!”