The Forsyte saga - Complete
e, as being more vigorous and Anglo-Saxon (he had the strong
Imperialistic tendencies of his cloth). It was his salutary
custom to buttonhole a director afterwards, and ask him whether
he thought the coming year would be good or bad; and, according
to the trend of the answer, to buy or sell three shares within
the ensuing fortnight.
And there was that military man, Major O’Bally, who could not
help speaking, if only to second the re-election of the auditor,
and who sometimes caused serious consternation by taking
toasts—proposals rather—out of the hands of persons who had been
flattered with little slips of paper, entrusting the said
proposals to their care.
These made up the lot, together with four or five strong, silent
shareholders, with whom Soames could sympathize—men of business,
who liked to keep an eye on their affairs for themselves, without
being fussy—good, solid men, who came to the City every day and
went back in the evening to good, solid wives.
Good, solid wives! There was something in that thought which
roused the nameless uneasiness in Soames again.
What should he say to his uncle? What answer should he make to
this letter?
. . . . “If any shareholder has any question to put, I shall be
glad to answer it.” A soft thump. Old Jolyon had let the report
and accounts fall, and stood twisting his tortoise-shell glasses
between thumb and forefinger.
The ghost of a smile appeared on Soames’s face. They had better
hurry up with their questions! He well knew his uncle’s method
(the ideal one) of at once saying: “I propose, then, that the
report and accounts be adopted!” Never let them get their
wind—shareholders were notoriously wasteful of time!
A tall, white-bearded man, with a gaunt, dissatisfied face,
arose:
“I believe I am in order, Mr. Chairman, in raising a question on
this figure of £5000 in the accounts. ‘To the widow and family’”
(he looked sourly round), “‘of our late superintendent,’ who
so—er—ill-advisedly (I say—ill-advisedly) committed suicide, at a
time when his services were of the utmost value to this Company.
You have stated that the agreement which he has so unfortunately
cut short with his own hand was for a period of five years, of
which one only had expired—I—”
Old Jolyon made a gesture of impatience.
“I believe I am in order, Mr. Chairman—I ask whether this amount
paid, or proposed to be paid, by the Board to the er—deceased—is
for services which might have been rendered to the Company—had he
not committed suicide?”
“It is in recognition of past services, which we all know—you as
well as any of us—to have been of vital value.”
“Then, sir, all I have to say is that the services being past,
the amount is too much.”
The shareholder sat down.
Old Jolyon waited a second and said: “I now propose that the
report and—”
The shareholder rose again: “May I ask if the Board realizes that
it is not their money which—I don’t hesitate to say that if it
were their money....”
A second shareholder, with a round, dogged face, whom Soames
recognised as the late superintendent’s brother-in-law, got up
and said warmly: “In my opinion, sir, the sum is not enough!”
The Rev. Mr. Boms now rose to his feet. “If I may venture to
express myself,” he said, “I should say that the fact of
the—er—deceased having committed suicide should weigh very
heavily—_very_ heavily with our worthy chairman. I have no doubt
it has weighed with him, for—I say this for myself and I think
for everyone present (hear, hear)—he enjoys our confidence in a
high degree. We all desire, I should hope, to be charitable. But
I feel sure” (he-looked severely at the late superintendent’s
brother-in-law) “that he will in some way, by some written
expression, or better perhaps by reducing the amount, record our
grave disapproval that so promising and valuable a life should
have been thus impiously removed from a sphere where both its own
interests and—if I may say so—our interests so imperatively
demanded its continuance. We should not—nay, we may
not—countenance so grave a dereliction of all duty, both human
and divine.”
The reverend gentleman resumed his seat. The late
superintendent’s brother-in-law again rose: “What I have said I
stick to,” he said; “the amount is not enough!”
The first shareholder struck in: “I challenge the legality of the
payment. In my opinion this payment is not legal. The Company’s
solicitor is present; I believe I am in order in asking him the
question.”
All eyes were now turned upon Soames. Something had arisen!
He stood up, close-lipped and cold; his nerves inwardly
fluttered, his attention tweaked away at last from contemplation
of that cloud looming on the horizon of his mind.
“The point,” he said in a low, thin voice, “is by no means clear.
As there is no possibility of future consideration being
received, it is doubtful whether the payment is strictly legal.
If it is desired, the opinion of the court could be taken.”
The superintendent’s brother-in-law frowned, and said in a
meaning tone: “We have no doubt the opinion of the court could be
taken. May I ask the name of the gentleman who has given us that
striking piece of information? Mr. Soames Forsyte? Indeed!” He
looked from Soames to old Jolyon in a pointed manner.
A flush coloured Soames’s pale cheeks, but his superciliousness
did not waver. Old Jolyon fixed his eyes on the speaker.
“If,” he said, “the late superintendents brother-in-law has
nothing more to say, I propose that the report and accounts....”
At this moment, however, there rose one of those five silent,
stolid shareholders, who had excited Soames’s sympathy. He said:
“I deprecate the proposal altogether. We are expected to give
charity to this man’s wife and children, who, you tell us, were
dependent on him. They may have been; I do not care whether they
were or not. I object to the whole thing on principle. It is high
time a stand was made against this sentimental humanitarianism.
The country is eaten up with it. I object to my money being paid
to these people of whom I know nothing, who have done nothing to
earn it. I object _in toto;_ it is not business. I now move that
the report and accounts be put back, and amended by striking out
the grant altogether.”
Old Jolyon had remained standing while the strong, silent man was
speaking. The speech awoke an echo in all hearts, voicing, as it
did, the worship of strong men, the movement against generosity,
which had at that time already commenced among the saner members
of the community.
The words “it is not business” had moved even the Board;
privately everyone felt that indeed it was not. But they knew
also the chairman’s domineering temper and tenacity. He, too, at
heart must feel that it was not business; but he was committed to
his own proposition. Would he go back upon it? It was thought to
be unlikely.
All waited with interest. Old Jolyon held up his hand;
dark-rimmed glasses depending between his finger and thumb
quivered slightly with a suggestion of menace.
He addressed the strong, silent shareholder.
“Knowing, as you do, the efforts of our late superintendent upon
the occasion of the explosion at the mines, do you seriously wish
me to put that amendment, sir?”
“I do.”
Old Jolyon put the amendment.
“Does anyone second this?” he asked, looking calmly round.
And it was then that Soames, looking at his uncle, felt the power
of will that was in that old man. No one stirred. Looking
straight into the eyes of the strong, silent shareholder, old
Jolyon said:
“I now move, ‘That the report and accounts for the year 1886 be
received and adopted.’ You second that? Those in favour signify
the same in the usual way. Contrary—no. Carried. The next
business, gentlemen....”
Soames smiled. Certainly Uncle Jolyon had a way with him!
But now his attention relapsed upon Bosinney.
Odd how that fellow haunted his thoughts, even in business hours.
Irene’s visit to the house—but there was nothing in that, except
that she might have told him; but then, again, she never did tell
him anything. She was more silent, more touchy, every day. He
wished to God the house were finished, and they were in it, away
from London. Town did not suit her; her nerves were not strong
enough. That nonsense of the separate room had cropped up again!
The meeting was breaking up now. Underneath the photograph of the
lost shaft Hemmings was buttonholed by the Rev. Mr. Boms. Little
Mr. Booker, his bristling eyebrows wreathed in angry smiles, was
having a parting turn-up with old Scrubsole. The two hated each
other like poison. There was some matter of a tar-contract
between them, little Mr. Booker having secured it from the Board
for a nephew of his, over old Scrubsole’s head. Soames had heard
that from Hemmings, who liked a gossip, more especially about his
directors, except, indeed, old Jolyon, of whom he was afraid.
Soames awaited his opportunity. The last shareholder was
vanishing through the door, when he approached his uncle, who was
putting on his hat.
“Can I speak to you for a minute, Uncle Jolyon?”
It is uncertain what Soames expected to get out of this
interview.
Apart from that somewhat mysterious awe in which Forsytes in
general held old Jolyon, due to his philosophic twist, or
perhaps—as Hemmings would doubtless have said—to his chin, there
was, and always had been, a subtle antagonism between the younger
man and the old. It had lurked under their dry manner of
greeting, under their non-committal allusions to each other, and
arose perhaps from old Jolyon’s perception of the quiet tenacity
(“obstinacy,” he rather naturally called it) of the young man, of
a secret doubt whether he could get his own way with him.
Both these Forsytes, wide asunder as the poles in many respects,
possessed in their different ways—to a greater degree than the
rest of the family—that essential quality of tenacious and
prudent insight into “affairs,” which is the highwater mark of
their great class. Either of them, with a little luck and
opportunity, was equal to a lofty career; either of them would
have made a good financier, a great contractor, a statesman,
though old Jolyon, in certain of his moods when under the
influence of a cigar or of Nature—would have been capable of, not
perhaps despising, but certainly of questioning, his own high
position, while Soames, who never smoked cigars, would not.
Then, too, in old Jolyon’s mind there was always the secret ache,
that the son of James—of James, whom he had always thought such a
poor thing, should be pursuing the paths of success, while his
own son...!
And last, not least—for he was no more outside the radiation of