The Forsyte saga - Complete
against the bars of their cages, and put the society to the
expense of getting others! In his eyes, as in the eyes of all
Forsytes, the pleasure of seeing these beautiful creatures in a
state of captivity far outweighed the inconvenience of
imprisonment to beasts whom God had so improvidently placed in a
state of freedom! It was for the animals’ good, removing them at
once from the countless dangers of open air and exercise, and
enabling them to exercise their functions in the guaranteed
seclusion of a private compartment! Indeed, it was doubtful what
wild animals were made for but to be shut up in cages!
But as young Jolyon had in his constitution the elements of
impartiality, he reflected that to stigmatize as barbarity that
which was merely lack of imagination must be wrong; for none who
held these views had been placed in a similar position to the
animals they caged, and could not, therefore, be expected to
enter into their sensations. It was not until they were leaving
the gardens—Jolly and Holly in a state of blissful delirium—that
old Jolyon found an opportunity of speaking to his son on the
matter next his heart. “I don’t know what to make of it,” he
said; “if she’s to go on as she’s going on now, I can’t tell
what’s to come. I wanted her to see the doctor, but she won’t.
She’s not a bit like me. She’s your mother all over. Obstinate as
a mule! If she doesn’t want to do a thing, she won’t, and there’s
an end of it!”
Young Jolyon smiled; his eyes had wandered to his father’s chin.
“A pair of you,” he thought, but he said nothing.
“And then,” went on old Jolyon, “there’s this Bosinney. I should
like to punch the fellow’s head, but I can’t, I suppose, though—I
don’t see why you shouldn’t,” he added doubtfully.
“What has he done? Far better that it should come to an end, if
they don’t hit it off!”
Old Jolyon looked at his son. Now they had actually come to
discuss a subject connected with the relations between the sexes
he felt distrustful. Jo would be sure to hold some loose view or
other.
“Well, I don’t know what you think,” he said; “I dare say your
sympathy’s with him—shouldn’t be surprised; but I think he’s
behaving precious badly, and if he comes my way I shall tell him
so.” He dropped the subject.
It was impossible to discuss with his son the true nature and
meaning of Bosinney’s defection. Had not his son done the very
same thing (worse, if possible) fifteen years ago? There seemed
no end to the consequences of that piece of folly.
Young Jolyon also was silent; he had quickly penetrated his
father’s thought, for, dethroned from the high seat of an obvious
and uncomplicated view of things, he had become both perceptive
and subtle.
The attitude he had adopted towards sexual matters fifteen years
before, however, was too different from his father’s. There was
no bridging the gulf.
He said coolly: “I suppose he’s fallen in love with some other
woman?”
Old Jolyon gave him a dubious look: “I can’t tell,” he said;
“they say so!”
“Then, it’s probably true,” remarked young Jolyon unexpectedly;
“and I suppose _they’ve_ told you who she is?”
“Yes,” said old Jolyon, “Soames’s wife!”
Young Jolyon did not whistle: The circumstances of his own life
had rendered him incapable of whistling on such a subject, but he
looked at his father, while the ghost of a smile hovered over his
face.
If old Jolyon saw, he took no notice.
“She and June were bosom friends!” he muttered.
“Poor little June!” said young Jolyon softly. He thought of his
daughter still as a babe of three.
Old Jolyon came to a sudden halt.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” he said, “it’s some old woman’s
tale. Get me a cab, Jo, I’m tired to death!”
They stood at a corner to see if an empty cab would come along,
while carriage after carriage drove past, bearing Forsytes of all
descriptions from the Zoo. The harness, the liveries, the gloss
on the horses’ coats, shone and glittered in the May sunlight,
and each equipage, landau, sociable, barouche, Victoria, or
brougham, seemed to roll out proudly from its wheels:
“I and my horses and my men you know,
Indeed the whole turn-out have cost a pot.
But we were worth it every penny. Look
At Master and at Missis now, the dawgs!
Ease with security—ah! that’s the ticket!”
And such, as everyone knows, is fit accompaniment for a
perambulating Forsyte.
Amongst these carriages was a barouche coming at a greater pace
than the others, drawn by a pair of bright bay horses. It swung
on its high springs, and the four people who filled it seemed
rocked as in a cradle.
This chariot attracted young Jolyon’s attention; and suddenly, on
the back seat, he recognised his Uncle James, unmistakable in
spite of the increased whiteness of his whiskers; opposite, their
backs defended by sunshades, Rachel Forsyte and her elder but
married sister, Winifred Dartie, in irreproachable toilettes, had
posed their heads haughtily, like two of the birds they had been
seeing at the Zoo; while by James’ side reclined Dartie, in a
brand-new frock-coat buttoned tight and square, with a large
expanse of carefully shot linen protruding below each wristband.
An extra, if subdued, sparkle, an added touch of the best gloss
or varnish characterized this vehicle, and seemed to distinguish
it from all the others, as though by some happy extravagance—like
that which marks out the real “work of art” from the ordinary
“picture”—it were designated as the typical car, the very throne
of Forsytedom.
Old Jolyon did not see them pass; he was petting poor Holly who
was tired, but those in the carriage had taken in the little
group; the ladies’ heads tilted suddenly, there was a spasmodic
screening movement of parasols; James’ face protruded naively,
like the head of a long bird, his mouth slowly opening. The
shield-like rounds of the parasols grew smaller and smaller, and
vanished.
Young Jolyon saw that he had been recognised, even by Winifred,
who could not have been more than fifteen when he had forfeited
the right to be considered a Forsyte.
There was not much change in _them!_ He remembered the exact look
of their turn-out all that time ago: Horses, men, carriage—all
different now, no doubt—but of the precise stamp of fifteen years
before; the same neat display, the same nicely calculated
arrogance ease with security! The swing exact, the pose of the
sunshades exact, exact the spirit of the whole thing.
And in the sunlight, defended by the haughty shields of parasols,
carriage after carriage went by.
“Uncle James has just passed, with his female folk,” said young
Jolyon.
His father looked black. “Did your uncle see us? Yes? Hmph!
What’s _he_ want, coming down into these parts?”
An empty cab drove up at this moment, and old Jolyon stopped it.
“I shall see you again before long, my boy!” he said. “Don’t you
go paying any attention to what I’ve been saying about young
Bosinney—I don’t believe a word of it!”
Kissing the children, who tried to detain him, he stepped in and
was borne away.
Young Jolyon, who had taken Holly up in his arms, stood
motionless at the corner, looking after the cab.
CHAPTER VII AFTERNOON AT TIMOTHY’S
If old Jolyon, as he got into his cab, had said: “I _won’t_
believe a word of it!” he would more truthfully have expressed
his sentiments.
The notion that James and his womankind had seen him in the
company of his son had awakened in him not only the impatience he
always felt when crossed, but that secret hostility natural
between brothers, the roots of which—little nursery
rivalries—sometimes toughen and deepen as life goes on, and, all
hidden, support a plant capable of producing in season the
bitterest fruits.
Hitherto there had been between these six brothers no more
unfriendly feeling than that caused by the secret and natural
doubt that the others might be richer than themselves; a feeling
increased to the pitch of curiosity by the approach of death—that
end of all handicaps—and the great “closeness” of their man of
business, who, with some sagacity, would profess to Nicholas
ignorance of James’ income, to James ignorance of old Jolyon’s,
to Jolyon ignorance of Roger’s, to Roger ignorance of Swithin’s,
while to Swithin he would say most irritatingly that Nicholas
must be a rich man. Timothy alone was exempt, being in gilt-edged
securities.
But now, between two of them at least, had arisen a very
different sense of injury. From the moment when James had the
impertinence to pry into his affairs—as he put it—old Jolyon no
longer chose to credit this story about Bosinney. His
grand-daughter slighted through a member of “that fellow’s”
family! He made up his mind that Bosinney was maligned. There
must be some other reason for his defection.
June had flown out at him, or something; she was as touchy as she
could be!
He would, however, let Timothy have a bit of his mind, and see if
he would go on dropping hints! And he would not let the grass
grow under his feet either, he would go there at once, and take
very good care that he didn’t have to go again on the same
errand.
He saw James’ carriage blocking the pavement in front of “The
Bower”. So they had got there before him—cackling about having
seen him, he dared say! And further on, Swithin’s greys were
turning their noses towards the noses of James’ bays, as though
in conclave over the family, while their coachmen were in
conclave above.
Old Jolyon, depositing his hat on the chair in the narrow hall,
where that hat of Bosinney’s had so long ago been mistaken for a
cat, passed his thin hand grimly over his face with its great
drooping white moustaches, as though to remove all traces of
expression, and made his way upstairs.
He found the front drawing-room full. It was full enough at the
best of times—without visitors—without any one in it—for Timothy
and his sisters, following the tradition of their generation,
considered that a room was not quite “nice” unless it was
“properly” furnished. It held, therefore, eleven chairs, a sofa,
three tables, two cabinets, innumerable knicknacks, and part of a
large grand piano. And now, occupied by Mrs. Small, Aunt Hester,
by Swithin, James, Rachel, Winifred, Euphemia, who had come in
again to return “Passion and Paregoric” which she had read at
lunch, and her chum Frances, Roger’s daughter (the musical
Forsyte, the one who composed songs), there was only one chair
left unoccupied, except, of course, the two that nobody ever sat
on—and the only standing room was occupied by the cat, on whom
old Jolyon promptly stepped.
In these days it was by no means unusual for Timothy to have so