The Forsyte saga - Complete
But how far—how far had “those two” gone? How far were they going
to go? Could they really be going at all? Nothing could surely
come of it, for neither of them had any money. At the most a
flirtation, ending, as all such attachments should, at the proper
time.
Soames’s sister, Winifred Dartie, who had imbibed with the
breezes of Mayfair—she lived in Green Street—more fashionable
principles in regard to matrimonial behaviour than were current,
for instance, in Ladbroke Grove, laughed at the idea of there
being anything in it. The “little thing”—Irene was taller than
herself, and it was real testimony to the solid worth of a
Forsyte that she should always thus be a “little thing”—the
little thing was bored. Why shouldn’t she amuse herself? Soames
was rather tiring; and as to Mr. Bosinney—only that buffoon
George would have called him the Buccaneer—she maintained that he
was very _chic_.
This dictum—that Bosinney was _chic_—caused quite a sensation. It
failed to convince. That he was “good-looking in a way” they were
prepared to admit, but that anyone could call a man with his
pronounced cheekbones, curious eyes, and soft felt hats _chic_
was only another instance of Winifred’s extravagant way of
running after something new.
It was that famous summer when extravagance was fashionable, when
the very earth was extravagant, chestnut-trees spread with
blossom, and flowers drenched in perfume, as they had never been
before; when roses blew in every garden; and for the swarming
stars the nights had hardly space; when every day and all day
long the sun, in full armour, swung his brazen shield above the
Park, and people did strange things, lunching and dining in the
open air. Unprecedented was the tale of cabs and carriages that
streamed across the bridges of the shining river, bearing the
upper-middle class in thousands to the green glories of Bushey,
Richmond, Kew, and Hampton Court. Almost every family with any
pretensions to be of the carriage-class paid one visit that year
to the horse-chestnuts at Bushey, or took one drive amongst the
Spanish chestnuts of Richmond Park. Bowling smoothly, if dustily,
along, in a cloud of their own creation, they would stare
fashionably at the antlered heads which the great slow deer
raised out of a forest of bracken that promised to autumn lovers
such cover as was never seen before. And now and again, as the
amorous perfume of chestnut flowers and of fern was drifted too
near, one would say to the other: “My dear! What a peculiar
scent!”
And the lime-flowers that year were of rare prime, near
honey-coloured. At the corners of London squares they gave out,
as the sun went down, a perfume sweeter than the honey bees had
taken—a perfume that stirred a yearning unnamable in the hearts
of Forsytes and their peers, taking the cool after dinner in the
precincts of those gardens to which they alone had keys.
And that yearning made them linger amidst the dim shapes of
flower-beds in the failing daylight, made them turn, and turn,
and turn again, as though lovers were waiting for them—waiting
for the last light to die away under the shadow of the branches.
Some vague sympathy evoked by the scent of the limes, some
sisterly desire to see for herself, some idea of demonstrating
the soundness of her dictum that there was “nothing in it”; or
merely the craving to drive down to Richmond, irresistible that
summer, moved the mother of the little Darties (of little
Publius, of Imogen, Maud, and Benedict) to write the following
note to her sister-in-law:
“_June_ 30.
“DEAR IRENE,
“I hear that Soames is going to Henley tomorrow for the
night. I thought it would be great fun if we made up a little
party and drove down to, Richmond. Will you ask Mr. Bosinney,
and I will get young Flippard.
“Emily (they called their mother Emily—it was so chic) will
lend us the carriage. I will call for you and your young man
at seven o’clock.
“Your affectionate sister,
“WINIFRED DARTIE.
“Montague believes the dinner at the Crown and Sceptre to be
quite eatable.”
Montague was Dartie’s second and better known name—his first
being Moses; for he was nothing if not a man of the world.
Her plan met with more opposition from Providence than so
benevolent a scheme deserved. In the first place young Flippard
wrote:
“DEAR MRS. DARTIE,
“Awfully sorry. Engaged two deep.
“Yours,
“AUGUSTUS FLIPPARD.”
It was late to send into the by-ways and hedges to remedy this
misfortune. With the promptitude and conduct of a mother,
Winifred fell back on her husband. She had, indeed, the decided
but tolerant temperament that goes with a good deal of profile,
fair hair, and greenish eyes. She was seldom or never at a loss;
or if at a loss, was always able to convert it into a gain.
Dartie, too, was in good feather. Erotic had failed to win the
Lancashire Cup. Indeed, that celebrated animal, owned as he was
by a pillar of the turf, who had secretly laid many thousands
against him, had not even started. The forty-eight hours that
followed his scratching were among the darkest in Dartie’s life.
Visions of James haunted him day and night. Black thoughts about
Soames mingled with the faintest hopes. On the Friday night he
got drunk, so greatly was he affected. But on Saturday morning
the true Stock Exchange instinct triumphed within him. Owing some
hundreds, which by no possibility could he pay, he went into town
and put them all on Concertina for the Saltown Borough Handicap.
As he said to Major Scrotton, with whom he lunched at the Iseeum:
“That little Jew boy, Nathans, had given him the tip. He didn’t
care a cursh. He wash in—a mucker. If it didn’t come up—well
then, damme, the old man would have to pay!”
A bottle of Pol Roger to his own cheek had given him a new
contempt for James.
It came up. Concertina was squeezed home by her neck—a terrible
squeak! But, as Dartie said: There was nothing like pluck!
He was by no means averse to the expedition to Richmond. He would
“stand” it himself! He cherished an admiration for Irene, and
wished to be on more playful terms with her.
At half-past five the Park Lane footman came round to say: Mrs.
Forsyte was very sorry, but one of the horses was coughing!
Undaunted by this further blow, Winifred at once despatched
little Publius (now aged seven) with the nursery governess to
Montpellier Square.
They would go down in hansoms and meet at the Crown and Sceptre
at 7.45.
Dartie, on being told, was pleased enough. It was better than
going down with your back to the horses! He had no objection to
driving down with Irene. He supposed they would pick up the
others at Montpellier Square, and swop hansoms there?
Informed that the meet was at the Crown and Sceptre, and that he
would have to drive with his wife, he turned sulky, and said it
was d—-d slow!
At seven o’clock they started, Dartie offering to bet the driver
half-a-crown he didn’t do it in the three-quarters of an hour.
Twice only did husband and wife exchange remarks on the way.
Dartie said: “It’ll put Master Soames’s nose out of joint to hear
his wife’s been drivin’ in a hansom with Master Bosinney!”
Winifred replied: “Don’t talk such nonsense, Monty!”
“Nonsense!” repeated Dartie. “You don’t know women, my fine
lady!”
On the other occasion he merely asked: “How am I looking? A bit
puffy about the gills? That fizz old George is so fond of is a
windy wine!”
He had been lunching with George Forsyte at the Haversnake.
Bosinney and Irene had arrived before them. They were standing in
one of the long French windows overlooking the river.
Windows that summer were open all day long, and all night too,
and day and night the scents of flowers and trees came in, the
hot scent of parching grass, and the cool scent of the heavy
dews.
To the eye of the observant Dartie his two guests did not appear
to be making much running, standing there close together, without
a word. Bosinney was a hungry-looking creature—not much go about
_him!_
He left them to Winifred, however, and busied himself to order
the dinner.
A Forsyte will require good, if not delicate feeding, but a
Dartie will tax the resources of a Crown and Sceptre. Living as
he does, from hand to mouth, nothing is too good for him to eat;
and he will eat it. His drink, too, will need to be carefully
provided; there is much drink in this country “not good enough”
for a Dartie; he will have the best. Paying for things
vicariously, there is no reason why he should stint himself. To
stint yourself is the mark of a fool, not of a Dartie.
The best of everything! No sounder principle on which a man can
base his life, whose father-in-law has a very considerable
income, and a partiality for his grandchildren.
With his not unable eye Dartie had spotted this weakness in James
the very first year after little Publius’s arrival (an error); he
had profited by his perspicacity. Four little Darties were now a
sort of perpetual insurance.
The feature of the feast was unquestionably the red mullet. This
delectable fish, brought from a considerable distance in a state
of almost perfect preservation, was first fried, then boned, then
served in ice, with Madeira punch in place of sauce, according to
a recipe known to a few men of the world.
Nothing else calls for remark except the payment of the bill by
Dartie.
He had made himself extremely agreeable throughout the meal; his
bold, admiring stare seldom abandoning Irene’s face and figure.
As he was obliged to confess to himself, he got no change out of
her—she was cool enough, as cool as her shoulders looked under
their veil of creamy lace. He expected to have caught her out in
some little game with Bosinney; but not a bit of it, she kept up
her end remarkably well. As for that architect chap, he was as
glum as a bear with a sore head—Winifred could barely get a word
out of him; he ate nothing, but he certainly took his liquor, and
his face kept getting whiter, and his eyes looked queer.
It was all very amusing.
For Dartie himself was in capital form, and talked freely, with a
certain poignancy, being no fool. He told two or three stories
verging on the improper, a concession to the company, for his
stories were not used to verging. He proposed Irene’s health in a
mock speech. Nobody drank it, and Winifred said: “Don’t be such a
clown, Monty!”
At her suggestion they went after dinner to the public terrace
overlooking the river.
“I should like to see the common people making love,” she said,
“it’s such fun!”
There were numbers of them walking in the cool, after the day’s