The Forsyte saga - Complete
and—goodness knows what. I have grave doubts whether she
ought to be allowed to return to London in the present state
of affairs, but she is so self-willed that she might take it
into her head to come up at any moment. The fact is someone
ought to speak to Bosinney and ascertain what he means. I’m
afraid of this myself, for I should certainly rap him over
the knuckles, but I thought that you, knowing him at the
Club, might put in a word, and get to ascertain what the
fellow is about. You will of course in no way commit June. I
shall be glad to hear from you in the course of a few days
whether you have succeeded in gaining any information. The
situation is very distressing to me, I worry about it at
night. With my love to Jolly and Holly.
“I am,
“Your affect. father,
“JOLYON FORSYTE.”
Young Jolyon pondered this letter so long and seriously that his
wife noticed his preoccupation, and asked him what was the
matter. He replied: “Nothing.”
It was a fixed principle with him never to allude to June. She
might take alarm, he did not know what she might think; he
hastened, therefore, to banish from his manner all traces of
absorption, but in this he was about as successful as his father
would have been, for he had inherited all old Jolyon’s
transparency in matters of domestic finesse; and young Mrs.
Jolyon, busying herself over the affairs of the house, went about
with tightened lips, stealing at him unfathomable looks.
He started for the Club in the afternoon with the letter in his
pocket, and without having made up his mind.
To sound a man as to “his intentions” was peculiarly unpleasant
to him; nor did his own anomalous position diminish this
unpleasantness. It was so like his family, so like all the people
they knew and mixed with, to enforce what they called their
rights over a man, to bring him up to the mark; so like them to
carry their business principles into their private relations.
And how that phrase in the letter—“You will, of course, in no way
commit June”—gave the whole thing away.
Yet the letter, with the personal grievance, the concern for
June, the “rap over the knuckles,” was all so natural. No wonder
his father wanted to know what Bosinney meant, no wonder he was
angry.
It was difficult to refuse! But why give the thing to him to do?
That was surely quite unbecoming; but so long as a Forsyte got
what he was after, he was not too particular about the means,
provided appearances were saved.
How should he set about it, or how refuse? Both seemed
impossible. So, young Jolyon!
He arrived at the Club at three o’clock, and the first person he
saw was Bosinney himself, seated in a corner, staring out of the
window.
Young Jolyon sat down not far off, and began nervously to
reconsider his position. He looked covertly at Bosinney sitting
there unconscious. He did not know him very well, and studied him
attentively for perhaps the first time; an unusual looking man,
unlike in dress, face, and manner to most of the other members of
the Club—young Jolyon himself, however different he had become in
mood and temper, had always retained the neat reticence of
Forsyte appearance. He alone among Forsytes was ignorant of
Bosinney’s nickname. The man was unusual, not eccentric, but
unusual; he looked worn, too, haggard, hollow in the cheeks
beneath those broad, high cheekbones, though without any
appearance of ill-health, for he was strongly built, with curly
hair that seemed to show all the vitality of a fine constitution.
Something in his face and attitude touched young Jolyon. He knew
what suffering was like, and this man looked as if he were
suffering.
He got up and touched his arm.
Bosinney started, but exhibited no sign of embarrassment on
seeing who it was.
Young Jolyon sat down.
“I haven’t seen you for a long time,” he said. “How are you
getting on with my cousin’s house?”
“It’ll be finished in about a week.”
“I congratulate you!”
“Thanks—I don’t know that it’s much of a subject for
congratulation.”
“No?” queried young Jolyon; “I should have thought you’d be glad
to get a long job like that off your hands; but I suppose you
feel it much as I do when I part with a picture—a sort of child?”
He looked kindly at Bosinney.
“Yes,” said the latter more cordially, “it goes out from you and
there’s an end of it. I didn’t know you painted.”
“Only water-colours; I can’t say I believe in my work.”
“Don’t believe in it? There—how can you do it? Work’s no use
unless you believe in it!”
“Good,” said young Jolyon; “it’s exactly what I’ve always said.
By-the-bye, have you noticed that whenever one says ‘Good,’ one
always adds ‘it’s exactly what I’ve always said’. But if you ask
me how I do it, I answer, because I’m a Forsyte.”
“A Forsyte! I never thought of you as one!”
“A Forsyte,” replied young Jolyon, “is not an uncommon animal.
There are hundreds among the members of this Club. Hundreds out
there in the streets; you meet them wherever you go!”
“And how do you tell them, may I ask?” said Bosinney.
“By their sense of property. A Forsyte takes a practical—one
might say a commonsense—view of things, and a practical view of
things is based fundamentally on a sense of property. A Forsyte,
you will notice, never gives himself away.”
“Joking?”
Young Jolyon’s eye twinkled.
“Not much. As a Forsyte myself, I have no business to talk. But
I’m a kind of thoroughbred mongrel; now, there’s no mistaking
you: You’re as different from me as I am from my Uncle James, who
is the perfect specimen of a Forsyte. His sense of property is
extreme, while you have practically none. Without me in between,
you would seem like a different species. I’m the missing link. We
are, of course, all of us the slaves of property, and I admit
that it’s a question of degree, but what I call a ‘Forsyte’ is a
man who is decidedly more than less a slave of property. He knows
a good thing, he knows a safe thing, and his grip on property—it
doesn’t matter whether it be wives, houses, money, or
reputation—is his hall-mark.”
“Ah!” murmured Bosinney. “You should patent the word.”
“I should like,” said young Jolyon, “to lecture on it:
“Properties and quality of a Forsyte: This little animal,
disturbed by the ridicule of his own sort, is unaffected in his
motions by the laughter of strange creatures (you or I).
Hereditarily disposed to myopia, he recognises only the persons
of his own species, amongst which he passes an existence of
competitive tranquillity.”
“You talk of them,” said Bosinney, “as if they were half
England.”
“They are,” repeated young Jolyon, “half England, and the better
half, too, the safe half, the three per cent. half, the half that
counts. It’s their wealth and security that makes everything
possible; makes your art possible, makes literature, science,
even religion, possible. Without Forsytes, who believe in none of
these things, and habitats but turn them all to use, where should
we be? My dear sir, the Forsytes are the middlemen, the
commercials, the pillars of society, the cornerstones of
convention; everything that is admirable!”
“I don’t know whether I catch your drift,” said Bosinney, “but I
fancy there are plenty of Forsytes, as you call them, in my
profession.”
“Certainly,” replied young Jolyon. “The great majority of
architects, painters, or writers have no principles, like any
other Forsytes. Art, literature, religion, survive by virtue of
the few cranks who really believe in such things, and the many
Forsytes who make a commercial use of them. At a low estimate,
three-fourths of our Royal Academicians are Forsytes,
seven-eighths of our novelists, a large proportion of the press.
Of science I can’t speak; they are magnificently represented in
religion; in the House of Commons perhaps more numerous than
anywhere; the aristocracy speaks for itself. But I’m not
laughing. It is dangerous to go against the majority and what a
majority!” He fixed his eyes on Bosinney: “It’s dangerous to let
anything carry you away—a house, a picture, a—woman!”
They looked at each other.—And, as though he had done that which
no Forsyte did—given himself away, young Jolyon drew into his
shell. Bosinney broke the silence.
“Why do you take your own people as the type?” said he.
“My people,” replied young Jolyon, “are not very extreme, and
they have their own private peculiarities, like every other
family, but they possess in a remarkable degree those two
qualities which are the real tests of a Forsyte—the power of
never being able to give yourself up to anything soul and body,
and the ‘sense of property’.”
Bosinney smiled: “How about the big one, for instance?”
“Do you mean Swithin?” asked young Jolyon. “Ah! in Swithin
there’s something primeval still. The town and middle-class life
haven’t digested him yet. All the old centuries of farm work and
brute force have settled in him, and there they’ve stuck, for all
he’s so distinguished.”
Bosinney seemed to ponder. “Well, you’ve hit your cousin Soames
off to the life,” he said suddenly. “_He’ll_ never blow his
brains out.”
Young Jolyon shot at him a penetrating glance.
“No,” he said; “he won’t. That’s why he’s to be reckoned with.
Look out for their grip! It’s easy to laugh, but don’t mistake
me. It doesn’t do to despise a Forsyte; it doesn’t do to
disregard them!”
“Yet you’ve done it yourself!”
Young Jolyon acknowledged the hit by losing his smile.
“You forget,” he said with a queer pride, “I can hold on, too—I’m
a Forsyte myself. We’re all in the path of great forces. The man
who leaves the shelter of the wall—well—you know what I mean. I
don’t,” he ended very low, as though uttering a threat,
“recommend every man to-go-my-way. It depends.”
The colour rushed into Bosinney’s face, but soon receded, leaving
it sallow-brown as before. He gave a short laugh, that left his
lips fixed in a queer, fierce smile; his eyes mocked young
Jolyon.
“Thanks,” he said. “It’s deuced kind of you. But you’re not the
only chaps that can hold on.” He rose.
Young Jolyon looked after him as he walked away, and, resting his
head on his hand, sighed.
In the drowsy, almost empty room the only sounds were the rustle
of newspapers, the scraping of matches being struck. He stayed a
long time without moving, living over again those days when he,
too, had sat long hours watching the clock, waiting for the
minutes to pass—long hours full of the torments of uncertainty,
and of a fierce, sweet aching; and the slow, delicious agony of
that season came back to him with its old poignancy. The sight of