The Forsyte saga - Complete
impersonal speculations, so uncharacteristic of a Forsyte,
wherein lay, in part, the secret of his supremacy amongst them.
What atoms men were, and what a lot of them! And what would
become of them all?
He stumbled as he got out of the cab, gave the man his exact
fare, walked up to the ticket office to take his stall, and stood
there with his purse in his hand—he always carried his money in a
purse, never having approved of that habit of carrying it loosely
in the pockets, as so many young men did nowadays. The official
leaned out, like an old dog from a kennel.
“Why,” he said in a surprised voice, “it’s Mr. Jolyon Forsyte! So
it is! Haven’t seen you, sir, for years. Dear me! Times aren’t
what they were. Why! you and your brother, and that
auctioneer—Mr. Traquair, and Mr. Nicholas Treffry—you used to
have six or seven stalls here regular every season. And how are
you, sir? We don’t get younger!”
The colour in old Jolyon’s eyes deepened; he paid his guinea.
They had not forgotten him. He marched in, to the sounds of the
overture, like an old war-horse to battle.
Folding his opera hat, he sat down, drew out his lavender gloves
in the old way, and took up his glasses for a long look round the
house. Dropping them at last on his folded hat, he fixed his eyes
on the curtain. More poignantly than ever he felt that it was all
over and done with him. Where were all the women, the pretty
women, the house used to be so full of? Where was that old
feeling in the heart as he waited for one of those great singers?
Where that sensation of the intoxication of life and of his own
power to enjoy it all?
The greatest opera-goer of his day! There was no opera now! That
fellow Wagner had ruined everything; no melody left, nor any
voices to sing it. Ah! the wonderful singers! Gone! He sat
watching the old scenes acted, a numb feeling at his heart.
From the curl of silver over his ear to the pose of his foot in
its elastic-sided patent boot, there was nothing clumsy or weak
about old Jolyon. He was as upright—very nearly—as in those old
times when he came every night; his sight was as good—almost as
good. But what a feeling of weariness and disillusion!
He had been in the habit all his life of enjoying things, even
imperfect things—and there had been many imperfect things—he had
enjoyed them all with moderation, so as to keep himself young.
But now he was deserted by his power of enjoyment, by his
philosophy, and left with this dreadful feeling that it was all
done with. Not even the Prisoners’ Chorus, nor Florian’s Song,
had the power to dispel the gloom of his loneliness.
If Jo were only with him! The boy must be forty by now. He had
wasted fourteen years out of the life of his only son. And Jo was
no longer a social pariah. He was married. Old Jolyon had been
unable to refrain from marking his appreciation of the action by
enclosing his son a cheque for £500. The cheque had been returned
in a letter from the “Hotch Potch,” couched in these words.
“MY DEAREST FATHER,
“Your generous gift was welcome as a sign that you might
think worse of me. I return it, but should you think fit to
invest it for the benefit of the little chap (we call him
Jolly), who bears our Christian and, by courtesy, our
surname, I shall be very glad.
“I hope with all my heart that your health is as good as
ever.
“Your loving son,
“JO.”
The letter was like the boy. He had always been an amiable chap.
Old Jolyon had sent this reply:
“MY DEAR JO,
“The sum (£500) stands in my books for the benefit of your
boy, under the name of Jolyon Forsyte, and will be
duly-credited with interest at 5 per cent. I hope that you
are doing well. My health remains good at present.
“With love, I am,
“Your affectionate Father,
“JOLYON FORSYTE.”
And every year on the 1st of January he had added a hundred and
the interest. The sum was mounting up—next New Year’s Day it
would be fifteen hundred and odd pounds! And it is difficult to
say how much satisfaction he had got out of that yearly
transaction. But the correspondence had ended.
In spite of his love for his son, in spite of an instinct, partly
constitutional, partly the result, as in thousands of his class,
of the continual handling and watching of affairs, prompting him
to judge conduct by results rather than by principle, there was
at the bottom of his heart a sort of uneasiness. His son ought,
under the circumstances, to have gone to the dogs; that law was
laid down in all the novels, sermons, and plays he had ever read,
heard, or witnessed.
After receiving the cheque back there seemed to him to be
something wrong somewhere. Why had his son not gone to the dogs?
But, then, who could tell?
He had heard, of course—in fact, he had made it his business to
find out—that Jo lived in St. John’s Wood, that he had a little
house in Wistaria Avenue with a garden, and took his wife about
with him into society—a queer sort of society, no doubt—and that
they had two children—the little chap they called Jolly
(considering the circumstances the name struck him as cynical,
and old Jolyon both feared and disliked cynicism), and a girl
called Holly, born since the marriage. Who could tell what his
son’s circumstances really were? He had capitalized the income he
had inherited from his mother’s father and joined Lloyd’s as an
underwriter; he painted pictures, too—water-colours. Old Jolyon
knew this, for he had surreptitiously bought them from time to
time, after chancing to see his son’s name signed at the bottom
of a representation of the river Thames in a dealer’s window. He
thought them bad, and did not hang them because of the signature;
he kept them locked up in a drawer.
In the great opera-house a terrible yearning came on him to see
his son. He remembered the days when he had been wont to slide
him, in a brown holland suit, to and fro under the arch of his
legs; the times when he ran beside the boy’s pony, teaching him
to ride; the day he first took him to school. He had been a
loving, lovable little chap! After he went to Eton he had
acquired, perhaps, a little too much of that desirable manner
which old Jolyon knew was only to be obtained at such places and
at great expense; but he had always been companionable. Always a
companion, even after Cambridge—a little far off, perhaps, owing
to the advantages he had received. Old Jolyon’s feeling towards
our public schools and ’Varsities never wavered, and he retained
touchingly his attitude of admiration and mistrust towards a
system appropriate to the highest in the land, of which he had
not himself been privileged to partake.... Now that June had gone
and left, or as good as left him, it would have been a comfort to
see his son again. Guilty of this treason to his family, his
principles, his class, old Jolyon fixed his eyes on the singer. A
poor thing—a wretched poor thing! And the Florian a perfect
stick!
It was over. They were easily pleased nowadays!
In the crowded street he snapped up a cab under the very nose of
a stout and much younger gentleman, who had already assumed it to
be his own. His route lay through Pall Mall, and at the corner,
instead of going through the Green Park, the cabman turned to
drive up St. James’s Street. Old Jolyon put his hand through the
trap (he could not bear being taken out of his way); in turning,
however, he found himself opposite the “Hotch Potch,” and the
yearning that had been secretly with him the whole evening
prevailed. He called to the driver to stop. He would go in and
ask if Jo still belonged there.
He went in. The hall looked exactly as it did when he used to
dine there with Jack Herring, and they had the best cook in
London; and he looked round with the shrewd, straight glance that
had caused him all his life to be better served than most men.
“Mr. Jolyon Forsyte still a member here?”
“Yes, sir; in the Club now, sir. What name?”
Old Jolyon was taken aback.
“His father,” he said.
And having spoken, he took his stand, back to the fireplace.
Young Jolyon, on the point of leaving the Club, had put on his
hat, and was in the act of crossing the hall, as the porter met
him. He was no longer young, with hair going grey, and face—a
narrower replica of his father’s, with the same large drooping
moustache—decidedly worn. He turned pale. This meeting was
terrible after all those years, for nothing in the world was so
terrible as a scene. They met and crossed hands without a word.
Then, with a quaver in his voice, the father said:
“How are you, my boy?”
The son answered:
“How are you, Dad?”
Old Jolyon’s hand trembled in its thin lavender glove.
“If you’re going my way,” he said, “I can give you a lift.”
And as though in the habit of taking each other home every night
they went out and stepped into the cab.
To old Jolyon it seemed that his son had grown. “More of a man
altogether,” was his comment. Over the natural amiability of that
son’s face had come a rather sardonic mask, as though he had
found in the circumstances of his life the necessity for armour.
The features were certainly those of a Forsyte, but the
expression was more the introspective look of a student or
philosopher. He had no doubt been obliged to look into himself a
good deal in the course of those fifteen years.
To young Jolyon the first sight of his father was undoubtedly a
shock—he looked so worn and old. But in the cab he seemed hardly
to have changed, still having the calm look so well remembered,
still being upright and keen-eyed.
“You look well, Dad.”
“Middling,” old Jolyon answered.
He was the prey of an anxiety that he found he must put into
words. Having got his son back like this, he felt he must know
what was his financial position.
“Jo,” he said, “I should like to hear what sort of water you’re
in. I suppose you’re in debt?”
He put it this way that his son might find it easier to confess.
Young Jolyon answered in his ironical voice:
“No! I’m not in debt!”
Old Jolyon saw that he was angry, and touched his hand. He had
run a risk. It was worth it, however, and Jo had never been sulky
with him. They drove on, without speaking again, to Stanhope
Gate. Old Jolyon invited him in, but young Jolyon shook his head.
“Jun’s not here,” said his father hastily: “went off to-day on a
visit. I suppose you know that she’s engaged to be married?”
“Already?” murmured young Jolyon’.
Old Jolyon stepped out, and, in paying the cab fare, for the
first time in his life gave the driver a sovereign in mistake for
a shilling.
Placing the coin in his mouth, the cabman whipped his horse