The Forsyte saga - Complete
distrust of their earning powers, natural where a sufficiency is
guaranteed, together with the knowledge that their fathers did
not die, kept them cautious. If one had children and not much
income, the standard of taste and comfort must of necessity go
down; what was enough for two was not enough for four, and so
on—it would be better to wait and see what Father did. Besides,
it was nice to be able to take holidays unhampered. Sooner in
fact than own children, they preferred to concentrate on the
ownership of themselves, conforming to the growing tendency _fin
de siècle_, as it was called. In this way, little risk was run,
and one would be able to have a motor-car. Indeed, Eustace
already had one, but it had shaken him horribly, and broken one
of his eye teeth; so that it would be better to wait till they
were a little safer. In the meantime, no more children! Even
young Nicholas was drawing in his horns, and had made no addition
to his six for quite three years.
The corporate decay, however, of the Forsytes, their dispersion
rather, of which all this was symptomatic, had not advanced so
far as to prevent a rally when Roger Forsyte died in 1899. It had
been a glorious summer, and after holidays abroad and at the sea
they were practically all back in London, when Roger with a touch
of his old originality had suddenly breathed his last at his own
house in Princes Gardens. At Timothy’s it was whispered sadly
that poor Roger had always been eccentric about his digestion—had
he not, for instance, preferred German mutton to all the other
brands?
Be that as it may, his funeral at Highgate had been perfect, and
coming away from it Soames Forsyte made almost mechanically for
his Uncle Timothy’s in the Bayswater Road. The “Old Things”—Aunt
Juley and Aunt Hester—would like to hear about it. His
father—James—at eighty-eight had not felt up to the fatigue of
the funeral; and Timothy himself, of course, had not gone; so
that Nicholas had been the only brother present. Still, there had
been a fair gathering; and it would cheer Aunts Juley and Hester
up to know. The kindly thought was not unmixed with the
inevitable longing to get something out of everything you do,
which is the chief characteristic of Forsytes, and indeed of the
saner elements in every nation. In this practice of taking family
matters to Timothy’s in the Bayswater Road, Soames was but
following in the footsteps of his father, who had been in the
habit of going at least once a week to see his sisters at
Timothy’s, and had only given it up when he lost his nerve at
eighty-six, and could not go out without Emily. To go with Emily
was of no use, for who could really talk to anyone in the
presence of his own wife? Like James in the old days, Soames
found time to go there nearly every Sunday, and sit in the little
drawing-room into which, with his undoubted taste, he had
introduced a good deal of change and china not quite up to his
own fastidious mark, and at least two rather doubtful Barbizon
pictures, at Christmastides. He himself, who had done extremely
well with the Barbizons, had for some years past moved towards
the Marises, Israels, and Mauve, and was hoping to do better. In
the riverside house which he now inhabited near Mapledurham he
had a gallery, beautifully hung and lighted, to which few London
dealers were strangers. It served, too, as a Sunday afternoon
attraction in those week-end parties which his sisters, Winifred
or Rachel, occasionally organised for him. For though he was but
a taciturn showman, his quiet collected determinism seldom failed
to influence his guests, who knew that his reputation was
grounded not on mere aesthetic fancy, but on his power of gauging
the future of market values. When he went to Timothy’s he almost
always had some little tale of triumph over a dealer to unfold,
and dearly he loved that coo of pride with which his aunts would
greet it. This afternoon, however, he was differently animated,
coming from Roger’s funeral in his neat dark clothes—not quite
black, for after all an uncle was but an uncle, and his soul
abhorred excessive display of feeling. Leaning back in a
marqueterie chair and gazing down his uplifted nose at the
sky-blue walls plastered with gold frames, he was noticeably
silent. Whether because he had been to a funeral or not, the
peculiar Forsyte build of his face was seen to the best advantage
this afternoon—a face concave and long, with a jaw which divested
of flesh would have seemed extravagant: altogether a chinny face
though not at all ill-looking. He was feeling more strongly than
ever that Timothy’s was hopelessly “rum-ti-too” and the souls of
his aunts dismally mid-Victorian. The subject on which alone he
wanted to talk—his own undivorced position—was unspeakable. And
yet it occupied his mind to the exclusion of all else. It was
only since the Spring that this had been so and a new feeling
grown up which was egging him on towards what he knew might well
be folly in a Forsyte of forty-five. More and more of late he had
been conscious that he was “getting on.” The fortune already
considerable when he conceived the house at Robin Hill which had
finally wrecked his marriage with Irene, had mounted with
surprising vigour in the twelve lonely years during which he had
devoted himself to little else. He was worth to-day well over a
hundred thousand pounds, and had no one to leave it to—no real
object for going on with what was his religion. Even if he were
to relax his efforts, money made money, and he felt that he would
have a hundred and fifty thousand before he knew where he was.
There had always been a strongly domestic, philoprogenitive side
to Soames; baulked and frustrated, it had hidden itself away, but
now had crept out again in this his “prime of life.” Concreted
and focussed of late by the attraction of a girl’s undoubted
beauty, it had become a veritable prepossession.
And this girl was French, not likely to lose her head, or accept
any unlegalised position. Moreover, Soames himself disliked the
thought of that. He had tasted of the sordid side of sex during
those long years of forced celibacy, secretively, and always with
disgust, for he was fastidious, and his sense of law and order
innate. He wanted no hole and corner liaison. A marriage at the
Embassy in Paris, a few months’ travel, and he could bring
Annette back quite separated from a past which in truth was not
too distinguished, for she only kept the accounts in her mother’s
Soho Restaurant; he could bring her back as something very new
and chic with her French taste and self-possession, to reign at
“The Shelter” near Mapledurham. On Forsyte ’Change and among his
riverside friends it would be current that he had met a charming
French girl on his travels and married her. There would be the
flavour of romance, and a certain _cachet_ about a French wife.
No! He was not at all afraid of that. It was only this cursed
undivorced condition of his, and—and the question whether Annette
would take him, which he dared not put to the touch until he had
a clear and even dazzling future to offer her.
In his aunts’ drawing-room he heard with but muffled ears those
usual questions: How was his dear father? Not going out, of
course, now that the weather was turning chilly? Would Soames be
sure to tell him that Hester had found boiled holly leaves most
comforting for that pain in her side; a poultice every three
hours, with red flannel afterwards. And could he relish just a
little pot of their very best prune preserve—it was so delicious
this year, and had such a wonderful effect. Oh! and about the
Darties—_had_ Soames heard that dear Winifred was having a most
distressing time with Montague? Timothy thought she really ought
to have protection It was said—but Soames mustn’t take this for
certain—that he had given some of Winifred’s jewellery to a
dreadful dancer. It was such a bad example for dear Val just as
he was going to college. Soames had not heard? Oh, but he must go
and see his sister and look into it at once! And did he think
these Boers were really going to resist? Timothy was in quite a
stew about it. The price of Consols was so high, and he had such
a lot of money in them. Did Soames think they must go down if
there was a war? Soames nodded. But it would be over very
quickly. It would be so bad for Timothy if it wasn’t. And of
course Soames’ dear father would feel it very much at his age.
Luckily poor dear Roger had been spared this dreadful anxiety.
And Aunt Juley with a little handkerchief wiped away the large
tear trying to climb the permanent pout on her now quite withered
left cheek; she was remembering dear Roger, and all his
originality, and how he used to stick pins into her when they
were little together. Aunt Hester, with her instinct for avoiding
the unpleasant, here chimed in: Did Soames think they would make
Mr. Chamberlain Prime Minister at once? He would settle it all so
quickly. She would like to see that old Kruger sent to St.
Helena. She could remember so well the news of Napoleon’s death,
and what a relief it had been to his grandfather. Of course she
and Juley—“We were in pantalettes then, my dear”—had not felt it
much at the time.
Soames took a cup of tea from her, drank it quickly, and ate
three of those macaroons for which Timothy’s was famous. His
faint, pale, supercilious smile had deepened just a little.
Really, his family remained hopelessly provincial, however much
of London they might possess between them. In these go-ahead days
their provincialism stared out even more than it used to. Why,
old Nicholas was still a Free Trader, and a member of that
antediluvian home of Liberalism, the Remove Club—though, to be
sure, the members were pretty well all Conservatives now, or he
himself could not have joined; and Timothy, they said, still wore
a nightcap. Aunt Juley spoke again. Dear Soames was looking so
well, hardly a day older than he did when dear Ann died, and they
were all there together, dear Jolyon, and dear Swithin, and dear
Roger. She paused and caught the tear which had climbed the pout
on her right cheek. Did he—did he ever hear anything of Irene
nowadays? Aunt Hester visibly interposed her shoulder. Really,
Juley was always saying something! The smile left Soames’ face,
and he put his cup down. Here was his subject broached for him,
and for all his desire to expand, he could not take advantage.
Aunt Juley went on rather hastily:
“They say dear Jolyon first left her that fifteen thousand out
and out; then of course he saw it would not be right, and made it
for her life only.”
Had Soames heard that?
Soames nodded.
“Your cousin Jolyon is a widower now. He is her trustee; you knew
that, of course?”