The Forsyte Saga

by John Galsworthy

  “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 hallmark.”

  “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 Bosinney, with his haggard face, and his restless eyes always wandering to the clock, had roused in him a pity, with which was mingled strange, irresistible envy.

  He knew the signs so well. Whither was he going—to what sort of fate? What kind of woman was it who was drawing him to her by that magnetic force which no consideration of honour, no principle, no interest could withstand; from which the only escape was flight.

  Flight! But why should Bosinney fly? A man fled when he was in danger of destroying hearth and home, when there were children, when he felt himself trampling down ideals, breaking something. But here, so he had heard, it was all broken to his hand.

  He himself had not fled, nor would he fly if it were all to come over again. Yet he had gone further than Bosinney, had broken up his own unhappy home, not someone else’s: And the old saying came back to him: “A man’s fate lies in his own heart.”

  In his own heart! The proof of the pudding was in the eating—Bosinney had still to eat his pudding.

  His thoughts passed to the woman, the woman whom he did not know, but the outline of whose story he had heard.

  An unhappy marriage! No ill-treatment—only that indefinable malaise, that terrible blight which killed all sweetness under heaven; and so from day to day, from night to night, from week to week, from year to year, till death should end it.

  But young Jolyon, the bitterness of whose own feelings time had assuaged, saw Soames’s side of the question too. Whence should a man like his cousin, saturated with all the prejudices and beliefs of his class, draw the insight or inspiration necessary to break up this life? It was a question of imagination, of projecting himself into the future beyond the unpleasant gossip, sneers, and tattle that followed on such separations, beyond the passing pangs that the lack of the sight of her would cause, beyond the grave disapproval of the worthy. But few men, and especially few men of Soames’s class, had imagination enough for that. A deal of mortals in this world, and not enough imagination to go round! And sweet heaven, what a difference between theory and practice; many a man, perhaps even Soames, held chivalrous views on such matters, who when the shoe pinched found a distinguishing factor that made of himself an exception.

  Then, too, he distrusted his judgment. He had been through the experience himself, had tasted too the dregs the bitterness of an unhappy marriage, and how
could he take the wide and dispassionate view of those who had never been within sound of the battle? His evidence was too first-hand—like the evidence on military matters of a soldier who has been through much active service, against that of civilians who have not suffered the disadvantage of seeing things too close. Most people would consider such a marriage as that of Soames and Irene quite fairly successful; he had money, she had beauty; it was a case for compromise. There was no reason why they should not jog along, even if they hated each other. It would not matter if they went their own ways a little so long as the decencies were observed—the sanctity of the marriage tie, of the common home, respected. Half the marriages of the upper classes were conducted on these lines: Do not offend the susceptibilities of society; do not offend the susceptibilities of the church. To avoid offending these is worth the sacrifice of any private feelings. The advantages of the stable home are visible, tangible, so many pieces of property; there is no risk in the statu quo. To break up a home is at the best a dangerous experiment, and selfish into the bargain.

  This was the case for the defence, and young Jolyon sighed.

  “The core of it all,” he thought, “is property, but there are many people who would not like it put that way. To them it is ‘the sanctity of the marriage tie’; but the sanctity of the marriage tie is dependent on the sanctity of the family, and the sanctity of the family is dependent on the sanctity of property. And yet I imagine all these people are followers of One who never owned anything. It is curious!”

  And again young Jolyon sighed.

  “Am I going on my way home to ask any poor devils I meet to share my dinner, which will then be too little for myself, or, at all events, for my wife, who is necessary to my health and happiness? It may be that after all Soames does well to exercise his rights and support by his practice the sacred principle of property which benefits us all, with the exception of those who suffer by the process.”

  And so he left his chair, threaded his way through the maze of seats, took his hat, and languidly up the hot streets crowded with carriages, reeking with dusty odours, wended his way home.

  Before reaching Wistaria Avenue he removed old Jolyon’s letter from his pocket, and tearing it carefully into tiny pieces, scattered them in the dust of the road.

  He let himself in with his key, and called his wife’s name. But she had gone out, taking Jolly and Holly, and the house was empty; alone in the garden the dog Balthasar lay in the shade snapping at flies.

  Young Jolyon took his seat there, too, under the pear tree that bore no fruit.

  Chapter XI

  Bosinney on Parole

  The day after the evening at Richmond Soames returned from Henley by a morning train. Not constitutionally interested in amphibious sports, his visit had been one of business rather than pleasure, a client of some importance having asked him down.

  He went straight to the city, but finding things slack, he left at three o’clock, glad of this chance to get home quietly. Irene did not expect him. Not that he had any desire to spy on her actions, but there was no harm in thus unexpectedly surveying the scene.

  After changing to park clothes he went into the drawing room. She was sitting idly in the corner of the sofa, her favourite seat; and there were circles under her eyes, as though she had not slept.

  He asked: “How is it you’re in? Are you expecting somebody?”

  “Yes that is, not particularly.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Bosinney said he might come.”

  “Bosinney. He ought to be at work.”

  To this she made no answer.

  “Well,” said Soames, “I want you to come out to the Stores with me, and after that we’ll go to the park.”

  “I don’t want to go out; I have a headache.”

  Soames replied: “If ever I want you to do anything, you’ve always got a headache. It’ll do you good to come and sit under the trees.”

  She did not answer.

  Soames was silent for some minutes; at last he said: “I don’t know what your idea of a wife’s duty is. I never have known!”

  He had not expected her to reply, but she did.

  “I have tried to do what you want; it’s not my fault that I haven’t been able to put my heart into it.”

  “Whose fault is it, then?” He watched her askance.

  “Before we were married you promised to let me go if our marriage was not a success. Is it a success?”

  Soames frowned.

  “Success,” he stammered—“it would be a success if you behaved yourself properly!”

  “I have tried,” said Irene. “Will you let me go?”

  Soames turned away. Secretly alarmed, he took refuge in bluster.

  “Let you go? You don’t know what you’re talking about. Let you go? How can I let you go? We’re married, aren’t we? Then, what are you talking about? For God’s sake, don’t let’s have any of this sort of nonsense! Get your hat on, and come and sit in the park.”

  “Then, you won’t let me go?”

  He felt her eyes resting on him with a strange, touching look.

  “Let you go!” he said; “and what on earth would you do with yourself if I did? You’ve got no money!”

  “I could manage somehow.”

  He took a swift turn up and down the room; then came and stood before her.

  “Understand,” he said, “once and for all, I won’t have you say this sort of thing. Go and get your hat on!”

  She did not move.

  “I suppose,” said Soames, “you don’t want to miss Bosinney if he comes!”

  Irene got up slowly and left the room. She came down with her hat on.

  They went out.

  In the park, the motley hour of mid-afternoon, when foreigners and other pathetic folk drive, thinking themselves to be in fashion, had passed; the right, the proper, hour had come, was nearly gone, before Soames and Irene seated themselves under the Achilles statue.

  It was some time since he had enjoyed her company in the park. That was one of the past delights of the first two seasons of his married life, when to feel himself the possessor of this gracious creature before all London had been his greatest, though secret, pride. How many afternoons had he not sat beside her, extremely neat, with light grey gloves and faint, supercilious smile, nodding to acquaintances, and now and again removing his hat.

  His light grey gloves were still on his hands, and on his lips his smile sardonic, but where the feeling in his heart?

  The seats were emptying fast, but still he kept her there, silent and pale, as though to work out a secret punishment. Once or twice he made some comment, and she bent her head, or answered “Yes” with a tired smile.

  Along the rails a man was walking so fast that people stared after him when he passed.

  “Look at that ass!” said Soames; “he must be mad to walk like that in this heat!”

  He turned; Irene had made a rapid movement.

  “Hallo!” he said: “it’s our friend the Buccaneer!”

  And he sat still, with his sneering smile, conscious that Irene was sitting still, and smiling too.

  “Will she bow to him?” he thought.

  But she made no sign.

  Bosinney reached the end of the rails, and came walking back amongst the chairs, quartering his ground like a pointer. When he saw them he stopped dead, and raised his hat.

  The smile never left Soames’s face; he also took off his hat.

  Bosinney came up, looking exhausted, like a man after hard physical exercise; the sweat stood in drops on his brow, and Soames’s smile seemed to say: “You’ve had a trying time, my friend. . . . What are you doing in the park?” he asked. “We thought you despised such frivolity!”

  Bosinney did not seem to hear; he made his answer to Irene: “I’ve been round to your place; I hope
d I should find you in.”

  Somebody tapped Soames on the back, and spoke to him; and in the exchange of those platitudes over his shoulder, he missed her answer, and took a resolution.

  “We’re just going in,” he said to Bosinney; “you’d better come back to dinner with us.” Into that invitation he put a strange bravado, a stranger pathos: “You, can’t deceive me,” his look and voice seemed saying, “but see—I trust you—I’m not afraid of you!”

  They started back to Montpellier Square together, Irene between them. In the crowded streets Soames went on in front. He did not listen to their conversation; the strange resolution of trustfulness he had taken seemed to animate even his secret conduct. Like a gambler, he said to himself: “It’s a card I dare not throw away—I must play it for what it’s worth. I have not too many chances.”

  He dressed slowly, heard her leave her room and go downstairs, and, for full five minutes after, dawdled about in his dressing room. Then he went down, purposely shutting the door loudly to show that he was coming. He found them standing by the hearth, perhaps talking, perhaps not; he could not say.

  He played his part out in the farce, the long evening through—his manner to his guest more friendly than it had ever been before; and when at last Bosinney went, he said: “You must come again soon; Irene likes to have you to talk about the house!” Again his voice had the strange bravado and the stranger pathos; but his hand was cold as ice.

  Loyal to his resolution, he turned away from their parting, turned away from his wife as she stood under the hanging lamp to say goodnight—away from the sight of her golden head shining so under the light, of her smiling mournful lips; away from the sight of Bosinney’s eyes looking at her, so like a dog’s looking at its master.

  And he went to bed with the certainty that Bosinney was in love with his wife.

  The summer night was hot, so hot and still that through every opened window came in but hotter air. For long hours he lay listening to her breathing.