So that fellow Jolyon was in Paris—what was he doing there? Hanging round Irene! The last report from Polteed had hinted that there might be something soon. Could it be this? That fellow, with his beard and his cursed amused way of speaking—son of the old man who had given him the nickname “Man of Property,” and bought the fatal house from him. Soames had ever resented having had to sell the house at Robin Hill; never forgiven his uncle for having bought it, or his cousin for living in it.
Reckless of the cold, he threw his window up and gazed out across the park. Bleak and dark the January night; little sound of traffic; a frost coming; bare trees; a star or two. “I’ll see Polteed tomorrow,” he thought. “By God! I’m mad, I think, to want her still. That fellow! If . . . ? Um! No!”
Chapter X
Death of the Dog Balthasar
Jolyon, who had crossed from Calais by night, arrived at Robin Hill on Sunday morning. He had sent no word beforehand, so walked up from the station, entering his domain by the coppice gate. Coming to the log seat fashioned out of an old fallen trunk, he sat down, first laying his overcoat on it.
“Lumbago!” he thought; “that’s what love ends in at my time of life!” And suddenly Irene seemed very near, just as she had been that day of rambling at Fontainebleau when they had sat on a log to eat their lunch. Hauntingly near! Odour drawn out of fallen leaves by the pale-filtering sunlight soaked his nostrils. “I’m glad it isn’t spring,” he thought. With the scent of sap, and the song of birds, and the bursting of the blossoms, it would have been unbearable! “I hope I shall be over it by then, old fool that I am!” and picking up his coat, he walked on into the field. He passed the pond and mounted the hill slowly.
Near the top a hoarse barking greeted him. Up on the lawn above the fernery he could see his old dog Balthasar. The animal, whose dim eyes took his master for a stranger, was warning the world against him. Jolyon gave his special whistle. Even at that distance of a hundred yards and more he could see the dawning recognition in the obese brown-white body. The old dog got off his haunches, and his tail, close-curled over his back, began a feeble, excited fluttering; he came waddling forward, gathered momentum, and disappeared over the edge of the fernery. Jolyon expected to meet him at the wicket gate, but Balthasar was not there, and, rather alarmed, he turned into the fernery. On his fat side, looking up with eyes already glazing, the old dog lay.
“What is it, my poor old man?” cried Jolyon. Balthasar’s curled and fluffy tail just moved; his filming eyes seemed saying: “I can’t get up, master, but I’m glad to see you.”
Jolyon knelt down; his eyes, very dimmed, could hardly see the slowly ceasing heave of the dog’s side. He raised the head a little—very heavy.
“What is it, dear man? Where are you hurt?” The tail fluttered once; the eyes lost the look of life. Jolyon passed his hands all over the inert warm bulk. There was nothing—the heart had simply failed in that obese body from the emotion of his master’s return. Jolyon could feel the muzzle, where a few whitish bristles grew, cooling already against his lips. He stayed for some minutes kneeling; with his hand beneath the stiffening head. The body was very heavy when he bore it to the top of the field; leaves had drifted there, and he strewed it with a covering of them; there was no wind, and they would keep him from curious eyes until the afternoon. “I’ll bury him myself,” he thought. Eighteen years had gone since he first went into the St. John’s Wood house with that tiny puppy in his pocket. Strange that the old dog should die just now! Was it an omen? He turned at the gate to look back at that russet mound, then went slowly towards the house, very choky in the throat.
June was at home; she had come down hotfoot on hearing the news of Jolly’s enlistment. His patriotism had conquered her feeling for the Boers. The atmosphere of his house was strange and pocketty when Jolyon came in and told them of the dog Balthasar’s death. The news had a unifying effect. A link with the past had snapped—the dog Balthasar! Two of them could remember nothing before his day; to June he represented the last years of her grandfather; to Jolyon that life of domestic stress and aesthetic struggle before he came again into the kingdom of his father’s love and wealth! And he was gone!
In the afternoon he and Jolly took picks and spades and went out to the field. They chose a spot close to the russet mound, so that they need not carry him far, and, carefully cutting off the surface turf, began to dig. They dug in silence for ten minutes, and then rested.
“Well, old man,” said Jolyon, “so you thought you ought?”
“Yes,” answered Jolly; “I don’t want to a bit, of course.”
How exactly those words represented Jolyon’s own state of mind
“I admire you for it, old boy. I don’t believe I should have done it at your age—too much of a Forsyte, I’m afraid. But I suppose the type gets thinner with each generation. Your son, if you have one, may be a pure altruist; who knows?”
“He won’t be like me, then, Dad; I’m beastly selfish.”
“No, my dear, that you clearly are not.” Jolly shook his head, and they dug again.
“Strange life a dog’s,” said Jolyon suddenly: “The only four-footer with rudiments of altruism and a sense of God!”
Jolly looked at his father.
“Do you believe in God, Dad? I’ve never known.”
At so searching a question from one to whom it was impossible to make a light reply, Jolyon stood for a moment feeling his back tried by the digging.
“What do you mean by God?” he said; “there are two irreconcilable ideas of God. There’s the unknowable creative principle—one believes in that. And there’s the sum of altruism in man—naturally one believes in that.”
“I see. That leaves out Christ, doesn’t it?”
Jolyon stared. Christ, the link between those two ideas! Out of the mouth of babes! Here was orthodoxy scientifically explained at last! The sublime poem of the Christ life was man’s attempt to join those two irreconcilable conceptions of God. And since the sum of human altruism was as much a part of the unknowable creative principle as anything else in nature and the universe, a worse link might have been chosen after all! Funny—how one went through life without seeing it in that sort of way!
“What do you think, old man?” he said.
Jolly frowned. “Of course, my first year we talked a good bit about that sort of thing. But in the second year one gives it up; I don’t know why—it’s awfully interesting.”
Jolyon remembered that he also had talked a good deal about it his first year at Cambridge, and given it up in his second.
“I suppose,” said Jolly, “it’s the second God, you mean, that old Balthasar had a sense of.”
“Yes, or he would never have burst his poor old heart because of something outside himself.”
“But wasn’t that just selfish emotion, really?”
Jolyon shook his head. “No, dogs are not pure Forsytes, they love something outside themselves.”
Jolly smiled.
“Well, I think I’m one,” he said. “You know, I only enlisted because I dared Val Dartie to.”
“But why?”
“We bar each other,” said Jolly shortly.
“Ah!” muttered Jolyon. So the feud went on, unto the third generation—this modern feud which had no overt expression?
“Shall I tell the boy about it?” he thought. But to what end—if he had to stop short of his own part?
And Jolly thought: “It’s for Holly to let him know about that chap. If she doesn’t, it means she doesn’t want him told, and I should be sneaking. Anyway, I’ve stopped it. I’d better leave well alone!”
So they dug on in silence, till Jolyon said:
“Now, old man, I think it’s big enough.” And, resting on their spades, they gazed down into the hole where a few leaves had drifted already on a sunset wind.
“I can’t bear this part of
it,” said Jolyon suddenly.
“Let me do it, Dad. He never cared much for me.”
Jolyon shook his head.
“We’ll lift him very gently, leaves and all. I’d rather not see him again. I’ll take his head. Now!”
With extreme care they raised the old dog’s body, whose faded tan and white showed here and there under the leaves stirred by the wind. They laid it, heavy, cold, and unresponsive, in the grave, and Jolly spread more leaves over it, while Jolyon, deeply afraid to show emotion before his son, began quickly shovelling the earth on to that still shape. There went the past! If only there were a joyful future to look forward to! It was like stamping down earth on one’s own life. They replaced the turf carefully on the smooth little mound, and, grateful that they had spared each other’s feelings, returned to the house arm-in-arm.
Chapter XI
Timothy Stays the Rot
On Forsyte ’Change news of the enlistment spread fast, together with the report that June, not to be outdone, was going to become a Red Cross nurse. These events were so extreme, so subversive of pure Forsyteism, as to have a binding effect upon the family, and Timothy’s was thronged next Sunday afternoon by members trying to find out what they thought about it all, and exchange with each other a sense of family credit. Giles and Jesse Hayman would no longer defend the coast but go to South Africa quite soon; Jolly and Val would be following in April; as to June—well, you never knew what she would really do.
The retirement from Spion Kop and the absence of any good news from the seat of war imparted an air of reality to all this, clinched in startling fashion by Timothy. The youngest of the old Forsytes—scarcely eighty, in fact popularly supposed to resemble their father, “Superior Dosset,” even in his best-known characteristic of drinking sherry—had been invisible for so many years that he was almost mythical. A long generation had elapsed since the risks of a publisher’s business had worked on his nerves at the age of forty, so that he had got out with a mere thirty-five thousand pounds in the world, and started to make his living by careful investment. Putting by every year, at compound interest, he had doubled his capital in forty years without having once known what it was like to shake in his shoes over money matters. He was now putting aside some two thousand a year, and, with the care he was taking of himself, expected, so Aunt Hester said, to double his capital again before he died. What he would do with it then, with his sisters dead and himself dead, was often mockingly queried by free spirits such as Francie, Euphemia, or young Nicholas’s second, Christopher, whose spirit was so free that he had actually said he was going on the stage. All admitted, however, that this was best known to Timothy himself, and possibly to Soames, who never divulged a secret.
Those few Forsytes who had seen him reported a man of thick and robust appearance, not very tall, with a brown-red complexion, grey hair, and little of the refinement of feature with which most of the Forsytes had been endowed by “Superior Dosset’s” wife, a woman of some beauty and a gentle temperament. It was known that he had taken surprising interest in the war, sticking flags into a map ever since it began, and there was uneasiness as to what would happen if the English were driven into the sea, when it would be almost impossible for him to put the flags in the right places. As to his knowledge of family movements or his views about them, little was known, save that Aunt Hester was always declaring that he was very upset. It was, then, in the nature of a portent when Forsytes, arriving on the Sunday after the evacuation of Spion Kop, became conscious, one after the other, of a presence seated in the only really comfortable armchair, back to the light, concealing the lower part of his face with a large hand, and were greeted by the awed voice of Aunt Hester:
“Your Uncle Timothy, my dear.”
Timothy’s greeting to them all was somewhat identical; and rather, as it were, passed over by him than expressed:
“How de do? How de do? ’Xcuse me gettin’ up!”
Francie was present, and Eustace had come in his car; Winifred had brought Imogen, breaking the ice of the restitution proceedings with the warmth of family appreciation at Val’s enlistment; and Marian Tweetyman with the last news of Giles and Jesse. These with Aunt Juley and Hester, young Nicholas, Euphemia, and—of all people!—George, who had come with Eustace in the car, constituted an assembly worthy of the family’s palmiest days. There was not one chair vacant in the whole of the little drawing room, and anxiety was felt lest someone else should arrive.
The constraint caused by Timothy’s presence having worn off a little, conversation took a military turn. George asked Aunt Juley when she was going out with the Red Cross, almost reducing her to a state of gaiety; whereon he turned to Nicholas and said:
“Young Nick’s a warrior bold, isn’t he? When’s he going to don the wild khaki?”
Young Nicholas, smiling with a sort of sweet deprecation, intimated that of course his mother was very anxious.
“The Dromios are off, I hear,” said George, turning to Marian Tweetyman; “we shall all be there soon. En avant, the Forsytes! Roll, bowl, or pitch! Who’s for a cooler?”
Aunt Juley gurgled, George was so droll! Should Hester get Timothy’s map? Then he could show them all where they were.
At a sound from Timothy, interpreted as assent, Aunt Hester left the room.
George pursued his image of the Forsyte advance, addressing Timothy as Field Marshal; and Imogen, whom he had noted at once for a pretty filly,—as Vivandiere; and holding his top hat between his knees, he began to beat it with imaginary drumsticks. The reception accorded to his fantasy was mixed. All laughed—George was licensed; but all felt that the family was being rotted; and this seemed to them unnatural, now that it was going to give five of its members to the service of the queen. George might go too far; and there was relief when he got up, offered his arm to Aunt Juley, marched up to Timothy, saluted him, kissed his aunt with mock passion, said, “Oh! what a treat, dear papa! Come on, Eustace!” and walked out, followed by the grave and fastidious Eustace, who had never smiled. Aunt Juley’s bewildered, “Fancy not waiting for the map! You mustn’t mind him, Timothy. He’s so droll!” broke the hush, and Timothy removed the hand from his mouth.
“I don’t know what things are comin’ to,” he was heard to say. “What’s all this about goin’ out there? That’s not the way to beat those Boers.”
Francie alone had the hardihood to observe: “What is, then, Uncle Timothy?”
“All this newfangled volunteerin’ and expense—lettin’ money out of the country.”
Just then Aunt Hester brought in the map, handling it like a baby with eruptions. With the assistance of Euphemia it was laid on the piano, a small Colwood grand, last played on, it was believed, the summer before Aunt Ann died, thirteen years ago. Timothy rose. He walked over to the piano, and stood looking at his map while they all gathered round.
“There you are,” he said; “that’s the position up to date; and very poor it is. H’m!”
“Yes,” said Francie, greatly daring, “but how are you going to alter it, Uncle Timothy, without more men?”
“Men!” said Timothy; “you don’t want men—wastin’ the country’s money. You want a Napoleon, he’d settle it in a month.”
“But if you haven’t got him, Uncle Timothy?”
“That’s their business,” replied Timothy. “What have we kept the army up for—to eat their heads off in time of peace! They ought to be ashamed of themselves, comin’ on the country to help them like this! Let every man stick to his business, and we shall get on.”
And looking round him, he added almost angrily:
“Volunteerin’, indeed! Throwin’ good money after bad! We must save! Conserve energy that’s the only way.” And with a prolonged sound, not quite a sniff and not quite a snort, he trod on Euphemia’s toe, and went out, leaving a sensation and a faint scent of barley sugar behind him.
The effect of some
thing said with conviction by one who has evidently made a sacrifice to say it is ever considerable. And the eight Forsytes left behind, all women except young Nicholas, were silent for a moment round the map. Then Francie said:
“Really, I think he’s right, you know. After all, what is the army for? They ought to have known. It’s only encouraging them.”
“My dear!” cried Aunt Juley, “but they’ve been so progressive. Think of their giving up their scarlet. They were always so proud of it. And now they all look like convicts. Hester and I were saying only yesterday we were sure they must feel it very much. Fancy what the Iron Duke would have said!”
“The new colour’s very smart,” said Winifred; “Val looks quite nice in his.”
Aunt Juley sighed.
“I do so wonder what Jolyon’s boy is like. To think we’ve never seen him! His father must be so proud of him.”
“His father’s in Paris,” said Winifred.
Aunt Hester’s shoulder was seen to mount suddenly, as if to ward off her sister’s next remark, for Juley’s crumpled cheeks had gushed.
“We had dear little Mrs. MacAnder here yesterday, just back from Paris. And whom d’you think she saw there in the street? You’ll never guess.”
“We shan’t try, Auntie,” said Euphemia.
“Irene! Imagine! After all this time; walking with a fair beard. . . .”
“Auntie! you’ll kill me! A fair beard. . . .”
“I was going to say,” said Aunt Juley severely, “a fair-bearded gentleman. And not a day older; she was always so pretty,” she added, with a sort of lingering apology.
“Oh! tell us about her, Auntie,” cried Imogen; “I can just remember her. She’s the skeleton in the family cupboard, isn’t she? And they’re such fun.”
Aunt Hester sat down. Really, Juley had done it now!
“She wasn’t much of a skeleton as I remember her,” murmured Euphemia, “extremely well-covered.”
The Forsyte Saga Page 59
