The Forsyte Saga, Volume 3

by John Galsworthy

  Wilfrid took it up.

  ‘Geoffrey Coltham?’ he said. ‘Who’s he?’

  The review began with some fairly accurate personal details of the poet’s antecedents, early work and life, ending with the mention of his conversion to Islam. Then, after some favourable remarks about the other poems, it fastened on ‘The Leopard’, sprang, as it were, at the creature’s throat, and shook it as a bulldog might. Then, quoting these lines:

  Into foul ditch each dogma leads.

  Cursed be superstitious creeds,

  In every driven mind the weeds!

  There’s but one liquor for the sane –

  Drink deep! Let scepticism reign

  And its astringence clear the brain!

  it went on with calculated brutality!

  The thin disguise assumed by the narrative covers a personal disruptive bitterness which one is tempted to connect with the wounded and overweening pride of one who has failed himself and the British world. Whether Mr Desert intended in this poem to reveal his own experience and feelings in connexion with his conversion to Islam – a faith, by the way, of which, judging from the poor and bitter lines quoted above, he is totally unworthy – we cannot of course say, but we advise him to come into the open and let us know. Since we have in our midst a poet who, with all his undoubted thrust, drives at our entrails, and cuts deep into our religion and our prestige, we have the right to know whether or not he – like his hero – is a renegade.

  ‘That, I think,’ said Compson Grice, quietly, ‘is libellous.’

  Wilfrid looked up at him, so that he said afterwards: ‘I never knew Desert had such eyes.’

  ‘I am a renegade. I took conversion at the pistol’s point, and you can let everybody know it.’

  Smothering the words: ‘Thank God!’ Compson Grice reached out his hand. But Wilfrid had leaned back and veiled his face in the smoke of his cigar. His publisher moved forward on to the edge of his chair.

  ‘You mean that you want me to send a letter to The Daily Phase to say that ‘The Leopard’ is practically your own experience?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My dear fellow, I think it’s wonderful of you. That is courage, if you like.’

  The smile on Wilfrid’s face caused Compson Grice to sit back, swallow the words: ‘The effect on the sales will be enormous,’ and substitute:

  ‘It will strengthen your position enormously. But I wish we could get back on that fellow.’

  ‘Let him stew!’

  ‘Quite!’ said Compson Grice. He was by no means anxious to be embroiled, and have all his authors slated in the important Daily Phase.

  Wilfrid rose. ‘Thanks very much. I must be going.’

  Compson Grice watched him leave, his head high and his step slow. ‘Poor devil!’ he thought. ‘It is a scoop!’

  Back in his office, he spent some time finding a line in Colthan’s review which he could isolate from its context and use as advertisement. He finally extracted this: ‘Daily Phase: “No poem in recent years has had such power” ’ (the remaining words of the sentence he omitted because they were ‘to cut the ground from under the feet of all we stand for’). He then composed a letter to the editor. He was writing – he said – at the request of Mr Desert, who, far from needing any challenge to come into the open, was only too anxious that everyone should know that ‘The Leopard’ was indeed founded on his personal experience. For his own part – he went on – he considered that this frank avowal was a more striking instance of courage than could be met with in a long day’s march. He was proud to have been privileged to publish a poem which, in psychological content, quality of workmanship, and direct human interest, was by far the most striking of this generation.

  He signed himself ‘Your obedient servant, Compson Grice’. He then increased the size of the order for the second edition, directed that the words ‘First edition exhausted; second large impression’, should be ready for use immediately, and went to his club to play bridge.

  His club was the Polyglot, and in the hall he ran on Michael. The hair of his erstwhile colleague in the publishing world was ruffled, the ears stood out from his head, and he spoke at once:

  ‘Grice, what are you doing about that young brute Coltham?’

  Compson Grice smiled blandly and replied:

  ‘Don’t worry! I showed the review to Desert, and he told me to draw its sting by complete avowal.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘Why? Didn’t you know?’

  ‘Yes, I knew, but – ’

  These words were balm to the ears of Compson Grice, who had been visited by misgiving as to the truth of Wilfrid’s admission. Would a man really publish that poem if it were his own case; could he really want it known? But this was conclusive: Mont had been Desert’s discoverer and closest friend.

  ‘So I’ve written to The Phase and dealt with it.’

  ‘Did Wilfrid tell you to do that?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘To publish that poem was crazy. “Quem deus – ” ’ He suddenly caught sight of the expression on Compson Grice’s face. ‘Yes,’ he added, bitterly, ‘you think you’ve got a scoop!’

  Compson Grice said coldly:

  ‘Whether it will do us harm or good remains to be seen.’

  ‘Bosh!’ said Michael. ‘Everybody will read the thing now, blast them! Have you seen Wilfrid today?’

  ‘He lunched with me.’

  ‘How’s he looking?’

  Tempted to say ‘Like Asrael!’ Compson Grice substituted: ‘Oh! all right – quite calm.’

  ‘Calm as hell! Look here, Grice! If you don’t stand by him and help him all you can through this, I’ll never speak to you again.’

  ‘My dear fellow,’ said Compson Grice, with some dignity, ‘what do you suppose?’ And, straightening his waistcoat, he passed into the card room.

  Michael, muttering, ‘Cold-blooded fish!’ hurried in the direction of Cork Street. ‘I wonder if the old chap would like to see me,’ he thought.

  But at the very mouth of the street he recoiled and made for Mount Street instead. He was informed that both his father and mother were out, but that Miss Dinny had come up that morning from Condaford.

  ‘All right, Blore. If she’s in I’ll find her.’

  He went up and opened the drawing-room door quietly. In the alcove, under the cage of her aunt’s parakeet, Dinny was sitting perfectly still and upright, like a little girl at a lesson, with her hands crossed on her lap and her eyes fixed on space. She did not see him till his hand was on her shoulder.

  ‘Penny!’

  ‘How does one learn not to commit murder, Michael?’

  ‘Ah! Poisonous young brute! Have your people seen The Phase?’

  Dinny nodded.

  ‘What was the reaction?’

  ‘Silence, pinched lips.’

  Michael nodded.

  ‘Poor dear! So you came up?’

  ‘Yes, I’m going to the theatre with Wilfrid.’

  ‘Give him my love, and tell him that if he wants to see me I’ll come at any moment. Oh! and, Dinny, try to make him feel that we admire him for spilling the milk.’

  Dinny looked up, and he was moved by the expression on her face.

  ‘It wasn’t all pride that made him, Michael. There’s something egging him on, and I’m afraid of it. Deep down he isn’t sure that it wasn’t just cowardice that made him renounce. I know he can’t get that thought out of his mind. He feels he’s got to prove, not to others so much as to himself, that he isn’t a coward. Oh! I know he isn’t. But so long as he hasn’t proved it to himself and everybody, I don’t know what he might do.’

  Michael nodded. From his one interview with Wilfrid he had formed something of the same impression.

  ‘Did you know that he’s told his publisher to make a public admission?’

  ‘Oh!’ said Dinny blankly. ‘What then?’

  Michael shrugged.

  ‘Michael, will anyone grasp the situation Wilfrid was in?�
��

  ‘The imaginative type is rare. I don’t pretend I can grasp it. Can you?’

  ‘Only because it happened to Wilfrid.’

  Michael gripped her arm.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve got the old-fashioned complaint, Dinny, not just this modern “physiological urge”.’

  Chapter Twenty

  WHILE Dinny was dressing her aunt came to her room.

  ‘Your uncle read me that article, Dinny. I wonder!’

  ‘What do you wonder, Aunt Em?’

  ‘I knew a Coltham – but he died.’

  ‘This one will probably die, too.’

  ‘Where do you get your boned bodies, Dinny? So restful.’

  ‘Harridge’s.’

  ‘Your uncle says he ought to resign from his club.’

  ‘Wilfrid doesn’t care two straws about his club; he probably hasn’t been in a dozen times. But I don’t think he’ll resign.’

  ‘Better make him.’

  ‘I should never dream of “making” him do anything.’

  ‘So awkward when they use black balls.’

  ‘Auntie, dear, could I come to the glass?’

  Lady Mont crossed the room and took up the slim volume from the bedside table.

  ‘The Leopard! But he did change them, Dinny.’

  ‘He did not, Auntie; he had no spots to change.’

  ‘Baptism and that.’

  ‘If baptism really meant anything, it would be an outrage on children till they knew what it was about.’

  ‘Dinny!’

  ‘I mean it. One doesn’t commit people to things entirely without their consent; it isn’t decent. By the time Wilfrid could think at all he had no religion.’

  ‘It wasn’t the givin’ up, then, it was the takin’ on.’

  ‘He knows that.’

  ‘Well,’ said Lady Mont, turning towards the door, ‘I think it served that Arab right; so intrudin’! If you want a latch-key ask Blore.’

  Dinny finished dressing quickly and ran downstairs. Blore was in the dining-room.

  ‘Aunt Em says I may have a key, Blore, and I want a taxi, please.’

  Having telephoned to the cab-stand and produced a key, the butler said: ‘What with her ladyship speaking her thoughts out loud, miss, I’m obliged to know, and I was saying to Sir Lawrence this morning: “If Miss Dinny could take him off just now, on a tour of the Scotch Highlands where they don’t see the papers, it would save a lot of vexation.” In these days, miss, as you’ll have noticed, one thing comes on the top of another, and people haven’t the memories they had. You’ll excuse my mentioning it.’

  ‘Thank you ever so, Blore. Nothing I’d like better; only I’m afraid he wouldn’t think it proper.’

  ‘In these days a young lady can do anything, miss.’

  ‘But men still have to be careful, Blore.’

  ‘Well, miss, of course, relatives are difficult; but it could be arranged.’

  ‘I think we shall have to face the music.’

  The butler shook his head.

  ‘In my belief, whoever said that first is responsible for a lot of unnecessary unpleasantness. Here’s your taxi, miss.’

  In the taxi she sat a little forward, getting the air from both windows on her cheeks, which needed cooling. Even the anger and vexation left by that review were lost in this sweeter effervescence. At the corner of Piccadilly she read a newspaper poster: ‘Derby horses arrive.’ The Derby tomorrow! How utterly she had lost count of events! The restaurant chosen for their dinner was Blafard’s in Soho, and her progress was impeded by the traffic of a town on the verge of national holiday. At the door, with the spaniel held on a leash, stood Stack. He handed her a note: ‘Mr Desert sent me with this, miss. I brought the dog for a walk.’

  Dinny opened the note with a sensation of physical sickness.

  DINNY DARLING,

  Forgive my failing you tonight. I’ve been in a torture of doubt all day. The fact is, until I know where I stand with the world over this business, I have an overwhelming feeling that I must not commit you to anything; and a public jaunt like this is just what I ought to avoid for you. I suppose you saw The Daily Phase – that is the beginning of the racket. I must go through this next week on my own, and measure up where I am. I won’t run off, and we can write. You’ll understand. The dog is a boon, and I owe him to you. Good bye for a little, my dear love.

  Your devoted

  W.D.

  It was all she could do not to put her hand on her heart under the driver’s eyes. Thus to be shut away in the heat of the battle was what, she knew now, she had been dreading all along. With an effort she controlled her lips, said ‘Wait a minute!’ and turned to Stack.

  ‘I’ll take you and Foch back.’

  ‘Thank you, miss.’

  She bent down to the dog. Panic was at work within her breast! The dog! He was a link between them!

  ‘Put him into the cab, Stack.’

  On the way she said quietly:

  ‘Is Mr Desert in?’

  ‘No, miss, he went out when he gave me the note.’

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘A little worried, I think, miss. I must say I’d like to teach manners to that gentleman in The Daily Phase.’

  ‘Oh! you saw that?’

  ‘I did; it oughtn’t to be allowed is what I say.’

  ‘Free speech,’ said Dinny. And the dog pressed his chin against her knee. ‘Is Foch good?’

  ‘No trouble at all, miss. A gentleman, that dog; aren’t you, boy?’

  The dog continued to press his chin on Dinny’s knee; and the feel of it was comforting.

  When the cab stopped in Cork Street, she took a pencil from her bag, tore off the empty sheet of Wilfrid’s note, and wrote:

  DARLING,

  As you will. But by these presents know: I am yours for ever and ever. Nothing can or shall divide me from you, unless you stop loving

  Your devoted

  DINNY.

  You won’t do that, will you? Oh! don’t!

  Licking what was left of the gum on the envelope, she put her half sheet in and held it till it stuck. Giving it to Stack, she kissed the dog’s head and said to the driver: ‘The Park end of Mount Street, please. Good night, Stack!’

  ‘Good night, miss!’

  The eyes and mouth of the motionless henchman seemed to her so full of understanding that she turned her face away. And that was the end of the jaunt she had been so looking forward to.

  From the top of Mount Street she crossed into the Park and sat on the seat where she had sat with him before, oblivious of the fact that she was unattached, without a hat, in eveningdress, and that it was past eight o’clock. She sat with the collar of her cloak turned up to her chestnut-coloured hair, trying to see his point of view. She saw it very well. Pride! She had enough herself to understand. Not to involve others in one’s troubles was elementary. The fonder one was, the less would one wish to involve them. Curiously ironical how love divided people just when they most needed each other! And no way out, so far as she could see. The strains of the Guards’ band began to reach her faintly. They were playing – Faust? – no – Carmen! Wilfrid’s favourite opera! She got up and walked over the grass towards the sound. What crowds of people! She took a chair some way off and sat down again, close to some rhododendrons. The Habanera! What a shiver its first notes always gave one! How wild, sudden, strange and inescapable was love! ‘L’amour est enfant de Bohème’…! The rhododendrons were late this year. That deep rosy one! They had it at Condaford…. Where was he – oh! where was he at this moment? Why could not love pierce veils, so that in spirit she might walk beside him, slip a hand into his! A spirit hand was better than nothing! And Dinny suddenly realized loneliness as only true lovers do when they think of life without the loved one. As flowers wilt on their stalks, so would she wilt – if she were cut away from him. ‘See things through alone!’ How long would he want to? For ever? At the thought she started up; and a stroller, who though
t the movement meant for him, stood still and looked at her. Her face corrected his impression, and he moved on. She had two hours to kill before she could go in; she could not let them know that her evening had come to grief. The band was finishing off Carmen with the Toreador’s song. A blot on the opera, its most popular tune! No, not a blot, for it was meant, of course, to blare above the desolation of that tragic end, as the world blared around the passion of lovers. The world was a heedless and a heartless stage for lives to strut across, or in dark corners join and cling together…. How odd that clapping sounded in the open! She looked at her wrist-watch. Half past nine! An hour yet before it would be really dark. But there was a coolness now, a scent of grass and leaves; the rhododendrons were slowly losing colour, the birds had finished with song. People passed and passed her; she saw nothing funny about them, and they seemed to see nothing funny about her. And Dinny thought: ‘Nothing seems funny any more, and I haven’t had any dinner.’ A coffee stall? Too early, perhaps, but there must be places where she could still get something! No dinner, almost no lunch, no tea – a condition appropriate to the love-sick! She began to move towards Knightsbridge, walking fast, by instinct rather than experience, for this was the first time she had ever wandered alone about London at such an hour. Reaching the gate without adventure, she crossed and went down Sloane Street. She felt much better moving, and chalked up in her mind the thought: ‘For love-sickness, walking!’ In this straight street there was practically nobody to notice her. The carefully closed and blinded houses seemed to confirm, each with its tall formal narrow face, the indifference of the regimented world to the longings of street-walkers such as she. At the corner of the King’s Road a woman was standing.

  ‘Could you tell me,’ said Dinny, ‘of any place close by where I could get something to eat?’

  The woman addressed, she now saw, had a short face with high cheek-bones on which, and round the eyes, was a good deal of make-up. Her lips were good-natured, a little thick; her nose, too, rather thick; her eyes had the look which comes of having to be now stony and now luring, as if they had lost touch with her soul. Her dress was dark and fitted her curves, and she wore a large string of artificial pearls. Dinny could not help thinking she had seen people in Society not unlike her.