Interlude: A Silent Wooing
( A Modern Comedy - 2 )
Джон Голсуорси
From preface: In naming this second part of The Forsyte Chronicles "A Modern Comedy" the word Comedy is stretched, perhaps as far as the word Saga was stretched to cover the first part. And yet, what but a comedic view can be taken, what but comedic significance gleaned, of so restive a period as that in which we have lived since the war? An Age which knows not what it wants, yet is intensely preoccupied with getting it, must evoke a smile, if rather a sad one.
John Galsworthy
A Silent Wooing
The first of February, 1924, Jon Forsyte, convalescing from the ‘flu, was sitting in the lounge of an hotel at Camden, South Carolina, with his bright hair slowly rising on his scalp. He was reading about a lynching.
A voice behind him said:
“Will you join our picnic over at those old-time mounds today?”
Looking up, he saw a young acquaintance called Francis Wilmot, who came from further south.
“Very glad to. Who’s going?”
“Why, just Mr. and Mrs. Pulmore Hurrison, and that English novelist, Gurdon Minho, and the Blair girls and their friends, and my sister Anne and I. You could ride over horseback, if you want exercise.”
“All right; they’ve got some new horses in this morning from Columbia.”
“Why, that’s fine! My sister and I’ll ride horseback too, and some of the Blair girls. The Hurrisons can take the others.”
“I say,” said Jon, “this is a pretty bad case of lynching.”
The young man to whom he spoke leaned in the window. Jon admired his face, as of ivory, with dark hair and eyes, and narrow nose and lips, and his lissom attitude.
“All you Britishers go off the deep-end when you read of a lynching. You haven’t got the negro problem up where you are at Southern Pines. They don’t have it any to speak of in North Carolina.”
“No, and I don’t profess to understand it. But I can’t see why negroes shouldn’t be tried the same as white men. There may be cases where you’ve got to shoot at sight; but how can you defend mob law? Once you catch a man, he ought to be tried properly.”
“We’re not taking any chances with that particular kind of trouble.”
“But without trial, how can you tell he’s guilty?”
“Well, we’d sooner do without an innocent darkie now and again than risk our women.”
“But killing a man for a thing he hasn’t done is the limit.”
“Maybe, in Europe. But, here, things are in the large, still.”
“What do they think about lynching in the north?”
“They squeal a bit, but they’ve no call to. If we’ve got negroes, they’ve got the Reds, and they surely have a wholesale way with them.”
Jon Forsyte tilted back his rocking-chair, with a puzzled frown.
“I reckon there’s too much space left in this country,” said Francis Wilmot; “a man has all the chances to get off. So where we feel strong about a thing, we take the law into our own hands.”
“Well, every country to its own fashions. What are these mounds we’re going to?”
“Old Indian remains that go way back thousands of years, they say. You haven’t met my sister? She only came last night.”
“No. What time do we start?”
“Noon; it’s about an hour’s ride by the woods.”
At noon then, in riding kit, Jon came out to the five horses, for more than one of the Blair girls had elected to ride. He started between them, Francis Wilmot going ahead with his sister.
The Blair girls were young and pretty with a medium-coloured, short-faced, well-complexioned, American prettiness, of a type to which he had become accustomed during the two and a half years he had spent in the United States. They were at first extremely silent, and then extremely vocal. They rode astride, and very well. Jon learned that they, as well as the givers of the picnic, Mr. and Mrs. Pulmore Hurrison, inhabited Long Island. They asked him many questions about England, to which Jon, who had left it at the age of nineteen, invented many answers. He began to look longingly between his horse’s ears at Francis Wilmot and his sister, cantering ahead in a silence that, from a distance, seemed extremely restful. Their way led through pine woods—of trees spindly and sparse, and over a rather sandy soil; the sunlight was clear and warm, the air still crisp. Jon rode a single-footing bay horse, and felt as one feels on the first day of recovered health.
The Blair girls wished to know what he thought of the English novelist—they were dying to see a real highbrow. Jon had only read one of his books, and of the characters therein could only remember a cat. The Blair girls had read none; but they had heard that his cats were “just too cunning.”
Francis Wilmot, reining up in front, pointed at a large mound which certainly seemed to be unnaturally formed. They all reined up, looked at it for two minutes in silence, remarked that it was “very interesting,” and rode on. In a hollow the occupants of two cars were disembarking food. Jon led the horses away to tether them alongside the horses of Wilmot and his sister.
“My sister,” said Francis Wilmot.
“Mr. Forsyte,” said the sister.
She looked at Jon, and Jon looked at her. She was slim but distinctly firm, in a long dark-brown coat and breeches and boots; her hair was bobbed and dark under a soft brown felt hat. Her face was pale, rather browned, and had a sort of restrained eagerness—the brow broad and clear, the nose straight and slightly sudden, the mouth unreddened, rather wide and pretty. But what struck Jon were her eyes, which were exactly his idea of a water nymph’s. They slanted a little, and were steady and brown and enticing; whether there was ever such a slight squint in them he could not tell, but if there were it was an improvement. He felt shy. Neither of them spoke.
Francis Wilmot reckoned that he was hungry, and they walked side by side towards the eatables.
Jon said suddenly to the sister:
“You’ve just come then, Miss Wilmot?”
“Yes, Mr. Forsyte.”
“Where from?”
“From Naseby. It’s way down between Charleston and Savannah.”
“Oh, Charleston! I liked Charleston.”
“Anne likes Savannah best,” said Francis Wilmot.
Anne nodded. She was not talkative, it seemed, though her voice had sounded pleasant in small quantities.
“It’s kind of lonely where we live,” said Francis. “Mostly darkies. Anne’s never seen an Englishman to speak to.”
Anne smiled. Jon also smiled. Neither pursued the subject. They arrived at the eatables, spread in a manner calculated to give the maximum of muscular and digestive exertion. Mrs. Pulmore Hurrison, a lady of forty or so, and of defined features, was seated with her feet turned up; next to her, Gurdon Minho, the English novelist, had his legs in a more reserved position; and then came quantities of seated girls, all with pretty, unreserved legs; Mr. Pulmore Hurrison, somewhat apart, was pursing a small mouth over the cork of a large bottle. Jon and the Wilmots also sat down. The picnic had begun.
Jon soon realised that everybody was expecting Gurdon Minho to say something beyond “Yes” “Really!” “Ah!” “Quite!” This did not occur. The celebrated novelist was at first almost painfully attentive to what everybody else said, and then seemed to go into a coma. Jon felt a patriotic disappointment, for he himself was, if anything, even more silent. He could see that, among the three Blair girls and their two girl friends, a sort of conspiracy was brewing, to quiz the silent English in the privacy of the future. Francis Wilmot’s speechless sister was a comfort to him, therefore, for he felt that she would neither be entitled nor inclined to j
oin that conspiracy. He took refuge in handing victuals and was glad when the period of eating on constricted stomachs was over. Picnics were like Christmas Day, better in the future and the past than in the present. After the normal period of separation into genders, the baskets were repacked, and all resorted to their vehicles. The two cars departed for another mound said to be two miles off. Francis Wilmot and the two Blair girls believed that they would get back and watch the polo. Jon asked Anne Wilmot which she wished to do. She elected to see the other mound.
They mounted and pursued a track through the woods in silence, till Jon said:
“Do you like picnics?”
“I certainty do not.”
“Nor do I. But riding?”
“I just adore it more than anything in the world.”
“More than dancing?”
“Surely. Riding and swimming.”
“Ah! I THOUGHT—” And he was silent.
“What did you think?”
“Well, I thought somehow you were a good swimmer.”
“Why?”
Jon said with embarrassment:
“By your eyes—”
“What! Are they fishy?”
Jon laughed.
“Not exactly. They’re like a water nymph’s.”
“I don’t just know if that’s a compliment.”
“Of course it is.”
“I thought nymphs weren’t respectable.”
“Oh! WATER nymphs—very! Shy, of course.”
“Do you have many in England?”
“No. As a matter of fact I’ve never seen one before.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Just a general sense of what’s fitting.”
“I suppose you had a classical education. Don’t you all have that in England?”
“Far from it.”
“And how do you like America, Mr. Forsyte?”
“Very much. I get homesick sometimes.”
“I’d love to travel.”
“You never have?”
She shook her head. “I just stay at home and look after things. But I reckon we’ll have to sell the old home—cotton doesn’t pay any more.”
“I grow peaches near Southern Pines, you know, up in North Carolina; that’s paying at present.”
“D’you live there alone?”
“No; with my mother.”
“Is she English?”
“Yes.”
“Have you a father?”
“He died four years ago.”
“Francis and I have been orphans ten years.”
“I wish you’d both come and stay with us some day; my mother would be awfully glad.”
“Is she like you?”
Jon laughed.
“No. She’s beautiful.”
The eyes regarded him gravely, the lips smiled faintly.
“I’d just love to come, but Francis and I can’t ever be away together.”
“But,” said Jon, “you’re both here.”
“We go back tomorrow; I wanted to see Camden.” The eyes resumed their steady consideration of Jon’s face. “Won’t you come back with us and see our home—it’s old? Francis would like to have you come.”
“Do you always know what your brother would like?”
“Surely.”
“That must be jolly. But do you really mean you want me?”
“I certainly do.”
“I’d enjoy it awfully; I hate hotels. I mean—well, you know—” But as HE didn’t, he was not so sure that she did.
She touched her horse, and the single-footing animal broke into a canter.
Along the alleys of the eternal pinewood the sun was in their eyes; a warmed scent rose from pine needles, gum and herbs; the going was sandy and soft; the horses in good mood. Jon felt happy. This girl had strange eyes, enticing; and she rode better even than the Blair girls.
“I suppose all the English ride well?” she said.
“Most do, when they ride at all; but we don’t ride much nowadays.”
“I’d love to see England; our folk came from England in 1700—Worcestershire. Where is that?”
“It’s our middle west,” said Jon. “But as unlike as ever you can imagine. It’s a fruit-growing county—very pretty; white timbered houses, pastures, orchards, woods, green hills. I went there walking one holiday with a school friend.”
“It sounds just lovely. Our ancestors were Roman Catholics. They had a place called Naseby; that’s why we call ours Naseby. But my grandmother was French Creole, from Louisiana. Is it true that in England they think Creoles have negro blood in them?”
“We’re very ignorant,” said Jon. “I know the Creoles are the old French and Spanish families. You both look as if you had French blood.”
“Francis does. Do you think we’ve passed that mound? We’ve come all of four miles, and I thought it was only two.”
“Does it matter? The other mound was rather over-rated.”
The lips smiled; she didn’t ever quite laugh, it seemed.
“What Indians hereabouts?” asked Jon.
“I’m not too sure; Seminoles, if any, I think. But Francis says these mounds would be from way back before the present tribes. What made you come to America, Mr. Forsyte?”
Jon bit his lip. To give the reason—family feud—broken love affair—was not exactly possible.
“I went first to British Columbia; but I didn’t get on too well. Then I heard of peaches in North Carolina.”
“But why did you leave England?”
“I suppose I just wanted to see the world.”
“Yes,” she said. It was a quiet but comprehending sound; Jon was the more gratified, because she had not comprehended. The image of his first love did not often haunt him now—had not for a year or more. He had been so busy with his peaches. Besides, Holly had written that Fleur had a boy. He said suddenly: “I think we ought to turn. Look at the sun!” The sun, indeed, was well down behind the trees.
“My—yes!”
Jon turned his steed. “Let’s gallop, it’ll be down in half an hour; and there’s no moon till late.”
They galloped back along the track. The sun went down even faster than he had thought, the air grew cold, the light grey. Jon reined up suddenly.
“I’m awfully sorry; I don’t believe we’re on the track we came by from the picnic. I feel we’ve gone off to the right. The tracks are all alike and these horses only came in from Columbia yesterday; they don’t know the country any more than we do.”
The girl laughed.
“We’ll be lost.”
“M’m! That’ll be no joke in these woods. Don’t they ever end?”
“I reckon not, in these parts. It’s an adventure.”
“Yes; but you’ll catch cold. It’s jolly cold at night.”
“And you’ve had ‘flu!”
“Oh! That’s all right. Here’s a track to the left. Shall we go on, or shall we take it?”
“Take it.”
They cantered on. It was too dark now for galloping, and soon too dark for cantering. And the track wound on and on.
“This is a pretty business,” said Jon. “I am sorry.” He peered towards her riding beside him, and could just see her smile.
“Why! It’s lots of fun.”
He was glad she thought so, but he could not see it.
“I HAVE been an ass. Your brother’ll be pretty sick with me.”
“He’ll know I’m with you.”
“If we only had a compass. We may be out all night at this rate. Here’s another fork! Gosh, it is going to be dark.”
And, almost as he spoke, the last of the light failed; he could barely see her five yards away.
He came up close alongside, and she touched his sleeve.
“Don’t worry,” she said; “that spoils it.”
Shifting his reins, he gave her hand a squeeze.
“You’re splendid, Miss Wilmot.”
“Oh! do call me Anne. Surnames seem
kind of chilly when you’re lost.”
“Thank you very much. My name’s Jon. Without an h, you know—short for Jolyon.”
“Jolyon—Jon; I like it.”
“Well, Anne’s always been my favourite name. Shall we stop till the moon rises, or ride on?”
“When will the moon rise?”
“Not for hours, judging from last night.”
“Let’s ride on and leave it to the horses.”
“Right! Only if they make for anywhere I’m pretty sure it’ll be towards Columbia, which must be miles and miles.”
They pursued the narrow track at a foot’s pace. It was really dark now. Jon said: “Are you cold? You’d be warmer walking. I’ll go ahead; stick close enough to see me.”
He went ahead, and soon dismounted, feeling cold himself; there was utter silence among unending trees.
“I’m cold now,” said the voice of Anne. “I’ll get off too.”
They had trailed on perhaps half an hour like this, leading their horses, and almost feeling their way, when Jon said: “Look! There’s some sort of a clearing here! And what’s that blackness on the left?”
“It’s a mound.”
“Which mound, I wonder? The one we saw, or the other, or neither?”
“I reckon we’d better stop here till the moon rises, then maybe we’ll see which it is, and know our way.”
“You’re right. There’ll be swamps, I expect. I’ll tether the horses to leeward, and we’ll try to find a nook. It IS cold.”
He tethered the horses out of the wind, and, turning back, found her beside him.
“It’s creepy here,” she said.
“We’ll find a snug place, and sit down.”
He put his hand through her arm, and they moved round the foot of the mound.
“Here,” said Jon suddenly; “they’ve been digging. This’ll be sheltered.” He felt the ground—dry enough. “Let’s squat here and talk.”
Side by side, with their backs to the wall of the excavated hollow, they lighted cigarettes, and sat listening to the silence. But for a snuffle or soft stamp now and then from the horses, there was not a sound. Trees and wind, both, were too sparse for melody, and nothing but their two selves and their horses seemed alive. A sprinkle of stars in a very dark sky and the deeper blackness of the pine stems was all they could see. Ah! and the glowing tips of their cigarettes, and each other’s faces thereby illumined, now and then.
Interlude: A Silent Wooing amc-2 Page 1
