The White Monkey amc-1

by Джон Голсуорси

  “This meeting on Tuesday—I can’t tell! But, whatever happens, so far as I can see, this ought to stand.”

  “It’s awfully good of you, sir.”

  Soames nodded, testing a pen.

  “I’m afraid I’ve got wrong with your old clerk,” said Michael; “I like the look of him frightfully, but I accidentally compared him to a bookmaker.”

  Soames smiled. “Gradman,” he said, “is a ‘character.’ There aren’t many, nowadays.”

  Michael was wondering: Could one be a ‘character’ under the age of sixty? – when the ‘character’ returned, with a pale man in dark clothes.

  Lifting his nose sideways, Soames said at once:

  “This is a post-nuptial settlement on my daughter. I deliver this as my act and deed.”

  He wrote his name, and got up.

  The pale person and Gradman wrote theirs, and the former left the room. There was a silence as of repletion.

  “Do you want me any more?” asked Michael.

  “Yes. I want you to see me deposit it at the bank with the marriage settlement. Shan’t come back, Gradman!”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Gradman.”

  Michael heard the old fellow mutter through his beard half buried in a drawer to which he was returning the draft, and followed Soames out.

  “Here’s where I used to be,” said Soames as they went along the Poultry; “and my father before me.”

  “More genial, perhaps,” said Michael.

  “The trustees are meeting us at the bank; you remember them?”

  “Cousins of Fleur’s, weren’t they, sir?”

  “Second cousins; young Roger’s eldest, and young Nicholas’. I chose them youngish. Very young Roger was wounded in the war—he does nothing. Very young Nicholas is at the Bar.”

  Michael’s ears stood up. “What about the next lot, sir? Very very young Roger would be almost insulting, wouldn’t it?”

  “There won’t be one,” said Soames, “with taxation where it is. He can’t afford it; he’s a steady chap. What are you going to call your boy, if it IS one?”

  “We think Christopher, because of St. Paul’s and Columbus. Fleur wants him solid, and I want him enquiring.”

  “H’m! And if it’s a girl?”

  “Oh! – if it’s a girl—Anne.”

  “Yes,” said Soames: “Very neat. Here they are!”

  They had reached the bank, and in the entrance Michael saw two Forsytes between thirty and forty, whose chinny faces he dimly remembered. Escorted by a man with bright buttons down his front, they all went to a room, where a man without buttons produced a japanned box. One of the Forsytes opened it with a key; Soames muttered an incantation, and deposited the deed. When he and the chinnier Forsyte had exchanged a few remarks with the manager on the question of the bank rate, they all went back to the lobby and parted with the words: “Well, good-bye.”

  “Now,” said Soames, in the din and hustle of the street, “he’s provided for, so far as I can see. When exactly do you expect it?”

  “It should be just a fortnight.”

  “Do you believe in this—this twilight sleep?”

  “I should like to,” said Michael, conscious again of sweat on his forehead. “Fleur’s wonderfully calm; she does Coue night and morning.”

  “That!” said Soames. He did not mention that he himself was doing it, thus giving away the state of his nerves. “If you’re going home, I’ll come, too.”

  “Good!”

  He found Fleur lying down with Ting-a-ling on the foot of the sofa.

  “Your father’s here, darling. He’s been anointing the future with another fifty thou. I expect he’d like to tell you all about it.”

  Fleur moved restlessly.

  “Presently. If it’s going on as hot as this, it’ll be rather a bore, Michael.”

  “Oh! but it won’t, ducky. Three days and a thunderstorm.”

  Taking Ting-a-ling by the chin, he turned his face up.

  “And how on earth is your nose going to be put out of joint, old man? There’s no joint to put.”

  “He knows there’s something up.”

  “He’s a wise little brute, aren’t you, old son?”

  Ting-a-ling sniffed.

  “Michael!”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “I don’t seem to care about anything now—it’s a funny feeling.”

  “That’s the heat.”

  “No. I think it’s because the whole business is too long. Everything’s ready, and now it all seems rather stupid. One more person in the world or one more out of it—what does it matter?”

  “Don’t! It matters frightfully!”

  “One more gnat to dance, one more ant to run about!”

  Anguished, Michael said again:

  “Don’t, Fleur! That’s just a mood.”

  “Is Wilfrid’s book out?”

  “It comes out tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry I gave you such a bad time, there. I only didn’t want to lose him.”

  Michael took her hand.

  “Nor did I—goodness knows!” he said.

  “He’s never written, I suppose?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I expect he’s all right by now. Nothing lasts.”

  Michael put her hand to his cheek.

  “I do, I’m afraid,” he said.

  The hand slipped round over his lips.

  “Give Dad my love, and tell him I’ll be down to tea. Oh! I’m so hot!”

  Michael hovered a moment, and went out. Damn the heat, upsetting her like this!

  He found Soames standing in front of the white monkey.

  “I should take this down, if I were you,” he muttered, “until it’s over.”

  “Why, sir?” asked Michael, in surprise.

  Soames frowned.

  “Those eyes!”

  Michael went up to the picture. Yes! He was a haunting kind of brute!

  “But it’s such top-hole work, sir.”

  Soames nodded.

  “Artistically, yes. But at such times you can’t be too careful what she sees.”

  “I believe you’re right. Let’s have him down.”

  “I’ll hold him,” said Soames, taking hold of the bottom of the picture.

  “Got him tight? Right-o. Now!”

  “You can say I wanted an opinion on his period,” said Soames, when the picture had been lowered to the floor.

  “There can hardly be a doubt of that, sir—the present!”

  Soames stared. “What? Oh! You mean—? Ah! H’m! Don’t let her know he’s in the house.”

  “No. I’ll lock him up.” Michael lifted the picture. “D’you mind opening the door, sir?”

  “I’ll come back at tea-time,” said Soames. “That’ll look as if I’d taken him off. You can hang him again, later.”

  “Yes. Poor brute!” said Michael, bearing the monkey off to limbo.

  Chapter XI.

  WITH A SMALL ‘n’

  On the night of the Monday following, after Fleur had gone to bed, Michael and Soames sat listening to the mutter of London coming through the windows of the Chinese room opened to the brooding heat.

  “They say the war killed sentiment,” said Soames suddenly: “Is that true?”

  “In a way, yes, sir. We had so much reality that we don’t want any more.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “I meant that only reality really makes you feel. So if you pretend there IS no reality, you don’t have to feel. It answers awfully well, up to a point.”

  “Ah!” said Soames. “Her mother comes up tomorrow morning, to stay. This P. P. R. S. meeting of mine is at half-past two. Good-night!”

  Michael, at the window, watched the heat gathered black over the Square. A few tepid drops fell on his outstretched hand. A cat stole by under a lamp-post, and vanished into shadow so thick that it seemed uncivilised.

  Queer question of ‘Old Forsyte’s’ about sentiment; odd that he should ask it!
‘Up to a point! But don’t we all get past that point?’ he thought. Look at Wilfrid, and himself—after the war they had deemed it blasphemous to admit that anything mattered except eating and drinking, for tomorrow they died; even fellows like Nazing, and Master, who were never in the war, had felt like that ever since. Well, Wilfrid had got it in the neck; and he himself had got it in the wind; and he would bet that—barring one here and there whose blood was made of ink—they would all get it in the neck or wind soon or late. Why, he would cheerfully bear Fleur’s pain and risk, instead of her! But if nothing mattered, why should he feel like that?

  Turning from the window, he leaned against the lacquered back of the jade-green settee, and stared at the wall space between the Chinese tea-chests. Jolly thoughtful of the ‘old man’ to have that white monkey down! The brute was potent—symbolic of the world’s mood: beliefs cancelled, faiths withdrawn! And, dash it! not only the young—but the old—were in that temper! ‘Old Forsyte,’ or he would never have been scared by that monkey’s eyes; yes, and his own governor, and Elderson, and all the rest. Young and old—no real belief in anything! And yet—revolt sprang up in Michael, with a whirr, like a covey of partridges. It DID matter that some person or some principle outside oneself should be more precious than oneself—it dashed well did! Sentiment, then, wasn’t dead—nor faith, nor belief, which were the same things. They were only shedding shell, working through chrysalis, into—butterflies, perhaps. Faith, sentiment, belief, had gone underground, possibly, but they were there, even in ‘Old Forsyte’ and himself. He had a good mind to put the monkey up again. No use exaggerating his importance!… By George! Some flare! A jagged streak of vivid light had stripped darkness off the night. Michael crossed, to close the windows. A shattering peal of thunder blundered overhead; and down came the rain, slashing and sluicing. He saw a man running, black, like a shadow across a dark blue screen; saw him by the light of another flash, suddenly made lurid and full of small meaning, with face of cheerful anxiety, as if he were saying: “Hang it, I’m getting wet!” Another frantic crash!

  ‘Fleur!’ thought Michael; and clanging the last window down, he ran upstairs.

  She was sitting up in bed, with a face all round, and young, and startled.

  ‘Brutes!’ he thought—guns and the heavens confounded in his mind: ‘They’ve waked her up!’

  “It’s all right, darling! Just another little summer kick-up! Were you asleep?”

  “I was dreaming!” He felt her hand clutching within his own, saw a sudden pinched look on her face, with a sort of rage. What infernal luck!

  “Where’s Ting?”

  No dog was in the corner.

  “Under the bed—you bet! Would you like him up?”

  “No. Let him stay; he hates it.”

  She put her head against his arm, and Michael curled his hand round her other ear.

  “I never liked thunder much!” said Fleur,” and now it—it hurts!”

  High above her hair Michael’s face underwent the contortions of an overwhelming tenderness. One of those crashes which seem just overhead sent her face burrowing against his chest, and, sitting on the bed, he gathered her in, close.

  “I wish it were over,” came, smothered, from her lips.

  “It will be directly, darling; it came on so suddenly!” But he knew she didn’t mean the storm.

  “If I come through, I’m going to be quite different to you, Michael.”

  Anxiety was the natural accompaniment of such events, but the words, “If I come through” turned Michael’s heart right over. Incredible that one so young and pretty should be in even the remotest danger of extinction; incredibly painful that she should be in fear of it! He hadn’t realised. She had been so calm, so matter-of-fact about it all.

  “Don’t!” he mumbled; “of course you’ll come through.”

  “I’m afraid.”

  The sound was small and smothered, but the words hurt horribly. Nature, with the small ‘n,’ forcing fear into this girl he loved so awfully! Nature kicking up this godless din above her poor little head!

  “Ducky, you’ll have twilight sleep and know nothing about it; and be as right as rain in no time.”

  Fleur freed her hand.

  “Not if it’s not good for him. Is it?”

  “I expect so, sweetheart; I’ll find out. What makes you think—?”

  “Only that it’s not natural. I want to do it properly. Hold my hand hard, Michael. I—I’m not going to be a fool. Oh! Some one’s knocking—go and see.”

  Michael opened the door a crack. Soames was there—unnatural—in a blue dressing gown and scarlet slippers!

  “Is she all right?” he whispered.

  “Yes, yes.”

  “In this bobbery she oughtn’t to be left.”

  “No, sir, of course not. I shall sleep on the sofa.”

  “Call me, if anything’s wanted.”

  “I will.”

  Soames’ eyes slid past, peering into the room. A string worked in his throat, as if he had things to say which did not emerge. He shook his head, and turned. His slim figure, longer than usual, in its gown, receded down the corridor, past the Japanese prints which he had given them. Closing the door again, Michael stood looking at the bed. Fleur had settled down; her eyes were closed, her lips moving. He stole back on tiptoe. The thunder, travelling away south, blundered and growled as if regretfully. Michael saw her eyelids quiver, her lips stop, then move again. ‘Coue!’ he thought.

  He lay down on the sofa at the foot of the bed, whence, without sound, he could raise himself and see her. Many times he raised himself. She had dropped off, was breathing quietly. The thunder was faint now, the flashes imperceptible. Michael closed his eyes.

  A faint last mutter roused him to look at her once more, high on her pillows by the carefully shaded light. Young—young! Colourless, like a flower in wax! No scheme in her brain, no dread—peaceful! If only she could stay like that and wake up with it all over! He looked away. And there she was at the far end, dim, reflected in a glass; and there to the right, again. She lay, as it were, all round him in the pretty room, the inhabiting spirit—of his heart.

  It was quite still now. Through a chink in those powder-blue curtains he could see some stars. Big Ben chimed one.

  He had slept, perhaps, dozed at least, dreamed a little. A small sound woke him. A very little dog, tail down, yellow, low and unimportant, was passing down the room, trailing across it to the far corner. ‘Ah!’ thought Michael, closing his eyes again: ‘You!’

  Chapter XII.

  ORDEAL BY SHAREHOLDER

  Repairing, next day, to the Aeroplane Club, where, notably spruce, Sir Lawrence was waiting in the lounge, Michael thought: ‘Good old Bart! he’s got himself up for the guillotine all right!’

  “That white piping will show the blood!” he said. “Old Forsyte’s neat this morning, but not so gaudy.”

  “Ah! How is ‘Old Forsyte’? In good heart?”

  “One doesn’t ask him, sir. How do you feel yourself?”

  “Exactly as I used to before the Eton and Winchester match. I think I shall have shandy-gaff at lunch.”

  When they had taken their seats, Sir Lawrence went on:

  “I remember seeing a man tried for murder in Colombo; the poor fellow was positively blue. I think my favourite moment in the past, Michael, is Walter Raleigh asking for a second shirt. By the way, it’s never been properly settled yet whether the courtiers of that day were lousy. What are you going to have, my dear fellow?”

  “Cold beef, pickled walnuts, and gooseberry tart.”

  “Excellent for the character. I shall have curry; they give you a very good Bombay duck here. I rather fancy we shall be fired, Michael. ‘Nous sommes trahis!’ used to be the prerogative of the French, but I’m afraid we’re getting the attitude, too. The Yellow Press has made a difference.”

  Michael shook his head.

  “We say it, but we don’t act on it; the climate’s too uncertain.�
�

  “That sounds deep. This looks very good curry—will you change your mind? Old Fontenoy sometimes comes in here; he has no inside. It’ll be serious for him if we’re shown the door.”

  “Deuced rum,” said Michael suddenly, “how titles still go down. There can’t be any belief in their business capacity.”

  “Character, my dear fellow—the good old English gentleman. After all, there’s something in it.”

  “I fancy, sir, it’s more a case of complex in the shareholders. Their parents show them a lord when they’re young.”

  “Shareholders,” said Sir Lawrence; “the word is comprehensive. Who are they, what are they, when are they?”

  “This afternoon,” said Michael, “and I shall have a good look at them.”

  “They won’t let you in, my dear.”

  “No?”

  “Certainly not.”

  Michael frowned.

  “What paper,” he said, “is sure not to be represented?”

  Sir Lawrence gave his whinnying laugh.

  “The Field,” he said; “The Horse and Hound; The Gardener’s Weekly.”

  “I’ll slide in on them.”

  “You’ll see us die game, I hope,” said Sir Lawrence, with sudden gravity.

  They took a cab together to the meeting, but separated before reaching the door of the hotel.

  Michael had thought better of the Press, and took up a position in the passage, whence he could watch for a chance. Stout men, in dark suits, with a palpable look of having lunched off turbot, joints, and cheese, kept passing him. He noticed that each handed the janitor a paper. ‘I’ll hand him a paper, too,’ he thought, ‘and scoot in.’ Watching for some even stouter men, he took cover between two of them, and approached the door, with an announcement of ‘Counterfeits’ in his left hand. Handing it across a neighbouring importance, he was quickly into a seat. He saw the janitor’s face poked round the door. ‘No, my friend,’ thought Michael, ‘if you could tell duds from shareholders, you wouldn’t be in that job!’

  He found a report before him, and holding it up, looked at other things. The room seemed to him to have been got by a concert-hall out of a station waiting-room. It had a platform with a long table, behind which were seven empty chairs, and seven inkpots, with seven quill pens upright in them. ‘Quills!’ thought Michael; ‘symbolic, I suppose—they’ll all use fountain-pens!’