The Forsyte Saga, Volume 2

by John Galsworthy

  Gradman’s voice, grating, ingratiating, rose.

  ‘This French news – it’s not nice, Mr Soames. They’re a hasty lot. I remember your father, Mr James, coming into the office the morning the Franco-Prussian war was declared – quite in his prime then, hardly more than sixty, I should say. Why, I recall his very words: “There,” he said, “I told them so.” And here they are – at it still. The fact is, they’re cat and dog.’

  Soames, who had half turned, resumed his contemplation of a void. Poor old Gradman dated! What would he say when he heard that they had been insuring foreign business? Stimulated by the old-time quality of Gradman’s presence, his mind ranged with sudden freedom. He himself had another twenty years, perhaps. What would he see in that time? Where would old England be at the end of it? ‘In spite of the papers, we’re not such fools as we look,’ he thought. ‘If only we can steer clear of flibberty-gibberting, and pay our way!’

  ‘Mr Butterfield, sir.’ H’m! The young man had been very spry. Covered by Gradman’s bluff and greasy greeting, he ‘took a lunar’, as his Uncle Roger used to call it. The young fellow in a neat suit, a turndown collar, with his hat in his hand, was a medium modest-looking chap. Soames nodded.

  ‘You want to see me?’

  ‘Alone, if I might, sir.’

  ‘Mr Gradman here is my right-hand man.’

  Gradman’s voice purred gratingly; ‘You can state your business. Nothing goes outside these walls, young man.’

  ‘I’m in the office of the P.P.R.S., sir. The fact is, accident has just put some information in my hands, and I’m not easy in my mind. Knowing you to be a solicitor, sir, I preferred to come to you, rather than go to the chairman. As a lawyer, would you tell me: Is my first duty to the Society, being in their employ?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Soames.

  ‘I don’t like this job, sir, and I hope you’ll understand that I’m not here for any personal motive – it’s just because I feel I ought to.’

  Soames regarded him steadily. Though large and rather swimming, the young man’s eyes impressed him by their resemblance to a dog’s. ‘What’s it all about?’ he said.

  The young man moistened his lips.

  ‘The insurance of our German business, sir.’

  Soames pricked his ears, already slightly pointed by Nature.

  ‘It’s a very serious matter,’ the young man went on, ‘and I don’t know how it’ll affect me, but the fact is, this morning I overheard a private conversation.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Soames.

  ‘Yes, sir. I quite understand your tone, but the very first words did it. I simply couldn’t make myself known after hearing them. I think you’ll agree, sir.’

  ‘Who were the speakers?’

  ‘The manager, and a man called Smith – I fancy by his accent his name’s a bit more foreign – who’s done most of the agenting for the German business.’

  ‘What were the words?’ said Soames.

  ‘Well, sir, the manager was speaking, and then this Smith said: “Quite so, Mr Elderson, but we haven’t paid you a commission on all this business for nothing; if the mark goes absolutely phut, you will have to see that your Society makes it good for us!”’

  The intense longing, which at that moment came on Soames to emit a whistle, was checked by sight of Gradman’s face. The old fellow’s mouth had opened in the nest of his grizzly short beard; his eyes stared puglike, he uttered a prolonged: ‘A-ow!’

  ‘Yes,’ said the young man, ‘it was a knock-out!’

  ‘Where were you?’ asked Soames, sharply.

  ‘In the lobby between the manager’s room and the boardroom. I’d just come from sorting some papers in the board-room, and the manager’s door was open an inch or so. Of course I know the voices well.’

  ‘What after?’

  ‘I heard Mr Elderson say: “H’ssh! Don’t talk like that!” and I slipped back into the board-room. I’d had more than enough, sir, I assure you.’

  Suspicion and surmise clogged Soames’s thinking apparatus. Was this young fellow speaking the truth? A man like Elderson – the risk was monstrous! And, if true, what was the directors’ responsibility? But proof – proof? He stared at the young man, who looked upset and pale enough, but whose eyes did not waver. Shake him if he could! And he said sharply:

  ‘Now mind what you’re saying! This is most serious!’

  ‘I know that, sir. If I’d consulted my own interest, I’d never have come here. I’m not a sneak.’

  The words rang true, but Soames did not drop his caution.

  ‘Ever had any trouble in the office?’

  ‘No, sir, you can make inquiry. I’ve nothing against Mr Elderson, and he’s nothing against me.’

  Soames thought suddenly: ‘Good heavens! He’s shifted it on to me, and in the presence of a witness. And I supplied the witness!’

  ‘Have you any reason to suppose,’ he said, ‘that they became aware of your being there?’

  ‘They couldn’t have, I think.’

  The implications of this news seemed every second more alarming. It was as if Fate, kept at bay all his life by clever wrist-work, had suddenly slipped a thrust under his guard. No good to get rattled, however – must think it out at leisure!

  ‘Are you prepared, if necessary, to repeat this to the Board?’

  The young man pressed his hands together.

  ‘Well, sir, I’d much rather have held my tongue; but if you decide it’s got to be taken up, I suppose I must go through with it now. I’m sure I hope you’ll decide to leave it alone; perhaps it isn’t true – only why didn’t Mr Elderson say: “You ruddy liar!”?’

  Exactly! Why didn’t he? Soames gave a grunt of intense discomfort.

  ‘Anything more?’ he said.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Very well. You’ve not told anyone?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then don’t, and leave it to me.’

  ‘I’ll be only too happy to, sir. Good morning!’

  ‘Good morning!’

  No – very bad morning! No satisfaction whatever in this sudden fulfilment of his prophetic feeling about Elderson. None!

  ‘What d’you think of that young fellow, Gradman? Is he lying?’

  Thus summoned, as it were, from stupor, Gradman thoughtfully rubbed a nose both thick and shining.

  ‘It’s one word against another, Mr Soames, unless you get more evidence. But I can’t see what the young man has to gain by it.’

  ‘Nor I; but you never know. The trouble will be to get more evidence. Can I act without it?’

  ‘It’s delicate,’ said Gradman. And Soames knew that he was thrown back on himself. When Gradman said a thing was delicate, it meant that it was the sort of matter on which he was accustomed to wait for orders – presumptuous even to hold opinion! But had he got one? Well, one would never know! The old chap would sit and rub his nose over it till Kingdom Come.

  ‘I shan’t act in a hurry,’ he said, almost angrily: ‘I can’t see to the end of this.’

  Every hour confirmed that statement. At lunch the tape of his city club showed the mark still falling – to unheard-of depths! How they could talk of golf, with this business on his mind, he could not imagine!

  ‘I must go and see that fellow,’ he said to himself. ‘I shall be guarded. He may throw some light.’ He waited until three o’clock and repaired to the P.P.R.S.

  Reaching the office, he sought the board-room. The chairman was there in conference with the manager. Soames sat down quietly to listen; and while he listened he watched that fellow’s face. It told him nothing. What nonsense people talked when they said you could tell character from faces! Only a perfect idiot’s face could be read like that. And here was a man of experience and culture, one who knew every rope of business life and polite society. The hairless, neat features exhibited no more concern than the natural mortification of one whose policy had met with such a nasty knock. The drop of the mark had already wiped out any possible
profit on the next half-year. Unless the wretched thing recovered, they would be carrying a practically dead load of German insurance. Really it was criminal that no limit of liability had been fixed! How on earth could he ever have overlooked that when he came on the Board? But he had only known of it afterwards. And who could have foreseen anything so mad as this Ruhr business, or realized the slack confidence of his colleagues in this confounded fellow? The words ‘gross negligence’ appeared ‘close up’ before his eyes. What if an action lay against the Board! Gross negligence! At his age and with his reputation! Why! The thing was plain as a pikestaff; for omitting a limit of liability this chap had got his commission! Ten per cent probably, on all that business – he must have netted thousands! A man must be in Queer Street indeed to take a risk like that! But conscious that his fancy was running on, Soames rose, and turned his back. The action suggested another. Simulate anger, draw some sign from that fellow’s self-control! He turned again, and said pettishly: ‘What on earth were you about, Mr Manager, when you allowed these contracts to go through without limit of liability? A man of your experience! What was your motive?’

  A slight narrowing of the eyes, a slight compression of the lips. He had relied on the word ‘motive’, but the fellow passed it by.

  ‘For such high premiums as we have been getting, Mr Forsyte, a limited liability was not possible. This is a most outrageous development, and I’m afraid it must be considered just bad luck.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Soames, ‘there’s no such thing as luck in properly regulated assurance, as we shall find, or I’m much mistaken. I shouldn’t be surprised if an action lay against the Board for gross negligence!’

  That had got the chairman’s goat! – Got his goat? What expressions they used nowadays! Or did it mean the opposite? One never knew! But as for Elderson – he seemed to Soames to be merely counterfeiting a certain flusteration. Futile to attempt to spring anything out of a chap like that. If the thing were true, the fellow must be entirely desperate, prepared for anything and everything. And since from Soames the desperate side of life – the real holes, the impossible positions which demand a gambler’s throw – had always been carefully barred by the habits of a prudent nature, he found it now impossible to imagine Elderson’s state of mind, or his line of conduct if he were guilty. For all he could tell, the chap might be carrying poison about with him; might be sitting on a revolver like a fellow on the film. The whole thing was too unpleasant, too worrying for words. And without saying any more he went away, taking nothing with him but the knowledge that their total liability on this German business, with the mark valueless, was over two hundred thousand pounds. He hastily reviewed the fortunes of his co-directors. Old Fontenoy was always in low water; the chairman a dark horse; Mont was in land, land right down in value, and mortgaged at that; old Cosey Mothergill had nothing but his name and his director’s fees; Meyricke must have a large income, but light come, light go, like most of those big counsel with irons in many fires and the certainty of a judgeship. Not a really substantial man among the lot, except himself! He ploughed his way along, head down. Public companies! Preposterous system! You had to trust somebody, and there you were! It was appalling!

  ‘Balloons, sir – beautiful colours, five feet circumference. Take one, gentleman!’

  ‘Good gad!’ said Soames. As if the pricked bubble of German business were not enough!

  Chapter Two

  VICTORINE

  ALL through December balloons had been slack – hardly any movement about them, even in Christmas week, and from the Bickets Central Australia was as far ever. The girl Victorine, restored to comparative health, had not regained her position in the blouse department of Messrs Boney Blayds & Co. They had given her some odd sewing, but not of late, and she had spent much time trying to get work less uncertain. Her trouble was – had always been – her face. It was unusual. People did not know what to make of a girl who looked like that. Why employ one who without qualification of wealth, rank, fashion, or ability (so far as they knew) made them feel ordinary? For – however essential to such as Fleur and Michael – dramatic interest was not primary in the manufacture or sale of blouses, in the fitting-on of shoes, the addressing of envelopes, making-up of funeral wreaths, or the other ambitions of Victorine. Behind those large dark eyes and silent lips, what went on? It worried Boney Blayds & Co., and the more wholesale firms of commerce. The lurid professions – film-super, or mannequin – did not occur to one, of self-deprecating nature, born in Putney.

  When Bicket had gone out of a morning with his tray and his balloons not yet blown up, she would stand biting her finger, as though to gnaw her way to some escape from this hand-to-mouth existence which kept her husband thin as a rail, tired as a rook, shabby as a tailless sparrow, and, at the expense of all caste feeling, brought them in no more than just enough to keep them living under a roof. It had long been clear to them both that there was no future in balloons, just a cadging present. And there smouldered in the silent, passive Victorine a fierce resentment. She wanted better things for herself, for him, chiefly for him.

  On the morning when the mark was bumping down, she was putting on her velveteen jacket and toque (best remaining items of her wardrobe), having taken a resolve. Bicket never mentioned his old job, and his wife had subtly divined some cause beyond the ordinary for his loss of it. Why not see if she could get him taken back? He had often said: ‘Mr Mont’s a gent and a sort o’ socialist; been through the war, too; no high-and-mighty about him.’ If she could ‘get at’ this phenomenon! With the flush of hope and daring in her sallow cheeks, she took stock of her appearance from the window-glasses of the Strand. Her velveteen of jade-green always pleased one who had an eye for colour, but her black skirt – well, perhaps the wear and tear of it wouldn’t show if she kept behind the counter. Had she brass enough to say that she came about a manuscript? And she rehearsed with silent lips, pinching her accent: ‘Would you ask Mr Mont, please, if I could see him; it’s about a manuscript.’ Yes! and then would come the question: ‘What name, please?’ ‘Mrs Bicket?’ Never! ‘Miss Victorine Collins?’ All authoresses had maiden names. Victorine – yes! But Collins! It didn’t sound like. And no one would know what her maiden name had been. Why not choose one? They often chose. And she searched. Something Italian, like – like – Hadn’t their landlady said to them when they came in: ‘Is your wife Eyetalian?’ Ah! Manuelli! That was certainly Italian – the ice-cream man in Little Ditch Street had it! She walked on practising beneath her breath. If only she could get to see this Mr Mont!

  She entered, trembling. All went exactly as foreseen, even to the pinching of her accent, till she stood waiting for them to bring an answer from the speaking-tube, concealing her hands in their very old gloves. Had Miss Manuelli an appointment? There was no manuscript.

  ‘No,’ said Victorine, ‘I haven’t sent it yet. I wanted to see him first.’ The young man at the counter was looking at her hard. He went again to the tube, then spoke.

  ‘Will you wait a minute, please – Mr Mont’s lady secretary is coming down.’

  Victorine inclined her head towards her sinking heart. A lady secretary! She would never get there now! And there came on her the sudden dread of false pretences. But the thought of Tony standing at his corner, ballooned up to the eyes, as she had spied out more than once, fortified her desperation.

  A girl’s voice said: ‘Miss Manuelli? Mr Mont’s secretary, perhaps you could give me a message.’

  A fresh-faced young woman’s eyes were travelling up and down her. Pinching her accent hard, she said: ‘Oh! I’m afraid I couldn’t do that.’

  The travelling gaze stopped at her face. ‘If you’ll come with me, I’ll see if he can see you.’

  Alone in a small waiting-room, Victorine sat without movement, till she saw a young man’s face poked through the doorway, and heard the words:

  ‘Will you come in?’

  She took a deep breath, and went. Once in the presence, she
looked from Michael to his secretary and back again, subtly daring his youth, his chivalry, his sportsmanship, to refuse her a private interview. Through Michael passed at once the thought: ‘Money, I suppose. But what an interesting face!’ The secretary drew down the corners of her mouth and left the room.

  ‘Well, Miss – er – Manuelli?’

  ‘Not Manuelli, please – Mrs Bicket; my husband used to be here.’

  ‘What!’ The chap that had snooped Copper Coin! Phew! Bicket’s yarn – his wife – pneumonia! She looked as if she might have had it.

  ‘He often spoke of you, sir. And, please, he hasn’t any work. Couldn’t you find room for him again, sir?’

  Michael stood silent. Did this terribly interesting-looking girl know about the snooping?

  ‘He just sells balloons in the street now; I can’t bear to see him. Over by St Paul’s he stands, and there’s no money in it; and we do so want to get out to Australia. I know he’s very nervy, and gets wrong with people. But if you could take him back here.…’

  No! she did not know!

  ‘Very sorry, Mrs Bicket. I remember your husband well, but we haven’t a place for him. Are you all right again?’

  ‘Oh! yes. Except that I can’t get work again either.’

  What a face for wrappers! Sort of Mona Lisa-ish! Storbert’s novel! Ha!

  ‘Well, I’ll have a talk with your husband. I suppose you wouldn’t like to sit to an artist for a book-wrapper? It might lead to work in that line if you want it. You’re just the type for a friend of mine. Do you know Aubrey Greene’s work?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘It’s pretty good – in fact, very good in a decadent way. You wouldn’t mind sitting?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind anything to save some money. But I’d rather you didn’t tell my husband I’d been to see you. He might take it amiss.’

  ‘All right! I’ll see him by accident. Near St Paul’s, you said? But there’s no chance here, Mrs Bicket. Besides, he couldn’t make two ends meet on this job, he told me.’