The Forsyte Saga, Volume 2

by John Galsworthy

  ‘Sib,’ he said, rising, ‘all these chaps here are dead – ought they to be about in this hot weather?’

  ‘What’s that?’ ejaculated Sibley Swan, amidst the almost painful silence of the chaps.

  ‘I mean – they’re alive – so they must be damned!’ And avoiding a thrown chocolate which hit the Russian, he sought the door.

  Outside, he mused: ‘Good chaps, really! Not half so darned superior as they think they are. Quite a human touch – getting that Russian on the boko. Phew! It’s hot!’

  On that first day of the Eton and Harrow match all the forfeited heat of a chilly summer had gathered and shimmered over Michael, on the top of his Bank bus; shimmered over straw hats, and pale, perspiring faces, over endless other buses, businessmen, policemen, shopmen at their doors, sellers of newspapers, laces, jumping toys, endless carts and cabs, letterings and wires, all the confusion of the greatest conglomeration in the world – adjusted almost to a hair’s-breadth, by an unseen instinct. Michael stared and doubted. Was it possible that, with everyone pursuing his own business, absorbed in his own job, the thing could work out? An ant-heap was not busier, or more seemingly confused. Live wires crossed and crossed and crossed – inextricable entanglement, you’d say; and yet, life, the order needful to life, somehow surviving! ‘No slouch of a miracle!’ he thought, ‘modern town life!’ And suddenly it seemed to cease, as if demolished by the ruthless dispensation of some super Sibley Swan; for he was staring down a cul-de-sac. On both sides, flat houses, recently re-buffed, extraordinarily alike; at the end, a flat buff house, even more alike, and down to it, grey virgin pavement, unstained by horses or petrol; no cars, cats, carts, policemen, hawkers, flies, or bees. No sign of human life, except the names of legal firms to right and left of each open doorway.

  ‘“Cuthcott, Kingson and Forsyte, Commissioners for Oaths: First Floor.”’

  ‘Rule Britannia!’ thought Michael, ascending wide stone steps.

  Entering the room to which he had been ushered, he saw an old and pug-faced fellow with a round grizzled beard, a black alpaca coat, and a roomy holland waistcoat round his roomy middle, who rose from a swivel chair.

  ‘Aoh!’ he said, ‘Mr Michael Mont, I think. I’ve been expecting you. We shan’t be long about it, after Mr Forsyte comes. He’s just stepped round the corner. Mrs Michael well, I hope?’

  ‘Thanks; as well as –’

  ‘Ye-es; it makes you anxious. Take a seat. Perhaps you’d like to read the draft?’

  Thus prescribed for, Michael took some foolscap from a pudgy hand, and sat down opposite. With one eye on the old fellow, and the other on the foolscap, he read steadily.

  ‘It seems to mean something,’ he said at last.

  He saw a gape, as a frog at a fly, settle in the beard; and hastened to repair his error.

  ‘Calculating what’s going to happen if something else doesn’t, must be rather like being a bookmaker.’

  He felt at once that he had not succeeded. There was a grumpy mutter:

  ‘We don’t waste our time ’ere. Excuse me, I’m busy.’

  Michael sat, compunctious, watching him tick down a long page of entries. He was like one of those old dogs which lie outside front doors, keeping people off the premises, and notifying their fleas. After less than five minutes of that perfect silence Soames came in.

  ‘You’re here, then?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir; I thought it best to come at the time you mentioned. What a nice cool room!’

  ‘Have you read this?’ asked Soames, pointing to the draft.

  Michael nodded.

  ‘Did you understand it?’

  ‘Up to a point, I think.’

  ‘The interest on this fifty thousand,’ said Soames, ‘is Fleur’s until her eldest child, if it’s a boy, attains the age of twenty-one, when the capital becomes his absolutely. If it’s a girl, Fleur retains half the income for life, the rest of the income becomes payable to the girl when she attains the age of twenty-one or marries, and the capital of that half goes to her child or children lawfully begotten, at majority or marriage, in equal shares. The other half of the capital falls into Fleur’s estate, and is disposable by her will, or follows the laws of intestacy.’

  ‘You make it wonderfully clear,’ said Michael.

  ‘Wait!’ said Soames. ‘If Fleur has no children –’

  Michael started.

  ‘Anything is possible,’ said Soames gravely, ‘and my experience is that the contingencies not provided for are those which happen. In such a case the income of the whole is hers for life, and the capital hers at death to do as she likes with. Failing that, it goes to the next of kin. There are provisions against anticipation and so forth.’

  ‘Ought she to make a fresh will?’ asked Michael, conscious of sweat on his forehead.

  ‘Not unless she likes. Her present will covers it.’

  ‘Have I to do anything?’

  ‘No. I wanted you to understand the purport before I sign; that’s all. Give me the deed, Gradman, and get Wickson in, will you?’

  Michael saw the old chap produce from a drawer a fine piece of parchment covered with copperplate writing and seals, look at it lovingly, and place it before Soames. When he had left the room, Soames said in a low voice:

  ‘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 inquiring.’

  ‘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 Coué 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 thunder-storm.’

  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. Every thing’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 Eleven

  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 a shadow so thick that it seemed uncivilized.

  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 shells, 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 realized. 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 – ?’