The Forsyte Saga, Volume 2

by John Galsworthy

  The afternoon wore on, and he saw nothing of his daughter. It was as if she suspected his design of watching over her. There was the ‘horse of the century’ running in the Gold Cup, and he positively mustn’t miss that – they said. So again Soames was led to the ring where the horses were moving round.

  ‘That the animal?’ he said, pointing to a tall mare, whom, by reason of two white ankles, he was able to distinguish from the others. Nobody answered him, and he perceived that he was separated from Winifred and the Cardigans by three persons, all looking at him with a certain curiosity.

  ‘Here he comes!’ said one of them. Soames turned his head. Oh! So this was the horse of the century, was it? – this bay fellow – same colour as the pair they used to drive in the Park Lane barouche. His father always had bays, because old Jolyon had browns, and Nicholas blacks, and Swithin greys, and Roger – he didn’t remember what Roger used to have – something a bit eccentric – piebalds, he shouldn’t wonder. Sometimes they would talk about horses, or, rather, about what they had given for them: Swithin had been a judge, or so he said – Soames had never believed it, he had never believed in Swithin at all. But he could perfectly well remember George being run away with by his pony in the Row, and pitched into a flower-bed – no one had ever been able to explain how; just like George, with his taste for the grotesque! He himself had never taken any interest in horses. Irene, of course, had loved riding – she would! She had never had any after she married him…. A voice said:

  ‘Well, what do you think of him, Uncle Soames?’

  Val, with his confounded grin; Jack Cardigan, too, and a thin, brown-faced man with a nose and chin. Soames said guardedly:

  ‘Nice enough nag.’

  If they thought they were going to get a rise out of him!

  ‘Think he’ll stay, Val? It’s the deuce of a journey.’

  ‘He’ll stay all right.’

  ‘Got nothing to beat,’ said the thin brown man.

  ‘The Frenchman, Greenwater.’

  ‘No class, Captain Cardigan. He’s not all the horse they think him, but he can’t lose today.’

  ‘Well, I hope to God he beats the Frenchman; we want a cup or two left in the country.’

  Something responded within Soames’s breast If it was against a Frenchman, he would do his best to help.

  ‘Put me five pounds on him,’ he said suddenly to Jack Cardigan.

  ‘Good for you, Uncle Soames. He’ll start about evens. See his head and his forehead and the way he’s let down – lots of heart room. Not quite so good behind the saddle, but a great horse, I think.’

  ‘Which is the Frenchman?’ asked Soames. ‘That! Oh! Ah! I don’t like him. I want to see this race.’

  Jack Cardigan gripped his arm – the fellow’s fingers were like iron.

  ‘You come along with me!’ he said. Soames went, was put up higher than he had been yet, given Imogen’s glasses – a present from himself – and left there. He was surprised to find how well and far he could see. What a lot of cars, and what a lot of people! ‘The national pastime’ – didn’t they call it? Here came the horses walking past, each led by a man. Well I They were pretty creatures, no doubt! An English horse against a French horse – that gave the thing some meaning. He was glad Annette was still with her mother in France, otherwise she’d have been here with him. Now they were cantering past. Soames made a real effort to tell one from the other, but except for their numbers, they were so confoundedly alike. ‘No,’ he said to himself, ‘I’ll just watch those two, and that tall horse’ – its name had appealed to him, Pons Asinorum. Rather painfully he got the colours of the three by heart and fixed his glasses on the wheeling group out there at the starting-point. As soon as they were off, however, all he could see was that one horse was in front of the others. Why had he gone to the trouble of learning the colours? On and on and on he watched them, worried because he could make nothing of it, and everybody else seemed making a good deal. Now they were round into the straight. “The favourite’s coming up!’ ‘Look at the Frenchman!’ Soames could see the colours now. Those two! His hand shook a little and he dropped his glasses. Here they came – a regular ding-dong I Dash it – he wasn’t – England wasn’t! Yes, by George ! No!

  Yes! Entirely without approval his heart was beating painfully. ‘Absurd!’ he thought. “The Frenchman!’ ‘No! the favourite wins! He wins!’ Almost opposite the horse was shooting out. Good horse! Hooray! England for ever! Soames covered his mouth just in time to prevent the words escaping. Somebody said something to him. He paid no attention; and, carefully putting Imogen’s glasses into their case, took off his grey hat and looked into it. There was nothing there except a faint discoloration of the buff leather where he had perspired.

  Chapter Three

  THE TWO-YEAR-OLDS

  THE toilet of the two-year-olds was proceeding in the more unfrequented portions of the paddock.

  ‘Come and see Rondavel saddled, Jon,’ said Fleur.

  And, when he looked back, she laughed.

  ‘No, you’ve got Anne all day and all night. Come with me for a change.’

  On the far side of the paddock the son of Sleeping Dove was holding high his intelligent head, and his bit was being gently jiggled, while Greenwater with his own hands adjusted the saddle.

  ‘A race-horse has about the best time of anything on earth,’ she heard Jon say. ‘Look at his eye – wise, bright, not bored. Draft horses have a cynical, long-suffering look – race-horses never. He likes his job; that keeps him spirity.’

  ‘Don’t talk like a pamphlet, Jon. Did you expect to see me here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it didn’t keep you away? How brave!’

  ‘Must you say that sort of thing?’

  ‘What then? You notice, Jon, that a race-horse never stands over at the knee; the reason is, of course, that he isn’t old enough. By the way, there’s one thing that spoils your raptures about them. They’re not free agents.’

  ‘Is anyone?’

  How set and obstinate his face!

  They joined Val, who said gloomily:

  ‘D’you want to have anything on?’

  ‘Do you, Jon?’ said Fleur.

  ‘Yes; a tenner.’

  ‘So will I then. Twenty pounds between us, Val.’

  Val sighed.

  ‘Look at him! Ever see a two-year–old more self-contained? I tell you that youngster’s going far. And I’m confined to a miserable “pony” ! Damn!’

  He left them and spoke to Greenwater.

  ‘More self-contained,’ said Fleur. ‘Not a modern quality, is it, Jon?’

  ‘Perhaps, underneath.’

  ‘Oh! You’ve been in the backwoods too long. Francis, too, was wonderfully primitive; so, I suppose, is Anne. You should have tried New York, judging by their literature.’

  ‘I don’t judge by literature; I don’t believe there’s any relation between it and life.’

  ‘Let’s hope not, anyway. Where shall we see the race from?’

  ‘The rails over there. It’s the finish I care about. I don’t see Anne.’

  Fleur closed her lips suddenly on the words: ‘Damn Anne.’

  ‘We can’t wait for them,’ she said. ‘The rails soon fill up.’

  On the rails they were almost opposite the winning-post, and they stood there silent, in a queer sort of enmity – it seemed to Fleur.

  ‘Here they come!’

  Too quickly and too close to be properly taken in, the two-year-olds come cantering past.

  Rondavel goes well,’ said Jon. ‘And I like that brown.’

  Fleur noted them languidly, too conscious of being alone with him – really alone, blocked off by strangers from any knowing eye. To savour that loneliness of so few minutes was tasking all her faculties. She slipped her hand through his arm, and forced her voice.

  ‘I’m awfully worked up, Jon. He simply must win.’

  Did he know that in focusing his glasses he left her hand
uncaged?

  ‘I can’t make them out from here.’ Then his arm recaged her hand against his side. Did he know? What did he know?

  ‘They’re off!’

  Fleur pressed closer.

  Silence – din – shouting of this name – that name! But pressure against him was all it meant to Fleur. Past they came, a flourishing flash of colour; but she saw nothing of it, for her eyes were closed.

  ‘By Gosh!’ she heard him say: ‘He’s won.’

  ‘Oh, Jon!’

  ‘I wonder what price we got?’

  Fleur looked at him, a spot of red in each pale cheek, and her eyes very clear.

  ‘Price? Did you really mean that, Jon?’

  And, though he was behind her, following to the paddock she knew from the way his eyes were fixed on her, that he had not meant it.

  They found their party reunited, all but Soames. Jack Cardigan was explaining that the price obtained was unaccountably short, since there was no stable money on to speak of; somebody must have known something; he seemed to think that this was extremely reprehensible.

  ‘I suppose Uncle Soames hasn’t been going for the gloves,’ he said. ‘Nobody’s seen him since the Gold Cup. Wouldn’t it be ripping if we found he’d kicked over and had a “monkey” on?’

  Fleur said uneasily:

  ‘I expect Father got tired and went to the car. We’d better go too, Auntie, and get away before the crowd.’

  She turned to Anne. ‘When shall we see you again?’ She saw the girl look at Jon, and heard him say glumly:

  ‘Oh! sometime.’

  ‘Yes, we’ll fix something up. Good-bye, my dear! Good-bye, Jon! Tell Val I’m very glad.’ And, with a farewell nod, she led the way. Of a sort of rage in her heart she gave no sign, preparing normality for her father’s eyes.

  Soames, indeed, was in the car. Excitement over the Gold Cup – so contrary to his principles – had caused him to sit down in the stand. And there he had remained during the next two races, idly watching the throng below, and the horses going down fast and coming back faster. There, quietly, in the isolation suited to his spirit, he could, if not enjoy, at least browse on a scene strikingly unf amiliar to him. The national pastime – he knew that everybody had ‘a bit on’ something nowadays. For one person who ever went racing there were twenty –it seemed – who didn’t, and yet knew at least enough to lose their money. You couldn’t buy a paper, or have your hair cut, without being conscious of that. All over London, and the South, the Midlands and the North, in all classes, they were at it, supporting horses with their bobs and dollars and sovereigns. Most of them – he believed – had never seen a race – horse in their lives – hardly a horse of any sort; racing was a sort of religion, he supposed, and now that they were going to tax it, an orthodox religion. Some primeval nonconformity in the blood of Soames shuddered a little. He had no sympathy, of course, with those leather-lunged chaps down there under their queer hats, and their umbrellas, but the feeling that they were now made free of heaven – or at least of that synonym of heaven the modern state – ruffled him. It was almost as if England were facing realities at last – Very dangerous! They would be licensing prostitution next! To tax what were called vices was to admit that they were part of human nature. And though, like a Forsyte, he had long known them to be so, to admit it was, he felt, too French. To acknowledge the limitations of human nature was a sort of defeatism; when you once began that, you didn’t know where you’d stop. Still, from all he could see, the tax would bring in a pretty penny – and pennies were badly needed; so, he didn’t know, he wasn’t sure. He wouldn’t have done it himself, but he wasn’t prepared to turn out the Government for having done it. They had recognized, too, no doubt, as he did, that gambling was the greatest make-weight there was against revolution; so long as a man could bet he had always a chance of getting something for nothing, and that desire was the real driving force behind any attempt to turn things upside down. Besides you had to move with the times uphill or downhill, and it was difficult to tell one from the other. The great thing was to avoid extremes.

  From this measured reflection he was abruptly transferred to feelings unmeasured. Fleur and that young fellow were walking across there down to the rails! From under the brim of his grey hat he watched them painfully, reluctantly admitting that they made as pretty a couple as any there. They came to a stand on the rails – not talking; and to Soames, who, when moved, was exceptionally taciturn, this seemed a bad sign. Were things really going wrong, then – was passion forming within its still cocoon to fly on butterfly things for its brief hour? What was going on within the silence of those two? The horses were passing now; and the grey, they said, was his own nephew’s? Why did the fellow have horses? He had known how it would be when Fleur said he was going to Ascot. He regretted now having come. No, he didn’t! Better to know what there was to be known. In the press of people to the rails he could no longer see more than the young man’s grey hat, and the black-and–white covering of his daughter’s head. For a minute the race diverted him: might as well see Val’s horse well beaten. They said he thought a lot of it; and Soames thought the less of its chance for that. Here they came, all in a bunch – thundering great troop, and that grey – a handy colour, you couldn’t miss it. Why, he was winning! Hang it – he had won!

  ‘H’m!’ he said aloud: ‘that’s my nephew’s horse!’

  Since nobody replied, he hoped they hadn’t heard. And back went his eyes to those two on the rails. Yes, they were coming away silently – Fleur a little in front. Perhaps – perhaps, after all, they didn’t get on, now! Must hope for the best. By George, but he felt tired! He would go to the car, and wait.

  And there in the dusk of it he was sitting when they came, full of bubble and squeak – something very little-headed about people when they’d won money. For they had all won money, it seemed!

  ‘And you didn’t back him, Uncle Soames?’

  ‘I was thinking of other things,’ said Soames, gazing at his daughter.

  ‘We thought you were responsible for the shockin’ bad price.’

  ‘Why!’ said Soames, gloomily. ‘Did you expect me to bet against him?’

  Jack Cardigan threw back his head and laughed.

  ‘I don’t see anything funny,’ muttered Soames.

  ‘Nor do I, Jack,’ said Fleur. ‘Why should Father know anything about racing?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir, I’ll tell you all about it.’

  ‘God forbid!’ said Soames.

  ‘No, but it’s rather queer. D’you remember that chap Stain-ford, who sneaked the Mater’s snuff-box?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, it seems he paid Val a visit at Wansdon, and Val thinks he picked up the idea that Rondavel was a real good one. There was a chap watching the gallop last Monday. That’s what decided them to run the colt today. They were going to wait for Goodwood. Too late, though; somebody’s made a pot over him. We only got fours.’

  It was all Greek to Soames, except that the languid ruffian Stainford had somehow been responsible a second time for bringing about a meeting between Fleur and Jon; for he knew from Winifred that Val and his ménage had gone to stay at Green Street during the strike on purpose to see Stainford. He wished to goodness he had called a policeman that day, and had the fellow shut up.

  They were a long time getting out of the traffic – owing to the perversity of ‘that chap Riggs’, and did not reach South Square till seven o’clock. They were greeted by the news that Kit had a temperature. Mr Mont was with him. Fleur flew up. Having washed off his day, Soames settled himself in the ‘parlour’ to wait uneasily for their report. Fleur used to have temperatures, and not infrequendy they led to something. If Kit’s didn’t lead to anything serious, it might be good for her – keeping her thoughts at home. He lay back in his chair opposite the Fragon-ard – a delicate thing, but with no soul in it, like all the works of that period – wondering why Fleur had changed the style of this room from Chinese to
Louise Quinze. Just for the sake of change, he supposed. These young people had no continuity; some microbe in the blood – of the ‘idle rich’, and the ‘idle poor’, and everybody else, so far as he could see. Nobody could be got to stay anywhere – not even in their graves, judging by all those séances. If only people would attend quietly to their business, even to that of being dead! They had such an appetite for living, that they had no life. A beam of sunlight, smoky with dust-motes, came slanting in on to the wall before him – pretty thing, a beam of sunlight, but a terrible lot of dust, even in a room spick-and–spandy as this. And to think that a thing smaller than one of those dust-motes could give a child a temperature. He hoped to goodness Kit had nothing catching. And his mind went over the illnesses of childhood – mumps, measles, chicken-pox, whooping-cough. Fleur had caught them all, but never scarlet fever. And Soames began to fidget. Surely Kit was too young to have got scarlet fever. But nurses were so careless – you never knew! And suddenly he began to wish for Annette. What was she doing in France all this time? She was useful in illness; had some very good prescriptions. He would say that for the French – their doctors were clever when you could get them to take an interest. The stuff they had given him for his lumbago at Deauville had been first-rate. And after his visit the little doctor chap had said: ‘I come for the money tomorrow!’ or so it had sounded. It seemed he had meant: ‘I come in the morning tomorrow.’ They never could speak anything but their own confounded language, and looked aggrieved when you couldn’t speak it yourself.

  They had kept him a long time there without news before Michael came in.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, sir, it looks uncommonly like measles.’

  ‘H’m! Now, how on earth did he get that?’

  ‘Nurse has no idea; but Kit’s awfully sociable. If there’s another in sight, he goes for him.’

  ‘That’s bad,’ said Soames. ‘You’ve got slums at the back here.’