Swan Song amc-5

by Джон Голсуорси

  “Good! He’s made quite a nice start. Then if you’ll telephone to Jon, I’ll come tomorrow at ten.” And for yet another day she possessed her soul. On the day after, she nodded at a canvas whose face was to the wall, and asked:

  “Do you find my cousin a good sitter?”

  “No,” said the Rafaelite; “he takes no interest. Got something on his mind, I should think.”

  “He’s a poet, you know,” said Fleur.

  The Rafaelite gave her an epileptic stare. “Poet! His head’s the wrong shape—too much jaw, and the eyes too deep in.”

  “But his hair! Don’t you find him an attractive subject?”

  “Attractive!” replied the Rafaelite—“I paint anything, whether it’s pretty or ugly as sin. Look at Rafael’s Pope—did you ever see a better portrait, or an uglier man? Ugliness is not attractive, but it’s there.”

  “That’s obvious,” said Fleur.

  “I state the obvious. The only real novelties now are platitudes. That’s why my work is important and seems new. People have got so far away from the obvious that the obvious startles them, and nothing else does. I advise you to think that over.”

  “I’m sure there’s a lot in it,” said Fleur.

  “Of course,” said the Rafaelite, “a platitude has to be stated with force and clarity. If you can’t do that, you’d better go on slopping around and playing parlour tricks like the Ga-gaists. They’re a bathetic lot, trying to prove that cocktails are a better drink than old brandy. I met a man last night who told me he’d spent four years writing twenty-two lines of poetry that nobody can understand. How’s that for bathos? But it’ll make him quite a reputation, till somebody writes twenty-three lines in five years still more unintelligible. Hold your head up… Your cousin’s a silent beggar.”

  “Silence is quite a quality,” said Fleur.

  The Rafaelite grinned. “I suppose you think I haven’t got it. But you’re wrong, madam. Not long ago I went a fortnight without opening my lips except to eat and say yes or no. SHE got quite worried.”

  “I don’t think you’re very nice to her,” said Fleur.

  “No, I’m not. She’s after my soul. That’s the worst of women—saving your presence—they’re not content with their own.”

  “Perhaps they haven’t any,” said Fleur.

  “The Mohammedan view—well, there’s certainly something in it. A woman’s always after the soul of a man, a child, or a dog. Men are content with wanting bodies.”

  “I’m more interested in your platitudinal theory, Mr. Blade.”

  “Can’t afford to be interested in the other? Eh! Strikes home? Turn your shoulder a bit, will you? No, to the left… Well, it’s a platitude that a woman always wants some other soul—only people have forgotten it. Look at the Sistine Madonna! The baby has a soul of its own, and the Madonna’s floating on the soul of the baby. That’s what makes it a great picture, apart from the line and colour. It states a great platitude; but nobody sees it, now. None of the cognoscenti, anyway—they’re too far gone.”

  “What platitude are you going to state in your picture of me?”

  “Don’t you worry,” said the Rafaelite. “There’ll be one all right when it’s finished, though I shan’t know what it is while I’m at it. Character will out, you know. Like a rest?”

  “Enormously. What platitude did you express in the portrait of my cousin’s wife?”

  “Coo Lummy!” said the Rafaelite. “Some catechism!”

  “You surely didn’t fail with that picture? Wasn’t it platitudinous?”

  “It got her all right. She’s not a proper American.”

  “How?”

  “Throws back to something—Irish, perhaps, or Breton. There’s nymph in her.”

  “She was brought up in the backwoods, I believe,” said Fleur, acidly.

  The Rafaelite eyed her.

  “You don’t like the lady?”

  “Certainly I do, but haven’t you noticed that picturesque people are generally tame? And my cousin—what’s his platitude to be?”

  “Conscience,” said the Rafaelite; “that young man will go far on the straight and narrow. He worries.”

  A sharp movement shook all Fleur’s silver bells.

  “What a dreadful prophecy! Shall I stand again?”

  Chapter IV.

  TALK IN A CAR

  For yet one more day Fleur possessed her soul; then, at the morning’s sitting, accidentally left her vanity bag, behind her, in the studio. She called for it the same afternoon. Jon had not gone. Just out of the sitter’s chair, he was stretching himself and yawning.

  “Go on, Jon! Every morning I wish I had your mouth. Mr. Blade, I left my bag; it’s got my cheque book in it, and I shall want it down at Dorking to-night: By the way, I shall be half an hour late for my sitting tomorrow, I’m afraid. Did you know I was your fellow victim, Jon? We’ve been playing ‘Box and Cox.’ How are you? I hear Anne’s got a cold. Give her my sympathy. Is the picture going well? Might I have a peep, Mr. Blade, and see how the platitude is coming out? Oh! It’s going to be splendid! I can quite see the line.”

  “Can you?” said the Rafaelite: “I can’t.”

  “Here’s my wretched bag! If you’ve finished, Jon, I could run you out as far as Dorking; you’d catch an earlier train. Do come and cheer me on my way. Haven’t seen you for such ages!”

  Threading over Hammersmith Bridge, Fleur regained the self-possession she had never seemed to lose. She spoke lightly of light matters, letting Jon grow accustomed to proximity.

  “I go down every evening about this time, to see to my chores, and drive up in the morning early. So any afternoon you like I can take you as far as Dorking. Why shouldn’t we see a little of each other in a friendly way, Jon?”

  “When we do, it doesn’t seem to make for happiness, Fleur.”

  “My dear boy, what is happiness? Surely life should be as harmlessly full as it can be?”

  “Harmlessly!”

  “The Rafaelite says you have a terrible conscience, Jon.”

  “The Rafaelite’s a bounder.”

  “Yes; but a clever one. You HAVE changed, you usen’t to have that line between your eyes, and your jaw’s getting too strong. Look, Jon dear, be a friend to me—as they say, and we won’t think of anything else. I always like Wimbledon Common—it hasn’t been caught up yet. Have you bought that farm?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Let’s go by way of Robin Hill, and look at it through the trees? It might inspire you to a poem.”

  “I shall never write any more verse. It’s quite gone.”

  “Nonsense, Jon. You only want stirring up. Don’t I drive well, considering I’ve only been at it five weeks?”

  “You do everything well, Fleur.”

  “You say that as if you disapproved. Do you know we’d never danced together before that night at Nettlefold? Shall we ever dance together again?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Optimistic Jon! That’s right—smile! Look! Is that the church where you were baptized?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Oh! No. That was the period, of course, when people were serious about those things. I believe I was done twice over—R.C. and Anglican. That’s why I’m not so religious as you, Jon.”

  “Religious? I’m not religious.”

  “I fancy you ARE. You have moral backbone, anyway.”

  “Really!”

  “Jon, you remind me of American notices outside their properties—‘Stop—look—take care—keep out!’ I suppose you think me a frightful butterfly.”

  “No, Fleur. Far from it. The butterfly has no knowledge of a straight line between two points.”

  “Now what do you mean by that?”

  “That you set your heart on things.”

  “Did you get that from the Rafaelite?”

  “No, but he confirmed it.”

  “He did—did he? That young man talks too much. Has he expounded to you his theory that
a woman must possess the soul of someone else, and that a man is content with bodies?”

  “He has.”

  “Is it true?”

  “I hate to agree with him, but I think it is, in a way.”

  “Well, I can tell you there are plenty of women about now who keep their own souls and are content with other people’s bodies.”

  “Are you one of them, Fleur?”

  “Ask me another! There’s Robin Hill!”

  The fount of Forsyte song and story stood grey and imposing among its trees, with the sinking sun aslant on a front where green sunblinds were still down.

  Jon sighed. “I had a lovely time there.”

  “Till I came and spoiled it.”

  “No; that’s blasphemy.”

  Fleur touched his arm.

  “That’s nice of you, dear Jon. You always were nice, and I shall always love you—in a harmless way. The coppice looks jolly. God had a brain-wave when he invented larches.”

  “Yes, Holly says that the coppice was my grandfather’s favourite spot.”

  “Old Jolyon—who wouldn’t marry his beloved, because she was consumptive?”

  “I never heard that. But he was a great old fellow, my mother and father adored him.”

  “I’ve seen his photograph—don’t get a chin like his, Jon! The Forsytes all have such chins. June’s frightens me.”

  “June is one of the best people on earth.”

  “Oh! Jon, you are horribly loyal.”

  “Is that an offence?”

  “It makes everything terribly earnest in a world that isn’t worth it. No, don’t quote Longfellow. When you get home, shall you tell Anne you’ve been driving with me?”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s uneasy about me as it is, isn’t she? You needn’t answer, Jon. But I think it’s unfair of her. I want so little, and you’re so safe.”

  “Safe?” It seemed to Fleur that he closed his teeth on the word, and for a moment she was happy.

  “Now you’ve got your lion-cub look. Do lion-cubs have consciences? It’s going to be rather interesting for the Rafaelite. I think your conscience might stop before telling Anne, though. It’s a pity to worry her if she has a talent for uneasiness.” Then, by the silence at her side, she knew she had made a mistake.

  “This is where I put in my clutch,” she said, “as they say in the ‘bloods!’” And through Epsom and Leatherhead they travelled in silence.

  “Do you love England as much as ever, Jon?”

  “More.”

  “It IS a gorgeous country.”

  “The last word I should have used—a great and lovely country.”

  “Michael says its soul is grass.”

  “Yes, and if I get my farm, I’ll break some up, all right.”

  “I can’t see you as a real farmer.”

  “You can’t see me as a real anything—I suppose. – Just an amateur.”

  “Don’t be horrid! I mean you’re too sensitive to be a farmer.”

  “No. I want to get down to the earth, and I will.”

  “You must be a throw-back, Jon. The primeval Forsytes were farmers. My father wants to take me down and show me where they lived.”

  “Have you jumped at it?”

  “I’m not sentimental; haven’t you realised that? I wonder if you’ve realised anything about me?” And drooping forward over her wheel, she murmured: “Oh! it’s a pity we have to talk like this!”

  “I said it wouldn’t work!”

  “No, you’ve got to let me see you sometimes, Jon. This is harmless enough. I must and will see you now and then. It’s owed to me!”

  Tears stood in her eyes, and rolled slowly down. She felt Jon touch her arm.

  “Oh! Fleur, don’t!”

  “I’ll put you out at North Dorking now, you’ll just catch the five forty-six. That’s my house. Next time I must show you over it. I’m trying to be good, Jon; and you must help me… Well, here we are! Good-bye, dear Jon; and don’t worry Anne about me, I beseech you!”

  A hard handgrip, and he was gone. Fleur turned from the station and drove slowly back along the road.

  She put away the car, and entered her “Rest House.” It was full, late holiday time still, and seven young women were resting limbs, tired out in the service of “Petter, Poplin,” and their like.

  They were at supper, and a cheery buzz assailed Fleur’s ears. These girls had nothing, and she had everything, except—the one thing that she chiefly wanted. For a moment she felt ashamed, listening to their talk and laughter. No! She would not change with them—and yet without that one thing she felt as if she could not live. And, while she went about the house, sifting the flowers, ordering for tomorrow, inspecting the bedrooms, laughter, cheery and uncontrolled, floated up and seemed to mock her.

  Chapter V.

  MORE TALK IN A CAR

  Jon had too little sense of his own importance to be simultaneously loved with comfort to himself by two pretty and attractive young women. He drove home from Pulborough, where now daily he parked Val’s car, with a sore heart and a mind distraught. He had seen Fleur six times since his return to England, in a sort of painful crescendo. That dance with her had disclosed to him her state of heart, but still he did not suspect her of consciously pursuing him; and no amount of heart-searching seemed to make his own feelings clearer. Ought he to tell Anne about today’s meeting? In many small and silent ways she had shown that she was afraid of Fleur. Why add to her fears without real cause? The portrait was not his own doing, and only for the next few days was he likely to be seeing Fleur. After that they would meet, perhaps, two or three times a year. “Don’t tell Anne—I beseech you!” Could he tell her after that? Surely he owed Fleur that much consideration. She had never consented to give him up; she had not fallen in love with Michael, as he with Anne. Still undecided, he reached Wansdon. His mother had once said to him: “You must never tell a lie, Jon, your face will always give you away.” And so, though he did not tell Anne, her eyes following him about noted that he was keeping something from her. Her cold was in the bronchial stage, so that she was still upstairs, and tense from lack of occupation. Jon came up early again after dinner, and began to read to her. He read from ‘The Worst Journey in the World,’ and on her side she lay with her face pillowed on her arm and watched him over it. The smoke of a wood fire, the scent of balsamic remedies, the drone of his own voice, retailing that epic of a penguin’s egg, drowsed him till the book dropped from his hand.

  “Have a snooze Jon, you’re tired.” Jon lay back, but he did not snooze. He thought instead. In this girl, his wife, he knew well that there was what her brother, Francis Wilmot, called ‘sand.’ She knew how to be silent when shoes pinched. He had watched her making up her mind that she was in danger; and now it seemed to him that she was biding her time. Anne always knew what she wanted. She had a singleness of purpose not confused like Fleur’s by the currents of modernity, and she was resolute. Youth in her South Carolinian home had been simple and self-reliant; and unlike most American girls, she had not had too good a time. It had been a shock to her, he knew, that she was not his first love and that his first love was still in love with him. She had shown her uneasiness at once, but now, he felt, she had closed her guard. And Jon could not help knowing, too, that she was still deeply in love with him for all that they had been married two years. He had often heard that American girls seldom really knew the men they married; but it seemed to him sometimes that Anne knew him better than he knew himself. If so, what did she know? What was he? He wanted to do something useful with his life; he wanted to be loyal and kind. But was it all just wanting? Was he a fraud? Not what she thought him? It was all confused and heavy in his mind, like the air in the room. No use thinking! Better to snooze, as Anne said—better to snooze! He woke and said:

  “Hallo! Was I snoring?”

  “No. But you were twitching like a dog, Jon.”

  Jon got up and went to the window.

  “I was dr
eaming. It’s a beautiful night. A fine September’s the pick of the year.”

  “Yes; I love the ‘fall.’ Is your mother coming over soon?”

  “Not until we’re settled in. I believe she thinks we’re better without her.”

  “Your mother would always feel she was de trop before she was.”

  “That’s on the right side, anyway.”

  “Yes, I wonder if I should.”

  Jon turned. She was sitting up, staring in front of her, frowning. He went over and kissed her.

  “Careful of your chest, darling!” and he pulled up the clothes.

  She lay back, gazing up at him; and again he wondered what she saw…

  He was met next day by June’s: “So Fleur was here yesterday and gave you a lift! I told her what I thought this morning.”

  “What DID you think?” said Jon.

  “That it mustn’t begin again. She’s a spoiled child not to be trusted.”

  His eyes moved angrily.

  “You’d better leave Fleur alone.”

  “I always leave people alone,” said June; “but this is my house, and I had to speak my mind.”

  “I’d better stop sitting then.”

  “Now, don’t be silly, Jon. Of course you can’t stop sitting—neither of you. Harold would be frightfully upset.”

  “Damn Harold!”

  June took hold of his lapel.

  “That’s not what I mean at all. The pictures are going to be splendid. I only meant that you mustn’t meet here.”

  “Did you tell Fleur that?”

  “Yes.”

  Jon laughed, and the sound of the laugh was hard.

  “We’re not children, June.”

  “Have you told Anne?”

  “No.”

  “There, you see!”

  “What?”

  His face had become stubborn and angry.

  “You’re very like your father and grandfather, Jon—they couldn’t bear to be told anything.”

  “Can YOU?”

  “Of course, when it’s necessary.”

  “Then please don’t interfere.”