The Forsyte Saga, Volume 1 Read online

  The Haymans again – Mrs Hayman was the one married Forsyte sister – in a house high up on Campden Hill, shaped like a giraffe, and so tall that it gave the observer a crick in the neck; the Nicholases in Ladbroke Grove, a spacious abode and a great bargain; and last, but not least, Timothy’s on the Bays-water Road, where Ann, and Juley, and Hester lived under his protection.

  But all this time James was musing, and now he inquired of his host and brother what he had given for that house in Montpelier Square. He himself had had his eye on a house there for the last two years, but they wanted such a price.

  Old Jolyon recounted the details of his purchase.

  ‘Twenty-two years to run?’ repeated James; ‘the very house I was after – you’ve given too much for it!’

  Old Jolyon frowned.

  ‘It’s not that I want it,’ said James hastily; ‘wouldn’t suit my purpose at that price. Soames knows the house, well – he’ll tell you it’s too dear – his opinion’s worth having.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said old Jolyon, ‘care a fig for his opinion.’

  ‘Well,’ murmured James, ‘you will have your own way – it’s a good opinion. Good-bye! We’re going to drive down to Hurlingham. They tell me June’s going to Wales. You’ll be lonely tomorrow. What’ll you do with yourself? You’d better come and dine with us!’

  Old Jolyon refused. He went down to the front door and saw them into their barouche, and twinkled at them, having already forgotten his spleen – Mrs James facing the horses, tall and majestic with auburn hair; on her left, Irene – the two husbands, father and son, sitting forward, as though they expected something, opposite their wives. Bobbing and bounding upon the spring cushions, silent, swaying to each motion of their chariot, old Jolyon watched them drive away under the sunlight.

  During the drive the silence was broken by Mrs James.

  ‘Did you ever see such a collection of rumty-too people?’

  Soames, glancing at her beneath his eyelids, nodded, and he saw Irene steal at him one of her unfathomable looks. It is likely enough that each branch of the Forsyte family made that remark as they drove away from old Jolyon’s ‘at home’.

  Amongst the last of the departing guests the fourth and fifth brothers, Nicholas and Roger, walked away together, directing their steps alongside Hyde Park towards the Praed Street station of the Underground. Like all other Forsytes of a certain age they kept carriages of their own, and never took cabs if by any means they could avoid it.

  The day was bright, the trees of the Park in the full beauty of mid-June foliage; the brothers did not seem to notice phenomena, which contributed, nevertheless, to the jauntiness of promenade and conversation.

  ‘Yes,’ said Roger, ‘she’s a good-lookin’ woman, that wife of Soames’s. I’m told they don’t get on.’

  This brother had a high forehead, and the freshest colour of any of the Forsytes; his light grey eyes measured the street frontage of the houses by the way, and now and then he would level his umbrella and take a ‘lunar’, as he expressed it, of the varying heights.

  ‘She’d no money,’ replied Nicholas.

  He himself had married a good deal of money, of which, it being then the golden age before the Married Women’s Property Act, he had mercifully been enabled to make a successful use.

  ‘What was her father?’

  ‘Heron was his name, a Professor, so they tell me.’

  Roger shook his head.

  ‘There’s no money in that,’ he said.

  ‘They say her mother’s father was cement.’

  Roger’s face brightened.

  ‘But he went bankrupt,’ went on Nicholas.

  ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Roger, ‘Soames will have trouble with her; you mark my words, he’ll have trouble – she’s got a foreign look.’

  Nicholas licked his lips.

  ‘She’s a pretty woman,’ and he waved aside a crossing-sweeper.

  ‘How did he get hold of her?’ asked Roger presently. ‘She must cost him a pretty penny in dress!’

  ‘Ann tells me,’ replied Nicholas, ‘he was half-cracked about her. She refused him five times. James, he’s nervous about it, I can see.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Roger again; ‘I’m sorry for James; he had trouble with Dartie.’ His pleasant colour was heightened by exercise, he swung his umbrella to the level of his eye more frequently than ever. Nicholas’s face also wore a pleasant look.

  ‘Too pale for me,’ he said, ‘but her figure’s capital!’

  Roger made no reply.

  ‘I call her distinguished-looking,’ he said at last – it was the highest praise in the Forsyte vocabulary. ‘That young Bosinney will never do any good for himself. They say at Burkitt’s he’s one of these artistic chaps – got an idea of improving English architecture; there’s no money in that! I should like to hear what Timothy would say to it.’

  They entered the station.

  ‘What class are you going? I go second.’

  ‘No second for me,’ said Nicholas; ‘you never know what you may catch.’

  He took a first-class ticket to Notting Hill Gate; Roger a second to South Kensington. The train coming in a minute later, the two brothers parted and entered their respective compartments. Each felt aggrieved that the other had not modified his habits to secure his society a little longer; but as Roger voiced it in his thoughts:

  ‘Always a stubborn beggar, Nick!’

  And as Nicholas expressed it to himself:

  ‘Cantankerous chap Roger always was!’

  There was little sentimentality about the Forsytes. In that great London, which they had conquered and become merged in, what time had they to be sentimental?

  Chapter Two

  OLD JOLYON GOES TO THE OPERA

  AT five o’clock the following day old Jolyon sat alone, a cigar between his lips, and on a table by his side a cup of tea. He was tired, and before he had finished his cigar he fell asleep. A fly settled on his hair, his breathing sounded heavy in the drowsy silence, his upper lip under the white moustache puffed in and out. From between the fingers of his veined and wrinkled hand the cigar, dropping on the empty hearth, burned itself out.

  The gloomy little study, with windows of stained glass to exclude the view, was full of dark green velvet and heavily-carved mahogany – a suite of which old Jolyon was wont to say: ‘Shouldn’t wonder if it made a big price some day!’

  It was pleasant to think that in the after life he could get more for things than he had given.

  In the rich brown atmosphere peculiar to back rooms in the mansion of a Forsyte, the Rembrandtesque effect of his great head, with its white hair, against the cushion of his high-backed seat, was spoiled by the moustache, which imparted a somewhat military look to his face. An old clock that had been with him since before his marriage fifty years ago kept with its ticking a jealous record of the seconds slipping away for ever from its old master.

  He had never cared for this room, hardly going into it from one year’s end to another, except to take cigars from the Japanese cabinet in the corner, and the room now had its revenge.

  His temples, curving like thatches over the hollows beneath, his cheekbones and chin, all were sharpened in his sleep, and there had come upon his face the confession that he was an old man.

  He woke. June had gone! James had said he would be lonely. James had always been a poor thing. He recollected with satisfaction that he had bought that house over James’s head. Serve him right for sticking at the price; the only thing the fellow thought of was money. Had he given too much, though? It wanted a lot of doing to – He dared say he would want all his money before he had done with this affair of June’s. He ought never to have allowed the engagement. She had met this Bosinney at the house of Baynes – Baynes and Bildeboy, the architects. He believed that Baynes, whom he knew – a bit of an old woman – was the young man’s uncle by marriage. After that she’d been always running after him; and when she took a thing into her head there was no stopping her.
She was continually taking up with ‘lame ducks’ of one sort or another. This fellow had no money, but she must needs become engaged to him – a harum-scarum, unpractical chap, who would get himself into no end of difficulties.

  She had come to him one day in her slap-dash way and told him; and, as if it were any consolation, she had added:

  ‘He’s so splendid; he’s often lived on cocoa for a week!’

  ‘And he wants you to live on cocoa too?’

  ‘Oh no; he is getting into the swim now.’

  Old Jolyon had taken his cigar from under his white moustache, stained by coffee at the edge, and looked at her, that little slip of a thing who had got such a grip of his heart. He knew more about ‘swims’ than his granddaughter. But she, having clasped her hands on his knees, rubbed her chin against him, making a sound like a purring cat. And, knocking the ash off his cigar, he had exploded in nervous desperation:

  ‘You’re all alike; you won’t be satisfied till you’ve got what you want. If you must come to grief, you must; I wash my hands of it.’

  So, he had washed his hands of it, making the condition that they should not marry until Bosinney had at least four hundred a year.

  ‘I shan’t be able to give you very much,’ he had said, a formula to which June was not unaccustomed. ‘Perhaps this What’s-his-name will provide the cocoa.’

  He had hardly seen anything of her since it began. A bad business! He had no notion of giving her a lot of money to enable a fellow he knew nothing about to live on in idleness. He had seen that sort of thing before; no good ever came of it. Worst of all, he had no hope of shaking her resolution; she was as obstinate as a mule, always had been from a child. He didn’t see where it was to end. They must cut their coat according to their cloth. He would not give way till he saw young Bosinney with an income of his own. That June would have trouble with the fellow was as plain as a pikestaff; he had no more idea of money than a cow. As to this rushing down to Wales to visit the young man’s aunts, he fully expected they were old cats.

  And, motionless, old Jolyon stared at the wall; but for his open eyes, he might have been asleep.… The idea of supposing that young cub Soames could give him advice! He had always been a cub, with his nose in the air! He would be setting up as a man of property next, with a place in the country! A man of property! H’mph! Like his father, he was always nosing out bargains, a cold-blooded young beggar!

  He rose, and, going to the cabinet, began methodically stocking his cigar-case from a bundle fresh in. They were not bad at the price, but you couldn’t get a good cigar nowadays, nothing to hold a candle to those old Superfinos of Hanson and Bridger’s. That was a cigar!

  The thought, like some stealing perfume, carried him back to those wonderful nights at Richmond when after dinner he sat smoking on the terrace of the Crown and Sceptre with Nicholas Treffry and Traquair and Jack Herring and Anthony Thornworthy. How good his cigars were then. Poor old Nick! – dead, and Jack Herring – dead, and Traquair – dead of that wife of his, and Thornworthy – awfully shaky (no wonder, with his appetite).

  Of all the company of those days he himself alone seemed left, except Swithin, of course, and he so outrageously big there was no doing anything with him.

  Difficult to believe it was so long ago; he felt young still! Of all his thoughts, as he stood there counting his cigars, this was the most poignant, the most bitter. With his white head and his loneliness he had remained young and green at heart. And those Sunday afternoons on Hampstead Heath, when young Jolyon and he went for a stretch along the Spaniards Road to Highgate, to Child’s Hill, and back over the Heath again to dine at Jack Straw’s Castle – how delicious his cigars were then! And such weather! There was no weather now.

  When June was a toddler of five, and every other Sunday he took her to the Zoo, away from the society of those two good women, her mother and her grandmother, and at the top of the bear-den baited his umbrella with buns for her favourite bears, how sweet his cigars were then!

  Cigars! He had not even succeeded in outliving his palate – the famous palate that in the fifties men swore by, and speaking of him, said: ‘Forsyte – the best palate in London!’ The palate that in a sense had made his fortune – the fortunes of the celebrated tea men, Forsyte and Treffry, whose tea, like no other man’s tea, had a romantic aroma, the charm of a quite singular genuineness. About the house of Forsyte and Treffry in the City had clung an air of enterprise and mystery, of special dealings in special ships, at special ports, with special Orientals.

  He had worked at that business! Men did work in those days! These young pups hardly knew the meaning of the word. He had gone into every detail, known everything that went on, sometimes sat up all night over it. And he had always chosen his agents himself, prided himself on it. His eye for men, he used to say, had been the secret of his success, and the exercise of this masterful power of selection had been the only part of it all that he had really liked. Not a career for a man of his ability. Even now, when the business had been turned into a Limited Liability Company, and was declining (he had got out of his shares long ago), he felt a sharp chagrin in thinking of that time. How much better he might have done! He would have succeeded splendidly at the Bar! He had even thought of standing for Parliament. How often had not Nicholas Treffry said to him: ‘You could do anything, Jo, if you weren’t so d-damned careful of yourself!’ Dear old Nick! Such a good fellow, but a rackety chap! The notorious Treffry! He had never taken any care of himself. So he was dead. Old Jolyon counted his cigars with a steady hand, and it came into his mind to wonder if perhaps he had been too careful of himself.

  He put the cigar-case in the breast of his coat, buttoned it in, and walked up the long flights to his bedroom, leaning on one foot and the other, and helping himself by the banister. The house was too big. After June was married, if she ever did marry this fellow, as he supposed she would, he would let it and go into rooms. What was the use of keeping half a dozen servants eating their heads off?

  The butler came to the ring of his bell – a large man with a beard, a soft tread, and a peculiar capacity for silence. Old Jolyon told him to put his dress clothes out; he was going to dine at the Club.

  ‘How long had the carriage been back from taking Miss June to the station? Since two? Then let him come round at half past six.’

  The Club which old Jolyon entered on the stroke of seven was one of those political institutions of the upper middle class which have seen better days. In spite of being talked about, perhaps in consequence of being talked about, it betrayed a disappointing vitality. People had grown tired of saying that the Disunion was on its last legs. Old Jolyon would say it, too, yet disregarded the fact in a manner truly irritating to wellconstitutioned clubmen.

  ‘Why do you keep your name on?’ Swithin often asked him with profound vexation. ‘Why don’t you join the Polyglot? You can’t get a wine like our Heidsieck under twenty shillin’ a bottle anywhere in London’; and, dropping his voice, he added: ‘There’s only five thousand dozen left. I drink it every night of my life.’

  ‘I’ll think of it,’ old Jolyon would answer; but when he did think of it there was always the question of fifty guineas entrance fee, and it would take him four or five years to get in. He continued to think of it.

  He was too old to be a Liberal, had long ceased to believe in the political doctrines of his Club, had even been known to allude to them as ‘wretched stuff’, and it afforded him pleasure to continue a member in the teeth of principles so opposed to his own. He had always had a contempt for the place, having joined it many years ago when they refused to have him at the Hotch Potch owing to his being ‘in trade’. As if he were not as good as any of them! He naturally despised the Club that did take him. The members were a poor lot, many of them in the City – stockbrokers, solicitors, auctioneers, what not! Like most men of strong character but not too much originality, old Jolyon set small store by the class to which he belonged. Faithfully he followed their customs, s
ocial and otherwise, and secretly he thought them ‘a common lot’.

  Years and philosophy, of which he had his share, had dimmed the recollection of his defeat at the Hotch Potch; and now in his thoughts it was enshrined as the Queen of Clubs. He would have been a member all these years himself, but, owing to the slipshod way his proposer, Jack Herring, had gone to work, they had not known what they were doing in keeping him out. Why! they had taken his son Jo at once, and he believed the boy was still a member; he had received a letter dated from there eight years ago.

  He had not been near the Disunion for months, and the house had undergone the piebald decoration which people bestow on old houses and old ships when anxious to sell them.

  ‘Beastly colour, the smoking-room!’ he thought ‘The dining-room is good.’

  Its gloomy chocolate, picked out with light green, took his fancy.

  He ordered dinner, and sat down in the very corner, at the very table perhaps (things did not progress much at the Disunion, a Club of almost Radical principles) at which he and young Jolyon used to sit twenty-five years ago, when he was taking the latter to Drury Lane, during his holidays.

  The boy had loved the theatre, and old Jolyon recalled how he used to sit opposite, concealing his excitement under a careful but transparent nonchalance.

  He ordered himself, too, the very dinner the boy had always chosen – soup, whitebait, cutlets, and a tart. Ah! if he were only opposite now!

  The two had not met for fourteen years. And not for the first time during those fourteen years old Jolyon wondered whether he had been a little to blame in the matter of his son. An unfortunate love-affair with that precious flirt Danaë Thornworthy, now Danaë Pellew, Anthony Thornworthy’s daughter, had thrown him on the rebound into the arms of June’s mother. He ought perhaps to have put a spoke in the wheel of their marriage; they were too young; but after that experience of Jo’s susceptibility he had been only too anxious to see him married. And in four years the crash had come! To have approved his son’s conduct in that crash was, of course, impossible; reason and training – that combination of potent factors which stood for his principles – told him of this impossibility, but his heart cried out. The grim remorselessness of that business had no pity for hearts. There was June, the atom with flaming hair, who had climbed all over him, twined and twisted herself about him – about his heart that was made to be the plaything and beloved resort of tiny helpless things. With characteristic insight he saw he must part with one or with the other; no half measures could serve in such a situation. In that lay its tragedy. And the tiny, helpless thing prevailed. He would not run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, and so to his son he said good-bye.