The Forsyte Saga, Volume 3 Read online

  ‘But she hadn’t feet!’

  ‘He thought she had, for to him she was like a woman made of silver and ivory. And he crawled in and out of the charm trees, but never could he quite reach her, because she was the half-moon.’

  Adrian paused, and there was for a moment no sound; then he said: ‘To be continued in our next,’ and went out. Diana joined him in the hall.

  ‘Adrian, you are corrupting the children. Don’t you know that fables and fairy-tales are no longer to be allowed to interfere with their interest in machines? After you’d gone Ronald said: “Does Uncle Adrian really believe you are the half-moon, Mummy?” ’

  ‘And you answered?’

  ‘Diplomatically. But they’re as sharp as squirrels.’

  ‘Well! Sing me “Waterboy” before Dinny and her swain come.’

  And while she sat and sang, Adrian gazed and worshipped. Her voice was good and she sang well that strange and haunting song. The last ‘Waterboy’ had barely died away when the maid announced:

  ‘Miss Cherrell. Professor Hallorsen.’

  Dinny came in with her head held high, and Adrian augured but poorly from the expression of her eyes. He had seen school-boys look like that when they were going to ‘roast’ a newcomer. After her came Hallorsen, immensely tall in that small drawing-room, his eyes swimming with health. He bowed low when presented to Dinny. ‘Your daughter, I presume, Mr Curator?’

  ‘No, my niece; a sister of Captain Hubert Cherrell.’

  ‘Is that so? I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Ma’am.’

  Adrian, noting that their eyes, having crossed, seemed to find it difficult to disengage, said:

  ‘How are you liking the Piedmont, Professor?’

  ‘The cooking’s fine, but there are too many of us Americans.’

  ‘Perching just now like the swallows?’

  ‘Ah! In a fortnight we’ll all have flitted.’

  Dinny had come brimful of Anglo-femininity, and the contrast between Hallorsen’s overpowering health and Hubert’s haggard looks had at once sharpened the edge of her temper. She sat down beside that embodiment of the conquering male with the full intention of planting every dart she could in his epidermis. He was, however, at once engaged in conversation by Diana, and she had not finished her soup (clear, with a prune in it) before, stealing a look around at him, she revised her plan. After all, he was a stranger and a guest, and she was supposed to be a lady; there were other ways of killing a cat beside hanging it. She would not plant darts, she would ‘charm him with smiles and soap’; that would be more considerate towards Diana and her uncle, and more effective warfare in the long run. With a cunning worthy of her cause, she waited till he was in deep water over British politics, which he seemed to regard as serious manifestations of human activity; then, turning on him the Botticellian eye, she said:

  ‘We should treat American politics just as seriously, Professor. But surely they’re not serious, are they?’

  ‘I believe you are right, Miss Cherrell. There’s just one rule for politicians all over the world: Don’t say in Power what you say in Opposition; if you do, you only have to carry out what the other fellows have found impossible. The only real difference, I judge, between Parties is that one Party sits in the National ’Bus, and the other Party strap-hangs.’

  ‘In Russia, what’s left of the other Party lies under the seat, doesn’t it?’

  ‘So it does in Italy,’ said Diana.

  ‘And what about Spain?’ added Adrian.

  Hallorsen uttered his infectious laugh. ‘Dictatorships aren’t politics. They’re jokes.’

  ‘No jokes, Professor.’

  ‘Bad jokes, Professor.’

  ‘How do you mean – jokes, Professor?’

  ‘Bluff. Just one long assumption that human nature’s on the mark the Dictator makes for it. The moment his bluff’s called – Why! Wump!’

  ‘But,’ said Diana, ‘suppose a majority of the people approve of their dictator, isn’t that democracy, or government by consent of the governed?’

  ‘I would say no, Mrs Ferse, unless he was confirmed by majority every year.’

  ‘Dictators get things done,’ said Adrian.

  ‘At a price, Mr Curator. But look at Diaz in Mexico. For twenty years he made it the Garden of Eden, but see what it’s been ever since he went. You can’t get out of a people for keeps what isn’t yet in them.’

  ‘The fault,’ replied Adrian, ‘in our political system and in yours, Professor, is that a whole lot of reforms latent in the common-sense of the people don’t get a chance of being carried out because our short-term politicians won’t give a lead, for fear of losing the power they haven’t got.’

  ‘Aunt May,’ Dinny murmured, ‘was saying: Why not cure Unemployment by a National Slum Clearance effort, and kill the two birds with one stone?’

  ‘My! But that’s a mighty fine idea!’ said Hallorsen, turning on her the full of his brimming face.

  ‘Vested interests,’ said Diana, ‘slum landlordism and the building trades are too strong for that.’

  Adrian added: ‘And there’s the cash required.’

  ‘Why! that’s all easy. Your Parliament could take what powers they need for a big national thing like that; and what’s wrong with a Loan, anyway? – the money would come back; it’s not like a Loan for war, all shot away in powder. What do you pay in doles?’

  No one could answer him.

  ‘I judge the saving would pay the interest on a pretty big Loan.’

  ‘It just, in fact,’ said Dinny, sweetly, ‘needs simple faith. That’s where you Americans beat us, Professor Hallorsen.’

  A look slid over the American’s face as though he were saying: ‘Cats!’

  ‘Well, we certainly had a pieful of simple faith when we came over to fight in France. But we ate the lot. It’ll be the home fires we keep burning next time.’

  ‘Was your faith so simple even last time?’

  ‘I fear it was, Miss Cherrell. Not one in twenty of us ever believed the Germans could get a cinch on us away over there.’

  ‘I sit rebuked, Professor.’

  ‘Why! Not at all! You judge America by Europe.’

  ‘There was Belgium, Professor,’ said Diana; ‘even we had some simple faith at the start.’

  ‘Pardon me, but did the case of Belgium really move you, Ma’am?’

  Adrian was drawing circles with a fork; he looked up.

  ‘Speaking for oneself, yes. I don’t suppose it made any difference to the Army people, Navy people, big business people, or even to a large section of Society, political and otherwise. They all knew that if war came we were practically committed to France. But to simple folk like myself and some two-thirds of the population not in the know, to the working classes, in fact, generally, it made all the difference. It was like seeing What’s-his-name – the Man Mountain – advancing on the smallest Flyweight in the ring, who was standing firm and squaring up like a man.’

  ‘Mighty well put, Mr Curator.’

  Dinny flushed. Was there generosity in this man? Then, as if conscious of treachery to Hubert, she said acidly:

  ‘I’ve read that the sight even ruffled Roosevelt.’

  ‘It ruffled quite a few of us, Miss Cherrell; but we’re a long way off over there, and things have to be near before they stir the imagination.’

  ‘Yes, and after all, as you said just now, you did come in at the end.’

  Hallorsen looked fixedly at her ingenuous face, bowed and was silent.

  But when, at the end of that peculiar evening, he was saying good night, he added:

  ‘I fear you’ve gotten a grouch against me, Miss Cherrell.’

  Dinny smiled, without reply.

  ‘All the same, I hope I may meet you again.’

  ‘Oh! But why?’

  ‘Well, I kind of have the feeling that I might change the view you have of me.’

  ‘I am very fond of my brother, Professor Hallorsen.’

 
‘I still think I’ve more against your brother than he has against me.’

  ‘I hope you may be right before long.’

  ‘That sounds like trouble.’

  Dinny tilted her head.

  She went up to bed, biting her lip with vexation. She had neither charmed nor assailed the enemy; and instead of clean-cut animosity, she had confused feelings about him.

  His inches gave him a disconcerting domination. ‘He’s like those creatures in hairy trousers on the films,’ she thought, ‘carrying off the semi-distressed cow-girls – looks at one as if he thought one was on his pillion.’ Primitive Force in swallowtails and a white waistcoat! A strong but not a silent man.

  Her room looked over the street, and from her window she could see the plane trees on the Embankment, the river, and the wide expanse of starry night.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said to herself, aloud, ‘you won’t leave England so soon as you thought.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  She turned to see Diana in the doorway.

  ‘Well, Dinny, what think you of our friend the enemy?’

  ‘Tom Mix, mixed with the Giant that Jack killed.’

  ‘Adrian likes him.’

  ‘Uncle Adrian lives too much with bones. The sight of red blood goes to his head.’

  ‘Yes; this is the sort of “he-man” women are supposed to fall for. But you behaved well, Dinny, though your eyes looked very green at first.’

  ‘They feel greener now I’ve let him go without a scratch.’

  ‘Never mind! You’ll have other chances. Adrian’s got him asked to Lippinghall tomorrow.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘You’ve only to embroil him with Saxenden there, and Hubert’s trick is done. Adrian didn’t tell you, for fear your joy might show itself. The Professor wants to sample British “hunting”. The poor man doesn’t in the least realize that he’s walking into a lioness’s den. Your Aunt Em will be delicious with him.’

  ‘Hallorsen!’ murmured Dinny: ‘He must have Scandinavian blood.’

  ‘He says his mother was old New England, but married out of the direct succession. Wyoming’s his State. Delightful word, Wyoming.’

  ‘ “The great open spaces.” What is there about the expression “he-man” which infuriates me, Diana?’

  ‘Well, it’s like being in a room with a burst of sunflowers. But “he-men” aren’t confined to the great open spaces; you’ll find Saxenden one.’

  ‘Really!’

  ‘Yes. Good night, my dear. And may no “he-men” come to you in dreams!’

  When Dinny had disrobed, she again took out the diary and re-read a passage she had turned down. It ran thus: ‘Feel very low tonight – as if all my sap had run out. Can only keep my pecker up by thinking of Condaford. Wonder what old Fox-ham would say if he could see me doctoring the mules! The stuff I’ve invented for their colic would raise hair on a billiard ball, but it stops the thing all right. God was in luck when He planned the inside of a mule. Dreamed last night I was standing at the end of the home spinney with pheasants coming over in a stream, and for the life of me I couldn’t pull my trigger; ghastly sort of paralysis. Keep thinking of old Haddon and his: “Go it, Master Bertie. Stick your ’eels in and take ’old of ’is ’ead!” Good old Haddon! He was a character. The rain’s stopped. Dry – first time for ten days. And the stars are out.

  A ship, an isle, a sickle moon,

  With few but with how splendid stars.

  If only I could sleep!…’

  Chapter Eight

  THAT essential private irregularity, room by room, which differentiates the old English from every other variety of country house, was patent at Lippinghall Manor. People went into rooms as if they meant to stay there, and while there inhaled an atmosphere and fitted into garniture different from those in any of the other rooms; nor did they feel that they must leave the room as they found it, if indeed they knew how that was. Fine old furniture stood in careless partnership with fill-up stuff acquired for the purposes of use or ease. Portraits of ancestors, dark or yellow, confronted Dutch or French landscapes still more yellow or dark, with here and there delightful old prints, and miniatures not without charm. In two rooms at least were beautiful old fireplaces, defiled by the comfort of a fender which could be sat on. Staircases appeared unexpectedly in the dark. The position of a bedroom was learned with difficulty and soon forgotten. In it would be, perhaps, a priceless old chestnut wood wardrobe and a four-poster bed of an excellent period; a window-seat with cushions, and some French prints. To it would be conjoined a small room with narrow bed; and bathroom that might or might not need a stroll, but would have salts in it. One of the Monts had been an Admiral; queer old charts, therefore, with dragons lashing the seas, lurked in odd corners of the corridors; one of the Monts, Sir Lawrence’s grandfather, seventh baronet, had been a racing man, and the anatomy of the thoroughbred horse, and jockety of his period (1860–83) could be studied on the walls. The sixth baronet, who, being in politics, had lived longer than the rest, had left imprints of the earlier Victorian period, his wife and daughters in crinolines, himself in whiskers. The outside of the house was Carolean, tempered here and there by Georgian, and even Victorian fragments where the sixth baronet had given way to his feeling for improvement. The only thing definitely modern was the plumbing.

  When Dinny came down to breakfast on the Wednesday morning – the shoot being timed to start at ten – three of the ladies and all the men except Hallorsen were already sitting or wandering to the side-tables. She slipped into a chair next to Lord Saxenden, who rose slightly with the word:

  ‘Morning!’

  ‘Dinny,’ called Michael from a sideboard, ‘coffee, cocoatina or ginger beer?’

  ‘Coffee and a kipper, Michael.’

  ‘There are no kippers.’

  Lord Saxenden looked up: ‘No kippers?’ he muttered, and resumed his sausage.

  ‘Haddock?’ said Michael.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Anything for you, Aunt Wilmet?’

  ‘Kedgeree.’

  ‘There is no kedgeree. Kidneys, bacon, scrambled eggs, haddock, ham, cold partridge pie.’

  Lord Saxenden rose. ‘Ah! Ham!’ and went over to the side table.

  ‘Well, Dinny?’

  ‘Just some jam, please, Michael.’

  ‘Goose-gog, strawberry, blackcurrant, marmalade.’

  ‘Gooseberry.’

  Lord Saxenden resumed his seat with a plate of ham, and began reading a letter as he ate. She did not quite know what to make of his face, because she could not see his eyes, and his mouth was so full. But she seemed to gather why he had been nicknamed ‘Snubby’. He was red, had a light moustache and hair, both going grey, and a square seat at table. Suddenly he turned to her and said:

  ‘Excuse my reading this. It’s from my wife. She’s on her back, you know.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Horrible business! Poor thing!’

  He put the letter in his pocket, filled his mouth with ham, and looked at Dinny. She saw that his eyes were blue, and that his eyebrows, darker than his hair, looked like clumps of fishhooks. His eyes goggled a little, as though he were saying: ‘I’m a lad – I’m a lad.’ But at this moment she noticed Hallorsen coming in. He stood uncertain, then, seeing her, came to the empty seat on her other side.

  ‘Miss Cherrell,’ he said, with a bow, ‘can I sit right here?’

  ‘Of course: the food is all over there, if you’re thinking of any.’

  ‘Who’s that fellow?’ said Lord Saxenden, as Hallorsen went foraging: ‘He’s an American.’

  ‘Professor Hallorsen.’

  ‘Oh! Ah! Wrote a book on Bolivia? What!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good-looking chap.’

  ‘A he-man.’

  He looked round at her with surprise.

  ‘Try this ham. I used to know an uncle of yours at Harrow, I think.’

  ‘Uncle Hilary!’ said Dinny. ‘He to
ld me.’

  ‘I once laid him three strawberry mashes to two on myself in a race down the Hill steps to the Gym.’

  ‘Did you win, Lord Saxenden?’

  ‘No; and I never paid your uncle.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He sprained his ankle and I put my knee out. He hopped to the Gym door; but I couldn’t move. We were both laid up till the end of term, and then I left.’ Lord Saxenden chuckled. ‘So I still owe him three strawberry mashes.’

  ‘I thought we had “some” breakfast in America, but it’s nil to this,’ said Hallorsen, sitting down.

  ‘Do you know Lord Saxenden?’

  ‘Lord Saxenden,’ repeated Hallorsen with a bow.

  ‘How de do? You haven’t got our partridge in America, have you?’

  ‘Why, no, I believe not. I am looking forward to hunting that bird. This is mighty fine coffee, Miss Cherrell.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dinny, ‘Aunt Em prides herself on her coffee.’

  Lord Saxenden squared his seat. ‘Try this ham. I haven’t read your book.’

  ‘Let me send it you; I’ll be proud to have you read it.’

  Lord Saxenden ate on.

  ‘Yes, you ought to read it, Lord Saxenden,’ said Dinny; ‘and I’ll send you another book that bears on the same subject.’

  Lord Saxenden glared.

  ‘Charming of you both,’ he said. ‘Is that strawberry jam?’ and he reached for it.

  ‘Miss Cherrell,’ said Hallorsen, in a low voice, ‘I’d like to have you go through my book and mark the passages you think are prejudicial to your brother. I wrote that book when I had a pretty sore head.’