The Forsyte Saga, Volume 1 Read online

  Soames reflected complacently on the work it would be sure to bring the young man; for, like every Forsyte, he could be a thorough optimist when there was anything to be had out of it.

  Bosinney’s office was in Sloane Street, close at hand, so that he would be able to keep his eye continually on the plans.

  Again, Irene would not be so likely to object to leave London if her greatest friend’s lover were given the job. June’s marriage might depend on it. Irene could not decently stand in the way of June’s marriage; she would never do that, he knew her too well. And June would be pleased; of this he saw the advantage.

  Bosinney looked clever, but he had also – and it was one of his great attractions – an air as if he did not quite know on which side his bread were buttered; he should be easy to deal with in money matters. Soames made this reflection in no defrauding spirit; it was the natural attitude of his mind – of the mind of any good business man – of all those thousands of good business men through whom he was threading his way up Ludgate Hill.

  Thus he fulfilled the inscrutable laws of his great class – of human nature itself – when he reflected, with a sense of comfort, that Bosinney would be easy to deal with in money matters.

  While he elbowed his way on, his eyes, which he usually kept fixed on the ground before his feet, were attracted upwards by the dome of St Paul’s. It had a peculiar fascination for him, that old dome, and not once, but twice or three times a week, would he halt in his daily pilgrimage to enter beneath and stop in the side aisles for five or ten minutes, scrutinizing the names and epitaphs on the monuments. The attraction for him of this great church was inexplicable, unless it enabled him to concentrate his thoughts on the business of the day. If any affair of peculiar moment, or demanding peculiar astuteness, was weighing on his mind, he invariably went in, to wander with mouse-like attention from epitaph to epitaph. Then retiring in the same noiseless way, he would hold steadily on up Cheapside, a thought more of dogged purpose in his gait, as though he had seen something which he had made up his mind to buy.

  He went in this morning, but, instead of stealing from monument to monument, turned his eyes upwards to the columns and spacings of the walls, and remained motionless.

  His uplifted face, with the awed and wistful look which faces take on themselves in church, was whitened to a chalky hue in the vast building. His gloved hands were clasped in front over the handle of his umbrella. He lifted them. Some sacred inspiration perhaps had come to him.

  ‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘I must have room to hang my pictures.’

  That evening, on his return from the City, he called at Bosinney’s office. He found the architect in his shirt-sleeves, smoking a pipe, and ruling off lines on a plan. Soames refused a drink, and came at once to the point.

  ‘If you’ve nothing better to do on Sunday, come down with me to Robin Hill, and give me your opinion on a building site.’

  ‘Are you going to build?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Soames; ‘but don’t speak of it. I just want your opinion.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said the architect.

  Soames peered about the room.

  ‘You’re rather high up here,’ he remarked.

  Any information he could gather about the nature and scope of Bosinney’s business would be all to the good.

  ‘It does well enough for me so far,’ answered the architect ‘You’re accustomed to the swells.’

  He knocked out his pipe, but replaced it empty between his teeth; it assisted him perhaps to carry on the conversation. Soames noted a hollow in each cheek, made as it were by suction.

  ‘What do you pay for an office like this?’ said he.

  ‘Fifty too much,’ replied Bosinney.

  This answer impressed Soames favourably.

  ‘I suppose it is dear,’ he said. ‘I’ll call for you on Sunday about eleven.’

  The following Sunday therefore he called for Bosinney in a hansom, and drove him to the station. On arriving at Robin Hill, they found no cab, and started to walk the mile and a half to the site.

  It was the 1st of August – a perfect day, with a burning sun and cloudless sky – and in the straight, narrow road leading up the hill their feet kicked up a yellow dust.

  ‘Gravel soil,’ remarked Soames, and sideways he glanced at the coat Bosinney wore. Into the side-pockets of this coat were thrust bundles of papers, and under one arm was carried a queer-looking stick. Soames noted these and other peculiarities.

  No one but a clever man, or, indeed, a buccaneer, would have taken such liberties with his appearance; and though the eccentricities were revolting to Soames, he derived a certain satisfaction from them, as evidence of qualities by which he must inevitably profit. If the fellow could build houses, what did his clothes matter?

  ‘I told you,’ he said, ‘that I want this house to be a surprise, so don’t say anything about it. I never talk of my affairs until they’re carried through.’

  Bosinney nodded.

  ‘Let women into your plans,’ pursued Soames, ‘and you never know where it’ll end.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Bosinney, ‘women are the devil!’

  This feeling had long been at the bottom of Soames’s heart; he had never, however, put it into words.

  ‘Oh!’ he muttered, ‘so you’re beginning to –’ He stopped, but added, with an uncontrollable burst of spite: ‘June’s got a temper of her own – always had.’

  ‘A temper’s not a bad thing in an angel.’

  Soames had never called Irene an angel. He could not so have violated his best instincts, letting other people into the secret of her value, and giving himself away. He made no reply.

  They had struck into a half-made road across a warren. A cart-track led at right-angles to a gravel pit, beyond which the chimneys of a cottage rose amongst a clump of trees at the border of a thick wood. Tussocks of feathery grass covered the rough surface of the ground, and out of these the larks soared into the haze of sunshine. On the far horizon, over a countless succession of fields and hedges, rose a line of downs.

  Soames led till they had crossed to the far side, and there he stopped. It was the chosen site; but now that he was about to divulge the spot to another he had become uneasy.

  ‘The agent lives in that cottage,’ he said; ‘he’ll give us some lunch – we’d better have lunch before we go into this matter.’

  He again took the lead to the cottage, where the agent, a tall man named Oliver, with a heavy face and grizzled beard, welcomed them. During lunch, which Soames hardly touched, he kept looking at Bosinney, and once or twice passed his silk handkerchief stealthily over his forehead. The meal came to an end at last, and Bosinney rose.

  ‘I dare say you’ve got business to talk over,’ he said: ‘I’ll just go and nose about a bit.’ Without waiting for a reply he strolled out.

  Soames was solicitor to this estate, and he spent nearly an hour in the agent’s company, looking at ground-plans and discussing the Nicholl and other mortgages; it was as it were by an afterthought that he brought up the question of the building site.

  ‘Your people,’ he said, ‘ought to come down in their price to me, considering that I shall be the first to build.’

  Oliver shook his head.

  ‘The site you’ve fixed on, sir,’ he said, ‘is the cheapest we’ve got. Sites at the top of the slope are dearer by a good bit.’

  ‘Mind,’ said Soames, ‘I’ve not decided; it’s quite possible I shan’t build at all. The ground-rent’s very high.’

  ‘Well, Mr Forsyte, I shall be sorry if you go off, and I think you’ll make a mistake, sir. There’s not a bit of land near London with such a view as this, nor one that’s cheaper all things considered; we’ve only to advertise, to get a mob of people after it.’

  They looked at each other. Their faces said very plainly: ‘I respect you as a man of business; and you can’t expect me to believe a word you say.’

  Well,’ repeated Soames, ‘I haven’t made up my mind; t
he thing will very likely go off!’ With these words, taking up his umbrella, he put his chilly hand into the agent’s, withdrew it without the faintest pressure, and went out into the sun.

  He walked slowly back towards the site in deep thought. His instinct told him that what the agent had said was true. A cheap site. And the beauty of it was, that he knew the agent did not really think it cheap; so that his own intuitive knowledge was a victory over the agent’s.

  ‘Cheap or not, I mean to have it,’ he thought.

  The larks sprang up in front of his feet, the air was full of butterflies, a sweet fragrance rose from the wild grasses. The sappy scent of the bracken stole forth from the wood, where, hidden in the depths, pigeons were cooing, and from afar on the warm breeze came the rhythmic chiming of church bells.

  Soames walked with his eyes on the ground, his lips opening and closing as though in anticipation of a delicious morsel. But when he arrived at the site, Bosinney was nowhere to be seen. After waiting some little time, he crossed the warren in the direction of the slope. He would have shouted, but dreaded the sound of his voice.

  The warren was as lonely as a prairie, its silence only broken by the rustle of rabbits bolting to their holes, and the song of the larks.

  Soames, the pioneer leader of the great Forsyte army advancing to the civilization of this wilderness, felt his spirit daunted by the loneliness, by the invisible singing, and the hot sweet air. He had begun to retrace his steps when he at last caught sight of Bosinney.

  The architect was sprawling under a large oak-tree, whose trunk, with a huge spread of bough and foliage, ragged with age, stood on the verge of the rise.

  Soames had to touch him on the shoulder before he looked up.

  ‘Hallo! Forsyte,’ he said, ‘I’ve found the very place for your house! Look here!’

  Soames stood and looked, then he said, coldly:

  ‘You may be very clever, but this site will cost me half as much again.’

  ‘Hang the cost, man. Look at the view!’

  Almost from their feet stretched ripe corn, dipping to a small dark copse beyond. A plain of fields and hedges spread to the distant grey-blue downs. In a silver streak to the right could be seen the line of the river.

  The sky was so blue, and the sun so bright, that an eternal summer seemed to reign over this prospect. Thistledown floated round them, enraptured by the serenity of the ether. The heat danced over the corn, and, pervading all, was a soft, insensible hum, like the murmur of bright minutes holding revel between earth and heaven.

  Soames looked. In spite of himself, something swelled in his breast. To live here in sight of all this, to be able to point it out to his friends, to talk of it, to possess it! His cheeks flushed. The warmth, the radiance, the glow, were sinking into his senses as, four years before, Irene’s beauty had sunk into his senses and made him long for her. He stole a glance at Bosinney, whose eyes, the eyes of the coachman’s ‘half-tame leopard’, seemed running wild over the landscape. The sunlight had caught the promontories of the fellow’s face, the bumpy cheekbones, the point of his chin, the vertical ridges above his brow; and Soames watched this rugged, enthusiastic, careless face with an unpleasant feeling.

  A long soft ripple of wind flowed over the corn, and brought a puff of warm air into their faces.

  ‘I could build you a teaser here,’ said Bosinney, breaking the silence at last.

  ‘I dare say,’ replied Soames, drily. ‘You haven’t got to pay for it.’

  ‘For about eight thousand I could build you a palace.’

  Soames had become very pale – a struggle was going on within him. He dropped his eyes, and said stubbornly:

  ‘I can’t afford it’

  And slowly, with his mousing walk, he led the way back to the first site.

  They spent some time there going into particulars of the projected house, and then Soames returned to the agent’s cottage.

  He came out in about half an hour, and, joining Bosinney, started for the station.

  ‘Well,’ he said, hardly opening his lips, ‘I’ve taken that site of yours, after all.’

  And again he was silent, confusedly debating how it was that this fellow, whom by habit he despised, should have overborne his own decision.

  Chapter Five

  A FORSYTE MÉNAGE

  LIKE the enlightened thousands of his class and generation in this great city of London, who no longer believe in red velvet chairs, and know that groups of modern Italian marble are vieux jeu, Soames Forsyte inhabited a house which did what it could. It owned a copper door knocker of individual design, windows which had been altered to open outwards, hanging flower-boxes filled with fuchsias, and at the back (a great feature) a little court tiled with jade-green tiles, and surrounded by pink hydrangeas in peacock-blue tubs. Here, under a parchment-coloured Japanese sunshade covering the whole end, inhabitants or visitors could be screened from the eyes of the curious while they drank tea and examined at their leisure the latest of Soames’s little silver boxes.

  The inner decoration favoured the First Empire and William Morris. For its size, the house was commodious; there were countless nooks resembling birds’ nests, and little things made of silver were deposited like eggs.

  In this general perfection two kinds of fastidiousness were at war. There lived here a mistress who would have dwelt daintily on a desert island; a master whose daintiness was, as it were, an investment, cultivated by the owner for his advancement, in accordance with the laws of competition. This competitive daintiness had caused Soames in his Marlborough days to be the first boy into white waistcoats in summer, and corduroy waistcoats in winter, had prevented him from ever appearing in public with his tie climbing up his collar, and induced him to dust his patent-leather boots before a great multitude assembled on Speech Day to hear him recite Molière.

  Skin-like immaculateness had grown over Soames, as over many Londoners: impossible to conceive of him with a hair out of place, a tie deviating one-eighth of an inch from the perpendicular, a collar unglossed! He would not have gone without a bath for worlds – it was the fashion to take baths; and how bitter was his scorn of people who omitted them!

  But Irene could be imagined, like some nymph, bathing in wayside streams, for the joy of the freshness and of seeing her own fair body.

  In this conflict throughout the house the woman had gone to the wall. As in the struggle between Saxon and Celt still going on within the nation, the more impressionable and receptive temperament had had forced on it a conventional superstructure.

  Thus the house had acquired a close resemblance to hundreds of other houses with the same high aspirations, having become: ‘That very charming little house of the Soames Forsytes, quite individual, my dear – really elegant!’

  For Soames Forsyte – read James Peabody, Thomas Atkins, or Emmanuel Spagnoletti, the name in fact of any upper-middleclass Englishman in London with any pretensions to taste; and though the decoration be different, the phrase is just.

  On the evening of August 8, a week after the expedition to Robin Hill, in the dining-room of this house – ‘quite individual, my dear – really elegant!’ – Soames and Irene were seated at dinner. A hot dinner on Sundays was a little distinguishing elegance common to this house and many others. Early in married life Soames had laid down the rule: ‘The servants must give us hot dinner on Sundays – they’ve nothing to do but play the concertina.’

  The custom had produced no revolution. For – to Soames a rather deplorable sign – servants were devoted to Irene, who, in defiance of all safe tradition, appeared to recognize their right to a share in the weaknesses of human nature.

  The happy pair were seated, not opposite each other, but rectangularly, at a handsome rosewood table; they dined without a cloth – a distinguishing elegance – and so far had not spoken a word.

  Soames liked to talk during dinner about business, or what he had been buying, and so long as he talked Irene’s silence did not distress him. This even
ing he had found it impossible to talk. The decision to build had been weighing on his mind all the week, and he had made up his mind to tell her.

  His nervousness about this disclosure irritated him profoundly; she had no business to make him feel like that – a wife and a husband being one person. She had not looked at him once since they sat down; and he wondered what on earth she had been thinking about all the time. It was hard, when a man worked as he did, making money for her – yes, and with an ache in his heart – that she should sit there, looking – looking as if she saw the walls of the room closing in. It was enough to make a man get up and leave the table.

  The light from the rose-shaded lamp fell on her neck and arms – Soames liked her to dine in a low dress, it gave him an inexpressible feeling of superiority to the majority of his acquaintance, whose wives were contented with their best high frocks or with tea-gowns, when they dined at home. Under that rosy light her amber-coloured hair and fair skin made strange contrast with her dark brown eyes.

  Could a man own anything prettier than this dining-table with its deep tints, the starry, soft-petalled roses, the ruby-coloured glass, and quaint silver furnishing; could a man own anything prettier than the woman who sat at it? Gratitude was no virtue among Forsytes, who, competitive, and full of common sense, had no occasion for it; and Soames only experienced a sense of exasperation amounting to pain, that he did not own her as it was his right to own her, that he could not, as by stretching out his hand to that rose, pluck her and sniff the very secrets of her heart.

  Out of his other property, out of all the things he had collected, his silver, his pictures, his houses, his investments, he got a secret and intimate feeling; out of her he got none.

  In this house of his there was writing on every wall. His business-like temperament protested against a mysterious warning that she was not made for him. He had married this woman, conquered her, made her his own, and it seemed to him contrary to the most fundamental of all laws, the law of possession, that he could do no more than own her body – if indeed he could do that, which he was beginning to doubt. If anyone had asked him if he wanted to own her soul, the question would have seemed to him both ridiculous and sentimental. But he did so want, and the writing said he never would.