The Complete Project Gutenberg Works of Galsworthy

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Old Jolyon had remained standing while the strong, silent man was
speaking. The speech awoke an echo in all hearts, voicing, as it did,
the worship of strong men, the movement against generosity, which had at
that time already commenced among the saner members of the community.

The words 'it is not business' had moved even the Board; privately
everyone felt that indeed it was not. But they knew also the chairman's
domineering temper and tenacity. He, too, at heart must feel that it was
not business; but he was committed to his own proposition. Would he go
back upon it? It was thought to be unlikely.

All waited with interest. Old Jolyon held up his hand; dark-rimmed
glasses depending between his finger and thumb quivered slightly with a
suggestion of menace.

He addressed the strong, silent shareholder.

"Knowing, as you do, the efforts of our late superintendent upon the
occasion of the explosion at the mines, do you seriously wish me to put
that amendment, sir?"

"I do."

Old Jolyon put the amendment.

"Does anyone second this?" he asked, looking calmly round.

And it was then that Soames, looking at his uncle, felt the power of will
that was in that old man. No one stirred. Looking straight into the
eyes of the strong, silent shareholder, old Jolyon said:

"I now move, 'That the report and accounts for the year 1886 be received
and adopted.' You second that? Those in favour signify the same in the
usual way. Contrary--no. Carried. The next business, gentlemen...."

Soames smiled. Certainly Uncle Jolyon had a way with him!

But now his attention relapsed upon Bosinney.

Odd how that fellow haunted his thoughts, even in business hours.

Irene's visit to the house--but there was nothing in that, except that
she might have told him; but then, again, she never did tell him
anything. She was more silent, more touchy, every day. He wished to God
the house were finished, and they were in it, away from London. Town did
not suit her; her nerves were not strong enough. That nonsense of the
separate room had cropped up again!

The meeting was breaking up now. Underneath the photograph of the lost
shaft Hemmings was buttonholed by the Rev. Mr. Boms. Little Mr. Booker,
his bristling eyebrows wreathed in angry smiles, was having a parting
turn-up with old Scrubsole. The two hated each other like poison. There
was some matter of a tar-contract between them, little Mr. Booker having
secured it from the Board for a nephew of his, over old Scrubsole's head.
Soames had heard that from Hemmings, who liked a gossip, more especially
about his directors, except, indeed, old Jolyon, of whom he was afraid.

Soames awaited his opportunity. The last shareholder was vanishing
through the door, when he approached his uncle, who was putting on his
hat.

"Can I speak to you for a minute, Uncle Jolyon?"

It is uncertain what Soames expected to get out of this interview.

Apart from that somewhat mysterious awe in which Forsytes in general held
old Jolyon, due to his philosophic twist, or perhaps--as Hemmings would
doubtless have said--to his chin, there was, and always had been, a
subtle antagonism between the younger man and the old. It had lurked
under their dry manner of greeting, under their non-committal allusions
to each other, and arose perhaps from old Jolyon's perception of the
quiet tenacity ('obstinacy,' he rather naturally called it) of the young
man, of a secret doubt whether he could get his own way with him.

Both these Forsytes, wide asunder as the poles in many respects,
possessed in their different ways--to a greater degree than the rest of
the family--that essential quality of tenacious and prudent insight into
'affairs,' which is the highwater mark of their great class. Either of
them, with a little luck and opportunity, was equal to a lofty career;
either of them would have made a good financier, a great contractor, a
statesman, though old Jolyon, in certain of his moods when under the
influence of a cigar or of Nature--would have been capable of, not
perhaps despising, but certainly of questioning, his own high position,
while Soames, who never smoked cigars, would not.

Then, too, in old Jolyon's mind there was always the secret ache, that
the son of James--of James, whom he had always thought such a poor thing,
should be pursuing the paths of success, while his own son...!

And last, not least--for he was no more outside the radiation of family
gossip than any other Forsyte--he had now heard the sinister, indefinite,
but none the less disturbing rumour about Bosinney, and his pride was
wounded to the quick.

Characteristically, his irritation turned not against Irene but against
Soames. The idea that his nephew's wife (why couldn't the fellow take
better care of her--Oh! quaint injustice! as though Soames could
possibly take more care!)--should be drawing to herself June's lover, was
intolerably humiliating. And seeing the danger, he did not, like James,
hide it away in sheer nervousness, but owned with the dispassion of his
broader outlook, that it was not unlikely; there was something very
attractive about Irene!

He had a presentiment on the subject of Soames' communication as they
left the Board Room together, and went out into the noise and hurry of
Cheapside. They walked together a good minute without speaking, Soames
with his mousing, mincing step, and old Jolyon upright and using his
umbrella languidly as a walking-stick.

They turned presently into comparative quiet, for old Jolyon's way to a
second Board led him in the direction of Moorage Street.

Then Soames, without lifting his eyes, began: "I've had this letter from
Bosinney. You see what he says; I thought I'd let you know. I've spent
a lot more than I intended on this house, and I want the position to be
clear."

Old Jolyon ran his eyes unwillingly over the letter: "What he says is
clear enough," he said.

"He talks about 'a free hand,'" replied Soames.

Old Jolyon looked at him. The long-suppressed irritation and antagonism
towards this young fellow, whose affairs were beginning to intrude upon
his own, burst from him.

"Well, if you don't trust him, why do you employ him?"

Soames stole a sideway look: "It's much too late to go into that," he
said, "I only want it to be quite understood that if I give him a free
hand, he doesn't let me in. I thought if you were to speak to him, it
would carry more weight!"

"No," said old Jolyon abruptly; "I'll have nothing to do with it!"

The words of both uncle and nephew gave the impression of unspoken
meanings, far more important, behind. And the look they interchanged was
like a revelation of this consciousness.

"Well," said Soames; "I thought, for June's sake, I'd tell you, that's
all; I thought you'd better know I shan't stand any nonsense!"

"What is that to me?" old Jolyon took him up.

"Oh! I don't know," said Soames, and flurried by that sharp look he was
unable to say more. "Don't say I didn't tell you," he added sulkily,
recovering his composure.

"Tell me!" said old Jolyon; "I don't know what you mean. You come
worrying me about a thing like this. I don't want to hear about your
affairs; you must manage them yourself!"

"Very well," said Soames immovably, "I will!"

"Good-morning, then," said old Jolyon, and they parted.

Soames retraced his steps, and going into a celebrated eating-house,
asked for a plate of smoked salmon and a glass of Chablis; he seldom ate
much in the middle of the day, and generally ate standing, finding the
position beneficial to his liver, which was very sound, but to which he
desired to put down all his troubles.

When he had finished he went slowly back to his office, with bent head,
taking no notice of the swarming thousands on the pavements, who in their
turn took no notice of him.

The evening post carried the following reply to Bosinney:

'FORSYTE, BUSTARD AND FORSYTE, 'Commissioners for Oaths, '92001, BRANCH
LANE, POULTRY, E.C.,

'May 17, 1887.
'DEAR BOSINNEY,

'I have, received your letter, the terms of which not a little surprise
me. I was under the impression that you had, and have had all along, a
"free hand"; for I do not recollect that any suggestions I have been so
unfortunate as to make have met with your approval. In giving you, in
accordance with your request, this "free hand," I wish you to clearly
understand that the total cost of the house as handed over to me
completely decorated, inclusive of your fee (as arranged between us),
must not exceed twelve thousand pounds--L12,000. This gives you an ample
margin, and, as you know, is far more than I originally contemplated.

'I am, 'Yours truly,

'SOAMES FORSYTE.'

On the following day he received a note from Bosinney:

'PHILIP BAYNES BOSINNEY, 'Architect, '309D, SLOANE STREET, S.W., 'May 18.
'DEAR FORSYTE,

'If you think that in such a delicate matter as decoration I can bind
myself to the exact pound, I am afraid you are mistaken. I can see that
you are tired of the arrangement, and of me, and I had better, therefore,
resign.

'Yours faithfully,
'PHILIP BAYNES BOSINNEY.'

Soames pondered long and painfully over his answer, and late at night in
the dining-room, when Irene had gone to bed, he composed the following:

'62, MONTPELLIER SQUARE, S.W., 'May 19, 1887.
'DEAR BOSINNEY,

'I think that in both our interests it would be extremely undesirable
that matters should be so left at this stage. I did not mean to say that
if you should exceed the sum named in my letter to you by ten or twenty
or even fifty pounds, there would be any difficulty between us. This
being so, I should like you to reconsider your answer. You have a "free
hand" in the terms of this correspondence, and I hope you will see your
way to completing the decorations, in the matter of which I know it is
difficult to be absolutely exact.

'Yours truly,
'SOAMES FORSYTE.'

Bosinney's answer, which came in the course of the next day, was:

'May 20.
'DEAR FORSYTE,

'Very well.
'PH. BOSINNEY.'




CHAPTER VI

OLD JOLYON AT THE ZOO

Old Jolyon disposed of his second Meeting--an ordinary Board--summarily.
He was so dictatorial that his fellow directors were left in cabal over
the increasing domineeringness of old Forsyte, which they were far from
intending to stand much longer, they said.

He went out by Underground to Portland Road Station, whence he took a cab
and drove to the Zoo.

He had an assignation there, one of those assignations that had lately
been growing more frequent, to which his increasing uneasiness about June
and the 'change in her,' as he expressed it, was driving him.

She buried herself away, and was growing thin; if he spoke to her he got
no answer, or had his head snapped off, or she looked as if she would
burst into tears. She was as changed as she could be, all through this
Bosinney. As for telling him about anything, not a bit of it!

And he would sit for long spells brooding, his paper unread before him, a
cigar extinct between his lips. She had been such a companion to him
ever since she was three years old! And he loved her so!

Forces regardless of family or class or custom were beating down his
guard; impending events over which he had no control threw their shadows
on his head. The irritation of one accustomed to have his way was roused
against he knew not what.

Chafing at the slowness of his cab, he reached the Zoo door; but, with
his sunny instinct for seizing the good of each moment, he forgot his
vexation as he walked towards the tryst.

From the stone terrace above the bear-pit his son and his two
grandchildren came hastening down when they saw old Jolyon coming, and
led him away towards the lion-house. They supported him on either side,
holding one to each of his hands,--whilst Jolly, perverse like his
father, carried his grandfather's umbrella in such a way as to catch
people's legs with the crutch of the handle.

Young Jolyon followed.

It was as good as a play to see his father with the children, but such a
play as brings smiles with tears behind. An old man and two small
children walking together can be seen at any hour of the day; but the
sight of old Jolyon, with Jolly and Holly seemed to young Jolyon a
special peep-show of the things that lie at the bottom of our hearts.
The complete surrender of that erect old figure to those little figures
on either hand was too poignantly tender, and, being a man of an habitual
reflex action, young Jolyon swore softly under his breath. The show
affected him in a way unbecoming to a Forsyte, who is nothing if not
undemonstrative.

Thus they reached the lion-house.

There had been a morning fete at the Botanical Gardens, and a large
number of Forsy...'--that is, of well-dressed people who kept carriages
had brought them on to the Zoo, so as to have more, if possible, for
their money, before going back to Rutland Gate or Bryanston Square.

"Let's go on to the Zoo," they had said to each other; "it'll be great
fun!" It was a shilling day; and there would not be all those horrid
common people.

In front of the long line of cages they were collected in rows, watching
the tawny, ravenous beasts behind the bars await their only pleasure of
the four-and-twenty hours. The hungrier the beast, the greater the
fascination. But whether because the spectators envied his appetite, or,
more humanely, because it was so soon to be satisfied, young Jolyon could
not tell. Remarks kept falling on his ears: "That's a nasty-looking
brute, that tiger!" "Oh, what a love! Look at his little mouth!" "Yes,
he's rather nice! Don't go too near, mother."

And frequently, with little pats, one or another would clap their hands
to their pockets behind and look round, as though expecting young Jolyon
or some disinterested-looking person to relieve them of the contents.

A well-fed man in a white waistcoat said slowly through his teeth: "It's
all greed; they can't be hungry. Why, they take no exercise." At these
words a tiger snatched a piece of bleeding liver, and the fat man
laughed. His wife, in a Paris model frock and gold nose-nippers,
reproved him: "How can you laugh, Harry? Such a horrid sight!"

Young Jolyon frowned.

The circumstances of his life, though he had ceased to take a too
personal view of them, had left him subject to an intermittent contempt;
and the class to which he had belonged--the carriage class--especially
excited his sarcasm.

To shut up a lion or tiger in confinement was surely a horrible
barbarity. But no cultivated person would admit this.

The idea of its being barbarous to confine wild animals had probably
never even occurred to his father for instance; he belonged to the old
school, who considered it at once humanizing and educational to confine
baboons and panthers, holding the view, no doubt, that in course of time
they might induce these creatures not so unreasonably to die of misery
and heart-sickness against the bars of their cages, and put the society
to the expense of getting others! In his eyes, as in the eyes of all
Forsytes, the pleasure of seeing these beautiful creatures in a state of
captivity far outweighed the inconvenience of imprisonment to beasts whom
God had so improvidently placed in a state of freedom! It was for the
animals good, removing them at once from the countless dangers of open
air and exercise, and enabling them to exercise their functions in the
guaranteed seclusion of a private compartment! Indeed, it was doubtful
what wild animals were made for but to be shut up in cages!

But as young Jolyon had in his constitution the elements of impartiality,
he reflected that to stigmatize as barbarity that which was merely lack
of imagination must be wrong; for none who held these views had been
placed in a similar position to the animals they caged, and could not,
therefore, be expected to enter into their sensations. It was not until
they were leaving the gardens--Jolly and Holly in a state of blissful
delirium--that old Jolyon found an opportunity of speaking to his son on
the matter next his heart. "I don't know what to make of it," he said;
"if she's to go on as she's going on now, I can't tell what's to come.
I wanted her to see the doctor, but she won't. She's not a bit like me.
She's your mother all over. Obstinate as a mule! If she doesn't want
to do a thing, she won't, and there's an end of it!"

Young Jolyon smiled; his eyes had wandered to his father's chin. 'A pair
of you,' he thought, but he said nothing.

"And then," went on old Jolyon, "there's this Bosinney. I should like
to punch the fellow's head, but I can't, I suppose, though--I don't see
why you shouldn't," he added doubtfully.

"What has he done? Far better that it should come to an end, if they
don't hit it off!"

Old Jolyon looked at his son. Now they had actually come to discuss a
subject connected with the relations between the sexes he felt
distrustful. Jo would be sure to hold some loose view or other.

"Well, I don't know what you think," he said; "I dare say your sympathy's
with him--shouldn't be surprised; but I think he's behaving precious
badly, and if he comes my way I shall tell him so." He dropped the
subject.

It was impossible to discuss with his son the true nature and meaning of
Bosinney's defection. Had not his son done the very same thing (worse,
if possible) fifteen years ago? There seemed no end to the consequences
of that piece of folly.

Young Jolyon also was silent; he had quickly penetrated his father's
thought, for, dethroned from the high seat of an obvious and
uncomplicated view of things, he had become both perceptive and subtle.

The attitude he had adopted towards sexual matters fifteen years before,
however, was too different from his father's. There was no bridging the
gulf.

He said coolly: "I suppose he's fallen in love with some other woman?"

Old Jolyon gave him a dubious look: "I can't tell," he said; "they say
so!"

"Then, it's probably true," remarked young Jolyon unexpectedly; "and I
suppose they've told you who she is?"

"Yes," said old Jolyon, "Soames's wife!"

Young Jolyon did not whistle: The circumstances of his own life had
rendered him incapable of whistling on such a subject, but he looked at
his father, while the ghost of a smile hovered over his face.

If old Jolyon saw, he took no notice.

"She and June were bosom friends!" he muttered.

"Poor little June!" said young Jolyon softly. He thought of his daughter
still as a babe of three.

Old Jolyon came to a sudden halt.

"I don't believe a word of it," he said, "it's some old woman's tale.
Get me a cab, Jo, I'm tired to death!"

They stood at a corner to see if an empty cab would come along, while
carriage after carriage drove past, bearing Forsytes of all descriptions
from the Zoo. The harness, the liveries, the gloss on the horses' coats,
shone and glittered in the May sunlight, and each equipage, landau,
sociable, barouche, Victoria, or brougham, seemed to roll out proudly
from its wheels:

'I and my horses and my men you know,' Indeed the whole turn-out have
cost a pot. But we were worth it every penny. Look At Master and at
Missis now, the dawgs! Ease with security--ah! that's the ticket!

And such, as everyone knows, is fit accompaniment for a perambulating
Forsyte.

Amongst these carriages was a barouche coming at a greater pace than the
others, drawn by a pair of bright bay horses. It swung on its high
springs, and the four people who filled it seemed rocked as in a cradle.

This chariot attracted young Jolyon's attention; and suddenly, on the
back seat, he recognised his Uncle James, unmistakable in spite of the
increased whiteness of his whiskers; opposite, their backs defended by
sunshades, Rachel Forsyte and her elder but married sister, Winifred
Dartie, in irreproachable toilettes, had posed their heads haughtily,
like two of the birds they had been seeing at the Zoo; while by James'
side reclined Dartie, in a brand-new frock-coat buttoned tight and
square, with a large expanse of carefully shot linen protruding below
each wristband.

An extra, if subdued, sparkle, an added touch of the best gloss or
varnish characterized this vehicle, and seemed to distinguish it from all
the others, as though by some happy extravagance--like that which marks
out the real 'work of art' from the ordinary 'picture'--it were
designated as the typical car, the very throne of Forsytedom.

Old Jolyon did not see them pass; he was petting poor Holly who was
tired, but those in the carriage had taken in the little group; the
ladies' heads tilted suddenly, there was a spasmodic screening movement
of parasols; James' face protruded naively, like the head of a long bird,
his mouth slowly opening. The shield-like rounds of the parasols grew
smaller and smaller, and vanished.

Young Jolyon saw that he had been recognised, even by Winifred, who could
not have been more than fifteen when he had forfeited the right to be
considered a Forsyte.

There was not much change in them! He remembered the exact look of their
turn-out all that time ago: Horses, men, carriage--all different now, no
doubt--but of the precise stamp of fifteen years before; the same neat
display, the same nicely calculated arrogance ease with security! The
swing exact, the pose of the sunshades exact, exact the spirit of the
whole thing.

And in the sunlight, defended by the haughty shields of parasols,
carriage after carriage went by.

"Uncle James has just passed, with his female folk," said young Jolyon.

His father looked black. "Did your uncle see us? Yes? Hmph! What's he
want, coming down into these parts?"

An empty cab drove up at this moment, and old Jolyon stopped it.

"I shall see you again before long, my boy!" he said. "Don't you go
paying any attention to what I've been saying about young Bosinney--I
don't believe a word of it!"

Kissing the children, who tried to detain him, he stepped in and was
borne away.

Young Jolyon, who had taken Holly up in his arms, stood motionless at the
corner, looking after the cab.




CHAPTER VII

AFTERNOON AT TIMOTHY'S

If old Jolyon, as he got into his cab, had said: 'I won't believe a word
of it!' he would more truthfully have expressed his sentiments.

The notion that James and his womankind had seen him in the company of
his son had awakened in him not only the impatience he always felt when
crossed, but that secret hostility natural between brothers, the roots of
which--little nursery rivalries--sometimes toughen and deepen as life
goes on, and, all hidden, support a plant capable of producing in season
the bitterest fruits.

Hitherto there had been between these six brothers no more unfriendly
feeling than that caused by the secret and natural doubt that the others
might be richer than themselves; a feeling increased to the pitch of
curiosity by the approach of death--that end of all handicaps--and the
great 'closeness' of their man of business, who, with some sagacity,
would profess to Nicholas ignorance of James' income, to James ignorance
of old Jolyon's, to Jolyon ignorance of Roger's, to Roger ignorance of
Swithin's, while to Swithin he would say most irritatingly that Nicholas
must be a rich man. Timothy alone was exempt, being in gilt-edged
securities.

But now, between two of them at least, had arisen a very different sense
of injury. From the moment when James had the impertinence to pry into
his affairs--as he put it--old Jolyon no longer chose to credit this
story about Bosinney. His grand-daughter slighted through a member of
'that fellow's' family! He made up his mind that Bosinney was maligned.
There must be some other reason for his defection.

June had flown out at him, or something; she was as touchy as she could
be!

He would, however, let Timothy have a bit of his mind, and see if he
would go on dropping hints! And he would not let the grass grow under
his feet either, he would go there at once, and take very good care that
he didn't have to go again on the same errand.

He saw James' carriage blocking the pavement in front of 'The Bower.' So
they had got there before him--cackling about having seen him, he dared
say! And further on, Swithin's greys were turning their noses towards
the noses of James' bays, as though in conclave over the family, while
their coachmen were in conclave above.

Old Jolyon, depositing his hat on the chair in the narrow hall, where
that hat of Bosinney's had so long ago been mistaken for a cat, passed
his thin hand grimly over his face with its great drooping white
moustaches, as though to remove all traces of expression, and made his
way upstairs.

He found the front drawing-room full. It was full enough at the best of
times--without visitors--without any one in it--for Timothy and his
sisters, following the tradition of their generation, considered that a
room was not quite 'nice' unless it was 'properly' furnished. It held,
therefore, eleven chairs, a sofa, three tables, two cabinets, innumerable
knicknacks, and part of a large grand piano. And now, occupied by Mrs.
Small, Aunt Hester, by Swithin, James, Rachel, Winifred, Euphemia, who
had come in again to return 'Passion and Paregoric' which she had read at
lunch, and her chum Frances, Roger's daughter (the musical Forsyte, the
one who composed songs), there was only one chair left unoccupied,
except, of course, the two that nobody ever sat on--and the only standing
room was occupied by the cat, on whom old Jolyon promptly stepped.