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CHAPTER IV

PROJECTION OF THE HOUSE


Soames Forsyte walked out of his green-painted front door three
days after the dinner at Swithin's, and looking back from across
the Square, confirmed his impression that the house wanted
painting.

He had left his wife sitting on the sofa in the drawing-room, her
hands crossed in her lap, manifestly waiting for him to go out.
This was not unusual. It happened, in fact, every day.

He could not understand what she found wrong with him. It was
not as if he drank! Did he run into debt, or gamble, or swear;
was he violent; were his friends rackety; did he stay out at
night? On the contrary.

The profound, subdued aversion which he felt in his wife was a
mystery to him, and a source of the most terrible irritation.
That she had made a mistake, and did not love him, had tried to
love him and could not love him, was obviously no reason.

He that could imagine so outlandish a cause for his wife's not
getting on with him was certainly no Forsyte.

Soames was forced, therefore, to set the blame entirely down to
his wife. He had never met a woman so capable of inspiring
affection. They could not go anywhere without his seeing how all
the men were attracted by her; their looks, manners, voices,
betrayed it; her behaviour under this attention had been beyond
reproach. That she was one of those women--not too common in the
Anglo-Saxon race--born to be loved and to love, who when not
loving are not living, had certainly never even occurred to him.
Her power of attraction, he regarded as part of her value as his
property; but it made him, indeed, suspect that she could give as
well as receive; and she gave him nothing! 'Then why did she
marry me?' was his continual thought. He had, forgotten his
courtship; that year and a half when he had besieged and lain in
wait for her, devising schemes for her entertainment, giving her
presents, proposing to her periodically, and keeping her other
admirers away with his perpetual presence. He had forgotten the
day when, adroitly taking advantage of an acute phase of her
dislike to her home surroundings, he crowned his labours with
success. If he remembered anything, it was the dainty
capriciousness with which the gold-haired, dark-eyed girl had
treated him. He certainly did not remember the look on her face-
-strange, passive, appealing--when suddenly one day she had
yielded, and said that she would marry him.

It had been one of those real devoted wooings which books and
people praise, when the lover is at length rewarded for hammering
the iron till it is malleable, and all must be happy ever after
as the wedding bells.

Soames walked eastwards, mousing doggedly along on the shady
side.

The house wanted doing, up, unless he decided to move into the
country, and build.

For the hundredth time that month he turned over this problem.
There was no use in rushing into things! He was very comfortably
off, with an increasing income getting on for three thousand a
year; but his invested capital was not perhaps so large as his
father believed--James had a tendency to expect that his children
should be better off than they were. 'I can manage eight
thousand easily enough,' he thought, 'without calling in either

Robertson's or Nicholl's.'

He had stopped to look in at a picture shop, for Soames was an
'amateur' of pictures, and had a little-room in No. 62,
Montpellier Square, full of canvases, stacked against the wall,
which he had no room to hang. He brought them home with him on
his way back from the City, generally after dark, and would enter
this room on Sunday afternoons, to spend hours turning the
pictures to the light, examining the marks on their backs, and
occasionally making notes.

They were nearly all landscapes with figures in the foreground, a
sign of some mysterious revolt against London, its tall houses,
its interminable streets, where his life and the lives of his
breed and class were passed. Every now and then he would take
one or two pictures away with him in a cab, and stop at Jobson's
on his way into the City.

He rarely showed them to anyone; Irene, whose opinion he secretly
respected and perhaps for that reason never solicited, had only
been into the room on rare occasions, in discharge of some wifely
duty. She was not asked to look at the pictures, and she never
did. To Soames this was another grievance. He hated that pride
of hers, and secretly dreaded it.

In the plate-glass window of the picture shop his image stood and
looked at him.

His sleek hair under the brim of the tall hat had a sheen like
the hat itself; his cheeks, pale and flat, the line of his
clean-shaven lips, his firm chin with its greyish shaven tinge,
and the buttoned strictness of his black cut-away coat, conveyed
an appearance of reserve and secrecy, of imperturbable, enforced
composure; but his eyes, cold,--grey, strained--looking, with a
line in the brow between them, examined him wistfully, as if they
knew of a secret weakness.

He noted the subjects of the pictures, the names of the painters,
made a calculation of their values, but without the satisfaction
he usually derived from this inward appraisement, and walked on.

No. 62 would do well enough for another year, if he decided to
build! The times were good for building, money had not been so
dear for years; and the site he had seen at Robin Hill, when he
had gone down there in the spring to inspect the Nicholl
mortgage--what could be better! Within twelve miles of Hyde Park
Corner, the value of the land certain to go up, would always
fetch more than he gave for it; so that a house, if built in
really good style, was a first-class investment.

The notion of being the one member of his family with a country
house weighed but little with him; for to a true Forsyte,
sentiment, even the sentiment of social position, was a luxury
only to be indulged in after his appetite for more material
pleasure had been satisfied.

To get Irene out of London, away from opportunities of going
about and seeing people, away from her friends and those who put
ideas into her head! That was the thing! She was too thick with
June! June disliked him. He returned the sentiment. They were
of the same blood.

It would be everything to get Irene out of town. The house would
please her she would enjoy messing about with the decoration, she
was very artistic!

The house must be in good style, something that would always be
certain to command a price, something unique, like that last
house of Parkes, which had a tower; but Parkes had himself said
that his architect was ruinous. You never knew where you were
with those fellows; if they had a name they ran you into no end
of expense and were conceited into the bargain.

And a common architect was no good--the memory of Parkes' tower
precluded the employment of a common architect:

This was why he had thought of Bosinney. Since the dinner at
Swithin's he had made enquiries, the result of which had been
meagre, but encouraging: "One of the new school."

"Clever?"

"As clever as you like--a bit--a bit up in the air!"

He had not been able to discover what houses Bosinney had built,
nor what his charges were. The impression he gathered was that
he would be able to make his own terms. The more he reflected on
the idea, the more he liked it. It would be keeping the thing in
the family, with Forsytes almost an instinct; and he would be
able to get 'favoured-nation,' if not nominal terms--only fair,
considering the chance to Bosinney of displaying his talents, for
this house must be no common edifice.

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 to 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 particular moment, or demanding peculiar acuteness, 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 these
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
hate 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; the 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-bluedowns. 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.





Man of Property by John Galsworthy
Category:
English Novel

General Fiction
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