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CHAPTER VII

OLD JOLYON'S PECCADILLO


Old Jolyon came out of Lord's cricket ground that same afternoon
with the intention of going home. He had not reached Hamilton
Terrace before he changed his mind, and hailing a cab, gave the
driver an address in Wistaria Avenue. He had taken a resolution.

June had hardly been at home at all that week; she had given him
nothing of her company for a long time past, not, in fact, since
she had become engaged to Bosinney. He never asked her for her
company. It was not his habit to ask people for things! She had
just that one idea now--Bosinney and his affairs--and she left
him stranded in his great house, with a parcel of servants, and
not a soul to speak to from morning to night. His Club was
closed for cleaning; his Boards in recess; there was nothing,
therefore, to take him into the City. June had wanted him to go
away; she would not go herself, because Bosinney was in London.

But where was he to go by himself? He could not go abroad alone;
the sea upset his liver; he hated hotels. Roger went to a
hydropathic--he was--not going to begin that at his time of life,
those new-fangled places we're all humbug!

With such formulas he clothed to himself the desolation of his
spirit; the lines down his face deepening, his eyes day by day
looking forth with the melancholy which sat so strangely on a
face wont to be strong and serene.

And so that afternoon he took this journey through St. John's
Wood, in the golden-light that sprinkled the rounded green bushes
of the acacia's before the little houses, in the summer sunshine
that seemed holding a revel over the little gardens; and he
looked about him with interest; for this was a district which no
Forsyte entered without open disapproval and secret curiosity.

His cab stopped in front of a small house of that peculiar buff
colour which implies a long immunity from paint. It had an outer
gate, and a rustic approach.

He stepped out, his bearing extremely composed; his massive head,
with its drooping moustache and wings of white hair, very
upright, under an excessively large top hat; his glance firm, a
little angry. He had been driven into this!

"Mrs. Jolyon Forsyte at home?"

"Oh, yes sir!--what name shall I say, if you please, sir?"

Old Jolyon could not help twinkling at the little maid as he gave
his name. She seemed to him such a funny little toad!

And he followed her through the dark hall, into a small double,
drawing-room, where the furniture was covered in chintz, and the
little maid placed him in a chair.

"They're all in the garden, sir; if you'll kindly take a seat,
I'll tell them."

Old Jolyon sat down in the chintz-covered chair, and looked
around him. The whole place seemed to him, as he would have
expressed it, pokey; there was a certain--he could not tell
exactly what--air of shabbiness, or rather of making two ends
meet, about everything. As far as he could see, not a single
piece of furniture was worth a five-pound note. The walls,
distempered rather a long time ago, were decorated with
water-colour sketches; across the ceiling meandered a long crack.

These little houses were all old, second-rate concerns; he should
hope the rent was under a hundred a year; it hurt him more than
he could have said, to think of a Forsyte--his own son living in
such a place.

The little maid came back. Would he please to go down into the
garden?

Old Jolyon marched out through the French windows. In descending
the steps he noticed that they wanted painting.

Young Jolyon, his wife, his two children, and his dog Balthasar,
were all out there under a pear-tree.

This walk towards them was the most courageous act of old
Jolyon's life; but no muscle of his face moved, no nervous
gesture betrayed him. He kept his deep-set eyes steadily on the
enemy.

In those two minutes he demonstrated to perfection all that
unconscious soundness, balance, and vitality of fibre that made,
of him and so many others of his class the core of the nation.
In the unostentatious conduct of their own affairs, to the
neglect of everything else, they typified the essential
individualism, born in the Briton from the natural isolation of
his country's life.

The dog Balthasar sniffed round the edges of his trousers; this
friendly and cynical mongrel offspring of a liaison between a
Russian poodle and a fox-terrier--had a nose for the unusual.

The strange greetings over, old Jolyon seated himself in a wicker
chair, and his two grandchildren, one on each side of his knees,
looked at him silently, never having seen so old a man.

They were unlike, as though recognising the difference set
between them by the circumstances of their births. Jolly, the
child of sin, pudgy-faced, with his tow-coloured hair brushed off
his forehead, and a dimple in his chin, had an air of stubborn
amiability, and the eyes of a Forsyte; little Holly, the child of
wedlock, was a dark-skinned, solemn soul, with her mother's, grey
and wistful eyes.

The dog Balthasar, having walked round the three small flower-
beds, to show his extreme contempt for things at large, had also
taken a seat in front of old Jolyon, and, oscillating a tail
curled by Nature tightly over his back, was staring up with
eyes that did not blink.

Even in the garden, that sense of things being pokey haunted old
Jolyon; the wicker chair creaked under his weight; the
garden-beds looked 'daverdy'; on the far side, under the smut-
stained wall, cats had made a path.

While he and his grandchildren thus regarded each other with the
peculiar scrutiny, curious yet trustful, that passes between the
very young and the very old, young Jolyon watched his wife.

The colour had deepened in her thin, oval face, with its straight
brows, and large, grey eyes. Her hair, brushed in fine, high
curves back from her forehead, was going grey, like his own, and
this greyness made the sudden vivid colour in her cheeks
painfully pathetic.

The look on her face, such as he had never seen there before,
such as she had always hidden from him, was full of secret
resentments, and longings, and fears. Her eyes, under their
twitching brows, stared painfully. And she was silent.

Jolly alone sustained the conversation; he had many possessions,
and was anxious that his unknown friend with extremely large
moustaches, and hands all covered with blue veins, who sat with
legs crossed like his own father (a habit he was himself trying
to acquire), should know it; but being a Forsyte, though not yet
quite eight years old, he made no mention of the thing at the
moment dearest to his heart--a camp of soldiers in a shop-window,
which his father had promised to buy. No doubt it seemed to him
too precious; a tempting of Providence to mention it yet.

And the sunlight played through the leaves on that little party
of the three generations grouped tranquilly under the pear-tree,
which had long borne no fruit.

Old Jolyon's furrowed face was reddening patchily, as old men's
faces redden in the sun. He took one of Jolly's hands in his
own; the boy climbed on to his knee; and little Holly, mesmerized
by this sight, crept up to them; the sound of the dog Balthasar's
scratching arose rhythmically.

Suddenly young Mrs. Jolyon got up and hurried indoors. A minute
later her husband muttered an excuse, and followed. Old Jolyon
was left alone with his grandchildren.

And Nature with her quaint irony began working in him one of her
strange revolutions, following her cyclic laws into the depths of
his heart. And that tenderness for little children, that passion
for the beginnings of life which had once made him forsake his
son and follow June, now worked in him to forsake June and follow
these littler things. Youth, like a flame, burned ever in his
breast, and to youth he turned, to the round little limbs, so
reckless, that wanted care, to the small round faces so
unreasonably solemn or bright, to the treble tongues, and the
shrill, chuckling laughter, to the insistent tugging hands, and
the feel of small bodies against his legs, to all that was young
and young, and once more young. And his eyes grew soft, his
voice, and thin-veined hands soft, and soft his heart within him.
And to those small creatures he became at once a place of
pleasure, a place where they were secure, and could talk and
laugh and play; till, like sunshine, there radiated from old
Jolyon's wicker chair the perfect gaiety of three hearts.

But with young Jolyon following to his wife's room it was
different.

He found her seated on a chair before her dressing-glass, with
her hands before her face.

Her shoulders were shaking with sobs. This passion of hers for
suffering was mysterious to him. He had been through a hundred
of these moods; how he had survived them he never knew, for he
could never believe they were moods, and that the last hour of
his partnership had not struck.

In the night she would be sure to throw her o arms round, his
neck and say: "Oh! Jo, how I make you suffer!" as she had done a
hundred times before.

He reached out his hand, and, unseen, slipped his razor-case into
his pocket.
'I cannot stay here,' he thought, 'I must go down!' Without a
word he left the room, and went back to the lawn.

Old Jolyon had little Holly on his knee; she had taken possession
of his watch; Jolly, very red in the face, was trying to show
that he could stand on his head. The dog Balthasar, as close as
he might be to the tea-table, had fixed his eyes on the cake.

Young Jolyon felt a malicious desire to cut their enjoyment
short.

What business had his father to come and upset his wife like
this? It was a shock, after all these years! He ought to have
known; he ought to have given them warning; but when did a
Forsyte ever imagine that his conduct could upset anybody! And
in his thoughts he did old Jolyon wrong.

He spoke sharply to the children, and told them to go in to their
tea. Greatly surprised, for they had never heard their father
speak sharply before, they went off, hand in hand, little Holly
looking back over her shoulder.

Young Jolyon poured out the tea.

"My wife's not the thing today," he said, but he knew well enough
that his father had penetrated the cause of that sudden
withdrawal, and almost hated the old man for sitting there so
calmly.

"You've got a nice little house here," said old Jolyon with a
shrewd look; "I suppose you've taken a lease of it!"

Young Jolyon nodded.

"I don't like the neighbourhood," said old Jolyon; "a ramshackle
lot."

Young Jolyon replied: "Yes, we're a ramshackle lot."'

The silence was now only broken by the sound of the dog
Balthasar's scratching.

Old Jolyon said simply: "I suppose I oughtn't to have come here,
Jo; but I get so lonely!"

At these words young Jolyon got up and put his hand on his
father's shoulder.

In the next house someone was playing over and over again: 'La
Donna mobile' on an untuned piano; and the little garden had
fallen into shade, the sun now only reached the wall at the end,
whereon basked a crouching cat, her yellow eyes turned sleepily
down on the dog Balthasar. There was a drowsy hum of very
distant traffic; the creepered trellis round the garden shut out
everything but sky, and house, and pear-tree, with its top
branches still gilded by the sun.

For some time they sat there, talking but little. Then old
Jolyon rose to go, and not a word was said about his coming
again.

He walked away very sadly. What a poor miserable place; and he
thought of the great, empty house in Stanhope Gate, fit residence
for a Forsyte, with its huge billiard-room and drawing-room that
no one entered from one week's end to another.

That woman, whose face he had rather liked, was too thin-skinned
by half; she gave Jo a bad time he knew! And those sweet
children! Ah! what a piece of awful folly!

He walked towards the Edgware Road, between rows of little
houses, all suggesting to him (erroneously no doubt, but the
prejudices of a Forsyte are sacred) shady histories of some sort
or kind.

Society, forsooth, the chattering hags and jackanapes--had set
themselves up to pass judgment on his flesh and blood! A parcel
of old women! He stumped his umbrella on the ground, as though
to drive it into the heart of that unfortunate body, which had
dared to ostracize his son and his son's son, in whom he could
have lived again!

He stumped his umbrella fiercely; yet he himself had followed
Society's behaviour for fifteen years--had only today been false
to it!

He thought of June, and her dead mother, and the whole story,
with all his old bitterness. A wretched business!

He was a long time reaching Stanhope Gate, for, with native
perversity, being extremely tired, he walked the whole way.

After washing his hands in the lavatory downstairs, he went to
the dining-room to wait for dinner, the only room he used when
June was out--it was less lonely so. The evening paper had not
yet come; he had finished the Times, there was therefore nothing
to do.

The room faced the backwater of traffic, and was very silent. He
disliked dogs, but a dog even would have been company. His gaze,
travelling round the walls, rested on a 'picture entitled: 'Group
of Dutch fishing boats at sunset; the chef d'oeuvre of his
collection. It gave him no pleasure. He closed his eyes. He
was lonely! He oughtn't to complain, he knew, but he couldn't
help it: He was a poor thing--had always been a poor thing--no
pluck! Such was his thought.

The butler came to lay the table for dinner, and seeing his
master apparently asleep, exercised extreme caution in his
movements. This bearded man also wore a moustache, which had
given rise to grave doubts in the minds of many members--of the
family--, especially those who, like Soames, had been to public
schools, and were accustomed to niceness in such matters. Could
he really be considered a butler? Playful spirits alluded to him
as: 'Uncle Jolyon's Nonconformist'; George, the acknowledged wag,
had named him: 'Sankey.'

He moved to and fro between the great polished sideboard and the
great polished table inimitably sleek and soft.

Old Jolyon watched him, feigning sleep. The fellow was a sneak--
he had always thought so--who cared about nothing but rattling
through his work, and getting out to his betting or his woman or
goodness knew what! A slug! Fat too! And didn't care a pin
about his master!

But then against his will, came one of those moments of
philosophy which made old Jolyon different from other Forsytes:

After all why should the man care? He wasn't paid to care, and
why expect it? In this world people couldn't look for affection
unless they paid for it. It might be different in the next--he
didn't know--couldn't tell! And again he shut his eyes.

Relentless and stealthy, the butler pursued his labours, taking
things from the various compartments of the sideboard. His back
seemed always turned to old Jolyon; thus, he robbed his
operations of the unseemliness of being carried on in his
master's presence; now and then he furtively breathed on the
silver, and wiped it with a piece of chamois leather. He
appeared to pore over the quantities of wine in the decanters,
which he carried carefully and rather high, letting his heard
droop over them protectingly. When he had finished, he stood for
over a minute watching his master, and in his greenish eyes there
was a look of contempt:

After all, this master of his was an old buffer, who hadn't much
left in him!

Soft as a tom-cat, he crossed the room to press the bell. His
orders were 'dinner at seven.' What if his master were asleep; he
would soon have him out of that; there was the night to sleep in!
He had himself to think of, for he was due at his Club at
half-past eight!

In answer to the ring, appeared a page boy with a silver soup
tureen. The butler took it from his hands and placed it on the.
table, then, standing by the open door, as though about to usher
company into the room, he said in a solemn voice:

"Dinner is on the table, sir!

Slowly old Jolyon got up out of his chair, and sat down at the
table to eat his dinner.





Man of Property by John Galsworthy
Category:
English Novel

General Fiction
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