s heart took a resolution. They might talk as they liked: Finding was keeping; and if Timothy didn’t like it, he could lump it! The sensation was terrific. Someone, however, was knocking on the door.
“Oh! Smither,” said Aunt Juley, “you see what the little dog has done?” And she held up the sponge-bag defiantly.
“Aoh!” said Smither; “its teeth ARE sharp. Would you go down, ma’am? Mr. and Mrs. James Forsyte are in the drawing-room. Shall I take the little dog now? I daresay it’d like a run.”
“Not to the Police Station, Smither. I found it, and I’m going to keep it.”
“I’m sure, Ma’am. It’ll be company for me and Cook, now that Tommy’s gone. It’s took quite a fancy to us.”
With a pang of jealousy Aunt Juley said: “I take all the responsibility. Go with Smither, Pommy!”
Caught up in her arms, the little dog lolled its head over the edge of Smither and gazed back sentimentally as it was borne away. And, again, all that was maternal in Aunt Juley swelled, beneath the dark violet of her bosom sprinkled with white hairs.
“Say I am coming down.” And she began plucking off the white hairs.
Outside the drawing-room door she paused; then went in, weak at the knees. Between his Dundreary whiskers James was telling a story. His long legs projected so that she had to go round; his long lips stopped to say:
“How are you, Juley? They tell me you’ve found a dog,” and resumed the story. It was all about a man who had been bitten and had insisted on being cauterised until he couldn’t sit down, and the dog hadn’t been mad after all, so that it was all wasted, and that was what came of dogs. He didn’t know what use they were except to make a mess.
Emily said: “Pomeranians are all the rage. They look so amusing in a carriage.”
Aunt Hester murmured that Jolyon had an Italian greyhound at Stanhope Gate.
“That snippetty whippet!” said Swithin–perhaps the first use of the term: “There’s no body in THEM.”
“You’re not going to KEEP this dog?” said James. “You don’t know what it might have.”
Very red, Aunt Juley said sharply: “Fiddle-de-dee, James!”
“Well, you might have an action brought against you. They tell me there’s a Home for Lost Dogs. Your proper course is to turn it out.”
“Turn out your grandmother!” snapped Aunt Juley; she was not afraid of James.
“Well, it’s not your property. You’ll be getting up against the Law.”
“Fiddle the Law!”
This epoch-making remark was received in silence. Nobody knew what had come to Juley.
“Well,” said James, with finality, “don’t say I didn’t tell you. What does Timothy say–he’ud have a fit.”
“If he wants to have a fit, he must,” said Aunt Juley. “I shan’t stop him.”
“What are you going to do with the puppies?” said Swithin: “Ten to one she’ll have puppies.”
“You see, Juley,” said Aunt Ann.
Aunt Juley’s agitation was such that she took up a fan from the little curio table beside her, and began to wave it before her flushed face.
“You’re all against me,” she said: “Puppies, indeed! A little thing like that!”
Swithin rose. “Good-bye to you all. I’m going to see Nicholas. Good-bye, Juley. You come for a drive with me some day. I’ll take you to the Lost Dogs’ Home.” Throwing out his chest, he manoeuvred to the door, and could be heard descending the stairs to the accompaniment of the drawing-room bell.
James said mechanically: “He’s a funny fellow, Swithin!”
It was as much his permanent impression of his twin brother as was Swithin’s: “He’s a poor stick, James!”
Emily, who was bored, began talking to Aunt Hester about the new fashion of eating oysters before the soup. Of course it was very foreign, but they said the Prince was doing it; James wouldn’t have it; but personally she thought it rather elegant. She should see! James had begun to tell Aunt Ann how Soames would be out of his articles in January–he was a steady chap. He told her at some length. Aunt Juley sat pouting behind her moving fan. She had a longing for dear Jolyon. Partly because he had always been her favourite and her eldest brother, who had never allowed anyone else to bully her; partly because he was the only one who had a dog, and partly because even Ann was a little afraid of him. She sat longing to hear him say: “You’re a parcel of old women; of course Juley can keep what she found.” Because, that was it! The dog had followed her of its own free will. It was not as if it had been a precious stone or a purse–which, of course, would have been different. Sometimes Jolyon did come on Sundays–though generally he took little June to the Zoo; and the moment he came James would be sure to go away, for fear of having his knuckles rapped; and that, she felt sure, would be so nice, since James had been horrid about it all!
“I think,” she said, suddenly, “I shall go round to Stanhope Gate, and ask dear Jolyon.”
“What do you want to do that for?” said James, taking hold of a whisker. “He’ll send you away with a flea in your ear.”
Whether or no this possibility deterred her, Aunt Juley did not rise, but she ceased fanning herself and sat with the expression on her face which had given rise to the family saying: ‘Oh! So-and-so’s a regular Juley!’
But James had now exhausted his weekly budget. “Well, Emily,” he said, “you’ll be wanting to get home. We can’t keep the horses any longer.”
The accuracy of this formula had never been put to the proof, for Emily always rose at once with the words:
“Good-bye, dears. Give our love to Timothy.” She had pecked their cheeks and gone out of the room before James could remember what–as he would tell her in the carriage–he had specially gone there to ask them.
When they had departed, Aunt Hester, having looked from one to the other of her sisters, muffled ‘Lady Audley’s Secret’ in her shawl and tiptoed away. She knew what was coming. Aunt Juley took the solitaire board with hands that trembled. The moment had arrived! And she waited, making an occasional move with oozing fingers, and stealing glances at that upright figure in black silk with jet trappings and cameo brooch. On no account did she mean to be the first to speak; and she said, suddenly:
“There you sit, Ann!”
Aunt Ann, countering her glance with those grey eyes of hers that saw quite well at a distance, spoke:
“You heard what Swithin and James said, Juley.”
“I will NOT turn the dog out,” said Aunt Juley. “I will not, and that’s flat.” The blood beat in her temples and she tapped a foot on the floor.
“If it were a really nice little dog, it would not have run away and got lost. Little dogs of that sex are not to be trusted. You ought to know that, at your age, Juley; now that we’re alone, I can talk to you plainly. It will have followers, of course.”
Aunt Juley put a finger into her mouth, sucked it, took it out, and said:
“I’m tired of being treated like a little girl.”
Aunt Ann answered calmly:
“I think you should take some calomel–getting into fantods like this! We have never had a dog.”
“I don’t want you to have one now,” said Aunt Juley; “I want it for myself. I–I–” She could not bring herself to express what was in her heart about being loved–it would be–would be gushing!
“It’s not right to keep what’s not your own,” said Aunt Ann. “You know that perfectly well.”
“I will put an advertisement in the paper; if the owner comes, I’ll give it up. But it followed me of its own accord. And it can live downstairs. Timothy need never see it.”
“It will spoil the carpets,” said Aunt Ann, “and bark at night; we shall have no peace.”
“I’m sick of peace,” said Aunt Juley, rattling the board. “I’m sick of peace, and I’m sick of taking care of things till they–till you–till one belongs to them.”
Aunt Ann lifted her hands, spidery and pale.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. If one can’t take care of one’s things, one is not fit to have them.”
“Care–care–I’m sick of care! I want something human–I want this dog. And if I can’t have it, I will go away and take it with me; and that’s flat.”
It was, perhaps, the wildest thing that had ever been said at Timothy’s. Aunt Ann said very quietly:
“You know you can’t go away, Juley, you haven’t the money; so it’s no good talking like that.”
“Jolyon will give me the money; he will never let you bully me.”
An expression of real pain centred itself between Aunt Ann’s old eyes.
“I do not think I bully,” she said; “you forget yourself.”
For a full minute Aunt Juley said nothing, looking to and fro from her twisting fingers to the wrinkled ivory pale face of her eldest sister. Tears of compunction had welled up in her eyes. Dear Ann was very old, and the doctor was always saying–! And quickly she got out her handkerchief.
“I–I’m upset. – I–I didn’t mean–dear Ann–I–” the words bubbled out: “b-b-but I d-do so w-want the little d-d-dog.”
There was silence, broken by her sniffing. Then rose the voice of Aunt Ann, calm, a little tremulous:
“Very well, dear; it will be a sacrifice, but if it makes you happier–”
“Oh!” sobbed Aunt Juley: “Oh!”
A large tear splashed on the solitaire board, and with the small handkerchief she wiped it off.
MIDSUMMER MADNESS, 1880
George, second son to Roger Forsyte of Prince’s gate, was in the year 1880 twenty-four years of age, and supposed to be a farmer. That is to say he had failed for the Army, and had definitely refused to enter any indoor profession. This was why he spent the inside of his weeks in any country pursuit which was not farming, and the outside of his weeks in or about the Club in Piccadilly which he had nicknamed ‘The Iseeum.’ Nominally resident at Plumtree Park in Bedfordshire, where a gentleman farmer eked out his losses with the premiums paid by the fathers of his pupils, George Forsyte’s wit, of which he had a good deal, enabled him to spend most of his time with neighbouring landowners, who let him ride their horses or shoot their pheasants and rabbits. In the summer, when horses were turned out, pheasants turned in, and even rabbits were breeding, George would sometimes look at other people shearing sheep, and cheer them with his jests; but as a general thing he would be found studying the conformation of the horse on Newmarket Heath, or the conformation of chorus girls on the stage of the Liberty Theatre. But in this particular summer of 1880, as will sometimes happen with men of the world, he had fallen in love. The object of his affection was a very pretty woman with dark dove-like eyes, who was somewhat naturally the wife of a man he knew called Basset, a neighbouring landowner and Major in the Militia. It may come as a shock to those who fifty years later have claimed for themselves the abolition of morals to learn that George already had none. It was with a mere glow that he discovered himself to be in love with a married woman. Flora Basset, like most people with dove-like eyes, was what was then known as a ‘flirt’; and since she lived in the country to please her husband, when she would rather have lived in London, she considered herself entitled to such amusement as came her way. George was very amusing.
He began at Easter time by normal admiration of Flora’s eyes and conformation, and a normal hankering to make her his own; but as summer came, he found these feelings gradually complicated by a sensation which he had never before known, but which other people had called jealousy. In other words it became distasteful to think of Flora as Mrs. Basset. George was not of those who examine and label their feelings, or he would perhaps have understood that desire was becoming passion.
June arriving, and the weather turning hot, Major Basset, “that poopstick” as George now called him in thought, went into camp with his Militia. George experienced a feeling, not merely of increased hope, but of relief, for, when not in the presence of his Flora, he had begun to ache. But he was soon to discover that his Flora had an excellent head, and knew how to keep it. She had no intention of being compromised. George, of course, was well aware that if he did compromise her, or rather himself, his position, dependent on his father, a man of maturer years and the morals of an old Forsyte, would become impossible; as likely as not, cut off with a shilling, he would be obliged to live on racing debts. But this was not enough to make him thankful that his Flora would not let him compromise her. On the contrary her discretion drove him nearly mad.
And the weather grew hotter; the trees, the flowers, the grasses exuded more scent; the cuckoo’s note became a little querulous; the wood-pigeons emitted the ritornelles of love. With the increasing temperature more and more of his Flora became visible, and George played croquet with her, and sat listening to her singing the songs of opera bouffe, and now and again was permitted to stay to dinner, and dismissed at nine o’clock; and his wit shrivelled within him in the heat of his feelings; and half the month of June was gone.
Now in George was something dogged and tenacious; nor did he lack hardihood. He ceased not in his resolve; with heroism he fought against the shrivelling of his wit, and like the unhappy clowns of Kings in the old days, who must be merry whatever the conditions of their hearts, continued to jest in the presence of his beloved, and to subdue the smoulder in his bull-like eyes. ‘Plain but pleasant’–as he called himself–to cease being pleasant must lose him the game. But dry were the lips with which he jested; and small was his knowledge of his Flora’s heart. What her feelings were for the ‘poopstick’ who in a week’s time would be returning he never dared to ask. And he suffered, he suffered as much as moralists could wish; but he continued to jest, because it was–jest or lose; and his Flora continued to smile on him with her dark and dove-like eyes, to laugh little half-shocked laughs, to press his hand faintly; to smell sweet and look enticing. And the last week passed.
Hotter and hotter, the sun flamed all day, and it was good to sit in the shade. Now, alongside the croquet lawn in front of the Bassets’ house, was a shrubbery of rhododendrons, and beyond this a clump of lilacs and within it a summer-house and beyond this again an orchard of plum and pear trees.
And George took from his Flora’s hand the croquet mallet, and, holding it out, said with a grin:
“Who’s for a cooler? Let’s go and sit in the shade with this between us.”
His Flora laughed:
“George, how naughty you are!”
“Naughty but nice!” said George, and took her hand with the tips of his fingers, walking delicately, for all his heaviness, as if leading her to a minuet. And, while he walked, he thought: ‘The last day–this is hell!’
They came to the summer-house.
“What?” said George; “no earwigs! Forward, the Buffs!”
They entered, sat down; George placed the mallet between them. And silence fell–for the life of him he could no longer jest.
From across the mallet, Flora was gazing, cool and sweet against the wooden wall, a little smile on her lips. It was too much! George took the mallet in both hands; his fleshy face had gone a dusky red, his full thick-lidded eyes gazed lowering in front of him, veins stood out on his forehead beneath his neatly parted hair; the muscles in his arms below the rolled-up sleeves swelled in ridges. He laid the mallet down on his other side noiselessly as if it had been a feather.
“Flora!” he said, and seized the sweet and unresisting creature.
So was accomplished his desire, with no words spoken.
He stood, presently, and watched her go, a finger to her lips and her eyes still smiling; then through the orchard himself went away, dumb and grateful for pleasure as the beasts that perish, and drunk with triumph like a god. The day had changed and darkened with the heat. The sky had an airless brooding aspect; flies buzzed viciously and clung about him. He sat down on the bank of a stream and lighted a cigar. He held it between lips that never ceased to smile, and watched the smoke annoying the flies and midges. He listened, without hearing, to their hum, and to the cooing of the wood-pigeons; he watched, without seeing, the extreme stillness of the heat-darkened day. Thus, he spent two hours lost in a few past minutes. He got up with a sigh, the scent of nettles, burdock and the carted hay deep in his nostrils. He would not go home, but walked to the Inn. He ate bread and cheese and drank porter. And then began again the longing to see and touch her that had for so short time been appeased; and smoking a village clay he ached, watching all light out of the sky; so heavy and hot the air, that he sweated, sitting there. And he thought: ‘The last night! She might let me in-she might!’
He rose and went out into the breathless dark, retracing his steps to the stream, and through the blinded orchard to the summer-house. He groped and found the mallet and took it with him, stealing along past the lilacs, to the edge of the rhododendron clump bordering the lawn. Dark! It was more than dark, but he could just see the house. And, squatting on the grass, dry as tinder, he gazed up. Two first floor windows alone were lighted, open but curtained–hers–so well he knew the windows he had longed to enter! And he thought: ‘By Gad! I’ll have a shot!’ and going on his knees he searched for tiny pebbles in the shrubbery. Then drawing deep breaths to still the pounding of his heart he moved towards the house along the rhododendrons. But then he stopped as if he had been shot, and dropped to his knees on the grass. A curtain had been pulled aside; in the lighted window-space stood the figure of a half-dressed man. He was leaning there, inhaling the heavy night; he turned and spoke into the room. George saw his profile–Basset! Their voices carried to him in the stillness–his voice and hers. He saw a shimmer of white–flesh, drapery–pass across behind; saw the man’s arm go round it. And George pressed his face to the dry grass, stifling a groan. He heard a woman’s low laugh, the window shut down, and furious pain jerked him to his knees. To take the mallet–to climb up–to brain him–her–to–to–! He fell forward again, with arms outstretched. The smell of parched grass mixed itself with his agony, for how long–how long–till the night was rent with a blinding flash and thunder rolled round and round him. He staggered to his feet, ran into the dark; and stumbled among the orchard trees. Lightning flashed all round, he wanted it to strike. He wanted it to strike him, but he knew it wouldn’t. Then the rain fell–fell in a sheet, drenched him in a minute; fell and fell, and cooled him even to the heart. Like a drowned rat he came to where he lived, and let himself in. He went up to his bedroom, and tearing off his clothes, flung himself into bed. And behind and through the crashing of the thunder he heard that low soft laugh, and the window being shut down. He fell asleep at last.
When he woke the sun was shining in at his window; it shone across the room on to his boots–fourteen pairs of boots and shoes, treed, in triple rows, on the top of his chest-of-drawers. Boots and shoes of every kind–riding boots, shooting boots, town boots, tennis boots, pumps. George looked at them, with fish-like eyes. In those well-worn and polished boots, treed against decay, was life–his life–and in his heart, dragged from its drowned sleep, was death. That laugh! No! To hell with women! Boots! And, lying there, he ground his teeth and grinned.
THE HONDEKOETER, 1880
Encountering his old friend Traquair opposite the Horse Guards, in the summer of 1880, James Forsyte, who had taken an afternoon off from the City, proceeded alongside with the words:
“I’m not well.”
His friend answered: “You look bobbish enough. Going to the Club?”
“No,” said James. “I’m going to Jobson’s. They’re selling Smelter’s pictures. Don’t suppose there’s anything, but I thought I’d look in.”
“Smelter? Selling his ‘Cupid and Pish,’ as he used to call it? He never could speak the Queen’s English.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what made him die,” said James; “he wasn’t seventy. His ‘47 was good.”
“Ah! And his brown sherry.”
James shook his head.
“Liverish stuff. I’ve been walking from the Temple; got a touch of liver now.”
“You ought to go to Carlsbad; that’s the new place, they say.”
“Homburg,” said James, mechanically. “Emily likes it–too fashionable for me. I don’t know–I’m sixty-nine.” He pointed his umbrella at a lion.
“That chap Landseer must ha’ made a pretty penny,” he muttered: “They say Dizzy’s very shaky. HE won’t last long.”
“M’m! That old fool Gladstone’ll set us all by the ears yet. Going to bid at Jobson’s?”
“Bid? Haven’t got the money to throw away. My family’s growing up.”
“Ah! How’s your married daughter–Winifred?”
The furrow between James’ brows increased in depth.
“She never tells me. But I know that chap Dartie she married makes the money fly.”
“What is he?”
“An outside broker,” said James, gloomily: “But so far as I can see, he does nothing but gallivant about to races and that. He’ll do no good with himself.”
He halted at the pavement edge, where a crossing had been swept, for it had rained; and extracting a penny from his trouser pocket, gave it to the crossing-sweeper, who looked up at his long figure with a round and knowing eye.
“Well, good-bye, James. I’m going to the Club. Remember me to Emily.”
James Forsyte nodded, and moved, stork-like, on to the narrow crossing. Andy Traquair! He still looked very spry! Gingery chap! But that wife of his–fancy marrying again at his age! Well, no fool like an old one. And, incommoded by a passing four-wheeler, he instinctively raised his umbrella–they never looked where they were going.
Traversing St. James’ Square, he reflected gloomily that these new Clubs were thundering great places; and this asphalt pavement that was coming in-he didn’t know! London wasn’t what it used to be, with horses slipping about all over the place. He turned into Jobson’s. Three o’clock! They’d be just starting. Smelter must have cut up quite well.
Ascending the steps, he passed through the lobbies into the sale-room. Auction was in progress, but they had not yet reached the ‘property of William Smelter Esq.’
Putting on his tortoiseshell pince-nez, James studied the catalogue. Since his purchase of a Turner–some said ‘not a Turner’–all cordage and drowning men, he had not bought a picture, and he had a blank space on the stairs. It was a large space in a poor light; he often thought it looked very bare. If there were anything going at a bargain, he might think of it. H’m! There was the Bronzino: ‘Cupid and Pish’ that Smelter had been so proud of–a nude; he didn’t want nudes in Park Lane. His eye ran down the catalogue: “Claud Lorraine,” “Bosboem,” “Cornelis van Vos,” “Snyders”–“Snyders”–m’m! still life–all ducks and geese, hares, artichokes, onions, platters, oysters, grapes, turkeys, pears, and starved-looking greyhounds asleep under them. No. 17, “M. Hondekoeter.” Fowls, 11 foot by 6. What a whopping great thing! He took three mental steps into the middle of the picture and three steps out again. “Hondekoeter.” His brother Jolyon had one in the billiard room at Stanhope Gate–lot of fowls; not so big as that. “Snyders!” “Ary Scheffer”–bloodless-looking affair, he’d be bound! “Rosa Bonheur.” “Snyders.”
He took a seat at the side of the room, and fell into a reverie–with James a serious matter, indissolubly connected with investments. Soames–in partnership now–was shaping well; bringing in a lot of business. That house in Bryanston Square–the tenancy would be up in September–he ought to get another hundred on a re-let, with the improvements the tenant had put in. He’d have a couple of thousand to invest next Quarter Day. There was Cape Copper, but he didn’t know; Nicholas was always telling him to buy ‘Midland.’ That fellow Dartie, too, kept worrying him about Argentines–he wouldn’t touch them with a pair of tongs. And, leaning forward with his hands crossed on the handle of his umbrella, he gazed fixedly up at the skylight, as if seeing some annunciation or other, while his shaven lips, between his grey Dundrearys, filled sensually as though savouring a dividend.
“The collection of William Smelter, Esquire, of Russell Square.”
Now for the usual poppycock! “This well-known collector,” “masterpieces of the Dutch and French Schools”; “rare opportunity”; “Connoisseur”; all me eye and Betty Martin! Smelter used to buy ’em by the yard.
“No. 1. Cupid and Psyche: Bronzino. Ladies and Gentlemen: what shall I start it at–this beautiful picture, an undoubted masterpiece of the Italian School?”
James sniggered. Connoisseur–with his ‘Cupid and Pish’!
To his astonishment there was some brisk bidding; and James’ upper lip began to lengthen, as ever at any dispute about values. The picture was knocked down and a ‘Snyders’ put up. James sat watching picture after picture disposed of. It was hot in the room and he felt sleepy–he didn’t know why he had come; he might have been having a nap at the Club, or driving with Emily.
“What–no bid for the Hondekoeter? This large masterpiece.”
James gazed at the enormous picture on the easel, supported at either end by an attendant. The huge affair was full of poultry and feathers floating in a bit of water and a large white rooster looking as if it were about to take a bath. It was a dark painting, save for the rooster, with a yellowish tone.
“Come, gentlemen? By a celebrated painter of domestic poultry. May I say fifty? Forty? Who’ll give me forty pounds? It’s giving it away. Well, thirty to start it? Look at the rooster! Masterly painting! Come now! I’ll take any bid.”
“Five pounds!” said James, covering the words so that no one but the auctioneer should see where they came from.
“Five pounds for this genuine work by a master of domestic poultry! Ten pounds did you say, Sir? Ten pounds bid.”
“Fifteen,” muttered James.
“Twenty.”
“Twenty-five,” said James; he was not going above thirty.
“Twenty-five–why, the frame’s worth it. Who says thirty?”
No one said thirty; and the picture was knocked down to James, whose mouth had opened slightly. He hadn’t meant to buy it; but the thing was a bargain–the size had frightened them; Jolyon had paid one hundred and forty for his Hondekoeter. Well, it would cover that blank on the stairs. He waited till two more pictures had been sold; then, leaving his card with directions for the despatch of the Hondekoeter, made his way up St. James’ Street and on towards home.
He found Emily just starting out with Rachel and Cicely in the barouche, but refused to accompany them–a little afraid of being asked what he had been doing. Entering his deserted house, he told Warmson that he felt liverish; he would have a cup of tea and a muffin, nothing more;
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
“Oh! Smither,” said Aunt Juley, “you see what the little dog has done?” And she held up the sponge-bag defiantly.
“Aoh!” said Smither; “its teeth ARE sharp. Would you go down, ma’am? Mr. and Mrs. James Forsyte are in the drawing-room. Shall I take the little dog now? I daresay it’d like a run.”
“Not to the Police Station, Smither. I found it, and I’m going to keep it.”
“I’m sure, Ma’am. It’ll be company for me and Cook, now that Tommy’s gone. It’s took quite a fancy to us.”
With a pang of jealousy Aunt Juley said: “I take all the responsibility. Go with Smither, Pommy!”
Caught up in her arms, the little dog lolled its head over the edge of Smither and gazed back sentimentally as it was borne away. And, again, all that was maternal in Aunt Juley swelled, beneath the dark violet of her bosom sprinkled with white hairs.
“Say I am coming down.” And she began plucking off the white hairs.
Outside the drawing-room door she paused; then went in, weak at the knees. Between his Dundreary whiskers James was telling a story. His long legs projected so that she had to go round; his long lips stopped to say:
“How are you, Juley? They tell me you’ve found a dog,” and resumed the story. It was all about a man who had been bitten and had insisted on being cauterised until he couldn’t sit down, and the dog hadn’t been mad after all, so that it was all wasted, and that was what came of dogs. He didn’t know what use they were except to make a mess.
Emily said: “Pomeranians are all the rage. They look so amusing in a carriage.”
Aunt Hester murmured that Jolyon had an Italian greyhound at Stanhope Gate.
“That snippetty whippet!” said Swithin–perhaps the first use of the term: “There’s no body in THEM.”
“You’re not going to KEEP this dog?” said James. “You don’t know what it might have.”
Very red, Aunt Juley said sharply: “Fiddle-de-dee, James!”
“Well, you might have an action brought against you. They tell me there’s a Home for Lost Dogs. Your proper course is to turn it out.”
“Turn out your grandmother!” snapped Aunt Juley; she was not afraid of James.
“Well, it’s not your property. You’ll be getting up against the Law.”
“Fiddle the Law!”
This epoch-making remark was received in silence. Nobody knew what had come to Juley.
“Well,” said James, with finality, “don’t say I didn’t tell you. What does Timothy say–he’ud have a fit.”
“If he wants to have a fit, he must,” said Aunt Juley. “I shan’t stop him.”
“What are you going to do with the puppies?” said Swithin: “Ten to one she’ll have puppies.”
“You see, Juley,” said Aunt Ann.
Aunt Juley’s agitation was such that she took up a fan from the little curio table beside her, and began to wave it before her flushed face.
“You’re all against me,” she said: “Puppies, indeed! A little thing like that!”
Swithin rose. “Good-bye to you all. I’m going to see Nicholas. Good-bye, Juley. You come for a drive with me some day. I’ll take you to the Lost Dogs’ Home.” Throwing out his chest, he manoeuvred to the door, and could be heard descending the stairs to the accompaniment of the drawing-room bell.
James said mechanically: “He’s a funny fellow, Swithin!”
It was as much his permanent impression of his twin brother as was Swithin’s: “He’s a poor stick, James!”
Emily, who was bored, began talking to Aunt Hester about the new fashion of eating oysters before the soup. Of course it was very foreign, but they said the Prince was doing it; James wouldn’t have it; but personally she thought it rather elegant. She should see! James had begun to tell Aunt Ann how Soames would be out of his articles in January–he was a steady chap. He told her at some length. Aunt Juley sat pouting behind her moving fan. She had a longing for dear Jolyon. Partly because he had always been her favourite and her eldest brother, who had never allowed anyone else to bully her; partly because he was the only one who had a dog, and partly because even Ann was a little afraid of him. She sat longing to hear him say: “You’re a parcel of old women; of course Juley can keep what she found.” Because, that was it! The dog had followed her of its own free will. It was not as if it had been a precious stone or a purse–which, of course, would have been different. Sometimes Jolyon did come on Sundays–though generally he took little June to the Zoo; and the moment he came James would be sure to go away, for fear of having his knuckles rapped; and that, she felt sure, would be so nice, since James had been horrid about it all!
“I think,” she said, suddenly, “I shall go round to Stanhope Gate, and ask dear Jolyon.”
“What do you want to do that for?” said James, taking hold of a whisker. “He’ll send you away with a flea in your ear.”
Whether or no this possibility deterred her, Aunt Juley did not rise, but she ceased fanning herself and sat with the expression on her face which had given rise to the family saying: ‘Oh! So-and-so’s a regular Juley!’
But James had now exhausted his weekly budget. “Well, Emily,” he said, “you’ll be wanting to get home. We can’t keep the horses any longer.”
The accuracy of this formula had never been put to the proof, for Emily always rose at once with the words:
“Good-bye, dears. Give our love to Timothy.” She had pecked their cheeks and gone out of the room before James could remember what–as he would tell her in the carriage–he had specially gone there to ask them.
When they had departed, Aunt Hester, having looked from one to the other of her sisters, muffled ‘Lady Audley’s Secret’ in her shawl and tiptoed away. She knew what was coming. Aunt Juley took the solitaire board with hands that trembled. The moment had arrived! And she waited, making an occasional move with oozing fingers, and stealing glances at that upright figure in black silk with jet trappings and cameo brooch. On no account did she mean to be the first to speak; and she said, suddenly:
“There you sit, Ann!”
Aunt Ann, countering her glance with those grey eyes of hers that saw quite well at a distance, spoke:
“You heard what Swithin and James said, Juley.”
“I will NOT turn the dog out,” said Aunt Juley. “I will not, and that’s flat.” The blood beat in her temples and she tapped a foot on the floor.
“If it were a really nice little dog, it would not have run away and got lost. Little dogs of that sex are not to be trusted. You ought to know that, at your age, Juley; now that we’re alone, I can talk to you plainly. It will have followers, of course.”
Aunt Juley put a finger into her mouth, sucked it, took it out, and said:
“I’m tired of being treated like a little girl.”
Aunt Ann answered calmly:
“I think you should take some calomel–getting into fantods like this! We have never had a dog.”
“I don’t want you to have one now,” said Aunt Juley; “I want it for myself. I–I–” She could not bring herself to express what was in her heart about being loved–it would be–would be gushing!
“It’s not right to keep what’s not your own,” said Aunt Ann. “You know that perfectly well.”
“I will put an advertisement in the paper; if the owner comes, I’ll give it up. But it followed me of its own accord. And it can live downstairs. Timothy need never see it.”
“It will spoil the carpets,” said Aunt Ann, “and bark at night; we shall have no peace.”
“I’m sick of peace,” said Aunt Juley, rattling the board. “I’m sick of peace, and I’m sick of taking care of things till they–till you–till one belongs to them.”
Aunt Ann lifted her hands, spidery and pale.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. If one can’t take care of one’s things, one is not fit to have them.”
“Care–care–I’m sick of care! I want something human–I want this dog. And if I can’t have it, I will go away and take it with me; and that’s flat.”
It was, perhaps, the wildest thing that had ever been said at Timothy’s. Aunt Ann said very quietly:
“You know you can’t go away, Juley, you haven’t the money; so it’s no good talking like that.”
“Jolyon will give me the money; he will never let you bully me.”
An expression of real pain centred itself between Aunt Ann’s old eyes.
“I do not think I bully,” she said; “you forget yourself.”
For a full minute Aunt Juley said nothing, looking to and fro from her twisting fingers to the wrinkled ivory pale face of her eldest sister. Tears of compunction had welled up in her eyes. Dear Ann was very old, and the doctor was always saying–! And quickly she got out her handkerchief.
“I–I’m upset. – I–I didn’t mean–dear Ann–I–” the words bubbled out: “b-b-but I d-do so w-want the little d-d-dog.”
There was silence, broken by her sniffing. Then rose the voice of Aunt Ann, calm, a little tremulous:
“Very well, dear; it will be a sacrifice, but if it makes you happier–”
“Oh!” sobbed Aunt Juley: “Oh!”
A large tear splashed on the solitaire board, and with the small handkerchief she wiped it off.
MIDSUMMER MADNESS, 1880
George, second son to Roger Forsyte of Prince’s gate, was in the year 1880 twenty-four years of age, and supposed to be a farmer. That is to say he had failed for the Army, and had definitely refused to enter any indoor profession. This was why he spent the inside of his weeks in any country pursuit which was not farming, and the outside of his weeks in or about the Club in Piccadilly which he had nicknamed ‘The Iseeum.’ Nominally resident at Plumtree Park in Bedfordshire, where a gentleman farmer eked out his losses with the premiums paid by the fathers of his pupils, George Forsyte’s wit, of which he had a good deal, enabled him to spend most of his time with neighbouring landowners, who let him ride their horses or shoot their pheasants and rabbits. In the summer, when horses were turned out, pheasants turned in, and even rabbits were breeding, George would sometimes look at other people shearing sheep, and cheer them with his jests; but as a general thing he would be found studying the conformation of the horse on Newmarket Heath, or the conformation of chorus girls on the stage of the Liberty Theatre. But in this particular summer of 1880, as will sometimes happen with men of the world, he had fallen in love. The object of his affection was a very pretty woman with dark dove-like eyes, who was somewhat naturally the wife of a man he knew called Basset, a neighbouring landowner and Major in the Militia. It may come as a shock to those who fifty years later have claimed for themselves the abolition of morals to learn that George already had none. It was with a mere glow that he discovered himself to be in love with a married woman. Flora Basset, like most people with dove-like eyes, was what was then known as a ‘flirt’; and since she lived in the country to please her husband, when she would rather have lived in London, she considered herself entitled to such amusement as came her way. George was very amusing.
He began at Easter time by normal admiration of Flora’s eyes and conformation, and a normal hankering to make her his own; but as summer came, he found these feelings gradually complicated by a sensation which he had never before known, but which other people had called jealousy. In other words it became distasteful to think of Flora as Mrs. Basset. George was not of those who examine and label their feelings, or he would perhaps have understood that desire was becoming passion.
June arriving, and the weather turning hot, Major Basset, “that poopstick” as George now called him in thought, went into camp with his Militia. George experienced a feeling, not merely of increased hope, but of relief, for, when not in the presence of his Flora, he had begun to ache. But he was soon to discover that his Flora had an excellent head, and knew how to keep it. She had no intention of being compromised. George, of course, was well aware that if he did compromise her, or rather himself, his position, dependent on his father, a man of maturer years and the morals of an old Forsyte, would become impossible; as likely as not, cut off with a shilling, he would be obliged to live on racing debts. But this was not enough to make him thankful that his Flora would not let him compromise her. On the contrary her discretion drove him nearly mad.
And the weather grew hotter; the trees, the flowers, the grasses exuded more scent; the cuckoo’s note became a little querulous; the wood-pigeons emitted the ritornelles of love. With the increasing temperature more and more of his Flora became visible, and George played croquet with her, and sat listening to her singing the songs of opera bouffe, and now and again was permitted to stay to dinner, and dismissed at nine o’clock; and his wit shrivelled within him in the heat of his feelings; and half the month of June was gone.
Now in George was something dogged and tenacious; nor did he lack hardihood. He ceased not in his resolve; with heroism he fought against the shrivelling of his wit, and like the unhappy clowns of Kings in the old days, who must be merry whatever the conditions of their hearts, continued to jest in the presence of his beloved, and to subdue the smoulder in his bull-like eyes. ‘Plain but pleasant’–as he called himself–to cease being pleasant must lose him the game. But dry were the lips with which he jested; and small was his knowledge of his Flora’s heart. What her feelings were for the ‘poopstick’ who in a week’s time would be returning he never dared to ask. And he suffered, he suffered as much as moralists could wish; but he continued to jest, because it was–jest or lose; and his Flora continued to smile on him with her dark and dove-like eyes, to laugh little half-shocked laughs, to press his hand faintly; to smell sweet and look enticing. And the last week passed.
Hotter and hotter, the sun flamed all day, and it was good to sit in the shade. Now, alongside the croquet lawn in front of the Bassets’ house, was a shrubbery of rhododendrons, and beyond this a clump of lilacs and within it a summer-house and beyond this again an orchard of plum and pear trees.
And George took from his Flora’s hand the croquet mallet, and, holding it out, said with a grin:
“Who’s for a cooler? Let’s go and sit in the shade with this between us.”
His Flora laughed:
“George, how naughty you are!”
“Naughty but nice!” said George, and took her hand with the tips of his fingers, walking delicately, for all his heaviness, as if leading her to a minuet. And, while he walked, he thought: ‘The last day–this is hell!’
They came to the summer-house.
“What?” said George; “no earwigs! Forward, the Buffs!”
They entered, sat down; George placed the mallet between them. And silence fell–for the life of him he could no longer jest.
From across the mallet, Flora was gazing, cool and sweet against the wooden wall, a little smile on her lips. It was too much! George took the mallet in both hands; his fleshy face had gone a dusky red, his full thick-lidded eyes gazed lowering in front of him, veins stood out on his forehead beneath his neatly parted hair; the muscles in his arms below the rolled-up sleeves swelled in ridges. He laid the mallet down on his other side noiselessly as if it had been a feather.
“Flora!” he said, and seized the sweet and unresisting creature.
So was accomplished his desire, with no words spoken.
He stood, presently, and watched her go, a finger to her lips and her eyes still smiling; then through the orchard himself went away, dumb and grateful for pleasure as the beasts that perish, and drunk with triumph like a god. The day had changed and darkened with the heat. The sky had an airless brooding aspect; flies buzzed viciously and clung about him. He sat down on the bank of a stream and lighted a cigar. He held it between lips that never ceased to smile, and watched the smoke annoying the flies and midges. He listened, without hearing, to their hum, and to the cooing of the wood-pigeons; he watched, without seeing, the extreme stillness of the heat-darkened day. Thus, he spent two hours lost in a few past minutes. He got up with a sigh, the scent of nettles, burdock and the carted hay deep in his nostrils. He would not go home, but walked to the Inn. He ate bread and cheese and drank porter. And then began again the longing to see and touch her that had for so short time been appeased; and smoking a village clay he ached, watching all light out of the sky; so heavy and hot the air, that he sweated, sitting there. And he thought: ‘The last night! She might let me in-she might!’
He rose and went out into the breathless dark, retracing his steps to the stream, and through the blinded orchard to the summer-house. He groped and found the mallet and took it with him, stealing along past the lilacs, to the edge of the rhododendron clump bordering the lawn. Dark! It was more than dark, but he could just see the house. And, squatting on the grass, dry as tinder, he gazed up. Two first floor windows alone were lighted, open but curtained–hers–so well he knew the windows he had longed to enter! And he thought: ‘By Gad! I’ll have a shot!’ and going on his knees he searched for tiny pebbles in the shrubbery. Then drawing deep breaths to still the pounding of his heart he moved towards the house along the rhododendrons. But then he stopped as if he had been shot, and dropped to his knees on the grass. A curtain had been pulled aside; in the lighted window-space stood the figure of a half-dressed man. He was leaning there, inhaling the heavy night; he turned and spoke into the room. George saw his profile–Basset! Their voices carried to him in the stillness–his voice and hers. He saw a shimmer of white–flesh, drapery–pass across behind; saw the man’s arm go round it. And George pressed his face to the dry grass, stifling a groan. He heard a woman’s low laugh, the window shut down, and furious pain jerked him to his knees. To take the mallet–to climb up–to brain him–her–to–to–! He fell forward again, with arms outstretched. The smell of parched grass mixed itself with his agony, for how long–how long–till the night was rent with a blinding flash and thunder rolled round and round him. He staggered to his feet, ran into the dark; and stumbled among the orchard trees. Lightning flashed all round, he wanted it to strike. He wanted it to strike him, but he knew it wouldn’t. Then the rain fell–fell in a sheet, drenched him in a minute; fell and fell, and cooled him even to the heart. Like a drowned rat he came to where he lived, and let himself in. He went up to his bedroom, and tearing off his clothes, flung himself into bed. And behind and through the crashing of the thunder he heard that low soft laugh, and the window being shut down. He fell asleep at last.
When he woke the sun was shining in at his window; it shone across the room on to his boots–fourteen pairs of boots and shoes, treed, in triple rows, on the top of his chest-of-drawers. Boots and shoes of every kind–riding boots, shooting boots, town boots, tennis boots, pumps. George looked at them, with fish-like eyes. In those well-worn and polished boots, treed against decay, was life–his life–and in his heart, dragged from its drowned sleep, was death. That laugh! No! To hell with women! Boots! And, lying there, he ground his teeth and grinned.
THE HONDEKOETER, 1880
Encountering his old friend Traquair opposite the Horse Guards, in the summer of 1880, James Forsyte, who had taken an afternoon off from the City, proceeded alongside with the words:
“I’m not well.”
His friend answered: “You look bobbish enough. Going to the Club?”
“No,” said James. “I’m going to Jobson’s. They’re selling Smelter’s pictures. Don’t suppose there’s anything, but I thought I’d look in.”
“Smelter? Selling his ‘Cupid and Pish,’ as he used to call it? He never could speak the Queen’s English.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what made him die,” said James; “he wasn’t seventy. His ‘47 was good.”
“Ah! And his brown sherry.”
James shook his head.
“Liverish stuff. I’ve been walking from the Temple; got a touch of liver now.”
“You ought to go to Carlsbad; that’s the new place, they say.”
“Homburg,” said James, mechanically. “Emily likes it–too fashionable for me. I don’t know–I’m sixty-nine.” He pointed his umbrella at a lion.
“That chap Landseer must ha’ made a pretty penny,” he muttered: “They say Dizzy’s very shaky. HE won’t last long.”
“M’m! That old fool Gladstone’ll set us all by the ears yet. Going to bid at Jobson’s?”
“Bid? Haven’t got the money to throw away. My family’s growing up.”
“Ah! How’s your married daughter–Winifred?”
The furrow between James’ brows increased in depth.
“She never tells me. But I know that chap Dartie she married makes the money fly.”
“What is he?”
“An outside broker,” said James, gloomily: “But so far as I can see, he does nothing but gallivant about to races and that. He’ll do no good with himself.”
He halted at the pavement edge, where a crossing had been swept, for it had rained; and extracting a penny from his trouser pocket, gave it to the crossing-sweeper, who looked up at his long figure with a round and knowing eye.
“Well, good-bye, James. I’m going to the Club. Remember me to Emily.”
James Forsyte nodded, and moved, stork-like, on to the narrow crossing. Andy Traquair! He still looked very spry! Gingery chap! But that wife of his–fancy marrying again at his age! Well, no fool like an old one. And, incommoded by a passing four-wheeler, he instinctively raised his umbrella–they never looked where they were going.
Traversing St. James’ Square, he reflected gloomily that these new Clubs were thundering great places; and this asphalt pavement that was coming in-he didn’t know! London wasn’t what it used to be, with horses slipping about all over the place. He turned into Jobson’s. Three o’clock! They’d be just starting. Smelter must have cut up quite well.
Ascending the steps, he passed through the lobbies into the sale-room. Auction was in progress, but they had not yet reached the ‘property of William Smelter Esq.’
Putting on his tortoiseshell pince-nez, James studied the catalogue. Since his purchase of a Turner–some said ‘not a Turner’–all cordage and drowning men, he had not bought a picture, and he had a blank space on the stairs. It was a large space in a poor light; he often thought it looked very bare. If there were anything going at a bargain, he might think of it. H’m! There was the Bronzino: ‘Cupid and Pish’ that Smelter had been so proud of–a nude; he didn’t want nudes in Park Lane. His eye ran down the catalogue: “Claud Lorraine,” “Bosboem,” “Cornelis van Vos,” “Snyders”–“Snyders”–m’m! still life–all ducks and geese, hares, artichokes, onions, platters, oysters, grapes, turkeys, pears, and starved-looking greyhounds asleep under them. No. 17, “M. Hondekoeter.” Fowls, 11 foot by 6. What a whopping great thing! He took three mental steps into the middle of the picture and three steps out again. “Hondekoeter.” His brother Jolyon had one in the billiard room at Stanhope Gate–lot of fowls; not so big as that. “Snyders!” “Ary Scheffer”–bloodless-looking affair, he’d be bound! “Rosa Bonheur.” “Snyders.”
He took a seat at the side of the room, and fell into a reverie–with James a serious matter, indissolubly connected with investments. Soames–in partnership now–was shaping well; bringing in a lot of business. That house in Bryanston Square–the tenancy would be up in September–he ought to get another hundred on a re-let, with the improvements the tenant had put in. He’d have a couple of thousand to invest next Quarter Day. There was Cape Copper, but he didn’t know; Nicholas was always telling him to buy ‘Midland.’ That fellow Dartie, too, kept worrying him about Argentines–he wouldn’t touch them with a pair of tongs. And, leaning forward with his hands crossed on the handle of his umbrella, he gazed fixedly up at the skylight, as if seeing some annunciation or other, while his shaven lips, between his grey Dundrearys, filled sensually as though savouring a dividend.
“The collection of William Smelter, Esquire, of Russell Square.”
Now for the usual poppycock! “This well-known collector,” “masterpieces of the Dutch and French Schools”; “rare opportunity”; “Connoisseur”; all me eye and Betty Martin! Smelter used to buy ’em by the yard.
“No. 1. Cupid and Psyche: Bronzino. Ladies and Gentlemen: what shall I start it at–this beautiful picture, an undoubted masterpiece of the Italian School?”
James sniggered. Connoisseur–with his ‘Cupid and Pish’!
To his astonishment there was some brisk bidding; and James’ upper lip began to lengthen, as ever at any dispute about values. The picture was knocked down and a ‘Snyders’ put up. James sat watching picture after picture disposed of. It was hot in the room and he felt sleepy–he didn’t know why he had come; he might have been having a nap at the Club, or driving with Emily.
“What–no bid for the Hondekoeter? This large masterpiece.”
James gazed at the enormous picture on the easel, supported at either end by an attendant. The huge affair was full of poultry and feathers floating in a bit of water and a large white rooster looking as if it were about to take a bath. It was a dark painting, save for the rooster, with a yellowish tone.
“Come, gentlemen? By a celebrated painter of domestic poultry. May I say fifty? Forty? Who’ll give me forty pounds? It’s giving it away. Well, thirty to start it? Look at the rooster! Masterly painting! Come now! I’ll take any bid.”
“Five pounds!” said James, covering the words so that no one but the auctioneer should see where they came from.
“Five pounds for this genuine work by a master of domestic poultry! Ten pounds did you say, Sir? Ten pounds bid.”
“Fifteen,” muttered James.
“Twenty.”
“Twenty-five,” said James; he was not going above thirty.
“Twenty-five–why, the frame’s worth it. Who says thirty?”
No one said thirty; and the picture was knocked down to James, whose mouth had opened slightly. He hadn’t meant to buy it; but the thing was a bargain–the size had frightened them; Jolyon had paid one hundred and forty for his Hondekoeter. Well, it would cover that blank on the stairs. He waited till two more pictures had been sold; then, leaving his card with directions for the despatch of the Hondekoeter, made his way up St. James’ Street and on towards home.
He found Emily just starting out with Rachel and Cicely in the barouche, but refused to accompany them–a little afraid of being asked what he had been doing. Entering his deserted house, he told Warmson that he felt liverish; he would have a cup of tea and a muffin, nothing more;
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