By the way, have you had your own kitchen electrified?”
“My wife and I are thinking of it, sir.”
“Don’t think!” said the Marquess. “Have it done!”
“We certainly shall, now.”
“We must strike while the strike is on,” said the Marquess. “If there is anything shorter than the public’s memory, I am not aware of it.”
“Phew!” said Sir Lawrence, on the next doorstep; “the old boy’s spryer than ever. I take it we may assume that the name here was originally Moss. If so, the question is: ‘Have we the wits for this job?’”
And, in some doubt, they scrutinised the mansion before them.
“We had better be perfectly straightforward,” said Michael. “Dwell on the slums, mention the names we hope to get, and leave the rest to him.”
“I think,” said his father, “we had better say ‘got,’ not ‘hope to get.’”
“The moment we mention the names, Dad, he’ll know we’re after his dibs.”
“He’ll know that in any case, my boy.”
“I suppose there’s no doubt about the dibs?”
“Montross, Ltd.! They’re not confined to elastic bands.”
“I should like to make a perfectly plain appeal to his generosity, Dad. There’s a lot of generosity in that blood, you know.”
“We can’t stand just here, Michael, discussing the make-up of the chosen. Ring the bell!”
Michael rang.
“Mr. Montross at home? Thank you. Will you give him these cards, and ask if we might see him for a moment?”
The room into which they were ushered was evidently accustomed to this sort of thing, for, while there was nothing that anyone could take away, there were chairs in which it was possible to be quite comfortable, and some valuable but large pictures and busts.
Sir Lawrence was examining a bust, and Michael a picture, when the door was opened, and a voice said: “Yes, gentlemen?”
Mr. Montross was of short stature, and somewhat like a thin walrus who had once been dark but had gone grey; his features were slightly aquiline, he had melancholy brown eyes, and big drooping grizzly moustaches and eyebrows.
“We were advised to come to you, sir,” began Michael at once, “by your neighbour, the Marquess of Shropshire. We’re trying to form a committee to issue an appeal for a national fund to convert the slums.” And for the third time he plunged into detail.
“And why do you come to ME, gentlemen?” said Mr. Montross, when he had finished.
Michael subdued a stammer.
“Because of your wealth, sir,” he said, simply.
“Good!” said Mr. Montross. “You see, I began in the slums, Mr. Mont–is it? – yes, Mr. Mont–I began there–I know a lot about those people, you know. I thought perhaps you came to me because of that.”
“Splendid, sir,” said Michael, “but of course we hadn’t an idea.”
“Well, those people are born without a future.”
“That’s just what we’re out to rectify, sir.”
“Take them away from their streets and put them in a new country, then–perhaps; but leave them to their streets–” Mr. Montross shook his head. “I know them, you see, Mr. Mont; if these people thought about the future, they could not go on living. And if you do not think about the future, you cannot have one.”
“How about yourself?” said Sir Lawrence. Mr. Montross turned his gaze from Michael to the cards in his hand, then raised his melancholy eyes.
“Sir Lawrence Mont, isn’t it? – I am a Jew–that is different. A Jew will rise from any beginnings, if he is a real Jew. The reason the Polish and the Russian Jews do not rise so easily you can see from their faces–they have too much Slav or Mongol blood. The pure Jew like me rises.”
Sir Lawrence and Michael exchanged a glance. “We like this fellow,” it seemed to say.
“I was a poor boy in a bad slum,” went on Mr. Montross, intercepting the glance, “and I am now–well, a millionaire; but I have not become that, you know, by throwing away my money. I like to help people that will help themselves.”
“Then,” said Michael, with a sigh, “there’s nothing in this scheme that appeals to you, sir?”
“I will ask my wife,” answered Mr. Montross, also with a sigh. “Good-night, gentlemen. Let me write to you.”
The two Monts moved slowly towards Mount Street in the last of the twilight.
“Well?” said Michael.
Sir Lawrence cocked his eyebrow.
“An honest man,” he said; “it’s fortunate for us he has a wife.”
“You mean–?”
“The potential Lady Montross will bring him in. There was no other reason why he should ask her. That makes four, and Sir Timothy’s a ‘sitter’; slum landlords are his betes noires. We only want three more. A bishop one can always get, but I’ve forgotten which it is for the moment; we MUST have a big doctor, and we ought to have a banker, but perhaps your uncle, Lionel Charwell, will do; he knows all about the shady side of finance in the courts, and we could make Alison work for us. And now, my dear, good-night! I don’t know when I’ve felt more tired.”
They parted at the corner, and Michael walked towards Westminster. He passed under the spikes of Buckingham Palace Gardens, and along the stables leading to Victoria Street. All this part had some very nice slums, though of late he knew the authorities had been ‘going for them.’ He passed an area where they had ‘gone’ for them to the extent of pulling down a congery of old houses. Michael stared up at the remnants of walls mosaicked by the unstripped wall papers. What had happened to the tribe outdriven from these ruins; whereto had they taken the tragic lives of which they made such cheerful comedy? He came to the broad river of Victoria Street and crossed it, and, taking a route that he knew was to be avoided, he was soon where women encrusted with age sat on doorsteps for a breath of air, and little alleys led off to unplumbed depths. Michael plumbed them in fancy, not in fact. He stood quite a while at the end of one, trying to imagine what it must be like to live there. Not succeeding, he walked briskly on, and turned into his own square, and to his own habitat with its bay-treed tubs, its Danish roof, and almost hopeless cleanliness. And he suffered from the feeling which besets those who are sensitive about their luck.
‘Fleur would say,’ he thought, perching on the coat-sarcophagus, for he, too, was tired, ‘that those people having no aesthetic sense and no tradition to wash up to, are at least as happy as we are. She’d say that they get as much pleasure out of living from hand to mouth (and not too much mouth), as we do from baths, jazz, poetry and cocktails; and she’s generally right.’ Only, what a confession of defeat! If that were really so, to what end were they all dancing? If life with bugs and flies were as good as life without bugs and flies, why Keating’s powder and all the other aspirations of the poets? Blake’s New Jerusalem was, surely, based on Keating, and Keating was based on a sensitive skin. To say, then, that civilisation was skin-deep, wasn’t cynical at all. People possibly had souls, but they certainly had skins, and progress was real only if thought of in terms of skin!
So ran the thoughts of Michael, perched on the coat-sarcophagus; and meditating on Fleur’s skin, so clear and smooth, he went upstairs.
She had just had her final bath, and was standing at her bedroom window. Thinking of–what? The moon over the square?
“Poor prisoner!” he said, and put his arm round her.
“What a queer sound the town makes at night, Michael. And, if you think, it’s made up of the seven million separate sounds of people going their own separate ways.”
“And yet–the whole lot are going one way.”
“We’re not going any way,” said Fleur, “there’s only pace.”
“There must be direction, my child, underneath.”
“Oh! Of course, change.”
“For better or worse; but that’s direction in itself.”
“Perhaps only to the edge, and over we go.”
“Gadarene swine!”
“Well, why not?”
“I admit,” said Michael unhappily, “it’s all hair-triggerish; but there’s always common-sense.”
“Common-sense–in face of passions!”
Michael slackened his embrace. “I thought you were always on the side of common-sense. Passion? The passion to have? Or the passion to know?”
“Both,” said Fleur. “That’s the present age, and I’m a child of it. You’re not, you know, Michael.”
“Query!” said Michael, letting go of her waist. “But if you want to have or know anything in particular, Fleur, I’d like to be told.”
There was a moment of stillness, before he felt her arm slipping through his, and her lips against his ear.
“Only the moon, my dear. Let’s go to bed.”
Chapter VII.
TWO VISITS
On the very day that Fleur was freed from her nursing she received a visit from the last person in her thoughts. If she had not altogether forgotten the existence of one indelibly associated with her wedding-day, she had never expected to see her again. To hear the words: “Miss June Forsyte, ma’am,” and find her in front of the Fragonard, was like experiencing a very slight earthquake.
The silvery little figure had turned at her entrance, extending a hand clad in a fabric glove.
“It’s a flimsy school, that,” she said, pointing her chin at the Fragonard; “but I like your room. Harold Blade’s pictures would look splendid here. Do you know his work?”
Fleur shook her head.
“Oh! I should have thought any–” The little lady stopped, as if she had seen a brink.
“Won’t you sit down?” said Fleur. “Have you still got your gallery off Cork Street?”
“That? Oh, no! It was a hopeless place. I sold it for half what my father gave for it.”
“And what became of that Polo–American–Boris Strumo something–you were so interested in?”
“He! Oh! Gone to pieces utterly. Married, and does purely commercial work. He gets big prices for his things–no good at all. So Jon and his wife–” Again she stopped, and Fleur tried to see the edge from which she had saved her foot.
“Yes,” she said, looking steadily into June’s eyes, which were moving from side to side, “Jon seems to have abandoned America for good. I can’t see his wife being happy over here.”
“Ah!” said June. “Holly told me you went to America, yourself. Did you see Jon over there?”
“Not quite.”
“Did you like America?”
“It’s very stimulating.”
June sniffed.
“Do they buy pictures? I mean, do you think there’d be a chance for Harold Blade’s work there?”
“Without knowing the work–”
“Of course, I forgot; it seems so impossible that you don’t know it.”
She leaned towards Fleur and her eyes shone.
“I do so want you to sit to him, you know; he’d make such a wonderful picture of you. Your father simply must arrange that. With your position in Society, Fleur, especially after that case last year,”–Fleur winced, if imperceptibly–“it would be the making of poor Harold. He’s such a genius,” she added, frowning; “you MUST come and see his work.”
“I should like to,” said Fleur. “Have you seen Jon yet?”
“No. They’re coming on Friday. I hope I shall like her. As a rule, I like all foreigners, except the Americans and the French. I mean–with exceptions, of course.”
“Naturally,” said Fleur. “What time are you generally in?”
“Every afternoon between five and seven are Harold’s hours for going out–he has my studio, you know. I can show you his work better without him; he’s so touchy–all real geniuses are. I want him to paint Jon’s wife, too. He’s extraordinary with women.”
“In that case, I think you should let Jon see him and his work first.”
June’s eyes stared up at her for a moment, and flew off to the Fragonard.
“When will your father come?” she asked.
“Perhaps it would be best for me to come first.”
“Soames naturally likes the wrong thing,” said June, thoughtfully; “but if you tell him you want to be painted–he’s sure to–he always spoils you–”
Fleur smiled.
“Well, I’ll come. Perhaps not this week.” And, in thought, she added: ‘And perhaps, yes–Friday.’
June rose. “I like your house, and your husband. Where is he?”
“Michael? Slumming, probably; he’s in the thick of a scheme for their conversion.”
“How splendid! Can I see your boy?”
“I’m afraid he’s only just over measles.”
June sighed. “It does seem long since I had measles. I remember Jon’s measles so well; I got him his first adventure books.” Suddenly she looked up at Fleur: “Do you like his wife? I think it’s ridiculous his being married so young. I tell Harold he must never marry; it’s the end of adventure.” Her eyes moved from side to side, as if she were adding: “Or the beginning, and I’ve never had it.” And suddenly she held out both hands.
“I shall expect you. I don’t know whether he’ll like your hair!”
Fleur smiled.
“I’m afraid I can’t grow it for him. Oh! Here’s my father coming in!” She had seen Soames pass the window.
“I don’t know that I want to see him unless it’s necessary,” said June.
“I expect he’ll feel exactly the same. If you just go out, he won’t pay any attention.”
“Oh!” said June, and out she went.
Through the window Fleur watched her moving as if she had not time to touch the ground.
A moment later Soames came in.
“What’s that woman want here?” he said. “She’s a stormy petrel.”
“Nothing much, dear; she has a new painter, whom she’s trying to boost.”
“Another of her lame ducks! She’s been famous for them all her life–ever since–” He stopped short of Bosinney’s name. “She’d never go anywhere without wanting something,” he added. “Did she get it?”
“Not more than I did, dear!”
Soames was silent, feeling vaguely that he had been near the proverb, “The kettle and the pot.” What was the use, indeed, of going anywhere unless you wanted something? It was one of the cardinal principles of life.
“I went to see that Morland,” he said; “it’s genuine enough. In fact, I bought it.” And he sank into a reverie…
Acquainted by Michael with the fact that the Marquess of Shropshire had a Morland he wanted to sell, he had said at once: “I don’t know that I want to buy one.”
“I thought you did, sir, from what you were saying the other day. It’s a white pony.”
“That, of course,” said Soames. “What does he want for it?”
“The market price, I believe.”
“There isn’t such a thing. Is it genuine?”
“It’s never changed hands, he says.” Soames brooded aloud. “The Marquess of Shropshire–that’s that red haired baggage’s grandfather, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but perfectly docile. He’d like you to see it, he said.”
“I daresay,” said Soames, and no more at the moment…
“Where’s this Morland?” he asked a few days later.
“At Shropshire House–in Curzon Street, sir.”
“Oh! Ah! Well, I’ll have a look at it.”
Having lunched at Green Street, where he was still staying, he walked round the necessary corners, and sent in his card, on which he had pencilled the words: “My son-inlaw, Michael Mont, says you would like me to see your Morland.”
The butler came back, and, opening a door, said:
“In here, sir. The Morland is over the sideboard.”
In that big dining-room, where even large furniture looked small, the Morland looked smaller, between two still-lifes of a Dutch size and nature. It had a simple scheme–white pony in stable, pigeon picking up some grains, small boy on upturned basket eating apple. A glance told Soames that it was genuine, and had not even been restored–the chiaroscuro was considerable. He stood, back to the light, looking at it attentively. Morland was not so sought after as he used to be; on the other hand, his pictures were distinctive and of a handy size. If one had not much space left, and wanted that period represented, he was perhaps the most repaying after Constable–good Old Cromes being so infernally rare. A Morland was a Morland, as a Millet was a Millet; and would never be anything else. Like all collectors in an experimental epoch, Soames was continually being faced with the advisability of buying not only what was what, but what would remain what. Such modern painters as were painting modern stuff, would, in his opinion, be dead as door-nails before he himself was; besides, however much he tried, he did not like the stuff. Such modern painters, like most of the academicians, as were painting ancient stuff, were careful fellows, no doubt, but who could say whether any of them would live? No! The only safe thing was to buy the dead, and only the dead who were going to live, at that. In this way–for Soames was not alone in his conclusions–the early decease of most living painters was ensured. They were already, indeed, saying that hardly one of them could sell a picture for love or money.
He was looking at the pony through his curved thumb and forefinger when he heard a slight sound; and, turning, saw a short old man in a tweed suit, apparently looking at him in precisely the same way.
Dropping his hand, and deciding not to say “His Grace,” or whatever it was, Soames muttered:
“I was looking at the tail–some good painting in that.”
The Marquess had also dropped his hand, and was consulting the card between his other thumb and forefinger.
“Mr. Forsyte? Yes. My grandfather bought it from the painter. There’s a note on the back. I don’t want to part with it, but these are lean days. Would you like to see the back?”
“Yes,” said Soames; “I always look at their backs.”
“Sometimes,” said the Marquess, detaching the Morland with difficulty, “the best part of the picture.”
Soames smiled down the further side of his mouth; he did not wish the old fellow to receive a false impression that he was ‘kowtowing,’ or anything of that sort.
“Something in the hereditary principle, Mr. Forsyte,” the Marquess went on, with his head on one side, “when it comes to the sale of heirlooms.”
“Oh! I can see it’s genuine,” said Soames, “without looking at the back.”
“Then, if you do want to buy, we can have a simple transaction between gentlemen. You know all about values, I hear.”
Soames put his head to the other side, and looked at the back of the picture. The old fellow’s words were so disarming, that for the life of him he could not tell whether or not to be disarmed.
“‘George Morland to Lord George Ferrar,’” he read, “‘for value received–L80. 1797.’”
“He came into the title later,” said the Marquess. “I’m glad Morland got his money–great rips, our grandfathers, Mr. Forsyte; days of great rips, those.”
Subtly flattered by the thought that “Superior Dosset” was a great rip, Soames expanded slightly.
“Great rip, Morland,” he said. “But there were real painters then, people could buy with confidence–they can’t now.”
“I’m not sure,” said the Marquess, “I’m not sure. The electrification of art may be a necessary process. We’re all in a movement, Mr. Forsyte.”
“Yes,” said Soames, glumly; “but we can’t go on at this rate–it’s not natural. We shall be standing-pat again before long.”
“I wonder. We must keep our minds open, mustn’t we?”
“The pace doesn’t matter so much,” said Soames, astonished at himself, “so long as it leads somewhere.”
The Marquess resigned the picture to the sideboard, and putting his foot up on a chair, leaned his elbow on his knee.
“Did your son-inlaw tell you for what I wanted the money? He has a scheme for electrifying slum kitchens. After all, we ARE cleaner and more humane than our grandfathers, Mr. Forsyte. Now, what do you think would be a fair price?”
“Why not get Dumetrius’ opinion?”
“The Haymarket man? Is his opinion better than yours?”
“That I can’t say,” said Soames, honestly. “But if you mentioned my name, he’d value the picture for five guineas, and might make you an offer himself.”
“I don’t think I should care for it to be known that I was selling pictures.”
“Well,” said Soames, “I don’t want you to get less than perhaps you could. But if I told Dumetrius to buy me a Morland, five hundred would be my limit. Suppose I give you six.”
The Marquess tilted up his beard. “That would be too generous, perhaps. Shall we say five-fifty?”
Soames shook his head.
“We won’t haggle,” he said. “Six. You can have the cheque now, and I’ll take it away. It will hang in my gallery at Mapledurham.”
The Marquess took his foot down, and sighed.
“Really, I’m very much obliged to you. I’m delighted to think it will go to a good home.”
“If you care to come and see it at any time–” Soames checked himself. An old fellow with one foot in the House of Lords and one in the grave, and no difference between them, to speak of–as if he’d want to come!
“That would be delightful,” said the Marquess, with his eyes wandering, as Soames had suspected they would. “Have you your own electric plant there?”
“Yes,” and Soames took out his cheque-book. “May I have a taxi called? If you hang the still-lifes a little closer together, this won’t be missed.”
With that doubtful phrase in their ears, they exchanged goods, and Soames, with the Morland, returned to Green Street in a cab. He wondered a little on the way whether or not the Marquess had ‘done’ him, by talking about a transaction between gentlemen. Agreeable old chap in his way, but quick as a bird, looking through his thumb and finger like that!…
And now, in his daughter’s ‘parlour’ he said: “What’s this about Michael electrifying slum kitchens?”
Fleur smiled, and Soames did not approve of its irony.
“Michael’s over head and ears.”
“In debt?”
“Oh, no! Committed himself to a slum scheme, just as he did to Foggartism. I hardly see him.”
Soames made a sound within himself. Young Jon Forsyte lurked now behind all his thoughts of her. Did she really resent Michael’s absorption in public life, or was it pretence–an excuse for having a private life of her own?
“The slums want attending to, no doubt,” he said. “He must have something to do.”
Fleur shrugged.
“Michael’s too good to live.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Soames; “but he’s–er–rather trustful.”
“That’s not your failing, is it, Dad? You don’t trust ME a bit.”
“Not trust you!” floundered Soames. “Why not?”
“Exactly!”
Soames sought refuge in the Fragonard. Sharp! She had seen into him!
“I suppose June wants me to buy a picture,” he said.
“She wants you to have me painted.”
“Does she? What’s the name of her lame duck?”
“Blade, I think.”
“Never heard of him!”
“Well, I expect you will.”
“Yes,” muttered Soames; “she’s like a limpet. It’s in the blood.”
“The Forsyte blood? You and I, then, too, dear.”
Soames turned from the Fragonard and looked her straight in the eyes.
“Yes; you and I, too.”
“Isn’t that nice?” said Fleur.
Chapter VIII.
THE JOLLY ACCIDENT
In doubting Fleur’s show of resentment at Michael’s new “stunt,” Soames was near the mark. She did not resent it at all. It kept his attention off herself, it kept him from taking up birth control, for which she felt the country was not yet quite prepared, and it had a popular appeal denied to Foggartism. The slums were under one’s nose, and what was under the nose could be brought to the attention even of party politics. Being a town proposition, slums would concern six-sevenths of the vote. Foggartism, based on the country life necessary to national stamina and the growth of food within and overseas, concerned the whole population, but only appealed to one-seventh of the vote. And Fleur, nothing if not a realist, had long grasped the fact that the main business of politicians was to be, and to remain, elected. The vote was a magnet of the first order, and unconsciously swayed every political judgment and aspiration; or, if not, it ought to, for was it not the touchstone of democracy? In the committee, too, which Michael was forming, she saw, incidentally, the best social step within her reach.
“If they want a meeting-place,” she had said, “why not here?”
“Splendid!” answered Michael. “Handy for the House and clubs. Thank you, old thing!”
Fleur had added honestly:
“Oh, I shall be quite glad. As soon as I take Kit to the sea, you can start. Norah Curfew’s letting me her cottage at Loring for three weeks.” She did not add: “And it’s only five miles from Wansdon.”
On the Friday, after lunch, she telephoned to June:
“I’m going to the sea on Monday–I COULD come this afternoon, but I think you said Jon was coming. Is he? Because if so–”
“He’s coming at 4.30, but he’s got to catch a train back at six-twenty.”
“His wife, too?”
“No. He’s just coming to see Harold’s work.”
“Oh! – well–I think I’d better come on Sunday, then.”
“Yes, Sunday will be all right; then Harold will see you. He never goes out on Sunday. He hates the look of it so.”
Putting down the receiver, Fleur took up the time-table. Yes, there was the train! What a coincidence if she happened to take it to make a preliminary inspection of Norah Curfew’s cottage! Not even June, surely, would mention their talk on the ‘phone.
At lunch she did not tell Michael she was going–he might want to come, too, or at least to see her off. She knew he would be at ‘the House’ in the afternoon, she would just leave a note to say that she had gone to make sure the cottage would be in order for Monday. And after lunch she bent over and kissed him between the eyes, without any sense of betrayal. A sight of Jon was due to her after these dreary weeks! Any sight of Jon was always due to her who had been defrauded of him. And, as the afternoon drew on, and she put her night things into her dressing-case, a red spot became fixed in each cheek, and she wandered swiftly, her hands restive, her spirit homeless. Having had tea, and left the note giving her address–an hotel at Nettlefold–she went early to Victoria Station. There, having tipped the guard to secure emptiness, she left her bag in a corner seat and took up her stand by the book-stall, where Jon must pass with his ticket. And, while she stood there, examining the fiction of the day, all her faculties were busy with reality. Among the shows and shadows of existence, an hour and a half of real life lay before her. Who could blame her for filching it back from a filching Providence? And if anybody could, she didn’t care! The hands of the station clock moved on, and Fleur gazed at this novel after that, all of them full of young women in awkward situations, and vaguely wondered whether they were more awkward than her own. Three minutes to the time! Wasn’t he coming after all? Had that wretched June kept him for the night? At last in despair she caught up a tome called “Violin Obbligato,” which at least would be modern, and paid for it. And then, as she was receiving her change, she saw him hastening. Turning, she passed through the wicket, walking quickly, knowing that he was walking more quickly. She let him see her first.
“Fleur!”
“Jon! Where are you going?”
“To Wansdon.”
“Oh! And I’m going to Nettlefold, to see a cottage at Loring for my baby. Here’s my bag, in here–quick! We’re off!”
The door was banged to, and she held out both her hands.
“Isn’t this queer, and jolly?”
Jon held the hands, and dropped them rather suddenly.
“I’ve just been to see June. She’s just the same–bless her!”
“Yes, she came round to me the other day; wants me to be painted by her present pet.”
“You might do worse. I said he should paint Anne.”
“Really? Is he good enough for HER?”
And she was sorry; she hadn’t meant to begin like that! Still–must begin somehow–must employ lips which might otherwise go lighting on his eyes, his hair, HIS lips! And she rushed into words: Kit’s measles, Michael’s committee, “Violin Obbligato,” and the Proustian School; Val’s horses, Jon’s poetry, the smell of England–so important to a poet–anything, everything, in a sort of madcap medley.
“You see, Jon, I must talk; I’ve been in prison for a month.” And all the time she felt that she was wasting minutes that might have been spent with lips silent and heart against his, if the heart, as they said, really extended to the centre of the body. And all the time, too, the proboscis of her spirit was scenting, searching for the honey and the saffron of his spirit. Was there any for her, or was it all kept for that wretched American girl he had left behind him, and to whom–alas! – he was returning? But Jon gave her no sign. Unlike the old impulsive Jon, he had learned secrecy. By a whim of memory, whose ways are so inscrutable, she remembered being taken, as a very little girl, to Timothy’s on the Bayswater Road to her great-aunt Hester–an old still figure in black Victorian lace and jet, and a Victorian chair, with a stilly languid voice, saying to her father: “Oh, yes, my dear; your Uncle Jolyon, before he married, was very much in love with our great friend Alice Read;
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20
“My wife and I are thinking of it, sir.”
“Don’t think!” said the Marquess. “Have it done!”
“We certainly shall, now.”
“We must strike while the strike is on,” said the Marquess. “If there is anything shorter than the public’s memory, I am not aware of it.”
“Phew!” said Sir Lawrence, on the next doorstep; “the old boy’s spryer than ever. I take it we may assume that the name here was originally Moss. If so, the question is: ‘Have we the wits for this job?’”
And, in some doubt, they scrutinised the mansion before them.
“We had better be perfectly straightforward,” said Michael. “Dwell on the slums, mention the names we hope to get, and leave the rest to him.”
“I think,” said his father, “we had better say ‘got,’ not ‘hope to get.’”
“The moment we mention the names, Dad, he’ll know we’re after his dibs.”
“He’ll know that in any case, my boy.”
“I suppose there’s no doubt about the dibs?”
“Montross, Ltd.! They’re not confined to elastic bands.”
“I should like to make a perfectly plain appeal to his generosity, Dad. There’s a lot of generosity in that blood, you know.”
“We can’t stand just here, Michael, discussing the make-up of the chosen. Ring the bell!”
Michael rang.
“Mr. Montross at home? Thank you. Will you give him these cards, and ask if we might see him for a moment?”
The room into which they were ushered was evidently accustomed to this sort of thing, for, while there was nothing that anyone could take away, there were chairs in which it was possible to be quite comfortable, and some valuable but large pictures and busts.
Sir Lawrence was examining a bust, and Michael a picture, when the door was opened, and a voice said: “Yes, gentlemen?”
Mr. Montross was of short stature, and somewhat like a thin walrus who had once been dark but had gone grey; his features were slightly aquiline, he had melancholy brown eyes, and big drooping grizzly moustaches and eyebrows.
“We were advised to come to you, sir,” began Michael at once, “by your neighbour, the Marquess of Shropshire. We’re trying to form a committee to issue an appeal for a national fund to convert the slums.” And for the third time he plunged into detail.
“And why do you come to ME, gentlemen?” said Mr. Montross, when he had finished.
Michael subdued a stammer.
“Because of your wealth, sir,” he said, simply.
“Good!” said Mr. Montross. “You see, I began in the slums, Mr. Mont–is it? – yes, Mr. Mont–I began there–I know a lot about those people, you know. I thought perhaps you came to me because of that.”
“Splendid, sir,” said Michael, “but of course we hadn’t an idea.”
“Well, those people are born without a future.”
“That’s just what we’re out to rectify, sir.”
“Take them away from their streets and put them in a new country, then–perhaps; but leave them to their streets–” Mr. Montross shook his head. “I know them, you see, Mr. Mont; if these people thought about the future, they could not go on living. And if you do not think about the future, you cannot have one.”
“How about yourself?” said Sir Lawrence. Mr. Montross turned his gaze from Michael to the cards in his hand, then raised his melancholy eyes.
“Sir Lawrence Mont, isn’t it? – I am a Jew–that is different. A Jew will rise from any beginnings, if he is a real Jew. The reason the Polish and the Russian Jews do not rise so easily you can see from their faces–they have too much Slav or Mongol blood. The pure Jew like me rises.”
Sir Lawrence and Michael exchanged a glance. “We like this fellow,” it seemed to say.
“I was a poor boy in a bad slum,” went on Mr. Montross, intercepting the glance, “and I am now–well, a millionaire; but I have not become that, you know, by throwing away my money. I like to help people that will help themselves.”
“Then,” said Michael, with a sigh, “there’s nothing in this scheme that appeals to you, sir?”
“I will ask my wife,” answered Mr. Montross, also with a sigh. “Good-night, gentlemen. Let me write to you.”
The two Monts moved slowly towards Mount Street in the last of the twilight.
“Well?” said Michael.
Sir Lawrence cocked his eyebrow.
“An honest man,” he said; “it’s fortunate for us he has a wife.”
“You mean–?”
“The potential Lady Montross will bring him in. There was no other reason why he should ask her. That makes four, and Sir Timothy’s a ‘sitter’; slum landlords are his betes noires. We only want three more. A bishop one can always get, but I’ve forgotten which it is for the moment; we MUST have a big doctor, and we ought to have a banker, but perhaps your uncle, Lionel Charwell, will do; he knows all about the shady side of finance in the courts, and we could make Alison work for us. And now, my dear, good-night! I don’t know when I’ve felt more tired.”
They parted at the corner, and Michael walked towards Westminster. He passed under the spikes of Buckingham Palace Gardens, and along the stables leading to Victoria Street. All this part had some very nice slums, though of late he knew the authorities had been ‘going for them.’ He passed an area where they had ‘gone’ for them to the extent of pulling down a congery of old houses. Michael stared up at the remnants of walls mosaicked by the unstripped wall papers. What had happened to the tribe outdriven from these ruins; whereto had they taken the tragic lives of which they made such cheerful comedy? He came to the broad river of Victoria Street and crossed it, and, taking a route that he knew was to be avoided, he was soon where women encrusted with age sat on doorsteps for a breath of air, and little alleys led off to unplumbed depths. Michael plumbed them in fancy, not in fact. He stood quite a while at the end of one, trying to imagine what it must be like to live there. Not succeeding, he walked briskly on, and turned into his own square, and to his own habitat with its bay-treed tubs, its Danish roof, and almost hopeless cleanliness. And he suffered from the feeling which besets those who are sensitive about their luck.
‘Fleur would say,’ he thought, perching on the coat-sarcophagus, for he, too, was tired, ‘that those people having no aesthetic sense and no tradition to wash up to, are at least as happy as we are. She’d say that they get as much pleasure out of living from hand to mouth (and not too much mouth), as we do from baths, jazz, poetry and cocktails; and she’s generally right.’ Only, what a confession of defeat! If that were really so, to what end were they all dancing? If life with bugs and flies were as good as life without bugs and flies, why Keating’s powder and all the other aspirations of the poets? Blake’s New Jerusalem was, surely, based on Keating, and Keating was based on a sensitive skin. To say, then, that civilisation was skin-deep, wasn’t cynical at all. People possibly had souls, but they certainly had skins, and progress was real only if thought of in terms of skin!
So ran the thoughts of Michael, perched on the coat-sarcophagus; and meditating on Fleur’s skin, so clear and smooth, he went upstairs.
She had just had her final bath, and was standing at her bedroom window. Thinking of–what? The moon over the square?
“Poor prisoner!” he said, and put his arm round her.
“What a queer sound the town makes at night, Michael. And, if you think, it’s made up of the seven million separate sounds of people going their own separate ways.”
“And yet–the whole lot are going one way.”
“We’re not going any way,” said Fleur, “there’s only pace.”
“There must be direction, my child, underneath.”
“Oh! Of course, change.”
“For better or worse; but that’s direction in itself.”
“Perhaps only to the edge, and over we go.”
“Gadarene swine!”
“Well, why not?”
“I admit,” said Michael unhappily, “it’s all hair-triggerish; but there’s always common-sense.”
“Common-sense–in face of passions!”
Michael slackened his embrace. “I thought you were always on the side of common-sense. Passion? The passion to have? Or the passion to know?”
“Both,” said Fleur. “That’s the present age, and I’m a child of it. You’re not, you know, Michael.”
“Query!” said Michael, letting go of her waist. “But if you want to have or know anything in particular, Fleur, I’d like to be told.”
There was a moment of stillness, before he felt her arm slipping through his, and her lips against his ear.
“Only the moon, my dear. Let’s go to bed.”
Chapter VII.
TWO VISITS
On the very day that Fleur was freed from her nursing she received a visit from the last person in her thoughts. If she had not altogether forgotten the existence of one indelibly associated with her wedding-day, she had never expected to see her again. To hear the words: “Miss June Forsyte, ma’am,” and find her in front of the Fragonard, was like experiencing a very slight earthquake.
The silvery little figure had turned at her entrance, extending a hand clad in a fabric glove.
“It’s a flimsy school, that,” she said, pointing her chin at the Fragonard; “but I like your room. Harold Blade’s pictures would look splendid here. Do you know his work?”
Fleur shook her head.
“Oh! I should have thought any–” The little lady stopped, as if she had seen a brink.
“Won’t you sit down?” said Fleur. “Have you still got your gallery off Cork Street?”
“That? Oh, no! It was a hopeless place. I sold it for half what my father gave for it.”
“And what became of that Polo–American–Boris Strumo something–you were so interested in?”
“He! Oh! Gone to pieces utterly. Married, and does purely commercial work. He gets big prices for his things–no good at all. So Jon and his wife–” Again she stopped, and Fleur tried to see the edge from which she had saved her foot.
“Yes,” she said, looking steadily into June’s eyes, which were moving from side to side, “Jon seems to have abandoned America for good. I can’t see his wife being happy over here.”
“Ah!” said June. “Holly told me you went to America, yourself. Did you see Jon over there?”
“Not quite.”
“Did you like America?”
“It’s very stimulating.”
June sniffed.
“Do they buy pictures? I mean, do you think there’d be a chance for Harold Blade’s work there?”
“Without knowing the work–”
“Of course, I forgot; it seems so impossible that you don’t know it.”
She leaned towards Fleur and her eyes shone.
“I do so want you to sit to him, you know; he’d make such a wonderful picture of you. Your father simply must arrange that. With your position in Society, Fleur, especially after that case last year,”–Fleur winced, if imperceptibly–“it would be the making of poor Harold. He’s such a genius,” she added, frowning; “you MUST come and see his work.”
“I should like to,” said Fleur. “Have you seen Jon yet?”
“No. They’re coming on Friday. I hope I shall like her. As a rule, I like all foreigners, except the Americans and the French. I mean–with exceptions, of course.”
“Naturally,” said Fleur. “What time are you generally in?”
“Every afternoon between five and seven are Harold’s hours for going out–he has my studio, you know. I can show you his work better without him; he’s so touchy–all real geniuses are. I want him to paint Jon’s wife, too. He’s extraordinary with women.”
“In that case, I think you should let Jon see him and his work first.”
June’s eyes stared up at her for a moment, and flew off to the Fragonard.
“When will your father come?” she asked.
“Perhaps it would be best for me to come first.”
“Soames naturally likes the wrong thing,” said June, thoughtfully; “but if you tell him you want to be painted–he’s sure to–he always spoils you–”
Fleur smiled.
“Well, I’ll come. Perhaps not this week.” And, in thought, she added: ‘And perhaps, yes–Friday.’
June rose. “I like your house, and your husband. Where is he?”
“Michael? Slumming, probably; he’s in the thick of a scheme for their conversion.”
“How splendid! Can I see your boy?”
“I’m afraid he’s only just over measles.”
June sighed. “It does seem long since I had measles. I remember Jon’s measles so well; I got him his first adventure books.” Suddenly she looked up at Fleur: “Do you like his wife? I think it’s ridiculous his being married so young. I tell Harold he must never marry; it’s the end of adventure.” Her eyes moved from side to side, as if she were adding: “Or the beginning, and I’ve never had it.” And suddenly she held out both hands.
“I shall expect you. I don’t know whether he’ll like your hair!”
Fleur smiled.
“I’m afraid I can’t grow it for him. Oh! Here’s my father coming in!” She had seen Soames pass the window.
“I don’t know that I want to see him unless it’s necessary,” said June.
“I expect he’ll feel exactly the same. If you just go out, he won’t pay any attention.”
“Oh!” said June, and out she went.
Through the window Fleur watched her moving as if she had not time to touch the ground.
A moment later Soames came in.
“What’s that woman want here?” he said. “She’s a stormy petrel.”
“Nothing much, dear; she has a new painter, whom she’s trying to boost.”
“Another of her lame ducks! She’s been famous for them all her life–ever since–” He stopped short of Bosinney’s name. “She’d never go anywhere without wanting something,” he added. “Did she get it?”
“Not more than I did, dear!”
Soames was silent, feeling vaguely that he had been near the proverb, “The kettle and the pot.” What was the use, indeed, of going anywhere unless you wanted something? It was one of the cardinal principles of life.
“I went to see that Morland,” he said; “it’s genuine enough. In fact, I bought it.” And he sank into a reverie…
Acquainted by Michael with the fact that the Marquess of Shropshire had a Morland he wanted to sell, he had said at once: “I don’t know that I want to buy one.”
“I thought you did, sir, from what you were saying the other day. It’s a white pony.”
“That, of course,” said Soames. “What does he want for it?”
“The market price, I believe.”
“There isn’t such a thing. Is it genuine?”
“It’s never changed hands, he says.” Soames brooded aloud. “The Marquess of Shropshire–that’s that red haired baggage’s grandfather, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but perfectly docile. He’d like you to see it, he said.”
“I daresay,” said Soames, and no more at the moment…
“Where’s this Morland?” he asked a few days later.
“At Shropshire House–in Curzon Street, sir.”
“Oh! Ah! Well, I’ll have a look at it.”
Having lunched at Green Street, where he was still staying, he walked round the necessary corners, and sent in his card, on which he had pencilled the words: “My son-inlaw, Michael Mont, says you would like me to see your Morland.”
The butler came back, and, opening a door, said:
“In here, sir. The Morland is over the sideboard.”
In that big dining-room, where even large furniture looked small, the Morland looked smaller, between two still-lifes of a Dutch size and nature. It had a simple scheme–white pony in stable, pigeon picking up some grains, small boy on upturned basket eating apple. A glance told Soames that it was genuine, and had not even been restored–the chiaroscuro was considerable. He stood, back to the light, looking at it attentively. Morland was not so sought after as he used to be; on the other hand, his pictures were distinctive and of a handy size. If one had not much space left, and wanted that period represented, he was perhaps the most repaying after Constable–good Old Cromes being so infernally rare. A Morland was a Morland, as a Millet was a Millet; and would never be anything else. Like all collectors in an experimental epoch, Soames was continually being faced with the advisability of buying not only what was what, but what would remain what. Such modern painters as were painting modern stuff, would, in his opinion, be dead as door-nails before he himself was; besides, however much he tried, he did not like the stuff. Such modern painters, like most of the academicians, as were painting ancient stuff, were careful fellows, no doubt, but who could say whether any of them would live? No! The only safe thing was to buy the dead, and only the dead who were going to live, at that. In this way–for Soames was not alone in his conclusions–the early decease of most living painters was ensured. They were already, indeed, saying that hardly one of them could sell a picture for love or money.
He was looking at the pony through his curved thumb and forefinger when he heard a slight sound; and, turning, saw a short old man in a tweed suit, apparently looking at him in precisely the same way.
Dropping his hand, and deciding not to say “His Grace,” or whatever it was, Soames muttered:
“I was looking at the tail–some good painting in that.”
The Marquess had also dropped his hand, and was consulting the card between his other thumb and forefinger.
“Mr. Forsyte? Yes. My grandfather bought it from the painter. There’s a note on the back. I don’t want to part with it, but these are lean days. Would you like to see the back?”
“Yes,” said Soames; “I always look at their backs.”
“Sometimes,” said the Marquess, detaching the Morland with difficulty, “the best part of the picture.”
Soames smiled down the further side of his mouth; he did not wish the old fellow to receive a false impression that he was ‘kowtowing,’ or anything of that sort.
“Something in the hereditary principle, Mr. Forsyte,” the Marquess went on, with his head on one side, “when it comes to the sale of heirlooms.”
“Oh! I can see it’s genuine,” said Soames, “without looking at the back.”
“Then, if you do want to buy, we can have a simple transaction between gentlemen. You know all about values, I hear.”
Soames put his head to the other side, and looked at the back of the picture. The old fellow’s words were so disarming, that for the life of him he could not tell whether or not to be disarmed.
“‘George Morland to Lord George Ferrar,’” he read, “‘for value received–L80. 1797.’”
“He came into the title later,” said the Marquess. “I’m glad Morland got his money–great rips, our grandfathers, Mr. Forsyte; days of great rips, those.”
Subtly flattered by the thought that “Superior Dosset” was a great rip, Soames expanded slightly.
“Great rip, Morland,” he said. “But there were real painters then, people could buy with confidence–they can’t now.”
“I’m not sure,” said the Marquess, “I’m not sure. The electrification of art may be a necessary process. We’re all in a movement, Mr. Forsyte.”
“Yes,” said Soames, glumly; “but we can’t go on at this rate–it’s not natural. We shall be standing-pat again before long.”
“I wonder. We must keep our minds open, mustn’t we?”
“The pace doesn’t matter so much,” said Soames, astonished at himself, “so long as it leads somewhere.”
The Marquess resigned the picture to the sideboard, and putting his foot up on a chair, leaned his elbow on his knee.
“Did your son-inlaw tell you for what I wanted the money? He has a scheme for electrifying slum kitchens. After all, we ARE cleaner and more humane than our grandfathers, Mr. Forsyte. Now, what do you think would be a fair price?”
“Why not get Dumetrius’ opinion?”
“The Haymarket man? Is his opinion better than yours?”
“That I can’t say,” said Soames, honestly. “But if you mentioned my name, he’d value the picture for five guineas, and might make you an offer himself.”
“I don’t think I should care for it to be known that I was selling pictures.”
“Well,” said Soames, “I don’t want you to get less than perhaps you could. But if I told Dumetrius to buy me a Morland, five hundred would be my limit. Suppose I give you six.”
The Marquess tilted up his beard. “That would be too generous, perhaps. Shall we say five-fifty?”
Soames shook his head.
“We won’t haggle,” he said. “Six. You can have the cheque now, and I’ll take it away. It will hang in my gallery at Mapledurham.”
The Marquess took his foot down, and sighed.
“Really, I’m very much obliged to you. I’m delighted to think it will go to a good home.”
“If you care to come and see it at any time–” Soames checked himself. An old fellow with one foot in the House of Lords and one in the grave, and no difference between them, to speak of–as if he’d want to come!
“That would be delightful,” said the Marquess, with his eyes wandering, as Soames had suspected they would. “Have you your own electric plant there?”
“Yes,” and Soames took out his cheque-book. “May I have a taxi called? If you hang the still-lifes a little closer together, this won’t be missed.”
With that doubtful phrase in their ears, they exchanged goods, and Soames, with the Morland, returned to Green Street in a cab. He wondered a little on the way whether or not the Marquess had ‘done’ him, by talking about a transaction between gentlemen. Agreeable old chap in his way, but quick as a bird, looking through his thumb and finger like that!…
And now, in his daughter’s ‘parlour’ he said: “What’s this about Michael electrifying slum kitchens?”
Fleur smiled, and Soames did not approve of its irony.
“Michael’s over head and ears.”
“In debt?”
“Oh, no! Committed himself to a slum scheme, just as he did to Foggartism. I hardly see him.”
Soames made a sound within himself. Young Jon Forsyte lurked now behind all his thoughts of her. Did she really resent Michael’s absorption in public life, or was it pretence–an excuse for having a private life of her own?
“The slums want attending to, no doubt,” he said. “He must have something to do.”
Fleur shrugged.
“Michael’s too good to live.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Soames; “but he’s–er–rather trustful.”
“That’s not your failing, is it, Dad? You don’t trust ME a bit.”
“Not trust you!” floundered Soames. “Why not?”
“Exactly!”
Soames sought refuge in the Fragonard. Sharp! She had seen into him!
“I suppose June wants me to buy a picture,” he said.
“She wants you to have me painted.”
“Does she? What’s the name of her lame duck?”
“Blade, I think.”
“Never heard of him!”
“Well, I expect you will.”
“Yes,” muttered Soames; “she’s like a limpet. It’s in the blood.”
“The Forsyte blood? You and I, then, too, dear.”
Soames turned from the Fragonard and looked her straight in the eyes.
“Yes; you and I, too.”
“Isn’t that nice?” said Fleur.
Chapter VIII.
THE JOLLY ACCIDENT
In doubting Fleur’s show of resentment at Michael’s new “stunt,” Soames was near the mark. She did not resent it at all. It kept his attention off herself, it kept him from taking up birth control, for which she felt the country was not yet quite prepared, and it had a popular appeal denied to Foggartism. The slums were under one’s nose, and what was under the nose could be brought to the attention even of party politics. Being a town proposition, slums would concern six-sevenths of the vote. Foggartism, based on the country life necessary to national stamina and the growth of food within and overseas, concerned the whole population, but only appealed to one-seventh of the vote. And Fleur, nothing if not a realist, had long grasped the fact that the main business of politicians was to be, and to remain, elected. The vote was a magnet of the first order, and unconsciously swayed every political judgment and aspiration; or, if not, it ought to, for was it not the touchstone of democracy? In the committee, too, which Michael was forming, she saw, incidentally, the best social step within her reach.
“If they want a meeting-place,” she had said, “why not here?”
“Splendid!” answered Michael. “Handy for the House and clubs. Thank you, old thing!”
Fleur had added honestly:
“Oh, I shall be quite glad. As soon as I take Kit to the sea, you can start. Norah Curfew’s letting me her cottage at Loring for three weeks.” She did not add: “And it’s only five miles from Wansdon.”
On the Friday, after lunch, she telephoned to June:
“I’m going to the sea on Monday–I COULD come this afternoon, but I think you said Jon was coming. Is he? Because if so–”
“He’s coming at 4.30, but he’s got to catch a train back at six-twenty.”
“His wife, too?”
“No. He’s just coming to see Harold’s work.”
“Oh! – well–I think I’d better come on Sunday, then.”
“Yes, Sunday will be all right; then Harold will see you. He never goes out on Sunday. He hates the look of it so.”
Putting down the receiver, Fleur took up the time-table. Yes, there was the train! What a coincidence if she happened to take it to make a preliminary inspection of Norah Curfew’s cottage! Not even June, surely, would mention their talk on the ‘phone.
At lunch she did not tell Michael she was going–he might want to come, too, or at least to see her off. She knew he would be at ‘the House’ in the afternoon, she would just leave a note to say that she had gone to make sure the cottage would be in order for Monday. And after lunch she bent over and kissed him between the eyes, without any sense of betrayal. A sight of Jon was due to her after these dreary weeks! Any sight of Jon was always due to her who had been defrauded of him. And, as the afternoon drew on, and she put her night things into her dressing-case, a red spot became fixed in each cheek, and she wandered swiftly, her hands restive, her spirit homeless. Having had tea, and left the note giving her address–an hotel at Nettlefold–she went early to Victoria Station. There, having tipped the guard to secure emptiness, she left her bag in a corner seat and took up her stand by the book-stall, where Jon must pass with his ticket. And, while she stood there, examining the fiction of the day, all her faculties were busy with reality. Among the shows and shadows of existence, an hour and a half of real life lay before her. Who could blame her for filching it back from a filching Providence? And if anybody could, she didn’t care! The hands of the station clock moved on, and Fleur gazed at this novel after that, all of them full of young women in awkward situations, and vaguely wondered whether they were more awkward than her own. Three minutes to the time! Wasn’t he coming after all? Had that wretched June kept him for the night? At last in despair she caught up a tome called “Violin Obbligato,” which at least would be modern, and paid for it. And then, as she was receiving her change, she saw him hastening. Turning, she passed through the wicket, walking quickly, knowing that he was walking more quickly. She let him see her first.
“Fleur!”
“Jon! Where are you going?”
“To Wansdon.”
“Oh! And I’m going to Nettlefold, to see a cottage at Loring for my baby. Here’s my bag, in here–quick! We’re off!”
The door was banged to, and she held out both her hands.
“Isn’t this queer, and jolly?”
Jon held the hands, and dropped them rather suddenly.
“I’ve just been to see June. She’s just the same–bless her!”
“Yes, she came round to me the other day; wants me to be painted by her present pet.”
“You might do worse. I said he should paint Anne.”
“Really? Is he good enough for HER?”
And she was sorry; she hadn’t meant to begin like that! Still–must begin somehow–must employ lips which might otherwise go lighting on his eyes, his hair, HIS lips! And she rushed into words: Kit’s measles, Michael’s committee, “Violin Obbligato,” and the Proustian School; Val’s horses, Jon’s poetry, the smell of England–so important to a poet–anything, everything, in a sort of madcap medley.
“You see, Jon, I must talk; I’ve been in prison for a month.” And all the time she felt that she was wasting minutes that might have been spent with lips silent and heart against his, if the heart, as they said, really extended to the centre of the body. And all the time, too, the proboscis of her spirit was scenting, searching for the honey and the saffron of his spirit. Was there any for her, or was it all kept for that wretched American girl he had left behind him, and to whom–alas! – he was returning? But Jon gave her no sign. Unlike the old impulsive Jon, he had learned secrecy. By a whim of memory, whose ways are so inscrutable, she remembered being taken, as a very little girl, to Timothy’s on the Bayswater Road to her great-aunt Hester–an old still figure in black Victorian lace and jet, and a Victorian chair, with a stilly languid voice, saying to her father: “Oh, yes, my dear; your Uncle Jolyon, before he married, was very much in love with our great friend Alice Read;
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