The tea looked thick and dark and Indian, and Eustace, who partook habitually of thin pale China tea flavoured with lemon, received the cup solemnly. It was better than he hoped, however, and he drank it gratefully.
“She’s drunk her tea a treat,” said the splotchy woman, returning from the bedroom.
“‘Ere’s yours, Mother.”
“‘Aven’t you ‘ad a cup yerself, ‘Enry?”
“Just goin’ to,” said the white-faced mechanician, pouring into a fourth cup and pausing to add: “Will you ‘ave another, Sir? There’s plenty in the pot.”
Eustace shook his head: “No, thanks very much. I must be getting on directly.” But he continued to sit on the window-sill, as a man on a mountain lingers in the whiffling wind before beginning his descent to earth. The mechanician was drinking his tea at last. “Sure you won’t ‘ave another cup, Sir?” and he poured again into his wife’s cup and his own. The two seemed to expand visibly as the dark liquid passed into them.
“I always say there’s nothin’ like tea,” said the woman.
“That’s right; we could ‘a done with a cup dahn there, couldn’t we, Sir?”
Eustace stood up.
“I hope your little girl will be all right,” he said: “and thank you very much for the tea. Here’s my card. I’ve enjoyed meeting you.”
The mechanician took the card, looking up at Eustace rather like a dog.
“I’m sure it’s been a pleasure to us, and it’s you we got to thank, Sir. I shall remember what you did for the child.”
Eustace shook his head: “No, really. Good-night, Mrs. – er–”
“Thompson, the nyme is, Sir.”
He shook her hand, subduing the slight shudder which her face still imposed on him.
“Good-night, Mr. Thompson.”
The hand of the white-faced mechanician, polished on his trousers, grasped Eustace’s hand with astonishing force.
“Good-night, Sir.”
“I hope we shall meet again,” said Eustace.
Out in the open it was a starry night, and he paused for a minute in the hooded street with his eyes fixed on those specks of far-off silver, so remarkably unlike the golden asterisks which decorated the firmament of his Turkish bath. And there came to him, so standing, a singular sensation almost as if he had enjoyed his evening, as a man will enjoy that which he has never seen before and wonders if he will ever see again.
SOAMES AND THE FLAG, 1914–1918
1
On that day of 1914 when the assassinations at Serajevo startled the world, Soames Forsyte passed in a taxi-cab up the Haymarket, supporting on his knee a picture by James Maris, which he had just bought from Dumetrius. He was pleased at the outcome of a very considerable duel. The fellow had come down to his price at the last minute, and Soames had wondered why.
The reason dawned on him that night in Green Street, while reading his evening paper: “This tragic occurrence may yet shake Europe to its foundations. Sinister possibilities implicit in such an assassination stagger the imagination.” They must have staggered Dumetrius. The fellow had suddenly seen “blue.” The market in objects whose “virtue” varied with the quietude of men’s minds and the tourist traffic with America, was–Soames well knew–extremely sensitive. Sinister possibilities! He put the paper down and sat reflecting. No! The chap was an alarmist. What, after all, was an Archduke more or less–they were always getting into the papers, one way or another. He would see what The Times said about it tomorrow, but probably it would turn out a storm in a tea-cup. Soames was not in fact of a European turn of mind. ‘Trouble in the Balkans’ had become a proverb; and when a thing became a proverb there was nothing in it.
He read The Times journeying back with the James Maris to Mapledurham the following day. Editorial hands were lifted in the usual horror at assassination, but there was nothing to prevent him going out fishing.
Indeed, in the month that followed, even after the Austrian ultimatum had appeared, Soames, like ninety-nine per cent. of his fellow-countrymen, didn’t know what there was “to make such a fuss about.” To suppose that England could be involved was weak-minded. The idea, indeed, never seriously occurred to one born just after the Crimean war, and accustomed to look on Europe as fit to be advised, perhaps, but nothing more. Fleur’s holidays, too, were just beginning, and he was thinking of buying her a pony: at twelve years old it was time she learned even that rather futile accomplishment–riding. Besides, was there not plenty of fuss in Ireland, if they must have something to fuss about? It was Annette who raised the first bubbles of an immense disquiet. Beautiful creature as she was at that period–“rising thirty-five,” as George Forsyte put it–she did not read the English papers, but she often had letters from France. On the 28th of July she said to Soames:
“Soames, there is going to be war–those Germans are crazy mad.”
“War over a potty little affair like that? Nonsense!” growled Soames.
“Oh! you have no imagination, Soames. Of course there will be war, and my poor country will have to fight for Russia; and you English–what will you do?”
“Do? Why, nothing! If you’re fools enough to go to war, WE can’t help it.”
“We expect you to help us,” said Annette; “but you English we never can rely on. You wait always to see which way the cat jump.”
“What business is it of ours?” Soames answered testily.
“You will soon find what business when the Germans take Calais.”
“I thought you French fancied yourselves invincible.” But he got up and left the room.
And that evening it was noticed even by Fleur that he took no interest in her. All Saturday and Sunday he was fidgety. On Sunday afternoon came a rumour that Germany had declared war on Russia. Soames put it down to the papers; but he remained awake half the night, and, on reading of its confirmation in The Times on Monday morning, went up to Town by the first train. It was Bank holiday, and he sought his City Club as the only spot where he might possibly get City news. He found that a good many other men were there with the same object, among them one of the partners in the firm of his brokers, Messrs. Green and Greening–more familiarly known as “Grin and Grinning.” To him he detailed his views on the sale of certain stocks. The fellow–it was ‘Grin’–regarded him askance.
“Nothing doing, Mr. Forsyte,” he said: “The Stock Exchange will be closed some days they say.”
“Closed?” said Soames. “You don’t mean to say they’d let business stop, even if–”
“It will HAVE to stop, or prices will flop to nothing. As it is, there’s panic enough–”
“Panic!” repeated Soames, staring at his broker–‘a sleek beggar!’ “Cancel those orders; I shan’t sell anything.”
Not realising that in this he had voiced more than a personal decision, he got up and went to the window. Outside was a regular fluster. Newsvendors were crying: “German ultimatum to Belgium!” Soames stood looking down at the faces in the street. It was not his custom, but he found himself doing it. One and all had a furrow between the eyes. Here was a how-de-do! Down there, on the river, he hadn’t realised. And he had a sudden longing for telegraphic tape.
It was surrounded by men he did not know, and Soames, who had a horror of doing what other people were doing, and especially of waiting to do it, moved into the smoking-room and sat down. One of the least of club-men, he literally did not know how to get into conversation with strange members, and was confined to listening to what they were saying. This was sufficiently alarming. The three or four within earshot seemed suffering only from fear that “this damned Government” wouldn’t “come up to the scratch.” Soames’ ears stood up more and more. He was hearing more abuse of radicals and the working classes than he had ever heard in so short a space of time. The words “traitors” and “politicians” beat through the talk with a sort of rhythm. Though the general trend of the sentiments voiced might be his own, all that was reticent, measured and calculating within him was shocked. What did they think a war would be–a sort of water picnic?
“If we don’t go in now,” said one of the group, “we shall never hold up our heads again.”
Soames sniffed audibly. How? He didn’t see. Germany and Austria against France and Russia–if they chose to make such fools of themselves. Europe was always at war in the old days. And now that they had these thundering great armies, it was a wonder they hadn’t come to loggerheads long since. What was the use of having no conscription and a big navy, if one wasn’t going to keep out of war? Fellows like these! All they thought of was their dividends; and much good that would do them. If England lost her head now, and went in, there wouldn’t BE any dividends. War, indeed! The whole interior of one, who for all his sixty years had been at peace as a matter of course, rose against that grisly consummation. What had the Russians ever done, or the French for that matter, that they should expect England to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for them? As for the Germans–their Kaiser was a “cock-snoop” of a chap, always rattling his sabre, and talking through his hat–but they were at least more understandable than the Russians or the French; as for Austria–the idea of going to war with her was simply laughable.
“Albert has appealed to the Powers,” said a voice.
Albert! That was the King of Belgium. So he’d appealed, had he? Belgium! Wasn’t she guaranteed like Switzerland? The Germans would never be fools enough to–! This was a civilised age–treaties and that! He rose. It was no use listening to jingo chatter. He would go and lunch.
But he could scarcely eat–the weather was so hot. He shouldn’t be a bit surprised if that had a lot to do with the state of affairs. Put these Emperors and General chaps on ice, and you’d have them piping small at once. He was drinking a glass of barleywater, when he heard the waiter at the next table say to a member: “So it says, Sir.”
“Good God!” said the member, starting up.
Soames forgot his manners.
“What does it say?”
“The Germans have invaded Belgium, Sir.”
Soames put down his glass.
“Who told you that?”
“It’s on the tape, Sir.”
Soames emitted a sound that might have come from his very boots–so deep it was. He must think. But you couldn’t tell what you were thinking in this place.
“My bill,” he said.
When it came, he gave the waiter a shilling against club rules and the habit of a lifetime; for he had an obscure feeling that the fellow had done something unique to him. Then with a sudden homing instinct, he took a cab to Paddington, and all the way in the train read the evening paper, or sat staring out of the carriage window.
He said nothing when he got home–nothing whatever to anybody of what he had heard–the whole of him absorbed in a sort of silent and awful adjustment. That fellow Grey–a steady chap, best of the bunch–must be making his speech to the House by now. What was he saying? And how were they taking it? He got into his punt and sat there listening to the wood-pigeons, in the leafy peace of the bright day. He didn’t want a soul near him. England! They said the fleet was ready. His mind didn’t seem able to get further than that. To be on water gave him queer consolation, as if his faith in the fleet would glide with that water down to the sea whereon the pride and the protection of England lay. He put his hand down and the water flowed green-tinged through his opened fingers. By George! There went that kingfisher–hadn’t seen him for weeks–flash of blue among the reeds. He wouldn’t be that fellow Grey for something. They said he was a fisherman and liked birds. What was he saying to them in there under Big Ben? The chap had always been a gentleman, could he say anything but that England would stand by her word? And for the second time Soames uttered a sound which seemed to travel up from the very tips of his toes. He didn’t see what was to be done except agree with that. And what then? All this green peace, every home throughout the land, and stocks and shares–falling, falling! And old Uncle Timothy–ninety-four! He would have to see that they kept it from the old chap. Luckily no newspaper had come into the “Nook” since Aunt Hester died; reading about the House of Lords in 1910 had so upset Timothy, that he had given up taking even The Times.
‘And my pictures!’ thought Soames. Yes, and Fleur’s governess–a German, Fleur having always spoken French with her mother. Annette would want to get rid of her, he wouldn’t be surprised. And what would become of her–nobody would want a German, if there were war. A dragon-fly flew past. Soames watched it with an ache, dumb and resentful, deep within him. A beautiful summer, fine and hot, and they couldn’t leave it alone, but must kick up this devil’s tattoo, all over the world. This thing might–might come to be anything before it was over. He got up and slowly punted himself across. From there he could see the church. He never went to it, but he supposed it meant something. And now all over Europe they were going to blow each other to bits. What would the parsons say? Nothing–he shouldn’t wonder–they were a funny lot. Seven o’clock! It must be over by now in the House of Commons. And he punted himself slowly back. The scent of lime blossom and of meadow-sweet, the scent of sweetbriar and of honeysuckle, yes, and the scent of grass beginning to cool, drifted and clung. He didn’t want to leave the water, but it was getting damp.
The mothers of the boys going off to the war out there; young chaps–conscripts–Russia and Austria, Germany and France–and not one knowing or caring a dump about it. A pretty how-de-do! There’d be a lot of volunteering here–if–if–! Only he didn’t know, he couldn’t tell what use England could be except at sea.
He got out of the punt and walked slowly up past the house to his front gate. Heat was over, light paling, stars peering through, the air smelled a little of dust. Soames stood like some pelican awaiting it knew not what. A motor-cycle came sputtering from the direction of Reading. The rider, in dusty overalls, flung words at him:
“Pawlyment! We’re goin’ in!” and sputtered past. Soames stretched out a hand. So might a blind man have moved.
Going in? With little food inside and the stars above him, all the imaginative power, which as a rule he starved, turned active, clutched and groped. Scattered, scuttling images of war came flying across the screen of his consciousness like so many wild geese over the sand, over the sea, out of the darkness into the darkness of a layman’s mind; a layman who had thought in terms of peace all his days, and his days many. What a thing to happen to one at sixty! They might have waited till he was like old Timothy. Anxiety! That was it, anxiety. Kitchener was over from Egypt, they said. That was something. A grim-looking chap, with his eyes fixed beyond you like a lion’s at the Zoo; but he’d always come through. Soames remembered, suddenly, his sensations during the black week of the Boer war–potty little affair, compared with this. And there was old Roberts–too old, he supposed.
‘But perhaps,’ he thought, ‘we shan’t have to fight on land.’ Besides, who knew? The Germans might come to their senses yet, when they heard England was going in. There was Russia, she had more millions than all the rest put together–Steam-roller, they called her; but had she the steam? Japan had beaten her.
‘Well!’ and the thought gave him the queerest feeling, proud and miserable: ‘If we begin, we shall hold on.’ There was something at once terrible to him and deeply satisfying about that instinctive knowledge. They’d be singing “Rule Britannia” everywhere to-night–he shouldn’t wonder. People didn’t THINK–a little-headed lot!
The stars burned through a sky growing blue-dark. All over Europe men and guns moving–all over the seas ships tearing along. And this silence–this hush before the storm. That couldn’t last. No; there they were already–singing back there along the road–drunk, he should say. Tune–words–he didn’t know them–vulgar stuff:
“It’s a long long way to Tipperary,
It’s a long, long way to go…
Good-bye, Piccadilly, Farewell, Leicester Square!
It’s a long, long way to Tipperary,
And my heart’s right there!”
What had that to do with it–he should like to know? They were cheering now. Some beanfeast or other had got the news–common people! But–common or not, tonight all was England, England! Well, he must go indoors.
2
Silence, as of one stricken by decision, come to instinctively rather than by will, weighed on Soames that night and all next day. He read ‘that chap Grey’s’ speech and, in conspiracy with his country, waited for what he felt would never come: an answer to the ultimatum sent. The Germans had tasted of force, and would never go back on their invasion of Belgium.
In the afternoon he could neither bear his own gloom nor the excitement of Annette, and, walking to the station, he took a train to Town. The streets seemed full and to get fuller every minute. He sat down late, at the Connoisseurs’ Club, to dine. When he had finished a meal which seemed to stick in his gizzard, he went downstairs. From his seat in the window he could see St. James’ Street, and the people eddying down it towards the centre of the country’s life. He sat there practically alone. At eleven–they said–the ultimatum would expire. In this quiet room, where the furniture and wall-decorations had been accumulated for men of taste throughout a century of peace, was the reality of life as he had known it, the reality of Victorian and Edwardian England. The Boer wars, and all those other little wars, Ashanti, Afghan, Soudan, expeditionary adventures, professional affairs far away, had hardly ruffled the minds of Connoisseurs. One had walked and talked upon one’s normal way, just conscious of their disagreeable necessity, and their stimulation at breakfast time, like a pinch of Glauber’s salts. But this great thing–why, it had united even the politicians, so he had read in the paper that morning. And there came into his mind Lewis Carroll’s rhyme:
“And then came down a monstrous crow,
As black as a tar-barrel;
It frightened both the heroes so
They quite forgot their quarrel.”
He got up and moved, restless, into the hall. All there was of connoisseur in the club was gathered round the tape–some half-dozen members, none of whom he knew. Soames stood a little apart. Somebody turned and spoke to him. A shrinking from his fellows, accentuated in Soames’ emotional moments, sent a shiver down his spine. He couldn’t stay here and have chaps babbling. Answering curtly, he got his hat and went out. In the crowd he’d be alone, and he moved with it down Pall Mall towards Whitehall. Thicker every moment, it was a curious blend of stillness and excitement. Down Cockspur Street into Whitehall he was slowly swept, till at the mouth of Downing Street the crowd became solidity itself, and there was no moving. Ten minutes to the hour! Impervious by nature and by training to mob-emotion, Soames yet was emotionalised. Here was something that was not mere mob-sensation–something made up of individual feelings stronger than mere impulse; something to which noise was but embroidery. There was plenty of noise, rumorous, and strident now and again, but it didn’t seem to belong to the faces–didn’t seem to suit them any more than it suited the stars that winked and waited. All sorts and conditions of men and women, and he cheek by jowl with them–like sardines in a box–and he didn’t mind. Civilians, they were, peaceful folk–not a soldier or a sailor in the lot! They had begun to sing ‘God save the King!’ His own lips moved; he could not hear himself, and that consoled him. He fixed his eyes on Big Ben. The hands of the bright clock, halfway to the stars, crept with incredible slowness. Two minutes more and the thing would begin–the Thing! What would come of it? He couldn’t tell, he didn’t know. A bad business, a mad business–once in, you couldn’t get out–you had to hold on–to the death–to the death! The faces were all turned one way now under the street lights, white faces, from whose open mouths still came that song; and then–Boom! The clock had struck, and cheering rose. Queer thing to cheer for! “Hoora-a-ay!” The Thing had started!…
Soames walked away. Had he cheered? He did not seem to know. A little ashamed he walked. Why couldn’t he have waited down there on the river, instead of rushing up into the crowd like one of these young clerks or shop fellows? He was glad nobody would know where he had been. As if it did any good for him to get excited; as if it did any good for him to do or get anything at his age. Sixty! He was glad he hadn’t got a son. Bad enough to have three nephews. Still, Val was in South Africa and his leg wasn’t sound; but Winifred’s second son, Benedict–what age was he–thirty? Then there was Cicely’s boy–just gone up to Cambridge. All these boys! Some of them would be rushing off to get themselves killed. A bad sad business! And all because–! Exactly! Because of what?
Walking in a sort of trance he had reached the Ritz. All was fiz-gig in the streets. Waiters stood on the pavement. Ladies of the night talked together excitedly or spoke to policemen as though they had lost their profession. Soames went on down Berkeley Square through quieter streets to his sister’s house. Winifred was waiting up for him, still in that half mourning for Montague Dartie, which Soames considered superfluous. As trustee, he had been compelled to learn the true history of that French staircase, if only to keep it from the rest of the world.
“They tell me war’s declared, Soames. Such a relief!”
“Relief! Pretty relief!”
“You know what I mean, dear boy. One never knows what those Radicals might have done.”
“This’ll cost a thousand millions,” said Soames, “before it’s over. Over? I don’t know when it’ll be over–the Germans are no joke.”
“But surely, Soames, with Russia and ourselves. And they say the French are so good now.”
“They’d say anything,” said Soames.
“But you’re glad, aren’t you?”
“Glad we haven’t ratted, yes. But it’s ruination all round. Where’s your boy Benedict?”
Winifred looked up sharply.
“Oh!” she said. “But he’s not even a volunteer.”
“He will be,” said Soames, gloomily.
“Do you really think it’s as serious as that, Soames?”
“Serious as hell,” answered Soames; “you mark my words.”
Winifred was silent for some minutes; on her face, so fashionably composed, was a look as though someone had half drawn up its blind. She said in a small voice:
“I’m thankful dear Val has got his leg. You don’t think we shall be invaded, Soames?”
“Not if they keep their heads. All depends on the fleet. They say there’s a chap called Jellicoe, but you never know. There are these Zeppelins, too–I shall send Fleur down to school in the west somewhere.”
“Ought one to lay in provisions?”
“If everyone does that, there’ll be a shortage, and that won’t do. The less fuss the better. I shall go down home by the first train. Going to bed, now. Good-night.” He kissed the forehead of a face where the blind was still half drawn down.
He slept well, and was back at Mapledurham before noon. Fleur’s greeting, and the bright peace of the river, soothed him, so that he lunched with a certain appetite. On the verandah, afterwards, his head gardener came up.
“They’re puttin’ off the ‘orticultural show this afternoon, Sir. Looks as if the Germans had bitten off more than they can chew, don’t you think, Sir?”
“Can’t tell,” said Soames. Everybody seemed to think it was going to be a picnic, and this annoyed him.
“It’s lucky Lord Kitchener’s over here,” said the gardener, “he’ll show them.”
“This may last a year and more,” said Soames; “no waste of any sort, d’you understand me?”
The gardener looked surprised.
“I thought–”
“Think what you like, but don’t waste anything, and grow vegetables. See?”
“Yes, Sir. So you think it’s serious, Sir?”
“I do,” said Soames.
“Yes, Sir.” The gardener moved away; a narrow-headed chap! That was the trouble; hearts were in the right place, but heads were narrow. They said those Germans had big round heads and no backs to them. So they had, if he remembered. He went in and took up The Times. To read the papers seemed the only thing one could do. While he was sitting there Annette came in. She was flushed and had a ball of wool in her hand.
“Well,” he said, over the top of the paper, “are you satisfied now?”
She came across to him.
“Put your paper down, Soames, and let me kiss you.”
“What for?” said Soames.
Annette removed The Times and sank on his knees. Placing her hands on his shoulders she bent and kissed him.
“Because you have not deserted my country. I am proud of England.”
“That’s new,” said Soames. She was a weight, and smelled of verbena; “I don’t know what we can do,” he added, “except at sea.”
“Oh! it is everything. We have not our backs on the wall any more; we have our backs on you.”
“You certainly have,” said Soames; not that it was unpleasant.
Annette rose. She stood, slightly transfigured.
“We shall beat those ‘orrible Germans now. Soames, we cannot keep Fraulein, she must go.”
“I thought that was coming. Why? It’s not her fault.”
“To have a German in the house? No!”
“Why not? She’s harmless. If you send her away, what’ll she do?”
“What she likes, but not in this house. Who knows if she is a spy.”
“Stuff and nonsense!”
“Oh! you English are so slow–you wait always till the fat is in the fire, as you say.”
“I don’t see any good in hysteria,” muttered Soames.
“They will talk in the neighbourhood.”
“Let them!”
“Non! I have told her she must go. After the holiday Fleur must go to school. It is no use, Soames, I am not going to keep a German. ‘A la guerre comme a la guerre!’”
Soames uttered a sound of profound disapproval. There she went on her high horse! Something deeply just within him was offended, but something sagacious knew that if he opposed her, the situation would become impossible.
“Send her to me, then,” he said.
“Do not be sloppee with her,” said Annette, and went away.
Sloppy! The word outraged him. Sloppy! He was still brooding over it, when he became conscious that the German governess was in the room.
She was a tall young woman, with a rather high-cheek-boned, high-coloured face, and candid grey eyes, and she stood without speaking, her hands folded one over the other.
“This is a bad business, Fraulein.”
“Yes, Mr. Forsyte; Madame says I am to go.”
Soames nodded. “The French have very strong feelings. Have you made any arrangements?”
The young woman shook her head. Soames received an impression of desolation from the gesture.
“What arrangements could I make?
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15
“She’s drunk her tea a treat,” said the splotchy woman, returning from the bedroom.
“‘Ere’s yours, Mother.”
“‘Aven’t you ‘ad a cup yerself, ‘Enry?”
“Just goin’ to,” said the white-faced mechanician, pouring into a fourth cup and pausing to add: “Will you ‘ave another, Sir? There’s plenty in the pot.”
Eustace shook his head: “No, thanks very much. I must be getting on directly.” But he continued to sit on the window-sill, as a man on a mountain lingers in the whiffling wind before beginning his descent to earth. The mechanician was drinking his tea at last. “Sure you won’t ‘ave another cup, Sir?” and he poured again into his wife’s cup and his own. The two seemed to expand visibly as the dark liquid passed into them.
“I always say there’s nothin’ like tea,” said the woman.
“That’s right; we could ‘a done with a cup dahn there, couldn’t we, Sir?”
Eustace stood up.
“I hope your little girl will be all right,” he said: “and thank you very much for the tea. Here’s my card. I’ve enjoyed meeting you.”
The mechanician took the card, looking up at Eustace rather like a dog.
“I’m sure it’s been a pleasure to us, and it’s you we got to thank, Sir. I shall remember what you did for the child.”
Eustace shook his head: “No, really. Good-night, Mrs. – er–”
“Thompson, the nyme is, Sir.”
He shook her hand, subduing the slight shudder which her face still imposed on him.
“Good-night, Mr. Thompson.”
The hand of the white-faced mechanician, polished on his trousers, grasped Eustace’s hand with astonishing force.
“Good-night, Sir.”
“I hope we shall meet again,” said Eustace.
Out in the open it was a starry night, and he paused for a minute in the hooded street with his eyes fixed on those specks of far-off silver, so remarkably unlike the golden asterisks which decorated the firmament of his Turkish bath. And there came to him, so standing, a singular sensation almost as if he had enjoyed his evening, as a man will enjoy that which he has never seen before and wonders if he will ever see again.
SOAMES AND THE FLAG, 1914–1918
1
On that day of 1914 when the assassinations at Serajevo startled the world, Soames Forsyte passed in a taxi-cab up the Haymarket, supporting on his knee a picture by James Maris, which he had just bought from Dumetrius. He was pleased at the outcome of a very considerable duel. The fellow had come down to his price at the last minute, and Soames had wondered why.
The reason dawned on him that night in Green Street, while reading his evening paper: “This tragic occurrence may yet shake Europe to its foundations. Sinister possibilities implicit in such an assassination stagger the imagination.” They must have staggered Dumetrius. The fellow had suddenly seen “blue.” The market in objects whose “virtue” varied with the quietude of men’s minds and the tourist traffic with America, was–Soames well knew–extremely sensitive. Sinister possibilities! He put the paper down and sat reflecting. No! The chap was an alarmist. What, after all, was an Archduke more or less–they were always getting into the papers, one way or another. He would see what The Times said about it tomorrow, but probably it would turn out a storm in a tea-cup. Soames was not in fact of a European turn of mind. ‘Trouble in the Balkans’ had become a proverb; and when a thing became a proverb there was nothing in it.
He read The Times journeying back with the James Maris to Mapledurham the following day. Editorial hands were lifted in the usual horror at assassination, but there was nothing to prevent him going out fishing.
Indeed, in the month that followed, even after the Austrian ultimatum had appeared, Soames, like ninety-nine per cent. of his fellow-countrymen, didn’t know what there was “to make such a fuss about.” To suppose that England could be involved was weak-minded. The idea, indeed, never seriously occurred to one born just after the Crimean war, and accustomed to look on Europe as fit to be advised, perhaps, but nothing more. Fleur’s holidays, too, were just beginning, and he was thinking of buying her a pony: at twelve years old it was time she learned even that rather futile accomplishment–riding. Besides, was there not plenty of fuss in Ireland, if they must have something to fuss about? It was Annette who raised the first bubbles of an immense disquiet. Beautiful creature as she was at that period–“rising thirty-five,” as George Forsyte put it–she did not read the English papers, but she often had letters from France. On the 28th of July she said to Soames:
“Soames, there is going to be war–those Germans are crazy mad.”
“War over a potty little affair like that? Nonsense!” growled Soames.
“Oh! you have no imagination, Soames. Of course there will be war, and my poor country will have to fight for Russia; and you English–what will you do?”
“Do? Why, nothing! If you’re fools enough to go to war, WE can’t help it.”
“We expect you to help us,” said Annette; “but you English we never can rely on. You wait always to see which way the cat jump.”
“What business is it of ours?” Soames answered testily.
“You will soon find what business when the Germans take Calais.”
“I thought you French fancied yourselves invincible.” But he got up and left the room.
And that evening it was noticed even by Fleur that he took no interest in her. All Saturday and Sunday he was fidgety. On Sunday afternoon came a rumour that Germany had declared war on Russia. Soames put it down to the papers; but he remained awake half the night, and, on reading of its confirmation in The Times on Monday morning, went up to Town by the first train. It was Bank holiday, and he sought his City Club as the only spot where he might possibly get City news. He found that a good many other men were there with the same object, among them one of the partners in the firm of his brokers, Messrs. Green and Greening–more familiarly known as “Grin and Grinning.” To him he detailed his views on the sale of certain stocks. The fellow–it was ‘Grin’–regarded him askance.
“Nothing doing, Mr. Forsyte,” he said: “The Stock Exchange will be closed some days they say.”
“Closed?” said Soames. “You don’t mean to say they’d let business stop, even if–”
“It will HAVE to stop, or prices will flop to nothing. As it is, there’s panic enough–”
“Panic!” repeated Soames, staring at his broker–‘a sleek beggar!’ “Cancel those orders; I shan’t sell anything.”
Not realising that in this he had voiced more than a personal decision, he got up and went to the window. Outside was a regular fluster. Newsvendors were crying: “German ultimatum to Belgium!” Soames stood looking down at the faces in the street. It was not his custom, but he found himself doing it. One and all had a furrow between the eyes. Here was a how-de-do! Down there, on the river, he hadn’t realised. And he had a sudden longing for telegraphic tape.
It was surrounded by men he did not know, and Soames, who had a horror of doing what other people were doing, and especially of waiting to do it, moved into the smoking-room and sat down. One of the least of club-men, he literally did not know how to get into conversation with strange members, and was confined to listening to what they were saying. This was sufficiently alarming. The three or four within earshot seemed suffering only from fear that “this damned Government” wouldn’t “come up to the scratch.” Soames’ ears stood up more and more. He was hearing more abuse of radicals and the working classes than he had ever heard in so short a space of time. The words “traitors” and “politicians” beat through the talk with a sort of rhythm. Though the general trend of the sentiments voiced might be his own, all that was reticent, measured and calculating within him was shocked. What did they think a war would be–a sort of water picnic?
“If we don’t go in now,” said one of the group, “we shall never hold up our heads again.”
Soames sniffed audibly. How? He didn’t see. Germany and Austria against France and Russia–if they chose to make such fools of themselves. Europe was always at war in the old days. And now that they had these thundering great armies, it was a wonder they hadn’t come to loggerheads long since. What was the use of having no conscription and a big navy, if one wasn’t going to keep out of war? Fellows like these! All they thought of was their dividends; and much good that would do them. If England lost her head now, and went in, there wouldn’t BE any dividends. War, indeed! The whole interior of one, who for all his sixty years had been at peace as a matter of course, rose against that grisly consummation. What had the Russians ever done, or the French for that matter, that they should expect England to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for them? As for the Germans–their Kaiser was a “cock-snoop” of a chap, always rattling his sabre, and talking through his hat–but they were at least more understandable than the Russians or the French; as for Austria–the idea of going to war with her was simply laughable.
“Albert has appealed to the Powers,” said a voice.
Albert! That was the King of Belgium. So he’d appealed, had he? Belgium! Wasn’t she guaranteed like Switzerland? The Germans would never be fools enough to–! This was a civilised age–treaties and that! He rose. It was no use listening to jingo chatter. He would go and lunch.
But he could scarcely eat–the weather was so hot. He shouldn’t be a bit surprised if that had a lot to do with the state of affairs. Put these Emperors and General chaps on ice, and you’d have them piping small at once. He was drinking a glass of barleywater, when he heard the waiter at the next table say to a member: “So it says, Sir.”
“Good God!” said the member, starting up.
Soames forgot his manners.
“What does it say?”
“The Germans have invaded Belgium, Sir.”
Soames put down his glass.
“Who told you that?”
“It’s on the tape, Sir.”
Soames emitted a sound that might have come from his very boots–so deep it was. He must think. But you couldn’t tell what you were thinking in this place.
“My bill,” he said.
When it came, he gave the waiter a shilling against club rules and the habit of a lifetime; for he had an obscure feeling that the fellow had done something unique to him. Then with a sudden homing instinct, he took a cab to Paddington, and all the way in the train read the evening paper, or sat staring out of the carriage window.
He said nothing when he got home–nothing whatever to anybody of what he had heard–the whole of him absorbed in a sort of silent and awful adjustment. That fellow Grey–a steady chap, best of the bunch–must be making his speech to the House by now. What was he saying? And how were they taking it? He got into his punt and sat there listening to the wood-pigeons, in the leafy peace of the bright day. He didn’t want a soul near him. England! They said the fleet was ready. His mind didn’t seem able to get further than that. To be on water gave him queer consolation, as if his faith in the fleet would glide with that water down to the sea whereon the pride and the protection of England lay. He put his hand down and the water flowed green-tinged through his opened fingers. By George! There went that kingfisher–hadn’t seen him for weeks–flash of blue among the reeds. He wouldn’t be that fellow Grey for something. They said he was a fisherman and liked birds. What was he saying to them in there under Big Ben? The chap had always been a gentleman, could he say anything but that England would stand by her word? And for the second time Soames uttered a sound which seemed to travel up from the very tips of his toes. He didn’t see what was to be done except agree with that. And what then? All this green peace, every home throughout the land, and stocks and shares–falling, falling! And old Uncle Timothy–ninety-four! He would have to see that they kept it from the old chap. Luckily no newspaper had come into the “Nook” since Aunt Hester died; reading about the House of Lords in 1910 had so upset Timothy, that he had given up taking even The Times.
‘And my pictures!’ thought Soames. Yes, and Fleur’s governess–a German, Fleur having always spoken French with her mother. Annette would want to get rid of her, he wouldn’t be surprised. And what would become of her–nobody would want a German, if there were war. A dragon-fly flew past. Soames watched it with an ache, dumb and resentful, deep within him. A beautiful summer, fine and hot, and they couldn’t leave it alone, but must kick up this devil’s tattoo, all over the world. This thing might–might come to be anything before it was over. He got up and slowly punted himself across. From there he could see the church. He never went to it, but he supposed it meant something. And now all over Europe they were going to blow each other to bits. What would the parsons say? Nothing–he shouldn’t wonder–they were a funny lot. Seven o’clock! It must be over by now in the House of Commons. And he punted himself slowly back. The scent of lime blossom and of meadow-sweet, the scent of sweetbriar and of honeysuckle, yes, and the scent of grass beginning to cool, drifted and clung. He didn’t want to leave the water, but it was getting damp.
The mothers of the boys going off to the war out there; young chaps–conscripts–Russia and Austria, Germany and France–and not one knowing or caring a dump about it. A pretty how-de-do! There’d be a lot of volunteering here–if–if–! Only he didn’t know, he couldn’t tell what use England could be except at sea.
He got out of the punt and walked slowly up past the house to his front gate. Heat was over, light paling, stars peering through, the air smelled a little of dust. Soames stood like some pelican awaiting it knew not what. A motor-cycle came sputtering from the direction of Reading. The rider, in dusty overalls, flung words at him:
“Pawlyment! We’re goin’ in!” and sputtered past. Soames stretched out a hand. So might a blind man have moved.
Going in? With little food inside and the stars above him, all the imaginative power, which as a rule he starved, turned active, clutched and groped. Scattered, scuttling images of war came flying across the screen of his consciousness like so many wild geese over the sand, over the sea, out of the darkness into the darkness of a layman’s mind; a layman who had thought in terms of peace all his days, and his days many. What a thing to happen to one at sixty! They might have waited till he was like old Timothy. Anxiety! That was it, anxiety. Kitchener was over from Egypt, they said. That was something. A grim-looking chap, with his eyes fixed beyond you like a lion’s at the Zoo; but he’d always come through. Soames remembered, suddenly, his sensations during the black week of the Boer war–potty little affair, compared with this. And there was old Roberts–too old, he supposed.
‘But perhaps,’ he thought, ‘we shan’t have to fight on land.’ Besides, who knew? The Germans might come to their senses yet, when they heard England was going in. There was Russia, she had more millions than all the rest put together–Steam-roller, they called her; but had she the steam? Japan had beaten her.
‘Well!’ and the thought gave him the queerest feeling, proud and miserable: ‘If we begin, we shall hold on.’ There was something at once terrible to him and deeply satisfying about that instinctive knowledge. They’d be singing “Rule Britannia” everywhere to-night–he shouldn’t wonder. People didn’t THINK–a little-headed lot!
The stars burned through a sky growing blue-dark. All over Europe men and guns moving–all over the seas ships tearing along. And this silence–this hush before the storm. That couldn’t last. No; there they were already–singing back there along the road–drunk, he should say. Tune–words–he didn’t know them–vulgar stuff:
“It’s a long long way to Tipperary,
It’s a long, long way to go…
Good-bye, Piccadilly, Farewell, Leicester Square!
It’s a long, long way to Tipperary,
And my heart’s right there!”
What had that to do with it–he should like to know? They were cheering now. Some beanfeast or other had got the news–common people! But–common or not, tonight all was England, England! Well, he must go indoors.
2
Silence, as of one stricken by decision, come to instinctively rather than by will, weighed on Soames that night and all next day. He read ‘that chap Grey’s’ speech and, in conspiracy with his country, waited for what he felt would never come: an answer to the ultimatum sent. The Germans had tasted of force, and would never go back on their invasion of Belgium.
In the afternoon he could neither bear his own gloom nor the excitement of Annette, and, walking to the station, he took a train to Town. The streets seemed full and to get fuller every minute. He sat down late, at the Connoisseurs’ Club, to dine. When he had finished a meal which seemed to stick in his gizzard, he went downstairs. From his seat in the window he could see St. James’ Street, and the people eddying down it towards the centre of the country’s life. He sat there practically alone. At eleven–they said–the ultimatum would expire. In this quiet room, where the furniture and wall-decorations had been accumulated for men of taste throughout a century of peace, was the reality of life as he had known it, the reality of Victorian and Edwardian England. The Boer wars, and all those other little wars, Ashanti, Afghan, Soudan, expeditionary adventures, professional affairs far away, had hardly ruffled the minds of Connoisseurs. One had walked and talked upon one’s normal way, just conscious of their disagreeable necessity, and their stimulation at breakfast time, like a pinch of Glauber’s salts. But this great thing–why, it had united even the politicians, so he had read in the paper that morning. And there came into his mind Lewis Carroll’s rhyme:
“And then came down a monstrous crow,
As black as a tar-barrel;
It frightened both the heroes so
They quite forgot their quarrel.”
He got up and moved, restless, into the hall. All there was of connoisseur in the club was gathered round the tape–some half-dozen members, none of whom he knew. Soames stood a little apart. Somebody turned and spoke to him. A shrinking from his fellows, accentuated in Soames’ emotional moments, sent a shiver down his spine. He couldn’t stay here and have chaps babbling. Answering curtly, he got his hat and went out. In the crowd he’d be alone, and he moved with it down Pall Mall towards Whitehall. Thicker every moment, it was a curious blend of stillness and excitement. Down Cockspur Street into Whitehall he was slowly swept, till at the mouth of Downing Street the crowd became solidity itself, and there was no moving. Ten minutes to the hour! Impervious by nature and by training to mob-emotion, Soames yet was emotionalised. Here was something that was not mere mob-sensation–something made up of individual feelings stronger than mere impulse; something to which noise was but embroidery. There was plenty of noise, rumorous, and strident now and again, but it didn’t seem to belong to the faces–didn’t seem to suit them any more than it suited the stars that winked and waited. All sorts and conditions of men and women, and he cheek by jowl with them–like sardines in a box–and he didn’t mind. Civilians, they were, peaceful folk–not a soldier or a sailor in the lot! They had begun to sing ‘God save the King!’ His own lips moved; he could not hear himself, and that consoled him. He fixed his eyes on Big Ben. The hands of the bright clock, halfway to the stars, crept with incredible slowness. Two minutes more and the thing would begin–the Thing! What would come of it? He couldn’t tell, he didn’t know. A bad business, a mad business–once in, you couldn’t get out–you had to hold on–to the death–to the death! The faces were all turned one way now under the street lights, white faces, from whose open mouths still came that song; and then–Boom! The clock had struck, and cheering rose. Queer thing to cheer for! “Hoora-a-ay!” The Thing had started!…
Soames walked away. Had he cheered? He did not seem to know. A little ashamed he walked. Why couldn’t he have waited down there on the river, instead of rushing up into the crowd like one of these young clerks or shop fellows? He was glad nobody would know where he had been. As if it did any good for him to get excited; as if it did any good for him to do or get anything at his age. Sixty! He was glad he hadn’t got a son. Bad enough to have three nephews. Still, Val was in South Africa and his leg wasn’t sound; but Winifred’s second son, Benedict–what age was he–thirty? Then there was Cicely’s boy–just gone up to Cambridge. All these boys! Some of them would be rushing off to get themselves killed. A bad sad business! And all because–! Exactly! Because of what?
Walking in a sort of trance he had reached the Ritz. All was fiz-gig in the streets. Waiters stood on the pavement. Ladies of the night talked together excitedly or spoke to policemen as though they had lost their profession. Soames went on down Berkeley Square through quieter streets to his sister’s house. Winifred was waiting up for him, still in that half mourning for Montague Dartie, which Soames considered superfluous. As trustee, he had been compelled to learn the true history of that French staircase, if only to keep it from the rest of the world.
“They tell me war’s declared, Soames. Such a relief!”
“Relief! Pretty relief!”
“You know what I mean, dear boy. One never knows what those Radicals might have done.”
“This’ll cost a thousand millions,” said Soames, “before it’s over. Over? I don’t know when it’ll be over–the Germans are no joke.”
“But surely, Soames, with Russia and ourselves. And they say the French are so good now.”
“They’d say anything,” said Soames.
“But you’re glad, aren’t you?”
“Glad we haven’t ratted, yes. But it’s ruination all round. Where’s your boy Benedict?”
Winifred looked up sharply.
“Oh!” she said. “But he’s not even a volunteer.”
“He will be,” said Soames, gloomily.
“Do you really think it’s as serious as that, Soames?”
“Serious as hell,” answered Soames; “you mark my words.”
Winifred was silent for some minutes; on her face, so fashionably composed, was a look as though someone had half drawn up its blind. She said in a small voice:
“I’m thankful dear Val has got his leg. You don’t think we shall be invaded, Soames?”
“Not if they keep their heads. All depends on the fleet. They say there’s a chap called Jellicoe, but you never know. There are these Zeppelins, too–I shall send Fleur down to school in the west somewhere.”
“Ought one to lay in provisions?”
“If everyone does that, there’ll be a shortage, and that won’t do. The less fuss the better. I shall go down home by the first train. Going to bed, now. Good-night.” He kissed the forehead of a face where the blind was still half drawn down.
He slept well, and was back at Mapledurham before noon. Fleur’s greeting, and the bright peace of the river, soothed him, so that he lunched with a certain appetite. On the verandah, afterwards, his head gardener came up.
“They’re puttin’ off the ‘orticultural show this afternoon, Sir. Looks as if the Germans had bitten off more than they can chew, don’t you think, Sir?”
“Can’t tell,” said Soames. Everybody seemed to think it was going to be a picnic, and this annoyed him.
“It’s lucky Lord Kitchener’s over here,” said the gardener, “he’ll show them.”
“This may last a year and more,” said Soames; “no waste of any sort, d’you understand me?”
The gardener looked surprised.
“I thought–”
“Think what you like, but don’t waste anything, and grow vegetables. See?”
“Yes, Sir. So you think it’s serious, Sir?”
“I do,” said Soames.
“Yes, Sir.” The gardener moved away; a narrow-headed chap! That was the trouble; hearts were in the right place, but heads were narrow. They said those Germans had big round heads and no backs to them. So they had, if he remembered. He went in and took up The Times. To read the papers seemed the only thing one could do. While he was sitting there Annette came in. She was flushed and had a ball of wool in her hand.
“Well,” he said, over the top of the paper, “are you satisfied now?”
She came across to him.
“Put your paper down, Soames, and let me kiss you.”
“What for?” said Soames.
Annette removed The Times and sank on his knees. Placing her hands on his shoulders she bent and kissed him.
“Because you have not deserted my country. I am proud of England.”
“That’s new,” said Soames. She was a weight, and smelled of verbena; “I don’t know what we can do,” he added, “except at sea.”
“Oh! it is everything. We have not our backs on the wall any more; we have our backs on you.”
“You certainly have,” said Soames; not that it was unpleasant.
Annette rose. She stood, slightly transfigured.
“We shall beat those ‘orrible Germans now. Soames, we cannot keep Fraulein, she must go.”
“I thought that was coming. Why? It’s not her fault.”
“To have a German in the house? No!”
“Why not? She’s harmless. If you send her away, what’ll she do?”
“What she likes, but not in this house. Who knows if she is a spy.”
“Stuff and nonsense!”
“Oh! you English are so slow–you wait always till the fat is in the fire, as you say.”
“I don’t see any good in hysteria,” muttered Soames.
“They will talk in the neighbourhood.”
“Let them!”
“Non! I have told her she must go. After the holiday Fleur must go to school. It is no use, Soames, I am not going to keep a German. ‘A la guerre comme a la guerre!’”
Soames uttered a sound of profound disapproval. There she went on her high horse! Something deeply just within him was offended, but something sagacious knew that if he opposed her, the situation would become impossible.
“Send her to me, then,” he said.
“Do not be sloppee with her,” said Annette, and went away.
Sloppy! The word outraged him. Sloppy! He was still brooding over it, when he became conscious that the German governess was in the room.
She was a tall young woman, with a rather high-cheek-boned, high-coloured face, and candid grey eyes, and she stood without speaking, her hands folded one over the other.
“This is a bad business, Fraulein.”
“Yes, Mr. Forsyte; Madame says I am to go.”
Soames nodded. “The French have very strong feelings. Have you made any arrangements?”
The young woman shook her head. Soames received an impression of desolation from the gesture.
“What arrangements could I make?
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