The Forsyte Saga, Volume 2 (100 page)

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 doornails 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 ‘Your Grace', or whatever it ought to be, 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 pare 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 ‘kow-towing', 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 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 heard, ' “for value received – £80.1797.” '

‘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 out 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-in-law 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's 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 Maple-durham.'

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 as 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.

THE JOLLY ACCIDENT

I
N
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 judgement 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 four-thirty, 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 I 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 bookstall, 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 Loving 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.