The Forsyte Saga, Volume 2 (109 page)

She arrived at three o'clock with her Folly's dress, and was taken into June's bedroom to put it on.

‘It's just right,' said June; ‘delightfully artificial. Harold will love it.'

‘I wonder,' said Fleur. The Rafaelite's temperament had not yet struck her as very loving. They went up to the studio without having mentioned Jon.

The portrait of Anne was gone. And when June went to fetch ‘the exact thing' to cover a bit of background, Fleur said at once:

‘Well? Are you going to paint my cousin Jon?'

The Rafaelite nodded.

‘He didn't want to be, but
she
made him.'

‘When do you begin?'

‘Tomorrow,' said the Rafaelite. ‘He's coming every morning for a week. What's the good of a week?'

“If he's only got a week I should have thought he'd better stay here.'

‘He won't without his wife, and his wife's got a cold.'

‘Oh!' said Fleur, and she thought rapidly. ‘Wouldn't it be
more convenient, then, for him to sit early in the afternoons? I could come in the mornings; in fact, I'd rather – one feels fresher. June could give him a trunk call.'

The Rafaelite uttered what she judged to be an approving sound. When she left, she said to June: ‘I want to come at ten every morning, then I get my afternoons free for my “Rest House” down at Dorking. Couldn't you get Jon to come in the afternoons instead? It would suit him better. Only don't let him know I'm being painted – my picture won't be recognizable for a week, anyway.'

‘Oh!' said June, ‘you're quite wrong there. Harold always gets an unmistakable likeness at once; but of course he'll put it face to the wall, he always does while he's at work on a picture.'

‘Good! He's made quite a nice start. Then if you'll telephone to Jon, I'll come tomorrow at ten.' And for yet another day she possessed her soul. On the day after, she nodded at a canvas whose face was to the wall, and asked:

‘Do you find my cousin a good sitter?'

‘No,' said the Rafaelite; ‘he takes no interest. Got something on his mind, I should think.'

‘He's a poet, you know,' said Fleur.

The Rafaelite gave her an epileptic stare. ‘Poet! His head's the wrong shape – too much jaw – and the eyes too deep in.'

‘But his hair! Don't you find him an attractive subject?'

‘Attractive!' replied the Rafaelite – ‘I paint anything, whether it's pretty or ugly as sin. Look at Rafael's Pope – did you ever see a better portrait, or an uglier man? Ugliness is not attractive, but it's there.'

‘That's obvious,' said Fleur.

‘I state the obvious. The only real novelties now are platitudes. That's why my work is important and seems new. People have got so far away from the obvious that the obvious startles them, and nothing else does. I advise you to think that over.'

‘I'm sure there's a lot in it,' said Fleur.

‘Of course,' said the Rafaelite, ‘a platitude has to be stated with force and clarity. If you can't do that, you'd better go on slopping around and playing parlour tricks like the Ga-gaists.
They're a pathetic lot, trying to prove that cocktails are a better drink than old brandy. I met a man last night who told me he'd spent four years writing twenty-two lines of poetry that nobody can understand. How's that for pathos? But it'll make him quite a reputation, till somebody writes twenty-three lines in five years still more unintelligible. Hold your head up…. Your cousin's a silent beggar.'

‘Silence is quite a quality,' said Fleur.

The Rafaelite grinned. ‘I suppose you think I haven't got it. But you're wrong, madam. Not long ago I went a fortnight without opening my lips except to eat and say yes or no.
She
got quite worried.'

‘I don't think you're very nice to her,' said Fleur.

‘No, I'm not. She's after my soul. That's the worst of women – saving your presence – they're not content with their own.'

‘Perhaps they haven't any,' said Fleur.

‘The Mohammedan view – well, there's certainly something in it. A woman's always after the soul of a man, a child, or a dog. Men are content with wanting bodies.'

‘I'm more interested in your platitudinal theory, Mr Blade.'

‘Can't afford to be interested in the other? Eh! Strikes home? Turn your shoulder a bit, will you? No, to the left…. Well, it's a platitude that a woman always wants some other soul – only people have forgotten it. Look at the Sistine Madonna! The baby has a soul of its own, and the Madonna's floating on the soul of the baby. That's what makes it a great picture, apart from the line and colour. It states a great platitude; but nobody sees it now. None of the cognoscenti, anyway – they're too far gone.'

‘What platitude are you going to state in your picture of me?'

‘Don't you worry,' said the Rafaelite. ‘There'll be one all right when it's finished, though I shan't know what it is while I'm at it. Character will out, you know. Like a rest?'

‘Enormously. What platitude did you express in the portrait of my cousin's wife?'

‘Coo Lummy!' said the Rafaelite. ‘Some catechism!'

‘You surely didn't fail with that picture? Wasn't it platitudinous?'

‘It got her all right. She's not a proper American.'

‘How?'

‘Throws back to something – Irish, perhaps, or Breton. There's nymph in her.'

‘She was brought up in the backwoods, I believe,' said Fleur acidly.

The Rafaelite eyed her.

‘You don't like the lady?'

‘Certainly I do, but haven't you noticed that picturesque people are generally tame? And my cousin – what's his platitude to be?'

‘Conscience,' said the Rafaelite; ‘that young man will go far on the straight and narrow. He worries.'

A sharp movement shook all Fleur's silver bells.

‘What a dreadful prophecy! Shall I stand again?'

TALK IN A CAR

F
OR
yet one more day Fleur possessed her soul; then, at the morning's sitting, accidentally left her vanity bag behind her, in the studio. She called for it the same afternoon. Jon had not gone. Just out of the sitter's chair, he was stretching himself and yawning.

‘Go on, Jon! Every morning I wish I had your mouth. Mr Blade, I left my bag; it's got my cheque-book in it, and I shall want it down at Dorking tonight. By the way, I shall be half an hour late for my sitting tomorrow, I'm afraid. Did you know I was your fellow victim, Jon? We've been playing “Box and Cox”. How are you? I hear Anne's got a cold. Give her my
sympathy. Is the picture going well? Might I have a peep, Mr Blade, and see how the platitude is coming out? Oh! It's going to be splendid! I can quite see the line.'

‘Can you?' said the Rafaelite. ‘I can't.'

‘Here's my wretched bag! If you've finished, Jon, I could run you out as far as Dorking; you'd catch an earlier train. Do come and cheer me on my way. Haven't seen you for such ages!'

Threading over Hammersmith Bridge, Fleur regained the self-possession she had never seemed to lose. She spoke lightly of light matters, letting Jon grow accustomed to proximity.

‘I go down every evening about this time, to see to my chores, and drive up in the morning early. So any afternoon you like I can take you as far as Dorking. Why shouldn't we see a little of each other in a friendly way, Jon?'

‘When we do, it doesn't seem to make for happiness, Fleur.'

‘My dear boy, what is happiness? Surely life should be as harmlessly full as it can be?'

‘Harmlessly!'

‘The Rafaelite says you have a terrible conscience, Jon.'

‘The Rafaelite's a bounder.'

‘Yes; but a clever one. You
have
changed, you usen't to have that line between your eyes, and your jaw's getting too strong. Look, Jon dear, be a friend to me – as they say, and we won't think of anything else. I always like Wimbledon Common – it hasn't been caught up yet. Have you bought that farm?'

‘Not quite.'

‘Let's go by way of Robin Hill, and look at it through the trees? It might inspire you to a poem.'

‘I shall never write any more verse. It's quite gone.'

‘Nonsense, Jon. You only want stirring up. Don't I drive well, considering I've only been at it five weeks?'

‘You do everything well, Fleur.'

‘You say that as if you disapproved. Do you know we'd never danced together before that night at Nettlefold? Shall we ever dance together again?'

‘Probably not.'

‘Optimistic Jon; That's right – smile! Look! Is that the church where you were baptized?'

‘I wasn't.'

‘Oh! No. That was the period, of course, when people were serious about those things. I believe I was done twice over – R.C. and Anglican. That's why I'm not so religious as you, Jon.'

‘Religious? I'm not religious.'

‘I fancy you
are
. You have moral backbone, anyway.'

‘Really!'

‘Jon, you remind me of American notices outside their properties – “Stop – look – take care – keep out!” I suppose you think me a frightful butterfly.'

‘No, Fleur. Far from it. The butterfly has no knowledge of a straight line between two points.'

‘Now what do you mean by that?'

‘That you set your heart on things.'

‘Did you get that from the Rafaelite?'

‘No, but he confirmed it.'

‘He did – did he? That young man talks too much. Has he expounded to you his theory that a woman must possess the soul of someone else, and that a man is content with bodies?'

‘He has.'

‘Is it true?'

‘I hate to agree with him, but I think it is, in a way.'

‘Well, I can tell you there are plenty of women about now who keep their own souls and are content with other people's bodies.'

‘Are you one of them, Fleur?'

‘Ask me another! There's Robin Hill!'

The fount of Forsyte song and story stood grey and imposing among its trees, with the sinking sun aslant on a front where green sun-blinds were still down.

Jon sighed. ‘I had a lovely time there.'

‘Till I came and spoiled it.'

‘No; that's blasphemy.'

Fleur touched his arm.

‘That's nice of you, dear Jon. You always were nice, and I shall always love you – in a harmless way. The coppice looks jolly. God had a brain-wave when He invented larches.'

‘Yes. Holly says that the coppice was my grandfather's favourite spot.'

‘Old Jolyon – who wouldn't marry his beloved, because she was consumptive?'

‘I never heard that. But he was a great old fellow, my father and mother adored him.'

‘I've seen his photographs – don't get a chin like his, Jon! The Forsytes all have such chins. June's frightens me.'

‘June is one of the best people on earth.'

‘Oh! Jon, you are horribly loyal.'

‘Is that an offence?'

‘It makes everything terribly earnest in a world that isn't worth it. No, don't quote Longfellow. When you get home, shall you tell Anne you've been driving with me?'

‘Why not?'

‘She's uneasy about me as it is, isn't she? You needn't answer, Jon. But I think it's unfair of her. I want so little, and you're so safe.'

‘Safe?' It seemed to Fleur that he closed his teeth on the word, and for a moment she was happy.

‘Now you've got your lion cub look. Do lion cubs have consciences? It's going to be rather interesting for the Rafaelite. I think your conscience might stop before telling Anne, though. It's a pity to worry her if she has a talent for uneasiness.' Then, by the silence at her side, she knew she had made a mistake.

‘This is where I put in my clutch,' she said, ‘as they say in the “bloods”!' And through Epsom and Leatherhead they travelled in silence.

‘Do you love England as much as ever, Jon?'

‘More.'

‘It
is
a gorgeous country.'

‘The last word I should have used – a great and lovely country.'

‘Michael says its soul is grass.'

‘Yes, and if I get my farm, I'll break some up, all right.'

‘I can't see you as a real farmer.'

‘You can't see me as a real anything – I suppose. Just an amateur.'

‘Don't be horrid! I mean you're too sensitive to be a farmer.'

‘No. I want to get down to the earth, and I will.'

‘You must be a throw-back, Jon. The primeval Forsytes were farmers. My father wants to take me down and show me where they lived.'

‘Have you jumped at it?'

‘I'm not sentimental; haven't you realized that? I wonder if you've realized anything about me?' And drooping forward over her wheel, she murmured ‘Oh! It's a pity we have to talk like this!'