The Forsyte Saga, Volume 2 (117 page)

‘That's naught,' he said; ‘you're welcome. We're always haulin' cars off this ‘ill.'

‘I really can't take something for nothing,' said Soames. ‘You'll oblige me!'

‘Well,' said the farmer, ‘I thank yeou,' and he took the note. ‘Haup!'

The released horses moved forward and the men and the dogs
followed after them. Soames got into the car, and, opening his packet of sandwiches, began to eat.

‘Drive back to the vicarage – slowly.' And, while he ate, he wondered why he had felt a thrill on discovering that some of his own blood ran in a hard-bitten looking chap called Beer – if, indeed, that
was
his name.

It was two o'clock when he reached the vicarage, and the vicar came to him with his mouth full.

‘I find a great many entries, Mr Forsyte; the name goes back to the beginning of the register. I shall have to take my time to give you the complete list. That Jolyon seems to have been born in 1710, son of Jolyon and Mary; he didn't pay his tithes in 1757. There was another Jolyon born in 1680, evidently the father – he was churchwarden from 1715 on; described as ‘Yeoman of Hays' – he married a Bere.'

Soames gazed at him, and took out his note-case. ‘How do you spell it?' he said.

‘B-e-r-e.'

‘Oh! The farmer up there said that was his name, too. I thought he was gammoning me. It seems his grandmother was called Forsyte, and she was the last of them here. Perhaps you could send me the Bere entries, too, for an inclusive seven guineas?'

‘Oh! Six will be ample.'

‘No. We'll make it seven. You've got my card. I saw the stone. A healthy spot, right away from everything.' He laid the seven guineas on the table, and again had an impression, as of glad eyes. ‘I must be getting back to London now. Good-bye!'

‘Good-bye, Mr Forsyte. Anything I can find out I shall make a point of sending you.'

Soames shook his hand and went out to the car with the feeling that his roots would be conscientiously pulled up. After all, it was something to be dealing with a parson.

‘Go on,' he said to Riggs; ‘we'll get the best part of the way home.'

And, lying back in the car, thoroughly tired, he mused. Great Forsyte! Well! He was glad he had come down.

DRIVING ON

S
OAMES
spent the night at Winchester, a place he had often heard of but never seen. The Monts had been at school there, and that was why he didn't want Kit to go. He himself would prefer his own Marlborough, or Harrow, perhaps – some school that played at Lords – but not Eton, where young Jolyon had been. But then one wouldn't be alive to see Kit play; so perhaps it didn't matter.

The town seemed an old place. There was something in a cathedral, too; and after breakfast he went to it. The chancel was in activity – some choir practice or other. He entered noiselessly, for his boots were rubbered against damp, and sat down at the point of balance. With chin uplifted, he contemplated the arches and the glass. The place was rather dark, but very rich – like a Christmas pudding! These old buildings certainly gave one a feeling. He had always had it in St Paul's. One must admit at least a continuity of purpose somewhere. Up to a point – after that he wasn't sure. You had a great thing, like this, almost perfect; and then an earthquake or an air-raid, and down it went! Nothing permanent about anything, so far as he could see, not even about the best examples of ingenuity and beauty. The same with landscape! You had a perfect garden of a country, and then an ice-age came along. There was continuity, but it was always changing. That was why it seemed to him extremely unlikely that he would live after he was dead. He had read somewhere – though not in
The Times
– that life was just animated shape, and that when shape was broken it was no longer animated. Death broke your shape and there you were, he supposed. The fact was, people couldn't bear their own ends; they tried to dodge them with soft sawder. They were weak-minded. And Soames lowered his chin. They had lighted
some candles up there in the chancel, insignificant in the daylight. Presently they would blow them out. There you were again, everything was blown out sooner or later. And it was no good pretending it wasn't. He had read the other day, again not in
The Times
, that the world was coming to an end in 1928, when the earth got between the moon and the sun – it had been predicted in the Pyramids – some such scientific humbug! Well, if it did, he, for one, wouldn't much mind. The thing had never been a great success, and if it were wiped out at one stroke there would be nothing left behind anyway; what was objectionable about death was leaving things that you were fond of behind. The moment, too, that the world came to an end, it would begin again in some other shape, anyway – mat, no doubt, was why they called it ‘world without end, Amen'. Ah! They were singing now. Sometimes he wished he had an ear. In spite of the lack, he could tell that this was good singing. Boys' voices! Psalms, too, and he knew the words. Funny! Fifty years since his church-going days, yet he remembered them as if it were yesterday! ‘He sendeth the springs into the rivers; which run among the hills.' ‘All beasts of the fields drink thereof; and the wild asses quench their thirst.' ‘Beside them shall the fowls of the air have their habitation; and sing among the branches.' They were flinging the verses at each other across the aisle, like a ball. It was lively, and good, vigorous English, too. ‘So is the great and wide sea also, wherein are things creeping innumerable, both small and great beasts.' ‘There go the ships, and there is that Leviathan, whom Thou hast made to take his pastime therein.' Leviathan! That word used to please him. ‘Man goeth forth to his work, and to his labour, until the evening.' He certainly went forth, but whether he did any work, any labour, was the question, nowadays. ‘I will sing unto the Lord as long as I live; I will praise my God while I have my being.' Would he? He wondered. ‘Praise thou the Lord, O my soul, praise the Lord.' The singing ceased, and Soames again lifted up his chin. He sat very still – not thinking now; lost, as it were, among the arches, and the twilight of the roof. He was experiencing a peculiar sensation, not unpleasant. To be in here
was like being within a jewelled and somewhat scented box. The world might roar and stink and buzz outside, strident and vulgar, childish and sensational, cheap and nasty – all jazz and cockney accent, but here – not a trace of it heard or felt or seen. This great box – God-box the Americans would call it – had been made centuries before the world became industrialized; it didn't belong to the modern world at all. In here everyone spoke and sang the King's English; it smelt faintly of age and incense; and nothing was unbeautiful. He sat with a sense of escape.

A verger passed, glancing at him curiously, as if unaccustomed to a raised chin; halting just behind, he made a little noise with his keys. Soames sneezed; and, reaching for his hat, got up. He had no intention of being taken round by that chap, and shown everything he didn't want to see, for half-a-crown. And with a ‘No, thank you; not today,' he passed the verger, and went out to the car.

‘You ought to have gone in,' he said to Riggs; ‘they used to crown the kings of England there. To London now.'

The opened car travelled fast under a bright sun, and not until he was in the new cut, leading to Chiswick, did Soames have the idea which caused him to say: ‘Stop at that house, “The Poplars”, where you took us the other day.'

It was not yet lunch time, and in all probability Fleur would still be ‘sitting'; so why not pick her up and take her straight away with him for the week-end? She had clothes down at ‘The Shelter'. It would save some hours of fresh air for her. The foreign woman, however, who opened the door, informed him that the lady had not been to ‘sit' today or yesterday.

‘Oh!' said Soames. ‘How's that?'

‘Nobody did know, sir. She ' have not sent any message. Mr Blade is very decomposed.'

Soames chewed his thoughts a moment.

‘Is your mistress in?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Then ask her if she'll see me, please. Mr Soames Forsyte.'

‘Will you in the meal-room wait, sir.'

Soames waited uneasily in that very little room. Fleur had said she could not come with him because of her ‘sittings'; and she had not ‘sat'. Was she ill, then?

He was roused from disquiet contemplation of the poplar trees outside by the words:

‘Oh! It's you. I'm not sorry you came.'

The cordiality of this greeting increased his uneasiness, and, stretching out his hand, he said:

‘How are you, June? I called for Fleur. When did she come last?'

‘Tuesday morning. I saw her late on Tuesday afternoon, too, in her car, outside –' Soames could see her eyes moving from side to side, and knew that she was about to say something unpleasant. It came. ‘She picked up Jon.'

Feeling as if he had received a punch in his wind, Soames exclaimed:

‘What! Your young brother? What was he doing here?'

‘“Sitting”! of course.'

‘ “Sitting”! What business –!' and checking the words, ‘had he to “sit”, he stared at his cousin, who, flushing a deep pink, said:

‘I told her she was not to see him here. I told Jon the same.'

‘Then she'd done it before?'

‘Yes, twice. She's so spoiled, you see.'

‘Ah!' The reality of the danger had disarmed him. Antagonism seemed to him, thus faced with a sort of ruin, too luxurious.

‘Where is she?'

‘On Tuesday morning she said she was going down to Dorking.'

‘And she picked him up?' repeated Soames.

June nodded. ‘Yes, after his “sitting”. His picture's finished. If you think that I want them to – any more than you –'

‘No one in their sense could want them to –' said Soames, coldly. ‘But why did you make him “sit”, while she was coming here?'

June flushed a deeper pink.

‘You
don't know how hard it is for real artists. I
had
to think of Harold. If I hadn't got Jon before he began his farming –'

‘Farming!' said Soames. ‘For all we know they may –' but again he checked his words. ‘I've been expecting something of this sort ever since I heard he was back. Well! I'd better get on to Dorking. D'you know where his mother is?'

‘In Paris.'

Ah! But not this time would he have to beg that woman to let her son belong to his daughter! No! It would be to beg her to stop his belonging – if at all.

‘Good-bye!' he said.

‘Soames,' said June, suddenly, ‘don't let Fleur – it's she who–'

‘I'll hear nothing against her,' said Soames.

June pressed her clenched hands to her flat breast.

‘I like you for that,' she said; ‘and I'm sorry if–'

‘That's all right,' muttered Soames.

‘Good-bye!' said June. ‘Shake hands!'

Soames put his hand in one which gave it a convulsive squeeze, then dropped it like a cold potato.

‘Down to Dorking,' he said to Riggs, on regaining his car. The memory of Fleur's face that night at Nettlefold, so close to the young man's, so full of what he had never seen on her face before, haunted him the length of Hammersmith Bridge. Ah! what a wilful creature! Suppose – suppose she had flung her cap over the windmill! Suppose the worst? Good God! What should – what
could
he do, then? The calculating tenacity of her passion for this young man – the way she had kept it from him, from everyone, or tried to! Something deadly about it, and something that almost touched him, rousing the memory of his own pursuit of that boy's mother – memory of a passion that would not, could not let go; that had won its ends, and destroyed in winning. He had often thought she had no continuity, that, like all these ‘fizz-gig' young moderns, she was just fluttering without basic purpose or direction. And it was the irony of this moment that he perceived how she – when she
knew what she wanted – had as much tenacity of will as himself and his generation.

It didn't do, it seemed, to judge by appearances! Beneath the surface passions remained what they had been, and in the draughty corridors and spaces there was the old hot stillness when they woke and breathed.…

That fellow was taking the Kingston road! Soon they would be passing Robin Hill. How all this part had changed since the day he went down with Bosinney to choose the site. Forty years – not more – but what a change !
‘Plus ça change'
Annette would say –
‘plus c'est la même chose!
' Love and hate – no end to that, anyway! The beat of life went on beneath the wheels and whirr of traffic and the jazzy music of the band. Fate on its drum, or just the human heart? God knew! God? Convenient word. What did one mean by it? He didn't know, and never would! In the cathedral that morning he had thought – and then – that verger! There were the poplars, and the stable clock-tower, just visible, of the house he had built and never inhabited. If he could have foreseen a stream of cars like this passing day after day, not a quarter of a mile off, he would not have built it, and all that tragedy might never… And yet – did it matter what you did? – some way, somehow life took you up and put you where it would. He leaned forward and touched his chauffeur's back.