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“I don’t like the neighbourhood,” said old Jolyon; “a ramshackle lot.”
Young Jolyon replied: “Yes, we’re a ramshackle lot.”’
The silence was now only broken by the sound of the dog Balthasar’s scratching.
Old Jolyon said simply: “I suppose I oughtn’t to have come here, Jo; but I get so lonely!”
At these words young Jolyon got up and put his hand on his father’s shoulder.
In the next house someone was playing over and over again: ‘La Do
For some time they sat there, talking but little. Then old Jolyon rose to go, and not a word was said about his coming again.
He walked away very sadly. What a poor miserable place; and he thought of the great, empty house in Stanhope Gate, fit residence for a Forsyte, with its huge billiard-room and drawing-room that no one entered from one week’s end to another.
That woman, whose face he had rather liked, was too thin-ski
He walked towards the Edgware Road, between rows of little houses, all suggesting to him (erroneously no doubt, but the prejudices of a Forsyte are sacred) shady histories of some sort or kind.
Society, forsooth, the chattering hags and jackanapes—had set themselves up to pass judgment on his flesh and blood! A parcel of old women! He stumped his umbrella on the ground, as though to drive it into the heart of that unfortunate body, which had dared to ostracize his son and his son’s son, in whom he could have lived again!
He stumped his umbrella fiercely; yet he himself had followed Society’s behaviour for fifteen years—had only today been false to it!
He thought of June, and her dead mother, and the whole story, with all his old bitterness. A wretched business!
He was a long time reaching Stanhope Gate, for, with native perversity, being extremely tired, he walked the whole way.
After washing his hands in the lavatory downstairs, he went to the dining-room to wait for di
The room faced the backwater of traffic, and was very silent. He disliked dogs, but a dog even would have been company. His gaze, travelling round the walls, rested on a picture entitled: ‘Group of Dutch fishing boats at sunset’; the chef d’oeuvre of his collection. It gave him no pleasure. He closed his eyes. He was lonely! He oughtn’t to complain, he knew, but he couldn’t help it: He was a poor thing—had always been a poor thing—no pluck! Such was his thought.
The butler came to lay the table for di
He moved to and fro between the great polished sideboard and the great polished table inimitably sleek and soft.
Old Jolyon watched him, feigning sleep. The fellow was a sneak—he had always thought so—who cared about nothing but rattling through his work, and getting out to his betting or his woman or goodness knew what! A slug! Fat too! And didn’t care a pin about his master!
But then against his will, came one of those moments of philosophy which made old Jolyon different from other Forsytes:
After all why should the man care? He wasn’t paid to care, and why expect it? In this world people couldn’t look for affection unless they paid for it. It might be different in the next—he didn’t know—couldn’t tell! And again he shut his eyes.
Relentless and stealthy, the butler pursued his labours, taking things from the various compartments of the sideboard. His back seemed always turned to old Jolyon; thus, he robbed his operations of the unseemliness of being carried on in his master’s presence; now and then he furtively breathed on the silver, and wiped it with a piece of chamois leather. He appeared to pore over the quantities of wine in the decanters, which he carried carefully and rather high, letting his heard droop over them protectingly. When he had finished, he stood for over a minute watching his master, and in his greenish eyes there was a look of contempt:
After all, this master of his was an old buffer, who hadn’t much left in him!
Soft as a tom-cat, he crossed the room to press the bell. His orders were ‘di
In answer to the ring, appeared a page boy with a silver soup tureen. The butler took it from his hands and placed it on the table, then, standing by the open door, as though about to usher company into the room, he said in a solemn voice:
“Di
Slowly old Jolyon got up out of his chair, and sat down at the table to eat his di
Chapter VIII.
PLANS OF THE HOUSE
Forsytes, as is generally admitted, have shells, like that extremely useful little animal which is made into Turkish delight, in other words, they are never seen, or if seen would not be recognised, without habitats, composed of circumstance, property, acquaintances, and wives, which seem to move along with them in their passage through a world composed of thousands of other Forsytes with their habitats. Without a habitat a Forsyte is inconceivable—he would be like a novel without a plot, which is well-known to be an anomaly.
To Forsyte eyes Bosi
His rooms in Sloane Street, on the top floor, outside which, on a plate, was his name, ‘Philip Baynes Bosi
He was believed to have a bedroom at the back.
As far as the family had been able to ascertain his income, it consisted of two consulting appointments at twenty pounds a year, together with an odd fee once in a way, and—more worthy item—a private a
What had transpired concerning that father was not so reassuring. It appeared that he had been a Lincolnshire country doctor of Cornish extraction, striking appearance, and Byronic tendencies—a well-known figure, in fact, in his county. Bosi
“An odd fellow!’ he would say: ‘always spoke of his three eldest boys as ‘good creatures, but so dull’; they’re all doing capitally in the Indian Civil! Philip was the only one he liked. I’ve heard him talk in the queerest way; he once said to me: ‘My dear fellow, never let your poor wife know what you’re thinking of! But I didn’t follow his advice; not I! An eccentric man! He would say to Phil: ‘Whether you live like a gentleman or not, my boy, be sure you die like one! and he had himself embalmed in a frock coat suit, with a satin cravat and a diamond pin. Oh, quite an original, I can assure you!”