The Silver Spoon

One night, Winifred having gone to the theatre, he sat down with a cigar, to think. He had been provided by Michael with a list of ‘advanced’ books and plays which ‘modern’ people were reading, attending and discussing. He had even been supplied with one of the books: “Canthar,” by Perceval Calvin. He fetched it from his bedroom, and, turning up a lamp, opened the volume. After reading the first few pages, in which he could see nothing, he turned to the end and read backwards. In this way he could skip better, and each erotic passage, to which he very soon came, led him insensibly on to the one before it. He had reached the middle of the novel, before he had resort in wonder to the title-pages. How was it that the publisher and author were at large? Ah! The imprint was of a foreign nature. Soames breathed more freely. Though sixty-nine, and neither Judge, juryman, nor otherwise professionally compelled to be shocked, he was shaken. If women were reading this sort of thing, then there really was no distinction between men and women nowadays. He took up the book again, and read steadily on to the begi

His last thought that night was almost diagnostic.

‘In my young days we read that sort of book if we could get hold of it, and didn’t say so; now, it seems, they make a splash of reading it, and pretend it does them good!’

Next morning from ‘The Co

“Yes?”

“Mr. Forsyte speaking. Do you remember me?”

“Yes, indeed, sir.”

“Can you step round to the Co

“Certainly, sir. Will twelve-thirty suit you?”

Secretive and fastidious in matters co

“This is confidential, Mr. Butterfield.”

Butterfield, whose dog-like eyes had glowed over the handshake, answered:

“Yes, sir. I’ve not forgotten what you did for me, sir.”

Soames held out the book.

“Do you know that novel?”

Butterfield smiled slightly.

“Yes, sir. It’s printed in Brussels. They’re paying five pounds a copy for it.”

“Have you read it?”

The young man shook his head. “It’s not come my way, sir.”

Soames was relieved. “Well, don’t! But just attend a moment. Can you buy ten copies of it, at my expense, and post them to ten people whose names I’ll give you? They’re all more or less co

The young man Butterfield said deprecatingly:

“The price is rising all the time, sir. It’ll cost you well on sixty pounds.”

“Never mind that.”

“You wish the book boomed, sir?”

“Good Gad—no! I have my reasons, but we needn’t go into them.”

“I see, sir. And you want the copies to come—as if—as if from heaven?”

“That’s it,” said Soames. “I take it that publishers often send doubtful books to people they think will support them. There’s just one other thing. Can you call a week later on one of the people to whom you’ve sent the books, and offer to sell another copy as if you were an agent for it? I want to make quite sure it’s already reached that person, and been read. You won’t give your name, of course. Will you do this for me?”

The eyes of the young man Butterfield again glowed:

“Yes, sir. I owe you a great deal, sir.”

Soames averted his eyes; he disliked all expression of gratitude.

“Here’s the list of names, then, with their addresses. I’ve underlined the one you call on. I’ll write you a cheque to go on with; and you can let me know later if there’s anything more to pay.”

He sat down, while the young man Butterfield scrutinised the list.

“I see it’s a lady, sir, that I’m to call on.”

“Yes; does that make any difference to you?”

“Not at all, sir. Advanced literature is written for ladies nowadays.”

“H’m!” said Soames. “I hope you’re doing well?”

“Splendidly, sir. I was very sorry that Mr. Mont left us; we’ve been doing better ever since.”

Soames lifted an eyebrow. The statement confirmed many an old suspicion. When the young man had gone, he took up “Canthar.” Was he capable of writing an attack on it in the Press, over the signature ‘Paterfamilias’? He was not. The job required some one used to that sort of thing. Besides, a real signature would be needed to draw fire. It would not do to ask Michael to suggest one; but Old Mont might know some fogey at the Parthenaeum who carried metal. Sending for a bit of brown paper, he disguised the cover with it, put the volume in his overcoat pocket, and set out for ‘Snooks’.’

He found Sir Lawrence about to lunch, and they sat down together. Making sure that the waiter was not looking over his shoulder, Soames, who had brought the book in with him, pushed it over, and said:

“Have you read that?”

Sir Lawrence whi

“My dear Forsyte, why this morbid curiosity? Everybody’s reading it. They say the thing’s unspeakable.”

“Then you haven’t?” said Soames, keeping him to the point.

“Not yet, but if you’ll lend it me, I will. I’m tired of people who’ve enjoyed it asking me if I’ve read ‘that most disgusting book.’ It’s not fair, Forsyte. Did YOU enjoy it?”

“I skimmed it,” said Soames, looking round his nose. “I had a reason. When you’ve read it, I’ll tell you.”

Sir Lawrence brought it back to him at ‘the Co

“Here you are, my dear Forsyte,” he said. “I never was more glad to get rid of a book! I’ve been in a continual stew for fear of being overseen with it! Perceval Calvin—quel sale Monsieur!”

“Exactly!” said Soames. “Now, I want to get that book attacked.”

“You! Is Saul also among the prophets? Why this sudden zest?”