The Forsyte Saga, Volume III. Awakening. To Let. Galsworthy John

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “Mum said so.”

      Little Jon took his heels up, and led on.

      “Did you see him?”

      “No; I only saw Venus Anadyomene.”

      Little Jon reflected; Venus was in his book about the Greeks and Trojans. Then Anna was her Christian and Dyomene her surname?

      But it appeared, on inquiry, that it was one word, which meant rising from the foam.

      “Did she rise from the foam in Glensofantrim?”

      “Yes; every day.”

      “What is she like, Daddy?”

      “Like Mum.”

      “Oh! Then she must be…” but he stopped at that, rushed at a wall, scrambled up, and promptly scrambled down again. The discovery that his mother was beautiful was one which he felt must absolutely be kept to himself. His father’s cigar, however, took so long to smoke, that at last he was compelled to say:

      “I want to see what Mum’s brought home. Do you mind, Daddy?”

      He pitched the motive low, to absolve him from unmanliness, and was a little disconcerted when his father looked at him right through, heaved an important sigh, and answered:

      “All right, old man, you go and love her.”

      He went, with a pretence of slowness, and then rushed, to make up. He entered her bedroom from his own, the door being open. She was still kneeling before a trunk, and he stood close to her, quite still.

      She knelt up straight, and said:

      “Well, Jon?”

      “I thought I’d just come and see.”

      Having given and received another hug, he mounted the window-seat, and tucking his legs up under him watched her unpack. He derived a pleasure from the operation such as he had not yet known, partly because she was taking out things which looked suspicious, and partly because he liked to look at her. She moved differently from anybody else, especially from Bella; she was certainly the refinedest-looking person he had ever seen. She finished the trunk at last, and knelt down in front of him.

      “Have you missed us, Jon?”

      Little Jon nodded, and having thus admitted his feelings, continued to nod.

      “But you had ‘Auntie’ June?”

      “Oh! she had a man with a cough.”

      His mother’s face changed, and looked almost angry. He added hastily:

      “He was a poor man, Mum; he coughed awfully; I – I liked him.”

      His mother put her hands behind his waist.

      “You like everybody, Jon?”

      Little Jon considered.

      “Up to a point,” he said: “Auntie June took me to church one Sunday.”

      “To church? Oh!”

      “She wanted to see how it would affect me.” “And did it?”

      “Yes. I came over all funny, so she took me home again very quick. I wasn’t sick after all. I went to bed and had hot brandy and water, and read The Boys of Beechwood. It was scrumptious.”

      His mother bit her lip.

      “When was that?”

      “Oh! about – a long time ago – I wanted her to take me again, but she wouldn’t. You and Daddy never go to church, do you?”

      “No, we don’t.”

      “Why don’t you?”

      His mother smiled.

      “Well, dear, we both of us went when we were little. Perhaps we went when we were too little.”

      “I see,” said little Jon, “it’s dangerous.”

      “You shall judge for yourself about all those things as you grow up.”

      Little Jon replied in a calculating manner:

      “I don’t want to grow up, much. I don’t want to go to school.” A sudden overwhelming desire to say something more, to say what he really felt, turned him red. “I – I want to stay with you, and be your lover, Mum.”

      Then with an instinct to improve the situation, he added quickly “I don’t want to go to bed to-night, either. I’m simply tired of going to bed, every night.”

      “Have you had any more nightmares?”

      “Only about one. May I leave the door open into your room to-night, Mum?”

      “Yes, just a little.” Little Jon heaved a sigh of satisfaction.

      “What did you see in Glensofantrim?”

      “Nothing but beauty, darling.”

      “What exactly is beauty?”

      “What exactly is – Oh! Jon, that’s a poser.”

      “Can I see it, for instance?” His mother got up, and sat beside him. “You do, every day. The sky is beautiful, the stars, and moonlit nights, and then the birds, the flowers, the trees – they’re all beautiful. Look out of the window – there’s beauty for you, Jon.”

      “Oh! yes, that’s the view. Is that all?”

      “All? no. The sea is wonderfully beautiful, and the waves, with their foam flying back.”

      “Did you rise from it every day, Mum?”

      His mother smiled. “Well, we bathed.”

      Little Jon suddenly reached out and caught her neck in his hands.

      “I know,” he said mysteriously, “you’re it, really, and all the rest is make-believe.”

      She sighed, laughed, said: “Oh! Jon!”

      Little Jon said critically:

      “Do you think Bella beautiful, for instance? I hardly do.”

      “Bella is young; that’s something.”

      “But you look younger, Mum. If you bump against Bella she hurts.”

      “I don’t believe ‘Da’ was beautiful, when I come to think of it; and Mademoiselle’s almost ugly.”

      “Mademoiselle has a very nice face.” “Oh! yes; nice. I love your little rays, Mum.”

      “Rays?”

      Little Jon put his finger to the outer corner of her eye.

      “Oh! Those? But they’re a sign of age.”

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