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

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      “Oh! oh!”

      “It’s all right, treasure. You’re awake now. There! There! It’s nothing!”

      But little Jon continued to say: “Oh! oh!”

      Her voice went on, velvety in his ear:

      “It was the moonlight, sweetheart, coming on your face.”

      Little Jon burbled into her nightgown

      “You said it was beautiful. Oh!”

      “Not to sleep in, Jon. Who let it in? Did you draw the curtains?”

      “I wanted to see the time; I – I looked out, I – I heard you playing, Mum; I – I ate my macaroon.” But he was growing slowly comforted; and the instinct to excuse his fear revived within him.

      “Mother Lee went round in me and got all fiery,” he mumbled.

      “Well, Jon, what can you expect if you eat macaroons after you’ve gone to bed?”

      “Only one, Mum; it made the music ever so more beautiful. I was waiting for you – I nearly thought it was to-morrow.”

      “My ducky, it’s only just eleven now.”

      Little Jon was silent, rubbing his nose on her neck.

      “Mum, is Daddy in your room?”

      “Not to-night.”

      “Can I come?”

      “If you wish, my precious.”

      Half himself again, little Jon drew back.

      “You look different, Mum; ever so younger.”

      “It’s my hair, darling.”

      Little Jon laid hold of it, thick, dark gold, with a few silver threads.

      “I like it,” he said: “I like you best of all like this.”

      Taking her hand, he had begun dragging her towards the door. He shut it as they passed, with a sigh of relief.

      “Which side of the bed do you like, Mum?”

      “The left side.”

      “All right.”

      Wasting no time, giving her no chance to change her mind, little Jon got into the bed, which seemed much softer than his own. He heaved another sigh, screwed his head into the pillow and lay examining the battle of chariots and swords and spears which always went on outside blankets, where the little hairs stood up against the light.

      “It wasn’t anything, really, was it?” he said.

      From before her glass his mother answered:

      “Nothing but the moon and your imagination heated up. You mustn’t get so excited, Jon.”

      But, still not quite in possession of his nerves, little Jon answered boastfully:

      “I wasn’t afraid, really, of course!” And again he lay watching the spears and chariots. It all seemed very long.

      “Oh! Mum, do hurry up!”

      “Darling, I have to plait my hair.”

      “Oh! not to-night. You’ll only have to unplait it again to-morrow. I’m sleepy now; if you don’t come, I shan’t be sleepy soon.”

      His mother stood up white and flowey before the winged mirror: he could see three of her, with her neck turned and her hair bright under the light, and her dark eyes smiling. It was unnecessary, and he said:

      “Do come, Mum; I’m waiting.”

      “Very well, my love, I’ll come.”

      Little Jon closed his eyes. Everything was turning out most satisfactory, only she must hurry up! He felt the bed shake, she was getting in. And, still with his eyes closed, he said sleepily: “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

      He heard her voice say something, felt her lips touching his nose, and, snuggling up beside her who lay awake and loved him with her thoughts, he fell into the dreamless sleep, which rounded off his past.

      TO LET

      “From out the fatal loins of those two foes

      A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life.”

      PART I

      I. – ENCOUNTER

      Soames Forsyte emerged from the Knightsbridge Hotel, where he was staying, in the afternoon of the 12th of May, 1920, with the intention of visiting a collection of pictures in a Gallery off Cork Street, and looking into the Future. He walked. Since the War he never took a cab if he could help it. Their drivers were, in his view, an uncivil lot, though now that the War was over and supply beginning to exceed demand again, getting more civil in accordance with the custom of human nature. Still, he had not forgiven them, deeply identifying them with gloomy memories, and now, dimly, like all members, of their class, with revolution. The considerable anxiety he had passed through during the War, and the more considerable anxiety he had since undergone in the Peace, had produced psychological consequences in a tenacious nature. He had, mentally, so frequently experienced ruin, that he had ceased to believe in its material probability. Paying away four thousand a year in income and super tax, one could not very well be worse off! A fortune of a quarter of a million, encumbered only by a wife and one daughter, and very diversely invested, afforded substantial guarantee even against that “wildcat notion” a levy on capital. And as to confiscation of war profits, he was entirely in favour of it, for he had none, and “serve the beggars right!” The price of pictures, moreover, had, if anything, gone up, and he had done better with his collection since the War began than ever before. Air-raids, also, had acted beneficially on a spirit congenitally cautious, and hardened a character already dogged. To be in danger of being entirely dispersed inclined one to be less apprehensive of the more partial dispersions involved in levies and taxation, while the habit of condemning the impudence of the Germans had led naturally to condemning that of Labour, if not openly at least in the sanctuary of his soul.

      He walked. There was, moreover, time to spare, for Fleur was to meet him at the Gallery at four o’clock, and it was as yet but half-past two. It was good for him to walk – his liver was a little constricted, and his nerves rather on edge. His wife was always out when she was in Town, and his daughter would flibberty-gibbet all over the place like most young women since the War. Still, he must be thankful that she had been too young to do anything in that War itself. Not, of course, that he had not supported the War from its inception, with all his soul, but between that and supporting it with the bodies of his wife and daughter, there had been a gap fixed by something old-fashioned within him which abhorred emotional extravagance. He had, for instance, strongly objected to Annette, so attractive, and in 1914 only thirty-four, going to her native France, her “chere patrie” as, under the stimulus of war, she had begun to call it, to nurse her “braves poilus,” forsooth! Ruining her health and her looks! As if she were really a nurse! He had put a stopper on it. Let her do needlework for them at home, or knit! She had not gone, therefore, and had never been quite СКАЧАТЬ