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Файл:The Forsyte Saga. Awakening & To Let. Volume III
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AWAKENING TO LET
"Anything to be with you," he said; "only why need I pre-
tend – "
Fleur slipped her little finger into his palm:
"You have no instinct, Jon; you must leave things to me.
It's serious about our people. We've simply got to be secret at
present, if we want to be together." The door was opened, and
she added loudly: "You are a duffer, Jon."
Something turned over within Jon; he could not bear this
subterfuge about a feeling so natural, so overwhelming, and
so sweet.
On Friday night about eleven he had packed his bag, and
was leaning out of his window, half miserable, and half lost in
a dream of Paddington station, when he heard a tiny sound, as
of a finger-nail tapping on his door. He rushed to it and listened. Again the sound. It was a nail. He opened. Oh! What
a lovely thing came in!
"I wanted to show you my fancy dress," it said, and struck
an attitude at the foot of his bed.
Jon drew a long breath and leaned against the door. The
apparition wore white muslin on its head, a fichu round its
bare neck over a wine-coloured dress, fulled out below its
slender waist.
It held one arm akimbo, and the other raised, right-angled,
holding a fan which touched its head.
"This ought to be a basket of grapes," it whispered, "but
I haven't got it here. It's my Goya dress. And this is the attitude in the picture. Do you like it?"
"It's a dream."
The apparition pirouetted. "Touch it, and see."
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JOHN GALSWORTHY
Jon knelt down and took the skirt reverently.
"Grape colour," came the whisper, "all grapes – La Ven-
dimia – the vintage."
Jon's fingers scarcely touched each side of the waist; he
looked up, with adoring eyes.
"Oh! Jon," it whispered; bent, kissed his forehead, pirouet-
ted again, and, gliding out, was gone.
Jon stayed on his knees, and his head fell forward against
the bed. How long he stayed like that he did not know. The
little noises – of the tapping nail, the feet, the skirts rustling – as in a dream – went on about him; and before his
closed eyes the figure stood and smiled and whispered, a faint
perfume of narcissus lingering in the air. And his forehead
where it had been kissed had a little cool place between the
brows, like the imprint of a flower. Love filled his soul, that
love of boy for girl which knows so little, hopes so much,
would not brush the down off for the world, and must become
in time a fragrant memory – a searing passion – a humdrum
mateship – or, once in many times, vintage full and sweet
with sunset colour on the grapes.
Enough has been said about Jon Forsyte here and in an-
other place to show what long marches lay between him and
his great-great- grandfather, the first Jolyon, in Dorset down
by the sea. Jon was sensitive as a girl, more sensitive than
nine out of ten girls of the day; imaginative as one of his
half-sister June's "lame duck" painters; affectionate as a son
of his father and his mother naturally would be. And yet, in
his inner tissue, there was something of the old founder of
his family, a secret tenacity of soul, a dread of showing his
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AWAKENING TO LET
feelings, a determination not to know when he was beaten.
Sensitive, imaginative, affectionate boys get a bad time at
school, but Jon had instinctively kept his nature dark, and
been but normally unhappy there. Only with his mother
had he, up till then, been absolutely frank and natural; and
when he went home to Robin Hill that Saturday his heart
was heavy because Fleur had said that he must not be frank
and natural with her from whom he had never yet kept anything, must not even tell her that they had met again, unless
he found that she knew already. So intolerable did this seem
to him that he was very near to telegraphing an excuse and
staying up in London. And the first thing his mother said to
him was:
"So you've had our little friend of the confectioner's there,
Jon. What is she like on second thoughts?"
With relief, and a high colour, Jon answered:
"Oh! awfully jolly, Mum."
Her arm pressed his.
Jon had never loved her so much as in that minute which
seemed to falsify Fleur's fears and to release his soul. He
turned to look at her, but something in her smiling face –
something which only he perhaps would have caught –
stopped the words bubbling up in him. Could fear go with
a smile? If so, there was fear in her face. And out of Jon tumbled quite other words, about farming, Holly, and the
Downs. Talking fast, he waited for her to come back to Fleur.
But she did not. Nor did his father mention her, though of
course he, too, must know. What deprivation, and killing of
reality was in his silence about Fleur – when he was so full
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JOHN GALSWORTHY
of her; when his mother was so full of Jon, and his father so
full of his mother! And so the trio spent the evening of that
Saturday.
After dinner his mother played; she seemed to play all the
things he liked best, and he sat with one knee clasped, and his
hair standing up where his fingers had run through it. He
gazed at his mother while she played, but he saw Fleur – Fleur
in the moonlit orchard, Fleur in the sunlit gravel-pit, Fleur in
that fancy dress, swaying, whispering, stooping, kissing his
forehead. Once, while he listened, he forgot himself and
glanced at his father in that other easy chair. What was Dad
looking like that for? The expression on his face was so sad
and puzzling. It filled him with a sort of remorse, so that he
got up and went and sat on the arm of his father's chair. From
there he could not see his face; and again he saw Fleur – in
his mother's hands, slim and white on the keys, in the profile
of her face and her powdery hair; and down the long room in
the open window where the May night walked outside.
When he went up to bed his mother came into his room.
She stood at the window, and said:
"Those cypresses your grandfather planted down there
have done wonderfully. I always think they look beautiful under a dropping moon. I wish you had known your grandfather, Jon."
"Were you married to father when he was alive?" asked
Jon suddenly.
"No, dear; he died in '92 – very old – eighty-five, I think."
"Is Father like him?"
"A little, but more subtle, and not quite so solid."
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AWAKENING TO LET
"I know, from grandfather's portrait; who painted that?"
"One of June's 'lame ducks.' But it's quite good."
Jon slipped his hand through his mother's arm. "Tell me
about the family quarrel, Mum."
He felt her arm quivering. "No, dear; that's for your Father
some day, if he thinks fit."
"Then it was serious," said Jon, with a catch in his breath.
"Yes." And there was a silence, during which neither knew
whether the arm or the hand within it were quivering most.
"Some people," said Irene softly, "think the moon on her
back is evil; to me she's always lovely. Look at those cypress
shadows! Jon, Father says we may go to Italy, you and I, for two
months. Would you like?"
Jon took his hand from under her arm; his sensation was
so sharp and so confused. Italy with his mother! A fortnight
ago it would have been perfection; now it filled him with dismay; he felt that the sudden suggestion had to do with Fleur.
He stammered out:
"Oh! yes; only – I don't know. Ought I – now I've just be-
gun? I'd like to think it over."
Her voice answered, cool and gentle:
"Yes, dear; think it over. But better now than when you've
begun farming seriously. Italy with you! It would be nice!"
Jon put his arm round her waist, still slim and firm as
a girl's.
"Do you think you ought to leave Father?" he said feebly,
feeling very mean.
"Father suggested it; he thinks you ought to see Italy at
least before you settle down to anything."
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JOHN GALSWORTHY
The sense of meanness died in Jon; he knew, yes – he
knew – that his father and his mother were not speaking
frankly, no more than he himself. They wanted to keep him
from Fleur. His heart hardened. And, as if she felt that process
going on, his mother said:
"Good-night, darling. Have a good sleep and think it over.
But it would be lovely!"
She pressed him to her so quickly that he did not see her
face. Jon stood feeling exactly as he used to when he was
a naughty little boy; sore because he was not loving, and because he was justified in his own eyes.
But Irene, after she had stood a moment in her own room,
passed through the dressing-room between it and her husband's.
"Well?"
"He will think it over, Jolyon."
Watching her lips that wore a little drawn smile, Jolyon
said quietly:
"You had better let me tell him, and have done with it. Af-
ter all, Jon has the instincts of a gentleman. He has only to
understand – "
"Only! He can't understand; that's impossible."
"I believe I could have at his age."
Irene caught his hand. "You were always more of a realist
than Jon; and never so innocent."
"That's true," said Jolyon. "It's queer, isn't it? You and
I would tell our stories to the world without a particle of
shame; but our own boy stumps us."
"We've never cared whether the world approves or not."
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AWAKENING TO LET
"Jon would not disapprove of us!"
"Oh! Jolyon, yes. He's in love, I feel he's in love. And he'd
say: 'My mother once married without love! How could she
have!' It'll seem to him a crime! And so it was!"
Jolyon took her hand, and said with a wry smile:
"Ah! why on earth are we born young? Now, if only we
were born old and grew younger year by year, we should understand how things happen, and drop all our cursed intolerance. But you know if the boy is really in love, he won't forget,
even if he goes to Italy. We're a tenacious breed; and he'll
know by instinct why he's being sent. Nothing will really cure
him but the shock of being told."
"Let me try, anyway."
Jolyon stood a moment without speaking. Between this
devil and this deep sea – the pain of a dreaded disclosure and
the grief of losing his wife for two months – he secretly hoped
for the devil; yet if she wished for the deep sea he must put up
with it. After all, it would be training for that departure from
which there would be no return. And, taking her in his arms,
he kissed her eyes, and said:
"As you will, my love."
CHAPTER XI
DUET
That "small" emotion, love, grows amazingly when threat-
ened with extinction. Jon reached Paddington station half an
hour before his time and a full week after, as it seemed to
him. He stood at the appointed bookstall, amid a crowd of
Sunday travellers, in a Harris tweed suit exhaling, as it were,
the emotion of his thumping heart. He read the names of the
novels on the book-stall, and bought one at last, to avoid being regarded with suspicion by the book-stall clerk. It was
called "The Heart of the Trail!" which must mean something,
though it did not seem to. He also bought "The Lady's Mirror" and "The Landsman." Every minute was an hour long,
and full of horrid imaginings. After nineteen had passed, he
saw her with a bag and a porter wheeling her luggage. She
came swiftly; she came cool. She greeted him as if he were
a brother.
"First class," she said to the porter, "corner seats; opposite."
Jon admired her frightful self-possession.
"Can't we get a carriage to ourselves," he whispered.
"No good; it's a stopping train. After Maidenhead perhaps.
Look natural, Jon."
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AWAKENING TO LET
Jon screwed his features into a scowl. They got in – with two
other beasts! – oh! heaven! He tipped the porter unnaturally, in
his confusion. The brute deserved nothing for putting them in
there, and looking as if he knew all about it into the bargain.
Fleur hid herself behind "The Lady's Mirror." Jon imitated
her behind "The Landsman." The train started. Fleur let "The
Lady's Mirror" fall and leaned forward.
"Well?" she said.
"It's seemed about fifteen days."
She nodded, and Jon's face lighted up at once.
"Look natural," murmured Fleur, and went off into a bub-
ble of laughter. It hurt him. How could he look natural with
Italy hanging over him? He had meant to break it to her gently, but now he blurted it out.
"They want me to go to Italy with Mother for two months."
Fleur drooped her eyelids; turned a little pale, and bit her
lips. "Oh!" she said. It was all, but it was much.
That "Oh!" was like the quick drawback of the wrist in
fencing ready for riposte. It came.
"You must go!"
"Go?" said Jon in a strangled voice.
"Of course."
"But – two months – it's ghastly."
"No," said Fleur, "six weeks. You'll have forgotten me by
then. We'll meet in the National Gallery the day after you get
back."
Jon laughed.
"But suppose you've forgotten me," he muttered into the
noise of the train.
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JOHN GALSWORTHY
Fleur shook her head.
"Some other beast – " murmured Jon.
Her foot touched his.
"No other beast," she said, lifting "The Lady's Mirror."
The train stopped; two passengers got out, and one got in.
'I shall die,' thought Jon, 'if we're not alone at all.'
The train went on; and again Fleur leaned forward.
"I never let go," she said; "do you?"
Jon shook his head vehemently.
"Never!" he said. "Will you write to me?"
"No; but you can – to my Club."
She had a Club; she was wonderful!
"Did you pump Holly?" he muttered.
"Yes, but I got nothing. I didn't dare pump hard."
"What can it be?" cried Jon.
"I shall find out all right."
A long silence followed till Fleur said: "This is Maiden-
head; stand by, Jon!"
The train stopped. The remaining passenger got out. Fleur
drew down her blind.
"Quick!" she cried. "Hang out! Look as much of a beast as
you can."
Jon blew his nose, and scowled; never in all his life had
he scowled like that! An old lady recoiled, a young one
tried the handle. It turned, but the door would not open.
The train moved, the young lady darted to another carriage.
"What luck!" cried Jon. "It Jammed."
"Yes," said Fleur; "I was holding it."
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