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Файл:The Forsyte Saga. Indian Summer of a Forsyte & In Chancery. Volume II
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CHAPTER I
THE THIRD GENERATION
Jolly Forsyte was strolling down High Street, Oxford, on
a November afternoon; Val Dartie was strolling up. Jolly had
just changed out of boating flannels and was on his way to the
'Frying-pan,' to which he had recently been elected. Val had
just changed out of riding clothes and was on his way to the
fire – a bookmaker's in Cornmarket.
"Hallo!" said Jolly.
"Hallo!" replied Val.
The cousins had met but twice, Jolly, the second-year man,
having invited the freshman to breakfast; and last evening
they had seen each other again under somewhat exotic circumstances.
Over a tailor's in the Cornmarket resided one of those
privileged young beings called minors, whose inheritances are
large, whose parents are dead, whose guardians are remote,
and whose instincts are vicious. At nineteen he had commenced one of those careers attractive and inexplicable to ordinary mortals for whom a single bankruptcy is good as a feast.
Already famous for having the only roulette table then to be
found in Oxford, he was anticipating his expectations at a daz-
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JOHN GALSWORTHY
zling rate. He out-crummed Crum, though of a sanguine and
rather beefy type which lacked the latter's fascinating languor.
For Val it had been in the nature of baptism to be taken there
to play roulette; in the nature of confirmation to get back into
college, after hours, through a window whose bars were deceptive. Once, during that evening of delight, glancing up from
the seductive green before him, he had caught sight, through
a cloud of smoke, of his cousin standing opposite. 'Rouge
gagne, impair, et manque!' He had not seen him again.
"Come in to the Frying-pan and have tea," said Jolly, and
they went in.
A stranger, seeing them together, would have noticed an
unseizable resemblance between these second cousins of the
third generations of Forsytes; the same bone formation in face,
though Jolly's eyes were darker grey, his hair lighter and more
wavy.
"Tea and buttered buns, waiter, please," said Jolly.
"Have one of my cigarettes?" said Val. "I saw you last night.
How did you do?"
"I didn't play."
"I won fifteen quid."
Though desirous of repeating a whimsical comment on
gambling he had once heard his father make – 'When you're
fleeced you're sick, and when you fleece you're sorry – Jolly
contented himself with:
"Rotten game, I think; I was at school with that chap. He's
an awful fool."
"Oh! I don't know," said Val, as one might speak in defence
of a disparaged god; "he's a pretty good sport."
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INDIAN SUMMER OF A FORSYTE IN CHANCERY
They exchanged whiffs in silence.
"You met my people, didn't you?" said Jolly. "They're com-
ing up to-morrow."
Val grew a little red.
"Really! I can give you a rare good tip for the Manchester
November handicap."
"Thanks, I only take interest in the classic races."
"You can't make any money over them," said Val.
"I hate the ring," said Jolly; "there's such a row and stink.
I like the paddock."
"I like to back my judgment,"' answered Val.
Jolly smiled; his smile was like his father's.
"I haven't got any. I always lose money if I bet."
"You have to buy experience, of course."
"Yes, but it's all messed-up with doing people in the
eye."
"Of course, or they'll do you – that's the excitement."
Jolly looked a little scornful.
"What do you do with yourself? Row?"
"No – ride, and drive about. I'm going to play polo next
term, if I can get my granddad to stump up."
"That's old Uncle James, isn't it? What's he like?"
"Older than forty hills," said Val, "and always thinking
he's going to be ruined."
"I suppose my granddad and he were brothers."
"I don't believe any of that old lot were sportsmen," said
Val; "they must have worshipped money."
"Mine didn't!" said Jolly warmly.
Val flipped the ash off his cigarette.
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JOHN GALSWORTHY
"Money's only fit to spend," he said; "I wish the deuce
I had more."
Jolly gave him that direct upward look of judgment which
he had inherited from old Jolyon: One didn't talk about money! And again there was silence, while they drank tea and ate
the buttered buns.
"Where are your people going to stay?" asked Val, elabo-
rately casual.
"'Rainbow.' What do you think of the war?"
"Rotten, so far. The Boers aren't sports a bit. Why don't
they come out into the open?"
"Why should they? They've got everything against them
except their way of fighting. I rather admire them."
"They can ride and shoot," admitted Val, "but they're
a lousy lot. Do you know Crum?"
"Of Merton? Only by sight. He's in that fast set too, isn't
he? Rather La-di-da and Brummagem."
Val said fixedly: "He's a friend of mine."
"Oh! Sorry!" And they sat awkwardly staring past each oth-
er, having pitched on their pet points of snobbery. For Jolly
was forming himself unconsciously on a set whose motto was:
'We defy you to bore us. Life isn't half long enough, and
we're going to talk faster and more crisply, do more and know
more, and dwell less on any subject than you can possibly
imagine. We are "the best" – made of wire and whipcord.'
And Val was unconsciously forming himself on a set whose
motto was: 'We defy you to interest or excite us. We have had
every sensation, or if we haven't, we pretend we have. We are
so exhausted with living that no hours are too small for us.
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INDIAN SUMMER OF A FORSYTE IN CHANCERY
We will lose our shirts with equanimity. We have flown fast
and are past everything. All is cigarette smoke. Bismillah!'
Competitive spirit, bone-deep in the English, was obliging
those two young Forsytes to have ideals; and at the close of
a century ideals are mixed. The aristocracy had already in the
main adopted the 'jumping-Jesus' principle; though here and
there one like Crum – who was an 'honourable' – stood
starkly languid for that gambler's Nirvana which had been
the summum bonum of the old 'dandies' and of 'the mashers'
in the eighties. And round Crum were still gathered a forlorn
hope of blue-bloods with a plutocratic following.
But there was between the cousins another far less obvi-
ous antipathy – coming from the unseizable family resemblance, which each perhaps resented; or from some half-consciousness of that old feud persisting still between their
branches of the clan, formed within them by odd words or
half-hints dropped by their elders. And Jolly, tinkling his teaspoon, was musing: 'His tie-pin and his waistcoat and his
drawl and his betting – good Lord!'
And Val, finishing his bun, was thinking: 'He's rather
a young beast!'
"I suppose you'll be meeting your people?" he said, getting
up. "I wish you'd tell them I should like to show them over
B.N.C. – not that there's anything much there – if they'd care
to come."
"Thanks, I'll ask them."
"Would they lunch? I've got rather a decent scout."
Jolly doubted if they would have time.
"You'll ask them, though?"
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JOHN GALSWORTHY
"Very good of you," said Jolly, fully meaning that they
should not go; but, instinctively polite, he added: "You'd better come and have dinner with us to-morrow."
"Rather. What time?"
"Seven-thirty."
"Dress?"
"No." And they parted, a subtle antagonism alive within
them.
Holly and her father arrived by a midday train. It was her
first visit to the city of spires and dreams, and she was very
silent, looking almost shyly at the brother who was part of
this wonderful place. After lunch she wandered, examining
his household gods with intense curiosity. Jolly's sittingroom was panelled, and Art represented by a set of Bartolozzi
prints which had belonged to old Jolyon, and by college photographs – of young men, live young men, a little heroic, and
to be compared with her memories of Val. Jolyon also scrutinised with care that evidence of his boy's character and
tastes.
Jolly was anxious that they should see him rowing, so they
set forth to the river. Holly, between her brother and her father, felt elated when heads were turned and eyes rested on
her. That they might see him to the best advantage they left
him at the Barge and crossed the river to the towing-path.
Slight in build – for of all the Forsytes only old Swithin and
George were beefy – Jolly was rowing 'Two' in a trial eight.
He looked very earnest and strenuous. With pride Jolyon
thought him the best-looking boy of the lot; Holly, as became
a sister, was more struck by one or two of the others, but
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INDIAN SUMMER OF A FORSYTE IN CHANCERY
would not have said so for the world. The river was bright that
afternoon, the meadows lush, the trees still beautiful with colour. Distinguished peace clung around the old city; Jolyon
promised himself a day's sketching if the weather held. The
Eight passed a second time, spurting home along the Barges –
Jolly's face was very set, so as not to show that he was blown.
They returned across the river and waited for him.
"Oh!" said Jolly in the Christ Church meadows, "I had to
ask that chap Val Dartie to dine with us to-night. He wanted
to give you lunch and show you B.N.C., so I thought I'd better;
then you needn't go. I don't like him much."
Holly's rather sallow face had become suffused with pink.
"Why not?"
"Oh! I don't know. He seems to me rather showy and bad
form. What are his people like, Dad? He's only a second cousin, isn't he?"
Jolyon took refuge in a smile.
"Ask Holly," he said; "she saw his uncle."
"I liked Val," Holly answered, staring at the ground before
her; "his uncle looked – awfully different." She stole a glance
at Jolly from under her lashes.
"Did you ever," said Jolyon with whimsical intention,
"hear our family history, my dears? It's quite a fairy tale. The
first Jolyon Forsyte – at all events the first we know anything
of, and that would be your great-great-grandfather – dwelt in
the land of Dorset on the edge of the sea, being by profession
an 'agriculturalist,' as your great-aunt put it, and the son of an
agriculturist – farmers, in fact; your grandfather used to call
them, 'Very small beer.'" He looked at Jolly to see how his
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JOHN GALSWORTHY
lordliness was standing it, and with the other eye noted Holly's malicious pleasure in the slight drop of her brother's face.
"We may suppose him thick and sturdy, standing for Eng-
land as it was before the Industrial Era began. The second
Jolyon Forsyte – your great-grandfather, Jolly; better known
as Superior Dosset Forsyte – built houses, so the chronicle
runs, begat ten children, and migrated to London town. It is
known that he drank sherry. We may suppose him representing the England of Napoleon's wars, and general unrest. The
eldest of his six sons was the third Jolyon, your grandfather,
my dears – tea merchant and chairman of companies, one of
the soundest Englishmen who ever lived – and to me the
dearest." Jolyon's voice had lost its irony, and his son and
daughter gazed at him solemnly, "He was just and tenacious,
tender and young at heart. You remember him, and I remember him. Pass to the others! Your great-uncle James, that's
young Val's grand- father, had a son called Soames – whereby
hangs a tale of no love lost, and I don't think I'll tell it you.
James and the other eight children of 'Superior Dosset,' of
whom there are still five alive, may be said to have represented Victorian England, with its principles of trade and individualism at five per cent. and your money back – if you know
what that means. At all events they've turned thirty thousand
pounds into a cool million between them in the course of
their long lives. They never did a wild thing – unless it was
your great-uncle Swithin, who I believe was once swindled at
thimble-rig, and was called 'Four-in-hand Forsyte' because he
drove a pair. Their day is passing, and their type, not altogether for the advantage of the country. They were pedestrian, but
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INDIAN SUMMER OF A FORSYTE IN CHANCERY
they too were sound. I am the fourth Jolyon Forsyte – a poor
holder of the name – "
"No, Dad," said Jolly, and Holly squeezed his hand.
"Yes," repeated Jolyon, "a poor specimen, representing,
I'm afraid, nothing but the end of the century, unearned income, amateurism, and individual liberty – a different thing
from individualism, Jolly. You are the fifth Jolyon Forsyte, old
man, and you open the ball of the new century."
As he spoke they turned in through the college gates, and
Holly said: "It's fascinating, Dad."
None of them quite knew what she meant. Jolly was grave.
The Rainbow, distinguished, as only an Oxford hostel can
be, for lack of modernity, provided one small oak-panelled
private sitting- room, in which Holly sat to receive, whitefrocked, shy, and alone, when the only guest arrived. Rather
as one would touch a moth, Val took her hand. And wouldn't
she wear this 'measly flower'? It would look ripping in her
hair. He removed a gardenia from his coat.
"Oh! No, thank you – I couldn't!" But she took it and
pinned it at her neck, having suddenly remembered that word
'showy'! Val's buttonhole would give offence; and she so much
wanted Jolly to like him. Did she realise that Val was at his
best and quietest in her presence, and was that, perhaps, half
the secret of his attraction for her?
"I never said anything about our ride, Val."
"Rather not! It's just between us."
By the uneasiness of his hands and the fidgeting of his feet
he was giving her a sense of power very delicious; a soft feeling too – the wish to make him happy.
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JOHN GALSWORTHY
"Do tell me about Oxford. It must be ever so lovely."
Val admitted that it was frightfully decent to do what you
liked; the lectures were nothing; and there were some very
good chaps. "Only," he added, "of course I wish I was in town,
and could come down and see you."
Holly moved one hand shyly on her knee, and her glance
dropped.
"You haven't forgotten," he said, suddenly gathering cour-
age, "that we're going mad-rabbiting together?"
Holly smiled.
"Oh! That was only make-believe. One can't do that sort of
thing after one's grown up, you know."
"Dash it! cousins can," said Val. "Next Long Vac. – it be-
gins in June, you know, and goes on for ever – we'll watch our
chance."
But, though the thrill of conspiracy ran through her veins,
Holly shook her head. "It won't come off," she murmured.
"Won't it!" said Val fervently; "who's going to stop it? Not
your father or your brother."
At this moment Jolyon and Jolly came in; and romance
fled into Val's patent leather and Holly's white satin toes,
where it itched and tingled during an evening not conspicuous for open-heartedness.
Sensitive to atmosphere, Jolyon soon felt the latent antag-
onism between the boys, and was puzzled by Holly; so he became un- consciously ironical, which is fatal to the expansiveness of youth. A letter, handed to him after dinner, reduced
him to a silence hardly broken till Jolly and Val rose to go. He
went out with them, smoking his cigar, and walked with his
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