To Let by John Galsworthy (the beginning after the end novel read TXT) 📖
- Author: John Galsworthy
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Rang For Tea. Neither Of Them Were In. And Again That Sense Of
Loneliness Came Over Him. These Hotels! What Monstrous Great Places
They Were Now! He Could Remember When There Was Nothing Bigger Than
Long's Or Brown's, Morley's Or The Tavistock, And The Heads That Were
Shaken Over The Langham And The Grand. Hotels And Clubs--Clubs And
Hotels; No End To Them Now! And Soames, Who Had Just Been Watching At
Lord's A Miracle Of Tradition And Continuity, Fell Into Reverie Over
The Changes In That London Where He Had Been Born Five-And-Sixty Years
Before. Whether Consols Were Going Up Or Not, London Had Become A
Terrific Property. No Such Property In The World, Unless It Were New
York! There Was A Lot Of Hysteria In The Papers Nowadays; But Any One
Who, Like Himself, Could Remember London Sixty Years Ago, And See It
Now, Realised The Fecundity And Elasticity Of Wealth. They Had Only To
Keep Their Heads, And Go At It Steadily. Why! He Remembered
Cobble-Stones, And Stinking Straw On The Floor Of Your Cab. And Old
Timothy--What Could He Not Tell Them, If He Had Kept His Memory! Things
Were Unsettled, People In A Funk Or In A Hurry, But Here Were London
And The Thames, And Out There The British Empire, And The Ends Of The
Earth. "Consols Are Goin' Up!" He Shouldn't Be A Bit Surprised. It Was
The Breed That Counted. And All That Was Bull-Dogged In Soames Stared
For A Moment Out Of His Grey Eyes, Till Diverted By The Print Of A
Victorian Picture On The Walls. The Hotel Had Bought Three Dozen Of
That Little Lot! The Old Hunting Or "Rake's Progress" Prints In The Old
Inns Were Worth Looking At--But This Sentimental Stuff--Well,
Victorianism Had Gone! "Tell Them To Hold On!" Old Timothy Had Said.
But To What Were They To Hold On In This Modern Welter Of The
"Democratic Principle"? Why, Even Privacy Was Threatened! And At The
Thought That Privacy Might Perish, Soames Pushed Back His Teacup And
Went To The Window. Fancy Owning No More Of Nature Than The Crowd Out
There Owned Of The Flowers And Trees And Waters Of Hyde Park! No, No!
Private Possession Underlay Everything Worth Having.
Part II XI (Timothy Prophesies) Pg 51The World Had
Slipped Its Sanity A Bit, As Dogs Now And Again At Full Moon Slipped
Theirs And Went Off For A Night's Rabbiting; But The World, Like The
Dog, Knew Where Its Bread Was Buttered And Its Bed Warm, And Would Come
Back Sure Enough To The Only Home Worth Having--To Private Ownership.
The World Was In Its Second Childhood For The Moment, Like Old
Timothy--Eating Its Titbit First!
He Heard A Sound Behind Him, And Saw That His Wife And Daughter Had
Come In.
"So You're Back!" He Said.
Fleur Did Not Answer; She Stood For A Moment Looking At Him And Her
Mother, Then Passed Into Her Bedroom. Annette Poured Herself Out A Cup
Of Tea.
"I Am Going To Paris, To My Mother, Soames."
"Oh! To Your Mother?"
"Yes."
"For How Long?"
"I Do Not Know."
"And When Are You Going?"
"On Monday."
Part II XI (Timothy Prophesies) Pg 52Was She Really Going To Her Mother? Odd, How Indifferent He Felt! Odd,
How Clearly She Had Perceived The Indifference He Would Feel So Long As
There Was No Scandal. And Suddenly Between Her And Himself He Saw
Distinctly The Face He Had Seen That Afternoon--Irene's.
"Will You Want Money?"
"Thank You; I Have Enough."
"Very Well. Let Us Know When You Are Coming Back."
Annette Put Down The Cake She Was Fingering, And, Looking Up Through
Darkened Lashes, Said:
"Shall I Give Maman Any Message?"
"My Regards."
Annette Stretched Herself, Her Hands On Her Waist, And Said In French:
"What Luck That You Have Never Loved Me, Soames!" Then Rising, She Too
Left The Room. Soames Was Glad She Had Spoken It In French--It Seemed
To Require No Dealing With. Again That Other Face--Pale, Dark-Eyed,
Beautiful Still! And There Stirred Far Down Within Him The Ghost Of
Warmth, As From Sparks Lingering Beneath A Mound Of Flaky Ash. And
Fleur Infatuated With Her Boy! Queer Chance! Yet, Was There Such A
Thing As Chance? A Man Went Down A Street, A Brick Fell On His Head.
Ah! That Was Chance, No Doubt. But This! "Inherited," His Girl Had
Said. She--She Was "Holding On!"
Part III I (Old Jolyon Walks) Pg 53
Twofold Impulse Had Made Jolyon Say To His Wife At Breakfast: "Let's Go
Up To Lord's!"
"Wanted"--Something To Abate The Anxiety In Which Those Two Had Lived
During The Sixty Hours Since Jon Had Brought Fleur Down. "Wanted"--Too,
That Which Might Assuage The Pangs Of Memory In One Who Knew He Might
Lose Them Any Day!
Fifty-Eight Years Ago Jolyon Had Become An Eton Boy, For Old Jolyon's
Whim Had Been That He Should Be Canonised At The Greatest Possible
Expense. Year After Year He Had Gone To Lord's From Stanhope Gate With
A Father Whose Youth In The Eighteen-Twenties Had Been Passed Without
Polish In The Game Of Cricket. Old Jolyon Would Speak Quite Openly Of
Swipes, Full Tosses, Half And Three-Quarter Balls; And Young Jolyon
With The Guileless Snobbery Of Youth Had Trembled Lest His Sire Should
Be Overheard. Only In This Supreme Matter Of Cricket He Had Been
Nervous, For His Father--In Crimean Whiskers Then--Had Ever Impressed
Him As The Beau Ideal. Though Never Canonised Himself, Old Jolyon's
Natural Fastidiousness And Balance Had Saved Him From The Errors Of The
Vulgar. How Delicious, After Howling In A Top Hat And A Sweltering
Heat, To Go Home With His Father In A Hansom Cab, Bathe, Dress, And
Forth To The "Disunion" Club, To Dine Off Whitebait, Cutlets, And A
Tart, And Go--Two "Swells," Old And Young, In Lavender Kid Gloves--To
The Opera Or Play. And On Sunday, When The Match Was Over, And His Top
Hat Duly Broken, Down With His Father In A Special Hansom To The "Crown
And Sceptre," And The Terrace Above The River--The Golden Sixties When
The World Was Simple, Dandies Glamorous, Democracy Not Born, And The
Books Of Whyte Melville Coming Thick And Fast.
Part III I (Old Jolyon Walks) Pg 54A Generation Later, With His Own Boy, Jolly, Harrow--Buttonholed With
Cornflowers--By Old Jolyon's Whim His Grandson Had Been Canonised At A
Trifle Less Expense--Again Jolyon Had Experienced The Heat And
Counter-Passions Of The Day, And Come Back To The Cool And The
Strawberry Beds Of Robin Hill, And Billiards After Dinner, His Boy
Making The Most Heart-Breaking Flukes And Trying To Seem Languid And
Grown-Up. Those Two Days Each Year He And His Son Had Been Alone
Together In The World, One On Each Side--And Democracy Just Born!
And So, He Had Unearthed A Grey Top Hat, Borrowed A Tiny Bit Of
Light-Blue Ribbon From Irene, And Gingerly, Keeping Cool, By Car And
Train And Taxi, Had Reached Lord's Ground. There, Beside Her In A
Lawn-Coloured Frock With Narrow Black Edges, He Had Watched The Game,
And Felt The Old Thrill Stir Within Him.
When Soames Passed, The Day Was Spoiled, And Irene's Face Distorted By
Compression Of The Lips. No Good To Go On Sitting Here With Soames Or
Perhaps His Daughter Recurring In Front Of Them, Like Decimals. And He
Said:
"Well, Dear, If You've Had Enough--Let's Go!"
That Evening Jolyon Felt Exhausted. Not Wanting Her To See Him Thus, He
Waited Till She Had Begun To Play, And Stole Off To The Little Study.
He Opened The Long Window For Air, And The Door, That He Might Still
Hear Her Music Drifting In; And, Settled In His Father's Old Armchair,
Closed His Eyes, With His Head Against The Worn Brown Leather. Like
That Passage Of The Cesar Franck Sonata--So Had Been His Life With Her,
A Divine Third Movement. And Now This Business Of Jon's--This Bad
Business! Drifted To The Edge Of Consciousness, He Hardly Knew If It
Were In Sleep That He Smelled The Scent Of A Cigar, And Seemed To See A
Shape In The Blackness Before His Closed Eyes.
Part III I (Old Jolyon Walks) Pg 55That Shape Formed, Went,
And Formed Again; As If In The Very Chair Where He Himself Was Sitting,
He Saw His Father, Black-Coated, With Knees Crossed, Glasses Balanced
Between Thumb And Finger; Saw The Big White Moustaches, And The Deep
Eyes Looking Up Below A Dome Of Forehead, Seeming To Search His Own;
Seeming To Speak. "Are You Facing It, Jo? It's For You To Decide. She's
Only A Woman!" How Well He Knew His Father In That Phrase; How All The
Victorian Age Came Up With It!--And His Answer "No, I've Funked
It--Funked Hurting Her And Jon And Myself. I've Got A Heart; I've
Funked It." But The Old Eyes, So Much Older, So Much Younger Than His
Own, Kept At It: "It's Your Wife, Your Son, Your Past. Tackle It, My
Boy!" Was It A Message From Walking Spirit; Or But The Instinct Of
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