The Forsyte Saga John Galsworthy (hot novels to read TXT) đ
- Author: John Galsworthy
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In this taciturn condition of affairs it chanced that Winifred invited them to lunch and to go afterward to âa most amusing little play, The Beggarâs Operaâ and would they bring a man to make four? Soames, whose attitude toward theatres was to go to nothing, accepted, because Fleurâs attitude was to go to everything. They motored up, taking Michael Mont, who, being in his seventh heaven, was found by Winifred âvery amusing.â The Beggarâs Opera puzzled Soames. The people were very unpleasant, the whole thing very cynical. Winifred was âintriguedââ âby the dresses. The music, too, did not displease her. At the Opera, the night before, she had arrived too early for the Russian Ballet, and found the stage occupied by singers, for a whole hour pale or apoplectic from terror lest by some dreadful inadvertence they might drop into a tune. Michael Mont was enraptured with the whole thing. And all three wondered what Fleur was thinking of it. But Fleur was not thinking of it. Her fixed idea stood on the stage and sang with Polly Peachum, mimed with Filch, danced with Jenny Diver, postured with Lucy Lockit, kissed, trolled, and cuddled with Macheath. Her lips might smile, her hands applaud, but the comic old masterpiece made no more impression on her than if it had been pathetic, like a modern âRevue.â When they embarked in the car to return, she ached because Jon was not sitting next her instead of Michael Mont. When, at some jolt, the young manâs arm touched hers as if by accident, she only thought: âIf that were Jonâs arm!â When his cheerful voice, tempered by her proximity, murmured above the sound of the carâs progress, she smiled and answered, thinking: âIf that were Jonâs voice!â and when once he said, âFleur, you look a perfect angel in that dress!â she answered, âOh, do you like it?â thinking, âIf only Jon could see it!â
During this drive she took a resolution. She would go to Robin Hill and see himâ âalone; she would take the car, without word beforehand to him or to her father. It was nine days since his letter, and she could wait no longer. On Monday she would go! The decision made her well disposed toward young Mont. With something to look forward to she could afford to tolerate and respond. He might stay to dinner; propose to her as usual; dance with her, press her hand, sighâ âdo what he liked. He was only a nuisance when he interfered with her fixed idea. She was even sorry for him so far as it was possible to be sorry for anybody but herself just now. At dinner he seemed to talk more wildly than usual about what he called âthe death of the close boroughââ âshe paid little attention, but her father seemed paying a good deal, with the smile on his face which meant opposition, if not anger.
âThe younger generation doesnât think as you do, sir; does it, Fleur?â
Fleur shrugged her shouldersâ âthe younger generation was just Jon, and she did not know what he was thinking.
âYoung people will think as I do when theyâre my age, Mr. Mont. Human nature doesnât change.â
âI admit that, sir; but the forms of thought change with the times. The pursuit of self-interest is a form of thought thatâs going out.â
âIndeed! To mind oneâs own business is not a form of thought, Mr. Mont, itâs an instinct.â
Yes, when Jon was the business!
âBut what is oneâs business, sir? Thatâs the point. Everybodyâs business is going to be oneâs business. Isnât it, Fleur?â
Fleur only smiled.
âIf not,â added young Mont, âthereâll be blood.â
âPeople have talked like that from time immemorial.â
âBut youâll admit, sir, that the sense of property is dying out?â
âI should say increasing among those who have none.â
âWell, look at me! Iâm heir to an entailed estate. I donât want the thing; Iâd cut the entail tomorrow.â
âYouâre not married, and you donât know what youâre talking about.â
Fleur saw the young manâs eyes turn rather piteously upon her.
âDo you really mean that marriageâ â?â he began.
âSociety is built on marriage,â came from between her fatherâs close lips; âmarriage and its consequences. Do you want to do away with it?â
Young Mont made a distracted gesture. Silence brooded over the dinner table, covered with spoons bearing the Forsyte crestâ âa pheasant properâ âunder the electric light in an alabaster globe. And outside, the river evening darkened, charged with heavy moisture and sweet scents.
âMonday,â thought Fleur; âMonday!â
VI DesperateThe weeks which followed the death of his father were sad and empty to the only Jolyon Forsyte left. The necessary forms and ceremoniesâ âthe reading of the will, valuation of the estate, distribution of the legaciesâ âwere enacted over the head, as it were, of one not yet of age. Jolyon was cremated. By his special wish no one attended that ceremony, or wore black for him. The succession of his property, controlled to some extent by old Jolyonâs will, left his widow in possession of Robin Hill, with two thousand five hundred pounds a year for life. Apart from this the two wills worked together in some complicated way to insure that each of Jolyonâs three children should have an equal share in their grandfatherâs and fatherâs property in the future as in the present, save only that Jon, by virtue of his sex, would have control of his capital when he was twenty-one, while June and Holly would only have the spirit of theirs, in order that their children might have the body after them. If they had no children, it would all come to Jon if he outlived them; and since June was fifty, and Holly nearly forty, it was considered in Lincolnâs Inn Fields that but for the cruelty of income tax, young Jon would be as warm a man as his grandfather when he died. All this was
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