The Forsyte Saga John Galsworthy (hot novels to read TXT) đ
- Author: John Galsworthy
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He moved to and fro between the great polished sideboard and the great polished table inimitably sleek and soft.
Old Jolyon watched him, feigning sleep. The fellow was a sneakâ âhe had always thought soâ âwho cared about nothing but rattling through his work, and getting out to his betting or his woman or goodness knew what! A slug! Fat too! And didnât care a pin about his master!
But then against his will, came one of those moments of philosophy which made old Jolyon different from other Forsytes:
After all why should the man care? He wasnât paid to care, and why expect it? In this world people couldnât look for affection unless they paid for it. It might be different in the nextâ âhe didnât knowâ âcouldnât tell! And again he shut his eyes.
Relentless and stealthy, the butler pursued his labours, taking things from the various compartments of the sideboard. His back seemed always turned to old Jolyon; thus, he robbed his operations of the unseemliness of being carried on in his masterâs presence; now and then he furtively breathed on the silver, and wiped it with a piece of chamois leather. He appeared to pore over the quantities of wine in the decanters, which he carried carefully and rather high, letting his head droop over them protectingly. When he had finished, he stood for over a minute watching his master, and in his greenish eyes there was a look of contempt:
After all, this master of his was an old buffer, who hadnât much left in him!
Soft as a tomcat, he crossed the room to press the bell. His orders were âdinner at seven.â What if his master were asleep; he would soon have him out of that; there was the night to sleep in! He had himself to think of, for he was due at his Club at half-past eight!
In answer to the ring, appeared a page boy with a silver soup tureen. The butler took it from his hands and placed it on the table, then, standing by the open door, as though about to usher company into the room, he said in a solemn voice:
âDinner is on the table, sir!â
Slowly old Jolyon got up out of his chair, and sat down at the table to eat his dinner.
VIII Plans of the HouseForsytes, as is generally admitted, have shells, like that extremely useful little animal which is made into Turkish delight; in other words, they are never seen, or if seen would not be recognised, without habitats, composed of circumstance, property, acquaintances, and wives, which seem to move along with them in their passage through a world composed of thousands of other Forsytes with their habitats. Without a habitat a Forsyte is inconceivableâ âhe would be like a novel without a plot, which is well-known to be an anomaly.
To Forsyte eyes Bosinney appeared to have no habitat, he seemed one of those rare and unfortunate men who go through life surrounded by circumstance, property, acquaintances, and wives that do not belong to them.
His rooms in Sloane Street, on the top floor, outside which, on a plate, was his name, âPhilip Baynes Bosinney, Architect,â were not those of a Forsyte. He had no sitting-room apart from his office, but a large recess had been screened off to conceal the necessaries of lifeâ âa couch, an easy chair, his pipes, spirit case, novels and slippers. The business part of the room had the usual furniture; an open cupboard with pigeonholes, a round oak table, a folding washstand, some hard chairs, a standing desk of large dimensions covered with drawings and designs. June had twice been to tea there under the chaperonage of his aunt.
He was believed to have a bedroom at the back.
As far as the family had been able to ascertain his income, it consisted of two consulting appointments at twenty pounds a year, together with an odd fee once in a way, andâ âmore worthy itemâ âa private annuity under his fatherâs will of one hundred and fifty pounds a year.
What had transpired concerning that father was not so reassuring. It appeared that he had been a Lincolnshire country doctor of Cornish extraction, striking appearance, and Byronic tendenciesâ âa well-known figure, in fact, in his county. Bosinneyâs uncle by marriage, Baynes, of Baynes and Bildeboy, a Forsyte in instincts if not in name, had but little that was worthy to relate of his brother-in-law.
âAn odd fellow!â he would say: âalways spoke of his three eldest boys as âgood creatures, but so dullâ; theyâre all doing capitally in the Indian Civil! Philip was the only one he liked. Iâve heard him talk in the queerest way; he once said to me: âMy dear fellow, never let your poor wife know what youâre thinking of!â But I didnât follow his advice; not I! An eccentric man! He would say to Phil: âWhether you live like a gentleman or not, my boy, be sure you die like one!â and he had himself embalmed in a frock coat suit, with a satin cravat and a diamond pin. Oh, quite an original, I can assure you!â
Of Bosinney himself Baynes would speak warmly, with a certain compassion: âHeâs got a streak of his fatherâs Byronism. Why, look at the way he threw up his chances when he left my office; going off like that for six months with a knapsack, and all for what?â âto study foreign architectureâ âforeign! What could he expect? And there he isâ âa clever young fellowâ âdoesnât make his hundred a year! Now this engagement is the best thing that could have happenedâ âkeep him steady; heâs one of those that go
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