The Forsyte Saga John Galsworthy (hot novels to read TXT) š
- Author: John Galsworthy
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It was long since young Jolyonās escapadeā āthere was danger of a tradition again arising that people in their position never cross the hedge to pluck that flower; that one could reckon on having love, like measles, once in due season, and getting over it comfortably for all timeā āas with measles, on a soothing mixture of butter and honeyā āin the arms of wedlock.
Of all those whom this strange rumour about Bosinney and Mrs. Soames reached, James was the most affected. He had long forgotten how he had hovered, lanky and pale, in side whiskers of chestnut hue, round Emily, in the days of his own courtship. He had long forgotten the small house in the purlieus of Mayfair, where he had spent the early days of his married life, or rather, he had long forgotten the early days, not the small houseā āa Forsyte never forgot a houseā āhe had afterwards sold it at a clear profit of four hundred pounds.
He had long forgotten those days, with their hopes and fears and doubts about the prudence of the match (for Emily, though pretty, had nothing, and he himself at that time was making a bare thousand a year), and that strange, irresistible attraction which had drawn him on, till he felt he must die if he could not marry the girl with the fair hair, looped so neatly back, the fair arms emerging from a skintight bodice, the fair form decorously shielded by a cage of really stupendous circumference.
James had passed through the fire, but he had passed also through the river of years which washes out the fire; he had experienced the saddest experience of allā āforgetfulness of what it was like to be in love.
Forgotten! Forgotten so long, that he had forgotten even that he had forgotten.
And now this rumour had come upon him, this rumour about his sonās wife; very vague, a shadow dodging among the palpable, straightforward appearances of things, unreal, unintelligible as a ghost, but carrying with it, like a ghost, inexplicable terror.
He tried to bring it home to his mind, but it was no more use than trying to apply to himself one of those tragedies he read of daily in his evening paper. He simply could not. There could be nothing in it. It was all their nonsense. She didnāt get on with Soames as well as she might, but she was a good little thingā āa good little thing!
Like the not inconsiderable majority of men, James relished a nice little bit of scandal, and would say, in a matter-of-fact tone, licking his lips, āYes, yesā āshe and young Dyson; they tell me theyāre living at Monte Carlo!ā
But the significance of an affair of this sortā āof its past, its present, or its futureā āhad never struck him. What it meant, what torture and raptures had gone to its construction, what slow, overmastering fate had lurked within the facts, very naked, sometimes sordid, but generally spicy, presented to his gaze. He was not in the habit of blaming, praising, drawing deductions, or generalizing at all about such things; he simply listened rather greedily, and repeated what he was told, finding considerable benefit from the practice, as from the consumption of a sherry and bitters before a meal.
Now, however, that such a thingā āor rather the rumour, the breath of itā āhad come near him personally, he felt as in a fog, which filled his mouth full of a bad, thick flavour, and made it difficult to draw breath.
A scandal! A possible scandal!
To repeat this word to himself thus was the only way in which he could focus or make it thinkable. He had forgotten the sensations necessary for understanding the progress, fate, or meaning of any such business; he simply could no longer grasp the possibilities of people running any risk for the sake of passion.
Amongst all those persons of his acquaintance, who went into the City day after day and did their business there, whatever it was, and in their leisure moments bought shares, and houses, and ate dinners, and played games, as he was told, it would have seemed to him ridiculous to suppose that there were any who would run risks for the sake of anything so recondite, so figurative, as passion.
Passion! He seemed, indeed, to have heard of it, and rules such as āA young man and a young woman ought never to be trusted togetherā were fixed in his mind as the parallels of latitude are fixed on a map (for all Forsytes, when it comes to ābedrockā matters of fact, have quite a fine taste in realism); but as to anything elseā āwell, he could only appreciate it at all through the catchword āscandal.ā
Ah! but there was no truth in itā ācould not be. He was not afraid; she was really a good little thing. But there it was when you got a thing like that into your mind. And James was of a nervous temperamentā āone of those men whom things will not leave alone, who suffer tortures from anticipation and indecision. For fear of letting something slip that he might otherwise secure, he was physically unable to make up his mind until absolutely certain that, by not making it up, he would suffer loss.
In life, however, there were many occasions when the business of making up his mind did not even rest with himself, and this was one of them.
What could he do? Talk it over with Soames? That would
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