John Galsworthy was born on August 14, 1867, at Kingston Hill in Surrey, the son of John and Blanche Galsworthy and the second of four children. John Galsworthy senior, whose family came from Devon, was a successful solicitor in London and a man of ‘new money’, determined to provide privilege and security for his family. They idolised him. By contrast, their mother Blanche was a more difficult woman, strict and distant. Galsworthy commented, ‘My father really predominated in me from the start ... I was so truly and deeply fond of him that I seemed not to have a fair share of love left to give my mother’.

Young Johnny enjoyed the happy, secure childhood of a Victorian, upper-middle-class family. Educated at Harrow, he was popular at school and a good sportsman. Holidays were spent with family and friends, moving between their country houses. After finishing school, John went up to New College, Oxford to read law. There he enjoyed the carefree life of a privileged student, not working particularly hard, gambling and becoming known as ‘the best dressed man in College’. But he could also be quiet and serious, a contemporary describing how ‘He moved among us somewhat withdrawn ... a sensitive, amused, somewhat cynical spectator of the human scene’.

The period after university was one of indecision for Galsworthy. Although his father wanted him to become a barrister, the law held little appeal. So he decided to get away from it all and travel. It was on a voyage in the South Seas in 1893 that he met Joseph Conrad, and the two became close friends. It was a crucial friendship in Galsworthy’s life. Conrad encouraged his love of writing, but Galsworthy attributes his final inspiration to the woman he was falling in love with: Ada.

Ada Nemesis Pearson Cooper married Major Arthur Galsworthy, John’s cousin, in 1891. But the marriage was a tragic mistake. Embraced by the entire family, Ada became close friends with John’s beloved sisters, Lilian and Mabel, and through them John heard of her increasing misery, fixing in his imagination the pain of an unhappy marriage. Thrown together more and more, John and Ada eventually became lovers in September 1895. They were unafraid of declaring their relationship and facing the consequences, but the only person they couldn’t bear to hurt was John’s adored father, with his traditional values. And so they endured ten years of secrecy until Galsworthy’s father died in December 1904. By September 1905 Ada’s divorce had come through and they were finally able to marry.

It was around this time, in 1906, that Galsworthy’s writing career flourished. During the previous decade he had been a man ‘in chains’, emotionally and professionally, having finally abandoned law in 1894. He struggled to establish himself as an author. But after many false starts and battling a lifelong insecurity about his writing, Galsworthy turned an affectionately satirical eye on the world he knew best and created the indomitable Forsytes, a mirror image of his own relations – old Jolyon: his father; Irene: his beloved Ada, to name but a few. On reading the manuscript, his sister Lilian was alarmed that he could so expose their private lives, but John dismissed her fears saying only herself, Mabel and their mother, ‘who perhaps had better not read the book’, knew enough to draw comparisons. The Man of Property, the first book in The Forsyte Saga, was published to instant acclaim; Galsworthy’s fame as an author was now sealed.

By the time the first Forsyte trilogy had been completed, with In Chancery (1920) and To Let (1921), sales of The Forsyte Saga had reached one million on both sides of the Atlantic. With the public clambering for more, Galsworthy followed these with six more Forsyte novels, the last of which, Over The River, was completed just before his death in 1933. And their appeal endures, immortalised on screen in much-loved adaptations such as the film That Forsyte Woman (1949), starring Errol Flynn. The celebrated BBC drama in 1967 with Kenneth Moore and Eric Porter was a phenomenal success, emptying the pubs and churches of Britain on a Sunday evening, and reaching an estimated worldwide audience of 160 million. The recent popular 2002 production starred Damien Lewis, Rupert Graves and Ioan Gruffudd and won a Bafta TV award.

Undoubtedly The Forsyte Saga is Galsworthy’s most distinguished work, but he was well known, if not more successful in his time, as a dramatist. His inherent compassion meant Galsworthy was always involved in one cause or another, from women’s suffrage to a ban on ponies in mines, and his plays very much focus on the social injustices of his day. The Silver Box (1906) was his first major success, but Justice (1910), a stark depiction of prison life, had an even bigger impact. Winston Churchill was so impressed by it that he immediately arranged for prison reform, reducing the hours of solitary confinement. The Skin Game (1920) was another big hit and later adapted into a film, under the same title, by Alfred Hitchcock.

Despite Galsworthy’s literary success, his personal life was still troubled. Although he and Ada were deeply in love, the years of uncertainty had taken their toll. They never had children and their marriage reached a crisis in 1910 when Galsworthy formed a close friendship with a young dancer called Margaret Morris while working on one of his plays with her. But John, confused and tortured by the thought of betraying Ada, broke off all contact with Margaret in 1912 and went abroad with his wife. The rest of their lives were spent constantly on the move; travelling in America, Europe, or at home in London, Dartmoor and later Sussex. Numerous trips were made in connection with PEN, the international writers club, after Galsworthy was elected its first president in 1921. Many people have seen the constant travelling as unsettling for Galsworthy and destructive to his writing, but being with Ada was all that mattered to him: ‘This is what comes of giving yourself to a woman body and soul. A. paralyses and has always paralysed me. I have never been able to face the idea of being cut off from her.’

By the end of his life, Galsworthy, the man who had railed against poverty and injustice, had become an established, reputable figure in privileged society. Having earlier refused a knighthood, he was presented with an Order of Merit in 1929. And in 1932 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature. Although it was fashionable for younger writers to mock the traditional Edwardian authors, Virginia Woolf dismissing Galsworthy as a ‘stuffed shirt’, J.M. Barrie perceived his contradictory nature: ‘A queer fish, like the rest of us. So sincerely weighed down by the out-of-jointness of things socially ... but outwardly a man-about-town, so neat, so correct – he would go to the stake for his opinions but he would go courteously raising his hat.’

John Galsworthy died on January 31, 1933, at the age of sixty-five, at Grove Lodge in Hampstead, with Ada by his side. At his request, his ashes were scattered over Bury Hill in Sussex. The Times hailed him as the ‘mouthpiece’ of his age, ‘the interpreter in drama, and in fiction of a definite phase in English social history’.

By John Galsworthy and available as ebooks from Headline

The Man Of Property

In Chancery

To Let

The White Monkey

The Silver Spoon

Swan Song

Maid In Waiting

Flowering Wilderness

Over The River

The Forsyte Saga
The Silver Spoon

John Galsworthy

First published in Great Britain in 1926

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2011

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

eISBN: 978 0 7553 8777 9

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To John Fortescue

Forsyte Family Tree

‘But O, the thorns we stand upon!’

The Winter’s Tale, William Shakespeare

Part I

Chapter One

A Stranger

The young man, who, at the end of September, 1924, dismounted from a taxicab in South Square, Westminster, was so unobtrusively American that his driver had some hesitation in asking for double his fare. The young man had no hesitation in refusing it.

‘Are you unable to read?’ he said, softly. ‘Here’s four shillings.’

With that he turned his back and looked at the house before which he had descended. This, the first private English house he had ever proposed to enter, inspired him with a certain uneasiness, as of a man who expects to part with a family ghost. Comparing a letter with the number chased in pale brass on the door, he murmured: ‘It surely is,’ and rang the bell.

While waiting for the door to be opened, he was conscious of extreme quietude, broken by a clock chiming four as if with the voice of Time itself. When the last boom died, the door yawned inward, and a man, almost hairless, said:

‘Yes, sir?’

The young man removed a soft hat from a dark head.

‘This is Mrs Michael Mont’s house?’

‘Correct, sir.’

‘Will you give her my card, and this letter?’

‘“Mr Francis Wilmot, Naseby, S.C.” Will you wait in here, sir?’

Ushered through the doorway of a room on the right, Francis Wilmot was conscious of a commotion close to the ground, and some teeth grazing the calf of his leg.

‘Dandie!’ said the voice of the hairless man, ‘you little devil! That dog is a proper little brute with strangers, sir. Stand still! I’ve known him bite clean through a lady’s stockings.’

Francis Wilmot saw with interest a silver-grey dog nine inches high and nearly as broad, looking up at him with lustrous eyes above teeth of extreme beauty.

‘It’s the baby, sir,’ said the hairless man, pointing to a sort of nest on the floor before the fireless hearth; ‘he will go for people when he’s with the baby. But once he gets to smelling your trousers, he’s all right. Better not touch the baby, though. Mrs Mont was here a minute ago; I’ll take your card up to her.’

Francis Wilmot sat down on a settee in the middle of the room; and the dog lay between him and the baby.

And while the young man sat he gazed around him. The room was painted in panels of a sub-golden hue, with a silver-coloured ceiling. A clavichord, little golden ghost of a piano, stood at one end. Glass lustres, pictures of flowers and of a silvery-necked lady swinging a skirt and her golden slippers, adorned the walls. The curtains were of gold and silver. The silver-coloured carpet felt wonderfully soft beneath his feet, the furniture was of a golden wood.

The young man felt suddenly quite homesick. He was back in the living-room of an old ‘Colonial’ house, in the bend of a lonely South Carolina river, reddish in hue. He was staring at the effigy of his high-collared, red-coated great-grandfather, Francis Wilmot, Royalist major in the War of Independence. They always said it was like the effigy he saw when shaving every morning; the smooth dark hair drooping across his right temple, the narrow nose and lips, the narrow dark hand on the sword-hilt or the razor, the slits of dark eyes gazing steadily out. Young Francis was seeing the darkies working in the cotton-fields under a sun that he did not seem to have seen since he came over here; he was walking with his setter along the swamp edge, where Florida moss festooned the tall dolorous trees; he was thinking of the Wilmot inheritance, ruined in the Civil War, still decayed yet precious, and whether to struggle on with it, or to sell it to the Yank who wanted a weekend run-to from his Charleston dock job, and would improve it out of recognition. It would be lonely there, now that Anne had married that young Britisher, Jon Forsyte, and gone away north, to Southern Pines. And he thought of his sister, thus lost to him, dark, pale, vivid, ‘full of sand’. Yes! this room made him homesick, with its perfection, such as he had never beheld, where the only object out of keeping was that dog, lying on its side now, and so thick through that all its little legs were in the air. Softly he said:

‘It’s the prettiest room I ever was in.’

‘What a perfectly charming thing to overhear!’

A young woman, with crinkly chestnut hair above a creamy face, with smiling lips, a short straight nose, and very white dark-lashed eyelids active over dark hazel eyes, stood near the door. She came towards him, and held out her hand.

Francis Wilmot bowed over it, and said, gravely: ‘Mrs Michael Mont?’

‘So Jon’s married your sister. Is she pretty?’

‘She is.’

‘Very?’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘I hope baby has been entertaining you.’

‘He’s just great.’

‘He is, rather. I hear Dandie bit you?’

‘I reckon he didn’t break the cuticle.’

‘Haven’t you looked? But he’s quite healthy. Sit down, and tell me all about your sister and Jon. Is it a marriage of true minds?’

Francis Wilmot sat down.

‘It certainly is. Young Jon is a pretty white man, and Anne—’

He heard a sigh.

‘I’m very glad. He says in his letter that he’s awfully happy. You must come and stay here. You can be as free as you like. Look on us as an hotel.’

The young man’s dark eyes smiled.

‘That’s too good of you! I’ve never been on this side before. They got through the war too soon.’

Fleur took the baby out of its nest.

‘This creature doesn’t bite. Look – two teeth, but they don’t antagonise – isn’t that how you put it?’

‘What is its name?’

‘Kit – for Christopher. We agreed about its name, luckily. Michael – my husband – will be in directly. He’s in Parliament, you know. They’re not sitting till Monday – Ireland, of course. We only came back for it from Italy yesterday. Italy’s so wonderful – you must see it.’

‘Pardon me, but is that the Parliament clock that chimes so loud?’

‘Big Ben – yes. He marks time for them. Michael says Parliament is the best drag on Progress ever invented. With our first Labour Government, it’s been specially interesting this year. Don’t you think it’s rather touching the way this dog watches my baby? He’s got the most terrific jaw!’

‘What kind of dog is he?’

‘A Dandie Dinmont. We did have a Peke. It was a terrible tragedy. He would go after cats; and one day he struck a fighting Tom, and got clawed over both eyes – quite blinded – and so—’

The young man saw her eyes suddenly too bright. He made a soft noise, and said gently: ‘That was too bad.’

‘I had to change this room completely. It used to be Chinese. It reminded me too much.’

‘This little fellow would chaw any cat.’

‘Luckily he was brought up with kittens. We got him for his legs – they’re so bowed in front that he can hardly run, so he just suits the pram. Dan, show your legs!’

The Dandie looked up with a negative sound.

‘He’s a terrible little “character”. Do tell me, what’s Jon like now? Is he still English?’

The young man was conscious that she had uttered at last something really in her mind.

‘He is; but he’s a dandy fellow.’

‘And his mother? She used to be beautiful.’

‘And is to this day.’

‘She would be. Grey, I suppose, by now?’

‘Yes. You don’t like her?’

‘Well, I hope she won’t be jealous of your sister!’

‘I think, perhaps, you’re unjust.’

‘I think, perhaps, I am.’

She sat very still, her face hard above the baby’s. And the young man, aware of thoughts beyond his reach, got up.

‘When you write to Jon,’ she said, suddenly, ‘tell him that I’m awfully glad, and that I wish him luck. I shan’t write to him myself. May I call you Francis?’

Francis Wilmot bowed. ‘I shall be proud, ma’am.’

‘Yes; but you must call me Fleur. We’re sort of related, you know.’

The young man smiled, and touched the name with his lips.

‘Fleur! It’s a beautiful name!’

‘Your room will be ready when you come back. You’ll have a bathroom to yourself, of course.’

He put his lips to the hand held out.

‘It’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘I was feeling kind of homesick; I miss the sun over here.’

In going out, he looked back. Fleur had put her baby back in its nest, and was staring straight before her.

Chapter Two

Change

But more than the death of a dog had caused the regarnishing of Fleur’s Chinese room. On the evening of her twenty-second birthday Michael had come home saying:

‘Well, my child, I’ve chucked publishing. With old Danby always in the right – it isn’t a career.’

‘Oh! Michael, you’ll be bored to death.’

‘I’ll go into Parliament. It’s quite usual, and about the same screw.’

He had spoken in jest. Six days later it became apparent that she had listened in earnest.

‘You were absolutely right, Michael. It’s the very thing for you. You’ve got ideas.’

‘Other people’s.’

‘And the gift of the gab. We’re frightfully handy for the House, here.’

‘It costs money, Fleur.’

‘Yes; I’ve spoken to Father. It was rather funny – there’s never been a Forsyte, you know, anywhere near Parliament. But he thinks it’ll be good for me; and that it’s all baronets are fit for.’

‘One has to have a Seat, unfortunately.’

‘Well, I’ve sounded your father, too. He’ll speak to people. They want young men.’

‘Ah! And what are my politics?’

‘My dear boy, you must know – at thirty.’

‘I’m not a Liberal. But am I Labour or Tory?’

‘You can think it out before the next election!’

Next day, while he was shaving, and she was in her bath, he cut himself slightly and said:

‘The land and this unemployment is what I really care about. I’m a Foggartist.’

‘What?’

‘Old Sir James Foggart’s book, that he published after all. You read it.’

‘No.’

‘Well, you said so.’

‘So did others.’

‘Never mind – his eyes are fixed on 1944, and his policy’s according. Safety in the Air, the Land, and Child Emigration; adjustment of Supply and Demand within the Empire; cut our losses in Europe; and endure a worse Present for the sake of a better Future. Everything, in fact, that’s unpopular, and said to be impossible.’

‘Well, you could keep all that to yourself till you get in. You’ll have to stand as a Tory.’

‘How lovely you look!’

‘If you get in, you can disagree with everybody. That’ll give you a position from the start.’

‘Some scheme!’ murmured Michael.

‘You can initiate this – this Foggartism. He isn’t mad, is he?’

‘No, only too sane, which is much the same thing, of course. You see we’ve got a higher wage-scale than any other country except America and the Dominions; and it isn’t coming down again; we really group in with the new countries. He’s for growing as much of our food as we can, and pumping British town children, before they’re spoiled, into the Colonies, till Colonial demand for goods equals our supply. It’s no earthly, of course, without whole-hearted co-operation between the Governments within the Empire.’

‘It sounds very sensible.’

‘We published him, you know, but at his own expense. It’s a “faith and the mountain” stunt. He’s got the faith all right, but the mountain shows no signs of moving up to now.’

Fleur stood up. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘that’s settled. Your father says he can get you a nomination as a Tory, and you can keep your own views to yourself. You’ll get in on the human touch, Michael.’

‘Thank you, ducky. Can I help dry you?’ ...

Before redecorating her Chinese room, however, Fleur had waited till after Michael was comfortably seated for a division which professed to be interested in agriculture. She chose a blend between Adam and Louis Quinze. Michael called it the ‘bimetallic parlour’; and carried off ‘The White Monkey’ to his study. The creature’s pessimism was not, he felt, suited to political life.

Fleur had initiated her ‘salon’ with a gathering in February. The soul of society had passed away since the Liberal débâcle and Lady Alison’s politico-legal coterie no longer counted. Plainer people were in the ascendant. Her Wednesday evenings were youthful, with age represented by her father-in-law, two minor ambassadors, and Pevensey Blythe, editor of The Outpost. So unlike his literary style that he was usually mistaken for a Colonial Prime Minister, Blythe was a tall man with a beard, and grey bloodshot eyes, who expressed knowledge in paragraphs that few could really understand. ‘What Blythe thinks today, the Conservative Party will not think tomorrow,’ was said of him. He spoke in a small voice, and constantly used the impersonal pronoun.

‘One is walking in one’s sleep,’ he would say of the political situation, ‘and will wake up without any clothes on.’

A warm supporter of Sir James Foggart’s book, characterising it as ‘the masterpiece of a blind archangel’, he had a passion for listening to the clavichord, and was invaluable in Fleur’s ‘salon’.

Freed from poetry and modern music, from Sibley Swan, Walter Nazing and Hugo Solstis, Fleur was finding time for her son – the eleventh baronet. He represented for her the reality of things. Michael might have posthumous theories, and Labour predatory hopes, but for her the year 1944 would see the eleventh baronet come of age. That Kit should inherit an England worth living in was of more intrinsic importance than anything they proposed in the Commons and were unable to perform. All those houses they were going to build, for instance – very proper, but a little unnecessary if Kit still had Lippinghall Manor and South Square, Westminster, to dwell in. Not that Fleur voiced such cynical convictions, or admitted them even to herself. She did orthodox lip-service to the great god Progress.

The Peace of the World, Hygiene, Trade, and the End of Unemployment, preoccupied all, irrespective of Party, and Fleur was in the fashion; but instinct, rather than Michael and Sir James Foggart, told her that the time-honoured motto: ‘Eat your cake and have it’, which underlay the platforms of all Parties, was not ‘too frightfully’ sound. So long as Kit had cake, it was no good bothering too deeply about the rest; though, of course, one must seem to. Fluttering about her ‘salon’ – this to that person, and that to the other, and to all so pretty, she charmed by her grace, her common sense, her pliancy. Not infrequently she attended at the House, and sat, not listening too much to the speeches, yet picking up, as it were, by a sort of seventh sense (if women in Society all had six, surely Fleur had seven) what was necessary to the conduct of that ‘salon’ – the rise and fall of the Governmental barometer, the catchwords and clichés of policy; and, more valuable, impressions of personality, of the residuary man within the Member. She watched Michael’s career, with the fostering eye of a godmother who has given her godchild a blue morocco prayer-book, in the hope that some day he may remember its existence. Although a sedulous attendant at the House all through the spring and summer, Michael had not yet opened his mouth, and so far she had approved of his silence, while nurturing his desire to know his own mind by listening to his wanderings in Foggartism. If it were indeed the only permanent cure for Unemployment, as he said, she too was a Foggartist; common sense assuring her that the only real danger to Kit’s future lay in that national malady. Eliminate Unemployment, and nobody would have time to make a fuss. But her criticisms were often pertinent:

‘My dear boy, does a country ever sacrifice the present for the sake of the future?’ or: ‘Do you really think country life is better than town life?’ or: ‘Can you imagine sending Kit out of England at fourteen to some Godforsaken end of the world?’ or: ‘Do you suppose the towns will have it?’ And they roused Michael to such persistence and fluency that she felt he would really catch on in time – like old Sir Giles Snoreham, whom they would soon be making a peer, because he had always worn low-crowned hats and advocated a return to hansom cabs. Hats, buttonholes, an eyeglass – she turned over in her mind all such little realities as help a political career.

‘Plain glass doesn’t harm the sight; and it really has a focusing value, Michael.’

‘My child, it’s never done my dad a bit of good; I doubt, if it’s sold three copies of any of his books. No! If I get on, it’ll be by talking.’

But still she encouraged him to keep his mouth shut.

‘It’s no good starting wrong, Michael. These Labour people aren’t going to last out the year.’

‘Why not?’

‘Their heads are swelling, and their tempers going. They’re only on sufferance; people on sufferance have got to be pleasant or they won’t be suffered. When they go out, the Tories will get in again and probably last. You’ll have several years to be eccentric in, and by the time they’re out again, you’ll have your licence. Just go on working the human touch in your constituency; I’m sure it’s a mistake to forget you’ve got constituents.’

Michael spent most week-ends that summer working the human touch in mid-Bucks; and Fleur spent most weekends with the eleventh baronet at her father’s house near Mapledurham.

Since wiping the dust of the city off his feet, after that affair of Elderson and the P.P.R.S., Soames had become almost too countrified for a Forsyte. He had bought the meadows on the far side of the river and several Jersey cows. Not that he was going in for farming or nonsense of that sort, but it gave him an interest to punt himself over and see them milked. He had put up a good deal of glass, too, and was laying down melons. The English melon was superior to any other, and every year’s connection with a French wife made him more and more inclined to eat what he grew himself. After Michael was returned for Parliament, Fleur had sent him Sir James Foggart’s book, The Parlous State of England. When it came, he said to Annette:

‘I don’t know what she thinks I want with this great thing!’

‘To read it, Soames, I suppose.’

Soames sniffed, turning the pages.

‘I can’t tell what it’s all about.’

‘I will sell it at my bazaar, Soames. It will do for some good man who can read English.’

From that moment Soames began almost unconsciously to read the book. He found it a peculiar affair, which gave most people some good hard knocks. He began to enjoy them, especially the chapter deprecating the workman’s dislike of parting with his children at a reasonable age. Having never been outside Europe, he had a somewhat sketchy idea of places like South Africa, Australia, Canada, and New Zealand; but this old fellow Foggart, it appeared, had been there, and knew what he was talking about. What he said about their development seemed quite sensible. Children who went out there put on weight at once, and became owners of property at an age when in England they were still delivering parcels, popping in and out of jobs, hanging about street corners, and qualifying for unemployment and Communism. Get them out of England! There was a startling attraction in the idea for one who was English to a degree. He was in favour, too, of what was said about growing food and making England safe in the air. And then, slowly, he turned against it. The fellow was too much of a Jeremiah altogether. He complained to Fleur that the book dealt with nothing but birds in the bush; it was unpractical. What did ‘Old Mont’ say?

‘He won’t read it; he says he knows old Foggart.’

‘H’m!’ said Soames, ‘I shouldn’t be surprised if there were something in it, then.’ That little-headed baronet was old fashioned! ‘Anyway it shows that Michael’s given up those Labour fellows.’

‘Michael says Foggartism will be Labour’s policy when they understand all it means.’

‘How’s that?’

‘He thinks it’s going to do them much more good than anybody else. He says one or two of their leaders are beginning to smell it out, and that the rest of the leaders are bound to follow in time.’

‘In that case,’ said Soames, ‘it’ll never go down with their rank and file.’ And for two minutes he sat in a sort of trance. Had he said something profound, or had he not?

Fleur’s presence at weekends with the eleventh baronet was extremely agreeable to him. Though at first he had felt a sort of disappointment that his grandchild was not a girl – an eleventh baronet belonged too definitely to the Monts – he began, as the months wore on, to find him ‘an engaging little chap’, and in any case, to have him down at Mapledurham kept him away from Lippinghall. It tried him at times, of course, to see how the women hung about the baby – there was something very excessive about motherhood. He had noticed it with Annette; he noticed it now with Fleur. French – perhaps! He had not remembered his own mother making such a fuss; indeed, he could not remember anything that happened when he was one. A weekend, when Madame Lamotte, Annette and Fleur were all hanging over his grandson, three generations of maternity concentrated on that pudgy morsel, reduced him to a punt, fishing for what he felt sure nobody would eat.

By the time he had finished Sir James Foggart’s book, the disagreeable summer of 1924 was over, and a more disagreeable September had set in. The mellow golden days that glow up out of a haze which stars with dewdrops every cobweb on a gate, simply did not come. It rained, and the river was so unnaturally full, that the newspapers were at first unnaturally empty – there was literally no news of drought; they filled up again slowly with reports of the wettest summer ‘for thirty years’. Calm, greenish with weed and tree shadow, the river flowed unendingly between Soames’s damp lawn and his damp meadows. There were no mushrooms. Blackberries tasted of rain. Soames made a point of eating one every year, and, by the flavour, could tell what sort of year it had been. There was a good deal of ‘old-man’s-beard’. In spite of all this, however, he was more cheerful than he had been for ages. Labour had been ‘in’, if not in real power, for months, and the heavens had only lowered. Forced by Labourin-office to take some notice of politics, he would utter prophecies at the breakfast-table. They varied somewhat, according to the news; and, since he always forgot those which did not come true, he was constantly able to tell Annette that he had told her so. She took no interest, however, occupied, like a woman, with her bazaars and jammaking, running about in the car, shopping in London, attending garden-parties; and, in spite of her tendency to put on flesh, still remarkably handsome. Jack Cardigan, his niece Imogen’s husband, had made him a sixty-ninth-birthday present of a set of golf-clubs. This was more puzzling to Soames than anything that had ever happened to him. What on earth was he to do with them? Annette, with that French quickness which so often annoyed him, suggested that he should use them. She was uncomfortable! At his age—! And then, one weekend in May the fellow himself had come down with Imogen, and, teeing a ball up on half a molehill, had driven it across the river.

‘I’ll bet you a box of cigars, Uncle Soames, that you don’t do that before we leave on Monday.’

‘I never bet,’ said Soames, ‘and I don’t smoke.’

‘Time you began both. Look here, we’ll spend tomorrow learning to knock the ball!’

‘Absurd!’ said Soames.

But in his room that night he had stood in his pyjamas swinging his arms in imitation of Jack Cardigan. The next day he sent the women out in the car with their lunch; he was not going to have them grinning at him. He had seldom spent more annoying hours than those which followed. They culminated in a moment when at last he hit the ball, and it fell into the river three yards from the near bank. He was so stiff next morning in arms and ribs, that Annette had to rub him till he said:

‘Look out! you’re taking the skin off!’

He had, however, become infected. After destroying some further portions of his lawn, he joined the nearest Golf Club, and began to go round by himself during the luncheon-hour, accompanied by a little boy. He kept at it with characteristic tenacity, till by July he had attained a certain proficiency; and he began to say to Annette that it would do her all the good in the world to take it up, and keep her weight down.

‘Merci, Soames,’ she would reply; ‘I have no wish to be the figure of your English Misses, flat as a board before and behind.’ She was reactionary, ‘like her nation’; and Soames, who at heart had a certain sympathy with curves, did not seriously press the point. He found that the exercise jogged both his liver and his temper. He began to have colour in his cheeks. The day after his first nine-hole round with Jack Cardigan, who had given him three strokes a hole and beaten him by nine holes, he received a package which, to his dismay, contained a box of cigars. What the fellow was about, he could not imagine! He only discovered when, one evening a few days later, sitting at the window of his picture gallery, he found that he had one in his mouth. Curiously enough, it did not make him sick. It produced rather something of the feeling he used to enjoy after ‘doing Coué’ – now comparatively out of fashion, since an American, so his sister Winifred said, had found a shorter cut. A suspicion, however, that the family had set Jack Cardigan on, prevented him from indulging his new sensation anywhere but in his picture gallery; so that cigars gathered the halo of a secret vice. He renewed his store stealthily. Only when he found that Annette, Fleur, and others had known for weeks, did he relax his rule, and say openly that the vice of the present day was cigarettes.

‘My dear boy,’ said Winifred, when she next saw him, ‘everybody’s saying you’re a different man!’

Soames raised his eyebrows. He was not conscious of any change.

‘That chap Cardigan,’ he said, ‘is a funny fellow! ... I’m going to dine and sleep at Fleur’s; they’re just back from Italy. The House sits on Monday.’

‘Yes,’ said Winifred; ‘very fussy of them – sitting in the Long Vacation.’

‘Ireland!’ said Soames, deeply. ‘A pretty pair of shoes again!’ Always had been; always would be!