Out of his mouth the word ‘Foggartism’ wreathed like the smoke of a cigar. Above a hole in the middle distance, a meercat’s body supported the upturned face and applauding forepaws of Mr. Blythe. The thing was devastating in treatment and design–not unkind, merely killing. Michael’s face had been endowed with a sort of after-dinner rapture, as if he were enjoying the sound of his own voice. Ridicule! Not even a personal friend, an artist, could see that the wilderness was at least as deserving of ridicule as the pelican! The cartoon seemed to write the word futility large across his page. It recalled to him Fleur’s words at the outset: “And by the time the Tories go out you’ll have your licence.” She was a born realist! From the first she had foreseen for him the position of an eccentric, picturesquely beating a little private drum! A dashed good cartoon! And no one could appreciate it so deeply as its victim. But why did every one smile at Foggartism? Why? Because among a people who naturally walked, it leaped like a grasshopper; to a nation that felt its way in fog, it seemed a will-o’-the-wisp. Yes, he was a fool for his pains! And–just then, Soames arrived.
“I’ve been to see that Scotchman,” he said. “He means to take it into Court.”
“Oh! Not really, sir! I always thought you’d keep it out.”
“Only an unqualified apology will do that. Fleur can’t give it; she’s in the right. Can you come down with me now and see Sir James Foskisson?”
They set out in a taxi for the Temple.
The chambers of very young Nicholas Forsyte were in Paper Buildings. Chinny, mild and nearly forty, he succeeded within ten minutes in presenting to them every possible doubt.
“He seems to enjoy the prospect of getting tonked,” murmured Michael while they were going over to Sir James.
“A poor thing,” Soames responded; “but careful. Foskisson must attend to the case himself.”
After those necessary minutes during which the celebrated K. C. was regathering from very young Nicholas what it was all about, they were ushered into the presence of one with a large head garnished by small grey whiskers, and really obvious brains. Since selecting him, Soames had been keeping his eye on the great advocate; had watched him veiling his appeals to a jury with an air of scrupulous equity; very few–he was convinced–and those not on juries, could see Sir James Foskisson coming round a corner. Soames had specially remarked his success in cases concerned with morals or nationality–no one so apt at getting a co-respondent, a German, a Russian, or anybody at all bad, non-suited! At close quarters his whiskers seemed to give him an intensive respectability–difficult to imagine him dancing, gambling, or in bed. In spite of his practice, too, he enjoyed the reputation of being thorough; he might be relied on to know more than half the facts of any case by the time he went into Court, and to pick up the rest as he went along–or at least not to show that he hadn’t. Very young Nicholas, knowing all the facts, had seemed quite unable to see what line could possibly be taken. Sir James, on the other hand, appeared to know only just enough. Sliding his light eyes from Soames to Michael, he retailed them, and said: “Eminently a case for an amicable settlement.”
“Indeed!” said Soames.
Something in his voice seemed to bring Sir James to attention.
“Have you attempted that?”
“I have gone to the limit.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Forsyte, but what do you regard as the limit?”
“Fifteen hundred pounds, and a mutual expression of regret. They’d accept the money, but they ask for an unqualified apology.”
The great lawyer rested his chin. “Have you tried the unqualified apology without the money?”
“No.”
“I would almost be inclined. MacGown is a very rich man. The shadow and the substance, eh? The expressions in the letters are strong. What do you say, Mr. Mont?”
“Not so strong as those she used of my wife.”
Sir James Foskisson looked at very young Nicholas.
“Let me see,” he said, “those were–?”
“Lion-huntress, and snob,” said Michael, curtly.
Sir James wagged his head precisely as if it were a pair of scales.
“Immoral, snake, traitress, without charm–you think those weaker?”
“They don’t make you snigger, sir, the others do. In Society it’s the snigger that counts.”
Sir James smiled.
“The jury won’t be in Society, Mr. Mont.”
“My wife doesn’t feel like making an apology, anyway, unless there’s an expression of regret on the other side; and I don’t see why she should.”
Sir James Foskisson seemed to breathe more freely.
“In that case,” he said, “we have to consider whether to use the detective’s evidence or not. If we do, we shall need to subpoena the hall porter and the servants at Mr–er–Curfew’s flat.”
“Exactly,” said Soames; “that’s what we’re here to decide.” It was as if he had said: ‘The conference is now opened.’
Sir James perused the detective’s evidence for five silent minutes.
“If this is confirmed, even partially,” he said, at last, “we win.”
Michael had gone to the window. The trees in the garden had tiny buds; some pigeons were strutting on the grass below. He heard Soames say:
“I ought to tell you that they’ve been shadowing my daughter. There’s nothing, of course, except some visits to a young American dangerously ill of pneumonia at his hotel.”
“Of which I knew and approved,” said Michael, without turning round.
“Could we call him?”
“I believe he’s still at Bournemouth. But he was in love with Miss Ferrar.”
Sir James turned to Soames.
“If there’s no question of a settlement, we’d better go for the gloves. Merely to cross-examine as to books and play and clubs, is very inconclusive.”
“Have you read the dark scene in ‘The Plain Dealer’?” asked Soames; “and that novel, ‘Canthar’?”
“All very well, Mr. Forsyte, but impossible to say what a jury would make of impersonal evidence like that.”
Michael had come back to his seat.
“I’ve a horror,” he said, “of dragging in Miss Ferrar’s private life.”
“No doubt. But do you want me to win the case?”
“Not that way. Can’t we go into Court, say nothing, and pay up?”
Sir James Foskisson smiled and looked at Soames. ‘Really,’ he seemed to say, ‘why did you bring me this young man?’
Soames, however, had been pursuing his own thoughts.
“There’s too much risk about that flat; if we failed there, it might be a matter of twenty thousand pounds. Besides, they would certainly call my daughter. I want to prevent that at all costs. I thought you could turn the whole thing into an indictment of modern morality.”
Sir James Foskisson moved in his chair, and the pupils of his light-blue eyes became as pinpoints. He nodded almost imperceptibly three times, precisely as if he had seen the Holy Ghost.
“When shall we be reached?” he said to very young Nicholas.
“Probably next Thursday–Mr. Justice Brane.”
“Very well. I’ll see you again on Monday. Good evening.” And he sank back into an immobility, which neither Soames nor Michael felt equal to disturbing.
They went away silent–very young Nicholas tarrying in conversation with Sir James’ devil.
Turning at the Temple station, Michael murmured:
“It was just as if he’d said: ‘Some stunt!’ wasn’t it? I’m looking in at The Outpost, sir. If you’re going back to Fleur, will you tell her?”
Soames nodded. There it was! He had to do everything that was painful.
Chapter II.
“NOT GOING TO HAVE IT”
In the office of The Outpost Mr. Blythe had just been in conversation with one of those great business men who make such deep impression on all to whom they voice their views in strict confidence. If Sir Thomas Lockit did not precisely monopolise the control of manufacture in Great Britain, he, like others, caused almost any one to think so–his knowledge was so positive and his emphasis so cold. In his view the Country must resume the position held before the Great War. It all hinged on coal–a question of this seven hours a day; and they were “not going to have it.” A shilling, perhaps two shillings, off the cost of coal. They were “not going to have” Europe doing without British produce. Very few people knew Sir Thomas Lockit’s mind; but nearly all who did were extraordinarily gratified.
Mr. Blythe, however, was biting his finger, and spitting out the result.
“Who was that fellow with the grey moustache?” asked Michael.
“Lockit. He’s ‘not going to have it.’”
“Oh!” said Michael, in some surprise.
“One sees more and more, Mont, that the really dangerous people are not the politicians, who want things with public passion–that is, mildly, slowly; but the big business men, who want things with private passion, strenuously, quickly. They know their own minds; and if we don’t look out they’ll wreck the country.”
“What are they up to now?” said Michael.
“Nothing for the moment; but it’s brewing. One sees in Lockit the futility of will-power. He’s not going to have what it’s entirely out of his power to prevent. He’d like to break Labour and make it work like a nigger from sheer necessity. Before that we shall be having civil war. Some of the Labour people, of course, are just as bad–they want to break everybody. It’s a bee nuisance. If we’re all to be plunged into industrial struggles again, how are we to get on with Foggartism?”
“I’ve been thinking about the Country,” said Michael. “Aren’t we beating the air, Blythe? Is it any good telling a man who’s lost a lung, that what he wants is a new one?”
Mr. Blythe puffed out one cheek.
“Yes,” he said, “the Country had a hundred very settled years–Waterloo to the War–to get into its present state; it’s got its line of life so fixed and its habits so settled that nobody–neither editors, politicians, nor business men–can think except in terms of its bloated town industrialism. The Country’s got beyond the point of balance in that hundred settled years, and it’ll want fifty settled years to get back to that point again. The real trouble is that we’re not going to get fifty settled years. Some bee thing or other–war with Turkey or Russia, trouble in India, civil ructions, to say nothing of another general flare-up–may knock the bottom out of any settled plans any time. We’ve struck a disturbed patch of history, and we know it in our bones, and live from hand to mouth, according.”
“Well, then!” said Michael, glumly, thinking of what the Minister had said to him at Lippinghall.
Mr. Blythe puffed out the other cheek.
“No backsliding, young man! In Foggartism we have the best goods we can see before us, and we must bee well deliver them, as best we can. We’ve outgrown all the old hats.”
“Have you seen Aubrey Greene’s cartoon?”
“I have.”
“Good–isn’t it? But what I realty came in to tell you, is that this beastly libel case of ours will be on next week.”
Mr. Blythe’s ears moved.
“I’m sorry for that. Win or lose–nothing’s worse for public life than private ructions. You’re not going to have it, are you?”
“We can’t help it. But our defence is to be confined to an attack on the new morality.”
“One can’t attack what isn’t,” said Mr. Blythe.
“D’you mean to say,” said Michael, grinning, “that you haven’t noticed the new morality?”
“Certainly not. Formulate it if you can.”
“‘Don’t be stupid, don’t be dull.’”
Mr. Blythe grunted. “The old morality used to be: ‘Behave like a gentleman.’”
“Yes! But in modern thought there ain’t no sich an animal.”
“There are fragments lying about; they reconstructed Neanderthal man from half a skull.”
“A word that’s laughed at can’t be used, Blythe.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Blythe. “The chief failings of your generation, young Mont, are sensitiveness to ridicule, and terror of being behind the times. It’s bee weakminded.”
Michael grinned.
“I know it. Come down to the House. Parsham’s Electrification Bill is due. We may get some lights on Unemployment.”
Having parted from Mr. Blythe in the Lobby, Michael came on his father walking down a corridor with a short bright old man in a trim grey beard.
“Ah! Michael, we’ve been seeking you. Marquess, my hopeful son! The marquess wants to interest you in electricity.”
Michael removed his hat.
“Will you come to the reading-room, sir?”
This, as he knew, was Marjorie Ferrar’s grandfather, and might be useful. In a remote corner of a room lighted so that nobody could see anyone else reading, they sat down in triangular formation.
“You know about electricity, Mr. Mont?” said the marquess.
“No, sir, except that more of it would be desirable in this room.”
“Everywhere, Mr. Mont. I’ve read about your Foggartism; if you’ll allow me to say so, it’s quite possibly the policy of the future; but nothing will be done with it till you’ve electrified the country. I should like you to start by supporting this Bill of Parsham’s.”
And, with an engaging distinction of syllable, the old peer proceeded to darken Michael’s mind.
“I see, sir,” said Michael, at last. “This Bill ought to add considerably to Unemployment.”
“Temporarily.”
“I wonder if I ought to take on any more temporary trouble. I’m finding it difficult enough to interest people in the future as it is–they seem to think the present so important.”
Sir Lawrence whinnied.
“You must give him time and pamphlets, Marquess. But, my dear fellow, while your Foggartism is confined to the stable, you’ll want a second horse.”
“I’ve been advised already to take up the state of the traffic or penny postage. And, by the way, sir, that case of ours is coming into Court, next week.”
Sir Lawrence’s loose eyebrow shot up:
“Oh!” he said. “Do you remember, Marquess–your granddaughter and my daughter-inlaw? I came to you about it.”
“Something to do with lions? A libel, was it?” said the old peer. “My aunt–”
While Michael was trying to decide whether this was an ejaculation or the beginning of a reminiscence, his father broke in:
“Ah! yes, an interesting case that, Marquess–it’s all in Betty Montecourt’s Memoirs.”
“Libels,” resumed the marquess, “had flavour in those days. The words complained of were: ‘Her crinoline covers her considerable obliquity.’”
“If anything’s to be done to save scandal,” muttered Michael, “it must be done now. We’re at a deadlock.”
“Could YOU put in a word, sir?” said Sir Lawrence.
The marquess’s beard quivered.
“I see from the papers that my granddaughter is marrying a man called MacGown, a Member of this House. Is he about?”
“Probably,” said Michael. “But I had a row with him. I think, sir, there would be more chance with her.”
The marquess rose. “I’ll ask her to breakfast. I dislike publicity. Well, I hope you’ll vote for this Bill, Mr. Mont, and think over the question of electrifying the Country. We want young men interested. I’m going to the Peers’ Gallery, now. Good-bye!”
When briskly he had gone, Michael said to his father: “If he’s not going to have it, I wish he’d ask Fleur to breakfast too. There are two parties to this quarrel.”
Chapter III.
SOAMES DRIVES HOME
Soames in the meantime was seated with one of those parties in her ‘parlour.’ She had listened in silence, but with a stubborn and resentful face. What did he know of the loneliness and frustration she had been feeling? Could he tell that the thrown stone had starred her mirrored image of herself; that the words ‘snob,’ and ‘lion-huntress,’ had entered her very soul? He could not understand the spiritual injury she had received, the sudden deprivation of that self-importance, and hope of rising, necessary to all. Concerned by the expression on her face, preoccupied with the practical aspects of the ‘circus’ before them, and desperately involved in thoughts of how to keep her out of it as much as possible, Soames was reduced to the closeness of a fish.
“You’ll be sitting in front, next to me,” he said. “I shouldn’t wear anything too bright. Would you like your mother there, too?”
Fleur shrugged her shoulders.
“Just so,” said Soames. “But if she wants to come, she’d better, perhaps. Brane is not a joking judge, thank goodness. Have you ever been in a Court?”
“No.”
“The great thing is to keep still, and pay no attention to anything. They’ll all be behind you, except the jury–and there’s nothing in them really. If you look at them, don’t smile!”
“Why? Aren’t they safe, Dad?”
Soames put the levity aside.
“I should wear a small hat. Michael must sit on your left. Have you got over that–er–not telling each other things?”
“Yes.”
“I shouldn’t begin it again. He’s very fond of you.”
Fleur nodded.
“Is there anything you want to tell ME? You know I–I worry about you.”
Fleur got up and sat on the arm of his chair; he had at once a feeling of assuagement.
“I really don’t care now. The harm’s done. I only hope SHE’LL have a bad time.”
Soames, who had the same hope, was somewhat shocked by its expression.
He took leave of her soon after and got into his car for the dark drive back to Mapledurham.
The Spring evening was cold and he had the windows up. At first he thought of very little; and then of still less. He had passed a tiring afternoon, and was glad of the slight smell of stephanotis provided by Annette. The road was too familiar to rouse his thoughts, beyond wonder at the lot of people there always seemed to be in the world between six and seven. He dozed his way into the new cut, woke, and dozed again. What was this–Slough? Before going to Marlborough he had been at school there with young Nicholas and St. John Hayman, and after his time, some other young Forsytes. Nearly sixty years ago! He remembered his first day–a brand-new little boy in a brand-new little top-hat, with a playbox stored by his mother with things to eat, and blessed with the words: “There, Summy dear, that’ll make you popular.” He had reckoned on having command of that corruption for some weeks; but no sooner had he produced a bit of it, than they had taken the box, and suggested to him that it would be a good thing to eat the lot. In twenty-two minutes twenty-two boys had materially increased their weight, and he himself, in handing out the contents, had been obliged to eat less than a twenty-third. They had left him one packet of biscuits, and those had caraway seeds, for which he had constitutionally no passion whatever. Afterwards three other new boys had complained that he was a fool for having it all eaten up like that, instead of saving it for them, and he had been obliged to sit on their heads one by one. His popularity had lasted twenty-two minutes, and, so far as he knew, had never come back. He had been against Communism ever since.
Bounding a little on the cushioned seat, he remembered poignantly his own cousin St. John Hayman pushing him into a gorse-bush and holding him there for an appreciable minute. Horrid little brutes, boys! For a moment he felt quite grateful to Michael for trying to get them out of England. And yet–! He had some pleasant memories even of boys. There was his collection of butterflies–he had sold two Red Admirals in poor condition to a boy for one-and-threepence. To be a boy again–h’m–and shoot peas at passengers in a train that couldn’t stop, and drink cherry brandy going home, and win a prize by reciting two hundred lines of ‘The Lady of the Lake’ better than ‘Cherry–Tart’ Burroughes–Um? What had become of ‘Cherry–Tart’ Burroughes, who had so much money at school that his father went bankrupt! ‘Cherry–Tart’ Burroughes!
The loom of Slough faded. One was in rank country now, and he ground the handle of the window to get a little fresh air. A smell of trees and grass came in. Boys out of England! They had funny accents in those great places overseas. Well, they had funny accents here, too. The accent had been all right at Slough–if it wasn’t a boy got lammed. He remembered the first time his father and mother–James and Emily–came down; very genteel (before the word was flyblown), all whiskers and crinoline; the beastly boys had made personal remarks which had hurt him! Get ’em out of England! But in those days there had been nowhere for boys to go. He took a long breath of the wayside air. They said England was changed, spoiled, some even said ‘done for.’ Bosh! It still smelt the same! His great uncle ‘Superior Dosset’s’ brother Simon had gone as a boy to Bermuda at the beginning of the last century, and had he been heard of since? Not he. Young Jon Forsyte and his mother–his own first, unfaithful, still not quite forgotten wife–had gone to the States–would they be heard of again? He hoped not. England! Some day, when he had time and the car was free, he would go and poke round on the border of Dorset and Devon where the Forsytes came from. There was nothing there–he understood, and he wouldn’t care to let anybody know of his going; but the earth must be some sort of colour, and there would be a graveyard, and–ha! Maidenhead! These sprawling villas and hotels and gramophones spoiled the river. Funny that Fleur had never been very fond of the river; too slow and wet, perhaps–everything was quick and dry now, like America. But had they such a river as the Thames anywhere out of England? Not they! Nothing that ran green and clear and weedy, where you could sit in a punt and watch the cows, and those big elms, and the poplars. Nothing that was safe and quiet, where you called your soul your own and thought of Constable and Mason and Walker.
His car bumped something slightly, and came to a stand. That fellow Riggs was always bumping something! He looked out. The chauffeur had got down and was examining his mudguard.
“What was that?” said Soames.
“I think it was a pig, sir.”
“Where?”
“Shall I drive on, or see?”
Soames looked round. There seemed no habitations in sight.
“Better see.”
The chauffeur disappeared behind the car. Soames remained seated. He had never had any pigs. They said the pig was a clean animal. People didn’t treat pigs properly. It was very quiet! No cars on the road; in the silence the wind was talking a little in the hedgerow. He noticed some stars.
“It is a pig, sir; he’s breathing.”
“Oh!” said Soames. If a cat had nine, how many lives had a pig? He remembered his father James’ only riddle: “If a herring and a half cost three-a’pence, what’s the price of a gridiron?” When still very small, he had perceived that it was unanswerable.
“Where is he?” he said.
“In the ditch, sir.”
A pig was property, but if in the ditch, nobody would notice it till after he was home. “Drive on,” he said: “No! Wait.’” And, opening the near door, he got out. After all, the pig was in distress. “Show me,” he said, and moved in the tail-light of his car to where the chauffeur stood pointing. There, in the shallow ditch, was a dark object emitting cavernous low sounds, as of a man asleep in a Club chair.
“It must belong to one of them cottages we passed a bit back,” said the chauffeur.
Soames looked at the pig.
“Anything broken?”
“No, sir; the mudguard’s all right. I fancy it copped him pretty fair.”
“In the pig, I meant.”
The chauffeur touched the pig with his boot. It squealed, and Soames quivered. Some one would hear! Just like that fellow, drawing attention to it–no gumption whatever! But how, without touching, did you find out whether anything was broken in the pig? He moved a step and saw the pig’s eyes; and a sort of fellow-feeling stirred in him. What if it had a broken leg! Again the chauffeur touched it with his foot. The pig uttered a lamentable noise, and, upheaving its bulk, squealing and grunting, trotted off. Soames hastily resumed his seat. “Drive on!” he said. Pigs! They never thought of anything but themselves; and cottagers were just as bad–very unpleasant about cars. And he wasn’t sure they weren’t right–tearing great things! The pig’s eye seemed looking at him again from where his feet were resting. Should he keep some, now that he had those meadows on the other side of the river?
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