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A pretty how-de-do! There’d be a lot of volunteering here–if–if–! Only he didn’t know, he couldn’t tell what use England could be except at sea.
He got out of the punt and walked slowly up past the house to his front gate. Heat was over, light paling, stars peering through, the air smelled a little of dust. Soames stood like some pelican awaiting it knew not what. A motor-cycle came sputtering from the direction of Reading. The rider, in dusty overalls, flung words at him:
“Pawlyment! We’re goin’ in!” and sputtered past. Soames stretched out a hand. So might a blind man have moved.
Going in? With little food inside and the stars above him, all the imaginative power, which as a rule he starved, turned active, clutched and groped. Scattered, scuttling images of war came flying across the screen of his consciousness like so many wild geese over the sand, over the sea, out of the darkness into the darkness of a layman’s mind; a layman who had thought in terms of peace all his days, and his days many. What a thing to happen to one at sixty! They might have waited till he was like old Timothy. Anxiety! That was it, anxiety. Kitchener was over from Egypt, they said. That was something. A grim-looking chap, with his eyes fixed beyond you like a lion’s at the Zoo; but he’d always come through. Soames remembered, suddenly, his sensations during the black week of the Boer war–potty little affair, compared with this. And there was old Roberts–too old, he supposed.
‘But perhaps,’ he thought, ‘we shan’t have to fight on land.’ Besides, who knew? The Germans might come to their senses yet, when they heard England was going in. There was Russia, she had more millions than all the rest put together–Steam-roller, they called her; but had she the steam? Japan had beaten her.
‘Well!’ and the thought gave him the queerest feeling, proud and miserable: ‘If we begin, we shall hold on.’ There was something at once terrible to him and deeply satisfying about that instinctive knowledge. They’d be singing “Rule Britannia” everywhere to-night–he shouldn’t wonder. People didn’t THINK–a little-headed lot!
The stars burned through a sky growing blue-dark. All over Europe men and guns moving–all over the seas ships tearing along. And this silence–this hush before the storm. That couldn’t last. No; there they were already–singing back there along the road–drunk, he should say. Tune–words–he didn’t know them–vulgar stuff:
“It’s a long long way to Tipperary,
It’s a long, long way to go…
Good-bye, Piccadilly, Farewell, Leicester Square!
It’s a long, long way to Tipperary,
And my heart’s right there!”
What had that to do with it–he should like to know? They were cheering now. Some beanfeast or other had got the news–common people! But–common or not, tonight all was England, England! Well, he must go indoors.
2
Silence, as of one stricken by decision, come to instinctively rather than by will, weighed on Soames that night and all next day. He read ‘that chap Grey’s’ speech and, in conspiracy with his country, waited for what he felt would never come: an answer to the ultimatum sent. The Germans had tasted of force, and would never go back on their invasion of Belgium.
In the afternoon he could neither bear his own gloom nor the excitement of Annette, and, walking to the station, he took a train to Town. The streets seemed full and to get fuller every minute. He sat down late, at the Connoisseurs’ Club, to dine. When he had finished a meal which seemed to stick in his gizzard, he went downstairs. From his seat in the window he could see St. James’ Street, and the people eddying down it towards the centre of the country’s life. He sat there practically alone. At eleven–they said–the ultimatum would expire. In this quiet room, where the furniture and wall-decorations had been accumulated for men of taste throughout a century of peace, was the reality of life as he had known it, the reality of Victorian and Edwardian England. The Boer wars, and all those other little wars, Ashanti, Afghan, Soudan, expeditionary adventures, professional affairs far away, had hardly ruffled the minds of Connoisseurs. One had walked and talked upon one’s normal way, just conscious of their disagreeable necessity, and their stimulation at breakfast time, like a pinch of Glauber’s salts. But this great thing–why, it had united even the politicians, so he had read in the paper that morning. And there came into his mind Lewis Carroll’s rhyme:
“And then came down a monstrous crow,
As black as a tar-barrel;
It frightened both the heroes so
They quite forgot their quarrel.”
He got up and moved, restless, into the hall. All there was of connoisseur in the club was gathered round the tape–some half-dozen members, none of whom he knew. Soames stood a little apart. Somebody turned and spoke to him. A shrinking from his fellows, accentuated in Soames’ emotional moments, sent a shiver down his spine. He couldn’t stay here and have chaps babbling. Answering curtly, he got his hat and went out. In the crowd he’d be alone, and he moved with it down Pall Mall towards Whitehall. Thicker every moment, it was a curious blend of stillness and excitement. Down Cockspur Street into Whitehall he was slowly swept, till at the mouth of Downing Street the crowd became solidity itself, and there was no moving. Ten minutes to the hour! Impervious by nature and by training to mob-emotion, Soames yet was emotionalised. Here was something that was not mere mob-sensation–something made up of individual feelings stronger than mere impulse; something to which noise was but embroidery. There was plenty of noise, rumorous, and strident now and again, but it didn’t seem to belong to the faces–didn’t seem to suit them any more than it suited the stars that winked and waited. All sorts and conditions of men and women, and he cheek by jowl with them–like sardines in a box–and he didn’t mind. Civilians, they were, peaceful folk–not a soldier or a sailor in the lot! They had begun to sing ‘God save the King!’ His own lips moved; he could not hear himself, and that consoled him. He fixed his eyes on Big Ben. The hands of the bright clock, halfway to the stars, crept with incredible slowness. Two minutes more and the thing would begin–the Thing! What would come of it? He couldn’t tell, he didn’t know. A bad business, a mad business–once in, you couldn’t get out–you had to hold on–to the death–to the death! The faces were all turned one way now under the street lights, white faces, from whose open mouths still came that song; and then–Boom! The clock had struck, and cheering rose. Queer thing to cheer for! “Hoora-a-ay!” The Thing had started!…
Soames walked away. Had he cheered? He did not seem to know. A little ashamed he walked. Why couldn’t he have waited down there on the river, instead of rushing up into the crowd like one of these young clerks or shop fellows? He was glad nobody would know where he had been. As if it did any good for him to get excited; as if it did any good for him to do or get anything at his age. Sixty! He was glad he hadn’t got a son. Bad enough to have three nephews. Still, Val was in South Africa and his leg wasn’t sound; but Winifred’s second son, Benedict–what age was he–thirty? Then there was Cicely’s boy–just gone up to Cambridge. All these boys! Some of them would be rushing off to get themselves killed. A bad sad business! And all because–! Exactly! Because of what?
Walking in a sort of trance he had reached the Ritz. All was fiz-gig in the streets. Waiters stood on the pavement. Ladies of the night talked together excitedly or spoke to policemen as though they had lost their profession. Soames went on down Berkeley Square through quieter streets to his sister’s house. Winifred was waiting up for him, still in that half mourning for Montague Dartie, which Soames considered superfluous. As trustee, he had been compelled to learn the true history of that French staircase, if only to keep it from the rest of the world.
“They tell me war’s declared, Soames. Such a relief!”
“Relief! Pretty relief!”
“You know what I mean, dear boy. One never knows what those Radicals might have done.”
“This’ll cost a thousand millions,” said Soames, “before it’s over. Over? I don’t know when it’ll be over–the Germans are no joke.”
“But surely, Soames, with Russia and ourselves. And they say the French are so good now.”
“They’d say anything,” said Soames.
“But you’re glad, aren’t you?”
“Glad we haven’t ratted, yes. But it’s ruination all round. Where’s your boy Benedict?”
Winifred looked up sharply.
“Oh!” she said. “But he’s not even a volunteer.”
“He will be,” said Soames, gloomily.
“Do you really think it’s as serious as that, Soames?”
“Serious as hell,” answered Soames; “you mark my words.”
Winifred was silent for some minutes; on her face, so fashionably composed, was a look as though someone had half drawn up its blind. She said in a small voice:
“I’m thankful dear Val has got his leg. You don’t think we shall be invaded, Soames?”
“Not if they keep their heads. All depends on the fleet. They say there’s a chap called Jellicoe, but you never know. There are these Zeppelins, too–I shall send Fleur down to school in the west somewhere.”
“Ought one to lay in provisions?”
“If everyone does that, there’ll be a shortage, and that won’t do. The less fuss the better. I shall go down home by the first train. Going to bed, now. Good-night.” He kissed the forehead of a face where the blind was still half drawn down.
He slept well, and was back at Mapledurham before noon. Fleur’s greeting, and the bright peace of the river, soothed him, so that he lunched with a certain appetite. On the verandah, afterwards, his head gardener came up.
“They’re puttin’ off the ‘orticultural show this afternoon, Sir. Looks as if the Germans had bitten off more than they can chew, don’t you think, Sir?”
“Can’t tell,” said Soames. Everybody seemed to think it was going to be a picnic, and this annoyed him.
“It’s lucky Lord Kitchener’s over here,” said the gardener, “he’ll show them.”
“This may last a year and more,” said Soames; “no waste of any sort, d’you understand me?”
The gardener looked surprised.
“I thought–”
“Think what you like, but don’t waste anything, and grow vegetables. See?”
“Yes, Sir. So you think it’s serious, Sir?”
“I do,” said Soames.
“Yes, Sir.” The gardener moved away; a narrow-headed chap! That was the trouble; hearts were in the right place, but heads were narrow. They said those Germans had big round heads and no backs to them. So they had, if he remembered. He went in and took up The Times. To read the papers seemed the only thing one could do. While he was sitting there Annette came in. She was flushed and had a ball of wool in her hand.
“Well,” he said, over the top of the paper, “are you satisfied now?”
She came across to him.
“Put your paper down, Soames, and let me kiss you.”
“What for?” said Soames.
Annette removed The Times and sank on his knees. Placing her hands on his shoulders she bent and kissed him.
“Because you have not deserted my country. I am proud of England.”
“That’s new,” said Soames. She was a weight, and smelled of verbena; “I don’t know what we can do,” he added, “except at sea.”
“Oh! it is everything. We have not our backs on the wall any more; we have our backs on you.”
“You certainly have,” said Soames; not that it was unpleasant.
Annette rose. She stood, slightly transfigured.
“We shall beat those ‘orrible Germans now. Soames, we cannot keep Fraulein, she must go.”
“I thought that was coming. Why? It’s not her fault.”
“To have a German in the house? No!”
“Why not? She’s harmless. If you send her away, what’ll she do?”
“What she likes, but not in this house. Who knows if she is a spy.”
“Stuff and nonsense!”
“Oh! you English are so slow–you wait always till the fat is in the fire, as you say.”
“I don’t see any good in hysteria,” muttered Soames.
“They will talk in the neighbourhood.”
“Let them!”
“Non! I have told her she must go. After the holiday Fleur must go to school. It is no use, Soames, I am not going to keep a German. ‘A la guerre comme a la guerre!’”
Soames uttered a sound of profound disapproval. There she went on her high horse! Something deeply just within him was offended, but something sagacious knew that if he opposed her, the situation would become impossible.
“Send her to me, then,” he said.
“Do not be sloppee with her,” said Annette, and went away.
Sloppy! The word outraged him. Sloppy! He was still brooding over it, when he became conscious that the German governess was in the room.
She was a tall young woman, with a rather high-cheek-boned, high-coloured face, and candid grey eyes, and she stood without speaking, her hands folded one over the other.
“This is a bad business, Fraulein.”
“Yes, Mr. Forsyte; Madame says I am to go.”
Soames nodded. “The French have very strong feelings. Have you made any arrangements?”
The young woman shook her head. Soames received an impression of desolation from the gesture.
“What arrangements could I make? No one will want me, I suppose. I wish I had gone back to Germany a week ago. Will they let me now?”
“Why not? This isn’t a seaside place. You’d better go up and see the authorities. I’ll give you a letter to say you’ve been quietly down here.”
“Thank you, Mr. Forsyte. That is kind.”
“I don’t want you to go,” said Soames. “It’s all nonsense; but one can’t control these things”; and, seeing two tears glistening on her cheekbones, he added hastily: “Fleur’ll miss you. Have you got money?”
“Very little. I send my salary to my old parents.”
There it was! Old parents, young children, invalids, and all the rest of it. The pinch! And here he was administering it! A personable young woman, too! Nothing against her except the war! “If I were you,” he said slowly, “I shouldn’t waste time. I’d go up before they know where they are. There’ll be a lot of hysteria. Wait a minute, I’ll give you money.”
He went to the old walnut bureau, which he had picked up in Reading–a fine piece with a secret drawer, and a bargain at that. He didn’t know what to give her–the whole thing was so uncertain. Though she stood there so quietly, he was conscious that her tears were in motion.
“Damn it!” he said, softly, “I shall give you a term’s salary and fifteen pounds in cash for your journey. If they won’t let you go, let me know when you come to the end of it.”
The young woman raised her clasped hands.
“I don’t want to take money, Mr. Forsyte.”
“Nonsense,” said Soames; “you’ll take what I give you. It’s all against my wish. You ought to be staying, in my opinion. What’s it to do with women?”
He took from the secret drawer an adequate number of notes and went towards her.
“I’ll send you to the station. Go up and see the authorities this very afternoon; and while you get ready I’ll write that letter.”
The young woman bent and kissed his hand. Such a thing had never happened to him before, and he didn’t know that he ever wanted it to happen again.
“There, there!” he said, and turning back to the bureau, wrote:
“SIR, –
“The bearer of this, Fraulein Schulz, has been governess to my daughter for the last eighteen months. I can testify to her character and attainments. She has lived quietly at my house at Mapledurham all the time with the exception of one or two holidays spent, I believe, in Wales. Fraulein Schulz wishes to return to Germany, and I trust you will afford her every facility. I enclose my card, and am, Sir,
Faithfully yours,
“SOAMES FORSYTE.”
He then telephoned for a car, having refused so far to have one of his own–tearing great things, always getting out of order.
When the machine arrived, he went out into the hall to wait for the young woman to come down. Fleur and a little friend had gone off to some wood or other; Annette was in the garden and would stay there, he shouldn’t wonder; he didn’t want the young woman to go off without a hand to shake.
First they brought down a shiny foreign trunk, then a handbag, and a little roll with an umbrella stuck through it. The young woman came last. Her eyes were red. The whole thing suddenly seemed to Soames extraordinarily barbarous. To be thrown out at a moment’s notice like this because her confounded Kaiser’s military cut-throats had lost their senses! It wasn’t English!
“Here’s the letter. You’d better stay at that hotel near Victoria until you go. Good-bye, then; I’m very sorry, but you’ll be more comfortable at home while the war’s on.”
He shook her gloved hand, and perceiving that his own was again in danger, withdrew it hastily.
“Give Fleur a kiss for me, please, Sir.”
“I will. She’ll be sorry to have missed you. Well, good-bye!” He was terrified that she would begin crying again, or attempt to thank him, and he added hastily: “You’ll have a nice drive.” As a fact he doubted it, for in fancy he could see her oozing into her handkerchief all the way.
The luggage was in now, and so was she. The car was making the usual noises. Soames, in the doorway, lifted his hand, twiddling it towards her turned red face.
Her lip was drooping, she wore a scared expression. He gave her a wan smile, and turned back into the house. Too bad!
3
Rumours! Soames would never have believed that people could be such fools. Rumours of naval engagements, rumours of spies, rumours of Russians. Take, for instance, his meeting with the village schoolmistress outside the school.
“Have you heard the terrible news, Mr. Forsyte?”
Soames’ hair stood up under his hat.
“No; what’s that?”
“Oh! there’s been a dreadful battle at sea. We’ve lost six battleships. Isn’t it awful?”
Soames’ fists clenched themselves in his pockets.
“Who told you that?”
“It’s all over the village. Six ships–isn’t it terrible?”
“What did the Germans lose?”
“Twelve!”
Soames almost jumped.
“Twelve! Then the war’s over. What do you mean–terrible–why, it’s the best news we could have!”
“Oh! but six of our own ships–it’s awful!”
“War is awful,” said Soames. “But if this is true–” He left her abruptly and made for the Post Office. It was not true, of course. Nothing was true. Not even his own suspicions. Take, for instance, those two square-shouldered men in straw hats whom he met walking down a lane with their feet at right angles, as Englishmen never walked. Germans, and spies into the bargain, or he was a Dutchman; especially as his telephone went out of order that very afternoon. And of course they turned out to be two Americans staying at Pangbourne on a holiday, and the wire had been affected by a thunderstorm. But what were you to think, when the newspapers were full of spy stories, and the very lightning was apparently in the German secret service. As to mirrors in daylight and matches after dark, they were in obvious communication with the German fleet in the Kiel Canal, or wherever it was. Time and again Soames would say:
“Bunkum! The whole thing’s weak-minded!” Only to feel himself weak-minded the next moment. Look at those two hundred thousand Russians whom everybody was seeing in trains all over the country. They turned out to be eggs, and probably addled at that; but how could you help believing in them, especially when you wanted to! And then the authorities told you nothing; dumb as oysters; as if that were the way to treat an Englishman–it only made him fancy things. And there was Mons. They couldn’t even let you know about the army, except that it was heroic, and had killed a lot of Germans, and was marching backwards in order to put the finishing touch to them. That was about all one heard, till suddenly one found it was touch and go whether Paris could be saved, and the French Government had packed their traps and gone off to Bordeaux. And all the time nothing to do but read the papers, which he couldn’t believe, and listen to the click of Annette’s needles. And then came the news of the battle of the Marne, and he could breathe again.
He breathed freely–he had gone weeks, it seemed to him, without taking a deep breath. People were saying it was the beginning of the end, and the Allies–he himself had always called it Allies–and why not? – would soon be in Germany now. He wanted to believe this so much, that he said he didn’t believe a word of it, much as when, the weather looking fine, he would take his umbrella to make sure. And then, forsooth, they went and dug themselves in! This beginning of warfare which was to last four years, produced but moderate premonition in his mind. There was a certain relief in the immobility of things after the plunging excitement of Mons and the Marne. He continued to read the papers, shake his head, and invest in War Loan. His nephew Benedict was training for a commission in Kitchener’s army; Cicely’s boy, also, had joined up, as they called it. He supposed they had to. Annette had said several times that she wanted to go to France and be a nurse. It was all her fancy. She could do much more good by knitting and being economical.
Presently he took Fleur down to her school in the West; and not much too early, for the Zeppelins became busy soon after. In regard to their exploits, he displayed a somewhat natural perversity, for though he had taken his daughter down to a remote region to avoid them, he thought people made much too much fuss about them altogether. From a top window in his Club he was privileged to see one of them burst into flames. He said nothing and was glad of it afterwards–some of his fellow-members had shown their feelings, and those not all they should be. There was provocation, no doubt; but, after all, the crew were being burned alive. Generally speaking, while the war dragged on, the reality of it was kept from him most efficiently not only by the Government, the papers, and his age, but by a sort of barrage put up by himself from within himself. There the thing was, and what was the use of making more of it than he absolutely had to? If one ever came to the end, one might indulge one’s feelings, perhaps. And always the doings at sea, the adventures and misadventures of ships, impinged on him with a poignancy absent from the events on land. Of all that happened in the early part of the war, the bombardment of Scarborough affected him, perhaps, most painfully.
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He got out of the punt and walked slowly up past the house to his front gate. Heat was over, light paling, stars peering through, the air smelled a little of dust. Soames stood like some pelican awaiting it knew not what. A motor-cycle came sputtering from the direction of Reading. The rider, in dusty overalls, flung words at him:
“Pawlyment! We’re goin’ in!” and sputtered past. Soames stretched out a hand. So might a blind man have moved.
Going in? With little food inside and the stars above him, all the imaginative power, which as a rule he starved, turned active, clutched and groped. Scattered, scuttling images of war came flying across the screen of his consciousness like so many wild geese over the sand, over the sea, out of the darkness into the darkness of a layman’s mind; a layman who had thought in terms of peace all his days, and his days many. What a thing to happen to one at sixty! They might have waited till he was like old Timothy. Anxiety! That was it, anxiety. Kitchener was over from Egypt, they said. That was something. A grim-looking chap, with his eyes fixed beyond you like a lion’s at the Zoo; but he’d always come through. Soames remembered, suddenly, his sensations during the black week of the Boer war–potty little affair, compared with this. And there was old Roberts–too old, he supposed.
‘But perhaps,’ he thought, ‘we shan’t have to fight on land.’ Besides, who knew? The Germans might come to their senses yet, when they heard England was going in. There was Russia, she had more millions than all the rest put together–Steam-roller, they called her; but had she the steam? Japan had beaten her.
‘Well!’ and the thought gave him the queerest feeling, proud and miserable: ‘If we begin, we shall hold on.’ There was something at once terrible to him and deeply satisfying about that instinctive knowledge. They’d be singing “Rule Britannia” everywhere to-night–he shouldn’t wonder. People didn’t THINK–a little-headed lot!
The stars burned through a sky growing blue-dark. All over Europe men and guns moving–all over the seas ships tearing along. And this silence–this hush before the storm. That couldn’t last. No; there they were already–singing back there along the road–drunk, he should say. Tune–words–he didn’t know them–vulgar stuff:
“It’s a long long way to Tipperary,
It’s a long, long way to go…
Good-bye, Piccadilly, Farewell, Leicester Square!
It’s a long, long way to Tipperary,
And my heart’s right there!”
What had that to do with it–he should like to know? They were cheering now. Some beanfeast or other had got the news–common people! But–common or not, tonight all was England, England! Well, he must go indoors.
2
Silence, as of one stricken by decision, come to instinctively rather than by will, weighed on Soames that night and all next day. He read ‘that chap Grey’s’ speech and, in conspiracy with his country, waited for what he felt would never come: an answer to the ultimatum sent. The Germans had tasted of force, and would never go back on their invasion of Belgium.
In the afternoon he could neither bear his own gloom nor the excitement of Annette, and, walking to the station, he took a train to Town. The streets seemed full and to get fuller every minute. He sat down late, at the Connoisseurs’ Club, to dine. When he had finished a meal which seemed to stick in his gizzard, he went downstairs. From his seat in the window he could see St. James’ Street, and the people eddying down it towards the centre of the country’s life. He sat there practically alone. At eleven–they said–the ultimatum would expire. In this quiet room, where the furniture and wall-decorations had been accumulated for men of taste throughout a century of peace, was the reality of life as he had known it, the reality of Victorian and Edwardian England. The Boer wars, and all those other little wars, Ashanti, Afghan, Soudan, expeditionary adventures, professional affairs far away, had hardly ruffled the minds of Connoisseurs. One had walked and talked upon one’s normal way, just conscious of their disagreeable necessity, and their stimulation at breakfast time, like a pinch of Glauber’s salts. But this great thing–why, it had united even the politicians, so he had read in the paper that morning. And there came into his mind Lewis Carroll’s rhyme:
“And then came down a monstrous crow,
As black as a tar-barrel;
It frightened both the heroes so
They quite forgot their quarrel.”
He got up and moved, restless, into the hall. All there was of connoisseur in the club was gathered round the tape–some half-dozen members, none of whom he knew. Soames stood a little apart. Somebody turned and spoke to him. A shrinking from his fellows, accentuated in Soames’ emotional moments, sent a shiver down his spine. He couldn’t stay here and have chaps babbling. Answering curtly, he got his hat and went out. In the crowd he’d be alone, and he moved with it down Pall Mall towards Whitehall. Thicker every moment, it was a curious blend of stillness and excitement. Down Cockspur Street into Whitehall he was slowly swept, till at the mouth of Downing Street the crowd became solidity itself, and there was no moving. Ten minutes to the hour! Impervious by nature and by training to mob-emotion, Soames yet was emotionalised. Here was something that was not mere mob-sensation–something made up of individual feelings stronger than mere impulse; something to which noise was but embroidery. There was plenty of noise, rumorous, and strident now and again, but it didn’t seem to belong to the faces–didn’t seem to suit them any more than it suited the stars that winked and waited. All sorts and conditions of men and women, and he cheek by jowl with them–like sardines in a box–and he didn’t mind. Civilians, they were, peaceful folk–not a soldier or a sailor in the lot! They had begun to sing ‘God save the King!’ His own lips moved; he could not hear himself, and that consoled him. He fixed his eyes on Big Ben. The hands of the bright clock, halfway to the stars, crept with incredible slowness. Two minutes more and the thing would begin–the Thing! What would come of it? He couldn’t tell, he didn’t know. A bad business, a mad business–once in, you couldn’t get out–you had to hold on–to the death–to the death! The faces were all turned one way now under the street lights, white faces, from whose open mouths still came that song; and then–Boom! The clock had struck, and cheering rose. Queer thing to cheer for! “Hoora-a-ay!” The Thing had started!…
Soames walked away. Had he cheered? He did not seem to know. A little ashamed he walked. Why couldn’t he have waited down there on the river, instead of rushing up into the crowd like one of these young clerks or shop fellows? He was glad nobody would know where he had been. As if it did any good for him to get excited; as if it did any good for him to do or get anything at his age. Sixty! He was glad he hadn’t got a son. Bad enough to have three nephews. Still, Val was in South Africa and his leg wasn’t sound; but Winifred’s second son, Benedict–what age was he–thirty? Then there was Cicely’s boy–just gone up to Cambridge. All these boys! Some of them would be rushing off to get themselves killed. A bad sad business! And all because–! Exactly! Because of what?
Walking in a sort of trance he had reached the Ritz. All was fiz-gig in the streets. Waiters stood on the pavement. Ladies of the night talked together excitedly or spoke to policemen as though they had lost their profession. Soames went on down Berkeley Square through quieter streets to his sister’s house. Winifred was waiting up for him, still in that half mourning for Montague Dartie, which Soames considered superfluous. As trustee, he had been compelled to learn the true history of that French staircase, if only to keep it from the rest of the world.
“They tell me war’s declared, Soames. Such a relief!”
“Relief! Pretty relief!”
“You know what I mean, dear boy. One never knows what those Radicals might have done.”
“This’ll cost a thousand millions,” said Soames, “before it’s over. Over? I don’t know when it’ll be over–the Germans are no joke.”
“But surely, Soames, with Russia and ourselves. And they say the French are so good now.”
“They’d say anything,” said Soames.
“But you’re glad, aren’t you?”
“Glad we haven’t ratted, yes. But it’s ruination all round. Where’s your boy Benedict?”
Winifred looked up sharply.
“Oh!” she said. “But he’s not even a volunteer.”
“He will be,” said Soames, gloomily.
“Do you really think it’s as serious as that, Soames?”
“Serious as hell,” answered Soames; “you mark my words.”
Winifred was silent for some minutes; on her face, so fashionably composed, was a look as though someone had half drawn up its blind. She said in a small voice:
“I’m thankful dear Val has got his leg. You don’t think we shall be invaded, Soames?”
“Not if they keep their heads. All depends on the fleet. They say there’s a chap called Jellicoe, but you never know. There are these Zeppelins, too–I shall send Fleur down to school in the west somewhere.”
“Ought one to lay in provisions?”
“If everyone does that, there’ll be a shortage, and that won’t do. The less fuss the better. I shall go down home by the first train. Going to bed, now. Good-night.” He kissed the forehead of a face where the blind was still half drawn down.
He slept well, and was back at Mapledurham before noon. Fleur’s greeting, and the bright peace of the river, soothed him, so that he lunched with a certain appetite. On the verandah, afterwards, his head gardener came up.
“They’re puttin’ off the ‘orticultural show this afternoon, Sir. Looks as if the Germans had bitten off more than they can chew, don’t you think, Sir?”
“Can’t tell,” said Soames. Everybody seemed to think it was going to be a picnic, and this annoyed him.
“It’s lucky Lord Kitchener’s over here,” said the gardener, “he’ll show them.”
“This may last a year and more,” said Soames; “no waste of any sort, d’you understand me?”
The gardener looked surprised.
“I thought–”
“Think what you like, but don’t waste anything, and grow vegetables. See?”
“Yes, Sir. So you think it’s serious, Sir?”
“I do,” said Soames.
“Yes, Sir.” The gardener moved away; a narrow-headed chap! That was the trouble; hearts were in the right place, but heads were narrow. They said those Germans had big round heads and no backs to them. So they had, if he remembered. He went in and took up The Times. To read the papers seemed the only thing one could do. While he was sitting there Annette came in. She was flushed and had a ball of wool in her hand.
“Well,” he said, over the top of the paper, “are you satisfied now?”
She came across to him.
“Put your paper down, Soames, and let me kiss you.”
“What for?” said Soames.
Annette removed The Times and sank on his knees. Placing her hands on his shoulders she bent and kissed him.
“Because you have not deserted my country. I am proud of England.”
“That’s new,” said Soames. She was a weight, and smelled of verbena; “I don’t know what we can do,” he added, “except at sea.”
“Oh! it is everything. We have not our backs on the wall any more; we have our backs on you.”
“You certainly have,” said Soames; not that it was unpleasant.
Annette rose. She stood, slightly transfigured.
“We shall beat those ‘orrible Germans now. Soames, we cannot keep Fraulein, she must go.”
“I thought that was coming. Why? It’s not her fault.”
“To have a German in the house? No!”
“Why not? She’s harmless. If you send her away, what’ll she do?”
“What she likes, but not in this house. Who knows if she is a spy.”
“Stuff and nonsense!”
“Oh! you English are so slow–you wait always till the fat is in the fire, as you say.”
“I don’t see any good in hysteria,” muttered Soames.
“They will talk in the neighbourhood.”
“Let them!”
“Non! I have told her she must go. After the holiday Fleur must go to school. It is no use, Soames, I am not going to keep a German. ‘A la guerre comme a la guerre!’”
Soames uttered a sound of profound disapproval. There she went on her high horse! Something deeply just within him was offended, but something sagacious knew that if he opposed her, the situation would become impossible.
“Send her to me, then,” he said.
“Do not be sloppee with her,” said Annette, and went away.
Sloppy! The word outraged him. Sloppy! He was still brooding over it, when he became conscious that the German governess was in the room.
She was a tall young woman, with a rather high-cheek-boned, high-coloured face, and candid grey eyes, and she stood without speaking, her hands folded one over the other.
“This is a bad business, Fraulein.”
“Yes, Mr. Forsyte; Madame says I am to go.”
Soames nodded. “The French have very strong feelings. Have you made any arrangements?”
The young woman shook her head. Soames received an impression of desolation from the gesture.
“What arrangements could I make? No one will want me, I suppose. I wish I had gone back to Germany a week ago. Will they let me now?”
“Why not? This isn’t a seaside place. You’d better go up and see the authorities. I’ll give you a letter to say you’ve been quietly down here.”
“Thank you, Mr. Forsyte. That is kind.”
“I don’t want you to go,” said Soames. “It’s all nonsense; but one can’t control these things”; and, seeing two tears glistening on her cheekbones, he added hastily: “Fleur’ll miss you. Have you got money?”
“Very little. I send my salary to my old parents.”
There it was! Old parents, young children, invalids, and all the rest of it. The pinch! And here he was administering it! A personable young woman, too! Nothing against her except the war! “If I were you,” he said slowly, “I shouldn’t waste time. I’d go up before they know where they are. There’ll be a lot of hysteria. Wait a minute, I’ll give you money.”
He went to the old walnut bureau, which he had picked up in Reading–a fine piece with a secret drawer, and a bargain at that. He didn’t know what to give her–the whole thing was so uncertain. Though she stood there so quietly, he was conscious that her tears were in motion.
“Damn it!” he said, softly, “I shall give you a term’s salary and fifteen pounds in cash for your journey. If they won’t let you go, let me know when you come to the end of it.”
The young woman raised her clasped hands.
“I don’t want to take money, Mr. Forsyte.”
“Nonsense,” said Soames; “you’ll take what I give you. It’s all against my wish. You ought to be staying, in my opinion. What’s it to do with women?”
He took from the secret drawer an adequate number of notes and went towards her.
“I’ll send you to the station. Go up and see the authorities this very afternoon; and while you get ready I’ll write that letter.”
The young woman bent and kissed his hand. Such a thing had never happened to him before, and he didn’t know that he ever wanted it to happen again.
“There, there!” he said, and turning back to the bureau, wrote:
“SIR, –
“The bearer of this, Fraulein Schulz, has been governess to my daughter for the last eighteen months. I can testify to her character and attainments. She has lived quietly at my house at Mapledurham all the time with the exception of one or two holidays spent, I believe, in Wales. Fraulein Schulz wishes to return to Germany, and I trust you will afford her every facility. I enclose my card, and am, Sir,
Faithfully yours,
“SOAMES FORSYTE.”
He then telephoned for a car, having refused so far to have one of his own–tearing great things, always getting out of order.
When the machine arrived, he went out into the hall to wait for the young woman to come down. Fleur and a little friend had gone off to some wood or other; Annette was in the garden and would stay there, he shouldn’t wonder; he didn’t want the young woman to go off without a hand to shake.
First they brought down a shiny foreign trunk, then a handbag, and a little roll with an umbrella stuck through it. The young woman came last. Her eyes were red. The whole thing suddenly seemed to Soames extraordinarily barbarous. To be thrown out at a moment’s notice like this because her confounded Kaiser’s military cut-throats had lost their senses! It wasn’t English!
“Here’s the letter. You’d better stay at that hotel near Victoria until you go. Good-bye, then; I’m very sorry, but you’ll be more comfortable at home while the war’s on.”
He shook her gloved hand, and perceiving that his own was again in danger, withdrew it hastily.
“Give Fleur a kiss for me, please, Sir.”
“I will. She’ll be sorry to have missed you. Well, good-bye!” He was terrified that she would begin crying again, or attempt to thank him, and he added hastily: “You’ll have a nice drive.” As a fact he doubted it, for in fancy he could see her oozing into her handkerchief all the way.
The luggage was in now, and so was she. The car was making the usual noises. Soames, in the doorway, lifted his hand, twiddling it towards her turned red face.
Her lip was drooping, she wore a scared expression. He gave her a wan smile, and turned back into the house. Too bad!
3
Rumours! Soames would never have believed that people could be such fools. Rumours of naval engagements, rumours of spies, rumours of Russians. Take, for instance, his meeting with the village schoolmistress outside the school.
“Have you heard the terrible news, Mr. Forsyte?”
Soames’ hair stood up under his hat.
“No; what’s that?”
“Oh! there’s been a dreadful battle at sea. We’ve lost six battleships. Isn’t it awful?”
Soames’ fists clenched themselves in his pockets.
“Who told you that?”
“It’s all over the village. Six ships–isn’t it terrible?”
“What did the Germans lose?”
“Twelve!”
Soames almost jumped.
“Twelve! Then the war’s over. What do you mean–terrible–why, it’s the best news we could have!”
“Oh! but six of our own ships–it’s awful!”
“War is awful,” said Soames. “But if this is true–” He left her abruptly and made for the Post Office. It was not true, of course. Nothing was true. Not even his own suspicions. Take, for instance, those two square-shouldered men in straw hats whom he met walking down a lane with their feet at right angles, as Englishmen never walked. Germans, and spies into the bargain, or he was a Dutchman; especially as his telephone went out of order that very afternoon. And of course they turned out to be two Americans staying at Pangbourne on a holiday, and the wire had been affected by a thunderstorm. But what were you to think, when the newspapers were full of spy stories, and the very lightning was apparently in the German secret service. As to mirrors in daylight and matches after dark, they were in obvious communication with the German fleet in the Kiel Canal, or wherever it was. Time and again Soames would say:
“Bunkum! The whole thing’s weak-minded!” Only to feel himself weak-minded the next moment. Look at those two hundred thousand Russians whom everybody was seeing in trains all over the country. They turned out to be eggs, and probably addled at that; but how could you help believing in them, especially when you wanted to! And then the authorities told you nothing; dumb as oysters; as if that were the way to treat an Englishman–it only made him fancy things. And there was Mons. They couldn’t even let you know about the army, except that it was heroic, and had killed a lot of Germans, and was marching backwards in order to put the finishing touch to them. That was about all one heard, till suddenly one found it was touch and go whether Paris could be saved, and the French Government had packed their traps and gone off to Bordeaux. And all the time nothing to do but read the papers, which he couldn’t believe, and listen to the click of Annette’s needles. And then came the news of the battle of the Marne, and he could breathe again.
He breathed freely–he had gone weeks, it seemed to him, without taking a deep breath. People were saying it was the beginning of the end, and the Allies–he himself had always called it Allies–and why not? – would soon be in Germany now. He wanted to believe this so much, that he said he didn’t believe a word of it, much as when, the weather looking fine, he would take his umbrella to make sure. And then, forsooth, they went and dug themselves in! This beginning of warfare which was to last four years, produced but moderate premonition in his mind. There was a certain relief in the immobility of things after the plunging excitement of Mons and the Marne. He continued to read the papers, shake his head, and invest in War Loan. His nephew Benedict was training for a commission in Kitchener’s army; Cicely’s boy, also, had joined up, as they called it. He supposed they had to. Annette had said several times that she wanted to go to France and be a nurse. It was all her fancy. She could do much more good by knitting and being economical.
Presently he took Fleur down to her school in the West; and not much too early, for the Zeppelins became busy soon after. In regard to their exploits, he displayed a somewhat natural perversity, for though he had taken his daughter down to a remote region to avoid them, he thought people made much too much fuss about them altogether. From a top window in his Club he was privileged to see one of them burst into flames. He said nothing and was glad of it afterwards–some of his fellow-members had shown their feelings, and those not all they should be. There was provocation, no doubt; but, after all, the crew were being burned alive. Generally speaking, while the war dragged on, the reality of it was kept from him most efficiently not only by the Government, the papers, and his age, but by a sort of barrage put up by himself from within himself. There the thing was, and what was the use of making more of it than he absolutely had to? If one ever came to the end, one might indulge one’s feelings, perhaps. And always the doings at sea, the adventures and misadventures of ships, impinged on him with a poignancy absent from the events on land. Of all that happened in the early part of the war, the bombardment of Scarborough affected him, perhaps, most painfully.
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