The Forsyte Saga, Volume II. Indian Summer of a Forsyte. In Chancery

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Galsworthy John. The Forsyte Saga, Volume II. Indian Summer of a Forsyte. In Chancery

THE FORSYTE SAGA – VOLUME II

INDIAN SUMMER OF A FORSYTE

I

II

III

IV

IN CHANCERY

PART I

CHAPTER I – AT TIMOTHY’S

CHAPTER II – EXIT A MAN OF THE WORLD

CHAPTER III – SOAMES PREPARES TO TAKE STEPS

CHAPTER IV – SOHO

CHAPTER V – JAMES SEES VISIONS

CHAPTER VI – NO-LONGER-YOUNG JOLYON AT HOME

CHAPTER VII – THE COLT AND THE FILLY

CHAPTER VIII – JOLYON PROSECUTES TRUSTEESHIP

CHAPTER IX – VAL HEARS THE NEWS

CHAPTER X – SOAMES ENTERTAINS THE FUTURE

CHAPTER XI – AND VISITS THE PAST

CHAPTER XII – ON FORSYTE ‘CHANGE

CHAPTER XIII – JOLYON FINDS OUT WHERE HE IS

CHAPTER XIV – SOAMES DISCOVERS WHAT HE WANTS

PART II

CHAPTER I – THE THIRD GENERATION

CHAPTER II – SOAMES PUTS IT TO THE TOUCH

CHAPTER III – VISIT TO IRENE

CHAPTER IV – WHERE FORSYTES FEAR TO TREAD

CHAPTER V – JOLLY SITS IN JUDGMENT

CHAPTER VI – JOLYON IN TWO MINDS

CHAPTER VII – DARTIE VERSUS DARTIE

CHAPTER VIII – THE CHALLENGE

CHAPTER IX – DINNER AT JAMES’

CHAPTER X – DEATH OF THE DOG BALTHASAR

CHAPTER XI – TIMOTHY STAYS THE ROT

CHAPTER XII – PROGRESS OF THE CHASE

CHAPTER XIII – ’HERE WE ARE AGAIN!’

CHAPTER XIV – OUTLANDISH NIGHT

PART III

CHAPTER I – SOAMES IN PARIS

CHAPTER II – IN THE WEB

CHAPTER III – RICHMOND PARK

CHAPTER IV – OVER THE RIVER

CHAPTER V – SOAMES ACTS

CHAPTER VI – A SUMMER DAY

CHAPTER VII – A SUMMER NIGHT

CHAPTER VIII – JAMES IN WAITING

CHAPTER IX – OUT OF THE WEB

CHAPTER X – PASSING OF AN AGE

CHAPTER XI – SUSPENDED ANIMATION

CHAPTER XII – BIRTH OF A FORSYTE

CHAPTER XIII – JAMES IS TOLD

CHAPTER XIV – HIS

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In the last day of May in the early ‘nineties, about six o’clock of the evening, old Jolyon Forsyte sat under the oak tree below the terrace of his house at Robin Hill. He was waiting for the midges to bite him, before abandoning the glory of the afternoon. His thin brown hand, where blue veins stood out, held the end of a cigar in its tapering, long-nailed fingers – a pointed polished nail had survived with him from those earlier Victorian days when to touch nothing, even with the tips of the fingers, had been so distinguished. His domed forehead, great white moustache, lean cheeks, and long lean jaw were covered from the westering sunshine by an old brown Panama hat. His legs were crossed; in all his attitude was serenity and a kind of elegance, as of an old man who every morning put eau de Cologne upon his silk handkerchief. At his feet lay a woolly brown-and-white dog trying to be a Pomeranian – the dog Balthasar between whom and old Jolyon primal aversion had changed into attachment with the years. Close to his chair was a swing, and on the swing was seated one of Holly’s dolls – called ‘Duffer Alice’ – with her body fallen over her legs and her doleful nose buried in a black petticoat. She was never out of disgrace, so it did not matter to her how she sat. Below the oak tree the lawn dipped down a bank, stretched to the fernery, and, beyond that refinement, became fields, dropping to the pond, the coppice, and the prospect – ’Fine, remarkable’ – at which Swithin Forsyte, from under this very tree, had stared five years ago when he drove down with Irene to look at the house. Old Jolyon had heard of his brother’s exploit – that drive which had become quite celebrated on Forsyte ‘Change. Swithin! And the fellow had gone and died, last November, at the age of only seventy-nine, renewing the doubt whether Forsytes could live for ever, which had first arisen when Aunt Ann passed away. Died! and left only Jolyon and James, Roger and Nicholas and Timothy, Julia, Hester, Susan! And old Jolyon thought: ‘Eighty-five! I don’t feel it – except when I get that pain.’

His memory went searching. He had not felt his age since he had bought his nephew Soames’ ill-starred house and settled into it here at Robin Hill over three years ago. It was as if he had been getting younger every spring, living in the country with his son and his grandchildren – June, and the little ones of the second marriage, Jolly and Holly; living down here out of the racket of London and the cackle of Forsyte ‘Change,’ free of his boards, in a delicious atmosphere of no work and all play, with plenty of occupation in the perfecting and mellowing of the house and its twenty acres, and in ministering to the whims of Holly and Jolly. All the knots and crankiness, which had gathered in his heart during that long and tragic business of June, Soames, Irene his wife, and poor young Bosinney, had been smoothed out. Even June had thrown off her melancholy at last – witness this travel in Spain she was taking now with her father and her stepmother. Curiously perfect peace was left by their departure; blissful, yet blank, because his son was not there. Jo was never anything but a comfort and a pleasure to him nowadays – an amiable chap; but women, somehow – even the best – got a little on one’s nerves, unless of course one admired them.

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“Good-bye,” he said again; “take care of yourself.” And he went out, not looking towards the figure on the bench. He drove home by way of Hammersmith; that he might stop at a place he knew of and tell them to send her in two dozen of their best Burgundy. She must want picking-up sometimes! Only in Richmond Park did he remember that he had gone up to order himself some boots, and was surprised that he could have had so paltry an idea.

The little spirits of the past which throng an old man’s days had never pushed their faces up to his so seldom as in the seventy hours elapsing before Sunday came. The spirit of the future, with the charm of the unknown, put up her lips instead. Old Jolyon was not restless now, and paid no visits to the log, because she was coming to lunch. There is wonderful finality about a meal; it removes a world of doubts, for no one misses meals except for reasons beyond control. He played many games with Holly on the lawn, pitching them up to her who was batting so as to be ready to bowl to Jolly in the holidays. For she was not a Forsyte, but Jolly was – and Forsytes always bat, until they have resigned and reached the age of eighty-five. The dog Balthasar, in attendance, lay on the ball as often as he could, and the page-boy fielded, till his face was like the harvest moon. And because the time was getting shorter, each day was longer and more golden than the last. On Friday night he took a liver pill, his side hurt him rather, and though it was not the liver side, there is no remedy like that. Anyone telling him that he had found a new excitement in life and that excitement was not good for him, would have been met by one of those steady and rather defiant looks of his deep-set iron-grey eyes, which seemed to say: ‘I know my own business best.’ He always had and always would.

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