The Forsyte Saga - John Galsworthy (best english novels for beginners .txt) 📗

brains and hearts of Irishmen, Hindus, Egyptians, Boers, and Burmese, all the best races in the world; bullying, hypocritical England! This was what he had expected, coming to, such a country, where the climate was all fog, and the people all tradesmen perfectly blind to art, and sunk in profiteering and the grossest materialism. Conscious that Hannah Hobdey was murmuring, “Hear, hear!” and Jimmy Portugal sniggering, June grew crimson, and suddenly rapped out:

“Then why did you ever come? We didn’t ask you.”

The remark was so singularly at variance with all she had led him to expect from her, that Strumolowski stretched out his hand and took a cigarette.

“England never wants an idealist,” he said.

But in June something primitively English was thoroughly upset; old Jolyon’s sense of justice had risen, as it were, from bed. “You come and sponge on us,” she said, “and then abuse us. If you think that’s playing the game, I don’t.”

She now discovered that which others had discovered before her⁠—the thickness of hide beneath which the sensibility of genius is sometimes veiled. Strumolowski’s young and ingenuous face became the incarnation of a sneer.

“Sponge, one does not sponge, one takes what is owing⁠—a tenth part of what is owing. You will repent to say that, Miss Forsyte.”

“Oh, no,” said June, “I shan’t.”

“Ah! We know very well, we artists⁠—you take us to get what you can out of us. I want nothing from you”⁠—and he blew out a cloud of June’s smoke.

Decision rose in an icy puff from the turmoil of insulted shame within her. “Very well, then, you can take your things away.”

And, almost in the same moment, she thought: “Poor boy! He’s only got a garret, and probably not a taxi fare. In front of these people, too; it’s positively disgusting!”

Young Strumolowski shook his head violently; his hair, thick, smooth, close as a golden plate, did not fall off.

“I can live on nothing,” he said shrilly; “I have often had to for the sake of my art. It is you bourgeois who force us to spend money.”

The words hit June like a pebble, in the ribs. After all she had done for art, all her identification with its troubles and lame ducks. She was struggling for adequate words when the door was opened, and her Austrian murmured:

“A young lady, gnädiges Fräulein.”

“Where?”

“In the little meal-room.”

With a glance at Boris Strumolowski, at Hannah Hobdey, at Jimmy Portugal, June said nothing, and went out, devoid of equanimity. Entering the “little meal-room,” she perceived the young lady to be Fleur⁠—looking very pretty, if pale. At this disenchanted moment a little lame duck of her own breed was welcome to June, so homoeopathic by instinct.

The girl must have come, of course, because of Jon; or, if not, at least to get something out of her. And June felt just then that to assist somebody was the only bearable thing.

“So you’ve remembered to come,” she said.

“Yes. What a jolly little duck of a house! But please don’t let me bother you, if you’ve got people.”

“Not at all,” said June. “I want to let them stew in their own juice for a bit. Have you come about Jon?”

“You said you thought we ought to be told. Well, I’ve found out.”

“Oh!” said June blankly. “Not nice, is it?”

They were standing one on each side of the little bare table at which June took her meals. A vase on it was full of Iceland poppies; the girl raised her hand and touched them with a gloved finger. To her newfangled dress, frilly about the hips and tight below the knees, June took a sudden liking⁠—a charming colour, flax-blue.

“She makes a picture,” thought June. Her little room, with its whitewashed walls, its floor and hearth of old pink brick, its black paint, and latticed window athwart which the last of the sunlight was shining, had never looked so charming, set off by this young figure, with the creamy, slightly frowning face. She remembered with sudden vividness how nice she herself had looked in those old days when her heart was set on Philip Bosinney, that dead lover, who had broken from her to destroy forever Irene’s allegiance to this girl’s father. Did Fleur know of that, too?

“Well,” she said, “what are you going to do?”

It was some seconds before Fleur answered.

“I don’t want Jon to suffer. I must see him once more to put an end to it.”

“You’re going to put an end to it!”

“What else is there to do?”

The girl seemed to June, suddenly, intolerably spiritless.

“I suppose you’re right,” she muttered. “I know my father thinks so; but⁠—I should never have done it myself. I can’t take things lying down.”

How poised and watchful that girl looked; how unemotional her voice sounded!

“People will assume that I’m in love.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

Fleur shrugged her shoulders. “I might have known it,” thought June; “she’s Soames’ daughter⁠—fish! And yet⁠—he!”

“What do you want me to do then?” she said with a sort of disgust.

“Could I see Jon here tomorrow on his way down to Holly’s? He’d come if you sent him a line tonight. And perhaps afterward you’d let them know quietly at Robin Hill that it’s all over, and that they needn’t tell Jon about his mother.”

“All right!” said June abruptly. “I’ll write now, and you can post it. Half-past two tomorrow. I shan’t be in, myself.”

She sat down at the tiny bureau which filled one corner. When she looked round with the finished note Fleur was still touching the poppies with her gloved finger.

June licked a stamp. “Well, here it is. If you’re not in love, of course, there’s no more to be said. Jon’s lucky.”

Fleur took the note. “Thanks awfully!”

“Cold-blooded little baggage!” thought June. Jon, son of her father, to love, and not to be loved by the daughter of⁠—Soames! It was humiliating!

“Is that all?”

Fleur nodded; her frills shook and trembled as she swayed toward the door.

“Goodbye!”

“Goodbye!⁠ ⁠… Little piece of fashion!” muttered June, closing the door. “That family!” And she marched back toward her studio. Boris