Джон Голсуорси - On Forsyte 'Change

"If you hadn't been drunk," he said, "you'd have heard the ruffians. Call yourself a butler—you're a disgrace."

"Yes, Sir," said Smith, humbly, "a glass has always been my weakness, but I never thought it'd come to this."

"Well, it has," said Roger, "and so have you. Off you go this very day, and don't come to me for a character."

In mitigation of Roger's harshness it will be remembered that in those days there was no such practice as insurance against burglary. Indeed, it was Roger (always original) who started the habit, and he had to go to Lloyd's to get it done.

"It's the most barefaced thing I ever knew," he added. The plate– basket, indeed, with all the spoons, forks, salt–cellars and pepper–pots of Roger's ménage, had been rived practically from under the nose of the intoxicated Smith snoring on the turn–up bedstead in his own pantry. He had still been asleep, indeed, with a glass and empty whisky bottle by his bedside, when the page–boy entered in the morning.

Smith having withdrawn to his pantry, with his tail between his legs, Roger repaired to his bedroom, where in the four–poster his wife still lay thinking about less than usual, and put the matter in a few forcible words.

"Oh! Roger, what a pity! Such an amiable man. The children will be very upset."

"Fiddlesticks!" said Roger. "I must go out and see the police. But they're no good. Precious little chance of getting anything back."

Mrs. Roger remained lying, flat as ever. She had been married to him seventeen years, and if she now had a life of her own, no one knew where she kept it.

Smith, on the other hand, upright in his shirt–sleeves, had an expression on his broad and amiable face as though he had mislaid his trousers. To him thus standing the pantry door was flung open, and in the doorway stood Miss Francie. Francie Forsyte was then aged twelve, a dark–haired child with thin legs always outgrowing their integuments. Her Celtic–grey eyes shone ominously.

"You're not to go, Smith. I won't have it. You couldn't help being drunk when the burglars came."

"'Ush! Miss Francie," said Smith, "the Master says I've got to."

Francie put a hand into his.

"Dear Smith!"

Smith's round face grew almost long.

"It's my fault, Miss; I WAS tipsy, there's no denyin'."

"But how could you tell the burglars were coming?"

"I couldn't, Miss Francie, and that's a fact."

"Well, then!"

"If I 'adn't been tipsy," said Smith with sudden violence, "I'D 'ave given 'em what for!" And he worked his arm up to the angle which best displayed his formidable biceps.

"Oh! Smith," said Francie, "you ARE strong! Feel; I haven't got ANY!" And she angled her arm, thin, like a stick. Then the thought coming to her that soon there would be no Smith to show her lack of muscle to, the water started into her eyes.

"You're NOT to go," she cried again. "Here's Eustace, he'll say so too."

The youngest but one of the five young Rogers was now eleven, dark– haired and thin–faced like his sister, and, like her, grey–eyed, but of a calm which contrasted forcibly with Francie's fervour. He was recovering from the mumps, which had conveniently delayed his return to school.

"Have you really got to go, Smiff?" he said. "I wouldn't, if I were you. I should just stay."

Smith smiled. His smile was that of the sun at noonday.

"Faver'll forget," added Eustace.

Smith closed an eye, a practice which beyond all things endeared him to children.

"Will'e, Master Eustace? I don't fink."

"I do fink," said Eustace. "The best way wiv Faver is to take no notice. He can't birch YOU; look at your muscle."

Again Smith crooked his arm to the proper position. He never spent ten minutes with the children without having to do this at least once.

"Smith," said Francie, "we'll come with you and speak to Father."

Smith shook his head.

"I expect he hasn't seen your muscle," said Eustace.

Smith smiled. Like all powerful, good–tempered, easy–going men, he was unable to say "No."

"That's settled then," said Francie; "when Father comes in, Eustace and I will come for you. Come along, Eustace."

She turned at the door: "You shan't go—DEAR Smith!"

Smith in the centre of his pantry, slowly shook his rounded head.

He was still in undetermined mood when visited by the constable whom Roger had set in motion. Now the temperament of Smith was pre–eminently suited to the police. Sunk in humility, without edge, and highly human, it appealed to authority as cream to a cat. The constable, who had come to carp and question, remained to chat and quaff. He quaffed Roger's beer, and said:

"S'far as I can see, 'twas accidental like; a man may sleep so sound, no burglar'd wake 'im. That was your trouble, mate. You'd 'ad a nightcap no doubt. I'll do me best with your governor."

Upstairs in the dining–room Mrs. Roger was staring at the bronze clock and rehearsing a sentence which began:

"Roger, I wish you would reconsider your decision about Smith; there are many reasons why—" and then nothing would come but: "it will be out of the frying–pan into the fire," which she could not feel to be quite dignified. Unaware of these forces being marshalled against him, Roger, alert, and with an eye on a new board announcing the sale of a house by auction, returned from the police station where he had been rendering a just and faithful account of his silver, and entered his hall with the latchkey which he had been one of the first householders to have made. As he divested himself of his overcoat a light, thin, ghostly shape flitted from the darkness under the stairs into the smell of mutton rising from the basement; another shape at the top of the stairs bestrode the banisters, waited till Roger had entered the dining– room, slid down with a run, and vanished also.

Startled by her husband's entry, Mrs. Roger took the stopper out of the cut glass bottle of pickled walnuts on the sideboard, and said:

"Oh! Roger, I wish—I wish—"

"What do you wish?" said Roger. "Some nonsense. Don't let that smell out; I can't bear a vinegary smell."

"It's Smith," murmured Mrs. Roger. "I wish you—"

"That'll do," said Roger; "he's got to go."

Mrs. Roger stoppered the bottle.

"Oh! very well, dear; only where we shall get—"

"Plenty of good fish in the sea," said Roger. "Where's that policeman they sent round?"

"He's still in the basement, I fancy."

"He would be. They're no good! What's this?"

Through the doorway was coming a procession led by Francie. It took up a position on the far side of the mahogany—from left to right, Francie, Smith, Eustace, and the policeman.

"How's this, Smith?" said Roger, caressing his left whisker. "I told you to be off. Have you got something to say?"

"Yes," said Francie, her voice shrill: "Smith's not going."

"What!" cried Roger.

"All wight, Faver!" said Eustace quietly.

"All right? What d'you mean by that, you impudent young shaver?"

"Seems as 'ow your butler was asleep, Sir," said the constable impressively.

"Of course he was asleep. He was drunk."

"Well, Sir, I'd 'ardly call it that," said the constable. "Not up to snuff at the moment, as you might say."

"If you've any excuse to make, Smith," said Roger, "make it before you pack off."

Smith shook his head. "None, Sir, I'm sure."

On one side and the other Francie and Eustace tugged at his sleeves, as if inciting him to show his muscle.

"Very well then," said Roger, "you can go. I'll talk to you in a moment, constable. You children run off, and don't let me catch you—"

"If Smith goes," said Francie, loudly, "we're going too."

Roger stared. It was his first experience of revolt.

"Go to my study, you two," he said, "and wait till I come. Mary, take them out."