Джон Голсуорси - The Silver Spoon

“Your granddaughter, sir, and my daughter-inlaw want to fight like billy-o.”

“Marjorie?” said the old man, and his head fell to one side like a bird’s. “I draw the line—a charming young woman to look at, but I draw the line. What has she done now?”

“Called my daughter-inlaw a snob and a lion-hunter; and my daughter-inlaw’s father has called your granddaughter a traitress to her face.”

“Bold man,” said the marquess; “bold man! Who is he?”

“His name is Forsyte.”

“Forsyte?” repeated the old peer; “Forsyte? The name’s familiar—now where would that be? Ah! Forsyte and Treffry—the big tea men. My father had his tea from them direct—real caravan; no such tea now. Is that the—?”

“Some relation, perhaps. This man is a solicitor—retired; chiefly renowned for his pictures. A man of some substance, and probity.”

“Indeed! And IS his daughter a—a lion-hunter?”

Sir Lawrence smiled.

“She’s a charmer. Likes to have people about her. Very pretty. Excellent little mother; some French blood.”

“Ah!” said the marquess: “the French! Better built round the middle than our people. What do you want me to do?”

“Speak to your son Charles.”

The old man took his foot off the chair, and stood nearly upright. His head moved sideways with a slight continuous motion.

“I never speak to Charlie,” he said, gravely. “We haven’t spoken for six years.”

“I beg your pardon, sir. Didn’t know. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“No, no; pleasure to see you. If I run across Marjorie, I’ll see—I’ll see. But, my dear Mont, what shall we do with these young women—no sense of service; no continuity; no hair; no figures? By the way, do you know this Power Scheme on the Severn?” He held up a pamphlet: “I’ve been at them to do it for years. My Colliery among others could be made to pay with electricity; but they won’t move. We want some Americans over here.”

Sir Lawrence had risen; the old man’s sense of service had so clearly taken the bit between its teeth again. He held out his hand.

“Good-bye, Marquess; delighted to see you looking so well.”

“Good-bye, my dear young Mont; command me at any time, and let me have another of your nice books.”

They shook hands; and from the Lovat clothes was disengaged a strong whiff of peat. Sir Lawrence, looking back, saw the old man back in his favourite attitude, foot on chair and chin on hand, already reading the pamphlet. ‘Some boy!’ he thought; ‘as Michael would say. But what has Charlie Ferrar done not to be spoken to for six years? Old Forsyte ought to be told about that.’

In the meantime ‘Old Forsyte’ and Michael were walking homeward across St. James’s Park.

“That young American,” said Soames; “what do you suppose made him put his oar in?”

“I don’t know, sir; and I don’t like to ask.”

“Exactly,” said Soames, glumly. There was, indeed, something repulsive to him in treating with an American over a matter of personal dignity.

“Do they use the word ‘snob’ over there?”

“I’m not sure; but, in the States to hunt lions is a form of idealism. They want to associate with what they think better than themselves. It’s rather fine.”

Soames did not agree; but found difficulty in explaining why. Not to recognise any one as better than himself or his daughter had been a sort of guiding principle, and guiding principles were not talked about. In fact, it was so deep in him that he hadn’t known of it.

“I shan’t mention it,” he said, “unless he does. What more can this young woman do? She’s in a set, I suppose?”

“The Panjoys—”

“Panjoys!”

“Yes, sir; out for a good time at any cost—they don’t really count, of course. But Marjorie Ferrar is frightfully in the limelight. She paints a bit; she’s got some standing with the Press; she dances; she hunts; she’s something of an actress; she goes everywhere week-ending. It’s the week-ends that matter, where people have nothing to do but talk. Were you ever at a weekend party, sir?”

“I?” said Soames: “Good Lord—no!”

Michael smiled—incongruity, indeed, could go no farther.

“We must get one up for you at Lippinghall.”

“No, thank you.”

“You’re right, sir; nothing more boring. But they’re the coulisses of politics. Fleur thinks they’re good for me. And Marjorie Ferrar knows all the people we know, and lots more. It IS awkward.”

“I should go on as if nothing had happened,” said Soames: “But about that paper? They ought to be warned that this woman is venomous.”

Michael regarded his father-inlaw quizzically.

On entering, they found the man-servant in the hall.

“There’s a man to see you, sir, by the name of Bugfill.”

“Oh! Ah! Where have you put him, Coaker?”

“Well, I didn’t know what to make of him, sir, he shakes all over. I’ve stood him in the dining-room.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said Michael.

Soames passed into the ‘parlour,’ where he found his daughter and Francis Wilmot.

“Mr. Wilmot is leaving us, Father. You’re just in time to say good-bye.”

If there were moments when Soames felt cordial, they were such as these. He had nothing against the young man; indeed, he rather liked the look of him; but to see the last of almost anybody was in a sense a relief; besides, there was this question of what he had overheard, and to have him about the place without knowing would be a continual temptation to compromise with one’s dignity and ask him what it was.

“Good-bye, Mr. Wilmot,” he said; “if you’re interested in pictures—” he paused, and, holding out, his hand, added, “you should look in at the British Museum.”

Francis Wilmot shook the hand deferentially.

“I will. It’s been a privilege to know you, sir.” Soames was wondering why, when the young man turned to Fleur.

“I’ll be writing to Jon from Paris, and I’ll surely send your love. You’ve been perfectly wonderful to me. I’ll be glad to have you and Michael visit me at any time you come across to the States; and if you bring the little dog, why—I’ll just be honoured to let him bite me again.”

He bowed over Fleur’s hand and was gone, leaving Soames staring at the back of his daughter’s neck.

“That’s rather sudden,” he said, when the door was closed; “anything upset him?”

She turned on him, and said coldly:

“Why did you make that fuss last night, Father?”

The injustice of her attack was so palpable, that Soames bit his moustache in silence. As if he could help himself, when she was insulted in his hearing!

“What good do you think you’ve done?”

Soames, who had no notion, made no attempt to enlighten her. He only felt sore inside.

“You’ve made me feel as if I couldn’t look anybody in the face. But I’m going to, all the same. If I’m a lion-hunter and a snob, I’ll do it thoroughly. Only I do wish you wouldn’t go on thinking I’m a child and can’t defend myself.”

And still Soames was silent, sore to the soles of his boots.

Fleur flashed a look at him, and said:

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help it; everything’s queered;” and she too went out of the room.

Soames moved blindly to the window and stood looking out. He saw a cab with luggage drive away; saw some pigeons alight, peck at the pavement, and fly off again; he saw a man kissing a woman in the dusk; a policeman light his pipe and go off duty. He saw many human and interesting things; he heard Big Ben chime. Nothing in it all! He was staring at a silver spoon. He himself had put it in her mouth at birth.