“We back-numbers,” his father was saying, “are awfully anxious to find out why we can’t appreciate the new stuff; you and Jon must tell us.”
“It’s supposed to be satiric, isn’t it?” said Fleur.
He saw his father’s smile.
“Satiric? Oh! I think it’s more than that. What do you say, Jon?”
“I don’t know at all,” stammered Jon. His father’s face had a sudden grimness.
“The young are tired of us, our gods and our ideals. Off with their heads, they say — smash their idols! And let’s get back to — nothing! And, by Jove, they’ve done it! Jon’s a poet. He’ll be going in, too, and stamping on what’s left of us. Property, beauty, sentiment — all smoke. We mustn’t own anything nowadays, not even our feelings. They stand in the way of — Nothing.”
Jon listened, bewildered, almost outraged by his father’s words, behind which he felt a meaning that he could not reach. He didn’t want to stamp on anything!
“Nothing’s the god of today,” continued Jolyon; “we’re back where the Russians were sixty years ago, when they started Nihilism.”
“No, Dad,” cried Jon suddenly; “we only want to LIVE, and we don’t know how, because of the Past — that’s all!”
“By George!” said Jolyon, “that’s profound, Jon. Is it your own? The Past! Old ownerships, old passions, and their aftermath. Let’s have cigarettes.”
Conscious that his mother had lifted her hand to her lips, quickly, as if to hush something, Jon handed the cigarettes. He lighted his father’s and Fleur’s, then one for himself. Had he taken the knock that Val had spoken of? The smoke was blue when he had not puffed, grey when he had; he liked the sensation in his nose, and the sense of equality it gave him. He was glad no one said: “So you’ve begun!” He felt less young.
Fleur looked at her watch, and rose. His mother went with her into the house. Jon stayed with his father, puffing at the cigarette.
“See her into the car, old man,” said Jolyon; “and when she’s gone, ask your mother to come back to me.”
Jon went. He waited in the hall. He saw her into the car. There was no chance for any word; hardly for a pressure of the hand. He waited all that evening for something to be said to him. Nothing was said. Nothing might have happened. He went up to bed; and in the mirror on his dressing-table met himself. He did not speak, nor did the image; but both looked as if they thought the more.
Last updated on Wed Jan 12 09:33:24 2011 for eBooks@Adelaide.
To Let, by John Galsworthy
IV In Green Street
Uncertain, whether the impression that Prosper Profond was dangerous should be traced to his attempt to give Val the Mayfly filly; to the remark of Fleur’s: “Isn’t he a great cat? Prowling!” to his preposterous inquiry of Jack Cardigan: “What’s the use of keepin’ fit?” or, more simply, to the fact that he was a foreigner, or alien as it was now called. Certain that Annette was looking particularly handsome, and that Soames had sold him a Gauguin and then torn up the cheque, so that Monsieur Profond himself had said: “I didn’t get that small picture I bought from Mr. Forsyde.”
However suspiciously regarded, he still frequented Winifred’s evergreen little house in Green Street, with a good-natured obtuseness which no one mistook for naivete; a word hardly applicable to Monsieur Prosper Profond. Winifred still found him “amusing,” and would write him little notes saying: “Come and have a ‘jolly’ with us’— it was breath of life to her to keep up with the phrases of the day.
The mystery, with which all felt him to be surrounded, was due to his having done, seen, heard, and known everything, and found nothing in it — which was unnatural. The English type of disillusionment was familiar enough to Winifred, who had always moved in fashionable circles. It gave a certain cachet or distinction, so that one got something out of it. But to see nothing in anything, not as a pose, but because there WAS nothing in anything, was not English; and that which was not English one could not help secretly feeling dangerous, if not precisely bad form. It was like having the mood which the war had left, seated — dark, heavy, smiling, indifferent — in your Empire chair; it was like listening to that mood talking through thick pink lips above a little diabolic beard. It was, as Jack Cardigan expressed it — for the English character at large —“a bit too thick”— for if nothing was really worth getting excited about, there were always games, and one could make it so! Even Winifred, ever a Forsyte at heart, felt that there was nothing to be had out of a mood of disillusionment; it really ought not to be there. Monsieur Profond, in fact, made the mood too plain, in a country which decently veiled such realities.
When Fleur, after her hurried return from Robin Hill, came down to dinner that evening, the mood was standing at the window of Winifred’s little drawing-room, looking out into Green Street, with an air of seeing nothing in it. And Fleur gazed promptly into the fireplace with an air of seeing a fire which was not there.
Monsieur Profond came from the window. He was in full fig, with a white waistcoat and a white flower in his buttonhole.
“Well, Miss Forsyde,” he said, “I’m awful pleased to see you. Mr. Forsyde well? I was sayin’ today I want to see him have some pleasure. He worries.”
“You think so?” said Fleur shortly.
“Worries,” repeated Monsieur Profond, burring the r’s.
Fleur spun round. “Shall I tell you,” she said, “what would give him pleasure?” But the words: “To hear that you had cleared out” died at the expression on his face. All his fine white teeth were showing.
“I was hearin’ at the Club today, about his old trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
Monsieur Profond moved his sleek head as if to minimise his statement.
“Before you were born,” he said; “that small business.”
Though conscious that he had cleverly diverted her from his own share in her father’s worry, Fleur could not withstand a rush of nervous curiosity. “What did you hear?”
“Why!” murmured Monsieur Profond, “you know all that.”
“I expect I do. But I should like to know that you haven’t heard it all wrong.”
“His first wife,” murmured Monsieur Profond.
Choking back the words: “He was never married before”; she said: “Well, what about her?”
“Mr. George Forsyde was tellin’ me about your father’s first wife marryin’ his cousin Jolyon afterwards. It was a small bit unpleasant, I should think. I saw their boy — nice boy!”
Fleur looked up. Monsieur Profond was swimming, heavily diabolical, before her. That — the reason! With the most heroic effort of her life so far, she managed to arrest that swimming figure. She could not tell whether he had noticed. And just then Winifred came in.
“Oh! here you both are already! Imogen and I have had the most amusing afternoon at the Babies’ bazaar.”
“What babies?” said Fleur mechanically.
“The ‘Save the Babies.’ I got such a bargain, my dear. A piece of old Armenian work — from before the flood. I want your opinion on it, Prosper.”
“Auntie,” whispered Fleur suddenly.
At the tone in the girl’s voice Winifred closed in on her.
“What’s the matter? Aren’t you well?”
Monsieur Profond had withdrawn into the window, where he was practically out of hearing.
“Auntie, he told me that father has been married before. Is it true that he divorced her, and she married Jon Forsyte’s father?”
Never in all the life of the mother of four little Darties had Winifred felt more seriously embarrassed. Her niece’s face was so pale, her eyes so dark, her voice so whispery and strained.