Granted that Swithin took a bachelors view of the situation still what indeed was not due to that family in which so many had done so well for themselves, had attained a certain position? If he had heard in dark, pessimistic moments the words yeomen and very small beer used in connection with his origin, did he believe them?
No! he cherished, hugging it pathetically to his bosom the secret theory that there was something distinguished somewhere in his ancestry.
Must be, he once said to young Jolyon, before the latter went to the bad. Look at us, weve got on! There must be good blood in us somewhere.
He had been fond of young Jolyon: the boy had been in a good set at College, had known that old ruffian Sir Charles Fistes sons a pretty rascal one of them had turned out, too; and there was style about him it was a thousand pities he had run off with that half-foreign governess! If he must go off like that why couldnt he have chosen someone who would have done them credit! And what was he now? an underwriter at Lloyds; they said he even painted pictures pictures! Damme! he might have ended as Sir Jolyon Forsyte, Bart.[36], with a seat in Parliament, and a place in the country!
It was Swithin who, following the impulse which sooner or later urges thereto some member of every great family, went to the Heralds Office, where they assured him that he was undoubtedly of the same family as the well-known Forsites with an i, whose arms were three dexter buckles on a sable ground gules, hoping no doubt to get him to take them up.
Swithin, however, did not do this, but having ascertained that the crest was a pheasant proper, and the motto For Forsite, he had the pheasant proper placed upon his carriage and the buttons of his coachman, and both crest and motto on his writing-paper. The arms he hugged to himself, partly because, not having paid for them, he thought it would look ostentatious to put them on his carriage, and he hated ostentation, and partly because he, like any practical man all over the country, had a secret dislike and contempt for things he could not understand he found it hard, as anyone might, to swallow three dexter buckles on a sable ground gules.
He never forgot, however, their having told him that if he paid for them he would be entitled to use them, and it strengthened his conviction that he was a gentleman. Imperceptibly the rest of the family absorbed the pheasant proper, and some, more serious than others, adopted the motto; old Jolyon, however, refused to use the latter, saying that it was humbug meaning nothing, so far as he could see.
Among the older generation it was perhaps known at bottom from what great historical event they derived their crest; and if pressed on the subject, sooner than tell a lie they did not like telling lies, having an impression that only Frenchmen and Russians told them they would confess hurriedly that Swithin had got hold of it somehow.
Among the younger generation the matter was wrapped in a discretion proper. They did not want to hurt the feelings of their elders, nor to feel ridiculous themselves; they simply used the crest.
No, said Swithin, he had had an opportunity of seeing for himself, and what he should say was, that there was nothing in her manner to that young Buccaneer or Bosinney or whatever his name was, different from her manner to himself; in fact, he should rather say. But here the entrance of Frances and Euphemia put an unfortunate stop to the conversation, for this was not a subject which could be discussed before young people.
And though Swithin was somewhat upset at being stopped like this on the point of saying something important, he soon recovered his affability. He was rather fond of Frances Francie, as she was called in the family. She was so smart, and they told him she made a pretty little pot of pin-money by her songs; he called it very clever of her.
He rather prided himself indeed on a liberal attitude towards women, not seeing any reason why they shouldnt paint pictures, or write tunes, or books even, for the matter of that, especially if they could turn a useful penny by it; not at all kept them out of mischief. It was not as if they were men!
Little Francie, as she was usually called with good-natured contempt, was an important personage, if only as a standing illustration of the attitude of Forsytes towards the Arts. She was not really little, but rather tall, with dark hair for a Forsyte, which, together with a grey eye, gave her what was called a Celtic appearance. She wrote songs with titles like Breathing Sighs, or Kiss me, Mother, ere I die, with a refrain like an anthem:
Kiss me, Mother, ere I die;
Kiss me-kiss me, Mother, ah!
Kiss, ah! kiss me e-ere I
Kiss me, Mother, ere I d-d-die!
She wrote the words to them herself, and other poems. In lighter moments she wrote waltzes, one of which, the Kensington Coil, was almost national to Kensington, having a sweet dip in it.
It was very original. Then there were her Songs for Little People, at once educational and witty, especially Granmas Porgie, and that ditty, almost prophetically imbued with the coming Imperial spirit, entitled Black Him In His Little Eye.
Any publisher would take these, and reviews like High Living, and the Ladies Genteel Guide went into raptures over: Another of Miss Francie Forsytes spirited ditties, sparkling and pathetic. We ourselves were moved to tears and laughter. Miss Forsyte should go far.
With the true instinct of her breed, Francie had made a point of knowing the right people people who would write about her, and talk about her, and people in Society, too keeping a mental register of just where to exert her fascinations, and an eye on that steady scale of rising prices, which in her minds eye represented the future. In this way she caused herself to be universally respected.
Once, at a time when her emotions were whipped by an attachment for the tenor of Rogers life, with its whole-hearted collection of house property, had induced in his only daughter a tendency towards passion she turned to great and sincere work, choosing the sonata form, for the violin. This was the only one of her productions that troubled the Forsytes. They felt at once that it would not sell.
Roger, who liked having a clever daughter well enough, and often alluded to the amount of pocket-money she made for herself, was upset by this violin sonata.
Roger, who liked having a clever daughter well enough, and often alluded to the amount of pocket-money she made for herself, was upset by this violin sonata.
Rubbish like that! he called it. Francie had borrowed young Flageoletti from Euphemia, to play it in the drawing-room at Princes Gardens.
As a matter of fact Roger was right. It was rubbish, but annoying! the sort of rubbish that wouldnt sell. As every Forsyte knows, rubbish that sells is not rubbish at all far from it.
And yet, in spite of the sound common sense which fixed the worth of art at what it would fetch, some of the Forsytes Aunt Hester, for instance, who had always been musical could not help regretting that Francies music was not classical; the same with her poems. But then, as Aunt Hester said, they didnt see any poetry nowadays, all the poems were little light things.
There was nobody who could write a poem like Paradise Lost, or Childe Harold; either of which made you feel that you really had read something. Still, it was nice for Francie to have something to occupy her; while other girls were spending money shopping she was making it!
And both Aunt Hester and Aunt Juley were always ready to listen to the latest story of how Francie had got her price increased.
They listened now, together with Swithin, who sat pretending not to, for these young people talked so fast and mumbled so, he never could catch what they said.
And I cant think, said Mrs. Septimus, how you do it. I should never have the audacity!
Francie smiled lightly. Id much rather deal with a man than a woman. Women are so sharp!
My dear, cried Mrs. Small, Im sure were not.
Euphemia went off into her silent laugh, and, ending with the squeak, said, as though being strangled: Oh, youll kill me some day, auntie.
Swithin saw no necessity to laugh; he detested people laughing when he himself perceived no joke. Indeed, he detested Euphemia altogether, to whom he always alluded as Nicks daughter, whats she called the pale one? He had just missed being her god-father indeed, would have been, had he not taken a firm stand against her outlandish name. He hated becoming a godfather. Swithin then said to Francie with dignity: Its a fine day er for the time of year. But Euphemia, who knew perfectly well that he had refused to be her godfather, turned to Aunt Hester, and began telling her how she had seen Irene Mrs. Soames at the Church and Commercial Stores.
And Soames was with her? said Aunt Hester, to whom Mrs. Small had as yet had no opportunity of relating the incident.
Soames with her? Of course not!
But was she all alone in London?
Oh, no; there was Mr. Bosinney with her. She was perfectly dressed.
But Swithin, hearing the name Irene, looked severely at Euphemia, who, it is true, never did look well in a dress, whatever she may have done on other occasions, and said:
Dressed like a lady, Ive no doubt. Its a pleasure to see her.
At this moment James and his daughters were announced. Dartie, feeling badly in want of a drink, had pleaded an appointment with his dentist, and, being put down at the Marble Arch, had got into a hansom, and was already seated in the window of his club in Piccadilly.
His wife, he told his cronies, had wanted to take him to pay some calls. It was not in his line not exactly. Haw!
Hailing the waiter, he sent him out to the hall to see what had won the 4.30 race. He was dog-tired, he said, and that was a fact; had been drivin about with his wife to shows all the afternoon. Had put his foot down at last. A fellow must live his own life.
At this moment, glancing out of the bay window for he loved this seat whence he could see everybody pass his eye unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, chanced to light on the figure of Soames, who was mousing across the road from the Green Park-side, with the evident intention of coming in, for he, too, belonged to The Iseeum.