Лучшее из «Саги о Форсайтах» / The Best of The Forsyte Saga. Джон ГолсуорсиЧитать онлайн книгу.
washing his hands in the lavatory downstairs, he went to the dining-room to wait for dinner, the only room he used when June was out – it was less lonely so. The evening paper had not yet come; he had finished the Times, there was therefore nothing to do.
The room faced the backwater of traffic, and was very silent. He disliked dogs, but a dog even would have been company. His gaze, travelling round the walls, rested on a picture entitled: ‘Group of Dutch fishing boats at sunset’; the chef d’oeuvre of his collection. It gave him no pleasure. He closed his eyes. He was lonely! He oughtn’t to complain, he knew, but he couldn’t help it: He was a poor thing – had always been a poor thing – no pluck! Such was his thought.
The butler came to lay the table for dinner, and seeing his master apparently asleep, exercised extreme caution in his movements. This bearded man also wore a moustache, which had given rise to grave doubts in the minds of many members – of the family – , especially those who, like Soames, had been to public schools, and were accustomed to niceness in such matters. Could he really be considered a butler? Playful spirits alluded to him as: ‘Uncle Jolyon’s Nonconformist’; George, the acknowledged wag, had named him: ‘Sankey.’
He moved to and fro between the great polished sideboard and the great polished table inimitably sleek and soft.
Old Jolyon watched him, feigning sleep. The fellow was a sneak – he had always thought so – who cared about nothing but rattling through his work, and getting out to his betting or his woman or goodness knew what! A slug! Fat too! And didn’t care a pin about his master!
But then against his will, came one of those moments of philosophy which made old Jolyon different from other Forsytes:
After all why should the man care? He wasn’t paid to care, and why expect it? In this world people couldn’t look for affection unless they paid for it. It might be different in the next – he didn’t know – couldn’t tell! And again he shut his eyes.
Relentless and stealthy, the butler pursued his labours, taking things from the various compartments of the sideboard. His back seemed always turned to old Jolyon; thus, he robbed his operations of the unseemliness of being carried on in his master’s presence; now and then he furtively breathed on the silver, and wiped it with a piece of chamois leather. He appeared to pore over the quantities of wine in the decanters, which he carried carefully and rather high, letting his head droop over them protectingly. When he had finished, he stood for over a minute watching his master, and in his greenish eyes there was a look of contempt:
After all, this master of his was an old buffer, who hadn’t much left in him!
Soft as a tom-cat, he crossed the room to press the bell. His orders were ‘dinner at seven.’ What if his master were asleep; he would soon have him out of that; there was the night to sleep in! He had himself to think of, for he was due at his Club at half-past eight!
In answer to the ring, appeared a page boy with a silver soup tureen. The butler took it from his hands and placed it on the table, then, standing by the open door, as though about to usher company into the room, he said in a solemn voice:
“Dinner is on the table, sir!”
Slowly old Jolyon got up out of his chair, and sat down at the table to eat his dinner.
Chapter VIII
Plans of the House
Forsytes, as is generally admitted, have shells, like that extremely useful little animal which is made into Turkish delight, in other words, they are never seen, or if seen would not be recognised, without habitats, composed of circumstance, property, acquaintances, and wives, which seem to move along with them in their passage through a world composed of thousands of other Forsytes with their habitats. Without a habitat a Forsyte is inconceivable – he would be like a novel without a plot, which is well-known to be an anomaly.
To Forsyte eyes Bosinney appeared to have no habitat, he seemed one of those rare and unfortunate men who go through life surrounded by circumstance, property, acquaintances, and wives that do not belong to them.
His rooms in Sloane Street, on the top floor, outside which, on a plate, was his name, ‘Philip Baynes Bosinney, Architect,’ were not those of a Forsyte. – He had no sitting-room apart from his office, but a large recess had been screened off to conceal the necessaries of life – a couch, an easy chair, his pipes, spirit case, novels and slippers. The business part of the room had the usual furniture; an open cupboard with pigeon-holes, a round oak table, a folding wash-stand, some hard chairs, a standing desk of large dimensions covered with drawings and designs. June had twice been to tea there under the chaperonage of his aunt.
He was believed to have a bedroom at the back.
As far as the family had been able to ascertain his income, it consisted of two consulting appointments at twenty pounds a year, together with an odd fee once in a way, and – more worthy item – a private annuity under his father’s will of one hundred and fifty pounds a year.
What had transpired concerning that father was not so reassuring. It appeared that he had been a Lincolnshire country doctor of Cornish extraction, striking appearance, and Byronic tendencies – a well-known figure, in fact, in his county. Bosinney’s uncle by marriage, Baynes, of Baynes and Bildeboy, a Forsyte in instincts if not in name, had but little that was worthy to relate of his brother-in-law.
“An odd fellow!’ he would say: ‘always spoke of his three eldest boys as ‘good creatures, but so dull’; they’re all doing capitally in the Indian Civil[20]! Philip was the only one he liked. I’ve heard him talk in the queerest way; he once said to me: ‘My dear fellow, never let your poor wife know what you’re thinking of!’ But I didn’t follow his advice; not I! An eccentric man! He would say to Phil: ‘Whether you live like a gentleman or not, my boy, be sure you die like one!’ and he had himself embalmed in a frock coat suit, with a satin cravat and a diamond pin. Oh, quite an original, I can assure you!”
Of Bosinney himself Baynes would speak warmly, with a certain compassion: “He’s got a streak of his father’s Byronism. Why, look at the way he threw up his chances when he left my office; going off like that for six months with a knapsack, and all for what? – to study foreign architecture – foreign! What could he expect? And there he is – a clever young fellow – doesn’t make his hundred a year! Now this engagement is the best thing that could have happened – keep him steady; he’s one of those that go to bed all day and stay up all night, simply because they’ve no method; but no vice about him – not an ounce of vice. Old Forsyte’s a rich man!”
Mr. Baynes made himself extremely pleasant to June, who frequently visited his house in Lowndes Square at this period.
“This house of your cousin’s – what a capital man of business – is the very thing for Philip,” he would say to her; “you mustn’t expect to see too much of him just now, my dear young lady. The good cause – the good cause! The young man must make his way. When I was his age I was at work day and night. My dear wife used to say to me, ‘Bobby, don’t work too hard, think of your health’; but I never spared myself!”
June had complained that her lover found no time to come to Stanhope Gate.
The first time he came again they had not been together a quarter of an hour before, by one of those coincidences of which she was a mistress, Mrs. Septimus Small arrived. Thereon Bosinney rose and hid himself, according to previous arrangement, in the little study, to wait for her departure.
“My dear,” said Aunt Juley, “how thin he is! I’ve often noticed it with engaged people; but you mustn’t let it get worse. There’s Barlow’s extract of veal; it did your Uncle Swithin a lot of good.”
June, her little figure erect before the hearth, her small face quivering grimly, for she regarded her aunt’s untimely visit in the light of a personal injury, replied with scorn:
“It’s because he’s busy; people who can do anything worth doing are never fat!”
Aunt
the Indian Civil – Indian Civil Service, administrative elite, composed of officers recruited by competitive examination (Government of India Act of 1858).