Cigars! He had not even succeeded in outliving his palate – the famous palate that in the fifties men swore by, and speaking of him, said: ‘Forsyte – the best palate in London!’ The palate that in a sense had made his fortune – the fortunes of the celebrated tea men, Forsyte and Treffry, whose tea, like no other man’s tea, had a romantic aroma, the charm of a quite singular genuineness. About the house of Forsyte and Treffry in the City had clung an air of enterprise and mystery, of special dealings in special ships, at special ports, with special Orientals.
He had worked at that business! Men did work in those days! These young pups hardly knew the meaning of the word. He had gone into every detail, known everything that went on, sometimes sat up all night over it. And he had always chosen his agents himself, prided himself on it. His eye for men, he used to say, had been the secret of his success, and the exercise of this masterful power of selection had been the only part of it all that he had really liked. Not a career for a man of his ability. Even now, when the business had been turned into a Limited Liability Company, and was declining (he had got out of his shares long ago), he felt a sharp chagrin in thinking of that time. How much better he might have done! He would have succeeded splendidly at the Bar! He had even thought of standing for Parliament. How often had not Nicholas Treffry said to him: ‘You could do anything, Jo, if you weren’t so d-damned careful of yourself!’ Dear old Nick! Such a good fellow, but a rackety chap! The notorious Treffry! He had never taken any care of himself. So he was dead. Old Jolyon counted his cigars with a steady hand, and it came into his mind to wonder if perhaps he had been too careful of himself.
He put the cigar-case in the breast of his coat, buttoned it in, and walked up the long flights to his bedroom, leaning on one foot and the other, and helping himself by the banister. The house was too big. After June was married, if she ever did marry this fellow, as he supposed she would, he would let it and go into rooms. What was the use of keeping half a dozen servants eating their heads off?
The butler came to the ring of his bell – a large man with a beard, a soft tread, and a peculiar capacity for silence. Old Jolyon told him to put his dress clothes out; he was going to dine at the Club.
‘How long had the carriage been back from taking Miss June to the station? Since two? Then let him come round at half past six.’
The Club which old Jolyon entered on the stroke of seven was one of those political institutions of the upper middle class which have seen better days. In spite of being talked about, perhaps in consequence of being talked about, it betrayed a disappointing vitality. People had grown tired of saying that the Disunion was on its last legs. Old Jolyon would say it, too, yet disregarded the fact in a manner truly irritating to wellconstitutioned clubmen.
‘Why do you keep your name on?’ Swithin often asked him with profound vexation. ‘Why don’t you join the Polyglot? You can’t get a wine like our Heidsieck under twenty shillin’ a bottle anywhere in London’; and, dropping his voice, he added: ‘There’s only five thousand dozen left. I drink it every night of my life.’
‘I’ll think of it,’ old Jolyon would answer; but when he did think of it there was always the question of fifty guineas entrance fee, and it would take him four or five years to get in. He continued to think of it.
He was too old to be a Liberal, had long ceased to believe in the political doctrines of his Club, had even been known to allude to them as ‘wretched stuff’, and it afforded him pleasure to continue a member in the teeth of principles so opposed to his own. He had always had a contempt for the place, having joined it many years ago when they refused to have him at the Hotch Potch owing to his being ‘in trade’. As if he were not as good as any of them! He naturally despised the Club that did take him. The members were a poor lot, many of them in the City – stockbrokers, solicitors, auctioneers, what not! Like most men of strong character but not too much originality, old Jolyon set small store by the class to which he belonged. Faithfully he followed their customs, social and otherwise, and secretly he thought them ‘a common lot’.
Years and philosophy, of which he had his share, had dimmed the recollection of his defeat at the Hotch Potch; and now in his thoughts it was enshrined as the Queen of Clubs. He would have been a member all these years himself, but, owing to the slipshod way his proposer, Jack Herring, had gone to work, they had not known what they were doing in keeping him out. Why! they had taken his son Jo at once, and he believed the boy was still a member; he had received a letter dated from there eight years ago.