But as young Jolyon had in his constitution the elements of impartiality, he reflected that to stigmatize as barbarity that which was merely lack of imagination must be wrong; for none who held these views had been placed in a similar position to the animals they caged, and could not, therefore, be expected to enter into their sensations.
It was not until they were leaving the gardens – Jolly and Holly in a state of blissful delirium – that old Jolyon found an opportunity of speaking to his son on the matter next his heart. ‘I don’t know what to make of it,’ he said: ‘if she’s to go on as she’s going now, I can’t tell what’s to come. I wanted her to see the doctor, but she won’t. She’s not a bit like me. She’s your mother all over. Obstinate as a mule! If she doesn’t want to do a thing, she won’t, and there’s an end of it!’
Young Jolyon smiled; his eyes had wandered to his father’s chin. ‘A pair of you,’ he thought, but he said nothing.
‘And then,’ went on old Jolyon, ‘there’s this Bosinney. I should like to punch the fellow’s head, but I can’t, I suppose, though – I don’t see why you shouldn’t,’ he added doubtfully.
‘What has he done? Far better that it should come to an end, if they don’t hit it off!’
Old Jolyon looked at his son. Now they had actually come to discuss a subject connected with the relations between the sexes he felt distrustful. Jo would be sure to hold some loose view or other.
‘Well, I don’t know what you think,’ he said; ‘I dare say your sympathy’s with him – shouldn’t be surprised; but I think he’s behaving precious badly, and if he comes my way I shall tell him so.’ He dropped the subject.
It was impossible to discuss with his son the true nature and meaning of Bosinney’s defection. Had not his son done the very same thing (worse, if possible) fifteen years ago? There seemed no end to the consequences of that piece of folly!
Young Jolyon was also silent; he had quickly penetrated his father’s thought, for, dethroned from the high seat of an obvious and uncomplicated view of things, he had become both perceptive and subtle.’
The attitude he had adopted towards sexual matters fifteen years before, however, was too different from his father’s. There was no bridging the gulf.
He said coolly: ‘I suppose he’s fallen in love with some other woman?’
Old Jolyon gave him a dubious look: ‘I can’t tell,’ he said; ‘they say so!’
‘Then it’s probably true,’ remarked young Jolyon unexpectedly; ‘and I suppose they’ve told you who she is?
‘Yes,’ said old Jolyon –’Soames’s wife.’
Young Jolyon did not whistle. The circumstances of his own life had rendered him incapable of whistling on such a subject, but he looked at his father, while the ghost of a smile hovered over his face.
If old Jolyon saw, he took no notice.
‘She and June were bosom friends!’ he muttered.
‘Poor little June!’ said young Jolyon softly. He thought of his daughter still as a babe of three.
Old Jolyon came to a sudden halt.
‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ he said, ‘it’s some old woman’s tale. Get me a cab, Jo, I’m tired to death!’
They stood at a corner to see if an empty cab would come along, while carriage after carriage drove past, bearing Forsytes of all descriptions from the Zoo. The harness, the liveries, the gloss on the horses’s coats, shone and glittered in the May sunlight, and each equipage, landau, sociable, barouche, Victoria, or brougham seemed to roll out proudly from its wheels:
I and my horses and my men, you know,
Indeed the whole turn-out have cost a pot,
But we were worth it every penny. Look
At Master and at Missis now, the dawgs!
Ease with security – ah! that’s the ticket!
And such, as everyone knows, is fit accompaniment for a perambulating Forsyte.
Amongst these carriages was a barouche coming at a greater pace than the others, drawn by a pair of bright bay horses. It swung on its high springs, and the four people who filled it seemed rocked as in a cradle.
This chariot attracted young Jolyon’s attention; and suddenly, on the back seat, he recognized his Uncle James, unmistakable in spite of the increased whiteness of his whiskers; opposite, their backs defended by sunshades, Rachel Forsyte and her elder but married sister, Winifred Dartie, in irreproachable toilettes, had posed their heads haughtily, like two of the birds they had been seeing at the Zoo; while by James’s side reclined Dartie, in a brand-new frock-coat buttoned tight and square, with a large expanse of carefully shot linen protruding below each wristband.