The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(118)

Francis Wilmot turned his head rather sharply.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’re like any other people when it comes to bed-rock.’

‘Quite so,’ said Michael, ‘idealism is just a by-product of geography – it’s the haze that lies in the middle distance. The farther you are from bed-rock, the less quick you need to be to see it. We’re twenty sea-miles more idealistic about the European situation than the French are. And you’re three thousand sea-miles more idealistic them we are. But when it’s a matter of niggers, we’re three thousand sea-miles more idealistic than you; isn’t that so?’

Francis Wilmot narrowed his dark eyes.

‘It is,’ he said. ‘The farther North we go in the States, the more idealistic we get about the negro. Anne and I’ve lived all our life with darkies, and never had trouble; we love them, and they love us; but I wouldn’t trust myself not to join in lynching one that laid his hands on her. I’ve talked that over many times with Jon. He doesn’t see it that way; he says a darky should be tried like a white man; but he doesn’t know the real South. His mind is still three thousand sea-miles away.’

Michael was silent. Something within him always closed up at mention of a name which he still spelt mentally with an ‘h’.

Francis Wilmot added ruminatively: ‘There are a few saints in every country proof against your theory; but the rest of us, I reckon, aren’t above human nature.’

‘Talking of human nature,’ said Michael, ‘here’s my father-in-law!’





Chapter Six



SOAMES KEEPS HIS EYES OPEN



SOAMES, having prolonged his week-end visit, had been spending the afternoon at the Zoological Gardens, removing his great-nephews, the little Cardigans, from the too close proximity of monkeys and cats. After standing them once more in Imogen’s hall, he had roosted at his Club till, idly turning his evening paper, he had come on this paragraph, in the ‘Chiff-chaff’ column:

‘A surprise for the Coming Session is being confectioned at the Wednesday gatherings of a young hostess not a hundred miles from Westminster. Her husband, a prospective baronet lately connected with literature, is to be entrusted with the launching in Parliament of a policy which enjoys the peculiar label of Foggartism, derived from Sir James Foggart’s book called The Parlous State of England. This amusing alarum is attributed to the somewhat fantastic brain which guides a well-known weekly. We shall see what comes of it. In the meantime the enterprising little lady in question is losing no chance of building up her ‘salon’ on the curiosity which ever surrounds any buccaneering in politics.’

Soames rubbed his eyes; then read it again with rising anger. ‘Enterprising little lady is losing no chance of building up her “salon”.’ Who had written that? He put the paper in his pocket – almost the first theft he had ever committed – and all the way across St James’s Park in the gathering twilight he brooded on that anonymous paragraph. The allusion seemed to him unmistakable, and malicious into the bargain. ‘Lion-hunter’ would not have been plainer. Unfortunately, in a primary sense ‘lion-hunter’ was a compliment, and Soames doubted whether its secondary sense had ever been ‘laid down’ as libellous. He was still brooding deeply, when the young men ranged alongside.

‘Well, sir?’

‘Ah!’ said Soames. ‘I want to speak to you. You’ve got a traitor in the camp.’ And without meaning to at all, he looked angrily at Francis Wilmot.

‘Now, sir?’ said Michael, when they were in the study.

Soames held out the folded paper.

Michael read the paragraph and made a face.

‘Whoever wrote that comes to your evenings,’ said Soames; ‘that’s clear. Who is he?’

‘Very likely a she.’

‘D’you mean to say they print such things by women?’

Michael did not answer. Old Forsyte was behind the times.

‘Will they tell me who it is, if I go down to them?’ asked Soames.

‘No, fortunately.’

‘How d’you mean “fortunately”?’

‘Well, sir, the Press is a sensitive plant. I’m afraid you might make it curl up. Besides, it’s always saying nice things that aren’t deserved.’

‘But this –’ began Soames; he stopped in time, and substituted: ‘Do you mean that we’ve got to sit down under it?’

‘To lie down, I’m afraid.’

‘Fleur has an evening tomorrow.’

‘Yes.’

‘I shall stay up for it, and keep my eyes open.’