The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(131)

Whatever attention Soames had given to The Parlous State of England, he could not be accused of anything so rash as a faith in Foggartism. If Foggartism were killed to-morrow, he, with his inherent distrust of theories and ideas, his truly English pragmatism, could not help feeling that Michael would be well rid of a white elephant. What disquieted him, however, was the suspicion that he himself had inspired this article. Was this that too-cheery fellow’s retort?

Decidedly, he should not mention his visit when he dined in South Square that evening.

The presence of a strange hat on the sarcophagus warned him of a fourth party. Mr Blythe, in fact, with a cocktail in his hand and an olive in his mouth, was talking to Fleur, who was curled up on a cushion by the fire.

‘You know Mr Blythe, Dad?’

Another editor! Soames extended his hand with caution.

Mr Blythe swallowed the olive. ‘It’s of no importance,’ he said.

‘Well,’ said Fleur, ‘I think you ought to put it all off, and let them feel they’ve made fools of themselves.’

‘Does Michael think that, Mrs Mont?’

‘No; Michael’s got his shirt out!’ And they all looked round at Michael, who was coming in.

He certainly had a somewhat headstrong air.

According to Michael, they must take it by the short hairs and give as good as they got, or they might as well put up the shutters. They were sent to Parliament to hold their own opinions, not those stuck into them by Fleet Street. If they genuinely believed the Foggart policy to be the only way to cure unemployment, and stem the steady drain into the towns, they must say so, and not be stampeded by every little newspaper attack that came along. Common sense was on their side, and common sense, if you aired it enough, won through in the end. The opposition to Foggartism was really based on an intention to force lower wages and longer hours on Labour, only they daren’t say so in so many words. Let the papers jump through their hoops as much as they liked. He would bet that when Foggartism had been six months before the public, they would be eating half their words with an air of eating someone else’s! And suddenly he turned to Soames:

‘I suppose, sir, you didn’t go down about that paragraph?’

Soames, privately, and as a business man, had always so conducted himself that, if cornered, he need never tell a direct untruth. Lies were not English, not even good form. Looking down his nose, he said slowly:

‘Well, i let them know that I knew that woman’s name.’

Fleur frowned; Mr Blythe reached out and took some salted almonds.

‘What did I tell you, sir?’ said Michael. ‘They always get back on you. The Press has a tremendous sense of dignity; and corns on both feet; eh, Mr Blythe?’

Mr Blythe said weightily: ‘It’s a very human institution, young man. It prefers to criticize rather than to be criticized.’

‘I thought,’ said Fleur icily, ‘that I was to be left to my own cudgels.’

The discussion broke back to Foggartism, but Soames sat brooding. He would never again interfere in what didn’t concern himself. Then, like all who love, he perceived the bitterness of his fate. He had only meddled with what did concern himself – her name, her happiness; and she resented it. Basket in which were all his eggs, to the end of his days he must go on walking gingerly, balancing her so that she was not upset, spilling his only treasure.

She left them over the wine that only Mr Blythe was drinking. Soames heard an odd word now and then, gathered that this great frog-chap was going to burst next week in The Out-post, gathered that Michael was to get on to his hind legs in the House at the first opportunity. It was all a muzz of words to him. When they rose, he said to Michael:

‘I’ll take myself off.’

‘We’re going down to the House, sir: won’t you stay with Fleur?’

‘No,’ said Soames; ‘I must be getting back.’

Michael looked at him closely.

‘I’ll just tell her you’re going.’

Soames had wrapped himself into his coat, and was opening the door when he smelled violet soap. A bare arm had come round his neck. He felt soft pressure against his back. ‘Sorry, Dad, for being such a pig.’

Soames shook’ his head.

‘No,’ said her voice; ‘you’re not going like that.’

She slipped between him and the door. Her clear eye looked into his; her teeth gleamed, very white. ‘Say you forgive me!’

‘There’s no end to it,’ said Soames.

She thrust her lips against his nose. ‘There! Good-night, ducky! I know I’m spoiled!’

Soames gave her body a convulsive little squeeze, opened the door and went out without a word.