The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(177)

In his study, Michael had been staring with lugubrious relish at Aubrey Greene’s cartoon of himself in a Society paper. On one leg, like Guy – or was it Slingsby? – in the Edward Lear ‘Nonsense’ book, he was depicted crying in a wilderness where a sardonic smile was rising on the horizon. Out of his mouth the word ‘Foggartism’ wreathed like the smoke of a cigar. Above a hole in the middle distance, a meercat’s body supported the upturned face and applauding forepaws of Mr Blythe. The thing was devastating in treatment and design – not unkind, merely killing. Michael’s face had been endowed with a sort of after-dinner rapture, as if he were enjoying the sound of his own voice. Ridicule! Not even a personal friend, an artist, could see that the wilderness was at least as deserving of ridicule as the pelican! The cartoon seemed to write the word ‘futility’ large across his page. It recalled to him Fleur’s words at the outset: ‘And by the time the Tories go out you’ll have your licence.’ She was a born realist! From the first she had foreseen for him the position of an eccentric, picturesquely beating a little private drum! A dashed good cartoon! And no one could appreciate it so deeply as its victim. But why did everyone smile at Foggartism? Why? Because among a people who naturally walked, it leaped like a grasshopper; to a nation that felt its way in fog, it seemed a will-o’-the-wisp. Yes, he was a fool for his pains! And – just then, Soames arrived.

‘I’ve been to see that Scotchman,’ he said. ‘He means to take it into Court.’

‘Oh! Not really, sir! I always thought you’d keep it out.’

‘Only an unqualified apology will do that. Fleur can’t give it; she’s in the right. Can you come down with me now and see Sir James Foskisson?’

They set out in a taxi for the Temple.

The chambers of a very young Nicholas Forsyte were in Paper Buildings. Chinny, mild and nearly forty, he succeeded within ten minutes in presenting to them every possible doubt.

‘He seems to enjoy the prospect of getting tonked,’ murmured Michael while they were going over to Sir James.

‘A poor thing,’ Soames responded; ‘but careful. Foskisson must attend to the case himself.’

After those necessary minutes during which the celebrated K.C. was regathering from very young Nicholas what it was all about, they were ushered into the presence of one with a large head garnished by small grey whiskers, and really obvious brains. Since selecting him, Soames had been keeping an eye on the great advocate; had watched him veiling his appeals to a jury with an air of scrupulous equity; very few – he was convinced – and those not on juries, could see Sir James Foskisson coming round a corner. Soames had specially remarked his success in cases concerned with morals or nationality – no one so apt at getting a co-respondent, a German, a Russian, or anybody at all bad, non-suited! At close quarters his whiskers seemed to give him an intensive respectability – difficult to imagine him dancing, dicing, or in bed. In spite of his practice, too, he enjoyed the reputation of being thorough; he might be relied on to know more than half the facts of any case by the time he went into Court, and to pick up the rest as he went along – or at least not to show that he hadn’t. Very young Nicholas, knowing all the facts, had seemed quite unable to see what line could possibly be taken. Sir James, on the other hand, appeared to know only just enough. Sliding his light eyes from Soames to Michael, he retailed them, and said: ‘Eminently a case for an amicable settlement.’

‘Indeed!’ said Soames.

Something in his voice seemed to bring Sir James to attention.

‘Have you attempted that?’

‘I have gone to the limit.’

‘Excuse me, Mr Forsyte, but what do you regard as the limit?’

‘Fifteen hundred pounds, and a mutual expression of regret. They’d accept the money, but they ask for an unqualified apology.’

The great lawyer rested his chin. ‘Have you tried the unqualified apology without the money?’

‘No.’

‘I would almost be inclined. MacGown is a very rich man. The shadow and the substance, eh? The expressions in the letters are strong. What do you say, Mr Mont?’

‘Not so strong as those she used of my wife.’

Sir James Foskisson looked at the very young Nicholas.

‘Let me see,’ he said, ‘those were –?’

‘Lion-huntress and snob,’ said Michael curtly.

Sir James wagged his head precisely as if it were a pair of scales.

‘Immoral, snake, traitress, without charm – you think those weaker?’

‘They don’t make you snigger, sir, the others do. In Society it’s the snigger that counts.’