The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(255)

‘But,’ said Michael, ‘the local authorities have very wide powers, and much more chance of getting the money.’

Hilary shook his head.

‘Wide powers, yes; but they’re slow, Michael – the snail is a fast animal compared with them; besides, they only displace, because the rents they charge are too high. Also it’s not in the English character, my dear. Somehow we don’t like being “done for” by officials, or being answerable to them. There’s lots of room, of course, for slum area treatment by Borough Councils, and they do lots of good work, but by themselves, they’ll never scotch the evil. You want the human touch; you want a sense of humour, and faith; and that’s a matter for private effort in every town where there are slums.’

‘And who’s going to start this general fund?’ asked Michael, gazing at his aunt’s eyebrows, which had begun to twitch.

‘Well,’ said Hilary, twinkling, ‘I thought that might be where you came in. That’s why I asked you down to-day, in fact.’

‘The deuce! ’ said Michael almost leaping above the Irish stew on his plate.

‘Exactly!’ said his uncle; ‘but couldn’t you get together a committee of both Houses to issue an appeal? From the work we’ve done James can give you exact figures. They could see for themselves what’s happened here. Surely, Michael, there must be ten just men who could be got to move in a matter like this –’

‘“Ten Apostles,”’ said Michael faintly.

‘Well, but there’s no real need to bring Christ in – nothing remote or sentimental; you could approach them from any angle. Old Sir Timothy Fanfield, for example, would love to have a “go” at slum landlordism. Then we’ve electrified all the kitchens so far, and mean to go on doing it – so you could get old Shropshire on that. Besides, there’s no need to confine the committee to the two Houses – Sir Thomas Morsell, or, I should think, any of the big doctors, would come in; you could pinch a brace of bankers with Quaker blood in them; and there are always plenty of retired governor generals with their tongues out. Then if you could rope in a member of the Royal Family to head it – the trick would be done.’

‘Poor Michael!’ said his aunt’s soft voice: ‘Let him finish his stew, Hilary’

But Michael had dropped his fork for good; he saw another kind of stew before him.

‘The General Slum Conversion Fund,’ went on Hilary, ‘affiliating every Slum Conversion Society in being or to be, so long as it conforms to the principle of not displacing the present inhabitant. Don’t you see what a pull that gives over the inhabitants? – we start them straight, and we jolly well see that they don’t let their houses down again.’

‘But can you?’ said Michael.

‘Ah! you’ve heard stories of baths being used for coal and vegetables, and all that. Take it from me, they’re exaggerated, Michael. Anyway, that’s where we private workers come in with a big advantage over municipal authorities. They have to drive, we try to lead.’

‘Let me hot up your stew, dear?’ said his aunt.

Michael refused. He perceived that it would need no hotting up! Another crusade! His Uncle Hilary had always fascinated him with his crusading blood – at the time of the Crusades the name had been Kéroual, and now spelt Charwell, was pronounced Cherwell, in accordance with the sound English custom of worrying foreigners.

‘I’m not approaching you, Michael, with the inducement that you should make your name at this, because, after all, you’re a gent!’

‘Thank you!’ murmured Michael; ‘always glad of a kind word.’

‘No. I’m suggesting that you ought to do something, considering your luck in life.’

‘I quite agree,’ said Michael humbly. ‘The question seems to be: Is this the something?’

‘It is, undoubtedly,’ said his uncle, waving a salt-spoon on which was engraved the Charwell crest. ‘What else can it be?’

‘Did you ever hear of Foggartism, Uncle Hilary?’

‘No; what’s that?’

‘My aunt!’ said Michael.

‘Some blanc-mange, dear?’

‘Not you, Aunt May! But did you really never hear of it, Uncle Hilary?’

‘Foggartism? Is it that fog-abating scheme one reads about?’

‘It is not,’ said Michael. ‘Of course, you’re sunk in misery and sin here. Still, it’s almost too thick. You’ve heard of it, Aunt May?’

His aunt’s eyebrows became intricate again.

‘I think,’ she said, ‘I do remember hearing someone say it was balderdash!’