The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(5)

Well! What had he thought of the cartoons? Ought Michael to publish them, and with letterpress or without? Didn’t he think that the cubic called ‘Still Life’ – of the Government, too frightfully funny – especially the ‘old bean’ representing the Prime? For answer she was conscious of a twisting, rapid noise; Sir Lawrence was telling her of his father’s collection of electioneering cartoons. She did wish Bart would not tell her about his father; he had been so distinguished, and he must have been so dull, paying all his calls on horseback, with trousers strapped under his boots. He and Lord Charles Cariboo and the Marquis of Forfar had been the last three ‘callers’ of that sort. If only they hadn’t, they’d have been clean forgot. She had that dress to try, and fourteen things to see to, and Hugo’s concert began at eight-fifteen! Why did people of the last generation always have so much time? And, suddenly, she looked down. Ting-a-ling was licking the copper floor. She took him up: ‘Not that, darling; nasty!’ Ah! the spell was broken! Bart was going, reminiscent to the last. She waited at the foot of the stairs till Michael shut the door on him, then flew. Reaching her room, she turned on all the lights. Here was her own style – a bed which did not look like one, and many mirrors. The couch of Ting-a-ling occupied a corner, whence he could see himself in three. She put him down, and said: ‘Keep quiet, now!’ His attitude to the other dogs in the room had long become indifferent; though of his own breed and precisely his colouring, they had no smell and no licking power in their tongues – nothing to be done with them, imitative creatures, incredibly unresponsive.

Stripping off her dress, Fleur held the new frock under her chin.

‘May I kiss you?’ said a voice, and there was Michael’s image behind her own reflection in the glass.

‘My dear boy, there isn’t time! Help me with this.’ She slipped the frock over her head. ‘Do those three top hooks. How do you like it? Oh! and – Michael! Gurdon Minho may be coming to dinner tomorrow – Wilfrid can’t. Have you read his things? Sit down and tell me something about them. All novels, aren’t they? What sort?’

‘Well, he’s always had something to say. And his cats are good. He’s a bit romantic, of course.’

‘Oh! Have I made a gaff?’

‘Not a bit; jolly good shot. The vice of our lot is, they say it pretty well, but they’ve nothing to say. They won’t last.’

‘But that’s just why they will last. They won’t date.’

‘Won’t they? My gum!’

‘Wilfrid will last’

‘Ah! Wilfrid has emotions, hates, pities, wants; at least sometimes; when he has, his stuff is jolly good. Otherwise, he just makes a song about nothing – like the rest.’

Fleur tucked in the top of her undergarment.

‘But, Michael, if that’s so, we – I’ve got the wrong lot.’

Michael grinned.

‘My dear child! The lot of the hour is always right; only you’ve got to watch it, and change it quick enough.’

‘But d’you mean to say that Sibley isn’t going to live?’

‘Sib? Lord, no!’

‘But he’s so perfectly sure that almost everybody else is dead or dying. Surely he has critical genius!’

‘If I hadn’t more judgement than Sib, I’d go out of publishing tomorrow.’

‘You – more than Sibley Swan?’

‘Of course, I’ve more judgement than Sib. Why! Sib’s judgement is just his opinion of Sib – common or garden impatience of anyone else. He doesn’t even read them. He’ll read one specimen of every author and say: “Oh! that fellow! He’s dull, or he’s moral, or he’s sentimental, or he dates, or he drivels” – I’ve heard him dozens of times. That’s if they’re alive. Of course, if they’re dead, it’s different. He’s always digging up and canonizing the dead; that’s how he’s got his name. There’s always a Sib in literature. He’s a standing example of how people can get taken at their own valuation. But as to lasting – of course he won’t; he’s never creative, even by mistake.’

Fleur had lost the thread. Yes! It suited her – quite a nice line! Off with it! Must write those three notes before she dressed.

Michael had begun again.

‘Take my tip, Fleur. The really big people don’t talk – and don’t bunch – they paddle their own canoes in what seem backwaters. But it’s the backwaters that make the main stream. By Jove, that’s a mot, or is it a bull; and are bulls mots or mots bulls?’