Reading Online Novel

The Forsyte Saga Volume 2(78)



He stopped, observing that her eyelids had drooped.

‘I was thinking, Michael, that I should like to change my bedroom curtains to blue. I saw the exact colour yesterday at Harton’s. They say blue has an effect on the mind – the present curtains really are too jazzy.’

The eleventh baronet!

‘Anything you like, darling. Have a blue ceiling if it helps.’

‘Oh, no! But I think I’ll change the carpet, too; there’s a lovely powder blue at Harton’s.’

‘Then get it. Would you like to go there now? I can take the Tube back to the office.’

‘Yes, I think I’d better. I might miss it.’

Michael put his head out of the window. ‘Harton’s, please!’ And, replacing his hat, he looked at her. Emancipated! Phew!





Chapter Four



AFTERNOON OF A BICKET



JUST about that moment Bicket re-entered his sitting-room and deposited his tray. All the morning under the shadow of St Paul’s he had re-lived Bank Holiday. Exceptionally tired in feet and legs, he was also itching mentally. He had promised himself a refreshing look from time to time at what was almost like a photo of Vic herself. And he had lost the picture! Yet he had taken nothing out of his pockets – just hung his coat up. Had it jogged out in the crush at the station, or had he missed his pocket opening and dropped it in the carriage? And he had wanted to see the original, too. He remembered that the Gallery began with a ‘D’, and at lunch-time squandered a penny-halfpenny to look up the names. Foreign, he was sure – the picture being naked. ‘Dumetrius?’ Ah!

Back at his post, he had a bit of luck. ‘That alderman’, whom he had not seen for months, came by. Intuition made him say at once: ‘Hope I see you well sir. Never forgotten your kindness.’

The ‘alderman’, who had been staring up as if he saw a magpie on the dome of St Paul’s, stopped as though attacked by cramp.

‘Kindness?’ he said; ‘what kindness? Oh! Balloons! They were no good to me!’

‘No, sir, I’m sure,’ said Bicket humbly.

‘Well, here you are!’ muttered the ‘alderman’; ‘don’t expect it again.’

Half a crown! A whole half-crown! Bucket’s eyes pursued the hastening form. ‘Good luck!’ he said softly to himself, and began putting up his tray. ‘I’ll go home and rest my feet, and tyke Vic to see that picture. It’ll be funny looking’ at it together.’

But she was not in. He sat down and smoked a fag. He felt aggrieved that she was out, this the first afternoon he had taken off. Of course she couldn’t stay in all day! Still –! He waited twenty minutes, then put on Michael’s suit and shoes.

‘I’ll go and see it alone,’ he thought. ‘It’ll cost half as much. They charge you sixpence, I expect.’

They charged him a shilling – a shilling! One fourth of his day’s earnings, to see a picture! He entered bashfully. There were ladies who smelled of scent and had drawling voices but not a patch on Vic for looks. One of them, behind him, said:

‘See! There’s Aubrey Greene himself! And that’s the picture they’re talking of – Afternoon of a Dryad.’

They passed him and moved on. Bicket followed. At the end of the room, between their draperies and catalogues, he glimpsed the picture. A slight sweat broke out on his forehead. Almost life-size, among the flowers and spiky grasses, the face smiled round at him – very image of Vic! Could someone in the world be as like her as all that? The thought offended him, as a collector is offended finding the duplicate of a unique possession.

‘It’s a wonderful picture, Mr Greene. What a type!’

A young man without hat, and fair hair sliding back, answered:

‘A find, wasn’t she?’

‘Oh! perfect! the very spirit of a wood-nymph; so mysterious!’

The word that belonged to Vic! It was unholy. There she lay for all to look at, just because some beastly woman was made like her! A kind of rage invaded Bicket’s throat, caused his cheeks to burn; and with it came a queer physical jealousy. That painter! What business had he to paint a woman so like Vic as that – a woman that didn’t mind lyin’ like that! They and their talk about cahryscuro and paganism, and a bloke called Leneardo! Blast their drawling and their tricks! He tried to move away, and could not, fascinated by that effigy, so uncannily resembling what he had thought belonged to himself alone. Silly to feel so bad over a ‘coincidence’, but he felt like smashing the glass and cutting the body up into little bits. The ladies and the painter passed on, leaving him alone before the picture. Alone, he did not mind so much. The face was mournful-like, and lonely, and – and teasing, with its smile. It sort of haunted you – it did! ‘Well!’ thought Bicket, ‘I’ll get home to Vic. Glad I didn’t bring her, after all, to see herself-like. If I was an alderman, I’d buy the blinkin’ thing, and burn it!’