To Let by John Galsworthy (bookstand for reading .TXT) 📕

One Who Was A Sculptor, A Slav, A Sometime Resident In New York, An

Egoist, And Impecunious, Was To Be Found Of     An Evening In June

Forsyte's Studio On The     Bank Of     The     Thames At Chiswick. On The     Evening

Of July 6, Boris Strumolowski--Several Of     Whose Works Were On Show

There Because They Were As Yet Too Advanced To Be On Show Anywhere

Else--Had Begun Well, With That Aloof And Rather Christlike Silence

Which Admirably Suited His Youthful, Round, Broad-Cheekboned

Countenance Framed In Bright Hair Banged Like A Girl's. June Had Known

Him Three Weeks, And He Still Seemed To Her The     Principal Embodiment Of

Genius, And Hope Of     The     Future; A Sort Of     Star Of     The     East Which Had

Strayed Into An Unappreciative West. Until That Evening He Had

Conversationally Confined Himself To Recording His Impressions Of     The

United States, Whose Dust He Had Just Shaken From Off His Feet--A

Country, In His Opinion, So Barbarous In Every Way That He Had Sold

Practically Nothing There, And Become An Object Of     Suspicion To The

Police; A Country, As He Said, Without A Race Of     Its Own, Without

Liberty, Equality, Or Fraternity, Without Principles, Traditions,

Taste, Without--In A Word--A Soul. He Had Left It For His Own Good, And

Come To The     Only Other Country Where He Could Live Well. June Had Dwelt

Unhappily On Him In Her Lonely Moments, Standing Before His

Creations--Frightening, But Powerful And Symbolic Once They Had Been

Explained! That He, Haloed By Bright Hair Like An Early Italian

Painting, And Absorbed In His Genius To The     Exclusion Of     All Else--The

Only Sign Of     Course By Which Real Genius Could Be Told--Should Still Be

A "Lame Duck" Agitated Her Warm Heart Almost To The     Exclusion Of     Paul

Post. And She Had Begun To Take Steps To Clear Her Gallery, In Order To

Fill It With Strumolowski Masterpieces. She Had At Once Encountered

Trouble. Paul Post Had Kicked; Vospovitch Had Stung. With All The

Emphasis Of     A Genius Which She Did Not As Yet Deny Them, They Had

Demanded Another Six Weeks At Least Of     Her Gallery. The     American

Stream, Still Flowing In, Would Soon Be Flowing Out. The     American

Stream Was Their Right, Their Only Hope, Their Salvation--Since Nobody

In This "Beastly" Country Cared For Art. June Had Yielded To The

Demonstration. After All Boris Would Not Mind Their Having The     Full

Benefit Of     An American Stream, Which He Himself So Violently Despised.

This Evening She Had Put That To Boris With Nobody Else Present, Except

Hannah Hobdey, The     Mediaeval Black-And-Whitist, And Jimmy Portugal,

Editor Of     The     Neo-Artist. She Had Put It To Him With That Sudden

Confidence Which Continual Contact With The     Neo-Artistic World Had

Never Been Able To Dry Up In Her Warm And Generous Nature. He Had Not

Broken His Christlike Silence, However, For More Than Two Minutes

Before She Began To Move Her Blue Eyes From Side To Side, As A Cat

Moves Its Tail.

This--He Said--Was Characteristic Of     England, The     Most

Selfish Country In The     World; The     Country Which Sucked The     Blood Of

Other Countries; Destroyed The     Brains And Hearts Of     Irishmen, Hindus,

Egyptians, Boers, And Burmese, All The     Finest Races In The     World;

Bullying, Hypocritical England! This Was What He Had Expected, Coming

To Such A Country, Where The     Climate Was All Fog, And The     People All

Tradesmen Perfectly Blind To Art, And Sunk In Profiteering And The

Grossest Materialism. Conscious That Hannah Hobdey Was Murmuring:

"Hear, Hear!" And Jimmy Portugal Sniggering, June Grew Crimson, And

Suddenly Rapped Out:

"Then Why Did You Ever Come? We Didn't Ask You." The     Remark Was So

Singularly At Variance With All That She Had Led Him To Expect From

Her, That Strumolowski Stretched Out His Hand And Took A Cigarette.

"England Never Wants An Idealist," He Said.

But In June Something Primitively English Was Thoroughly Upset; Old

Jolyon's Sense Of     Justice Had Risen, As It Were, From Bed. "You Come

And Sponge On Us," She Said, "And Then Abuse Us. If You Think That's

Playing The     Game, I Don't."

She Now Discovered That Which Others Had Discovered Before Her--The

Thickness Of     Hide Beneath Which The     Sensibility Of     Genius Is Sometimes

Veiled. Strumolowski's Young And Ingenuous Face Became The     Incarnation

Of A Sneer.

"Sponge, One Does Not Sponge, One Takes What Is Owing--A Tenth Part Of

What Is Owing. You Will Repent To Say That, Miss Forsyte."

"Oh, No," Said June, "I Shan't."

"Ah! We Know Very Well, We Artists--You Take Us To Get What You Can Out

Of Us. I Want Nothing From You"--And He Blew Out A Cloud Of     June's

Smoke. 

Decision Rose In An Icy Puff From The     Turmoil Of     Insulted Shame Within

Her. "Very Well, Then, You Can Take Your Things Away."

And, Almost In The     Same Moment, She Thought: 'Poor Boy! He's Only Got A

Garret, And Probably Not A Taxi Fare. In Front Of     These People, Too;

It's Positively Disgusting!'

Young Strumolowski Shook His Head Violently; His Hair, Thick, Smooth,

Close As A Golden Plate, Did Not Fall Off.

 "I Can Live On Nothing," He Said Shrilly; "I Have Often Had To For The

Sake Of     My Art. It Is You Bourgeois Who Force Us To Spend Money."

The Words Hit June Like A Pebble, In The     Ribs. After All She Had Done

For Art, All Her Identification With Its Troubles And Lame Ducks. She

Was Struggling For Adequate Words When The     Door Was Opened, And Her

Austrian Murmured:

 "A Young Lady, Gnadiges Fraulein."

 "Where?"

"In The     Little Meal-Room."

With A Glance At Boris Strumolowski, At Hannah Hobdey, At Jimmy

Portugal, June Said Nothing, And Went Out, Devoid Of     Equanimity.

Entering The     "Little Meal-Room," She Perceived The     Young Lady To Be

Fleur--Looking Very Pretty, If Pale. At This Disenchanted Moment A Lame

Duck Of     Her Own Breed Was Welcome To June, So Homoeopathic By Instinct. 

The Girl Must Have Come, Of     Course, Because Of     Jon; Or, If Not, At

Least To Get Something Out Of     Her. And June Felt Just Then That To

Assist Somebody Was The     Only Bearable Thing.

"So You've Remembered To Come," She Said.

"Yes. What A Jolly Little Duck Of     A House! But Please Don't Let Me

Bother You, If You've Got People."

"Not At All," Said June. "I Want To Let Them Stew In Their Own Juice

For A Bit. Have You Come About Jon?"

"You Said You Thought We Ought To Be Told. Well, I've Found Out."

 "Oh!" Said June Blankly. "Not Nice, Is It?"

They Were Standing One On Each Side Of     The     Little Bare Table At Which

June Took Her Meals. A Vase On It Was Full Of     Iceland Poppies; The     Girl

Raised Her Hand And Touched Them With A Gloved Finger. To Her

New-Fangled Dress, Frilly About The     Hips And Tight Below The     Knees,

June Took A Sudden Liking--A Charming Colour, Flax-Blue.

'She Makes A Picture,' Thought June. Her Little Room, With Its

Whitewashed Walls, Its Floor And Hearth Of     Old Pink Brick, Its Black

Paint, And Latticed Window Athwart Which The     Last Of     The     Sunlight Was

Shining, Had Never Looked So Charming, Set Off By This Young Figure,

With The     Creamy, Slightly Frowning Face. She Remembered With Sudden

Vividness How Nice She Herself Had Looked In Those Old Days When Her

Heart Was Set On Philip Bosinney, That Dead Lover, Who Had Broken From

Her To Destroy For Ever Irene's Allegiance To This Girl's Father. 

Did

Fleur Know Of     That, Too?

"Well," She Said, "What Are You Going To Do?"

 It Was Some Seconds Before Fleur Answered.

"I Don't Want Jon To Suffer. I Must See Him Once More To Put An End To

It."

"You're Going To Put An End To It!"

"What Else Is There To Do?"

The Girl Seemed To June, Suddenly, Intolerably Spiritless.

"I Suppose You're Right," She Muttered. "I Know My Father Thinks So;

But--I Should Never Have Done It Myself. I Can't Take Things Lying

Down."

 How Poised And Watchful That Girl Looked; How Unemotional Her Voice

Sounded!

"People Will Assume That I'm In Love."

"Well, Aren't You?"

Fleur Shrugged Her Shoulders. 'I Might Have Known It,' Thought June;

'She's Soames' Daughter--Fish! And Yet--He!'

"Well, What Do You Want Me To Do?" She Said With A Sort Of     Disgust.

"Could I See Jon Here To-Morrow On His Way Down To Holly's? He'd Come

If You Sent Him A Line To-Night, And Perhaps Afterwards You'd Let Them

Know Quietly At Robin Hill That It's All Over, And That They Needn't

Tell Jon About His Mother."

"All Right!" Said June Abruptly. "I'll Write Now, And You Can