To Let by John Galsworthy (bookstand for reading .TXT) π
From the Four Winds, a collection of short stories, was Galsworthy's first published work in 1897. These and several subsequent works were published under the pen name John Sinjohn, and it would not be until The Island Pharisees (1904) that he would begin publishing under his own name, probably owing to the death of his father. His first full-length novel, Jocelyn was published in an edition of 750 under the name of John Sinjohn β he later refused to have it republished. His first play, The Silver Box (1906),[2] β in which the theft of a prostitute's purse by a rich 'young man of good family' is placed beside the theft of a silver cigarette case from the rich man's father's house by 'a poor devil', with very different repercussions[3] β became a success, and he followed it up with The Man of Property (1906), the first in the Forsyte trilogy. Although he continued writing both plays and novels, it was as a playwright that he was mainly appreciated at the time. Along with those of other writers of the time, such as George Bernard Shaw, his plays addressed the class system and social issues, two of the best known being Strife (1909) and The Skin Game (1920).
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- Author: John Galsworthy
Read book online Β«To Let by John Galsworthy (bookstand for reading .TXT) πΒ». Author - John Galsworthy
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.
Part II VII (June Takes A Hand) Pg 2This--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.
Part II VII (June Takes A Hand) Pg 3Decision 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.
Part II VII (June Takes A Hand) Pg 4The 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.
Part II VII (June Takes A Hand) Pg 5Did
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.
Part II VII (June Takes A Hand) Pg 6"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
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