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

In--Sold To Little Dealers, And The     Housewives Of     Fulham. And Yet--What

Could One Do? Buy Them And Stick Them In A Lumber-Room? No; They Had To

Go The     Way Of     All Flesh And Furniture, And Be Worn Out. But When They

Put Up Aunt Ann's Sofa And Were Going To Knock It Down For Thirty

Shillings, He Cried Out, Suddenly: "Five Pounds!" The     Sensation Was

Considerable, And The     Sofa His.

When That Little Sale Was Over In The     Fusty Saleroom, And Those

Victorian Ashes Scattered, He Went Out Into The     Misty October Sunshine

Feeling As If Cosiness Had Died Out Of     The     World, And The     Board "To

Let" Was Up, Indeed. Revolutions On The     Horizon; Fleur In Spain; No

Comfort In Annette; No Timothy's On The     Bayswater Road. In The

Irritable Desolation Of     His Soul He Went Into The     Goupenor Gallery.

That Chap Jolyon's Water-Colours Were On View There. He Went In To Look

Down His Nose At Them--It Might Give Him Some Faint Satisfaction. The

News Had Trickled Through From June To Val's Wife, From Her To Val,

From Val To His Mother, From Her To Soames, That The     House--The Fatal

House At Robin Hill--Was For Sale, And Irene Going To Join Her Boy Out

In British Columbia, Or Some Such Place. For One Wild Moment The

Thought Had Come To Soames: 'Why Shouldn't I Buy It Back? I Meant It

For My--!' No Sooner Come Than Gone. Too Lugubrious A Triumph; With Two

Many Humiliating Memories For Himself And Fleur. She Would Never Live

There After What Had Happened. No, The     Place Must Go Its Way To Some

Peer Or Profiteer. It Had Been A Bone Of     Contention From The     First, The

Shell Of     The     Feud And With The     Woman Gone, It Was An Empty Shell. "For

Sale Or To Let." With His Mind's Eye He Could See That Board Raised

High Above The     Ivied Wall Which He Had Built.

He Passed Through The     First Of     The     Two Rooms In The     Gallery. There Was

Certainly A Body Of     Work! And Now That The     Fellow Was Dead It Did Not

Seem So Trivial. The     Drawings Were Pleasing Enough, With Quite A Sense

Of Atmosphere, And Something Individual In The     Brush Work. 'His Father

And My Father; He And I; His Child And Mine!' Thought Soames. So It Had

Gone On! And All About That Woman! Softened By The     Events Of     The     Past

Week, Affected By The     Melancholy Beauty Of     The     Autumn Day, Soames Came

Nearer Than He Had Ever Been To Realisation Of     That Truth--Passing The

Understanding Of     A Forsyte Pure--That The     Body Of     Beauty Has A

Spiritual Essence, Uncapturable Save By A Devotion Which Thinks Not Of

Self. After All, He Was Near That Truth In His Devotion To His

Daughter; Perhaps That Made Him Understand A Little How He Had Missed

The Prize. And There, Among The     Drawings Of     His Kinsman, Who Had

Attained To That Which He Had Found Beyond His Reach, He Thought Of     Him

And Her With A Tolerance Which Surprised Him. But He Did Not Buy A

Drawing.

Just As He Passed The     Seat Of     Custom On His Return To The     Outer Air He

Met With A Contingency Which Had Not Been Entirely Absent From His Mind

When He Went Into The     Gallery--Irene, Herself, Coming In. So She Had

Not Gone Yet, And Was Still Paying Farewell Visits To That Fellow's

Remains! He Subdued The     Little Involuntary Leap Of     His

Subconsciousness, The     Mechanical Reaction Of     His Senses To The     Charm Of

This Once-Owned Woman, And Passed Her With Averted Eyes. But When He

Had Gone By He Could Not For The     Life Of     Him Help Looking Back. This,

Then, Was Finality--The Heat And Stress Of     His Life, The     Madness And

The Longing Thereof, The     Long, The     Only Defeat He Had Known, Would Be

Over When She Faded From His View This Time; Even Such Memories Had

Their Own Queer Aching Value. She, Too, Was Looking Back. Suddenly She

Lifted Her Gloved Hand, Her Lips Smiled Faintly, Her Dark Eyes Seemed

To Speak. It Was The     Turn Of     Soames To Make No Answer To That Smile And

That Little Farewell Wave; He Went Out Into The     Fashionable Street

Quivering From Head To Foot. He Knew What She Had Meant To Say: "Now

That I Am Going For Ever Out Of     The     Reach Of     You And Yours--Forgive Me;

I Wish You Well." That Was The     Meaning; Last Sign Of     That Terrible

Reality--Passing Morality, Duty, Common Sense--Her Aversion From Him

Who Had Owned Her Body But Had Never Touched Her Spirit Or Her Heart.

It Hurt; Yes--More Than If She Had Kept Her Mask Unmoved, Her Hand

Unlifted.

Three Days Later, In That Fast-Yellowing October, Soames Took A

Taxi-Cab To Highgate Cemetery And Mounted Through Its White Forest To

The Forsyte Vault. Close To The     Cedar, Above Catacombs And Columbaria,

Tall, Ugly, And Individual, It Looked Like An Apex Of     The     Competitive

System. He Could Remember A Discussion Wherein Swithin Had Advocated

The Addition To Its Face Of     The     Pheasant Proper. The     Proposal Had Been

Rejected In Favour Of     A Wreath In Stone, Above The     Stark Words: "The

Family Vault Of     Jolyon Forsyte: 1850." It Was In Good Order. All Trace

Of The     Recent Interment Had Been Removed, And Its Sober Grey Gloomed

Reposefully In The     Sunshine. The     Whole Family Lay There Now, Except Old

Jolyon's Wife, Who Had Gone Back Under A Contract To Her Own Family

Vault In Suffolk; Old Jolyon Himself Lying At Robin Hill; And Susan

Hayman, Cremated So That None Knew Where She Might Be. Soames Gazed At

It With Satisfaction--Massive, Needing Little Attention; And This Was

Important, For He Was Well Aware That No One Would Attend To It When He

Himself Was Gone, And He Would Have To Be Looking Out For Lodgings

Soon. He Might Have Twenty Years Before Him, But One Never Knew. Twenty

Years Without An Aunt Or Uncle, With A Wife Of     Whom One Had Better Not

Know Anything, With A Daughter Gone From Home. His Mood Inclined To

Melancholy And Retrospection. This Cemetery Was Quite Full Now--Of

People With Extraordinary Names, Buried In Extraordinary Taste. Still,

They Had A Fine View Up Here, Right Over London. Annette Had Once Given

Him A Story To Read By That Frenchman, Maupassant--A Most Lugubrious

Concern, Where All The     Skeletons Emerged From Their Graves One Night,

And All The     Pious Inscriptions On The     Stones Were Altered To

Descriptions Of     Their Sins. Not A True Story At All. He Didn't Know

About The     French, But There Was Not Much Real Harm In English People

Except Their Teeth And Their Taste, Which Were Certainly Deplorable.

"The Family Vault Of     Jolyon Forsyte, 1850." A Lot Of     People Had Been

Buried Here Since Then--A Lot Of     English Life Crumbled To Mould And

Dust! The     Boom Of     An Airplane Passing Under The     Gold-Tinted Clouds

Caused Him To Lift His Eyes. The     Deuce Of     A Lot Of     Expansion Had Gone

On. But It All Came Back To A Cemetery--To A Name And A Date On A Tomb.

And He Thought With A Curious Pride That He And His Family Had Done

Little Or Nothing To Help This Feverish Expansion. Good Solid

Middlemen, They Had Gone To Work With Dignity To Manage And Possess.

"Superior Dosset," Indeed, Had Built, In A Dreadful, And Jolyon

Painted, In A Doubtful Period, But So Far As He Remembered Not Another

Of Them All Had Soiled His Hands By Creating Anything--Unless You

Counted Val Dartie And His Horse-Breeding.

Collectors, Solicitors,

Barristers, Merchants, Publishers, Accountants, Directors, Land Agents,

Even Soldiers--There They Had Been! The     Country Had Expanded, As It

Were, In Spite Of     Them. They Had Checked, Controlled, Defended, And

Taken Advantage Of     The     Process--And When You Considered How "Superior

Dosset" Had Begun Life With Next To Nothing, And His Lineal Descendants

Already Owned What Old Gradman Estimated At Between A Million And A

Million And A Half, It Was Not So Bad! And Yet He Sometimes Felt As If

The Family Bolt Was Shot, Their Possessive Instinct Dying Out. They

Seemed Unable To Make Money--This Fourth Generation; They Were Going

Into Art, Literature, Farming, Or The     Army; Or Just Living On What Was

Left Them--They Had No Push And No Tenacity. They Would Die Out If They

Didn't Take Care.

Soames Turned From The     Vault And Faced Towards The     Breeze. The     Air Up

Here Would Be Delicious If Only He Could Rid His Nerves Of     The     Feeling

That Mortality Was In It. He Gazed Restlessly At The     Crosses And The

Urns, The     Angels, The     "Immortelles," The     Flowers, Gaudy Or Withering;

And Suddenly He Noticed A Spot Which Seemed So Different From Anything

Else Up There That He Was Obliged To Walk The     Few Necessary Yards And

Look At It. A Sober Corner, With A Massive Queer-Shaped Cross Of     Grey

Rough-Hewn Granite, Guarded By Four Dark Yew-Trees. The     Spot Was Free

From The     Pressure Of     The     Other Graves, Having A Little Box-Hedged

Garden On The     Far Side, Arid In Front A Goldening Birch-Tree. This

Oasis In The     Desert Of     Conventional Graves Appealed To The     Aesthetic

Sense Of     Soames, And He Sat Down There In The     Sunshine. Through Those

Trembling Gold Birch Leaves He Gazed Out At London, And Yielded To The

Waves Of     Memory. He Thought Of     Irene In Montpellier Square, When Her

Hair Was Rusty-Golden And Her White Shoulders His--Irene, The     Prize Of

His Love--Passion, Resistant To His Ownership. He Saw Bosinney's Body

Lying In That White Mortuary, And Irene Sitting On The     Sofa Looking At

Her Picture With The     Eyes Of     A Dying Bird. Again He Thought Of     Her By

The Little Green Niobe In The     Bois De Boulogne, Once More Rejecting

Him. His Fancy Took Him On Beside His Drifting River On The     November

Day When Fleur Was To Be Born, Took Him To The     Dead Leaves Floating On

The Green-Tinged Water And The     Snake-Headed Weed For Ever Swaying And

Nosing, Sinuous, Blind, Tethered. And On Again To The     Window Opened To

The Cold Starry Night Above Hyde Park, With His Father Lying Dead.