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

His

Fancy Darted To That Picture Of     "The Future Town," To That Boy's And

Fleur's First Meeting; To The     Blueish Trail Of     Prosper Profond's Cigar,

And Fleur In The     Window Pointing Down To Where The     Fellow Prowled. To

The Sight Of     Irene And That Dead Fellow Sitting Side By Side In The

Stand At Lord's. To Her And That Boy At Robin Hill. To The     Sofa, Where

Fleur Lay Crushed Up In The     Corner; To Her Lips Pressed Into His Cheek,

And Her Farewell "Daddy." And Suddenly He Saw Again Irene's Grey-Gloved

Hand Waving Its Last Gesture Of     Release.

He Sat There A Long Time Dreaming His Career, Faithful To The     Scut Of

His Possessive Instinct, Warming Himself Even With Its Failures.

"To Let"--The Forsyte Age And Way Of     Life, When A Man Owned His Soul,

His Investments, And His Woman, Without Check Or Question. And Now The

State Had, Or Would Have, His Investments, His Woman Had Herself, And

God Knew Who Had His Soul. "To Let"--That Sane And Simple Creed!

The Waters Of     Change Were Foaming In, Carrying The     Promise Of     New Forms

Only When Their Destructive Flood Should Have Passed Its Full. He Sat

There, Subconscious Of     Them, But With His Thoughts Resolutely Set On

The Past--As A Man Might Ride Into A Wild Night With His Face To The

Tail Of     His Galloping Horse. Athwart The     Victorian Dykes The     Waters

Were Rolling On Property, Manners, And Morals, On Melody And The     Old

Forms Of     Art--Waters Bringing To His Mouth A Salt Taste As Of     Blood,

Lapping To The     Foot Of     This Highgate Hill Where Victorianism Lay

Buried. And Sitting There, High Up On Its Most Individual Spot,

Soames--Like A Figure Of     Investment--Refused Their Restless Sounds.

Instinctively He Would Not Fight Them--There Was In Him Too Much

Primeval Wisdom, Of     Man The     Possessive Animal. They Would Quiet Down

When They Had Fulfilled Their Tidal Fever Of     Dispossessing And

Destroying; When The     Creations And The     Properties Of     Others Were

Sufficiently Broken And Dejected--They Would Lapse And Ebb, And Fresh

Forms Would Rise Based On An Instinct Older Than The     Fever Of

Change--The Instinct Of     Home.

"Je M'en Fiche," Said Prosper Profond.

Soames Did Not Say "Je M'en

Fiche"--It Was French, And The     Fellow Was A Thorn In His Side--But Deep

Down He Knew That Change Was Only The     Interval Of     Death Between Two

Forms Of     Life, Destruction Necessary To Make Room For Fresher Property.

What Though The     Board Was Up, And Cosiness To Let?--Some One Would Come

Along And Take It Again Some Day.

And Only One Thing Really Troubled Him, Sitting There--The Melancholy

Craving In His Heart--Because The     Sun Was Like Enchantment On His Face

And On The     Clouds And On The     Golden Birch Leaves, And The     Wind's Rustle

Was So Gentle, And The     Yew-Tree Green So Dark, And The     Sickle Of     A Moon

Pale In The     Sky.

Ah! He Might Wish And Wish And Never Get It--The Beauty And The     Loving

In The     World!

The End

Publication Date: 09-15-2014

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