The Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy (acx book reading txt) 📕

however, refused to use the latter, saying that it was humbug meaning nothing, so far as he could see.

Among the older generation it was perhaps known at bottom from what great historical event they derived their crest; and if pressed on the subject, sooner than tell a lie⁠—they did not like telling lies, having an impression that only Frenchmen and Russians told them⁠—they would confess hurriedly that Swithin had got hold of it somehow.

Among the younger generation the matter was wrapped in a discretion proper. They did not want to hurt the feelings of their elders, nor to feel ridiculous themselves; they simply used the crest.⁠ ⁠…

“No,” said Swithin, “he had had an opportunity of seeing for himself, and what he should say was, that there was nothing in her manner to that young Buccaneer or Bosinney or whatever his name was, different from her manner to himself; in fact, he should rather say.⁠ ⁠…” But here the entrance of Frances and Euphemia put an unfortunate stop to the conversation, for this was not a subject which could be discussed before young people.

And though Swithin was somewhat upset at being stopped like this on the point of saying something important, he soon recovered his affability. He was rather fond of Frances⁠—Francie, as she was called in the family. She was so smart, and they told him she made a pretty little pot of pin-money by her songs; he called it very clever of her.

He rather prided himself indeed on a liberal attitude towards women, not seeing any reason why they shouldn’t paint pictures, or write tunes, or books even, for the matter of that, especially if they could turn a useful penny by it; not at all⁠—kept them out of mischief. It was not as if they were men!

“Little Francie,” as she was usually called with good-natured contempt, was an important personage, if only as a standing illustration of the attitude of Forsytes towards the Arts. She was not really “little,” but rather tall, with dark hair for a Forsyte, which, together with a grey eye, gave her what was called “a Celtic appearance.” She wrote songs with titles like “Breathing Sighs,” or “Kiss Me, Mother, Ere I Die,” with a refrain like an anthem:

“Kiss me, Mother, ere I die;
Kiss me⁠—kiss me, Mother, ah!
Kiss, ah! kiss me e⁠—ere I⁠—
Kiss me, Mother, ere I d⁠—d⁠—die!”

She wrote the words to them herself, and other poems. In lighter moments she wrote waltzes, one of which, the “Kensington Coil,” was almost national to Kensington, having a sweet dip in it. Thus:

It was very original. Then there were her “Songs for Little People,” at once educational and witty, especially “Gran’ma’s Porgie,” and that ditty, almost prophetically imbued with the coming Imperial spirit, entitled “Black Him in His Little Eye.”

Any publisher would take these, and reviews like High Living, and the Ladies’ Genteel Guide went into raptures over: “Another of Miss Francie Forsyte’s spirited ditties, sparkling and pathetic. We ourselves were moved to tears and laughter. Miss Forsyte should go far.”

With the true instinct of her breed, Francie had made a point of knowing the right people⁠—people who would write about her, and talk about her, and people in Society, too⁠—keeping a mental register of just where to exert her fascinations, and an eye on that steady scale of rising prices, which in her mind’s eye represented the future. In this way she caused herself to be universally respected.

Once, at a time when her emotions were whipped by an attachment⁠—for the tenor of Roger’s life, with its wholehearted collection of house property, had induced in his only daughter a tendency towards passion⁠—she turned to great and sincere work, choosing the sonata form, for the violin. This was the only one of her productions that troubled the Forsytes. They felt at once that it would not sell.

Roger, who liked having a clever daughter well enough, and often alluded to the amount of pocket-money she made for herself, was upset by this violin sonata.

“Rubbish like that!” he called it. Francie had borrowed young Flageoletti from Euphemia, to play it in the drawing-room at Prince’s Gardens.

As a matter of fact Roger was right. It was rubbish, but⁠—annoying! the sort of rubbish that wouldn’t sell. As every Forsyte knows, rubbish that sells is not rubbish at all⁠—far from it.

And yet, in spite of the sound common sense which fixed the worth of art at what it would fetch, some of the Forsytes⁠—Aunt Hester, for instance, who had always been musical⁠—could not help regretting that Francie’s music was not “classical.” the same with her poems. But then, as Aunt Hester said, they didn’t see any poetry nowadays, all the poems were “little light things.”

There was nobody who could write a poem like Paradise Lost, or Childe Harold, either of which made you feel that you really had read something. Still, it was nice for Francie to have something to occupy her; while other girls were spending money shopping she was making it!

And both Aunt Hester and Aunt Juley were always ready to listen to the latest story of how Francie had got her price increased.

They listened now, together with Swithin, who sat pretending not to, for these young people talked so fast and mumbled so, he never could catch what they said.

“And I can’t think,” said Mrs. Septimus, “how you do it. I should never have the audacity!”

Francie smiled lightly. “I’d much rather deal with a man than a woman. Women are so sharp!”

“My dear,” cried Mrs. Small, “I’m sure we’re not.”

Euphemia went off into her silent laugh, and, ending with the squeak, said, as though being strangled: “Oh, you’ll kill me some day, auntie.”

Swithin saw no necessity to laugh; he detested people laughing when he himself perceived no joke. Indeed, he detested Euphemia altogether, to whom he always alluded as “Nick’s daughter, what’s she called⁠—the pale one?” He had just missed being her godfather⁠—indeed, would have been, had he not taken a firm