 Indian Summer of a Foresight, Part 1 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ava Hanik. The Foresight saga, Volume 2, in Chancery, Indian Summer of a Foresight, Part 1. On the last day of May in the early 90s, about six o'clock of the evening, old Julian Foresight sat under the oak tree below the terrace of his house at Robin Hill. He was waiting for the midges to bite him, before abandoning the glory of the afternoon. His thin brown hand, where blue veins stood out, held the end of a cigar in its tapering, dog-nailed fingers, a pointed Polish nail had survived with him from those earlier Victorian days, when to touch nothing, even with the tips of the fingers, had been so distinguished. His domped forehead, great white moustache, lean cheeks, and long, lean jaw were covered from the westerning sunshine by an old brown Panama hat. His legs were crossed, in all his attitude was serenity and a kind of elegance, as of an old man who every morning put all the cologne upon his silk handkerchief. At his feet lay a woolly brown and white dog trying to be a Pomeranian. The dog Baltazar, between whom and old Julian, primal aversion had changed into attachment with the years. Next to his chair was a swing, and on the swing was seated one of Holly's dolls, called Duffer Alice, with her body fallen over her legs and her doleful nose buried in a black petticoat. She was never out of disgrace, so it did not matter to her how she said. Through the oak tree, the lawn dipped down a bank, stretched to the fernary, and beyond that refinement became fields dropping to the pond, the coppice, and the prospect. Fine remarkable, at which Swizzin foresight from under this very tree had stared five years ago when he drove down with Irene to look at the house. Paul Julian had heard of his brother's exploit, that drive, which had become quite celebrated on foresight's change. Swizzin and the fellow had gone and died last November at the age of only seventy-nine, renewing the doubt whether foresight's could live forever, which had first arisen when aunt Anne passed away, died. And left only Julian and James, Roger and Nicholas, and Timothy, Julia, Hester, Susan. And all Julian sought, eighty-five, I don't feel it, except when I get that pain. His memory went searching. He had not felt his age since he had bought his nephew's Somes' ill-starred house, and settled into it here at Robin Hill over three years ago. It was as if he had been getting younger every spring, living in the country with his son and his grandchildren, June and the little ones of the second marriage, Jolly and Holly, living down here, out of the racket of London, and the cackle of foresight's change, free of his boards, in a delicious atmosphere of no work and all play, with plenty of occupation in the perfecting and mellowing of the house. And it's twenty acres, and in ministering to the whims of Holly and Jolly, all the knots and crankiness which had gathered in his heart during that long and tragic business of June, Somes, Irene, his wife, and poor young Bosnie, had been smoothed out. Even June had thrown off her melancholy at last, witnessed this travel in Spain she was taking now with her father and her stepmother. Curiously perfect peace was left by their departure, blissful yet blank because his son was not there. Joe was never anything but a comfort and a pleasure to him nowadays, an amiable chap, but women somehow even the best got a little on one's nerves, unless of course one admired them. Far off a cuckoo called, a wood pigeon was cooing from the first M3 in the field, and how the daisies and buttercups had sprung off after the last mowing. The wind had got into the south-west too. A delicious air, sepia. He pushed his head back and let the sun fall on his chin and cheek. Somehow today he wanted company, wanted a pretty face to look at. People treated the old as if they wanted nothing. And with the unforcite philosophy which ever intruded on his soul, he thought one has never had enough. With a foot in the grave one will want something, I shouldn't be surprised. Down here, away from the exigencies of affairs, his grandchildren and the flowers, trees, birds of his little domain, to say nothing of sun and moon and stars above them said, open Sesame to him day and night. And Sesame had opened, how much perhaps he did not know. He had always been responsive to what they had begun to call nature. Genuinely, almost religiously responsive, though he had never lost his habit of calling a sunset a sunset and a view of you, however deeply they might move him. But nowadays nature actually made him ache. He appreciated it so. Every one of these calm, bright, lengthening days, with holly's hand in his. And the dog Balthazar in front looking studiously for what he never found, he would stroll watching the roses open, fruit budding on the walls, sunlight brightening the oak leaves and saplings in the coppice, watching the water lily leaves unfold and glisten, and the silvery young corn of the one wheat field, listening to the starlings and skylarks, and the aldernic cows chewing the cud, flicking slow, their tufted tails. And every one of these fine days, he ached a little from sheer love of it all, feeling perhaps deep down that he had not very much longer to enjoy it. The thought that some day, perhaps not ten years hence, perhaps not five, all this world would be taken away from him, before he had exhausted his powers of loving it, seemed to him in the nature of an injustice brooding over his horizon. If anything came after this life, it would not be what he wanted, not Robin Hill and flowers and birds and pretty faces, too few even now of those about him. With the years his dislike of Hamburg had increased. The orthodoxy he had worn in the 60s, as he had worn side whiskers out of sheer exuberance, had long dropped off. Leaving him reverent before three sinks alone, beauty, upright conduct and a sense of property. And the greatest of these now was beauty. He had always had wide interest, and indeed could still read the times, but he was liable at any moment to put it down if he had a black bird sing. Upright conduct, property, somehow they were tiring. The black birds and the sunsets never tired him, only gave him an uneasy feeling that he could not get enough of them. Staring into the stilly radiance of the early evening and at the little gold and white flowers on the lawn, a sort came to him. This weather was like the music of Orfeo, which he had recently heard at Covent Garden. A beautiful opera, not like Maya Bear, not even quite Mozart, but in its way, perhaps even more lovely, something classical and of the golden age about it, chaste and mellow. And there are all these almost worthy of the old days, highest praise he could bestow. The yearning of Orfeo's for the beauty he was losing, for his love going down to haters, as in life, love and beauty did go. The yearning, which sang and shrubbed through the golden music, stirred also in the lingering beauty of the world that evening. And with the tip of his corksled, elastic-sided boot, he involuntarily stirred the ribs of the dog Baltazar, causing the animal to wake and attack his fleas, for though he was supposed to have none, nothing could persuade him of the fact. When he had finished, he rubbed the place he had been scratching against his master's calf and settled down again with his chin over the instep of the disturbing boot. And into old Julian's mind came a sudden recollection, a face he had seen at the opera three weeks ago. Irene, the wife of his precious nephew, Sons, that man of property. Though he had not met her since the day of the at-home in his old house at Stanhope Gate, which celebrated his granddaughter's June's ill-starred engagement to young Bosini, he had remembered her at once, for he had always admired her, a very pretty creature. After the death of young Bosini, whose mistress she had so reprehensibly become, he had heard that she had left Sons at once. Goodness only knew what she had been doing since. That sight of her face, a side view in the row in front, had been literally the only reminder these three years that she was still alive. No one ever spoke of her. And yet Joe had told him something once, something which had upset him completely. The boy had got it from George Forsythe, he believed, who had seen Bosini in the fog the day he was run over, something which explained the young fella's distress, an act of Sons towards his wife, a shocking act. Joe had seen her too, that afternoon, after the news was out, seen her for a moment, and his description had always lingered in old Jolian's mind, wild and lost, he had called her. And next day, June had gone there, bottled up her feelings and gone there, and the maid had cried and told her how her mistress had slipped out in the night and vanished, a tragic business altogether. One thing was certain, Sons had never been able to lay hands on her again. And he was living at Brighton and journeying up and down, a fitting fate, the man of property. For when he once took a dislike to anyone, as he had to his nephew, old Jolian, never got over it. He remembered still the sense of relief with which he had heard the news of Irene's disappearance. It had been shocking to think of her, a prisoner in that house, to which she must have wandered back when Joe saw her, wandered back for a moment, like a wounded animal to its hole after seeing that news, tragic death of an architect in the street. Her face had struck him very much the other night, more beautiful than he had remembered. But like a mask is something going on beneath it. A young woman still, 28 perhaps, ah well, very likely she had another lover by now. But at this subversive sort for married women should never love, once even had been too much. His instep rose and with it the dog Balthazar's head. The sagacious animals stood up and looked into old Jolian's face. Walk, he seemed to say, and old Jolian answered. Come on, old chap. Slowly, as was their want, they crossed among the constellations of buttercups and daisies and entered the family. This feature, where very little grew as yet, had been judiciously dropped below the level of the lawn so that it might come up again on the level of the other lawn and give the impression of irregularity so important in horticulture. Its rocs and ass were beloved of the dog Balthazar, who sometimes found a mole there. Old Jolian made a point of passing through it because, though it was not beautiful, he intended that it should be some day and he would think, I must get Vard to come down and look at it, he's better than Beach. For plants, like houses and human complaints, required the best expert consideration. It was inhabited by snails, and if accompanied by his grandchildren, he would point to one and tell them the story of the little boy who said, have plumbers got leger's mother, no, sonny, then don't if I haven't been and swallowed a snyllipop. And when they skipped and clutched his hand, thinking of the snyllipop going down the little boy's red lane, his eyes would twinker. Emerging from the fernary, he opened the wicked gate, which just there led into the first field, a large and park-like area out of which, within brick walls, the vegetable garden had been carved. Old Jolian avoided this, which did not suit his mood and made down the hill towards the pond. Baltazar, who knew a waterette or two, gambled in front at the gate which marks an oldish dog who takes the same walk every day. Arrived at the edge, old Jolian stood, noting another water lily opened since yesterday. He would show it to Holly tomorrow. When his little sweet had got over the upset which had followed on her eating a tomato at lunch, her little arrangements were very delicate. Now that Jolly had gone to school his first term, Holly was with him nearly all day long and he missed her badly. He felt that pain too, which often bothered him now, a little dragging at his left side. He looked back up the hill. Really, poor young Bosini had made an uncommonly good job of the house. He would have done very well for himself if he had lived. And where was he now? Perhaps still haunting this, the sight of his last work, of his tragic love affair. Or was Philip Bosini's spirit diffused in the general? Who could say? That dog was getting his legs muddy and he moved towards the copies. There had been the most delightful lot of blue wells and he knew where some still lingered like little patches of sky fallen in between the trees away out of the sun. He passed the cowhouses and the henhouses there installed and pursued the pass into the sick of the saplings, making for one of the blue well plots. Balthazar, preceding him once more, uttered a low growl. All Jolly and stirred him with his foot, but the dog remained motionless, just where there was no room to pass and the hair rose slowly along the center of his woolly back. Whether from the growl and the look of the dog's divert head or from the sensation which a man feels in a wood, all Jolly and also felt something move along his spine. And then the pass turned and there was an old mossy log and on it a woman sitting. Her face was turned away and he had just time to sink. She's trespassing. I must have a board put up before she turned, powers above, the face he had seen at the opera, the very woman he had just been thinking of. In that confused moment, he saw things blurred as if a spirit queer effect. The slant of sunlight, perhaps on her violet gray frock, and then she rose and stood smiling, her head a little to one side. All Jolly and Sartre, how pretty she is. She did not speak, neither did he. And he realized why with a certain admiration. She was here no doubt because of some memory and did not mean to try and get out of it by Valgar explanation. Don't let that dog touch your frock, he said. He has got wet feet. Come here, you. But the dog, Baltazar, went on towards the visitor who put her hand down and stroked his head. All Jolly and Sartre quickly. I saw you at the opera the other night. You didn't notice me. Oh yes, I did. He felt a subtle flattery in that as though she had added, do you think one could miss seeing you? They are all in Spain, he remarked abruptly. I am alone. I drove up for the opera. The Ravalli was good. Have you seen the cowhouses? In a situation so charged with mystery and something very like emotion, he moved instinctively towards that bit of property and she moved beside him. Her figures swayed faintly like the best kind of French figures. Her dress, too, was a sort of French gray. He noticed two or three silver threads in her amber-colored hair, strange hair with those dark eyes of hers and that creamy pale face. A sudden side-long look from the velvety brown eyes disturbed him. It seemed to come from deep and far, from another world almost, or at all events from someone not living very much in this. And he said mechanically, where are you living now? I have a little flat in Chelsea. He did not want to hear what she was doing, did not want to hear anything, but the perverse word came out, alone? She nodded. It was a relief to know that. And it came into his mind that, but for a twist of fate, she would have been mistress of these copies, showing these cowhouses to him a visitor. All oldenies, he muttered, they give the best milk. This one is a pretty creature, wow, myrtle. The fawn-colored cow, with eyes as soft and brown as Irene's own, was standing absolutely still, not having long been milked. She looked round at them out of the corner of those lustrous, mild, cynical eyes. And from her gray lips, a little dribble of saliva, threaded its way towards the straw. The scent of hay and vanilla and ammonia rose in the dim light of the cool cowhouse. And all Julian said, you must come up and have some dinner with me. I will send you home in the carriage. He perceived a struggle going on within her, natural, no doubt with her memories. But he wanted her company, a pretty face, a charming figure, beauty. He had been alone all the afternoon. Perhaps his eyes were wistful for she answered, thank you, Uncle Julian, I should like to. He rubbed his hands and said, capital, let us go up then. And proceeded by the dog Balthazar, they ascended through the field. The sun was almost level in their faces now, and he could see not only those silver threads, but little lines just deep enough to stamp her beauty with a coin-like fineness, the special look of life, unshared with others. I will take her in by the terrace, he sought. I won't make a common visitor of her. What do you do all day, he said. Teach music, I have another interest too. Work, said old Julian, picking up the doll from off the swing and smoothing its black petticoat. Nothing like it, is there. I don't do any now, I'm getting on. What interest is that? Trying to help women who have come to grieve. Old Julian did not quite understand to grieve, he repeated, then realized with a shock that she meant exactly what he would have meant himself if he had used that expression. Assisting the Magdalene's of London. What a weird and terrifying interest. And curiosity overcoming his natural shrinking, he asked. Why, what do you do for them? Not much, I have no money to spare. I can only give sympathy and food sometimes. Involuntarily old Julian's hand sought his purse. He said hastily, how do you get hold of them? I go to a hospital, a hospital of hue. What hurts me most is that once they nearly all had some sort of beauty. Old Julian straightened the doll. Beauty, he ejaculated. Ha, yes, a sad business. And he moved towards the house. Through a French window under the sun blinds not yet drawn up, he proceeded her into the room where he was wont to study the times. And the sheets of an agricultural magazine is huge illustrations of mangled war cells and the like which provided Hollywood's material for her paintbrush. Dinner is in half an hour. You would like to wash your hands. I will take you to June's room. He saw her looking round eagerly. What changes since she had last visited this house with her husband or her lover or both perhaps he did not know could not say? All that was dark and he wished to leave it so. But what changes? And in the whole he said, my boy Joe is a painter, you know, he has got a lot of taste. It isn't mine, of course, but I have let him have his way. She was standing very still, her eyes roaming through the hall and music room as it now was all thrown into one under the great skylight. All Julian had an odd impression of her. Was she trying to conjure somebody from the shades of that space where the coloring was all pear, gray and silver? He would have had gold himself, more lively and solid. But Joe had French tastes and it had come out shadowy like that, with an effect as of the fume of cigarettes the chap was always smoking broken here and there by a little blaze of blue or crimson color. It was not his dream. Mentally he had hung this space with those gold-framed masterpieces of still and stiller life, which he had bought in days when quantity was precious. And now where were they? Sold for a song. That's something which made him alone among four sides, move with the times, had warned him against the struggle to retain them. But in his study he still had Dutch fishing boats at sunset. He began to mount the stairs, with slowly, for he felt his side. These are the bathrooms, he said, and other arrangements. I have had them tiled. The nurseries are along there. And this is Joe's and his wife's. They all communicate. But you remember, I expect. Irene nodded. They passed on up the gallery and entered a large room with a small bed and several windows. This is mine, he said. The walls were covered with the photographs of children and watercolor sketches, and he added doubtfully. These are Joe's. The view is first-rate. You can see the grandstand at Epsom in clear weather. The sun was down now behind the house, and over the prospect, a luminous haze had settled, emanation of the long and prosperous day. Few houses showed, but fields and trees faintly glistened away to a loom of downs. The country is changing, he said abruptly. But there it will be when we are all gone. Look at those thrushes. The birds are sweet here in the mornings. I am glad to have washed my hands of London. Her face was close to the windowpane, and he was stuck by its mournful look. Wish I could make her look happy, he sought. A pretty face, but sad. When taking up his can of hot water, he went out into the gallery. This is June's room, he said, opening the next door and putting the can down. I think you will find everything. And closing the door behind her, he went back to his own room, brushing his hair with his great ebony brushes and dabbing his forehead with order cologne he mused. She had come so strangely. A sort of visitation, mysterious, even romantic, as if his desire for company, for beauty, had been fulfilled by whatever it was which fulfilled that sort of thing. And before the mirror he straightened his still upright figure, passed the brushes over his great white moustache, touched up his eyebrows with order cologne, and rang the bell. I forgot to let them know that I have a lady to dinner with me. Let Cook do something extra, and tell Beacon to have the landow and pair at half past ten to drive her back to town tonight. Is Miss Holly asleep? The maid sought not, and old Jolian, passing down the gallery, stole on tiptoe towards the nursery and opened the door whose hinges he kept specially oiled that he might slip in and out in the evenings without being heard. But Holly was asleep and lay like a miniature Madonna of that type which the old painters could not tell from Venus when they had completed her. Her long dark lashes clung to her cheeks. On her face was perfect peace. Her little arrangements were evidently all right again. And old Jolian, in the twilight of the room, stood adoring her. It was so charming, solemn and loving that little face. He had more than his share of the blessed capacity of living again in the young. They were to him his future life, all of a future life that his fundamental pagan sanity perhaps admitted. There she was with everything before her and his blood some of it in her tiny veins. There she was, his little companion, to be made as happy as ever he could make her so that she knew nothing but love. His heart swelled and he went out stealing the sound of his patent leather boots. In the corridor an eccentric notion attacked him to think that children should come to that which Irene had told him she was helping. Women who were all once little things like this one sleeping there. I must give her a check, he mused. Can't bear to think of them. They had never born reflecting on those poor outcasts, wounding too deeply the core of true refinement hidden under layers of conformity to the sense of property, wounding too grievously the deepest thing in him. A love of beauty which could give him even now a flutter of the heart thinking of his evening in the society of a pretty woman. And he went downstairs through the swinging doors to the back regions. There in the wine cellar was a hawk worth at least two pounds a bottle, a Steinberg cabinet. Better than any Johannesburg that ever went down throat. A wine of perfect bouquet, sweet as an ectrine. Nectar indeed. He got a bottle out, handling it like a baby and holding it level to the light to look and shined in its coat of dust that mellow-colored slender-necked bottle gave him deep pleasure. Three years to settle down again since the move from town ought to be in prime condition. Thirty-five years ago he had bought it. Thank God he had kept his pellet and earned the right to drink it. She would appreciate this, not a spice of acidity in a dozen. He wiped the bottle through the cork with his own hands, put his nose down, inhaled its perfume and went back to the music room. Irene was standing by the piano. She had taken off her hat and the lace scarf she had been wearing so that her gold-colored hair was visible and the pallor of her neck. In her grey frock she made a pretty picture for old Julian against the rosewood of the piano. He gave her his arm and solemnly they went. The room which had been designed to enable twenty-four people to dine in comfort had now but a little round table. In his present solitude the big dining table oppressed old Julian. He had caused it to be removed till his son came back. Here in the company of two really good copies of Raphael Madonna's he was wont to dine alone. It was the only disconsolate hour of his day, this summer weather. He had never been a large eater like that great chaps with him or Silvanus Haythol or Anthony Thonwellsy, those cronies of past times. And to dine alone, overlooked by the Madonna's was to him but a sorrowful occupation which he got through quickly that he might come to the more spiritual enjoyment of his coffee and cigar. But this evening was a different matter. His eyes twinkled at her across the little table and he spoke of Italy and Switzerland telling her stories of his travels there and other experiences which he could no longer recount to his son and granddaughter because they knew them. This fresh audience was precious to him. He had never become one of those old men who ramble round and round the fields of reminiscence. Himself quickly fatigued by the insensitive he instinctively avoided fatiguing others and his natural flirtatiousness towards beauty guarded him specially in his relations with a woman. He would have liked to draw her out but though she murmured and smiled and seemed to be enjoying what he told her he remained conscious of that mysterious remoteness which constituted half her fascination. He could not bear women who threw their shoulders and eyes at you and chattered away or heart-moused women who laid down the law and knew more than you did. There was only one quality in a woman that appealed to him, charm and the quieter it was the more he liked it. And this one had charm shadowy as afternoon sunlight on those Italian hills and valleys he had loved. The feeling too that she was as it were apart cloistered made her seem nearer to himself a strangely desirable companion. When a man is very old and quite out of the running he loves to feel secure from the rivalries of use for he would still be first in the heart of beauty. And he drank his hawk and watched her lips and felt nearly young. But the dog-baltas are lay watching her lips too and despising in his heart the interruptions of their talk and the tilting of those greenish glasses full of a golden fluid which was distasteful to him. The light was just failing when they went back into the music room and cigar in mouse old Jolian said play me some Chopin. By the cigars they smoke and the composers they love you shall know the texture of man's sauce. Old Jolian could not bear a strong cigar or Wagner's music. He loved Beethoven and Mozart Handel and Gluck and Schumann and for some occult reason the operas of Meyerbeer. But of late years he had been seduced by Chopin just as in painting he had succumbed to Botticelli. In yielding to these tastes he had been conscious of divergence from the standard of the golden age. Their poetry was not that of Milton and Byron and Tennyson of Raphael and Tizian, Mozart and Beethoven. It was as it were behind the veil. Their poetry hit no one in the face but slipped its fingers under the ribs and turned and twisted and melted up the heart. And never certain that this was healthy he did not care a rap so long as he could see the pictures of the one or hear the music of the other. Irene sat down at the piano under the electric lamp festooned with pearl grey and old Jolian in an armchair whence he could see her crossed his legs and drew slowly at his cigar. She set a few moments with her hands on the keys evidently searching her mind for what to give him. Then she began and within old Jolian there arose a sorrowful pleasure not quite like anything else in the world. He fell slowly into a trance interrupted only by the movements of taking the cigar out of his mouth at long intervals and replacing it. She was there and the hawk within him and the scent of tobacco but there too was a world of sunshine lingering into moonlight and pools with talks upon them and bluish trees above glowing with blurs of wine red roses and fields of lavender where milk white cows were grazing and a woman all shadowy with dark eyes and a white neck smiled holding out her arms and through air which was like music a star dropped and was caught on a cow's horn. He opened his eyes beautiful piece she played well the touch of an angel and he closed them again he felt miraculously sad and happy as one does standing under a lime tree in full honey flower not live one's own life again but just stand there and bask in the smile of a woman's eyes and enjoy the bouquet and he jerked his hand the dog balthazar had reached up and licked it beautiful he said go on, more Chopin she began to play again this time the resemblance between her and Chopin struck him the swaying he had noticed in her walk was in her playing too and the nocturn she had chosen and the soft darkness of her eyes the light on her hair as of moonlight from a golden moon seductive yes but nothing of Delilah in her or in that music a long blue spiral from his cigar ascended and dispersed so we go out he sought no more beauty, nothing? again Idena stopped would you like some glook he used to write his music in a sundead garden with a bottle of rye wine beside him oh yes, let's have Orfeu round about him now were fields of gold and silver flowers white forms swaying in the sunlight bright birds flying to and fro all was summer lingering waves of sweetness and regret flooded his soul some cigar ash dropped taking out the silk handkerchief to brush it off he inhaled a mingle scent as of snuff and odor cologne ah he sought indian summer that is all and he said you haven't played me kefaro she did not answer did not move he was conscious of something some strange upset suddenly he saw her rise and turn away and a pang of remorse shot through him what a clumsy chap like Orfeu's she of course she too was looking for her lost one in the hall of memory and disturbed to the heart he got up from his chair she had gone to the great window at the far end gingerly he followed her hands were folded over her breast he could just see her cheek very white and quite emotionalized he said there, there my love the birds had escaped him mechanically for they were those he used to holly when she had a pain but their effect was instantaneously distressing she raised her arms covered her face with them and wept old Jolian stood gazing at her with eyes very deep from age the passionate shame she seemed feeling at her abandonment so unlike the control and quietude of her whole presence was as if she had never before broken down in the presence of another being there, there there, there he murmured and putting his hand out referently touched her she turned and leaned the arms which covered her face against him old Jolian stood very still keeping one thin hand on her shoulder let her cry her heart out it would do her good and the dog Baltazar puzzled sat down on his turn to examine them the window was still open the curtains had not been drawn the last of daylight from without mingled with faint intrusion from the lamp within there was a scent of new moon grass with the wisdom of a long life old Jolian did not speak even grief itself out in time only time was good for Sarah time who saw the passing of each mood each emotion in turn time the layer to rest there came into his mind the words as panted the heart after cooling streams but they were of no use to him then conscious of his scent of violets he knew she was drying her eyes he put his chin forward pressed his moustache against her forehead and felt her shake with a quivering of her whole body as of a tree which shakes itself free of raindrops she put his hand to her lips as if saying all over now forgive me the kiss filled him with a strange comfort he let her back to where she had been so upset and the dog Baltazar following laid the bone of one of the cutlets they had at their feet anxious to obliterate the memory of that emotion he would think of nothing better than China and moving with her slowly from cabinet to cabinet he kept taking up bits of Dresden and Lowstoft and Chelsea turning them round and round with his thin waned hands whose skin faintly freckled had such an aged look I bought this at Jobsons he would say cost me 30 pounds it is very old that dog leaves his bones all over the place this old ship pole I picked up at the sail when that precious rip the Marquis came to grief but you don't remember here is a nice piece of Chelsea now what would you say this was and he was comforted feeling that with her taste she was taking a real interest in these things for after all nothing better composes the nerves than a doubtful piece of China when the crunch of the carriage wheels was heard at last he said you must come again you must come to lunch then I can show you these by daylight and my little sweet she is a dear little thing this dog seems to have taken a fancy to you for Baltazar feeling that she was about to leave was rubbing his side against her leg going out under the porch with her he said he will get you up in an hour and a quarter take this for your protégés and he slipped the check 50 pounds into her hand he saw her brightened eyes and heard her murmur oh uncle Julian and the real shrub of pleasure went through him that meant one or two poor creatures helped a little and it meant that she would come again he put his hand in at the window and grasped hers once more the carriage rolled away he stood looking at the moon and the shadows of the trees and sawed a sweet night she end of an indian summer of a foresight part one reading by Ava Harnik indian summer of a foresight part two this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Ava Harnik the foresight saga volume two in Chancery indian summer of a foresight part two two days of rain and summer set in blend and sunny all Julian walked and talked with Holly at first he felt taller and full of a new vigor then he felt restless almost every afternoon they would enter the copies and walk as far as the log well she's not there he would think of course not and he would feel a little shorter and drag his feet walking up the hill home with his hand clapped to his left side now and then the sort would move in him did she come or did I dream it and he would stare at space while the dog Baltazar stared at him of course she would not come again he opened the letters from Spain with less excitement they were not returning till July he felt oddly that he could bear it every day at dinner he screwed up his eyes and looked at where she had set she was not there so he unscrewed his eyes again on the 7th afternoon he sought I must go up and get some boots he ordered beacon and set out passing from Patnita's Hyde Park he reflected I might as well go to Chelsea and see her and he called out just drive me to where you took that lady the other night the coachman turned his broad red face and his juicy lips answered the lady in grey sir yes the lady in grey what other ladies were there stodgy chap the carriage stopped before a small three-storied block of flats standing a little back from the river with a practiced eye all Jolian saw they were cheap I should think about 60 pounds a year he mused and entering he looked at the name board the name foresight was not on it but against first floor flat sea were the words Mrs. Irene Heron she had taken her maiden name again and somehow displeased him he went upstairs slowly feeling his side a little he stood a moment before ringing to lose the feeling of drag and fluttering there she would not be in and then boots the salt was black what did he want with boots at his age he could not wear out all those he had your mistress at home yes sir Mr. Jolian foresight yes sir will you come this way old Jolian followed a very little maid not more than 16 one would say in the very small drawing room where the sun blinds were drawn it held a cottage piano and little else save a vague fragrance and good taste he stood in the middle with his top hat in his hand and sought I expect she's very badly off there was a mirror above the far place and he saw himself reflected an old looking chap he heard a rustle and turned round she was so close that his moustache almost brushed her forehead just under her hair I was driving up he said I thought I would look in on you and ask you how you got up the other night and seeing her smile he felt suddenly relieved she was really glad to see him perhaps would you like to put on your hat and come for a drive in the park but while she was gone to put her hat on he frowned the park James and Emily Mrs. Nicholas or some other member of his precious family would be there likely prancing up and down and they would go and wag their tongues about having seen him with her afterwards better not he did not wish to revive the echoes of the past on foresight change he removed a white hair from the lapel of his closely buttoned up frog coat and passed his hand over his cheeks moustache and squared chin it felt very hollow there under the cheekbones he had not been eating much lately he had better get that little whipper snapper who attended Holly to give him a tonic but she had come back and when they were in the carriage he said suppose we go and sit in Kensington gardens instead and added with a twinkle no prancing up and down there as if she had been in the secret of his thoughts leaving the carriage they entered those select precincts and strolled towards the water you have come back to your maiden name I see he said I am not sorry she slipped her hand under his arm has June forgiven me Uncle Jolian he answered gently yes yes of course why not and have you I I forgave you as soon as I saw how the land really lay and perhaps he had his instinct had always been to forgive the beautiful she drew a deep breath I never regretted I couldn't did you ever love very deeply Uncle Jolian at that strange question old Jolian stared before him had he he did not seem to remember that he ever had but he did not like to say this to the young woman whose hand was touching his arm whose life was suspended as it were by memory of a tragic love and he thought if I had met you when I was young I I might have made a fool of myself perhaps and the longing to escape in generalities beset him love is a queer sing he said fatal sing often it was the Greeks wasn't it made love into a goddess they were right I dare say but then they lived they lived in the golden age Phil adored them Phil the word jarred him for suddenly with his power to see all round the sing he perceived why she was putting up with him like this she wanted to talk about her lover well if it was any pleasure to her and he said there was a bit of a sculptor in him I fancy yes he loved balance and symmetry he loved the whole hearted way the Greeks gave themselves to art balance the chap had no balance at all if he remembered as for symmetry clean built enough he was no doubt but those queer eyes of his and high cheekbones symmetry you are of the golden age too uncle Jolian old Jolian looked round at her was she chafing him no her eyes were soft as velvet was she flattering him but if so why there was nothing to be had out of an old chap like him feel so so he used to say but I can never tell him that I admire him ah there it was again her dead lover her desire to talk of him and he pressed her arm half resentful of those memories half grateful as if he recognized what a link they were between herself and him he was a very talented young fella he murmured it is hot I feel the heat nowadays let us sit down they took two chairs beneath a chestnut tree whose broad leaves covered them from the peaceful glory of the afternoon a pleasure to sit there and watch her and feel that she liked to be with him and the wish to increase that liking if he could made him go on I expect he showed you a side of him I never saw he would be at his best with you his ideas of art were a little new to me he had stiffed the word fangled yes but he used to say you had a real sense of beauty old Julian sought the devil he did but answered with a twinkle well I have or I shouldn't be sitting here with you she was fascinating when she smiled with her eyes like that he sought you had one of those hearts that never grow old Phil had real insight he was not taken in by this flattery spoken out of the past out of a longing to talk of her dead lover not a bit and yet it was precious to hear because she pleased his eyes and heart which quite true had never grown old was that because unlike her and her dead lover he had never loved to desperation had always kept his balance his sense of symmetry well had left him power at 84 to admire beauty and he sought if I were a painter or a sculptor but I'm an old chap make hay while the sun shines a couple with arms entwined crossed on the grass before them at the edge of the shadow from their tree the sunlight fell cruelly on their pale washed unkempt young faces we are an ugly lot said old jolly and suddenly it amazes me to see how love triumphs over that love triumphs over everything the young thinks so he muttered love has no age no limit and no death with that glow in her pale face her breast heaving her eyes so large and dark and soft she looked like Venus come to life but this extravagance brought instant reaction and twinkling he said well if it had limits we should not be born for by George it has got a lot to put up with then removing his top hat he brushed it round with a cuff the great clumsy thing heated his forehead in these days he often got a rush of blood to the head his circulation was not what it had been she still sat gazing straight before her and suddenly she murmured it is strange enough that I am alive those words of joe's wild and lost came back to him he said my son saw you for a moment that day was it your son I heard a voice in the hall I sought for a second it was filled all joe Leon saw her lips tremble she put her hand over them took it away again and went on calmly that night I went to the embankment a woman caught me by the dress she told me about herself when one knows that others suffer one is ashamed one of those she nodded and horror stirred within old joe Leon the horror of one who has never known a struggle with desperation almost against his will he muttered tell me I didn't care whether I lived or died when you are like that fate sees us to want to kill you she took care of me three days she never left me I had no money that is why I do what I can for them now but old joe Leon was thinking no money what fate could compare with that every other was involved in it I wish you had come to me he said why didn't you but Irene did not answer because my name was Forsythe I suppose or was it June who kept you away how are you getting on now his eyes involuntarily swept her body perhaps even now she was and yet she wasn't seen not really oh with my 50 pounds a year I made just enough the answer did not reassure him he had lost confidence and that fellow Psalms but his sense of justice stifled condemnation no she would certainly have died rather than take another penny from him soft as she looked there must be strengths in her somewhere strengths and fidelity but what business had young Bosini to have got run over and left her stranded like this well you must come to me now he said for anything you want or I shall be quite cut up and putting on his hat heroes let us go and get some tea I told that lazy chap to put the horses up for an hour and come for me at your place we will take a cab presently I can't walk as I used to he enjoyed that stroll to the Kensington end of the gardens the sound of her voice the glancing of her eyes the subtle beauty of a charming form moving beside him he enjoyed their tea at Ruffles in the high street and came out dense with a great box of chocolates swung on his little finger he enjoyed the drive back to Chelsea in a handsome smoking his cigar she had promised to come down next Sunday and play to him again and already in sort he was plucking carnations many roses for her to carry back to town it was a pleasure to give her a little pleasure if it were pleasure from an old chap like him the carriage was already there when they arrived just like that fella who was always late when he was wanted old Jolion went in for a minute to say goodbye the little dark hall of the flat was stagnated with a disagreeable odor of patchouli and on a bench against the wall its only furniture he saw a figure sitting he had Irene say softly just one minute in the little drawing room when the door was shut he asked gravely one of your protégés yes now thanks to you I can do something for her he stood staring and stroking the chin whose strengths had frightened so many in its time the idea of her does actually in contact with this outcast grieved and frightened him what could she do for them nothing only soil and make trouble for herself perhaps and he said take care my dear the world puts the worst construction on everything I know that he was abashed by her quiet smile well then Sunday he murmured goodbye she put her cheek forward for him to kiss goodbye he said again take care of yourself and he went out not looking towards the figure on the bench he drove home by way of Hammersmith that he might stop at the place he knew of and tell them to send her in two dozen of their best burgundy she must want picking up sometimes only in Richmond Park did he remember that he had gone up to order himself some boots and was surprised that he could have had a poultry an idea end of part 2 Indian summer of a foresight recording by Ava Harnick Indian summer of a foresight part 3 this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Ava Harnick the foresight saga volume 2 in Chancery Indian summer of a foresight part 3 the little spirits of the past which strong and old man's days had never pushed their faces up to his so seldom as in the 70 hours elapsing before Sunday came the spirit of the future with the charm of the unknown saw her lips instead old Jolion was not restless now and paid no visits to the log because she was coming to lunch there is wonderful finality about a meal it removes a world of doubts for no one misses meals except for reasons beyond control he played many games with Holly on the lawn pitching them up to her betting so as to be ready to bowl to Jolly in the holidays for she was not a foresight but Jolly was and foresight always bet until they have designed and reached the age of 85 the dog Baltazar in attendance lay on the ball as often as he could and the page boy fielded till his face was like the harvest moon and because the time was getting shorter each day was longer and more golden than the last on Friday night he took a liver pill his side hurt him rather and though it was not the liver side there is no remedy like that anyone telling him that he had found a new excitement in life and that excitement was not good for him would have been met by one of the steady and rather defined looks of his deep set angry eyes which seemed to say I know my own business best he always had and always would on Sunday morning when Holly had gone with her governess to church he visited the strawberry beds there accompanied by the dog Baltazar he examined the plants narrowly and succeeded in finding at least two dozen berries which were really ripe stooping was not good for him and he became very dizzy and read in the forehead having placed the strawberries in a dish on the dining table he washed his hands and bathed his forehead with order colon there before the mirror it occurred to him that he was sinner the red paper he had been when he was young it was nice to be slim he could not bear a fat chap and yet perhaps his cheeks were too thin she was to arrive by train at half past twelve and walk up entering from the road past Drager's farm at the far end of the copies and having looked into June's room to see that there was hot water already he set force to meet her leisurely for his heart was beating the air smelt sweet lark sang and the grandstand at Epsom was visible a perfect day on just such a one no doubt six years ago Soms had brought young Bosini down with him to look at the site before they began to build it was Bosini who had pitched on the exact spot for the house as June had often told him in these days he was thinking much about that young fellow as if his spirit were really haunting the field of his last work on the chance of seeing her Bosini the one man who had possessed her heart to whom she had given her whole self rapture at his age one could not of course imagine such things but there stirred in him a queer vague aching as it were the ghost of an impersonal jealousy and a feeling too more generous of pity for that love so early lost all over in a few poor months well well he looked at his watch before entering the copies only a quarter past 25 minutes to wait and then turning the corner of the pass he saw her exactly where he had seen her the first time on the log and realized that she must have come by the earlier train to sit there alone for a couple of hours at least two hours of her society missed what memory could make that log so dear to her his face showed what he was thinking for she said at once forgive me uncle Julian it was here that I first knew yes yes there it is for you whenever you like you are looking a little London you are giving too many lessons that she should have to give lessons what it him lessons to parcel of young girls something out scales with their sick fingers where do you go to give them he asked they are mostly Jewish families luckily all jolly instead to all four sides Jews seem strange and doubtful they love music and they are very kind they had better be by George he took her arm his side always hurt him a little going uphill and said did you ever see anything like those buttercups they came like that in a night her eyes seemed really to fly over the field like bees after the flowers and the honey I wanted you to see them wouldn't let them turn the cows in yet remembering that she had come to talk about Bosnian he pointed to the clock tower over the stables I expect he would not have let me put that there had no notion of time if I remember but pressing his arm to her she talked of flowers instead and he knew it was done that he might not feel she came because of her dead lover the best flower he said with a sort of triumph is my little sweet she will be back from church directly there is something about her which reminds me a little of you and it did not seem to him peculiar that he had put it thus instead of saying there is something about you which reminds me a little of her oh and here she was Holly followed closely by her elderly French governess whose digestion had been ruined 22 years ago in the siege of Strasbourg came rushing towards them from under the oak tree she stopped about a dozen yards away to Pat Balthazar and pretend that this was all she had in her mind old Jolien who knew better said well my darling here is the lady in grey I promised you I kissed herself and looked up he watched the two of them with a twinkle Irene a smiling Holly beginning with grave inquiry passing into shy smile too and then to something deeper she had a sense of beauty that child knew what was what he enjoyed the side of the kiss between them Mrs. Heron well mumsel good sermon for now that he had not much more time before him the only part of the service connected with this world absorbed what interest in church remained to him mumsel both stretched out a spidery hand cladding a black kid glove she had been in the best families and the rather sad eyes of her lean yellowish seemed to ask are you well bred were never Holly or Jolly did anything unpleasing to her a not uncommon occurrence she would say to them the little tylers never did that they were such well bred little children Jolly hated the little tylers Holly wondered dreadfully how it was she fell so short of them a sin, rum little soul all Jolly and sought her mumsel both luncheon was a successful meal the mushrooms which he himself had picked in the mushroom house his chosen strawberries and another bottle of the Steinberg cabinet filled him with a certain aromatic spirituality and a conviction that he would have a touch of eczema tomorrow after lunch they sat under the oak tree drinking Turkish coffee it was no matter of grief to him when mademoiselle both withdrew to write her Sunday letter to her sister whose future had been endangered in the past by swallowing a pin an event held up daily in warning to the children to eat slowly and digest what they had eaten at the foot of the bank on a carriage rug Holly and the dog Balthazar teased and loved each other and in the shade old Jolly with his legs crossed and his cigar luxuriously savoured, gazed at Irene sitting in the swing a light, vaguely swaying gray figure with a flak of sunlight here and there upon it lips just opened eyes dark and soft little drooped she looked content surely did her good to come and see him the selfishness of age had not set its proper grip on him for he could still feel pleasure in the pleasure of others realising that what he wanted though much was not quite all that mattered it is quiet here he said you must not come down and it dull but it is a pleasure to see you my little sweet is the only face which gives me any pleasure except yours from her smile he knew that she was not beyond liking to be appreciated and this reassured him that's not humbug he said I never told a woman I admired her when I didn't in fact I don't know the woman I admired her except my wife in the old days and wives are funny he was silent but resumed abruptly she used to expect me to say more often than I felt it and there we were her face looked mysteriously troubled and afraid that he had said something painful he hurried on when my little sweet marries I hope she will find someone who knows what women feel I shan't be here to see that there is too much topsy-turvy-dom in marriage I don't want her to pitch up against that and aware that he had made bad words he added that dog will scratch a silence followed of what was she thinking this pretty creature whose life was spoiled who had done his love and yet was made for love some day when he was gone perhaps she would find another maid not so disorderly as that young fella who had got himself run over ah but her husband does soams never trouble you he asked she shook her head her face had closed up suddenly for all her softness there was something irreconcilable about her and a glimpse of light on the inexorable nature of sex antipodes strayed into a brain which belonging to early Victorian civilization so much older than this of his old age about such primitive things that's a comfort he said you can see the grandstand today shall we take a turn round through the flower and fruit garden against whose high outer walls peach trees and nectarines were trained to the sun through the stables the binary, the mushroom house there's paragus beds the rosary, the summer house they conducted her even into the kitchen garden to see the tiny green peas which Holly loved to scoop out of their pots with her finger and lick up from the palm of her little brown hand many delightful things he showed her while Holly and the dog Baltazar danced ahead or came to them at intervals for attention it was one of the happiest ever spent but it tired him and he was glad to sit down in the music room and let her give him tea a special little friend of Holly's had come in a fair child with short hair like a boy's and the two sported in the distance under the stairs and up in the gallery old Jolian begged for Chopin she played studies Mazurka's waltzes till the two children creeping near stood at the foot of the piano their dark and golden heads bent forward listening old Jolian watched let us see you dance, you two shyly with a full start they began bobbing and circling earnest, not very adroit they went past and passed his chair to the strings he watched them and the face of Ha who was playing, turned, smiling towards those little dancers thinking sweetest picture I have seen for ages a boy said Holly Mais enfin qu'est-ce que tu fais là? Dancer le dimanche bien donc but the children came close to old Jolian knowing that he would save them and gazed in the face which was decidedly caught out better the day better the deed, Mamsel it is all my doing trot along chicks and have your tea and when they were gone followed by the dog Balthasar who took every meal he looked at Aydina with a twinkle and said well, there we are aren't they sweet? have you any little ones your pupils? yes, three two of them darlings pretty? lovely old Jolian sighed he had an insatiable appetite for the very young my little sweet he said is devoted to music she will be a musician someday you wouldn't give me your opinion of her playing I suppose of course I will I don't like but he stifled the words to give her lessons the idea that she gave lessons was unpleasant to him yet it would mean that he would see her regularly she left the piano and came over to his chair I would like very much but there is June when are they coming back old Jolian frowned not till the middle of next months what does that matter? you said June had forgiven me but she could never forget uncle Jolian forget, she must forget if he wanted her to but as if answering Irene shook her head you know she couldn't one does not forget always that wretched past and he said with a sort of vexed finality we shall see he talked to her an hour or more of the children and a hundred little things till the carriage came round to take her home and when she had gone he went back to his chair and sat there smoozing his face and chin dreaming over the day that evening after dinner he went to his study and took a sheet of paper he stayed for some minutes without writing then rose and stood under the masterpiece Dutch fishing boats at sunset he was not thinking of that picture but of his life he was going to leave her something in his will nothing could so have stirred the stilly deeps of sort and memory he was going to leave her a portion of his wealth of his aspirations, deeds, duties, work all that had made that wealth going to leave her too a part of all he had missed in life by his sane and steady pursuit of wealth all what had he missed Dutch fishing boats responded blankly he crossed to the French window and drawing the curtain aside opened it a wind had got up and one of last year's oak leaves which had somehow survived the gardener's brooms was dragging itself with a tiny clicking rustle along the stone terrace in the twilight except for that it was very quiet out there and he could smell the heliotrope watered not long since a bat went by a bird uttered its last cheap and right above the oak tree the first star shone foused in the opera had bartered his soul for some fresh years of use morbid notion no such bargain was possible that was real tragedy no making oneself new again for love or life or anything nothing left to do for beauty from afar off while you could and leave it something in your will but how much and as if he could not make that calculation looking out into the mild freedom of the country night he turned back and went up to the chimney piece there were his pet bronzes a Cleopatra with the ass at her breast a Socrates her puppy a strong man reigning in some horses they last his art and the pang went through his heart they had a thousand years of life before them how much well enough at all events to save her getting old before her time to keep the lines out of her face as long as possible and gray from soiling he might live another five years she would be well over 30 by then how much she had none of his blood in her in loyalty to the tenor of his life for 40 years and more ever since he married and founded that mysterious thing a family came this warning sought none of his blood no right to anything it was a luxury then this notion an extravagance a petting of an old man's whim one of those things done in dotage his real future was vested in those who had his blood in whom he would live on when he was gone he turned away from the bronzes and stood looking at the old leather chair in which he sat and smoked so many hundreds of cigars and suddenly he seemed to see her sitting there in her gray dress fragrant soft dark-eyed graceful looking up at him why? she cared nothing for him really all she cared for was that lost lover of hers but she was there whether she would now giving him pleasure with her beauty and grace one had no right to inflict an old man's company no right to ask her down to play to him and let him look at her for no reward pleasure must be paid for in this world how much? after all there was plenty his son and his three grandchildren have missed that little lump he had made it himself nearly every penny he could leave it where he liked allow himself this little pleasure he went back to the bureau well I am going to he thought let them think what they like I am going to and he sat down how much? ten thousand twenty thousand how much? if only with his money he could buy one year one months of use and startled by that salt he wrote quickly dear herring draw me a codicil to this effect I leave to my niece Irene Forsythe born Irene Heron by which name she now goes fifteen thousand pounds to the foresight when he had sealed and stamped the envelope he went back to the window and drew in a long breath it was dark but many stars shown now and of part three Indian summer of a foresight leading by Ava Hanik