 Part 1, Chapter 4 of Inchansary. For more information, or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. Coming by Andy Minter. The Foresight Saga. 2. Inchansary. By John Gawlsworthy. Part 1, Chapter 4, Soho. Of all quarters in the queer adventurous amalgam called London, Soho is perhaps least suited to the Foresight spirit. Soho, my wild one, George would have said if he could have seen his cousin going there. Untidy, full of Greeks, Ishmaelites, cats, Italians, tomatoes, restaurants, organs, coloured stuffs, queer names, people looking out of upper windows. It dwells remote from the British body politic. Yet it has haphazard proprietary instincts of its own, and a certain possessive prosperity which keeps its rents up when those of other quarters go down. For long years Sohams' acquaintanceship with Soho had been confined to its western bastion, Wardaw Street. Many bargains had he picked up there, even during those seven years at Brighton, after Bessini's death and Irene's flight. He had bought treasures there sometimes, though he had no place to put them. So when the conviction that his wife had gone for good at last became firm within him, he had caused a board to be put up in Montpelier Square. For sale, the lease of this desirable residence, inquire of Messas Lesson and Tuques, Court Street, Belgravia. It had sold within a week that desirable residence, in the shadow of whose perfection a man and a woman had eaten their hearts out. Over misty January evening, just before the board was taken down, Sohams had gone there once more, and stood against the square railings, looking at its unlighted windows, chewing the cud of possessive memories which had turned so bitter in his mouth. Why had she never loved him? Why? She had been given all she wanted, and in return had given him for three long years all he had wanted, except, indeed, her heart. He had uttered a little involuntary groan, and a passing policeman had glanced suspiciously at him, who no longer possessed the right to enter that green door with the carved brass knocker beneath the board for sale. A choking sensation had attacked his throat, and he had hurried away into the mist. That evening he had gone to Brighton to live. Approaching Malta Street, Soho, and the restaurant Bretagne, where Annette would be drooping her pretty shoulders over her counts, Sohams thought with wonder of those seven years at Brighton. How had he managed to go on so long in that town devoid of the scent of sweet peas, where he had not even space to put his treasures? True, those had been years with no time at all for looking at them. Years of almost passion at money-making, during which foresight, bustard and foresight, had become solicitors to more limited companies than they could properly attend to. Up to the city of a morning in a Pullman-car, down from the city of an evening in a Pullman-car, law papers again after dinner, then the sleep of the tired and up again next morning, Saturday to Monday was spent at his club in town, curious reversal of customary procedure, based on the deep and careful instinct that while working so hard he needed sea-air to and from the station twice a day, and while resting must indulge his domestic affections. The Sunday visit to his family in Park Lane, to Timothy's, and to Green Street, the occasional visits elsewhere had seemed to him as necessary to health as the sea-air on weekdays. Even since his migration to Maple Durham, he had maintained those habits until he had known Annette. Whether Annette had produced the revolution in his outlook, or that outlook had produced Annette, he knew no more than we know where a circle begins. It was intricate, and deeply involved with the growing consciousness that property without anyone to leave it to is the negation of true foresightism. To have an air, some continuance of self, who would begin where he'd left off, ensure in fact that he would not leave off, had quite obsessed him for the last year and more. After buying a bit of Wedgewood one evening in April, he had dropped into Malta Street to look at a house of his father's which had been turned into a restaurant, a risky proceeding and one not quite in accordance with the terms of the lease. He had stared for a little at the outside, painted a good cream-colour, with two peacock-blue tubs containing little bay-trees in a recessed doorway, and at the words of Restaurant Bretagne above them in gold letters, rather favourably impressed. He had noticed that several people were already seated at little round green tables with little pots of fresh flowers on them, and Brittany were plates, and had asked of a trim-waitress to see the proprietor. They had shown him into a back-room where a girl was sitting at a simple bureau covered with papers, and a small round table was laid for two. The impression of cleanliness, order and good taste was confirmed when the girl got up, saying, ìOh, you wish to see Maman, monsieur?î in a broken accent. ìYesî, Somes had answered, ìI represent your landlord. In fact, I am his son. Why don't you sit down, sir, please? Tell Maman to come to this gentleman.î He was pleased that the girl seemed impressed because it showed business instinct, and suddenly he noticed that she was remarkably pretty, so remarkably pretty that his eyes found a difficulty in leaving her face. When she moved to put a chair for him, she swayed in a curious, subtle way, as if she had been put together by someone with a special secret skill, and her face and neck, which was a little bared, looked as fresh as if they had been sprayed with dew. Probably at this moment Somes decided that the lease had not been violated. Though to himself and his father, he based the decision on the efficiency of those illicit adaptations in the building, on the signs of prosperity and the obvious business capacity of Madame Lamotte, he did not, however, neglect to leave certain matters to future consideration, which had necessitated further visits, so that the little back room had become quite accustomed to his spare, not un-solid but unobtrusive figure, and his pale, chinny face with clipped moustache and dark hair not yet grizzling at the sides. A monsieur très distingue, Madame Lamotte found him, and presently, très amical, très gentil, watching his eyes upon her daughter. She was one of those generously built, fine-faced, dark-haired French women, whose every action and tone of voice inspire perfect confidence in the thoroughness of their domestic tastes, their knowledge of cooking, and the careful increase of their bank balances. After those visits to the restaurant Bretagne began, other visits ceased, without indeed any definite decision, for soams like all four sites, and the great majority of their countrymen, was a born empiricist. But it was this change in his mode of life, which gradually made him so definitely conscious that he desired to alter his condition from that of the unmarried married man, to that of the married man, remarried. Going into Malta Street on this evening of early October, 1899, he bought a paper to see if there were any after-developments of the Dreyfus case, a question which he always found useful in making closer acquaintanceship with Madame Lamotte and her daughter, who were Catholic and anti-Dreyfusard. Scanning those columns, soams found nothing French, but noticed a general fall on the stock exchange, and an ominous leader about the transvaal. He entered, thinking, War's a certainty, I shall sell my consoles. Not that he had many personally, the rate of interest was too wretched, but he should advise his companies. Consoles would assuredly go down. A look, as he passed the doorways of the restaurant, assured him that business was good as ever, and this, which in April would have pleased him, now gave him a certain uneasiness. If the steps which he had to take ended in his marrying Annette, he would rather see her mother safely back in France, a move to which the prosperity of the restaurant Britain might become an obstacle. He would have to buy them out, of course, for French people only came to England to make money, and it would mean a higher price. And then that peculiar sweet sensation at the back of his throat, on a slight thumping about the heart, which he always experienced at the door of the little room, prevented his thinking how much it would cost. Being in, he was conscious of an abundant black skirt vanishing through the door into the restaurant, and of Annette with her hands up to her hair. It was the attitude in which of all others he admired her, so beautifully straight and rounded and supple. And he said, I just came in to talk to your mother about pulling down that partition. No, don't call her. Monsieur, we'll have supper with us. It will be ready in ten minutes. Somes, who still held her hand, was overcome by an impulse which surprised him. You look so pretty to-night, he said, so very pretty. Do you know how pretty you look, Annette? Annette withdrew her hand and blushed, for Monsieur is very good. Not a bit good, said Somes, and sat down gloomily. Annette made a little expressive gesture with her hands. A smile was crinkling her red lips, untouched by salve. And looking at those lips, Somes said, Are you happy over here, or do you want to go back to France? Oh, I like London. Paris, of course, but London is better than Orléans, and the English countryside is so beautiful. I have been to Richmond last Sunday. Somes went through a moment of calculating struggle. Little Durham, dared he? After all, dared he go as far as that, and show her what there was to look forward to? Still, down there one could say things. In this room it was impossible. I want you and your mother, he said suddenly, to come for the afternoon next Sunday. My house is on the river. It's not too late in this weather, and I can show you some good pictures. What do you say? Annette clasped her hands. It would be lovely, though the river is so beautiful. That's understood, then. I'll ask Madame. He needs say no more to her this evening, and risk giving himself away. But had he not already said too much, did one ask restaurant proprietors with pretty daughters down to one's country house without design? Madame Lamotte would see if Annette didn't. Well, there was not much that Madame did not see. Besides, this was the second time he had stayed to supper with them. He owed them hospitality. Walking home towards Park Lane, for he was staying at his father's, with the impression of Annette's soft, clever hand within his own, his thoughts were pleasant, slightly sensual, rather puzzled, take steps. What steps? How? Dirty linen washed in public. With his reputation for sagacity, for far-sightedness, and the clever extrication of others, he who stood for a proprietary interest to become the plaything of that law of which he was a pillar, there was something revolting in the thought. Winifred's affair was bad enough. To have a double dose of publicity in the family would not a liaison be better than that, a liaison and a son he could adopt. But dark, solid, watchful, Madame Lamotte blocked the avenue of that vision. No, that would not work. It was not as if Annette could have a real passion for him, one could not expect that at his age. If her mother wished, if the worldly advantage were manifestly great, perhaps, if not refusal would be certain. Besides, he thought, I'm not a villain, I don't want to hurt her, and I don't want anything underhand. But I do want her, and I want her son. There's nothing for it but divorce, somehow, anyhow, divorce. Under the shadow of the plain trees in the lamplight he passed slowly along the railings of the Green Park. Missed clung there among the bluish tree shapes beyond range of the lamps. How many hundred times had he walked past those trees from his father's house in Park Lane when he was quite a young man, or from his own house in Montpelier Square in those four years of married life? And tonight, making up his mind to free himself, if he could, of that long, useless marriage tie, he took a fancy to walk on, in a Tide Park corner, out at Nightbridge Gate, just as he used to when going home to Irene in the old days. What could she be like now? How had she passed the years since he last saw her, twelve years in all? Seven already since Uncle Jolian left her that money. Was she still beautiful? Would he know her if he saw her? I've not changed much, he thought. I expect she has. She made me suffer. He remembered suddenly one night, the first on which he went out to dinner alone, an old Mulburian dinner, the first year of their marriage. With what eagerness he had hurried back, and entering softly as a cat had hurt her playing. Opening the drawing-room door noiselessly, he had stood watching the expression on her face, different from any he knew, so much more open, so confiding, as though to her music she was giving a heart he had never seen. And he remembered how she stopped and looked round, how her face changed back to that which he did know, and what an icy shiver had gone through him, for all that the next moment he was fondling her shoulders. Yes, she had made him suffer. Divorce! It seemed ridiculous after all these years of utter separation, but it would have to be no other way. The question, he thought, with sudden realism, is, which of us? She or me? She deserted me. She ought to pay for it, nor be some one, I suppose. Involuntarily he uttered a little snarling sound, and turning made his way back to part lane. End of Part 1, Chapter 4, Part 1, Chapter 5 of Enchantsery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org. Recording by Andy Minter. The Foresight Saga, II, Enchantsery By John Gallsworthy Part 1, Chapter 5 James Sees Visions The butler himself opened the door, and closing it softly, detained Soames on the inner mat. The waster's poorly, sir, he murmured. He wouldn't go to bed till you came in. He's still in the dining-room. Soames responded in the hushed tone to which the house was now accustomed. What's the matter with him, Wormson? Nervous, sir, I think. It might be the funeral. Might be Mrs. Dart is coming round this afternoon. I think he overheard something. I've took him and Negus. The mistress has just gone up. Soames hung his hat on a mahogany stag's-horn. All right, Wormson, you can go to bed. I'll take him up myself. And he passed into the dining-room. James was sitting before the fire, in a big arm-chair, with a camel-hair shawl, very light and warm, over his frock-coated shoulders, onto which his long white whiskers drooped. His white hair, still fairly thick, glistened in the lamplight. A little moisture from his fixed, light-gray eyes stained the cheeks, still quite well-coloured. And the long deep furrows running to the corners of the clean-shaven lips, which moved as if mumbling thoughts. His long legs, thin as a crow's, in shepherd's plaid trousers were bent at less than a right angle, and on one knee a spindly hand moved continually, with fingers wide apart and glistening tapered nails. Beside him, on a low stool, stood a half-finished glass of neegas, bedewed with beads of heat. There he had been sitting, with intervals for meals, all day. At eighty-eight he was still organically sound, but suffering terribly from the thought that no one ever told him anything. It is indeed doubtful how he had become aware that Roger was being buried that day, for Emily had kept it from him. She was always keeping things from him. Emily was only seventy. James had a grudge against his wife's youth. He felt sometimes that he would never have married her, if he had known that she would have so many years before her, when he had so few. It was not natural. She would live fifteen or twenty years after he was gone, and might spend a lot of money. And she'd always had extravagant tastes. For all he knew, she might want to buy one of these motor-cars. Sicily and Rachel and Imogen, and all the young people, they all rode these bicycles now and went off, goodness knows where. And now Roger was gone. He didn't know, couldn't tell, the family was breaking up. Somes would know how much his uncle had left. Curiously he thought of Roger as Somes's uncle, not as his own brother. Somes. It was more and more the one solid spot in a vanishing world. Somes was careful. He was a warm man, but he had no one to leave his money to. There it was. He didn't know. And there was that fellow Chamberlain. For James's political principles had been fixed between seventy and eighty-five, when that rascally radical had been the chief thorn in the side of property, and he distrusted him to this day in spite of his conversion. He would get the country into a mess and make money go down before he had done with it a stormy petrol of a chap. Where was Somes? He had gone to the funeral, of course, which they had tried to keep from him. He knew that perfectly well. He had seen his son's trousers. Roger in his coffin. He remembered how, when they came up from school together from the west, on the box seat of the old slow-fire in eighteen-twenty-four, Roger had got into the boot and gone to sleep. James uttered a thin cackle. A funny fellow, Roger, an original, he didn't know, younger than himself, and in his coffin. The family was breaking up. There was Val going to university. He never came to see him now. He would cost a pretty penny up there. It was an extravagant age, and all the pretty pennies that his four grandchildren would cost him danced before James's eyes. He did not grudge them the money, but he grudged terribly the risk which the spending of that money might bring on them. He grudged the diminution of security. And now that Cecily had married, she might be having children, too. He didn't know. Couldn't tell. Nobody thought of anything but spending money in these days, and racing about, and having what they called a good time. A motor-car went past the window, ugly, great, lumbering thing, making all that racket. But there it was, a country rattling to the dogs. People in such a hurry that they couldn't even care for style. A neat turnout like his Baruch and Bayes was worth all these newfangled things, and consoles at 116. There must be a lot of money in the country. And now there was this old Kruger. They had tried to keep old Kruger from him, but he knew better. There would be a pretty kettle of fish out there. He had known how it would be when that fellow Gladstone, dead now, thank God, made such a mess of it after that dreadful business at Majuba. He should wonder if the Empire split up and went to Pot. But this vision of the Empire going to Pot filled a full quarter of an hour with qualms for the most serious character. He had eaten a poor lunch because of them. But it was after lunch that the real disaster to his nerves occurred. He had been dozing when he became aware of voices, low voices. Nah, they never told him anything. Winifreds and her mothers. Monty, that fellow Darty, always that fellow Darty. The voices had receded, and James had been left alone with his ears standing up like a hares and fear creeping about his inwards. Why did they leave him alone? Why didn't they come and tell him? And an awful thought, which through long years had haunted him, concreted again swiftly in his brain. Darty had gone bankrupt, fraudulently bankrupt, and to save Winifred and the children, he, James, would have to pay. Could he—could Soames turn him into a limited company? No, he couldn't. There it was. With every minute before Emily came back, the spectre fearsened. Why, it might be forgery. With eyes fixed on the doubted Turner, in the centre of the wall James suffered tortures. He saw Darty in the dock, his grandchildren in the gutter, and himself in bed. He saw the doubted Turner being sold at Jobsons, and all the majestic edifice of property in rags. He saw in Fancy Winifred, unfashionably dressed, and heard in Fancy Emily's voice, saying, Now, don't fuss, James. She was always saying, Don't fuss. She had no nerves. He ought never to have married a woman eighteen years younger than himself. Then Emily's real voice said, Have you had a nice nap, James? Nap? He was in torment, and she asked him that. What's this about Darty? He said, and his eyes glared at her. Emily's self-possession never deserted her. What have you been hearing? She asked blandly. What's this about Darty? repeated James. He's gold bankrupt. Fiddle. James made a great effort, and rose to the full height of his stork-like figure. You'll never tell me anything, he said. He's gone bankrupt. The destruction of that fixed idea seemed to Emily all that mattered at the moment. He has not, she answered firmly, he's gone to Buenos Aires. If she had said he's gone to Mars, she could not have dealt James a more stunning blow. His imagination, invested entirely in British securities, could as little grasp one place as the other. What's he gone there for? He said. He's got no money. What did he take? Agitated within by Winifred's news, and goaded by the constant reiteration of this Jeremiah, Emily said calmly, He took Winifred's pearls and a dancer. What! said James, and sat down. His sudden collapse alarmed her, and smoothing his forehead, she said, Now, don't fuss, James. A dusky red had spread over James' cheeks and forehead. I paid for them. He said, tremblingly, He's a thief. I knew how it would be. He'll be the death of me. Words failed him, and he sat quite still. Emily, who thought she knew him so well, was alarmed, and went towards the sideboard where she kept some salavolatil. She could not see the tenacious foresight-spirit working in that thin, tremulous shape against the extravagance of the emotion called up by this outrage on foresight-principles. The foresight-spirit deepened there, saying, You mustn't get into a fantod it never do, you won't digest your lunch, you'll have a fit. All unseen by her, it was doing better work in James than salavolatil. A drink this, she said. James waved it aside. What was Winifred about, he said, To let him take her pearls. Emily perceived the crisis past. She can have mine, she said comfortably. I never wear them. She'd better get a divorce. There you go, said James. Divorce? We've never had a divorce in the family. Where's Somes? He'll be in directly. No, he won't, said James almost fiercely. He's at the funeral. You think I know nothing? Well, said Emily with calm, you shouldn't get into such fusses when we tell you things, and plumping up his cushions, and putting the salavolatil beside him. She left the room. But James sat there, seeing visions, of Winifred in the divorce court, and the family name in the papers, of the earth falling on Roger's coffin, of Val taking after his father, of the pearls he had paid for and would never see again, of money back at four percent, and the country going to the dogs. And as the afternoon wore into evening, and tea time passed, and dinner time, those visions became more and more mixed and menacing, of being told nothing, till he had nothing left of all his wealth, and they told him nothing of it. Where was Somes? Why didn't he come in? His hand grasped the glass of Negus. He raised it to drink, and saw his son standing there, looking at him. A little sigh of relief escaped his lips, and putting the glass down, he said, There you are! Daught he's gone to Buenos Aires! Somes nodded. That's all right, he said. Good riddance! A wave of assuagement passed over James's brain. Somes knew. Somes was the only one of them all who had sense. Why couldn't he come and live at home? He had no son of his own. And he said plaintively, By age I get nervous, I wish you were more at home, my boy. Again Somes nodded. The mask of his countenance betrayed no understanding. But he went closer, and as if by accident touched his father's shoulder. They sent their love to you at Timothy's. He said, It went off all right, I've been to see Winifred, I'm going to take steps. And he thought, Yes, and you mustn't hear of them. James looked up. His long white whiskers quivered. His thin throat, between the points of his collar, looked very grisly and naked. I've been very poorly all day, he said. They never tell me anything. Somes' heart twitched. Well, it's all right, there's nothing to worry about. Will you come up now? And he put his hand under his father's arm. James obediently and tremulously raised himself, and together they went slowly across the room, which had a rich look in the fire-light, and out to the stairs. Very slowly they ascended. Good night, my boy! said James at his bedroom door. Good night, father! answered Somes. His hands stroked down the sleeve beneath the shawl. It seemed to have almost nothing in it, so thin was the arm. And turning away from the light in the opening doorway, he went up the extra flight to his own bedroom. I want a son! he thought, sitting on the edge of his bed. I want a son! End of Part 1, Chapter 5. Part 1, Chapter 6 of Enchancery. 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 Leanne Howlett. The foresight saga 2, Enchancery, by John Galsworthy. Part 1, Chapter 6. No Longer Young Jolien at Home. Trees take little account of time, and the old oak on the upper lawn at Robin Hill looked no day older than when Besenny sprawled under it and said to Somes, foresight, I found the very place for your house. Since then, swithing had dreamed, and old Jolien died beneath its branches. And now, close to the swing, no longer young Jolien often painted there. Of all spots in the world, it was perhaps the most sacred to him, for he had loved his father. Contemplating its great girth, crinkled in a little most, but not yet hollow, he would speculate on the passage of time. That tree had seen perhaps all real English history. It dated, he shouldn't wonder, from the days of Elizabeth at least. His own fifty years were as nothing to its wood. And the house behind it, which he now owned, was three hundred years of age instead of twelve. That tree might still be standing there, vast and hollow, for who would commit such sacrilege as to cut it down? A foresight might perhaps still be living in that house, to guard it jealously. And Jolien would wonder what the house would look like coated with such age. Wastaria was already about its walls, the new look had gone. Would it hold its own and keep the dignity Besenny had bestowed on it, or would the giant London have lapped it round and made it into an asylum in the midst of a gerry-built wilderness? Often within and without of it he was persuaded that Besenny had been moved by the spirit when he built. He had put his heart into that house indeed. It might even become one of the homes of England, a rare achievement for a house in these degenerate days of building. And the ascetic spirit, moving hand in hand with his foresight sense of possessive continuity, dwelt with pride and pleasure on his ownership thereof. There was a smack of reverence and ancestor worship, if only for one ancestor, in his desire to hand this house down to his son and his son's son. His father had loved the house, had loved the view, the grounds, that tree. His last years had been happy there, and no one had lived there before him. These last eleven years at Robin Hill had formed in Jolien's life as a painter the important period of success. He was now in the very van of watercolor art, hanging on the line everywhere. His drawing sketched high prices, specializing in that one medium with the tenacity of his breed he had arrived, rather late, but not too late for a member of the family which made a point of living forever. His art had really deepened and improved. In conformity with his position he had grown a short fair beard which was just beginning to grizzle and hid his foresight chin. His brown face had lost the warped expression of his ostracized period. He looked, if anything, younger. The loss of his wife in 1894 had been one of those domestic tragedies which turned out in the end for the good of all. He had indeed loved her to the last, for his was an affectionate spirit, but she had become increasingly difficult. Jealous of her stepdaughter, June, jealous even of her own little daughter Holly, and making ceaseless plaint that he could not love her, ill as she was, and useless to everyone and better dead. He had mourned her sincerely, but his face had looked younger since she died. If she could only have believed that she made him happy, how much happier would the twenty years of their companionship have been? June had never really got on well with her who had reprehensibly taken her own mother's place, and ever since old Jolian died she had been established in a sort of studio in London. But she had come back to Robin Hill on her stepmother's death and gathered the reins there unto her small, decided hands. Jolly was then at Harrow, Holly still learning from Mademoiselle Bolse. There had been nothing to keep Jolian at home, and he had removed his grief in his paint box abroad. There he had wandered for the most part in Brittany, and at last had fetched up in Paris. He had stayed there several months and come back with a younger face and the short, fair beard. Essentially a man who merely lodged in any house, it had suited him perfectly that June should reign at Robin Hill, so that he was free to go off with his easel where and when he liked. She was inclined, it is true, to regard the house rather as an asylum for her protégés, but his own outcast days had filled Jolian forever with sympathy towards an outcast, and June's lame ducks about the place did not annoy him. By all means let her have them down and feed them up. And though his slightly cynical humor perceived that they ministered to his daughter's love of domination, as well as moved her warm heart, he never ceased to admire her for having so many ducks. He fell indeed year by year into a more and more detached and brotherly attitude towards his own son and daughters, treating them with a sort of whimsical equality. When he went down to Harrow to see Jolly, he never quite knew which of them was the elder, and would sit eating cherries with him out of one paper bag, with an affectionate and ironical smile twisting up an eyebrow and curling his lips a little. And he was always careful to have money in his pocket and to be modest in his dress so that his son need not blush for him. They were perfect friends, but never seemed to have occasion for verbal confidences, both having the competitive self-consciousness of foresight. They knew they would stand by each other in scrapes, but there was no need to talk about it. Jolian had a striking horror, partly original sin, but partly the result of his early immorality of the moral attitude. The most he could ever have said to his son would have been, look here, old man, don't forget you're a gentleman, and then have wondered whimsically whether that was not a snobbish sentiment. The great cricket match was perhaps the most searching and awkward time they annually went through together for Jolian had been at Eaton. They would be particularly careful during that match continually saying, hooray, oh, hard luck, old man, or hooray, oh, bad luck, dad, to each other, when some disaster at which their hearts bounded happened to the opposing school. And Jolian would wear a gray top hat instead of his usual soft one to save his son's feelings for a black top hat he could not stomach. When Jolly went up to Oxford, Jolian went with him, amused, humble, and a little anxious not to discredit his boy amongst all these youths who seemed so much more assured and old than himself. He often thought, glad I'm a painter, for he had long dropped underwriting at Lloyd's. It's so innocuous. You can't look down on a painter. You can't take him seriously enough. For Jolly, who had a sort of natural lordliness, had passed at once into a very small set who secretly amused his father. The boy had fair hair, which curled a little, and his grandfather's deep set iron gray eyes. He was well built and very upright and always pleased Jolian's aesthetic sense so that he was a tiny bit afraid of him as artists ever are of those of their own sex whom they admire physically. On that occasion, however, he actually did screw up his courage to give his son advice, and this was it. Look here, old man, you're bound to get into debt. Mind you come to me at once. Of course I'll always pay them, but you might remember that one respects oneself more afterwards if one pays one's own way, and don't ever borrow, except for me, will you? And Jolly had said, all right, dad, I won't. And he never had. And there's just one other thing. I don't know much about morality in that, but there is this. It's always worthwhile before you do anything to consider whether it's going to hurt another person more than is absolutely necessary. Jolly had looked thoughtful and nodded, and presently had squeezed his father's hand. And Jolian had thought, I wonder if I had the right to say that. He always had a sort of dread of losing the dumb confidence they had in each other, remembering how for long years he had lost his own fathers, so that there had been nothing between them but love at a great distance. He underestimated, no doubt, the change in the spirit of the age since he himself went up to Cambridge in 65. And perhaps he underestimated, too, his boy's power of understanding that he was tolerant to the very bone. It was that tolerance of his, and possibly his skepticism, which ever made his relations towards June so clearly defensive. She was such a decided mortal, knew her own mind so terribly well, wanted things so inexorably until she got them, and then indeed often dropped them like a hot potato. Her mother had been like that, whence had come all those tears. Not that his incompatibility with his daughter was anything like what it had been with the first Mrs. Young Jolian. One could be amused where a daughter was concerned, and a wife's case one could not be amused. To see June set her heart and jaw on a thing until she got it was all right, because it was never anything which interfered fundamentally with Jolian's liberty. The one thing on which his jaw was absolutely rigid, a considerable jaw under that short, grizzling beard. Nor was there ever any necessity for real heart-to-heart encounters. One could break away into irony, as indeed he often had to. But the real trouble with June was that she had never appealed to his aesthetic sense, though she might well have with her red gold hair and her Viking colored eyes, and that touch of the berserker in her spirit. It was very different with Holly, soft and quiet, shy and affectionate, with a playful impf in her somewhere. He watched this younger daughter of his to the duckling stage with extraordinary interest. Would she come out a swan? With her sallow oval face and her gray, wistful eyes and those long dark lashes, she might or she might not. Only this last year had he been able to guess. Yes, she would be a swan, rather a dark one, always a shy one, but an authentic swan. She was 18 now and Mademoiselle Beaus was gone. The excellent lady had removed after 11 years, haunted by her continuous reminiscences of the well-bred little tailors to another family whose bosom would now be agitated by her reminiscences of the well-bred little foresight. She had taught Holly to speak French like herself. Portraiture was not Jolien's forte, but he had already drawn his younger daughter three times and was drawing her a fourth on the afternoon of October 4th, 1899, when a card was brought to him which caused his eyebrows to go up. Mr. Song's foresight, the shelter, connoisseur's club, Maple Durham, St. James's. But here the foresight saga must digress again. To return from a long travel in Spain to a darkened house to a little daughter bewildered with tears to the sight of a loved father lying peaceful in his last sleep, had never been, was never likely to be forgotten by so impressionable and warm-hearted a man as Jolien. A sense as of mystery too clung to that sad day and about the end of one whose life had been so well ordered, balanced, and above board. It seemed incredible that his father could thus have vanished without, as it were, announcing his intention, without last words to his son and do farewells. And those incoherent allusions of little Holly to the lady in gray of Madame Iselle Beaus to a Madame Errant, as it sounded, involved all things in a mist, lifted a little when he read his father's will and the codicelle there too. It had been his duty as executor of that will and codicelle to inform Irene, wife of his cousin, Sums, of her life interest in 15,000 pounds. He had called on her to explain that the existing investment in India's stock, earmarked to meet the charge, would produce for her the interesting net sum of 430 pounds odd a year, clear of income tax. This was but the third time he had seen his cousin, Sums, his wife, if indeed she was still his wife, of which he was not quite sure. He remembered having seen her sitting in the botanical gardens waiting for Besenny, a passive, fascinating figure, reminding him of Titian's heavenly love and again, when charged by his father, he had gone to Montpellier Square on the afternoon when Besenny's death was known. He still recalled vividly her sudden appearance in the drawing room doorway on that occasion. Her beautiful face, passing from wild eagerness of hope to stony despair, remembered the compassion he had felt. Sums' snarling smile, his words, we are not at home, and the slam of the front door. This third time he saw a face in form more beautiful, freed from that warp of wild hope and despair. Looking at her, he thought, yes, you are just what the dad would have admired. And the strange story of his father's Indian summer became solely clear to him. She spoke of old Jolian with reverence and tears in her eyes. He was so wonderfully kind to me. I don't know why. He looked so beautiful and peaceful sitting in that chair under the tree. It was I who first came on him sitting there, you know. Such a lovely day. I don't think an end could have been happier. We should all like to go out like that. Quite right, he had thought. We should all alike to go out in full summer with beauty stepping towards us across a lawn. And looking around the little, almost empty drawing room, he had asked her what she was going to do now. I'm going to live again a little cousin Jolian. It's wonderful to have money of one's own. I've never had any. I shall keep this flat, I think. I'm used to it, but I shall be able to go to Italy. Exactly, Jolian had murmured, looking at her faintly smiling lips, and he had gone away thinking, a fascinating woman, what a waste. I'm glad the dad left her that money. He had not seen her again, but every quarter he had signed her check forwarding it to her bank with a note to the Chelsea flat to say that he had done so. And always he had received a note and acknowledgement generally from the flat, but sometimes from Italy. So that her personality had become embodied in slightly scented gray paper and upright fine handwriting, and the words, dear cousin Jolian. Man of property that he now was, the cylinder check he signed often gave rise to the thought, well, I suppose she just manages. Sliding into a vague wonder how she was fearing otherwise in a world of men not want to let beauty go unpossessed. At first, Holly had spoken over sometimes, but ladies in gray soon fade from children's memories, and the tightening of June's lips in those first weeks after her grandfather's death whenever her former friend's name was mentioned had discouraged illusion. Only once, indeed, had June spoken definitely. I've forgiven her. I'm frightfully glad she's independent now. On receiving Somes' card, Jolian said to the maid for he could not abide butlers. Show him into the study, please, and say I'll be there in a minute. And then he looked at Holly and asked, do you remember the lady in gray who used to give you music lessons? Oh yes, why, has she come? Jolian shook his head and changing his holland blouse for a coat was silent, perceiving suddenly that such history was not for those young ears. His face, in fact, became whimsical, perplexity incarnate while he journeyed towards the study. Standing by the French window, looking out across the terrace at the oak tree were two figures, middle-aged and young, and he thought, who's that boy? Surely they never had a child. The elder figure turned. The meeting of those two foresights of the second generation so much more sophisticated than the first, and the house built for the one and owned and occupied by the other was marked by subtle defensiveness beneath distinct attempted cordiality. Has he come about his wife? Jolian was thinking and soams, how shall I begin? While Val, brought to break the ice, stood negligently scrutinizing this bearded part from under his thick, dark eyelashes. This is Val Darty, said soams, my sister's son. He's just going up to Oxford. I thought I'd like him to know your boy. Oh, I'm sorry, Jolly's away. What college? B and C replied Val. Jolly's at the house, but he'll be delighted to look you up. Thanks, Offly. Holly's in. If you could put up with the female relation, she'd show you around. You'll find her in the hall if you go through the curtains. I was just painting her. With another, thanks, Offly, Val vanished, leaving the two cousins with the ice unbroken. I see you've some drawings with the watercolors, said soams. Jolly and winced. He had been out of touch with the Forsyte family at large for 26 years, but they were connected in his mind with Frist Derby Day and Landseer Prince. He had heard from June that soams was a connoisseur, which made it worse. He had become aware, too, of a curious sensation of repugnance. I haven't seen you for a long time, he said. No, answered soams, between close lips. Not since. As a matter of fact, it's about that I've come. You're her trustee, I'm told. Jolly and nodded. 12 years is a long time, said soams rapidly. I'm tired of it. Jolly and found no more appropriate answer then. Won't you smoke? No thanks. Jolly and himself lit a cigarette. I wish to be free, said soams abruptly. I don't see her, murmured Jolly and through the fume of a cigarette. But you know where she lives, I suppose. Jolly and nodded. He did not mean to give her a dress without permission. Soams seemed to divine his thought. I don't want her address, he said. I know it. What exactly do you want? She deserted me. I want a divorce. Rather late in the day, isn't it? Yes, said soams, and there was a silence. I don't know much about these things. At least I've forgotten, said Jolly and with a wry smile. He himself had had to wait for death to grant him a divorce from the first Mrs. Jolly. Do you wish me to see her about it? Soams raised his eyes to his cousin's face. I suppose there's someone, he said. A shrug moved Jolly and's shoulders. I don't know at all. I imagine you may have both lived as if the other were dead. It's usual in these cases. Soams turned to the window. A few early fallen oak leaves strewed the terrace already and were rolling round in the wind. Jolly and saw the figures of Holly and Val Dardi moving across the lawn towards the stables. I'm not going to run with the hair and hunt with the hounds, he thought. I must act for her. The dad would have wished that. And for a swift moment, he seemed to see his father's figure in the old armchair, just beyond Soams, sitting with knees crossed, the times in his hand. It vanished. My father was fond of her, he said quietly. Why he should have been, I don't know, Soams answered without looking round. She brought trouble to your daughter June. She brought trouble to everyone. I gave her all she wanted. I would have given her even forgiveness, but she chose to leave me. In Jolly, in compassion was checked by the tone of that close voice. What was there in the fellow that made it so difficult to be sorry for him? I can go and see her if you like, he said. I suppose she might be glad of a divorce, but I know nothing. Soams nodded. Yes, please go. As I say, I know her address, but I have no wish to see her. His tongue was busy with his lips as if they were very dry. You'll have some tea, said Jolly, and stifling the words and see the house. And he led the way into the hall. When he had rung the bell and ordered tea, he went to his easel to turn his drawing to the wall. He could not bear somehow that his work should be seen by Soams, who was standing there in the middle of the great room, which had been designed expressly to afford wall space for his own pictures. In his cousin's face, with its unceasable family likeness to himself and its chinny, narrow, concentrated look, Jolly and Saul, that which moved him to the thought, that chap could never forget anything, nor ever give himself away. He's pathetic. End of part one, chapter six, recording by Leanne Howlett. Part one, chapter seven of Inchansery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For further information or to volunteer, please go to LibriVox.org, recording by Eva Harnick. The foresight saga, volume two, Inchansery by John Galswersy. Part one, chapter seven, The Cold and the Philly. When young Waal left the presence of the last generation he was thinking, this is Jolly Dahl. Uncle Sooms does take the bun. I wonder what this Philly's like. He anticipated no pleasure from her society and suddenly he saw her standing there looking at him. Why? She was pretty. What luck. I'm afraid you don't know me, he said. My name is Waal Dati. I am once removed, second cousin, something like that, you know. My mother's name was Forsyte. Holly, whose slim brown hand remained in his because she was too shy to withdraw it, said, I don't know any of my relations. Are there many? Tons, they are awful, most of them. At least I don't know some of them. Once relations always are, aren't they? I expect they sink one awful, too, said Holly. I don't know why they should. No one could sink you awful, of course. Holly looked at him. The wistful candor in those gray eyes gave young Waal a sudden feeling that he must protect her. I mean there are people and people, he added astutely. Your dad looks awfully decent, for instance. Oh yes, said Holly fervently, he is. A flesh-mounted in Waal's cheeks, that seen in the pandemonium promenade, the dark man with the pink carnation developing into his own father. But you know what the foresights are, he said almost viciously, oh, I forgot you don't. What are they? Oh, fearfully careful, not sportsmen a bit. Look at Uncle Sones. I would like to, said Holly. Waal resisted the desire to run his arms through us. Oh no, he said, let's go out. You'll see him quite soon enough. What is your brother like? Holly led the way onto the terrace and down to the lawn without answering. How describe Jolly, who ever since she remembered anything had been her lord, master and ideal. Does he sit on you, said Waal shrewdly. I shall be knowing him at Oxford. Have you got any horses? Holly nodded, would you like to see the stables? Rather. They passed under the oak tree through a thin shrubbery into the stable yard. There under a clock tower lay a fluffy brown and white dog so old that he did not get up but faintly waved the tail curled over his back. That is Baltazar, said Holly. He's so old, awfully old, nearly as old as I am. Poor old boy, he's devoted to dad. Baltazar, that's a rum name. He isn't pure bread, you know. No, but he's a darling and she went down to stroke the dog. Gentle and supple, with dark-covered head and slim brown neck and hands, she seemed to Waal strange and sweet like a thing slipped between him and all previous knowledge. When grandfather died, she said, he would not eat for two days. He saw him die, you know. Was that old Uncle Jolian? Mother always said he was at Toppa. He was, said Holly, simply, and opened the stable door. In a loose box to the silver ron of about 15 hands with a long black tail and mane, this is mine, fairy. Ah, said Waal, she is a jolly palphery, but you ought to bank her tail. She would look much smarter. Then, catching her wandering look, he saw suddenly, I don't know anything she likes. And he took a long sniff of the stable air. Horses are ripping, aren't they? My dad, he stopped. Yes, said Holly. An impulse to unbosom himself almost overcame him, but not quite. Oh. I don't know, he has often gone a muckered over them. I am jolly keen on them too, riding and hunting. I ride racing awfully, as well. I should like to be a gentleman rider. And oblivious of the fact that he had bought one more day in town with two engagements, he plumped out. I say, if I hire a G tomorrow, will you come a ride in Richmond Park? Holly clasped her hands. Oh, yes, I simply love riding, but there is jolly's horse. Why don't you ride him? Here he is, we could go after tea. Waal looked doubtfully at his trousered legs. He had imagined them immaculate before her eyes in high-brown boots and wet-foot cords. I don't much like riding his horse, he said. He might not like it. Besides, Uncle Somes wants to get back, I expect. Not that I believe in buckling under to him, you know. You haven't got an uncle, have you? This is rather a good beast, he added, scrutinizing jolly's horse a dark brown, which was showing the whites of its eyes. You haven't got any hunting here, I suppose. No, I don't know that I want to hunt. It must be awfully exciting, of course, but it is cruel, isn't it? June says so. Cruel? Ejaculated Waal? Oh, that's all rot. Who is June? My sister, my half-sister, you know, is much older than me. She had put her hands up to both cheeks of jolly's horse and was rubbing her nose against its nose with a gentle snuffling noise, which seemed to have a hypnotic effect on the animal, while contemplated her cheek resting against the horse's nose and her eyes gleaming round at him. She's really a duck, he thought. Did he turn to the house less talkative, followed this time by the dog Baltazar, walking more slowly than anything on earth and clearly expecting them not to exceed his speed limit? This is a ripping place, said Waal, from under the oak tree where they had paused to allow the dog Baltazar to come up. Yes, said holly, and sighed, Of course I want to go everywhere. I wish I were a gypsy. Yes, gypsies are jolly, replied Waal, with a conviction which had just come to him. You are rather like one, you know. Holly's face shone suddenly and deeply like dark leaves gilded by the sun. To go mad-rebiting everywhere and see everything and live in the open. Oh, wouldn't it be fun? Let's do it, said Waal. Oh, yes, let's. It would be grand sport, just you and I. Then holly perceived the quaintness and gushed. Well, we have got to do it, said Waal obstinately, but reddening too. I believe in doing things you want to do. What's down there? The kitchen garden and the pond and the copies and the farm. Let's go down. Holly glanced back at the house. It is tea time I expect. There is dead beckoning. Waal uttering a growly sound followed her towards the house. When they re-entered the whole gallery, the sight of two middle-aged foresights, drinking tea together, had its magical effect and they became quite silent. It was indeed an impressive spectacle. The two were seated side by side on an arrangement in marketry, which looked like three silvery pink chairs made one with a low tea table in front of them. They seemed to have taken up that position as far apart as the seat would permit so that they need not look at each other too much and they were eating and drinking rather than talking. Soams, with his air of despising the tea-cake as it disappeared, jollion of finding himself slightly amusing. To the casual eye, neither would have seemed greedy. But both were getting through a good deal of sustenance. The two young ones having been supplied with food, the process went on silent and absorbative, till with the advent of cigarettes, jollion set to soams. And how's Uncle James? Thanks, very shaky. We are a wonderful family, aren't we? The other day I was calculating the average age of the 10 old foresight from my father's family Bible. I make it 84 already and five still living. They ought to beat the record and looking whimsically at Soams he added, we aren't the men they were, you know? Soams smiled. Do you really think I shall admit that I am not their equal, he seemed to be saying, or that I have got to give up anything, especially life? We may live to their age, perhaps, but so jollion. But self-consciousness is a handicap, you know, and that is the difference between us. We have lost conviction. How and when self-consciousness was born, I never can make out. My father had a little, but I don't believe any other of the old foresight's ever had a scrap. Never to see yourself as others see you, it is a wonderful preservative. The whole history of the last century is in the difference between us. And between us and you, he added gazing through a ring of smoke at Val and Holly, uncomfortable under his quizzical regard. There will be another difference. I wonder what. Soams took out his watch. We must go, he said, if we are to catch our train. Uncle Soams never misses a train, muttered Val, with his mouth full. Why should I, Soams answered simply. Oh, I don't know, grumbled Val. Other people do. At the front door, he gave Holly's slim brown hand a long and surreptuous squeeze. Look out for me, tomorrow, he whispered. Three o'clock, I will wait for you in the road. It will save time. We'll have a ripping ride. He gazed back at her from the lodge gate, and but for the principles of a man about town would have waved his hand. He felt in no mood to tolerate his uncle's conversation, but he was not in danger. Soams preserved a perfect muteness, busy with faraway salts. The yellow leaves came down about those two walking the mile and a half, which Soams had traversed so often in those long ago days, when he came down to watch with secret pride the building of the house, that house which was to have been the home of him and her, from whom he was now going to seek release. He looked back once up that endless vista of autumn lane between the yellowing hedges. What an age ago. I don't want to see her, he had said to Jolian. Was that true? I may have to, he sought. And his shivered ceased by one of those queer shudderings that they say mean footsteps on one's grave. A chilly world, a queer world, and glancing side long at his nephew he sought, wish I were his age. I wonder what she's like now. End of part one, chapter seven, The Colt and the Philly. Part one, chapter eight of Enchancery. 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 Leanne Howlett. The foresight saga two, Enchancery by John Gallsworthy. Part one, chapter eight, Jolian prosecutes trusteeship. When those two were gone, Jolian did not return to his painting. For daylight was failing, but went to the study, craving unconsciously a revival of that momentary vision of his father sitting in the old leather chair with his knees crossed and his straight eyes gazing up from under the dome of his massive brow. Often in this little room, coziest in the house, Jolian would catch a moment of communion with his father. Not indeed that he had definitely any faith in the persistence of the human spirit, the feeling was not so logical. It was rather an atmospheric impact like a scent or one of those strong animistic impressions from forms or effects of light to which those with the artist's eye are especially prone. Here only in this little unchanged room where his father had spent the most of his waking hours could be retrieved the feeling that he was not quite gone, that the study council of that old spirit and the warmth of his masterful lovability endured. What would his father be advising now in the sudden recrudescence of an old tragedy? What would he say to this menace against her to whom he had taken such a fancy in the last weeks of his life? I must do my best for her, thought Jolian. He left her to me in his will, but what is the best? And as if seeking to regain the sapience, the balance and true common sense of that old foresight, he sat down in the ancient chair and crossed his knees, but he felt a mere shadow sitting there, nor did any inspiration come while the fingers of the wind tapped on the darkening panes of the French window. Go and see her, he thought, or ask her to come down here. What's her life been? What is it now, I wonder? Beastly to rake up things at this time of day. Again the figure of his cousin standing with a hand on a front door of a fine olive green leaped out, vivid like one of those figures from old fashioned clocks when the hour strikes, and his words sounded in Jolian's ears clearer than any chime. I manage my own affairs. I've told you once, I'll tell you again, we are not at home. The repugnance he had then felt for some's for his flat cheeked, shaven face full of spiritual bulldogginess, for his spare, square, sleek figure slightly crouched as it were over the bone he could not digest, came now again, fresh as ever, nay with an odd increase. I dislike him, he thought. I dislike him to the very roots of me, and that's lucky. It'll make it easier for me to back his wife. Half artist and half foresight, Jolian was constitutionally averse on what he charmed ructions. Unless angered, he conformed deeply to that classic description of the she-dog. He'd rather run than fight. A little smile became settled in his beard, ironical that some should come down here to this house built for himself. How he had gazed and gaped at this ruin of his past intention, furtively nosing at the walls and stairway appraising everything. And intuitively Jolian thought, I believe the fellow even now would like to be living here. He could never leave off longing for what he once owned, while I must act somehow or other, but it's a bore, a great bore. Late that evening he wrote to the Chelsea flat asking if Irene would see him. The old century which had seen the plant of individualism flower so wonderfully was setting in a sky orange with coming storms. Rumors of war added to the bristness of a London turbulent at the close of the summer holidays. And the street to Jolian, who was not often up in town, had a feverish look due to these new motor cars and cabs of which he disapproved aesthetically. He counted these vehicles from his handsome and made the proportion of them one in 20. There were one in 30 about a year ago he thought, they've come to stay, just so much more rattling round of wheels and general stink. For he was one of those rather rare liberals who object to anything new when it takes a material form, he instructed his driver to get down to the river quickly out of the traffic, desiring to look at the water through the mellowing screen of plain trees. At the little block of flats which stood back some 50 yards from the embankment, he told the cabman to wait and went up to the first floor. Yes, Mrs. Heron was at home. The effect of a settled, a very modest income was at once apparent to him remembering the threadbare refinement and that tiny flat eight years ago when he announced her good fortune. Everything was now fresh, dainty and smelled of flowers. The general effect was silvery with touches of black, hydrangea color and gold. A woman of great taste, he thought. Time had dealt gently with Dolian for he was a foresight but with Irene, time hardly seemed to deal at all or such was his impression. She appeared to him not a day older standing there in mole colored velvet corduroy with soft, dark eyes and dark gold hair without stretched hands and a little smile. Won't you sit down? He had probably never occupied a chair with a fuller sense of embarrassment. You look absolutely unchanged, he said. And you look younger, cousin Jolian. Jolian ran his hands through his hair whose thickness was still a comfort to him. I'm ancient but I don't feel it. That's one thing about painting, it keeps you young. Tishan lived in 99 and had to have plague to kill him off. Do you know the first time I ever saw you I thought of a picture by him? When did you see me for the first time? In the botanical gardens. How did you know me if you'd never see me before? By someone who came up to you. He was looking at her heartily but her face did not change and she said quietly. Yes, many lives ago. What is your recipe for youth, Irene? People who don't live are wonderfully preserved. Hmm, a bitter little saying. People who don't live but in opening and he took it. You remember my cousin, Somes? He saw her smile faintly at that whimsicality and it once went on. He came to see me the day before yesterday. He wants a divorce, do you? I, the word seems startled out of her. After 12 years, it's rather late. Won't it be difficult? Jolien looked hard into her face, unless he said, unless I have a lover now, but I have never had one since. What did he feel at the simplicity and candor of those words, relief, surprise, pity, Venus for 12 years without a lover? And yet he said, I suppose you would give a good deal to be free too. I don't know, what does it matter now? But if you were to love again, I should love. And that simple answer, she seemed to sum up the whole philosophy of one on whom the world had turned its back. Well, is there anything you would like me to say to him? Only that I'm sorry he's not free. He had his chance once. I don't know why he didn't take it. Because he was a foresight. We never part with things, you know, unless we want something in their place, and not always then. Irene smiled. Don't you, cousin Jolien? I think you do. Of course, I'm a bit of a mongrel, not quite a pure foresight. I never take the half pennies off my checks. I put them on, said Jolien uneasily. Well, what does Somes want in place of me now? I don't know, perhaps children. She was silent for a little looking down. Yes, she murmured, it's hard. I would help him to be free if I could. Jolien gazed into his hat. His embarrassment was increasing fast. So was his admiration, his wonder, and his pity. She was so lovely and so lonely, and altogether it was such a coil. Well, he said, I shall have to see Somes. If there's anything I can do for you, I'm always at your service. You must think of me as a wretched substitute for my father. At all events, I'll let you know what happens when I speak to Somes. He may supply the material himself. She shook her head. You see, he has a lot to lose, and I have nothing. I should like him to be free, but I don't see what I can do. Nor I, at the moment, said Jolien, and soon after took his leave. He went down to his handsome. Half past three, Somes would be at his office still. To the poultry, he called through the trap. In front of the houses of parliament and in Whitehall, news vendors were calling. Grave situation in the trans ball, but the cries hardly roused him, absorbed in recollection of that very beautiful figure of her soft, dark glance and the words, I have never had one since. What on earth did such a woman do with her life backwatered like this? Solitary, unprotected, with every man's hand against her, or rather, reaching out to grasper at the least sign, and year after year, she went on like that. The word poultry above the passing citizens brought him back to reality. Foresight bestarred in foresight and black letters on a ground the color of pea soup spurred him to a sort of vigor, and he went up the stone stairs muttering fusty, musty ownerships, well, we couldn't do without them. I want Mr. Somes foresight, he said to the boy who opened the door. What name? Mr. Jolien foresight. The youth looked at him curiously, never having seen a foresight with a beard and vanished. The offices of foresight bestarred in foresight had solely absorbed the offices of tooting and bowls and occupied the whole of the first floor. The firm consisted now of nothing but Somes and a number of managing and article clerks. The complete retirement of James some six years ago had accelerated business to which the final touch of speed had been imparted when bestarred dropped off, worn out as many believe by the suit of friar versus foresight, more in chancery than ever and less likely to benefit its beneficiaries. Somes with his saner grasp of actualities had never permitted it to worry him. On the contrary, he had long perceived that Providence had presented him therein with 200 pounds a year net in perpetuity and why not? When Jolien entered, his cousin was drawing out a list of holdings and consoles which in view of the rumors of war, he was going to advise his companies to put on the market at once before other companies did the same. He looked around side long and said, "'How are you?' "'Just one minute, sit down, won't you?' "'And having entered three amounts "'and set a ruler to keep his place, "'he turned towards Jolien, "'biting the side of his flat forefinger. "'Yes,' he said. "'I have seen her,' Somes frowned. "'Well,' she has remained faithful to memory. "'Having said that, Jolien was ashamed. "'His cousin had flushed a dusky yellowish red. "'What had made him tease the poor brute? "'I was to tell you she is sorry you are not free. "'12 years is a long time. "'You know your law and what chance it gives you.' Somes uttered a curious little grunt "'and the two remained a full minute without speaking. "'Like wax,' thought Jolien, "'watching that close face "'where the flush was fast subsiding. "'He'll never give me a sign "'of what he's thinking we're going to do, "'like wax.' "'And he transferred his gaze "'to a plan of that flourishing town by street on sea, "'the future existence of which lay exposed on the wall "'to the possessive instincts of the firm's clients. "'The whimsical thought flashed through him. "'I wonder if I shall get a bill of costs for this. "'To attending Mr. Jolien Forsythe "'in the manner of my divorce "'to receiving his account of his visit to my wife "'and to advising him to go and see her again "'16 and eight pence.' "'Suddenly Somes said, "'I can't go on like this. "'I tell you, I can't go on like this.' "'His eyes were shifting from side to side "'like an animal when it looks for ways of escape. "'He really suffers, thought Jolien. "'I have no business to forget that "'just because I don't like him.' "'Surely,' he said gently, "'it lies with yourself. "'A man can always put these things through "'if he'll take it on himself.' "'Somes turned square to him with a sound "'which seemed to come from somewhere very deep. "'Why should I suffer more than I've suffered already? "'Why should I?' "'Jolien could only shrug his shoulders. "'His reason agreed, his instinct rebelled. "'He could not have said why.' "'Your father went on Somes, took an interest in her. "'Why, goodness knows, and I suppose you do too?' "'He gave Jolien a sharp look. "'It seems to me that one only has to do "'another person a wrong to get all the sympathy. "'I don't know in what way I was to blame. "'I've never known. "'I always treated her well. "'I gave her everything she could wish for. "'I wanted her.' "'Again, Jolien's reason nodded. "'Again, his instinct shook its head. "'What is it, he thought? "'There must be something wrong in me. "'Yet, if there is, I'd rather be wrong than right.' "'After all,' said Somes, "'with a sort of blum fierceness, she was my wife. "'In a flash, the thought went through his listener. "'There it is, ownership's. "'Well, we all own things, but human beings, pa.' "'You have to look at facts,' he said dryly, "'or rather the want of them.' Somes gave him another quick suspicious look. "'The want of them,' he said. "'Yes, but I'm not so sure.' "'I beg your pardon,' replied Jolien. "'I've told you what she said. "'It was explicit.' "'My experience has not been one "'to promote blind confidence in her word. "'We shall see.' Jolien got up. "'Goodbye,' he said curtly. "'Goodbye,' returned Somes, "'and Jolien went out trying to understand the look, "'half startled, half menacing on his cousin's face. "'He sought waterlustation in a disturbed frame of mind "'as though the skin of his moral being had been scraped. "'And all the way down in the train, "'he thought of Irene in her lonely flat "'and of Somes and his lonely office "'and of the strange paralysis of life "'that lay on them both. "'Inchansory,' he thought, "'both their necks in chancery "'and hers so pretty.'" End of Part 1, Chapter 8, recording by Leanne Howlett. Part 1, Chapter 9 of Inchansory. 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 Leanne Howlett. The foresight saga 2, Inchansory, by John Galsworthy. Part 1, Chapter 9, Val hears the news. The keeping of engagements had not as yet been a conspicuous feature in the life of young Val Darty, so that when he broke two and kept one, it was the latter event which caused him, if anything, the greater surprise while jogging back to town from Robin Hill after his ride with Holly. She had been even prettier than he had thought her yesterday on her silver-roan, long-tailed palfrey, and it seemed to him, self-critical in the brumas-october gloming and the outskirts of London, that only his boots had shown throughout their two-hour companionship. He took out his new gold hunter, present from James, and looked not at the time, but at sections of his face in the glittering back of its opened case. He had a temporary spot over one eyebrow and it displeased him, for it must have displeased her. Crumb never had any spots. Together with Crumb rose a scene in the promenade of the pandemonium. Today he had not had the faintest desire to unbuzz him himself to Holly about his father. His father lacked poetry, the stirrings of which he was feeling for the first time in his 19 years. The liberty was Cynthia Dark that almost mythical embodiment of rapture. The pandemonium, with the woman of uncertain age, both seemed to vow completely off, fresh from communion with this new, shy, dark-haired young cousin of his. She rode jolly well too, so that it had been all the more flattering that she had led him lead her where he would in the long gallops of Richmond Park, though she knew them so much better than he did. Looking back on it all, he was mystified by the barrenness of his speech. He felt that he could say an awful lot of fetching things if he had but the chance again, and the thought that he must go back to Little Hampton on the morrow, and to Oxford on the twelfth, to that beastly exam too, without the faintest chance of first seeing her again caused darkness to settle on his spirit even more quickly than on the evening. He should write to her, however, and she had promised to answer. Perhaps too, she would come up to Oxford to see her brother. That thought was like the first star, which came out as he rode into Padwick's livery stables in the Perlews of Sloan Square. He got off and stretched himself luxuriously, for he had ridden some twenty-five good miles. The darty within him made him chaffer for five minutes with young Padwick concerning the favorite for the Cambridger. Then with the words, put the ghee down to my account, he walked away, a little wide at the knees and flipping his boots with his naughty little cane. I don't feel a bit inclined to go out, he thought. I wonder if mother will stand Fizz for my last night. With Fizz and recollection, he could well pass a domestic evening. When he came down, speckless after his bath, he found his mother scrupulous in a low evening dress and to his annoyance, his uncle Somes. They stopped talking when he came in, then his uncle said, he'd better be told. At those words, which meant something about his father, of course, Val's first thought was of Holly. Was it anything beastly? His mother began speaking. Your father, she said in her fashionably appointed voice, while her fingers plucked rather pitifully at sea green brocade. Your father, my dear boy has, is not at new market. He's on his way to South America, he's left us. Val looked from her to Somes, left them. Was he sorry? Was he fond of his father? It seemed to him that he did not know. Then suddenly, as at a whiff of gardenias and cigars, his heart twitched within him and he was sorry. One's father belonged to one, could not go off in this fashion. It was not done. Nor had he always been the bounder of the pandemonium promenade. There were precious memories of tailor's shops and horses, tips at school and general lavish kindness went in luck. But why, he said? Then, as a sportsman himself was sorry, he had asked. The mask of his mother's face was all disturbed and he burst out. All right, mother, don't tell me. Only what does it mean? A divorce, Val, I'm afraid. Val uttered a queer little grunt and looked quickly at his uncle, that uncle whom he had been taught to look on as a guarantee against the consequences of having a father, even against the darty blood in his own veins. The flat-checked visage seemed to wince and this upset him. It won't be public, will it? So vividly before him had come recollections of his own eyes glued to the unsavory details of many a divorce suit in the public press. Can't it be done quietly somehow? It's so disgusting for mother and everybody. Everything will be done as quietly as it can, you may be sure. Yes, but why is it necessary at all? Mother doesn't want to marry again. Himself, the girls, their name tarnished in the sight of his school fellows and of Crumb, of the men at Oxford, of Holly, unbearable. What was to be gained by it? Do you, mother, he said sharply. Thus brought face to face with so much of her own feeling by the one she loved best in the world, Winifred Rose from the empire chair in which she had been sitting. She saw that her son would be against her unless he was told everything and yet how could she tell him? Thus, still plucking at the green brocade, she stared at Psalms, Val too stared at Psalms. Surely this embodiment of respectability and the sense of property could not wish to bring such a slur on his own sister. Psalms slowly passed a little inlaid paper knife over the smooth surface of a marquetry table, then without looking at his nephew, he began. You don't understand what your mother has had to put up with these 20 years. This is only the last straw, Val. And glancing up sideways at Winifred, he added, shall I tell him? Winifred was silent. If he were not told, he would be against her. Yet how dreadful to be told such things of his own father. Clenching her lips, she nodded. Psalms spoke in a rapid, even voice. He has always been a burden around your mother's neck. She has paid his debts over and over again. He has often been drunk, abused, and threatened her and now he has gone to Buenos Aires with a dancer. And as if distrusting the efficacy of those words on the boy, he went on quickly. He took your mother's pearls to give to her. Val jerked up his hand then. At that signal of distress, Winifred cried out, that'll do, Psalms, stop. In the boy, the darty in the foresight were struggling. For debts, drink, dancers, he had a certain sympathy. But the pearls, no, that was too much. And suddenly he found his mother's hand squeezing his. You see, he heard Psalms say, we can't have it all begin over again. There's a limit, we must strike while the iron's hot. Val freed his hand. But you're never going to bring out that about the pearls. I couldn't stand that, I simply couldn't. Winifred cried out, no, no Val, oh no, that's only to show you how impossible your father is. And his uncle nodded. Somewhat assuaged, Val took out a cigarette. His father had bought him that thin curved case. Oh, it was unbearable, just as he was going up to Oxford. Can't mother be protected without, he said, I could look after her, it could always be done later if it was really necessary. A smile played for a moment round Psalms' lips and became bitter. You don't know what you're talking of, nothing so fatal as delay in such matters. Why? I tell you, boy, nothing so fatal, I know from experience. His voice had the ring of exasperation. Val, regarded him round-eyed, never having known his uncle express any sort of feeling. Oh, yes, he remembered now. There had been an anti-Renie and something had happened, something which people kept dark. He had heard his father once use an unmentionable word of her. I don't want to speak ill of your father, Psalms went on doggedly, but I know him well enough to be sure that he'll be back on your mother's hands before years over. You can imagine what that will mean to her and to all of you after this. The only thing is to cut the knot for good. In spite of himself, Val was impressed and happening to look at his mother's face, he got what was perhaps his first real insight into the fact that his own feelings were not always what mattered most. All right, mother, he said, we'll back you up. Only I'd like to know when it'll be. It's my first term, you know. I don't want to be up there when it comes off. Oh, my dear boy, murmured Winifred, it is a bore for you. So by habit, she phrased what from the expression of her face was the most poignant regret. When will it be, Psalms? Can't tell, not for months. We must get restitution. We must get restitution first. What the deuce is that, thought Val? What silly brute's lawyers are, not for months. I know one thing, I'm not going to dine in. And he said, awfully sorry, mother, I've got to go out to dinner now. Though it was his last night, Winifred nodded almost gratefully, they both felt that they had gone quite far enough in the expression of feeling. Val sought the misty freedom of Green Street, reckless and depressed. And not till he reached Piccadilly did he discover that he had only 18 pence. One couldn't dine off 18 pence and he was very hungry. He looked longingly at the windows of the Eceum Club where he had often eaten of the best with his father. Those pearls, there was no getting over them. But the more he brooded and the further he walked, the hungrier he naturally became. Short of trailing home, there were only two places where he could go. His grandfathers in Park Lane and Timothy's in the Bayswater Road, which was the less deplorable. At his grandfathers, he would probably get a better dinner on the spur of the moment. At Timothy's, they gave you a jolly good feed when they expected you, not otherwise. He decided on Park Lane, not unmoved by the thought that to go up to Oxford without affording his grandfather a chance to tip him was hardly fair to either of them. His mother would hear he had been there of course and might think it funny, but he couldn't help that. He rang the bell. Hello, Wormson, any dinner for me, do you think? They're just going in, Master Val. Mr. Forsyte will be very glad to see you. He was saying at lunch that he never saw you nowadays. Val grinned, well, here I am. Kill the fatted calf, Wormson, let's have fizz. Wormson smiled faintly. In his opinion, Val was a young limb. I will ask Mrs. Forsyte, Master Val. I say, Val grumbled, taking off his overcoat. I'm not at school anymore, you know. Wormson, not without a sense of humor, opened the door beyond the staghorn's coat stand with the words, Mr. Valorous, ma'am. Confound him, thought Val, entering. Oh, warm embrace, a well Val from Emily and a rather quavery, so there you are at last from James, restored his sense of dignity. Why didn't you let us know? There's only saddle of mutton. Champagne, Wormson, said Emily, and they went in. At the great dining table shortened to its utmost under which so many fashionable legs had rested, James sat at one end, Emily at the other, Val halfway between them, and something of the loneliness of his grandparents now that all their four children were flown reached the boy's spirit. I hope I shall kick the bucket long before I'm as old as grandfather, he thought. Poor old chap, he's as thin as a rail. And lowering his voice while his grandfather in Wormson were in discussion about sugar in the soup, he said to Emily, it's pretty brutal at home, Granny. I suppose you know. Yes, dear boy. Uncle Sums was there when I left. I say, isn't there anything to be done to prevent a divorce? Why is he so beastly keen on it? Hush, my dear, murmured Emily. We're keeping it from your grandfather. James's voice sounded from the other end. What's that, what are you talking about? About Val's college, returned Emily. Young Pariser was there, James, you remember. He nearly broke the bank at Monte Carlo afterwards. James muttered that he did not know. Val must look after himself up there, or he'd get into bad ways. And he looked at his grandson with gloom, out of which affection distrustfully glimmered. What I'm afraid of, said Val to his plate, is of being hard up, you know. By instinct he knew that the weak spot in that old man was fear of insecurity for his grandchildren. Well said James, and the soup in his spoon dribbled over. You'll have a good allowance, but you must keep within it. Of course, murmured Val, if it is good, how much will it be, grandfather? 350, it's too much. I had next to nothing at your age. Val sighed, he had hoped for four and been afraid of three. I don't know what your young cousin has, said James. He's up there, his father's a rich man. Aren't you, asked Val heartily. I, replied James, flustered, I've got so many expenses. Your father, and he was silent. Cousin Jolien's got an awfully jolly place. I went down there with Uncle Somes, ripping stables. Ah, murmured James profoundly, that house. I knew how it would be. And he lapsed into gloomy meditation over his fish bones. His son's tragedy and the deep cleavage it had caused in the foresight family had still the power to draw him down into a whirlpool of doubts and misgivings. Val, who hankered to talk of Robin Hill because Robin Hill meant Holly, turned to Emily and said, was that the house built for Uncle Somes? And receiving her nod went on. I wish you'd tell me about him, Granny. What became of Aunt Irene? Is she still going? He seems awfully worked up about something tonight. Emily laid her finger on her lips, but the word Irene had caught James' ear. What's that, he said, staying a piece of mutton close to his lips. Who's been seeing her? I knew he hadn't heard the last of that. Now James, said Emily, eat your dinner. Nobody's been seeing anybody. James put down his fork. There you go, he said. I might die before you tell me of it. Is Somes getting a divorce? Nonsense said Emily with incomparable aplomb. Somes is much too sensible. James had sought his own throat, gathering the long white whiskers together on the skin and bone of it. She was always, he said, and with that enigmatic remark, the conversation lapsed, for Wormson had returned. But later, when the saddle of mutton had been succeeded by sweet savory and dessert, and Val had received a check for 20 pounds and his grandfather's kiss, like no other kiss in the world, from lips pushed out with a sort of fearful suddenness as if yielding to weakness, he returned to the charge in the hall. Tell us about Uncle Somes, Granny. Why is he so keen on mothers getting a divorce? Your Uncle Somes, said Emily, and her voice had an exaggerated assurance. As a lawyer, my dear boy, he's sure to know best. Is he, muttered Val? But what did become of anti-Renie? I remember she was jolly good-looking. She or, said Emily, behaved very badly. We don't talk about it. Well, I don't want everybody at Oxford to know about our affairs, ejaculated Val. It's a brutal idea. Why couldn't father be prevented without its being made public? Emily sighed. She had always lived rather in an atmosphere of divorce owing to her fashionable proclivities, so many of those whose legs have been under her table having gained a certain notoriety. When, however, it touched your own family, she liked it no better than other people. But she was eminently practical and a woman of courage who never pursued a shadow in preference to its substance. Your mother, she said, will be happier if she's quite free, Val. Good night, my dear boy, and don't wear loud waistcoats up at Oxford. They're not the thing just now. Here's a little present. With another five pounds in his hand and a little warmth in his heart, for he was fond of his grandmother, he went out into Park Lane. A wind had cleared the mist, the autumn leaves were rustling and the stars were shining. With all that money in his pocket, an impulse to see life beset him. But he had not gone forty yards in the direction of Piccadilly when Holly's shy face and her eyes with an imp dancing in their gravity came up before him, and his hand seemed to be tingling again from the pressure of her warm-gloved hand. No, dash it, he thought. I'm going home. End of Part One, Chapter Nine, recording by Leanne Howlett. Part One, Chapter Ten of Inch Ancery. 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 Two, Inch Ancery by John Galswersy. Part Number One, Chapter Ten, Soames Entertains the Future. It was full late for the river, but the weather was lovely and summer lingered below the yellowing leaves. Soames took many looks at the day from his riverside garden near Maple Durham that Sunday morning. With his own hands he put flowers about his little houseboat and equipped the punt in which after lunch he proposed to take them on the river. Placing those Chinese-looking cushions, he could not tell whether or no he wished to take Annette alone. She was so very pretty. Could he trust himself not to say irrevocable words passing beyond the limits of discretion? Roses on the veranda were still in bloom and the hedges ever green so that there was almost nothing of middle-aged autumn to chill the mood. Yet was he nervous, fidgety, strangely distrustful of his powers to steer just the right course. This visit had been planned to produce in Annette and her mother a due sense of his possessions so that they should be ready to receive with respect any overture. He might later be disposed to make. He dressed with great care, making himself neither too young nor too old, very thankful that his hair was still sick and smooth and had no gray in it. Three times he went up to his picture gallery. If they had any knowledge at all, they must see at once that his collection alone was worth at least 30,000 pounds. He minutely inspected to the pretty bedroom overlooking the river where they would take off their hands. It would be her bedroom if, if the matter went through and she became his wife. Going up to the dressing table, he passed his hand over the lilac-colored pincushion into which were stuck all kinds of pins. A bowl of potpourri exhaled a scent that made his head turn just a little, his wife. If only the whole thing could be settled out of hand and there was not the nightmare of this divorce to be gone through first. And with gloom puckered on his forehead, he looked out at the river shining beyond the roses and the lawn. Madame Lamotte would never resist this prospect for her child. Annette would never resist her mother. If only he were free. He drove to the station to meet them. What taste French women had. Madame Lamotte was in black with touches of lilac color. Annette in grayish lilac linen with cream colored gloves and hat. Rather pale she looked and Londony and her blue eyes were the mure. Waiting for them to come down to lunch, some stood in the open French window of the dining room, moved by that sensuous delight in sunshine and flowers and trees, which only came to the full when use and beauty were there to share it with one. He had ordered the lunch with intense consideration. The wine was a very special souterne. The whole appointments of the meal Perfect. The coffee served on the veranda, super excellent. Madame Lamotte accepted creme de menthe. Annette refused. Her manners were charming, is just the suspicion of the conscious beauty creeping into them. Yes, so it soams. Another year of London and that sort of life and she will be spoiled. Madame was in sedate French raptures. Adorable. Le soleil et cibon. How everything is chic is it not Annette? Monsieur is a real Monte Cristo. Annette murmured a scent with a look up at soams which he could not read. He proposed a turn on the river but to punt two persons when one of them looked so ravishing on those Chinese cushions was merely to suffer from a sense of lost opportunity. So they went but a short way towards Pangbourne drifting slowly back with every now and then an autumn leaf dropping on Annette or on her mother's black amplitude. And soams was not happy. Worried by the sort how, when, where can I say what? They did not yet even know that he was married. To tell them he was married might jeopardize his every chance. Yet, if he did not definitely make them understand that he wished for Annette's hand it would be dropping into some other clutch before he was free to claim it. At tea, which they both took with lemon soams spoke of the transval. Soams spoke of the transval. There will be war, he said. Madame Lamotte lamented. See, poor Jean Berger. Could they not be left to themselves? Soams smiled. The question seemed to him absurd. Surely as a woman of business she understood that the British could not abandon their legitimate commercial interests. Ah, that! But Madame Lamotte found that the English were a little hypocrite. They were talking of justice and the woodlanders, not of business. Monsieur was the first who had spoken to her of that. The Boers are only half-civilized remarked soams. They stand in the way of progress. It will never do to let our Suzerainty go. What does that mean to say, Suzerainty? What a strange word. Soams became eloquent, roused by these threats to the principle of possession and stimulated by Annette's eyes fixed on him. He was delighted when presently she said, I think Monsieur is right. They should be taught a lesson. She was sensible. Of course, he said, we must act with moderation. I am no jingle. We must be firm without bullying. Will you come up and see my pictures? Moving from one to another of these treasures, he soon perceived that they knew nothing. They passed his last move, that remarkable study of a hay cart going home as if it were a lithograph. He waited almost with awe to see how they would view the jewel of his collection and Israel's, whose price he had watched ascending till he was now. Almost certain it had reached top value and would be better on the market again. They did not view it at all. This was a shock. And yet to having Annette a virgin taste to form would be better than to have the silly half-baked predilections of the English middle class to deal with. At the end of the gallery was a maissonnier of which she was rather ashamed. Maissonnier was so steadily going down. Madame Lamotte stopped before it. Maissonnier, oh, what a jewel. Somes took advantage of that moment. Very gently touching Annette's arm, he said, how do you like my place, Annette? She did not shrink, did not respond. She looked at him full, looked down and murmured. Who would not like it? It is so beautiful. Perhaps some day Somes said and stopped. So pretty she was, so self-possessed, she frightened him. Those cornflower blue eyes, the turn of that creamy neck, her delicate curves, she was a standing temptation to indiscretion. No, no, one must be sure of one's ground, much sureer. If I hold off, he thought, it will tantalize her. And he crossed over to Madame Lamotte, who was still in front of the maissonnier. Yes, that's quite a good example of his later work. You must come again, Madame, and see them lit up. You must both come and spend the night. Enchanted, would it not be beautiful to see them lighted? By moonlight, too, the river must be ravishing. Annette murmured, thou art sentimental, mama, sentimental. That black-robed, comely, substantial French woman of the world, and suddenly he was certain, as he could be, that there was no sentiment in either of them. All the better, oh, what you sentiment. And yet he drove to the station with them and saw them into the train. To the tightened pressure of his hand, it seemed that Annette's fingers responded just a little, her face smiled at him through the dark. He went back to the carriage brooding. Go on home, Jordan, he said to the coachman, I will walk. And he strode out into the darkening lanes, the caution and the desire of possession playing seesaw with him. Bonsoir, monsieur, how softly she had said it, to know what was in her mind. The French, they were like cats, one could tell nothing. But how pretty. What a perfect young sink to hold in one's arms. What a mother for his heir. And he sought with a smile of his family and their surprise at the French wife and their curiosity, and of the way he would play with it and buffet it, confound them. The poplars sighed in the darkness and all hooted, shadows deepened in the water. I will and must be free, he sought. I won't hang about any longer. I will go and see Irene. If you want sinks done, do them yourself. I must live again. Live and move and have my being. And in echo to that queer, biblicality, church bells chime the call to evening prayer. End of part one, chapter 10. Sooms entertains the future. Recording by Eva Harnick.