 Part 3, Chapter 6 of INCHANCERY. His boy was seldom absent from Jolian's mind in the days which followed the first walk with Irene in Richmond Park. No further news had come. Inquiries at the War-Office elicited nothing, nor could he expect to hear from June and Holly for three weeks at least. In these days he felt how insufficient were his memories of Jolly, and what an amateur of a father he had been. There was not a single memory in which anger played a part, not one reconciliation, because there had never been a rupture, nor one heart-to-heart confidence, not even when Jolly's mother died—nothing but half-ironical affection. He had been too afraid of committing himself in any direction for fear of losing his liberty, or interfering with that of his boy. Jolly and Irene's presence had he relief, highly complicated by the ever-growing perception of how divided he was between her and his son. With Jolly was bound up all that sense of continuity and social creed of which he had drunk deeply in his youth, and again during his boy's public school and varsity life, all that sense of not going back on what father and son expected of each other. With Irene was bound up all his delight in beauty and in nature, and he seemed to know less and less which was the stronger within him. From such sentimental paralysis he was rudely awakened, however, one afternoon, just as he was starting off to Richmond, by a young man with a bicycle and a face oddly familiar, who came forward faintly smiling. Mr. Jolly and Fawcite, thank you. Placing an envelope in Jolly and's hand, he wheeled off the path and rode away. Bewildered, Jolly and opened it. Admiralty, probate and divorce, Fawcite, the Fawcite and Fawcite. A sensation of shame and disgust was followed by the instant reaction, Why, here's the very thing you want, and you don't like it. But she must have had one too, and it must go to her at once. He turned things over as he went along. It was an ironical business. For whatever the scripture said about the heart, it took more than mere longings to satisfy the law. They could perfectly well defend this suit, or at least in good faith try to. But the idea of doing so revolted Jolly in. If not her lover indeed, he was in desire, and he knew that she was ready to come to him. Her face had told him so. Not that he exaggerated her feeling for him. She had had her grand passion, and he could not expect another from her at his age, but she had trust in him, affection for him, and must feel that he would be a refuge. Surely she would not ask him to defend the suit, knowing that he adored her. In heaven she had not that maddening British conscientiousness which refused happiness for the sake of refusing. She must rejoice at this chance of being free after seventeen years of death in life. As to publicity, the fat was in the fire. To defend the suit would not take away the slur. Jolly had all the proper feeling of a foresight whose privacy is threatened. She was to be hung by the law. By all means, let it be for a sheep. Moreover, the notion of standing in a witness-box and swearing to the truth that no gesture, not even a word of love had passed between them, seemed to him more degrading than to take the tacit stigma of being an adulterer, more truly degrading considering the feeling in his heart, and just as bad and painful for his children. The thought of explaining away, if he could, before a judge and twelve average Englishmen, their meetings in Paris and the walks in Richmond Park, horrified him. The brutality and hypocritical sensoriousness of the whole process, the probability that they would not be believed. The mere vision of her whom he looked on as the embodiment of nature and of beauty standing there before all those suspicious, gloating eyes was hideous to him—no, no. To defend a suit only made at a London holiday and sold the newspapers—a thousand times better except what Soames and the gods had sent. Besides, he thought honestly, who knows whether, even for my boy's sake, I could have stood this state of things much longer, any way a neck would be out of chancery at last. Once absorbed, he was hardly conscious of the heavy heat. The sky had become overcast, purplish, with little streaks of white. A heavy heat drop plashed a little star-pattern in the dust of the road as he entered the park. Phew! he thought. Thunder! I hope she's not come to meet me. There's a ducky up there. But at that very minute he saw Ireney coming towards the gate. We must scuttle back to Robin Hill, he thought. The storm had passed over the paltry at four o'clock, bringing welcome distraction to the clerks in every office. Soames was drinking a cup of tea when a note was brought into him. Dear sir, foresight, v foresight, and foresight, in accordance with your instructions, we beg to inform you that we personally served the respondent and co-respondent in this suit to-day at Richmond and Robin Hill respectfully, faithfully yours, Linkman, and Lever. For some minutes Soames stared at that note. Ever since he had given those instructions he had been tempted to annul them. He was so scandalous, such a general disgrace. The evidence, too, what he had heard of it had never seemed to him conclusive. Somehow he believed less and less that those two had gone all lengths. But this, of course, would drive them to it, and he suffered from the thought. What fellow to have her love where he had failed? Was he too late? Now that they had been brought up sharp by service of this petition, had he not a lever with which he could force them apart? But if I don't act at once, he thought, it will be too late, now they've had this thing. I'll go and see him, I'll go down. Sick with nervous anxiety, he set out for one of the new-fangled motor-caps. It might take a long time to run that fellow to ground, and goodness knew what decision they might come to after such a shock. If I were a theatrical ass, he thought, I suppose I should be taking a horse whip or a pistol or something. He took instead a bundle of papers in the case of Magenti versus Wake, intending to read them on the way down. He did not even open them, but sat quite still, jolted and jarred, unconscious of the draught down the back of his neck, or the smell of petrol. He must be guided by the fellow's attitude. The great thing was to keep his head. London had already begun to disgorge its workers as he neared Putney Bridge. The anteep was on the move, outwards. What a lot of ants, all with a living ticket, holding on by their eyelids in the great scramble. Perhaps for the first time in his life, Somes thought, I could let go if I liked. Nothing could touch me. I could stab my fingers, live as I wished. Enjoy myself. No. One could not live as he had, and just drop it all, settled down in Capua to spend the money and reputation he had made. A man's life was what he possessed, and sought to possess. Only fools thought otherwise, fools, and socialists and libertines. The cab was passing Villars now, going a great pace. Fifty miles an hour, I should think, he mused. This will take people out of time to live. And he thought of its bearing on the portions of London owned by his father. He himself had never taken to that form of investment, the gambler in him having all the outlet needed in his pictures. The cab sped on, down the hill, past Wimbledon Common. His interview. Surely a man of fifty-two, with grown-up children, and hung on the line would not be reckless? He went what to disgrace the family, he thought. He was as fond of his father as I am of mine, and they were brothers. That woman brings destruction. What is it in her? I've never known. The cab branched off along the side of a wood, and he heard a late cuckoo calling. Almost the first he had heard that year. He was now almost opposite the sight he had originally chosen for his house, and which had been so unceremoniously rejected by Bacini in favour of his own choice. He began passing his handkerchief over his face and hands, taking deep breaths to give him steadiness. Keep one's head, he thought, keep one's head. The cab turned in at the drive, which might have been his own, and the sound of music met him. He'd forgotten the fellow's daughters. I may be out again directly, he said to the driver, or I may be kept some time. And he rang the bell. Following the maid through the curtains into the inner hall, he felt relieved that the impact to this meeting would be broken by June or Holly, whichever was playing in there, so that with complete surprise he saw Irene at the piano, and Jolien sitting in an armchair listening. They both stood up. Blood surged into Somes' brain, and all his resolution to be guided by this saw that left him utterly. The look of his farmer forebears, dogged foresight down by the sea, from superior doset back, grinned out of his face. Very pretty, he said. He heard the fellow mamma. This is hardly the place. We'll go to the study, if you don't mind. And they both passed him through the curtain opening. In the little room to which he followed them, Irene is stood by the open window, and the fellow, close to her by a big chair, Somes pulled the door too behind him with a slam. The sound carried him back all those years to the day when he had shut out Jolien, shut him out from meddling with his affairs. Well, he said, what of you to save yourselves? The fellow had the effrontery to smile. What we have received to-day has taken away your right to ask. I should imagine you would be glad to have your neck out of Chancery. No, said Somes, you think so. I came to tell you that I'll divorce her with every circumstance of disgrace to you both, unless you swear to keep clear of each other from now on." He was astonished at his fluency, because his mind was stammering and his hands twitching. Nidolom answered, but their faces seemed to him as if contemptuous. Well, he said, you, Irene? Her lips moved, but Jolien laid his hand on her arm. Let her alone, said Somes furiously. Irene, would you swear it? No. Oh, and you? Still less. So then you're guilty, are you? Yes, guilty. It was Irene speaking in that serene voice with that un-reached air which had maddened him so often, and carried beyond himself, he cried, You are a devil! Go out, leave this house, or I'll do you an injury. That fellow to talk of injuries, did he know how near his throat was to being scragged? A trustee, he said, embezzling trust property, a thief stealing his cousin's wife. Call me what you like. You have chosen your part. We have chosen ours. Go out. If you brought a weapon, Somes might have used it at that moment. I'll make you pay, he said. I should be very happy. At that deadly turning of the meaning of his speech by the son of him who had nicknamed him the man of property, Somes stood glaring. It was ridiculous. There they were, kept from violence by some secret force, no blow possible, no words to meet the case. But he could not, did not know how to turn and go away. His eyes fastened on Irene's face. The last time he would ever see that fatal face, the last time, no doubt. You, he said suddenly, I hope you'll treat him as you treated me. That's all. He saw her wince, and with a sensation not quite triumph, not quite relief, he wrenched open the door, passed out through the hall, and got into his cab. He lulled against the cushion with his eyes shut. Here in his life had he been so near to murderous violence, never so thrown away the restraint which was his second nature. He had a stripped and naked feeling as if all virtue had gone out of him. Life meaningless, mind-striking work. Sunlight streamed in on him, but he felt cold. The scene he had passed through had gone from him already. What was before him would not materialize. He could catch on to nothing, and he felt frightened as if he'd been hanging over the edge of a precipice, as if with another turn of the screw sanity would have failed him. I'm not fit for it, he thought. I mustn't—I'm not fit for it. The cab sped on, and in mechanical procession trees, houses, people passed, but had no significance. I feel very queer, he thought, I'll take a Turkish bath. I've been very near to something it won't do—the cab worded its way back over the bridge, up the Fulham Road, along the park. "'To the Hammam,' said Soames. Curious that on so warm a summer day, heat should be so comforting. Crossing into the hot room he met George Fawcite, coming out, red, and listening. "'Hello,' said George, what are you training for? You've not got much, Superfluous!' "'Bafoon!' Soames passed him with his sideways smile. Lying back, rubbing his skin uneasily for the first signs of perspiration, he thought, let them laugh. I won't feel anything. I can't stand violence. It's not good for me.' End of Part 3, Chapter 6, Recording by Simon Evers. The Foursight Saga II, Enchantsery, by John Galsworthy. Part 3, Chapter 7, A Summer Night. Soames left dead silence in the little study. "'Thank you for that good lie,' said Jolie, and suddenly. "'Come out. The air in here is not what it was.' In front of a long, high, southerly wall on which were trained peach trees, the two walked up and down in silence. Old Jolie and had planted some Cupressus trees, at intervals between this grassy terrace and the dipping meadow full of butter-cups and oxide daisies. For twelve years they had flourished, till their dark spiral shapes had quite a look of Italy. Birds fluttered softly in the wet shrubbery. The swallows swooped past with a still blue sheen on their swift little bodies. The grass felt springy beneath the feet, its green refreshed. Butterflies chased each other. After that painful scene, the quiet of nature was wonderfully poignant. Under the sun-soaked wall ran a narrow strip of garden bed full of mignonette and pansies, and from the bees came a low hum in which all other sounds were set. The mooing of a cow deprived of her calf, the calling of a cuckoo from an elm tree at the bottom of the meadow. Who would have thought that behind them, within ten miles, London began? That London of the foresight's, with its wealth, its misery, its dirt and noise, its jumbled stone aisles of beauty, its gray sea of hideous brick and stucco. That London which had seen Irene's early tragedy and Jolie's own hard days, that web, that princely workhouse of the possessive instinct. And while they walked, Jolie and pondered those words, I hope you'll treat him as you treated me. That would depend on himself. Could he trust himself? Did nature permit a foresight not to make a slave of what he adored? Could beauty be confided to him? Or should she not be just a visitor, coming when she would, possessed for moments which passed, to return only at her own choosing? We are a breed of spoilers, thought Jolie, and close and greedy. The bloom of life is not safe with us. Let her come to me as she will, when she will, not at all if she will not. Let me be just her stand by, her perching place, never, never her cage. She was the chink of beauty in his dream. Was he to pass through the curtains now and reach her? Was the rich stuff of many possessions, the close and circling fabric of the possessive instinct, walling in that little black figure of himself? And soams, was it to be rent so that he could pass through into his vision? Find there something not of the senses only? Let me, he thought, ah, let me only know how not to grasp and destroy. But at dinner there were plans to be made. Tonight she would go back to the hotel, but tomorrow he would take her up to London. He must instruct his solicitor, Jack Herring. Not a finger must be raised to hinder the process of the law. Damages exemplary, judicial strictures, costs, what they liked. Let it go through at the first moment so that her neck might be out of chancery at last. Tomorrow he would see Herring. They would go and see him together. And then, abroad, leaving no doubt, no difficulty about evidence, making the lie she had told into the truth. He looked round at her, and it seemed to his adoring eyes that more than a woman was sitting there. The spirit of universal beauty, deep, mysterious, which the old painters, Titian, Giorgione, Botticelli, had known how to capture and transfer to the faces of their women. This flying beauty seemed to him imprinted on her brow, her hair, her lips, and in her eyes. And this is to be mine, he thought. It frightens me. After dinner, they went out onto the terrace to have coffee. They sat there long. The evening was so lovely. Watching the summer night come very slowly on. It was still warm, and the air smelled of lime blossom early this summer. Two bats were flighting with the faint mysterious little noise they make. He had placed the chairs in front of the study window, and moths flew past to visit discrete light in there. There was no wind, and not a whisper in the old oak tree 20 yards away. The moon rose from behind the cops, nearly full, and the two lights struggled till moonlight conquered, changing the color and quality of all the garden, sealing along the flagstones, reaching their feet, climbing up, changing their faces. Well, said Jolyon at last, you'll be tired, dear. We'd better start. The maid will show you Holly's room, and he rang the study bell. The maid who came handed him a telegram. Watching her take Irene away, he thought, this must have come an hour or more ago, and she didn't bring it out to us. That shows. Well, we'll be hung for a sheep soon, and opening the telegram he read. Jolyon foresight, Robin Hill. Your son passed painlessly away on June 20th. Deep sympathy. Some name unknown to him. He dropped it, spun round, stood motionless. The moon shone in on him. A moth flew in his face. The first day of all that he had not thought almost ceaselessly of jolly. He went blindly towards the window, struck against the old armchair, his father's, and sank down onto the arm of it. He sat there huddled forward, staring into the night. Gone out like a candle flame, far from home, from love, all by himself in the dark. His boy, from a little chap always so good to him, so friendly, 20 years old and cut down like grass to have no life at all. I didn't really know him, he thought, and he didn't know me, but we loved each other, it's only love that matters. To die out there, lonely, wanting them, wanting home. This seemed to his foresight heart more painful, more pitiful than death itself. No shelter, no protection, no love at the last. And all the deeply rooted clanship in him, the family feeling an essential clinging to his own flesh and blood, which had been so strong an old Jolian, was so strong in all the foresight, felt outraged, cut, and torn by his boy's lonely passing. Better far if he had died in battle, without time to long for them to come to him, to call out for them, perhaps, in his delirium. The moon had passed behind the oak tree now, endowing it with uncanny life, so that it seemed watching him. The oak tree, his boy, had been so fond of climbing, out of which he had once fallen and hurt himself and hadn't cried. The door creaked. He saw Irene come in, pick up the telegram and read it. He heard the faint rustle of her dress. She sank on her knees close to him and he forced himself to smile at her. She stretched up her arms and drew his head down on her shoulder. The perfume and warmth of her encircled him. Her presence gained slowly his whole being. End of Part 3, Chapter 7, Recording by Leanne Howlett. Part 3, Chapter 8, of Enchantsery. 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 II, Enchantsery by John Gallsworthy. Part 3, Chapter 8, James and Waiting. Sweated to serenity, some dined at the remove and turned his face toward Park Lane. His father had been unwell lately. This would have to be kept from him. Never till that moment had he realized how much the dread of bringing James's gray hairs down with sorrow to the grave had counted with him. How intimately it was bound up with his own shrinking from scandal. His affection for his father, always deep, had increased of late years with the knowledge that James looked on him as the real prop of his decline. It seemed pitiful that one who had been so careful all his life and done so much for the family name, so that it was almost a byword for solid, wealthy respectability, should at his last gasp have to see it in all the newspapers. This was like lending a hand to death, that final enemy of foresights. I must tell mother, he thought, and when it comes on, we must keep the papers from him somehow. He sees hardly anyone. Letting himself in with his latchkey, he was beginning to ascend the stairs when he became conscious of commotion on the second floor landing. His mother's voice was saying, Now James, you'll catch cold. Why can't you wait quietly? His father's answering, Wait, I'm always waiting. Why doesn't he come in? You can speak to him tomorrow morning instead of making a guy of yourself on the landing. He'll go up to bed, I shouldn't wonder. I shan't sleep. I'll come back to bed, James. Hmm, I might die before tomorrow morning for all you can tell. You shan't have to wait till tomorrow morning. I'll go down and bring him up. Don't fuss. There you go, always so cock-a-hoop. He may't come in at all. Well, if he doesn't come in, you won't catch him by standing out here in your dressing-gown. James rounded the last bend and came inside of his father's tall figure wrapped in a brown soap-quilted gown, stooping over the balustrade above. Light fell on his silvery hair and whiskers, investing his head with a sort of halo. Here he is, he heard him say in a voice which sounded injured, and his mother's comfortable answer from the bedroom door. That's all right, come in and I'll brush your hair. James extended a thin, crooked finger, oddly like the beckoning of a skeleton, and passed through the doorway of his bedroom. What is it, thought sums? What has he got hold of now? His father was sitting before the dressing-table, sideways to the mirror, while Emily slowly passed two silver-backed brushes through and through his hair. She would do this several times a day, for it had on him something of the effect produced on a cat by scratching between its ears. There you are, he said. I've been waiting. Song stroked his shoulder, and taking up a silver button-hook examined the mark on it. Well, he said, you're looking better. James shook his head. I want to say something, your mother hasn't heard. He announced Emily's ignorance of what he hadn't told her as if it were a grievance. Your father's been in a great state all the evening, I'm sure I don't know what about. The faint whisk-whisk of the brushes continued the soothing of her voice. No, you know nothing, said James. Soams can tell me. In fixing his gray eyes in which there was a look of strain uncomfortable to watch on his son, he muttered. I'm getting on, Soams. At my age I can't tell. I might die any time. There'll be a lot of money. There's Rachel in Sicily got no children, and Val's out there. That chap his father will get hold of all he can. And somebody will pick up Imogen, I shouldn't wonder. Soams listened vaguely. He'd heard all this before. Wish, wish, went the brushes. If that's all, said Emily. All cried James. It's nothing. I'm coming to that. And again his eyes strained pitifully at Soams. It's you, my boy, he said suddenly. You ought to get a divorce. That word, from those of all lips, was almost too much for Soams' composure. His eyes reconscentrated themselves quickly on the button-hook, and as if in apology, James hurried on. I don't know what's become of her. They say she's abroad. Your uncle Swithin used to admire her. He was a funny fellow. So he always alluded to his dead twin. The stout and the lean of it, they had been called. She wouldn't be alone, I should say. And with that summing up of the effect of beauty on human nature, he was silent, watching his son with eyes doubting as a bird. Soams too was silent. Wish, wish, went the brushes. Come, James, Soams knows best. It's his business. Ah, said James, and the word came from deep down. But there's all my money, and there's his. Who's it to go to? And when he dies, the name goes out. Soams replaced the button-hook on the lace and pink silk of the dressing-table coverlet. The name, said Emily, there are all the other foresights. As if that helped me, muttered James. I shall be in my grave, and there'll be nobody unless he marries again. You're quite right, said Soams quietly. I'm getting a divorce. James' eyes almost started from his head. What, he cried? There. Nobody tells me anything. Well, said Emily, who would have imagined you wanted it. My dear boy, that is a surprise after all these years. It'll be a scandal, muttered James, as if to himself. But I can't help that. Don't brush so hard. When let come on. Before the long vacation, it's not defended. James' lips moved in secret calculation. I shan't live to see my grandson, he muttered. Emily ceased brushing. Of course you will, James. Soams will be as quick as he can. There was a long silence till James reached out his arm. Here, let's have the odour cologne, and putting it to his nose he moved his forehead in the direction of his son. Soams bent over and kissed that brow just where the hair began. A relaxing quiver passed over James' face, as though the wheels of anxiety within were running down. I'll get to bed, he said. I shan't want to see the papers when that comes. They're a morbid lot. I can't pay attention to them. I'm too old. Clearly affected, Soams went to the door. He heard his father say. Here, I'm tired. I'll say a prayer in bed. And his mother answering. That's right, James. It'll be ever so much more comfy. End of Part 3, Chapter 8, Recording by Leanne Howlett. Part 3, Chapter 9, 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 II, Enchancery, by John Galsworthy. Part 3, Chapter 9, Out of the Web. On Foresight changed the announcement of Jolly's death, among a batch of troopers, caused mixed sensation. Strange to read that Jolien Foresight, fifth of the name in direct dissent, had died of disease in the service of his country, and not be able to feel it personally. It revived the old grudge against his father for having estranged himself. For such was still the prestige of old Jolien that the other Foresights could never quite feel, as might have been expected, that it was they who had cut off his descendants for a regularity. The news increased, of course, the interest and anxiety about Vowell. But then Vowell's name was Darty, and even if he were killed in battle, or got the Victoria Cross, it would not be at all the same as if his name were Foresight. Not even casualty or glory to the Heymans would be really satisfactory. Every pride felt defrauded. How the rumor arose, then, that something very dreadful, my dear, was pending, no one, least of all Somes, could tell, secret as he kept everything. Possibly some eye had seen Foresight versus Foresight and Foresight in the cause list, and had added it to Irene in Paris with a fair beard. Possibly some wall at Park Lane had ears. The fact remained that it was known, whispered among the old, discussed among the young, that family pride must soon receive a blow. Somes, paying one of his Sunday visits to Timothy's, paying it with the feeling that after the suit came on he would be paying no more, felt knowledge in the air as he came in. Nobody, of course, dared speak of it before him, but each of the four other Foresights present held their breath, aware that nothing could prevent Aunt Julie from making them all uncomfortable. She looked so piteously at Somes, she checked herself on the point of speech so often, that Aunt Hester excused herself and said she must go and bathe Timothy's eye. He had a sty coming. Somes, impassive, slightly supercilious, did not stay long. He went out with a curse stifled behind his pale, just smiling lips. Fortunately for the peace of his mind, cruelly tortured by the coming scandal, he was kept busy day and night with plans for his retirement, for he had come to that grim conclusion. To go on seeing all those people who had known him as a long-headed chap, an astute advisor, after that, no. With a steadiousness and pride, which was so strangely, so inextricably blended in him with possessive obtuseness, revolted against the thought. He would retire, live privately, go on buying pictures, make a great name as a collector. After all, his heart was more in that than it had ever been in law. In pursuance of this now fixed resolve, he had to get ready to amalgamate his business with another firm without letting people know, for that would excite curiosity and make humiliation cast its shadow before. He had pitched on the firm of Cuthcott, Holiday, and Kingston, two of whom were dead. The full name after the amalgamation would therefore be Cuthcott, Holiday, Kingston, Forsyte, Bastard, and Forsyte. But after debate, as to which of the dead still had any influence with the living, it was decided to reduce the title to Cuthcott, Kingston, and Forsyte, of whom Kingston would be the active and Somes the sleeping partner. For leaving his name, prestige, and clients behind him, Somes would receive considerable value. One night, as befitted a man who had arrived at so important a stage of his career, he made a calculation of what he was worth, and after writing off liberally for depreciation by the war, found his value to be some hundred and thirty thousand pounds. At his father's death, which could not at last be delayed much longer, he must come into at least another fifty thousand, and his yearly expenditure at present just reached two. Standing among his pictures, he saw before him a future full of bargains earned by the trained faculty of knowing better than other people. Keeping what was about to decline, keeping what was still going up, and exercising judicious insight into future taste, he would make a unique collection which at his death would pass to the nation under the title Forsyte Bequest. If the divorce went through, he had determined on his line with Madame Lamotte. She had, he knew, but one real ambition—to live on her renter in Paris near her grandchildren. He would buy the goodwill of the restaurant batane at a fancy price. Madame would live like a queen mother in Paris on the interest, invested as she would know how. Incidentally, Somes meant to put a capable manager in her place and make the restaurant pay good interest on his money. There were great possibilities in Soho. On a net, he would promise to settle fifteen thousand pounds, whether designed or not, precisely the sum old Jolian had settled on that woman. A letter from Jolian's solicitor to his own had disclosed the fact that those two were in Italy, and an opportunity had been duly given for noting that they had first stayed at a hotel in London. The matter was clear as daylight and would be disposed of in half an hour or so, but during that half hour he, Sohne's, would go down to hell, and after that half hour all bearers of the foresight name would feel the bloom was off the rose. He had no illusions like Shakespeare that roses by any other name would smell as sweet. The name was a possession, a concrete, unstained piece of property, the value of which would be reduced some twenty percent, at least. Unless it were Roger, who had once refused to stand for Parliament, and O irony, Jolian, hung on the line, there had never been a distinguished foresight. But that very lack of distinction was the name's greatest asset. It was a private name, intensely individual, and his own property. It had never been exploited for good or evil by intrusive report. He and each member of his family owned it wholly, sanely, accurately, without any more interference from the public than had been necessitated by their births, their marriages, their deaths. And during these weeks of waiting and preparing to drop the law, he conceived for that law a bitter distaste, so deeply did he present its coming violation of his name, forced on him by the need he felt to perpetuate that name in a lawful manner. The monstrous injustice of the whole thing excited in him a perpetual suppressed fury. He had asked no better than to live in spotless domesticity, and now he must go into the witness-box after all these futile barren years and proclaim his failure to keep his wife, incur the pity, the amusement, the contempt of his kind. It was all upside down. She and that fellow ought to be the sufferers, and they were in Italy. In these weeks the law he had served so faithfully, looked on so reverently as the guardian of all property, seemed to him quite pitiful. What could be more insane than to tell a man that he owned his wife and punish him when someone unlawfully took her away from him? Did the law not know that a man's name was to him the apple of his eye, that it was far harder to be regarded as cuckold than a seducer? He actually envied Jolien the reputation of succeeding where he's soams had failed. The question of damages worried him, too. He wanted to make that fellow suffer, but he remembered his cousin's words. I shall be very happy. With the uneasy feeling that to claim damages would not make Jolien but himself suffer, he felt uncannily that Jolien would rather like to pay them, the chap was so loose. Besides, to claim damages was not the thing to do. The claim, indeed, had been made almost mechanically, and as the hour drew near, some saw in it just another dodge of this insensitive and topsy-turvy law to make him ridiculous, so that people might sneer and say, oh, yes, he got quite a good price for her. And he gave instructions that his counsel should state that the money would be given to a home for fallen women. He was a long time hitting off exactly the right charity, but having pitched on it, he used to wake up in the night and think, it won't do too lurid. It'll draw attention. Something quieter, better taste. He did not care for dogs, or who would have named them. And it was in desperation, at last, for his knowledge of charities was limited, that he decided on the blind. That could not be inappropriate, and it would make the jury assess the damages high. A good many suits were dropping out of the list, which happened to be exceptionally thin that summer, so that his case would be reached before August. As the day drew nearer, Winifred was his only comfort. She showed the fellow feeling of one who had been through the mill, and was the femme soul in whom he confided, well knowing that she would not let darty into her confidence. That ruffian would be only too rejoiced. At the end of July, on the afternoon before the case, he went in to see her. They had not yet been able to leave town, because darty had already spent their summer holiday, and Winifred dare not go to her father for more money while he was waiting not to be told anything about this affair of soames. Soames found her with a letter in her hand. That from Val, he asked gloomily, what does he say? He says he's married, said Winifred. Whom, too, for goodness' sake? Winifred looked up at him. To Holly Forsyte, Jolien's daughter. What? He got leave and did it. I didn't even know he knew her. Awkward, isn't it? Soames uttered a short laugh at that characteristic minimization. Awkward. Well, I don't suppose he'll hear about this till they come back. They'd better stay out there. That fellow will give her money. But I want Val back, said Winifred almost piteously. I miss him. He helps me to get on. I know, murmured Soames. How's darty behaving now? It might be worse, but it's always money. Would you like me to come down to the court tomorrow, Soames? Soames stretched out his hand for hers. The gesture so betrayed the loneliness in him that she pressed it between her two. Never mind, old boy. You'll feel ever so much better when it's all over. I don't know what I've done, said Soames, huskily. I never have. It's all upside down. I was fond of her. I've always been. Winifred saw a drop of blood ooze out of his lip, and the sight stirred her profoundly. Of course, she said, it's been too bad of her all along. But what shall I do about this marriage of Val's, Soames? I don't know how to write to him with this coming on. You've seen that child. Is she pretty? Yes, she's pretty, said Soames. Dark, ladylike enough. That doesn't sound so bad, thought Winifred. Jolien had style. It is a coil, she said. What will fathers say? Mustn't be told, said Soames. The world soon be over now. You'd better let Val take to farming out there. It was tantamount to saying that his nephew was lost. I haven't told Monty, Winifred murmured, desolately. The case was reached before noon next day and was over in little more than half an hour. Soames, pale, spruce, sad-eyed in the witness box, had suffered so much beforehand that he took it all like one dead. The moment the decree Nisai was pronounced, he left the courts of justice. Four hours until he became public property. Solicitor's divorce suit, a surly dogged anger replaced that dead feeling within him. Damn them all, he thought. I won't run away. I'll act as if nothing had happened. And in the sweltering heat of Fleet Street and Ludgate Hill, he walked all the way to his city club, lunched, and went back to his office. He worked there stolidly throughout the afternoon. On his way out, he saw that his clerks knew and answered their involuntary glances with a look so sardonic that they were immediately withdrawn. In front of St. Paul's, he stopped to buy the most gentlemanly of the evening papers. Yes, there he was. Well-known solicitor's divorce. Cousin co-respondent, damages given to the blind. So they had got that in. At every other face, he thought, I wonder if you know. And suddenly he felt queer as if something were racing round in his head. What was this? He was letting it get hold of him. He mustn't. He would be ill. He mustn't think. He would get down to the river and row about and fish. I'm not going to be laid up, he thought. It flashed across him that he had something of importance to do before he went out of town. Madam Lamotte, he must explain the law another six months before he was really free. Only he did not want to see a net. And he passed his hand over the top of his head. It was very hot. He branched off through Covent Garden. On this sultry day of late July, the garbage-chainted air of the old market offended him, and Soho seemed more than ever the disenchanted home of Rapscalianism. Alone, the restaurant butchain, neat, daintily painted, with its blue tubs and the dwarf trees therein, retained an aloof and frenchified self-respect. It was a slack hour, and pale, trim waitresses were preparing the little tables for dinner. Soames went through into the private part. To his discomforture, Annette answered his knock. She, too, looked pale and dragged down by the heat. You are quite a stranger, she said languidly. Soames smiled. I haven't wished to be, I've been busy. Where's your mother, Annette? I've got some news for her. Mother is not in. It seemed to Soames that she looked at him in a queer way. What did she know? How much had her mother told her? The worry of trying to make that out gave him an alarming feeling in the head. He gripped the edge of the table and dizzily saw Annette come forward. Her eyes clear with surprise. He shut his own and said, "'It's all right. I have had a touch of the sun, I think.' The sun, what he had was a touch of darkness. Annette's voice, French and composed, said, "'Sit down. It will pass then.' Her hand pressed his shoulder and Soames sank into a chair. When the dark feeling dispersed and he opened his eyes, she was looking down at him. What an inscrutable and odd expression for a girl of 20. Do you feel better? "'It's nothing,' said Soames. Instinct told him that to be feeble before her was not helping him. Age was enough handicap without that. Will Power was his fortune with Annette. He had lost ground these latter months from indecision. He could not afford to lose any more. He got up and said, "'I'll write to your mother. I'm going down to my river house for a long holiday. I want you both to come there presently and stay. It's just at its best. You will, won't you?' It will be very nice. That pretty little roll of that R, but no enthusiasm. And rather sadly, he added. You're feeling the heat, too, aren't you, Annette? It'll do you good to be on the river. Good night. Annette swayed forward. There was a sort of compunction in the movement. Are you fit to go? Shall I give you some coffee? No, said Somes firmly. Give me your hand. She held out her hand and Somes raised it to his lips. When he looked up, her face were again that strange expression. I can't tell, he thought, as he went out, but I mustn't think. I mustn't worry. But worry he did, walking toward Palmao. English, not of her religion, middle-aged, scarred, as it were, by domestic tragedy. What had he to give her? Only wealth, social position, leisure, admiration. It was much, was it enough for a beautiful girl of 20? He felt so ignorant about Annette. He had, too, a curious fear of the French nature of her mother and herself. They knew so well what they wanted. They were almost foresight. They would never grasp a shadow and miss a substance. The tremendous effort it was to write a simple note to Madame Lamotte when he reached his club warned him still further that he was at the end of his tether. My dear Madame, he said, you will see by the enclosed newspaper cutting that I obtained my decree of divorce today. By the English law, I shall not, however, be free to marry again till the decree is confirmed six months hence. In the meanwhile, I have the honor to ask to be considered a formal suitor for the hand of your daughter. I shall write again in a few days and beg you both to come and stay at my river house. I am, dear Madame, sincerely yours, some foresight. Having sealed and posted this letter, he went into the dining room. Three mouthfuls of soup convinced him that he could not eat. And causing a cab to be summoned, he drove to Paddington Station and took the first train to Reading. He reached his house just as the sun went down and wandered out onto the lawn. The air was drenched with the scent of pinks and picates in his flower borders. A stealing coolness came off the river. Rest, peace. Let a poor fellow rest. Let not worry and shame and anger chase like evil nightbirds in his head. Like those doves perched half-sleeping on their dove-cut. Like the furry creatures in the woods on the far side and the simple folk in their cottages. Like the trees in the river itself, whitening fast and twilight. Like the darkening cornflower-blue sky where stars were coming up. Let him cease from himself and rest. End of Part Three, Chapter Nine. Recording by Leanne Howlett. Part Three, Chapter Ten 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 II, Enchancery, by John Galsworthy. Part Three, Chapter Ten, Passing of an Age. The marriage of Somes with a net took place in Paris on the last day of January 1901 with such privacy that not even Emily was told until it was accomplished. The day after the wedding, he brought her to one of those quiet hotels in London where greater expense can be incurred for less result than anywhere else under heaven. Her beauty and the best Parisian frocks was giving him more satisfaction than if he collected a perfect bit of china or a jewel of a picture. He looked forward to the moment when he would exhibit her in Park Lane in Green Street and at Timothy's. If someone had asked him in those days, in confidence, are you in love with this girl? He would have replied, in love, what is love? If you mean do I filter her as I did towards Irene in those old days when I first met her and she would not have me? When I sighed and starved after her and couldn't rest a minute until she yielded, no. If you mean do I admire her youth and prettiness? Do my senses ache a little when I see her moving about? Yes. Do I think she will keep me straight, make me a creditable wife and a good mother for my children? Again, yes. What more do I need and what more do three quarters of the women who are married get from the men who marry them? And if the inquirer had pursued his query, and do you think it was fair to have tempted this girl to give herself to you for life unless you have really touched her heart? He would have answered. The French see these things differently from us. They look at marriage from the point of view of establishments in children. And from my own experience, I'm not at all sure that theirs is not the sensible view. I shall not expect this time more than I can get or she can give. Years hence I shouldn't be surprised if I have trouble with her, but I shall be getting old. I shall have children by then. I shall shut my eyes. I have had my great passion. Hers is perhaps to come. I don't suppose it will be for me. I offer her a great deal and I don't expect much in return except children or at least a son. But one thing I am sure of, she has very good sense. And if in say shit, the inquirer had gone on, you do not look then for spiritual union in this marriage. Somes would have lifted his sideways smile and rejoined. That's as it may be. If I get satisfaction for my senses, perpetuation of myself, good taste and good humor in the house, it is all I can expect at my age. I am not likely to be going out of my way towards any far-fetched sentimentalism. Whereon the inquirer must in good taste have ceased inquiry. The queen was dead in the air of the greatest city upon earth gray with unshed tears. Fur coated and top-hatted, when the net beside him in dark furs, Somes crossed Park Lane on the morning of the funeral procession to the rails in Hyde Park. Little moved, though he ever was, by public matters, this event, supremely symbolical, this summing up of a long rich period, impressed his fancy. In 37, when she came to the throne, Superior Dossett was still building houses to make London hideous, and James, a stripling of 26, just laying the foundations of his practice in the law. Coaches still ran. Men wore stocks, shaved their upper lips, ate oysters out of barrels. Tigers swung behind cabriolets. Women said law and owned no property. There were manners in the land and pigsties for the poor. Unhappy devils were hanged for little crimes and Dickens had just begun to write. Well, my two generations had slipped by of steamboats, railways, telegraphs, bicycles, electric lights, telephones, and now these motorcars of such accumulated wealth that 8% had become three and four sites were numbered by the thousand. Morals had changed, manners had changed, men had become monkeys twice removed, God had become mammon, mammon so respectable as to deceive himself. 64 years that favored property and had made the upper middle class, buttressed, chiseled, polished it, till it was almost indistinguishable in manners, morals, speech, appearance, habit, and soul from the nobility. An epoch which had gilded individual liberty so that if a man had money, he was free in law in fact. And if he had not money, he was free in law and not in fact. An era which had canonized hypocrisy so that to seem to be respectable was to be. A great age whose transmuting influence nothing had escaped saved the nature of man and the nature of the universe. And to witness the passing of this age, London, its pet and fancy was pouring forth her citizens through every gate into Hyde Park, hub of Victorianism, happy hunting ground of four sites. Under the gray heavens whose drizzle just kept off, the dark concourse gathered to see the show. The good old queen, full of years and virtue, had emerged from her seclusion for the last time to make a London holiday. From Houndsditch, Acton, Ealing, Hampstead, Islington, and Bethnal Green, from Hackney, Hornsey, Layton Stone, Battersea, and Fulham, and from those green pastures where four sites flourish. Mayfair in Kensington, St. James in Belgravia, Bayswater in Chelsea and the Regent's Park. The people swarmed down onto the roads where death would presently pass with dusky pomp and pageantry. Never again would a queen reign so long or people have a chance to see so much history buried for their money. A pity the war dragged on and that the wreath of victory could not be laid upon her coffin. All else would be there to follow and commemorate. Soldiers, sailors, foreign princes, half-masted bunting, tolling bells, and above all, the surging, great, dark-coated crowd with perhaps a simple sadness here and there, deep in hearts beneath black clothes put on by regulation. After all, more than a queen was going to arrest a woman who had braved sorrow, lived well and wisely according to her lights. Out in the crowd against the railings with his arm hooked in a net, Somes waited. Yes, the age was passing. What would this trade unionism and labor fellows in the House of Commons with continental fiction and something in the general feel of everything, not to be expressed in words, things were very different? He recalled the crowd on the fecking night and George Forsyte saying, "'They're all socialists, they want our goods.'" Like James, Somes didn't know he couldn't tell with Edward on the throne. Things would never be as safe again as under good old Vicky. Convulsively, he pressed his young wife's arm. There at any rate was something substantially his own, domestically certain again at last, something which made property worthwhile, a real thing once more. Pressed close against her and trying to ward others off, Somes was content. The crowd swayed round them, ate sandwiches and dropped crumbs. Boys who had climbed the plain trees chattered above like monkeys through twigs and orange peel. It was past time, they should be coming soon. And suddenly, a little behind them to the left, he saw a tallish man with a soft hat and short grizzling beard and a tallish woman in a little round fur cap and veil. Jolien and Ireney talking, smiling at each other, close together like a net in himself. They had not seen him, and stealthily, with a very queer feeling in his heart, Somes watched those two. They looked happy. What had they come here for? Inherently illicit creatures, rebels from the Victorian ideal. What business had they in this crowd? Each of them twice exiled by morality, making a boast as it were of love and laxity. He watched them fascinated, emitting grudgingly even with his arm thrust through a net that she, Ireney, no, he would not admit it, and he turned his eyes away. He would not see them and let the old bitterness, the old longing rise up within him. And then a net turned to him and said, those two people, Somes, they know you, I am sure. Who are they? Somes knows sideways. What people? There, you see them, just turning away, they know you. No, Somes answered, a mistake, my dear. A lovely face, and how she walks. Ellestre distinguishé. Somes looked then. Into his life, out of his life, she had walked like that swaying and erect, remote, unceasable, ever alluding the contact of his soul. He turned abruptly from that receding vision of the past. You'd better attend, he said, they're coming now. But while he stood, grasping her arm, seemingly intent on the head of the procession, he was quivering with a sense of always missing something with instinctive regret that he had not got them both. Slow came the music and the march, till in silence the long line wound in through the park gate. He heard a net whisper, how sad it is and beautiful. Felt the clutch of her hand as she stood up on tiptoe and the crowd's emotion gripped him. There it was, the beer of the queen, coffin of the age, slow passing. And as it went by, there came a murmuring groan from all the long line of those who watched. A sound such as Somes had never heard, so unconscious, primitive, deep and wild, that neither he nor any knew whether they had joined in uttering it. Strange sound indeed, tribute of an age to its own death. Ah, ah, the hold on life had slipped. That which had seemed eternal was gone. The queen, God bless her. It moved on with the beer, that traveling groan, as a fire moves on over grass and a thin line. It kept step and marched alongside down the dense crowds, mile after mile. It was a human sound, and yet inhuman, pushed out by animal subconsciousness, by intimate knowledge of universal death and change. None of us, none of us can hold on forever. It left silence for a little, a very little time, till tongues began, eager to retrieve interest in the show. Somes lingered just long enough to gratify a net, then took her out of the park to lunch at his father's in Park Lane. James had spent the morning gazing out of his bedroom window. The last show he would see last of so many, so she was gone. Well, she was getting an old woman. Swithin' and he had seen her crowned, slim slip of a girl, not so old as Imogen. She had got very stout of late. Jolien and he had seen her married to that German chap, her husband. He had turned out all right before he died and left her with that son of his. And he remembered the many evenings he and his brothers and their cronies had wagged their heads over their wine and wallets and that fellow in his salad days. And now he had come to the throne. They said he had steadied down. He didn't know, couldn't tell. He'd make the money fly still, he shouldn't wonder. What a lot of people out there. It didn't seem so very long since he and Swithin' stood in the crowd outside Westminster Abbey when she was crowned. And Swithin' had taken him to Cremorne afterwards, rackety chap Swithin'. No, it didn't seem much longer ago than Jubilee year when he had joined with Roger and renting a balcony in Piccadilly. Jolien, Swithin', Roger, all gone, and he would be 90 in August. And there was Somes married again to a French girl. The French were a queer lot, but they made good mothers, he had heard. Things changed. They said this German emperor was here for the funeral. His telegram to Old Kruger had been in shocking taste. He should not be surprised if that chap made trouble someday. Change. Hmm. Boy, they must look after themselves when he was gone. He didn't know where he'd be. And now Emily had asked Darcy to lunch with Winifred and Imogen to meet Somes' wife. She was always doing something. And there was Irene living with that fellow Jolien, they said. He'd marry her now, he supposed. My brother Jolien, he thought, what would he have said to it all? And somehow the utter impossibility of knowing what his elder brother, once so looked up to, would have said, so worried James that he got up from his chair by the window and began slowly, feebly to pace the room. She was a pretty thing too, he thought. I was fond of her. Perhaps Somes didn't suit her. I don't know, I can't tell. We never had any trouble with our wives. Women had changed, everything had changed. And now the queen was dead. Well, there it was. A movement in the crowd brought him to a standstill at the window, his nose touching the pain and whitening from the chill of it. They had got her as far as Hyde Park Corner, they were passing now. Why didn't Emily come up here where she could see instead of fussing about lunch? He missed her at that moment, missed her. Through the bare branches of the plain trees, he could just see the procession, could see the hats coming off the people's heads. A lot of them would catch colds, he shouldn't wonder. A voice behind him said, You've got a capital view here, James. There you are, Mudder James. Why didn't you come before? You might have missed it. And he was silent, staring with all his might. What's the noise, he asked suddenly. There's no noise, returned Emily. What are you thinking of? They wouldn't cheer. I can hear it. Nonsense, James. No sound came through those double pains. What James heard was the groaning in his own heart at sight of his age passing. Don't you ever tell me where I'm buried? He said suddenly. I shan't want to know. And he turned from the window. There she went, the old queen. She'd had a lot of anxiety. She'd be glad to be out of it, he should think. Emily took up the hairbrushes. There'll be just time to brush your head, she said, before they come. You must look your best, James. Ah, Mudder James. They say she's pretty. The meeting with his new daughter-in-law took place in the dining room. James was seated by the fire when she was brought in. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair and slowly raised himself, stooping in immaculate in his frock coat, thin as a line in euclid. He received Annette's hand in his, in the anxious eyes of his furrowed face, which had lost its color now, doubted above her. A little warmth came into them and into his cheeks refracted from her bloom. How are you, he said? You've been to see the queen, I suppose. Did you have a good crossing? In this way he greeted her from whom he hoped for a grandson of his name. Gazing at him, so old, thin, white, and spotless, Annette murmured something in French which James did not understand. Yes, yes, he said. You want your lunch, I expect. Somes, ring the bell. We won't wait for that chap, Darty. But just then they arrived. Darty had refused to go out of his way to see the old girl. With an early cocktail beside him, he had taken a squint from the smoking-room of the Asseum so that Winifred and Imogen had been obliged to come back from the park to fetch him fence. His brown eyes rested on Annette with a stare of almost startled satisfaction. The second beauty that fellow Somes had picked up, what women could see in him? Well, she would play in the same trick as the other, no doubt. But in the meantime he was a lucky devil. And he brushed up his moustache having in nine months of Green Street domesticity regained almost all his flesh and his assurance. Despite the comfortable efforts of Emily, Winifred's composure, Imogen's inquiring friendliness, Darty's showing off, and James' solicitude about her food, it was not Somes felt a successful lunch for his bride. He took her away very soon. That Monsure Darty said Annette in the cab, je n'aim pas ce type-là. No by George, said Somes. Your sister is very amiable and the girl is pretty. Your father is very old. I think your mother has trouble with him. I should not like to be her. Somes nodded at the shrewdness, the clear hard judgment in his young wife, but it disquieted him a little. The thought may have just flashed through him too. When I'm 80, she'll be 55, having trouble with me. There's just one other house of my relations I must take you to, he said. You'll find it funny, but we must get it over, and then we'll dine and go to the theater. And this way he prepared her for Timothy's, but Timothy's was different. They were delighted to see dear Somes after this long, long time. And so this was Annette. You are so pretty, my dear, almost too young and pretty for dear Somes, aren't you? But he's very attentive and careful. Such a good hush. Aunt Julie checked herself and placed her lips just under each of Annette's eyes. She afterwards described them to Francie, who dropped in as, cornflower blue, so pretty. I quite wanted to kiss them. I must say dear Somes is a perfect connoisseur. In her French way, and not so very French either, I think she's as pretty, though not so distinguished, not so alluring as Irene. Because she was alluring, wasn't she? With that white skin and those dark eyes and that hair. Chloridae, what was it? I always forget. Fulmort, Francie prompted. Of course, dead leaves, so strange. I remember when I was a girl before we came to London, we had a foxhound puppy. To walk it was called then. It had a tan top to its head and a white chest and beautiful dark brown eyes, and it was a lady. Yes, auntie, said Francie, but I don't see the connection. Oh, replied Aunt Julie, rather flustered. It was so alluring and her eyes and hair, you know. She was silent as if surprised in some indelicacy. Fulmort, she added suddenly. Hester, do remember that. Considerable debate took place between the two sisters, whether Timothy should or should not be summoned to see Annette. Oh, don't bother, said Somes. But it's no trouble. Only, of course, Annette's being French might upset him a little. He was so scared about fashota. I think perhaps we had better not run the risk, Hester. It's nice to have her all to ourselves, isn't it? And how are you, Somes? Have you quite got over your Hester-interposed hurriedly? What do you think of London, Annette? Somes, disquieted, awaited the reply. It came, sensible, composed. Oh, I know London. I visited before. He had never ventured to speak to her on the subject of the restaurant. The French had different notions about gentility and to shrink from connection with it might seem to her ridiculous. He had waited to be married before mentioning it and now he wished he hadn't. And what part do you know best, said Aunt Julie? Soho, said Annette simply. Somes snapped his jaw. Soho, repeated Aunt Julie. Soho. That'll go around the family, thought Somes. It's very French and interesting, he said. Yes, murmured Aunt Julie. Your Uncle Roger had some houses there once. He was always having to turn the tenants out, I remember. Somes changed the subject to Maple Durham. Of course, said Aunt Julie. You will be going down there soon to settle in. We are all so looking forward to the time when Annette has a dear little Julie, cried Aunt Hester desperately, ring tea. Somes dared not wait for tea and took Annette away. I shouldn't mention Soho if I were you, he said in the cab. It's rather a shady part of London and you're all together above that restaurant business now. I mean, he added. I want you to know nice people and the English are fearful snobs. Annette's clear eyes opened. A little smile came on her lips. Yes, she said. Hmm, thought Somes. That's meant for me. And he looked at her hard. She's got good business instincts, he thought. I must make her grasp it once for all. Look here, Annette. It's very simple, only it wants understanding. Our professional and leisure classes still think themselves a cut above our business classes, except, of course, the very rich. It may be stupid, but there it is, you see. It isn't advisable in England to let people know that you ran a restaurant or kept a shop or were in any kind of trade. It may have been extremely creditable, but it puts a sort of label on you. You don't have such a good time or meet such nice people. That's all. I see, said Annette, it is the same in France. Oh, murmured Somes, at once relieved and taken aback. Of course, class is everything, really. Yes, said Annette, comfous et sage. That's all right, thought Somes, watching her lips. Only she's pretty cynical. His knowledge of French was not yet such as to make him grieve that she had not said to. He slipped his arm round her and murmured with an effort. Et tu et ma belle femme. Annette went off into a little fit of laughter. Oh, non, she said. Oh, non. Napolé par France, Somes. What is that old lady your aunt looking forward to? Somes bit his lip. God knows, he said. She's always saying something, but he knew better than God. End of part three, chapter 10, recording by Leanne Howlett. Part three, chapter 11 of Inchancery. 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, too, Inchancery, by John Gallsworthy. Part three, chapter 11, suspended animation. The war dragged on. Nicholas had been heard to say that it would cost 300 millions if it cost a penny before they'd done with it. The income tax was seriously threatened. Still, there would be South Africa for their money once and for all. And though the possessive instinct felt badly shaken at three o'clock in the morning, it recovered by breakfast time with the recollection that one gets nothing in this world without paying for it. So, on the whole, people went about their business much as if there were no war, no concentration camps, no slippery duet, no feeling on the continent, no anything unpleasant. Indeed, the attitude of the nation was typified by Timothy's map, whose animation was suspended. For Timothy no longer moved the flags and they could not move themselves, not even backwards and forwards as they should have done. Suspended animation went further. It invaded foresight change and produced a general uncertainty as to what was going to happen next. The announcement in the marriage columns of the times, jolly and foresight, to Irene, only daughter of the late Professor Herron, had occasioned doubt whether Irene had been justly described and yet on the whole relief was felt that she had not been entered as Irene late the wife or the divorced wife of Soames foresight. All together there had been a kind of sublimity from the first about the way the family had taken that affair. As James had phrased it, there it was. No use to fuss. Nothing to be had out of admitting that it had been a nasty jar in the phraseology of the day. But what would happen now that both Soames and Jolian were married again? That was very intriguing. George was known to have laid Eustace six to four on a little Jolian before a little Soames. George was so droll. It was rumoured, too, that he and Darty had a bet as to whether James would attain the age of 90, though which of them had backed James and no one knew. Early in May, Winifred came round to say that Val had been wounded in the leg by a spent bullet and was to be discharged. His wife was nursing him. He would have a little limp, nothing to speak of. He wanted his grandfather to buy him a farm out there where he could breed horses. Her father was giving Holly 800 a year so they could be quite comfortable because his grandfather would give Val five, he had said. But as to the farm, he didn't know, couldn't tell. He didn't want Val to go throwing away his money. But you know, said Winifred, he must do something. Aunt Hester thought that perhaps his dear grandfather was wise because if he didn't buy a farm it couldn't turn out badly. But Val loves horses, said Winifred. It would be such an occupation for him. Aunt Julie thought that horses were very uncertain, had not Montague found them so. Val's different, said Winifred, he takes after me. Aunt Julie was sure that dear Val was very clever. I always remember, she had it, how he gave his bad penny to a beggar. His dear grandfather was so pleased. He thought it showed such presence of mind. I remember him saying that he ought to go into the navy. Aunt Hester chimed in, did not Winifred think that it was much better for the young people to be secure and not run any risk at their age. Well, said Winifred, if they were in London perhaps, in London it's amusing to do nothing, but out there of course he'll simply get bored to death. Aunt Hester thought that it would be nice for him to work if he were quite sure not to lose by it. It was not as if they had no money. Timothy of course had done so well by retiring. Aunt Julie wanted to know what Montague had said. Winifred did not tell her for Montague had merely remarked, wait till the old man dies. At this moment, Francie was announced, her eyes were brimming with a smile. Well, she said, what do you think of it? Of what, dear? In the times this morning. We haven't seen it. We always read it after dinner. Timothy has it till then. Francie rolled her eyes. Do you think you ought to tell us, said Aunt Julie, what was it? Irene's had a son at Robin Hill. Aunt Julie drew in her breath, but she said they were only married in March. Yes, auntie, isn't it interesting? Well, said Winifred, I'm glad. I was sorry for Jolian losing his boy. It might have been Val. Aunt Julie seemed to go into a sort of dream. I wonder, she murmured, what dear Soames will think. He so wanted to have a son himself. A little bird has always told me that. Well, said Winifred, he's going to, bar accidents. Gladness trickled out of Aunt Julie's eyes. How delightful, she said, when? November. Such a lucky month! But she did wish it could be sooner. It was a long time for James to wait at his age. To wait? They dreaded it for James, but they were used to it themselves. Indeed, it was their great distraction to wait, for the times to read, for one or other of their nieces or nephews to come in and cheer them up, for news of Nicholas's health, for that decision of Christopher's about going on the stage, for information concerning the mind of Mrs. McCander's nephew, for the doctor to come about Hester's inclination to wake up early in the morning, for books from the library which were always out, for Timothy to have a cold, for a nice quiet warm day, not too hot, when they could take a turn in Kensington Gardens. To wait, one on each side of the hearth in the drawing room for the clock between them to strike. Their thin, veined, knuckled hands, flying knitting needles and crochet hooks, their hair ordered to stop, like canute's waves from any further advance in colour. To wait in their black silks or satins, for the court to say that Hester might wear her dark green and duly her darker maroon. To wait, slowly turning over and over in their old minds, the little joys and sorrows, events and expectances of their little family world, as cows chew patient cuds in a familiar field. And this new event was so well worth waiting for, that Soames had always been their pet, with his tendency to give them pictures, and his almost weekly visits which they missed so much, and his need for their sympathy evoked by the wreck of his first marriage. This new event, the birth of an heir to Soames, was so important for him and for his dear father too, that James might not have to die without some certainty about things. James did so dislike uncertainty, and with Montague, of course, he could not feel really satisfied to leave no grandchildren but the young darties. After all, one's own name did count. And as James his 90th birthday neared, they wondered what precautions he was taking. He would be the first of the four sites to reach that age, and set, as it were, a new standard in holding on to life. That was so important they felt at their ages, 87 and 85, that they did not want to think of themselves when they had Timothy who was not yet 82 to think of. There was, of course, a better world. In my father's house are many mansions. Was one of Aunt Julie's favourite sayings. It always comforted her with its suggestion of house property, which had made the fortune of dear Roger. The Bible was indeed a great resource, and on very fine Sundays there was church in the morning, and sometimes Julie would steal into Timothy's study when she was sure he was out, and just put an open New Testament casually among the books on his little table. He was a great reader, of course, having been a publisher. But she had noticed that Timothy was always cross at dinner afterwards, and Smither had told her more than once that she had picked books off the floor in doing the room. Still, with all that, they did feel that heaven could not be quite so cosy as the rooms in which they and Timothy had been waiting so long. Aunt Hester especially could not bear the thought of eviction. Any change, or rather the thought of a change, for there never was any, always upset her very much. Aunt Julie, who had more spirit, sometimes thought that it would be quite exciting. She had so enjoyed that visit to Brighton the year dear Susan died. But then Brighton one knew was nice, and it was so difficult to tell what heaven would be like, so on the whole she was more than content to wait. On the morning of James's birthday, August the 5th, they felt extraordinary animation, and little notes passed between them by the hand of Smither while they were having breakfast in their beds. Smither was to go round and take their love and little presents and find out how Mr. James was, and whether he had passed a good night with all the excitement. And on the way back would Smither call in at Green Street. It was a little out of her way, but she could take the bus up Bond Street afterwards. It would be a nice little change for her, and ask dear Mrs. Darty to be sure and look in before she went out of town. All this Smither did. An undeniable servant trained many years ago under Aunt Anne to a perfection not now procurable. Mr. James, so Mrs. James said, had passed an excellent night. He sent his love. Mrs. James had said he was very funny, and had complained that he didn't know what all the fuss was about. Oh, and Mrs. Darty sent her love, and she would come to tea. Aunt Julie and Hester rather hurt that their presence had not received special mention. They forgot every year that James could not bear to receive presents. Throwing away their money on him, as he always called it, were delighted. He'd showed that James was in good spirits, and that was so important for him. And they began to wait for Winifred. She came at four, bringing Imogen and Maud just back from school, and getting such a pretty girl, too. So that it was extremely difficult to ask for news about Annette. Aunt Julie, however, summoned courage to inquire whether Winifred had heard anything, and if Somes was anxious. Uncle Somes is always anxious, aren't he, interrupted Imogen. He can't be happy now he's got it. The words struck familiarly on Aunt Julie's ears. Ah, yes, that funny drawing of George's, which had not been shown them. But what did Imogen mean that her uncle had always wanted more than he could have? It was not at all nice to think like that. Imogen's voice rose clear and clipped. Imagine, Annette's only two years older than me. It must be awful for her married to Uncle Somes. Aunt Julie lifted her hands in horror. My dear, she said, you don't know what you're talking about. Your Uncle Somes is a match for anybody. He's a very clever man, and a good-looking, and wealthy, and most considerate and careful, and not at all old considering everything." Imogen, turning her luscious glance from one to the other of the old dears, only smiled. I hope, said Aunt Julie, quite severely, that you will marry as good a man. I shan't marry a good man, aren't I? murmured Imogen. They're dull. If you go on like this, replied Aunt Julie, still very much upset, you won't marry anybody. We'd better not pursue the subject. And turning to Winifred, she said, how is Montague? That evening, while they were waiting for dinner, she murmured, I've told Smitha to get up half a bottle of the sweet champagne-hester. I think we ought to drink, dear James's health. And the health of Somes's wife, only, let's keep that quite secret. I'll just say like this, and you know, Hester, and then we'll drink. It might upset Timothy. It's more likely to upset us, said Aunt Hester. But we must, I suppose, for such an occasion. Yes, said Aunt Julie rapturously, it is an occasion. Only fancy if he has a dear little boy to carry the family on. I do feel it's so important, now that Irene has had a son. Winifred says George is calling Jolian the three-decker, because of his three families. You know, George is droll. And fancy, Irene is living after all in the house Somes had built for them both. It does seem hard on dear Somes, and he's always been so regular. That night in bed, excited, and a little flushed still by her glass of wine, and the secrecy of the second toast, she lay with her prayer-book open flat, and her eyes fixed on a ceiling yellowed by the light from her reading-lamp. Young things! It was so nice for them all, and she would be so happy if she could see dear Somes happy. But of course he must be now, in spite of what Imogen had said. He would have all that he wanted, property and wife and children, and he would live to a green old age like his dear father, and forget all about Irene and that dreadful case, if only she herself could be here to buy his children their first rocking-horse. Smither should choose it for her at the stores, nice and dappled. How Roger used to rock her until she fell off! Oh, dear, that was a long time ago. It was. In my father's house are many mansions. A little scratting noise caught her ear. But no mice, she thought mechanically. The noise increased. There it was a mouse. How naughty of Smither to say there wasn't. It would be eating through the wainscot before they knew where they were, and they would have to have the builders in. They were such destructive things. And she lay with her eyes just moving, following in her mind that little scratling sound, and waiting for sleep to release her from it. End of Part 3, Chapter 11. Part 3, Chapter 12 of Inchancery. 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 Eva Harnick, Ponte Vedra, Florida. The Foresight Saga, Volume 2, Inchancery, by John Galls-Wersey. Part 3, Chapter 12. Birth of a Foresight. Serms walked out of the garden door, crossed the lawn, stood on the pass above the river, turned round, and walked back to the garden door without having realized that he had moved. The sound of wheels crunching the drive convinced him that time had passed and the doctor gone. What exactly had he said? This is the position, Mr. Foresight. I can make pretty certain of her life if I operate, but the baby will be born dead. If I don't operate, the baby will most probably be born alive, but it is a great risk for the mother, a great risk. In either case, I don't think she can ever have another child. In her state, she obviously can't decide for herself and we can't wait for her mother. It is for you to make the decision while I am getting what is necessary. I shall be back within the hour. A decision? What a decision? No time to get a specialist down. No time for anything. The sound of wheels died away, but some still stood in tent. Then suddenly covering his ears, he walked back to the river. To come before its time like this with no chance to foresee anything, not even to get her mother here. It was for her mother to make that decision and she could not arrive from Paris till tonight. If only he could have understood the doctor's jargon, the medical niceties, so as to be sure he was weighing the chances properly. But they were Greek to him like a legal problem to a layman, and yet he must decide. He brought his hand away from his brow wet, though the air was chilly. These sounds which came from her room to go back there would only make it more difficult. He must become clear. On the one hand life nearly certain of his young wife, death quite certain of his child and no more children afterwards. On the other death perhaps of his wife, nearly certain life for the child and no more children afterwards. Which to choose? It had rained this last fortnight. The river was very full and in the water collected round the little houseboat moored by his landing stage where many leaves from the woods above brought off by a frost. Leaves fell, lives drifted down, death. To decide about death and no one to give him a hand. Life was lost for good, let nothing go that you could keep, for if it went you could not get it back. It left you bare like those trees when they lost their leaves, bare-ered and bare-ered until you too withered and came down. And by a queer summer sort of sort he seemed to see not a net lying up there behind that window pane on which the sun was shining, but Irene lying in their bedroom in Montpellier Square as it might conceivably have been her fate to lie sixteen years ago. Would he have hesitated then? Not a moment, operate, operate, make certain of her life, no decision, a mad instinctive cry for help in spite of his knowledge even then that she did not love him. Ah, there was nothing over-mastering in his feeling for Annette. Many times these last months, especially since she had been growing frightened, he had wondered. She had a will of her own, was selfish in her French way, and yet so pretty. What would she wish to take the risk? I know she wants the child, he sought. If it is born dead and no more chance afterwards it will upset her terribly. No more chance, all for nothing. Married life with her for years and years without the child, nothing to steady her. She is too young, nothing to look forward to for her, for me, for me. He struck his hands against his chest. Why couldn't he think without bringing himself in? Get out of himself and see what he ought to do. The sword hurt him, then lost edge as if it had come in contact with a breastplate. Out of oneself, impossible. Out into soundless, sentless, touchless, sightless space. The very idea was ghastly, futile, and touching there the bedrock of reality, the bottom of his foresight spirit, soams, rested for a moment. When one seized, all seized. It might go on, but there would be nothing in it. He looked at his watch. In half an hour the doctor would be back. He must decide. If against the operation and she died, how face her mother and the doctor afterwards? How face his own conscience? It was his child that she was having. If for the operation, then he condemned them both to childlessness. And for what else had he merit her but to have a lawful heir? Put his father at death's door, waiting for the news. It is cruel, he sought. I ought never to have such a thing to settle. It is cruel. He turned towards the house, some deep simple way of deciding. He took out a coin and put it back. If he spun it, he knew he would not abide by what came up. He went into the dining room, farthest away from that room whence the sounds issued. The doctor had said there was a chance. In here that chance seemed greater. The river did not flow, nor the leaves fall. A fire was burning. Soams unlocked the temples. He hardly ever touched spirits, but now he poured himself out some whisky and drank it neat, craving a faster flow of blood. That fellow Jolion he sought. He had children already. He has the woman I really loved, and now a son by her. And I am asked to destroy my only child. Annette can't die. It is not possible. She is strong. He was still standing sullenly at the sideboard when he heard the doctor's carriage and went out to him. He had to wait for him to come downstairs. Well, doctor, the situation is the same. Have you decided? Yes, said Soams. Don't operate. Not? You understand. The risk is great. In Soams's set face nothing moved but the lips. You said there was a chance. A chance, yes, not much of one. You say the baby must be born dead if you do. Yes. Do you still think that in any case she can't have another? One can't be absolutely sure, but it is most unlikely. She is strong, said Soams. We will take the risk. The doctor looked at him very gravely. It is on your shoulders, he said, with my own wife I couldn't. Soams' chin jerked up as if someone had hit him. Am I of any use up there, he asked? No, keep away. I shall be in my picture gallery then. You know where. The doctor nodded and went upstairs. Soams continued to stand listening. By this time tomorrow, he thought, I may have her death on my hands. No, it was unfair, monstrous, to put it that way. Sullen nurse dropped on him again, and he went up to the gallery. He stood at the window. The wind was in the north. It was cold, clear, very blue sky, heavy rugged white clouds chasing across. The river blew, too, through and a screen of goldening trees. The woods all rich with color, glowing, burnished and early autumn. If it were his own life, would he be taking that risk? But she would take the risk of losing me, he thought, sooner than lose her child. She doesn't really love me. What could one expect, a girl and French? The ones sing really vital to them both, vital to their marriage and their futures, was a child. I have been through a lot for this, he thought. I will hold on, hold on. There is a chance of keeping both, a chance. One kept till things were taken. One naturally kept. He began walking round the gallery. He had made one purchase lately, which he knew was a fortune in itself, and he halted before it. A girl with dull gold hair, which looked like filaments of metal gazing at a little golden monster she was holding in her hand. Even at this tortured moment, he could just feel the extraordinary nature of the bargain he had made. Admired the quality of the table, the floor, the chair, the gas figure, the absorbed expression on her face, the dull gold filaments of her hair, the bright gold of the little monster, collecting pictures, growing richer, richer. What use if? He turned his back abruptly on the picture and went to the window. Some of his doves had flown up from their purchase round the dove cot, and were stretching their wings in the wind. In the clear, sharp sunlight, their whiteness almost flashed. They flew far, making a flung up hieroglyphic against the sky. Annette fed the doves. It was pretty to see her. They took it out of her hand. They knew she was matter of fact. A choking sensation came into his throat. She would not, could not die. She was too, too sensible. And she was strong, really strong, like her mother in spite of her fair prettiness. It was already growing dark when at last he opened the door and stood listening, not a sound. A milky twilight crept about the stairway and the landings below. He had turned back when a sound caught his ear. Peering down, he saw a black shape moving, and his heart stood still. What was it, death, the shape of death coming from her door? No, only made without cap or apron. She came to the foot of his flight of stairs and said, breastlessly, The doctor wants to see you, sir. He ran down. She stood flat against the wall to let him pass and said, Oh, sir, it is over. Over, said Somes, with a sort of menace. What do you mean? It is born, sir. He dashed up the four steps in front of him and came suddenly on the doctor in the dim passage. The man was wiping his brow. Well, he said, quick, both living. It is all right, I think. Somes stood quite still, covering his eyes. I congratulate you, he heard the doctor say. It was touch and go. Somes let fall the hand which was covering his face. Thanks, he said. Thanks very much. What is it? Daughter, luckily, a son would have killed her, the head. A daughter. The utmost care of both, he hears the doctor say, and we shall do. When does the mother come? Tonight, between nine and 10, I hope. I will stay till then. Do you want to see them? Not now, said Somes, before you go. I will have dinner sent up to you, and he went downstairs. Relief unspeakable, and yet a daughter. It seemed to him unfair to have taken that risk to have been through this agony. And what agony for a daughter? He stood before the blazing fire of wood logs in the hall, touching it with his toe and trying to readjust himself. My father, he sought, a bitter disappointment, no disguising it. One never got all one wanted in this life. And there was no other, at least if there was, it was no use. Where he was standing there, a telegram was brought him. Come up at once, your father sinking fast, mother. He read it with a choking sensation. One would have thought he couldn't feel anything after these last hours, but he felt this. Hapa, seven, a train from Reading at nine, and Madame's train, if she had caught it, came in at 8.40. He would meet that and go on. He ordered the carriage, ate some dinner mechanically, and went upstairs. The doctor came out to him. They are sleeping. I won't go in, said Soames, with relief. My father is dying. I have to go up. Is it all right? The doctor's face expressed a kind of doubting admiration. But they were all as unemotional, he might have been saying. Yes, I think you may go with an easy mind. You will be done soon. Tomorrow, said Soames, here is the address. The doctor seemed to hover on the verge of sympathy. Good night, said Soames abruptly and turned away. He put on his fur coat, death. It was a chilly business. He smoked a cigarette in the carriage, one of his rare cigarettes. The night was windy and flew on black wings. The carriage lights had to search out the way. His father, that old, old man, a comfortless night to die. The London train came in just as he reached the station, and Madame Lamotte's substantial dark-closed, very yellow in the lamp light came towards the exit with a dressing bag. This is all you have, asked Soames. But yes, I had not the time. How is my little one? Doing well, both, a girl. A girl, what joy! I had a frightful crossing. Her black bark, solid, unreduced by the frightful crossing, climbed into the brawn. In humor's share, my father is dying, said Soames, between his teeth. I am going up, give my love to Annette. Cheers, murmured Madame Lamotte, calmer lure. Soames took his hat off and moved towards his train, the French he sought. End of Part 3, Chapter 12, Décording by Eva Harnick, Pontavedra, Florida.