I confess that I prayed to God while I was sitting there. Timothy has always been my baby since our dear mother died when Susan was born, and it was dreadful to me to think that he might be taking a step that would lead to his unhappiness. I could not see what he could be writing and tearing up to Hatty except a proposal of marriage. His forehead had been flushed, and his eyes looked quite glassy. It seemed a very long time that I sat there. The Bayswater Road was quite quiet, and the lights of the Exhibition in the Park were so pretty, and there were stars in the sky, I always think they are wonderful, so bright and so far off. I could not tatt properly for thinking of dear Timothy. And still he did not come up, though it grew very late. I knew that he must be sitting up to let Hetty in; and that probably he would then give her the letter he had been writing. I was in despair till I thought: When she comes I will go down myself and open the door to her, and perhaps Timothy will let me talk to him before he puts the ‘fat in the fire’ as James would say. My nerves became all fiddlestrings, so at last I took up the works of Mr. Cowper, and tried to calm myself. The carriages and cabs were coming now bringing back people from the theatres and the Exhibition, and I knew I had not long to wait. I was just reading those clever little verses on ‘The high price of fish’ when I saw a hansom cab stopping at our door. I must say it gave me quite a shock, and I rubbed my eyes, because I had made sure that the Traquairs would bring Hatty back in their carriage. A man got out first in an opera cloak and hat, and then I saw him quite plainly assisting Hatty to alight. He placed her on the ground and lifted her hand to his lips, and I could see her look at him so archly. He got back into the cab and drove away. It was Mr. Chessman. At first I was so paralysed at the thought that she had driven all the way with him from the opera, ALONE IN THE CAB, that I could not move. Then I wondered whether Timothy also had seen what I had seen. In my disturbance I ran down stairs into the hall. The door of his room was shut and there was the bell ringing. He did not come out, so then I knew that he must have seen. I am afraid I did a very unladylike thing, for I stood outside his door and listened. From my own feelings I could tell what a shock it must have been to him to know that the lady to whom he was about to offer his hand had driven alone at night with a comparative stranger in one of those new cabs which are so private. I could hear a noise, indeed, as if someone were breathing very hard–it was a dreadful moment; then, afraid that he might do something violent, I ran to the front door and opened it. There was Hatty, as cool as a cucumber. I am thankful now that I said nothing to her, but she must have seen from my face that I knew everything. ‘Well,’ she said, pertly, ‘here we are again! Such a treat, dear Papa! Good-night, Miss Forsyte!’ and ran upstairs. My heart bled for Timothy. I listened again at his door, and could hear him walking up and down just like an animal in the Zoo. He went on for quite a long time, for though he does not show them, he has always had very deep feelings. You cannot imagine what a relief it was when suddenly I heard him begin to whistle ‘Pop goes the weasel!’ I knew, then, that the worst was over; and, though he was still walking up and down, I stole upstairs as quietly as a mouse. I am sure I was right in thinking that discretion was the better part of valour. Timothy cannot bear anyone to see him affected in any way, it puts him into a perfect fantod. When I got to my room I fell on my knees, and thanked God for this providential escape: though, when I think of Hatty in that cab, I feel that the ways of Providence are indeed inscrutable. It is a great relief to me to think that by now Timothy must be on the Pier at Brighton with the good sea air, and all the distractions…
“June 1. Hatty left us today. I should be sorry to say that I think her ‘fast,’ I am sure she really has a good heart, but I confess that I feel her influence on Juley and Hester has been unsettling–she is of course much younger than they, and the young people of today seem to have no deportment, and very little sense of duty or indeed of manners. I really find it difficult to forgive her for the flippant thing she said at the last minute: ‘Tell Timothy that I’m sorry if I astonished his weak nerves.’ And she whisked off before I could even answer…
“June 6. Timothy is still at Brighton. Hester had a letter from him yesterday in which he said that he had walked up to the Devil’s Punchbowl and that it had done his liver good. He has seen the performing fleas too, and the aquarium. Swithin has been down, he says, driving his new greys–he–Timothy–does not think much of them; but, of course, he is not the judge of a horse that Swithin is. He made no allusion to Hatty in his letter, so I hope the wound is beginning to heal. Jolyon came in this afternoon when the girls were out, and told me of a picture he had bought ‘Dutch fishing boats at Sunset’–he has such good judgment. He was so genial that I opened my heart to him about Timothy and Hatty. He twinkled and said:
“‘H’m! Timothy had a narrow squeak.’ It was so well put, I think…
“June 11. Everybody says the Exhibition is a great success, in spite of all the foreigners that it has attracted. Prince Albert has become quite popular. Hester had a letter from Hatty this morning. Fancy! She has received an offer of marriage from Mr. Chessman. It is such a relief, because quite apart from dear Timothy, it has always been on my conscience that it was from our house that she behaved as she did. And now that Timothy comes home tomorrow everything is for the best, if only this news does not reopen his wound…”
Soames let the little red volume drop and took up the yellowed letter. He balanced it in his hand, feeling its thin and slightly greasy texture. So that was that! He cackled faintly. The quaint old things! But suddenly his veins tingled with a flush of loyalty. Nobody should laugh at them except himself! No, by Jove! And, taking the little volumes and the letter, he pitched them one by one into the wood fire.
AUNT JULEY’S COURTSHIP, 1855
The Crimean war and the marriage of Septimus Small with Miss Julia Forsyte, which both occupied part of the year 1855, were linked by a water picnic arranged for the entertainment of that ‘hero,’ Major Small, a younger brother of Septimus, who had been wounded in the leg. What bound Septimus himself to the Forsyte family was indubitably architecture, for he was a member of the firm of Dewbridge, Small and Keyman, who specialised in the domestic Gothic, which at that period was subjugating the taste of the British Islands. Roger Forsyte, in the course of his profession–the collection of house property–had many dealings with this firm which had designed for him a row of houses on a site he had picked up in Kensington, then somewhat out of the world; and to Septimus Small’s riverside villa at Twickenham Roger sometimes repaired on Sundays to consummate his plans over cigars and claret cup. After his marriage in 1853 he would be accompanied by Mrs. Roger, and they would take her on the river, paddling with a rather deep-sea stroke, in long whiskers, ducks, and shallow wide-brimmed straw hats, while pretty little Mrs. Roger held the tiller and covered the boat’s stern and other matters with her crinoline. In the severe winter 1854 Septimus, a man of weak constitution, inadvertently contracted bronchitis. He emerged with the long full beard and the cough which subsequently secured for him the cognomen ‘Cough Lozenge’ from the young Rogers, who all made their appearance between the years of ‘53 and ‘62–George, inventor of the nickname, having ‘56 to his vintage. There can be no doubt that it was this cough and long beard which won the heart of Julia, then barely ‘Aunt Juley,’ since only young Jolyon, young Roger, young Nicholas, Ernest, and St. John Hayman had been born, and were still mostly in the cradle. When, years later, she heard that dear Septimus went about being called ‘Cough Lozenge’ in the family, she nearly had a fit.
In 1855, at the age of forty, she had a certain pink and pouting charm; but would have denied with vigour Roger’s frequent remark to Mrs. Roger: “Juley’s setting her cap at Sep.” The idea! HER cap, indeed, when it was entirely for HIS good, and his least cough set her trembling with a sort of delighted pity! He did so want someone to look after him and see that he took care at night, and to trim his beard, that was so manly and so sensible, covering his chest. To her the notion that anyone so interesting-looking, almost handsome, should be a ‘confirmed bachelor,’ as Roger put it, was painful. Her sister Susan, too, seven years younger than herself, and already for three years wedded to John Hayman, was always telling her how John admired her in this dress or in that, and had once gone so far as to imply that he admired her in nothing–so daring of Susan–not quite nice!
When, then, in July of 1855 she was invited to come with Roger and his wife to this water picnic, she was all of a flutter and gave much thought to her costume. She came out finally in pink with green ribbons in her bonnet, and a perfectly new crinoline. Roger, living then in Bayswater, warming a house that he intended to sell shortly at a reasonable profit–not till ‘sixty-nine did he anchor himself permanently in Prince’s Gate–called for her with his carriage of a new-fangled shape named ‘Victoria’ (always so unusual, Roger–eccentric, some people called it). On the way down to Twickenham he had to sit back to the horses on a narrow little seat that came out from below the high box, and was propped up with an iron stand; and he was so cross that it was quite a relief to them all three when they arrived, and dear Mr. Small met them at the gate, looking most manly in a puggaree and white trousers–‘ducks,’ Roger called them, he was so droll. In his hand, too, he had a bunch of picotees, and held them to her nose with quite an air. “These are for you, Miss Julia,” he said. Tucked into her fichu they went beautifully with her dress, and were so fragrant; it would have been perfect if Roger had not closed his left eye quickly two or three times. As if–! Then they all went into the house to meet Major Small and have light refreshment before going on the river.
‘Parsons’ Villa’ (Aunt Juley subsequently changed the name to Sunninglea) had not been built by Dewbridge, Small and Keyman; it was in fact Georgian, on two floors, with French windows from the drawing-room on to the lawn, the river close below, and a little island opposite. In the drawing-room were four persons, making eight in all for the picnic: Major Small, a fine, full-bearded figure of a man, with a stiff leg, in a tussore suit; Hatty Chessman, always the life and soul of any party, and–“Who do you think, my dear?”–Augustus Perry; almost famous for those delightful books with music and rhymes in them, and his recitals at parties. It was he who made up that ‘Round’ which became so popular:
“A boat, a boat unto the ferry,
And we’ll go over and be merry,
And laugh and quaff and sing Down-derry.”
And he had witty variations for the last line, such as: “And laugh and quaff and drink brown sherry,” or: “And laugh and quaff–Augustus Perry.”
Seated on a chintz-covered chair with a glass of sherry cobbler in her hand, and a bowl of lavender close to her nose, Julia could not help looking at Mrs. Augustus Perry and wondering a little if she liked being the wife of anyone so popular, so sought after as Gus Perry, who played the guitar, too. She was hoping so much that she herself would not be in a boat with Roger–he was such a tease, especially if their dear host were in the same boat.
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“June 1. Hatty left us today. I should be sorry to say that I think her ‘fast,’ I am sure she really has a good heart, but I confess that I feel her influence on Juley and Hester has been unsettling–she is of course much younger than they, and the young people of today seem to have no deportment, and very little sense of duty or indeed of manners. I really find it difficult to forgive her for the flippant thing she said at the last minute: ‘Tell Timothy that I’m sorry if I astonished his weak nerves.’ And she whisked off before I could even answer…
“June 6. Timothy is still at Brighton. Hester had a letter from him yesterday in which he said that he had walked up to the Devil’s Punchbowl and that it had done his liver good. He has seen the performing fleas too, and the aquarium. Swithin has been down, he says, driving his new greys–he–Timothy–does not think much of them; but, of course, he is not the judge of a horse that Swithin is. He made no allusion to Hatty in his letter, so I hope the wound is beginning to heal. Jolyon came in this afternoon when the girls were out, and told me of a picture he had bought ‘Dutch fishing boats at Sunset’–he has such good judgment. He was so genial that I opened my heart to him about Timothy and Hatty. He twinkled and said:
“‘H’m! Timothy had a narrow squeak.’ It was so well put, I think…
“June 11. Everybody says the Exhibition is a great success, in spite of all the foreigners that it has attracted. Prince Albert has become quite popular. Hester had a letter from Hatty this morning. Fancy! She has received an offer of marriage from Mr. Chessman. It is such a relief, because quite apart from dear Timothy, it has always been on my conscience that it was from our house that she behaved as she did. And now that Timothy comes home tomorrow everything is for the best, if only this news does not reopen his wound…”
Soames let the little red volume drop and took up the yellowed letter. He balanced it in his hand, feeling its thin and slightly greasy texture. So that was that! He cackled faintly. The quaint old things! But suddenly his veins tingled with a flush of loyalty. Nobody should laugh at them except himself! No, by Jove! And, taking the little volumes and the letter, he pitched them one by one into the wood fire.
AUNT JULEY’S COURTSHIP, 1855
The Crimean war and the marriage of Septimus Small with Miss Julia Forsyte, which both occupied part of the year 1855, were linked by a water picnic arranged for the entertainment of that ‘hero,’ Major Small, a younger brother of Septimus, who had been wounded in the leg. What bound Septimus himself to the Forsyte family was indubitably architecture, for he was a member of the firm of Dewbridge, Small and Keyman, who specialised in the domestic Gothic, which at that period was subjugating the taste of the British Islands. Roger Forsyte, in the course of his profession–the collection of house property–had many dealings with this firm which had designed for him a row of houses on a site he had picked up in Kensington, then somewhat out of the world; and to Septimus Small’s riverside villa at Twickenham Roger sometimes repaired on Sundays to consummate his plans over cigars and claret cup. After his marriage in 1853 he would be accompanied by Mrs. Roger, and they would take her on the river, paddling with a rather deep-sea stroke, in long whiskers, ducks, and shallow wide-brimmed straw hats, while pretty little Mrs. Roger held the tiller and covered the boat’s stern and other matters with her crinoline. In the severe winter 1854 Septimus, a man of weak constitution, inadvertently contracted bronchitis. He emerged with the long full beard and the cough which subsequently secured for him the cognomen ‘Cough Lozenge’ from the young Rogers, who all made their appearance between the years of ‘53 and ‘62–George, inventor of the nickname, having ‘56 to his vintage. There can be no doubt that it was this cough and long beard which won the heart of Julia, then barely ‘Aunt Juley,’ since only young Jolyon, young Roger, young Nicholas, Ernest, and St. John Hayman had been born, and were still mostly in the cradle. When, years later, she heard that dear Septimus went about being called ‘Cough Lozenge’ in the family, she nearly had a fit.
In 1855, at the age of forty, she had a certain pink and pouting charm; but would have denied with vigour Roger’s frequent remark to Mrs. Roger: “Juley’s setting her cap at Sep.” The idea! HER cap, indeed, when it was entirely for HIS good, and his least cough set her trembling with a sort of delighted pity! He did so want someone to look after him and see that he took care at night, and to trim his beard, that was so manly and so sensible, covering his chest. To her the notion that anyone so interesting-looking, almost handsome, should be a ‘confirmed bachelor,’ as Roger put it, was painful. Her sister Susan, too, seven years younger than herself, and already for three years wedded to John Hayman, was always telling her how John admired her in this dress or in that, and had once gone so far as to imply that he admired her in nothing–so daring of Susan–not quite nice!
When, then, in July of 1855 she was invited to come with Roger and his wife to this water picnic, she was all of a flutter and gave much thought to her costume. She came out finally in pink with green ribbons in her bonnet, and a perfectly new crinoline. Roger, living then in Bayswater, warming a house that he intended to sell shortly at a reasonable profit–not till ‘sixty-nine did he anchor himself permanently in Prince’s Gate–called for her with his carriage of a new-fangled shape named ‘Victoria’ (always so unusual, Roger–eccentric, some people called it). On the way down to Twickenham he had to sit back to the horses on a narrow little seat that came out from below the high box, and was propped up with an iron stand; and he was so cross that it was quite a relief to them all three when they arrived, and dear Mr. Small met them at the gate, looking most manly in a puggaree and white trousers–‘ducks,’ Roger called them, he was so droll. In his hand, too, he had a bunch of picotees, and held them to her nose with quite an air. “These are for you, Miss Julia,” he said. Tucked into her fichu they went beautifully with her dress, and were so fragrant; it would have been perfect if Roger had not closed his left eye quickly two or three times. As if–! Then they all went into the house to meet Major Small and have light refreshment before going on the river.
‘Parsons’ Villa’ (Aunt Juley subsequently changed the name to Sunninglea) had not been built by Dewbridge, Small and Keyman; it was in fact Georgian, on two floors, with French windows from the drawing-room on to the lawn, the river close below, and a little island opposite. In the drawing-room were four persons, making eight in all for the picnic: Major Small, a fine, full-bearded figure of a man, with a stiff leg, in a tussore suit; Hatty Chessman, always the life and soul of any party, and–“Who do you think, my dear?”–Augustus Perry; almost famous for those delightful books with music and rhymes in them, and his recitals at parties. It was he who made up that ‘Round’ which became so popular:
“A boat, a boat unto the ferry,
And we’ll go over and be merry,
And laugh and quaff and sing Down-derry.”
And he had witty variations for the last line, such as: “And laugh and quaff and drink brown sherry,” or: “And laugh and quaff–Augustus Perry.”
Seated on a chintz-covered chair with a glass of sherry cobbler in her hand, and a bowl of lavender close to her nose, Julia could not help looking at Mrs. Augustus Perry and wondering a little if she liked being the wife of anyone so popular, so sought after as Gus Perry, who played the guitar, too. She was hoping so much that she herself would not be in a boat with Roger–he was such a tease, especially if their dear host were in the same boat.
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