If we could only point to a reason for existence. But it’s difficult, Forsyte, it’s difficult.’
‘They’ve got everything they want,’ said Soames.
‘Not enough, my dear Forsyte, not enough; the condition of the world is on the nerves of the young. England’s dished, they say, Europe’s dished. Heaven’s dished, and so is Hell! No future in anything but the air. You can’t breed in the air; at least, I doubt it – the difficulties are considerable.’
Soames sniffed.
‘If only the journalists would hold their confounded pens,’ he said; for, more and more of late, with the decrescendo of scare in the daily Press, he was regaining the old sound Forsyte feeling of security. ‘We’ve only to keep clear of Europe,’ he added.
‘Keep clear and keep the ring! Forsyte, I believe you’ve hit it. Good friendly terms with Scandinavia, Holland, Spain, Italy, Turkey – all the outlying countries that we can get at by sea. And let the others dree their weirds. It’s an idea!’ How the chap rattled on!
‘I’m no politician,’ said Soames.
‘Keep the ring! The new formula. It’s what we’ve been coming to unconsciously! And as to trade – to say we can’t do without trading with this country or with that – bunkum, my dear Forsyte. The world’s large – we can.’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ said Soames. ‘I only know we must drop this foreign contract assurance.’
‘Why not confine it to the ring countries? Instead of “balance of power”, “keep the ring”! Really, it’s an inspiration!’
Thus charged with inspiration, Soames said hastily:
‘I leave you here, I’m going to my daughter’s.’
‘Ah! I’m going to my son’s. Look at these poor devils!’
Down by the Embankment at Blackfriars a band of unemployed were trailing dismally with money-boxes.
‘Revolution in the bud! There’s one thing that’s always forgotten, Forsyte, it’s a great pity.’
‘What’s that?’ said Soames, with gloom. The fellow would tittup all the way to Fleur’s!
‘Wash the working-class, put them in clean, pleasant-coloured jeans, teach ’em to speak like you and me, and there’d be an end of class feeling. It’s all a matter of the senses. Wouldn’t you rather share a bedroom with a clean, neat-clothed plumber’s assistant who spoke and smelled like you than with a profiteer who dropped his aitches and reeked of opoponax? Of course you would.’
‘Never tried,’ said Soames, ‘so don’t know.’
‘Pragmatist! But believe me, Forsyte – if the working class would concentrate on baths and accent instead of on their political and economic tosh, equality would be here in no time.’
‘I don’t want equality,’ said Soames, taking his ticket to Westminster.
The ‘tittupping’ voice pursued him entering the tube lift.
‘Aesthetic equality, Forsyte, if we had it, would remove the wish for any other. Did you ever catch an impecunious professor wishing he was the King?’
‘No,’ said Soames, opening his paper.
Chapter Eight
BICKET
BENEATH its veneer of cheerful irresponsibility, the character of Michael Mont had deepened during two years of anchorage and continuity. He had been obliged to think of others; and his time was occupied. Conscious, from the fall of the flag, that he was on sufferance with Fleur, admitting as whole the half-truth: ‘Il y a toujours un qui baise, et l’autre qui tend la joue,’ he had developed real powers of domestic consideration; and yet he did not seem to redress the balance in his public or publishing existence. He found the human side of his business too strong for the monetary. Danby and Winter, however, were bearing up against him, and showed, so far, no signs of the bankruptcy prophesied for them by Soames on being told of the principles which his son-in-law intended to introduce. No more in publishing than in any other walk of life was Michael finding it possible to work too much on principle. The field of action was so strewn with facts – human, vegetable and mineral.
On this same Tuesday afternoon, having long tussled with the price of those vegetable facts, paper and linen, he was listening with his pointed ears to the plaint of a packer discovered with five copies of Copper Coin in his overcoat pocket, and the too obvious intention of converting them to his own use.
Mr Danby had ‘given him the sack’ – he didn’t deny that he was going to sell them, but what would Mr Mont have done? He owed rent – and his wife wanted nourishing after pneumonia – wanted it bad. ‘Dash it!’ thought Michael, ‘I’d snoop an edition to nourish Fleur after pneumonia!’
‘And I can’t live on my wages with prices what they are. I can’t, Mr Mont, so help me!’
Michael swivelled. ‘But look here, Bicket, if we let you snoop copies, all the packers will snoop copies; and if they do, where are Danby and Winter? In the cart. And, if they’re in the cart, where are all of you? In the street. It’s better that one of you should be in the street than that all of you should, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir, I quite see your point – it’s reason; but I can’t live on reason, the least thing knocks you out, when you’re on the bread line. Ask Mr Danby to give me another chance.’
‘Mr Danby always says that a packer’s work is particularly confidential, because it’s almost impossible to keep a check on it.’
‘Yes, sir, I should feel that in future; but with all this unemployment and no reference, I’ll never get another job. What about my wife?’
To Michael it was as if he had said: ‘What about Fleur?’ He began to pace the room; and the young man Bicket looked at him with large dolorous eyes.
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