The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

But the significance of an affair of this sort--of its past, its

present, or its future--had never struck him. What it meant, what

torture and raptures had gone to its construction, what slow,

overmastering fate had lurked within the facts, very naked, sometimes

sordid, but generally spicy, presented to his gaze. He was not in the

habit of blaming, praising, drawing deductions, or generalizing at all

about such things; he simply listened rather greedily, and repeated what

he was told, finding considerable benefit from the practice, as from the

consumption of a sherry and bitters before a meal.

Now, however, that such a thing--or rather the rumour, the breath of

it--had come near him personally, he felt as in a fog, which filled

his mouth full of a bad, thick flavour, and made it difficult to draw

breath.

A scandal! A possible scandal!

To repeat this word to himself thus was the only way in which he could

focus or make it thinkable. He had forgotten the sensations necessary

for understanding the progress, fate, or meaning of any such business;

he simply could no longer grasp the possibilities of people running any

risk for the sake of passion.

Amongst all those persons of his acquaintance, who went into the City

day after day and did their business there, whatever it was, and in

their leisure moments bought shares, and houses, and ate dinners, and

played games, as he was told, it would have seemed to him ridiculous to

suppose that there were any who would run risks for the sake of anything

so recondite, so figurative, as passion.

Passion! He seemed, indeed, to have heard of it, and rules such as 'A

young man and a young woman ought never to be trusted together' were

fixed in his mind as the parallels of latitude are fixed on a map (for

all Forsytes, when it comes to 'bed-rock' matters of fact, have quite

a fine taste in realism); but as to anything else--well, he could only

appreciate it at all through the catch-word 'scandal.'

Ah! but there was no truth in it--could not be. He was not afraid; she

was really a good little thing. But there it was when you got a thing

like that into your mind. And James was of a nervous temperament--one

of those men whom things will not leave alone, who suffer tortures from

anticipation and indecision. For fear of letting something slip that

he might otherwise secure, he was physically unable to make up his mind

until absolutely certain that, by not making it up, he would suffer

loss.

In life, however, there were many occasions when the business of making

up his mind did not even rest with himself, and this was one of them.