The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

It was not far to the Offices of the New Colliery Company in Ironmonger

Lane, where, and not at the Cannon Street Hotel, in accordance with

the more ambitious practice of other companies, the General Meeting

was always held. Old Jolyon had from the first set his face against the

Press. What business--he said--had the Public with his concerns!

Soames arrived on the stroke of time, and took his seat alongside the

Board, who, in a row, each Director behind his own ink-pot, faced their

Shareholders.

In the centre of this row old Jolyon, conspicuous in his black,

tightly-buttoned frock-coat and his white moustaches, was leaning

back with finger tips crossed on a copy of the Directors' report and

accounts.

On his right hand, always a little larger than life, sat the Secretary,

'Down-by-the-starn' Hemmings; an all-too-sad sadness beaming in his fine

eyes; his iron-grey beard, in mourning like the rest of him, giving the

feeling of an all-too-black tie behind it.

The occasion indeed was a melancholy one, only six weeks having elapsed

since that telegram had come from Scorrier, the mining expert, on

a private mission to the Mines, informing them that Pippin, their

Superintendent, had committed suicide in endeavouring, after his

extraordinary two years' silence, to write a letter to his Board. That

letter was on the table now; it would be read to the Shareholders, who

would of course be put into possession of all the facts.

Hemmings had often said to Soames, standing with his coat-tails divided

before the fireplace:

"What our Shareholders don't know about our affairs isn't worth knowing.

You may take that from me, Mr. Soames."

On one occasion, old Jolyon being present, Soames recollected a little

unpleasantness. His uncle had looked up sharply and said: "Don't

talk nonsense, Hemmings! You mean that what they do know isn't worth

knowing!" Old Jolyon detested humbug.

Hemmings, angry-eyed, and wearing a smile like that of a trained poodle,

had replied in an outburst of artificial applause: "Come, now, that's

good, sir--that's very good. Your uncle will have his joke!"

The next time he had seen Soames he had taken the opportunity of saying

to him: "The chairman's getting very old!--I can't get him to understand

things; and he's so wilful--but what can you expect, with a chin like

his?"

Soames had nodded.

Everyone knew that Uncle Jolyon's chin was a caution. He was looking

worried to-day, in spite of his General Meeting look; he (Soames) should

certainly speak to him about Bosinney.

Beyond old Jolyon on the left was little Mr. Booker, and he, too, wore

his General Meeting look, as though searching for some particularly

tender shareholder. And next him was the deaf director, with a frown;

and beyond the deaf director, again, was old Mr. Bleedham, very bland,

and having an air of conscious virtue--as well he might, knowing that

the brown-paper parcel he always brought to the Board-room was concealed

behind his hat (one of that old-fashioned class, of flat-brimmed

top-hats which go with very large bow ties, clean-shaven lips, fresh

cheeks, and neat little, white whiskers).