The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

Soames always attended the General Meeting; it was considered better

that he should do so, in case 'anything should arise!' He glanced round

with his close, supercilious air at the walls of the room, where hung

plans of the mine and harbour, together with a large photograph of

a shaft leading to a working which had proved quite remarkably

unprofitable. This photograph--a witness to the eternal irony underlying

commercial enterprise till retained its position on the--wall, an effigy

of the directors' pet, but dead, lamb.

And now old Jolyon rose, to present the report and accounts.

Veiling under a Jove-like serenity that perpetual antagonism deep-seated

in the bosom of a director towards his shareholders, he faced them

calmly. Soames faced them too. He knew most of them by sight. There was

old Scrubsole, a tar man, who always came, as Hemmings would say, 'to

make himself nasty,' a cantankerous-looking old fellow with a red face,

a jowl, and an enormous low-crowned hat reposing on his knee. And the

Rev. Mr. Boms, who always proposed a vote of thanks to the chairman, in

which he invariably expressed the hope that the Board would not forget

to elevate their employees, using the word with a double e, as

being more vigorous and Anglo-Saxon (he had the strong Imperialistic

tendencies of his cloth). It was his salutary custom to buttonhole a

director afterwards, and ask him whether he thought the coming year

would be good or bad; and, according to the trend of the answer, to buy

or sell three shares within the ensuing fortnight.

And there was that military man, Major O'Bally, who could not help

speaking, if only to second the re-election of the auditor, and who

sometimes caused serious consternation by taking toasts--proposals

rather--out of the hands of persons who had been flattered with little

slips of paper, entrusting the said proposals to their care.

These made up the lot, together with four or five strong, silent

shareholders, with whom Soames could sympathize--men of business, who

liked to keep an eye on their affairs for themselves, without being

fussy--good, solid men, who came to the City every day and went back in

the evening to good, solid wives.

Good, solid wives! There was something in that thought which roused the

nameless uneasiness in Soames again.

What should he say to his uncle? What answer should he make to this

letter?

. . . . "If any shareholder has any question to put, I shall be glad

to answer it." A soft thump. Old Jolyon had let the report and accounts

fall, and stood twisting his tortoise-shell glasses between thumb and

forefinger.