The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

He rose, and, going to the cabinet, began methodically stocking his

cigar-case from a bundle fresh in. They were not bad at the price, but

you couldn't get a good cigar, nowadays, nothing to hold a candle to

those old Superfinos of Hanson and Bridger's. That was a cigar!

The thought, like some stealing perfume, carried him back to those

wonderful nights at Richmond when after dinner he sat smoking on the

terrace of the Crown and Sceptre with Nicholas Treffry and Traquair and

Jack Herring and Anthony Thornworthy. How good his cigars were then!

Poor old Nick!--dead, and Jack Herring--dead, and Traquair--dead of

that wife of his, and Thornworthy--awfully shaky (no wonder, with his

appetite).

Of all the company of those days he himself alone seemed left, except

Swithin, of course, and he so outrageously big there was no doing

anything with him.

Difficult to believe it was so long ago; he felt young still! Of all

his thoughts, as he stood there counting his cigars, this was the most

poignant, the most bitter. With his white head and his loneliness he

had remained young and green at heart. And those Sunday afternoons on

Hampstead Heath, when young Jolyon and he went for a stretch along the

Spaniard's Road to Highgate, to Child's Hill, and back over the Heath

again to dine at Jack Straw's Castle--how delicious his cigars were

then! And such weather! There was no weather now.

When June was a toddler of five, and every other Sunday he took her to

the Zoo, away from the society of those two good women, her mother and

her grandmother, and at the top of the bear den baited his umbrella with

buns for her favourite bears, how sweet his cigars were then!

Cigars! He had not even succeeded in out-living his palate--the famous

palate that in the fifties men swore by, and speaking of him, said:

"Forsyte's the best palate in London!" The palate that in a sense had

made his fortune--the fortune of the celebrated tea men, Forsyte and

Treffry, whose tea, like no other man's tea, had a romantic aroma, the

charm of a quite singular genuineness. About the house of Forsyte and

Treffry in the City had clung an air of enterprise and mystery, of

special dealings in special ships, at special ports, with special

Orientals.

He had worked at that business! Men did work in those days! these young

pups hardly knew the meaning of the word. He had gone into every detail,

known everything that went on, sometimes sat up all night over it. And

he had always chosen his agents himself, prided himself on it. His eye

for men, he used to say, had been the secret of his success, and the

exercise of this masterful power of selection had been the only part of

it all that he had really liked. Not a career for a man of his ability.

Even now, when the business had been turned into a Limited Liability

Company, and was declining (he had got out of his shares long ago), he

felt a sharp chagrin in thinking of that time. How much better he might

have done! He would have succeeded splendidly at the Bar! He had even

thought of standing for Parliament. How often had not Nicholas Treffry

said to him: