The Forsyte Saga - Volume 1

Folding his opera hat, he sat down, drew out his lavender gloves in

the old way, and took up his glasses for a long look round the house.

Dropping them at last on his folded hat, he fixed his eyes on the

curtain. More poignantly than ever he felt that it was all over and done

with him. Where were all the women, the pretty women, the house used to

be so full of? Where was that old feeling in the heart as he waited for

one of those great singers? Where that sensation of the intoxication of

life and of his own power to enjoy it all?

The greatest opera-goer of his day! There was no opera now! That fellow

Wagner had ruined everything; no melody left, nor any voices to sing it.

Ah! the wonderful singers! Gone! He sat watching the old scenes acted, a

numb feeling at his heart.

From the curl of silver over his ear to the pose of his foot in its

elastic-sided patent boot, there was nothing clumsy or weak about old

Jolyon. He was as upright--very nearly--as in those old times when he

came every night; his sight was as good--almost as good. But what a

feeling of weariness and disillusion!

He had been in the habit all his life of enjoying things, even imperfect

things--and there had been many imperfect things--he had enjoyed

them all with moderation, so as to keep himself young. But now he was

deserted by his power of enjoyment, by his philosophy, and left with

this dreadful feeling that it was all done with. Not even the Prisoners'

Chorus, nor Florian's Song, had the power to dispel the gloom of his

loneliness.

If Jo were only with him! The boy must be forty by now. He had wasted

fourteen years out of the life of his only son. And Jo was no longer

a social pariah. He was married. Old Jolyon had been unable to refrain

from marking his appreciation of the action by enclosing his son a

cheque for L500. The cheque had been returned in a letter from the

'Hotch Potch,' couched in these words.

'MY DEAREST FATHER,

'Your generous gift was welcome as a sign that you might think worse of

me. I return it, but should you think fit to invest it for the benefit

of the little chap (we call him Jolly), who bears our Christian and, by

courtesy, our surname, I shall be very glad.

'I hope with all my heart that your health is as good as ever.

'Your loving son,

'Jo.'

The letter was like the boy. He had always been an amiable chap. Old

Jolyon had sent this reply: