The possessive instinct, which, so determinedly balked, was animating

two members of the Forsyte family towards riddance of what they could

no longer possess, was hardening daily in the British body politic.

Nicholas, originally so doubtful concerning a war which must affect

property, had been heard to say that these Boers were a pig-headed lot;

they were causing a lot of expense, and the sooner they had their lesson

the better. He would send out Wolseley! Seeing always a little further

than other people--whence the most considerable fortune of all the

Forsytes--he had perceived already that Buller was not the man--'a bull

of a chap, who just went butting, and if they didn't look out Ladysmith

would fall.' This was early in December, so that when Black Week came,

he was enabled to say to everybody: 'I told you so.' During that week of

gloom such as no Forsyte could remember, very young Nicholas attended

so many drills in his corps, 'The Devil's Own,' that young Nicholas

consulted the family physician about his son's health and was alarmed

to find that he was perfectly sound. The boy had only just eaten his

dinners and been called to the bar, at some expense, and it was in a

way a nightmare to his father and mother that he should be playing with

military efficiency at a time when military efficiency in the civilian

population might conceivably be wanted. His grandfather, of course,

pooh-poohed the notion, too thoroughly educated in the feeling that no

British war could be other than little and professional, and profoundly

distrustful of Imperial commitments, by which, moreover, he stood to

lose, for he owned De Beers, now going down fast, more than a sufficient

sacrifice on the part of his grandson.

At Oxford, however, rather different sentiments prevailed. The inherent

effervescence of conglomerate youth had, during the two months of the

term before Black Week, been gradually crystallising out into vivid

oppositions. Normal adolescence, ever in England of a conservative

tendency though not taking things too seriously, was vehement for a

fight to a finish and a good licking for the Boers. Of this larger

faction Val Dartie was naturally a member. Radical youth, on the other

hand, a small but perhaps more vocal body, was for stopping the war and

giving the Boers autonomy. Until Black Week, however, the groups were

amorphous, without sharp edges, and argument remained but academic.

Jolly was one of those who knew not where he stood. A streak of his

grandfather old Jolyon's love of justice prevented, him from seeing

one side only. Moreover, in his set of 'the best' there was a

'jumping-Jesus' of extremely advanced opinions and some personal

magnetism. Jolly wavered. His father, too, seemed doubtful in his views.

And though, as was proper at the age of twenty, he kept a sharp eye on

his father, watchful for defects which might still be remedied, still

that father had an 'air' which gave a sort of glamour to his creed of

ironic tolerance. Artists of course; were notoriously Hamlet-like, and

to this extent one must discount for one's father, even if one loved

him. But Jolyon's original view, that to 'put your nose in where you

aren't wanted' (as the Uitlanders had done) 'and then work the oracle

till you get on top is not being quite the clean potato,' had, whether

founded in fact or no, a certain attraction for his son, who thought a

deal about gentility. On the other hand Jolly could not abide such as

his set called 'cranks,' and Val's set called 'smugs,' so that he was

still balancing when the clock of Black Week struck. One--two--three,

came those ominous repulses at Stormberg, Magersfontein, Colenso. The

sturdy English soul reacting after the first cried, 'Ah! but Methuen!'

after the second: 'Ah! but Buller!' then, in inspissated gloom,

hardened. And Jolly said to himself: 'No, damn it! We've got to lick the

beggars now; I don't care whether we're right or wrong.' And, if he had

known it, his father was thinking the same thought.




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