The Forsyte Saga - Volume 2
Page 180Soames doggedly let the spring come--no easy task for one conscious that
time was flying, his birds in the bush no nearer the hand, no issue from
the web anywhere visible. Mr. Polteed reported nothing, except that his
watch went on--costing a lot of money. Val and his cousin were gone to
the war, whence came news more favourable; Dartie was behaving himself
so far; James had retained his health; business prospered almost
terribly--there was nothing to worry Soames except that he was 'held
up,' could make no step in any direction.
He did not exactly avoid Soho, for he could not afford to let them think
that he had 'piped off,' as James would have put it--he might want
to 'pipe on' again at any minute. But he had to be so restrained and
cautious that he would often pass the door of the Restaurant Bretagne
without going in, and wander out of the purlieus of that region which
always gave him the feeling of having been possessively irregular.
crowd he had ever seen; a shrieking, whistling, dancing, jostling,
grotesque and formidably jovial crowd, with false noses and
mouth-organs, penny whistles and long feathers, every appanage of
idiocy, as it seemed to him. Mafeking! Of course, it had been relieved!
Good! But was that an excuse? Who were these people, what were they,
where had they come from into the West End? His face was tickled, his
ears whistled into. Girls cried: 'Keep your hair on, stucco!' A youth so
knocked off his top-hat that he recovered it with difficulty. Crackers
were exploding beneath his nose, between his feet. He was bewildered,
exasperated, offended. This stream of people came from every quarter, as
if impulse had unlocked flood-gates, let flow waters of whose existence
he had heard, perhaps, but believed in never. This, then, was the
populace, the innumerable living negation of gentility and Forsyteism.
End, or even Soho, perhaps--but here in Regent Street, in Piccadilly!
What were the police about! In 1900, Soames, with his Forsyte thousands,
had never seen the cauldron with the lid off; and now looking into
it, could hardly believe his scorching eyes. The whole thing was
unspeakable! These people had no restraint, they seemed to think him
funny; such swarms of them, rude, coarse, laughing--and what laughter!
Nothing sacred to them! He shouldn't be surprised if they began to
break windows. In Pall Mall, past those august dwellings, to enter which
people paid sixty pounds, this shrieking, whistling, dancing dervish of
a crowd was swarming. From the Club windows his own kind were looking
out on them with regulated amusement. They didn't realise! Why, this was
serious--might come to anything! The crowd was cheerful, but some day
they would come in different mood! He remembered there had been a mob in
made speeches. But more than dread, he felt a deep surprise. They were
hysterical--it wasn't English! And all about the relief of a little town
as big as--Watford, six thousand miles away. Restraint, reserve!
Those qualities to him more dear almost than life, those indispensable
attributes of property and culture, where were they? It wasn't English!
No, it wasn't English! So Soames brooded, threading his way on. It was
as if he had suddenly caught sight of someone cutting the covenant 'for
quiet possession' out of his legal documents; or of a monster lurking
and stalking out in the future, casting its shadow before. Their want
of stolidity, their want of reverence! It was like discovering that
nine-tenths of the people of England were foreigners. And if that were
so--then, anything might happen!