Old Jolyon was conscious of all this,and yet there was in him that which transcended Forsyteism.For it is written that a Forsyte shall not love beauty more than reason;nor his own way more than his own health.And something beat within him in these days that with each throb fretted at the thinning shell.His sagacity knew this,but it knew too that he could not stop that beating,nor would if he could.And yet,if you had told him he was living on his capital,he would have stared you down.No,no;a man did not live on his capital;it was not done!The shibboleths of the past are ever more real than the actualities of the present.And he,to whom living on one's capital had always been anathema,could not have borne to have applied so gross a phrase to his own case.
Pleasure is healthful;beauty good to see;to live again in the youth of the young--and what else on earth was he doing!
Methodically,as had been the way of his whole life,he now arranged his time.On Tuesdays he journeyed up to town by train;Irene came and dined with him.And they went to the opera.On Thursdays he drove to town,and,putting that fat chap and his horses up,met her in Kensington Gardens,picking up the carriage after he had left her,and driving home again in time for dinner.
He threw out the casual formula that he had business in London on those two days.On Wednesdays and Saturdays she came down to give Holly music lessons.The greater the pleasure he took in her society,the more scrupulously fastidious he became,just a matter-of-fact and friendly uncle.Not even in feeling,really,was he more--for,after all,there was his age.And yet,if she were late he fidgeted himself to death.If she missed coming,which happened twice,his eyes grew sad as an old dog's,and he failed to sleep.
And so a month went by--a month of summer in the fields,and in his heart,with summer's heat and the fatigue thereof.Who could have believed a few weeks back that he would have looked forward to his son's and his grand-daughter's return with something like dread!
There was such a delicious *******,such recovery of that independence a man enjoys before he founds a family,about these weeks of lovely weather,and this new companionship with one who demanded nothing,and remained always a little unknown,retaining the fascination of mystery.It was like a draught of wine to him who has been drinking water for so long that he has almost forgotten the stir wine brings to his blood,the narcotic to his brain.The flowers were coloured brighter,scents and music and the sunlight had a living value--were no longer mere reminders of past enjoy-ment.There was something now to live for which stirred him continually to anticipation.He lived in that,not in retrospection;the difference is considerable to any so old as he.
The pleasures of the table,never of much consequence to one naturally abstemious,had lost all value.He ate little,without knowing what he ate;and every day grew thinner and more worn to look at.He was again a 'threadpaper';and to this thinned form his massive forehead,with hollows at the temples,gave more dignity than ever.He was very well aware that he ought to see the doctor,but liberty was too sweet.He could not afford to pet his frequent shortness of breath and the pain in his side at the expense of liberty.Return to the vegetable existence he had led among the agricultural journals with the life-size mangold wurzels,before this new attraction came into his life--no!He exceeded his allowance of cigars.Two a day had always been his rule.Now he smoked three and sometimes four--a man will when he is filled with the creative spirit.But very often he thought:'I must give up smoking,and coffee;I must give up rattling up to town.'But he did not;there was no one in any sort of authority to notice him,and this was a priceless boon.
The servants perhaps wondered,but they were,naturally,dumb.
Mam'zelle Beauce was too concerned with her own digestion,and too 'wellbrrred'to make personal allusions.Holly had not as yet an eye for the relative appearance of him who was her plaything and her god.It was left for Irene herself to beg him to eat more,to rest in the hot part of the day,to take a tonic,and so forth.
But she did not tell him that she was the a cause of his thinness--for one cannot see the havoc oneself is working.A man of eighty-five has no passions,but the Beauty which produces passion works on in the old way,till death closes the eyes which crave the sight of Her.
On the first day of the second week in July he received a letter from his son in Paris to say that they would all be back on Friday.
This had always been more sure than Fate;but,with the pathetic improvidence given to the old,that they may endure to the end,he had never quite admitted it.Now he did,and something would have to be done.He had ceased to be able to imagine life without this new interest,but that which is not imagined sometimes exists,as Forsytes are perpetually finding to their cost.He sat in his old leather chair,doubling up the letter,and mumbling with his lips the end of an unlighted cigar.After to-morrow his Tuesday expeditions to town would have to be abandoned.He could still drive up,perhaps,once a week,on the pretext of seeing his man of business.But even that would be dependent on his health,for now they would begin to fuss about him.The lessons!The lessons must go on!She must swallow down her scruples,and June must put her feelings in her pocket.She had done so once,on the day after the news of Bosinney's death;what she had done then,she could surely do again now.Four years since that injury was inflicted on her--not Christian to keep the memory of old sores alive.June's will was strong,but his was stronger,for his sands were running out.