It is in the nature of a Forsyte to be ignorant that he is a Forsyte;
but young Jolyon was well aware of being one. He had not known it till
after the decisive step which had made him an outcast; since then the
knowledge had been with him continually. He felt it throughout his
alliance, throughout all his dealings with his second wife, who was
emphatically not a Forsyte.
He knew that if he had not possessed in great measure the eye for what
he wanted, the tenacity to hold on to it, the sense of the folly of
wasting that for which he had given so big a price--in other words,
the 'sense of property' he could never have retained her (perhaps never
would have desired to retain her) with him through all the financial
troubles, slights, and misconstructions of those fifteen years; never
have induced her to marry him on the death of his first wife; never have
lived it all through, and come up, as it were, thin, but smiling.
He was one of those men who, seated cross-legged like miniature Chinese
idols in the cages of their own hearts, are ever smiling at themselves a
doubting smile. Not that this smile, so intimate and eternal, interfered
with his actions, which, like his chin and his temperament, were quite a
peculiar blend of softness and determination.
He was conscious, too, of being a Forsyte in his work, that painting of
water-colours to which he devoted so much energy, always with an eye
on himself, as though he could not take so unpractical a pursuit quite
seriously, and always with a certain queer uneasiness that he did not
make more money at it.
It was, then, this consciousness of what it meant to be a Forsyte, that
made him receive the following letter from old Jolyon, with a mixture of
sympathy and disgust:
'SHELDRAKE HOUSE,
'BROADSTAIRS,
'July 1. 'MY DEAR JO,'
(The Dad's handwriting had altered very little in the thirty odd years
that he remembered it.)
'We have been here now a fortnight, and have had good weather on the
whole. The air is bracing, but my liver is out of order, and I shall be
glad enough to get back to town. I cannot say much for June, her health
and spirits are very indifferent, and I don't see what is to come of
it. She says nothing, but it is clear that she is harping on this
engagement, which is an engagement and no engagement, and--goodness
knows what. I have grave doubts whether she ought to be allowed
to return to London in the present state of affairs, but she is so
self-willed that she might take it into her head to come up at any
moment. The fact is someone ought to speak to Bosinney and ascertain
what he means. I'm afraid of this myself, for I should certainly rap
him over the knuckles, but I thought that you, knowing him at the Club,
might put in a word, and get to ascertain what the fellow is about. You
will of course in no way commit June. I shall be glad to hear from you
in the course of a few days whether you have succeeded in gaining any
information. The situation is very distressing to me, I worry about it
at night.