To say, then, that civilisation was skin-deep, wasn’t cynical at all. People possibly had souls, but they certainly had skins, and progress was real only if thought of in terms of skin!
So ran the thoughts of Michael, perched on the coat-sarcophagus; and meditating on Fleur’s skin, so clear and smooth, he went upstairs.
She had just had her final bath, and was standing at her bedroom window. Thinking of–what? The moon over the square?
“Poor prisoner!” he said, and put his arm round her.
“What a queer sound the town makes at night, Michael. And, if you think, it’s made up of the seven million separate sounds of people going their own separate ways.”
“And yet–the whole lot are going one way.”
“We’re not going any way,” said Fleur, “there’s only pace.”
“There must be direction, my child, underneath.”
“Oh! Of course, change.”
“For better or worse; but that’s direction in itself.”
“Perhaps only to the edge, and over we go.”
“Gadarene swine!”
“Well, why not?”
“I admit,” said Michael unhappily, “it’s all hair-triggerish; but there’s always common-sense.”
“Common-sense–in face of passions!”
Michael slackened his embrace. “I thought you were always on the side of common-sense. Passion? The passion to have? Or the passion to know?”
“Both,” said Fleur. “That’s the present age, and I’m a child of it. You’re not, you know, Michael.”
“Query!” said Michael, letting go of her waist. “But if you want to have or know anything in particular, Fleur, I’d like to be told.”
There was a moment of stillness, before he felt her arm slipping through his, and her lips against his ear.
“Only the moon, my dear. Let’s go to bed.”
Chapter VII.
TWO VISITS
On the very day that Fleur was freed from her nursing she received a visit from the last person in her thoughts. If she had not altogether forgotten the existence of one indelibly associated with her wedding-day, she had never expected to see her again. To hear the words: “Miss June Forsyte, ma’am,” and find her in front of the Fragonard, was like experiencing a very slight earthquake.
The silvery little figure had turned at her entrance, extending a hand clad in a fabric glove.
“It’s a flimsy school, that,” she said, pointing her chin at the Fragonard; “but I like your room. Harold Blade’s pictures would look splendid here. Do you know his work?”
Fleur shook her head.
“Oh! I should have thought any–” The little lady stopped, as if she had seen a brink.
“Won’t you sit down?” said Fleur. “Have you still got your gallery off Cork Street?”
“That? Oh, no! It was a hopeless place. I sold it for half what my father gave for it.”
“And what became of that Polo–American–Boris Strumo something–you were so interested in?”
“He! Oh! Gone to pieces utterly. Married, and does purely commercial work. He gets big prices for his things–no good at all. So Jon and his wife–” Again she stopped, and Fleur tried to see the edge from which she had saved her foot.
“Yes,” she said, looking steadily into June’s eyes, which were moving from side to side, “Jon seems to have abandoned America for good. I can’t see his wife being happy over here.”
“Ah!” said June. “Holly told me you went to America, yourself. Did you see Jon over there?”
“Not quite.”
“Did you like America?”
“It’s very stimulating.”
June sniffed.
“Do they buy pictures? I mean, do you think there’d be a chance for Harold Blade’s work there?”
“Without knowing the work–”
“Of course, I forgot; it seems so impossible that you don’t know it.”
She leaned towards Fleur and her eyes shone.
“I do so want you to sit to him, you know; he’d make such a wonderful picture of you. Your father simply must arrange that. With your position in Society, Fleur, especially after that case last year,”–Fleur winced, if imperceptibly–“it would be the making of poor Harold. He’s such a genius,” she added, frowning; “you MUST come and see his work.”
“I should like to,” said Fleur. “Have you seen Jon yet?”
“No. They’re coming on Friday. I hope I shall like her. As a rule, I like all foreigners, except the Americans and the French. I mean–with exceptions, of course.”
“Naturally,” said Fleur. “What time are you generally in?”
“Every afternoon between five and seven are Harold’s hours for going out–he has my studio, you know. I can show you his work better without him; he’s so touchy–all real geniuses are. I want him to paint Jon’s wife, too. He’s extraordinary with women.”
“In that case, I think you should let Jon see him and his work first.”
June’s eyes stared up at her for a moment, and flew off to the Fragonard.
“When will your father come?” she asked.
“Perhaps it would be best for me to come first.”
“Soames naturally likes the wrong thing,” said June, thoughtfully; “but if you tell him you want to be painted–he’s sure to–he always spoils you–”
Fleur smiled.
“Well, I’ll come. Perhaps not this week.” And, in thought, she added: ‘And perhaps, yes–Friday.’
June rose. “I like your house, and your husband. Where is he?”
“Michael? Slumming, probably; he’s in the thick of a scheme for their conversion.”
“How splendid! Can I see your boy?”
“I’m afraid he’s only just over measles.”
June sighed. “It does seem long since I had measles. I remember Jon’s measles so well; I got him his first adventure books.” Suddenly she looked up at Fleur: “Do you like his wife? I think it’s ridiculous his being married so young. I tell Harold he must never marry; it’s the end of adventure.” Her eyes moved from side to side, as if she were adding: “Or the beginning, and I’ve never had it.” And suddenly she held out both hands.
“I shall expect you. I don’t know whether he’ll like your hair!”
Fleur smiled.
“I’m afraid I can’t grow it for him. Oh! Here’s my father coming in!” She had seen Soames pass the window.
“I don’t know that I want to see him unless it’s necessary,” said June.
“I expect he’ll feel exactly the same. If you just go out, he won’t pay any attention.”
“Oh!” said June, and out she went.
Through the window Fleur watched her moving as if she had not time to touch the ground.
A moment later Soames came in.
“What’s that woman want here?” he said. “She’s a stormy petrel.”
“Nothing much, dear; she has a new painter, whom she’s trying to boost.”
“Another of her lame ducks! She’s been famous for them all her life–ever since–” He stopped short of Bosinney’s name. “She’d never go anywhere without wanting something,” he added. “Did she get it?”
“Not more than I did, dear!”
Soames was silent, feeling vaguely that he had been near the proverb, “The kettle and the pot.” What was the use, indeed, of going anywhere unless you wanted something? It was one of the cardinal principles of life.
“I went to see that Morland,” he said; “it’s genuine enough. In fact, I bought it.” And he sank into a reverie…
Acquainted by Michael with the fact that the Marquess of Shropshire had a Morland he wanted to sell, he had said at once: “I don’t know that I want to buy one.”
“I thought you did, sir, from what you were saying the other day. It’s a white pony.”
“That, of course,” said Soames. “What does he want for it?”
“The market price, I believe.”
“There isn’t such a thing. Is it genuine?”
“It’s never changed hands, he says.” Soames brooded aloud. “The Marquess of Shropshire–that’s that red haired baggage’s grandfather, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but perfectly docile. He’d like you to see it, he said.”
“I daresay,” said Soames, and no more at the moment…
“Where’s this Morland?” he asked a few days later.
“At Shropshire House–in Curzon Street, sir.”
“Oh! Ah! Well, I’ll have a look at it.”
Having lunched at Green Street, where he was still staying, he walked round the necessary corners, and sent in his card, on which he had pencilled the words: “My son-inlaw, Michael Mont, says you would like me to see your Morland.”
The butler came back, and, opening a door, said:
“In here, sir. The Morland is over the sideboard.”
In that big dining-room, where even large furniture looked small, the Morland looked smaller, between two still-lifes of a Dutch size and nature. It had a simple scheme–white pony in stable, pigeon picking up some grains, small boy on upturned basket eating apple. A glance told Soames that it was genuine, and had not even been restored–the chiaroscuro was considerable. He stood, back to the light, looking at it attentively. Morland was not so sought after as he used to be; on the other hand, his pictures were distinctive and of a handy size. If one had not much space left, and wanted that period represented, he was perhaps the most repaying after Constable–good Old Cromes being so infernally rare. A Morland was a Morland, as a Millet was a Millet; and would never be anything else. Like all collectors in an experimental epoch, Soames was continually being faced with the advisability of buying not only what was what, but what would remain what. Such modern painters as were painting modern stuff, would, in his opinion, be dead as door-nails before he himself was; besides, however much he tried, he did not like the stuff. Such modern painters, like most of the academicians, as were painting ancient stuff, were careful fellows, no doubt, but who could say whether any of them would live? No! The only safe thing was to buy the dead, and only the dead who were going to live, at that. In this way–for Soames was not alone in his conclusions–the early decease of most living painters was ensured. They were already, indeed, saying that hardly one of them could sell a picture for love or money.
He was looking at the pony through his curved thumb and forefinger when he heard a slight sound; and, turning, saw a short old man in a tweed suit, apparently looking at him in precisely the same way.
Dropping his hand, and deciding not to say “His Grace,” or whatever it was, Soames muttered:
“I was looking at the tail–some good painting in that.”
The Marquess had also dropped his hand, and was consulting the card between his other thumb and forefinger.
“Mr. Forsyte? Yes. My grandfather bought it from the painter. There’s a note on the back. I don’t want to part with it, but these are lean days. Would you like to see the back?”
“Yes,” said Soames; “I always look at their backs.”
“Sometimes,” said the Marquess, detaching the Morland with difficulty, “the best part of the picture.”
Soames smiled down the further side of his mouth; he did not wish the old fellow to receive a false impression that he was ‘kowtowing,’ or anything of that sort.
“Something in the hereditary principle, Mr. Forsyte,” the Marquess went on, with his head on one side, “when it comes to the sale of heirlooms.”
“Oh! I can see it’s genuine,” said Soames, “without looking at the back.”
“Then, if you do want to buy, we can have a simple transaction between gentlemen. You know all about values, I hear.”
Soames put his head to the other side, and looked at the back of the picture. The old fellow’s words were so disarming, that for the life of him he could not tell whether or not to be disarmed.
“‘George Morland to Lord George Ferrar,’” he read, “‘for value received–L80. 1797.’”
“He came into the title later,” said the Marquess.
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