To Let, John Galsworthy [good non fiction books to read txt] 📗
- Author: John Galsworthy
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Both Jon And His Mother Had Felt That If She Took His
Portfolios, Unexhibited Drawings And Unfinished Matter, Away With Her,
The Work Would Encounter Such Icy Blasts From Paul Post And Other
Frequenters Of Her Studio, That It Would Soon Be Frozen Out Even Of Her
Warm Heart. On Its Old-Fashioned Plane And Of Its Kind The Work Was
Good, And They Could Not Bear The Thought Of Its Subjection To
Ridicule. A One-Man Exhibition Of His Work Was The Least Testimony They
Could Pay To One They Had Loved; And On Preparation For This They Spent
Many Hours Together. Jon Came To Have A Curiously Increased Respect For
His Father. The Quiet Tenacity With Which He Had Converted A Mediocre
Talent Into Something Really Individual Was Disclosed By These
Researches. There Was A Great Mass Of Work With A Rare Continuity Of
Growth In Depth And Reach Of Vision. Nothing Certainly Went Very Deep,
Or Reached Very High--But Such As The Work Was, It Was Thorough,
Conscientious, And Complete. And, Remembering His Father's Utter
Absence Of "Side" Or Self-Assertion, The Chaffing Humility With Which
He Had Always Spoken Of His Own Efforts, Ever Calling Himself "An
Amateur," Jon Could Not Help Feeling That He Had Never Really Known His
Father. To Take Himself Seriously, Yet Never Bore Others By Letting
Them Know That He Did So, Seemed To Have Been His Ruling Principle.
There Was Something In This Which Appealed To The Boy, And Made Him
Heartily Indorse His Mother's Comment: "He Had True Refinement; He
Couldn't Help Thinking Of Others, Whatever He Did. And When He Took A
Resolution Which Went Counter, He Did It With The Minimum Of
Defiance--Not Like The Age, Is It? Twice In His Life He Had To Go
Against Everything; And Yet It Never Made Him Bitter." Jon Saw Tears
Running Down Her Face, Which She At Once Turned Away From Him. She Was
So Quiet About Her Loss That Sometimes He Had Thought She Didn't Feel
It Much. Now, As He Looked At Her, He Felt How Far He Fell Short Of The
Reserve Power And Dignity In Both His Father And His Mother. And,
Stealing Up To Her, He Put His Arm Round Her Waist. She Kissed Him
Swiftly, But With A Sort Of Passion, And Went Out Of The Room.
The Studio, Where They Had Been Sorting And Labelling, Had Once Been
Holly's Schoolroom, Devoted To Her Silk-Worms, Dried Lavender, Music,
And Other Forms Of Instruction. Now, At The End Of July, Despite Its
Northern And Eastern Aspects, A Warm And Slumberous Air Came In Between
The Long-Faded Lilac Linen Curtains. To Redeem A Little The Departed
Glory, As Of A Field That Is Golden And Gone, Clinging To A Room Which
Its Master Has Left, Irene Had Placed On The Paint-Stained Table A Bowl
Of Red Roses. This, And Jolyon's Favourite Cat, Who Still Clung To The
Deserted Habitat, Were The Pleasant Spots In That Dishevelled, Sad
Workroom. Jon, At The North Window, Sniffing Air Mysteriously Scented
With Warm Strawberries, Heard A Car Drive Up. The Lawyers Again About
Some Nonsense! Why Did That Scent So Make One Ache? And Where Did It
Come From--There Were No Strawberry Beds On This Side Of The House.
Part III VI (Desperate) Pg 93Instinctively He Took A Crumpled Sheet Of Paper From His Pocket, And
Wrote Down Some Broken Words. A Warmth Began Spreading In His Chest; He
Rubbed The Palms Of His Hands Together. Presently He Had Jotted This:
"If I Could Make A Little Song--
A Little Song To Soothe My Heart!
I'd Make It All Of Little Things--
The Plash Of Water, Rub Of Wings,
The Puffing-Off Of Dandie's Crown,
The Hiss Of Raindrop Spilling Down,
The Purr Of Cat, The Trill Of Bird,
And Ev'ry Whispering I've Heard
From Willy Wind In Leaves And Grass,
And All The Distant Drones That Pass.
A Song, As Tender And As Light
As Flower, Or Butterfly In Flight;
And When I Saw It Opening
I'd Let It Fly, And Sing!"
He Was Still Muttering It Over To Himself At The Window, When He Heard
His Name Called, And, Turning Round, Saw Fleur. At That Amazing
Apparition, He Made At First No Movement And No Sound, While Her Clear
Vivid Glance Ravished His Heart. Then He Went Forward To The Table,
Saying: "How Nice Of You To Come!" And Saw Her Flinch As If He Had
Thrown Something At Her.
"I Asked For You," She Said, "And They Showed Me Up Here. But I Can Go
Away Again."
Jon Clutched The Paint-Stained Table. Her Face And Figure In Its Frilly
Frock, Photographed Itself With Such Startling Vividness Upon His Eyes,
That If She Had Sunk Through The Floor He Must Still Have Seen Her.
"I Know I Told You A Lie, Jon. But I Told It Out Of Love."
Part III VI (Desperate) Pg 94"Oh! Yes! That's Nothing!"
"I Didn't Answer Your Letter. What Was The Use--There Wasn't Anything
To Answer. I Wanted To See You Instead." She Held Out Both Her Hands,
And Jon Grasped Them Across The Table. He Tried To Say Something, But
All His Attention Was Given To Trying Not To Hurt Her Hands. His Own
Felt So Hard And Hers So Soft. She Said Almost Defiantly:
"That Old Story--Was It So Very Dreadful?"
"Yes." In His Voice, Too, There Was A Note Of Defiance.
She Dragged Her Hands Away. "I Didn't Think In These Days Boys Were
Tied To Their Mothers' Apron-Strings."
Jon's Chin Went Up As If He Had Been Struck.
"Oh! I Didn't Mean It, Jon. What A Horrible Thing To Say!" Swiftly She
Came Close To Him. "Jon, Dear; I Didn't Mean It."
"All Right."
She Had Put Her Two Hands On His Shoulder, And Her Forehead Down On
Them; The Brim Of Her Hat Touched His Neck, And He Felt It Quivering.
But, In A Sort Of Paralysis, He Made No Response. She Let Go Of His
Shoulder And Drew Away.
"Well, I'll Go, If You Don't Want Me. But I Never Thought You'd Have
Given Me Up."
"I Haven't," Cried Jon, Coming Suddenly To Life. "I Can't.
Part III VI (Desperate) Pg 95I'll Try
Again."
She Swayed Towards Him. "Jon--I Love You! Don't Give Me Up! If You Do,
I Don't Know What I Shall Do--I Feel So Desperate. What Does It
Matter--All That Past--Compared With This?"
She Clung To Him. He Kissed Her Eyes, Her Cheeks, Her Lips. But While
He Kissed Her He Saw The Sheets Of That Letter Fallen Down On The Floor
Of His Bedroom--His Father's White Dead Face--His Mother Kneeling
Before It. Fleur's Whisper: "Make Her! Promise! Oh! Jon, Try!" Seemed
Childish In His Ear. He Felt Curiously Old.
"I Promise!" He Muttered. "Only, You Don't Understand."
"She Wants To Spoil Our Lives, Just Because--"
"Yes, Of What?"
Again That Challenge In His Voice, And She Did Not Answer. Her Arms
Tightened Round Him, And He Returned Her Kisses; But Even While He
Yielded, The Poison Worked In Him, The Poison Of The Letter. Fleur Did
Not Know, She Did Not Understand--She Misjudged His Mother; She Came
From The Enemy's Camp! So Lovely, And He Loved Her So--Yet, Even In Her
Embrace, He Could Not Help The Memory Of Holly's Words: "I Think She
Has A 'Having' Nature," And His Mother's: "My Darling Boy; Don't Think
Of Me--Think Of Yourself."
When She Was Gone Like A Passionate Dream, Leaving Her Image On His
Eyes, Her Kisses On His Lips, Such An Ache In His Heart, Jon Leaned In
The Window, Listening To The Car Bearing Her Away. Still The Scent As
Of Warm Strawberries, Still The Little Summer Sounds That Should Make
His Song; Still All The Promise Of Youth And Happiness In Sighing,
Floating, Fluttering July--And His Heart Torn; Yearning Strong In Him;
Hope High In Him, Yet With Its Eyes Cast Down, As If Ashamed. The
Miserable Task Before Him! If Fleur Was Desperate, So Was He--Watching
The Poplars Swaying, The White Clouds Passing, The Sunlight On The
Grass.
Part III VI (Desperate) Pg 96He Waited Till Evening, Till After Their Almost Silent Dinner, Till His
Mother Had Played To Him--And Still He Waited, Feeling That She Knew
What He Was Waiting To Say. She Kissed Him And Went Up-Stairs, And
Still He Lingered, Watching The Moonlight And The Moths, And That
Unreality Of Colouring Which Steals Along And Stains A Summer Night.
And He Would Have Given Anything To Be Back In The Past--Barely Three
Months Back; Or Away Forward, Years, In The Future. The Present With
This Stark Cruelty Of A Decision, One Way Or The Other, Seemed
Impossible. He Realised Now So Much More Keenly What His Mother Felt
Than He Had At First; As If The Story In That Letter Had Been A
Poisonous Germ Producing A Kind Of Fever Of Partisanship, So That He
Really Felt There Were Two Camps, His Mother's And His--Fleur's And Her
Father's. It Might Be A Dead Thing, That Old Tragic
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