To Let, John Galsworthy [good non fiction books to read txt] 📗
- Author: John Galsworthy
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His
Fancy Darted To That Picture Of "The Future Town," To That Boy's And
Fleur's First Meeting; To The Blueish Trail Of Prosper Profond's Cigar,
And Fleur In The Window Pointing Down To Where The Fellow Prowled. To
The Sight Of Irene And That Dead Fellow Sitting Side By Side In The
Stand At Lord's. To Her And That Boy At Robin Hill. To The Sofa, Where
Fleur Lay Crushed Up In The Corner; To Her Lips Pressed Into His Cheek,
And Her Farewell "Daddy." And Suddenly He Saw Again Irene's Grey-Gloved
Hand Waving Its Last Gesture Of Release.
He Sat There A Long Time Dreaming His Career, Faithful To The Scut Of
His Possessive Instinct, Warming Himself Even With Its Failures.
"To Let"--The Forsyte Age And Way Of Life, When A Man Owned His Soul,
His Investments, And His Woman, Without Check Or Question. And Now The
State Had, Or Would Have, His Investments, His Woman Had Herself, And
God Knew Who Had His Soul. "To Let"--That Sane And Simple Creed!
The Waters Of Change Were Foaming In, Carrying The Promise Of New Forms
Only When Their Destructive Flood Should Have Passed Its Full. He Sat
There, Subconscious Of Them, But With His Thoughts Resolutely Set On
The Past--As A Man Might Ride Into A Wild Night With His Face To The
Tail Of His Galloping Horse. Athwart The Victorian Dykes The Waters
Were Rolling On Property, Manners, And Morals, On Melody And The Old
Forms Of Art--Waters Bringing To His Mouth A Salt Taste As Of Blood,
Lapping To The Foot Of This Highgate Hill Where Victorianism Lay
Buried. And Sitting There, High Up On Its Most Individual Spot,
Soames--Like A Figure Of Investment--Refused Their Restless Sounds.
Instinctively He Would Not Fight Them--There Was In Him Too Much
Primeval Wisdom, Of Man The Possessive Animal. They Would Quiet Down
When They Had Fulfilled Their Tidal Fever Of Dispossessing And
Destroying; When The Creations And The Properties Of Others Were
Sufficiently Broken And Dejected--They Would Lapse And Ebb, And Fresh
Forms Would Rise Based On An Instinct Older Than The Fever Of
Change--The Instinct Of Home.
"Je M'en Fiche," Said Prosper Profond.
Part III XI (The Last Of The Forsytes) Pg 144Soames Did Not Say "Je M'en
Fiche"--It Was French, And The Fellow Was A Thorn In His Side--But Deep
Down He Knew That Change Was Only The Interval Of Death Between Two
Forms Of Life, Destruction Necessary To Make Room For Fresher Property.
What Though The Board Was Up, And Cosiness To Let?--Some One Would Come
Along And Take It Again Some Day.
And Only One Thing Really Troubled Him, Sitting There--The Melancholy
Craving In His Heart--Because The Sun Was Like Enchantment On His Face
And On The Clouds And On The Golden Birch Leaves, And The Wind's Rustle
Was So Gentle, And The Yew-Tree Green So Dark, And The Sickle Of A Moon
Pale In The Sky.
Ah! He Might Wish And Wish And Never Get It--The Beauty And The Loving
In The World!
The End
ImprintPublication Date: 09-15-2014
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