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    The Patrician (Barnes & Noble Digital Library)
    The Patrician (Barnes & Noble Digital Library)
    The Patrician (Barnes & Noble Digital Library)
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    The Patrician (Barnes & Noble Digital Library)

    By John Galsworthy

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    In its review of this 1911 novel about conflicts arising from the rigid class prejudices of upper-caste English society, the New York Times singled out Galsworthy's heroine for special praise, calling her "at once splendid, simple, crowned with happiness, and somehow caged and tragically looking out between gilded bars." 

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBarnes & Noble
    Release dateMar 8, 2011
    ISBN9781411442580
    The Patrician (Barnes & Noble Digital Library)
    Author

    John Galsworthy

    John Galsworthy (1867–1933) was an English short story writer, novelist, and playwright whose work spanned the better part of four decades. Author of more than seventy books, Galsworthy is best remembered for the Forsyte Saga as well as its follow-up trilogies, a Modern Comedy and End of the Chapter. A tireless champion of women’s rights, prison reform, and free speech, Galsworthy turned down knighthood out of the belief that writing was a reward within itself. His works have often been adapted for television and film, and in 1932 he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.

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      The Patrician (Barnes & Noble Digital Library) - John Galsworthy

      THE PATRICIAN

      JOHN GALSWORTHY

      This 2011 edition published by Barnes & Noble, Inc.

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher.

      Barnes & Noble, Inc.

      122 Fifth Avenue

      New York, NY 10011

      ISBN: 978-1-4114-4258-0

      CONTENTS

      PART I

      CHAPTER I

      CHAPTER II

      CHAPTER III

      CHAPTER IV

      CHAPTER V

      CHAPTER VI

      CHAPTER VII

      CHAPTER VIII

      CHAPTER IX

      CHAPTER X

      CHAPTER XI

      CHAPTER XII

      CHAPTER XIII

      CHAPTER XIV

      CHAPTER XV

      CHAPTER XVI

      CHAPTER XVII

      CHAPTER XVIII

      CHAPTER XIX

      CHAPTER XX

      CHAPTER XXI

      CHAPTER XXII

      PART II

      CHAPTER I

      CHAPTER II

      CHAPTER III

      CHAPTER IV

      CHAPTER V

      CHAPTER VI

      CHAPTER VII

      CHAPTER VIII

      CHAPTER IX

      CHAPTER X

      CHAPTER XI

      CHAPTER XII

      CHAPTER XIII

      CHAPTER XIV

      CHAPTER XV

      CHAPTER XVI

      CHAPTER XVII

      CHAPTER XVIII

      CHAPTER XIX

      CHAPTER XX

      CHAPTER XXI

      CHAPTER XXII

      CHAPTER XXIII

      CHAPTER XXIV

      CHAPTER XXV

      CHAPTER XXVI

      CHAPTER XXVII

      CHAPTER XXVIII

      CHAPTER XXIX

      CHAPTER XXX

      PART I

      CHAPTER I

      LIGHT, entering the vast room—a room so high that its carved ceiling refused itself to exact scrutiny—travelled, with the wistful, cold curiosity of the dawn, over a fantastic store-house of Time. Light, unaccompanied by the prejudice of human eyes, made strange revelation of incongruities, as though illuminating the dispassionate march of history.

      For in this dining hall—one of the finest in England—the Caradoc family had for centuries assembled the trophies and records of their existence. Round about this dining hall they had built and pulled down and restored, until the rest of Monkland Court presented some aspect of homogeneity. Here alone they had left virgin the work of the old quasi-monastic builders, and within it unconsciously deposited their souls. For there were here, meeting the eyes of light, all those rather touching evidences of man's desire to persist forever, those shells of his former bodies, the fetiches and queer proofs of his faiths, together with the remorseless demonstration of their treatment at the hands of Time.

      The annalist might here have found all his needed confirmations; the analyst from this material formed the due equation of high birth; the philosopher traced the course of aristocracy, from its primeval rise in crude strength or subtlety, through centuries of power, to picturesque decadence, and the beginnings of its last stand. Even the artist might here, perchance, have seized on the dry ineffable pervading spirit, as one visiting an old cathedral seems to scent out the constriction of its heart.

      From the legendary sword of that Welsh chieftain who by an act of high, rewarded treachery had passed into the favour of the conquering William, and received, with the widow of a Norman, many lands in Devenescire, to the Cup purchased for Geoffrey Caradoc, present Earl of Valleys, by subscription of his Devonshire tenants on the occasion of his marriage with the Lady Gertrude Semmering—no insignia were absent, save the family portraits in the gallery of Valleys House in London. There was even an ancient duplicate of that yellow tattered scroll royally reconfirming lands and title to John, the most distinguished of all the Caradocs, who had unfortunately neglected to be born in wedlock, by one of those humorous omissions to be found in the genealogies of most old families. Yes, it was there, almost cynically hung in a corner; for this incident, though no doubt a burning question in the fifteenth century, was now but staple for an ironical little tale, in view of the fact that descendants of John's 'own' brother Edmund were undoubtedly to be found among the cottagers of a parish not far distant.

      Light, glancing from the suits of armour to the tiger skins beneath them, brought from India but a year ago by Bertie Caradoc, the younger son, seemed recording, how those, who had once been foremost by virtue of that simple law of Nature which crowns the adventuring and strong, now being almost washed aside out of the main stream of national life, were compelled to devise adventure, lest they should lose belief in their own strength.

      The unsparing light of that first half-hour of summer morning recorded many other changes, wandering from austere tapestries to the velvety carpets, and dragging from the contrast sure proof of a common sense which denied to the present Earl and Countess the asceticisms of the past. And then it seemed to lose interest in this critical journey, as though longing to clothe all in witchery. For the sun had risen, and through the Eastern windows came pouring its level and mysterious joy. And with it, passing in at an open lattice, came a wild bee to settle among the flowers on the table athwart the Eastern end, used when there was only a small party in the house. The hours fled on silent, till the sun was high, and the first visitors came—three maids, rosy, not silent, bringing brushes. They passed, and were followed by two footmen—scouts of the breakfast brigade, who stood for a moment professionally doing nothing, then soberly commenced to set the table. Then came a little girl of six, to see if there were anything exciting—little Ann Shropton, child of Sir William Shropton by his marriage with Lady Agatha, and eldest daughter of the house, the only one of the four young Caradocs as yet wedded. She came on tiptoe, thinking to surprise whatever was there. She had a broad little face, and wide frank hazel eyes over a little nose that came out straight and sudden. Encircled by a loose belt placed far below the waist of her holland frock, as if to symbolize freedom, she seemed to think everything in life good fun. And soon she found the exciting thing.

      Here's a bumble bee, William. Do you think I could tame it in my little glass box?

      No, I don't, Miss Ann; and look out, you'll be stung!

      "It wouldn't sting me."

      Why not?

      Because it wouldn't.

      Of course—if you say so——

      What time is the motor ordered?

      Nine o'clock.

      I'm going with Grandpapa as far as the gate.

      Suppose he says you're not?

      Well, then I shall go all the same.

      I see.

      I might go all the way with him to London! Is Auntie Babs going?

      No, I don't think anybody is going with his lordship.

      "I would, if she were. William!"

      Yes.

      Is Uncle Eustace sure to be elected?

      Of course he is.

      Do you think he'll be a good Member of Parliament?

      Lord Miltoun is very clever, Miss Ann.

      Is he?

      Well, don't you think so?

      Does Charles think so?

      Ask him.

      William!

      Yes.

      I don't like London. I like here, and I like Catton, and I like home pretty well, and I love Pendridny—and—I like Ravensham.

      His lordship is going to Ravensham today on his way up, I heard say.

      Oh! then he'll see great-granny. William——

      Here's Miss Wallace.

      From the doorway a lady with a broad pale patient face said:

      Come, Ann.

      All right! Hallo, Simmons!

      The entering butler replied:

      Hallo, Miss Ann!

      I've got to go.

      I'm sure we're very sorry.

      Yes.

      The door banged faintly, and in the great room rose the busy silence of those minutes which precede repasts. Suddenly the four men by the breakfast table stood back. Lord Valleys had come in.

      He approached slowly, reading a blue paper, with his level grey eyes divided by a little uncharacteristic frown. He had a tanned yet ruddy, decisively shaped face, with crisp hair and moustache beginning to go iron-grey—the face of a man who knows his own mind and is contented with that knowledge. His figure too, well-braced and upright, with the back of the head carried like a soldier's, confirmed the impression, not so much of self-sufficiency, as of the sufficiency of his habits of life and thought. And there was apparent about all his movements that peculiar unconsciousness of his surroundings which comes to those who live a great deal in the public eye, have the material machinery of existence placed exactly to their hands, and never need to consider what others think of them. Taking his seat, and still perusing the paper, he at once began to eat what was put before him; then noticing that his eldest daughter had come in and was sitting down beside him, he said:

      Bore having to go up in such weather!

      Is it a Cabinet meeting?

      Yes. This confounded business of the balloons.

      But the rather anxious dark eyes of Agatha's delicate narrow face were taking in the details of a tray for keeping dishes warm on a sideboard, and she was thinking: I believe that would be better than the ones I've got, after all. If William would only say whether he really likes these large trays better than single hot-water dishes! She contrived however to ask in her gentle voice—for all her words and movements were gentle, even a little timid, till anything appeared to threaten the welfare of her husband or children:

      Do you think this war scare good for Eustace's prospects, Father?

      But her father did not answer; he was greeting a new-comer, a tall, fine-looking young man, with dark hair and a fair moustache, between whom and himself there was no relationship, yet a certain negative resemblance. Claud Fresnay, Viscount Harbinger, was indeed also a little of what is called the 'Norman' type—having a certain firm regularity of feature, and a slight aquilinity of nose high up on the bridge—but that which in the elder man seemed to indicate only an unconscious acceptance of self as a standard, in the younger man gave an impression at once more assertive and more uneasy, as though he were a little afraid of not chaffing something all the time.

      Behind him had come in a tall woman, of full figure and fine presence, with hair still brown—Lady Valleys herself. Though her eldest son was thirty, she was, herself, still little more than fifty. From her voice, manner, and whole personality, one might suspect that she had been an acknowledged beauty; but there was now more than a suspicion of maturity about her almost jovial face, with its full grey-blue eyes, and coarsened complexion. Good comrade, and essentially 'woman of the world,' was written on every line of her, and in every tone of her voice. She was indeed a figure suggestive of open air and generous living, endowed with abundant energy, and not devoid of humour. It was she who answered Agatha's remark.

      Of course, my dear, the very best thing possible.

      Lord Harbinger chimed in:

      By the way, Brabrook's going to speak on it. Did you ever hear him, Lady Agatha? 'Mr. Speaker, Sir, I rise—and with me rises the democratic principle——'

      But Agatha only smiled, for she was thinking:

      If I let Ann go as far as the gate, she'll only make it a stepping-stone to something else tomorrow. Taking no interest in public affairs, her inherited craving for command had resorted for expression to a meticulous ordering of household matters. It was indeed a cult with her, a passion—as though she felt herself a sort of figurehead to national domesticity; the leader of a patriotic movement.

      Lord Valleys, having finished what seemed necessary, arose.

      Any message to your mother, Gertrude?

      No, I wrote last night.

      Tell Miltoun to keep an eye on that Mr. Courtier. I heard him speak one day—he's rather good.

      Lady Valleys, who had not yet sat down, accompanied her husband to the door.

      By the way, I've told Mother about this woman, Geoff.

      Was it necessary?

      Well, I think so; I'm uneasy—after all, Mother has some influence with Miltoun.

      Lord Valleys shrugged his shoulders, and slightly squeezing his wife's arm, went out.

      Though himself vaguely uneasy on that very subject, he was a man who did not go to meet disturbance. He had the nerves which seem to be no nerves at all—especially found in those of his class who have much to do with horses. He temperamentally regarded the evil of the day as quite sufficient to it. Moreover, his eldest son was a riddle that he had long given up, so far as women were concerned.

      Emerging into the outer hall, he lingered a moment, remembering that he had not seen his younger and favourite daughter.

      Lady Barbara down yet? Hearing that she was not, he slipped into the motor coat held for him by Simmons, and stepped out under the white portico, decorated by the Caradoc hawks in stone.

      The voice of little Ann reached him, clear and high above the smothered whirring of the car.

      Come on, Grandpapa!

      Lord Valleys grimaced beneath his crisp moustache—the word grandpapa always fell queerly on the ears of one who was but fifty-six, and by no means felt it—and jerking his gloved hand towards Ann, he said:

      "Send down to the lodge gate for this."

      The voice of little Ann answered loudly:

      No; I'm coming back by myself.

      The car starting, drowned discussion.

      Lord Valleys, motoring, somewhat pathetically illustrated the invasion of institutions by their destroyer, Science. A supporter of the turf, and not long since Master of Foxhounds, most of whose soul (outside politics) was in horses, he had been, as it were, compelled by common sense, not only to tolerate, but to take up and even press forward the cause of their supplanters. His instinct of self-preservation was secretly at work, hurrying him to his own destruction; forcing him to persuade himself that science and her successive victories over brute nature could be wooed into the service of a prestige which rested on a crystallized and stationary base. All this keeping pace with the times, this immersion in the results of modern discoveries, this speeding-up of existence so that it was all surface and little root—the increasing volatility, cosmopolitanism, and even commercialism of his life, on which he rather prided himself as a man of the world—was, with a secrecy too deep for his perception, cutting at the aloofness logically demanded of one in his position. Stubborn, and not spiritually subtle, though by no means dull in practical matters, he was resolutely letting the waters bear him on, holding the tiller firmly, without perceiving that he was in the vortex of a whirlpool. Indeed, his common sense continually impelled him, against the sort of reactionaryism of which his son Miltoun had so much, to that easier reactionaryism, which, living on its spiritual capital, makes what material capital it can out of its enemy, Progress.

      He drove the car himself, shrewd and self-contained, sitting easily, with his cap well drawn over those steady eyes; and though this unexpected meeting of the Cabinet in the Whitsuntide recess was not only a nuisance, but gave food for anxiety, he was fully able to enjoy the swift smooth movement through the summer air, which met him with such friendly sweetness under the great trees of the long avenue. Beside him, little Ann was silent, with her legs stuck out rather wide apart. Motoring was a new excitement, for at home it was forbidden; and a meditative rapture shone in her wide eyes above her sudden little nose. Only once she spoke, when close to the lodge the car slowed down, and they passed the lodgekeeper's little daughter.

      Hallo, Susie!

      There was no answer, but the look on Susie's small pale face was so humble and adoring that Lord Valleys, not a very observant man, noticed it with a sort of satisfaction. Yes, he thought, somewhat irrelevantly, the country is sound at heart!

      CHAPTER II

      AT Ravensham House on the borders of Richmond Park, suburban seat of the Casterley family, ever since it became usual to have a residence within easy driving distance of Westminster—in a large conservatory adjoining the hall, Lady Casterley stood in front of some Japanese lilies. She was a slender, short old woman, with an ivory-coloured face, a thin nose, and keen eyes half-veiled by delicate wrinkled lids. Very still, in her grey dress, and with grey hair, she gave the impression of a little figure carved out of fine, worn steel. Her firm, spidery hand held a letter written in free somewhat sprawling style:

      "MONKLAND COURT,

      "DEVON.

      "MY DEAR MOTHER,

      Geoffrey is motoring up tomorrow. He'll look in on you on the way if he can. This new war scare has taken him up. I shan't be in Town myself till Miltoun's election is over. The fact is, I daren't leave him down here alone. He sees his 'Anonyma' every day. That Mr. Courtier, who wrote the book against War—rather cool for a man who's been a soldier of fortune, don't you think?—is staying at the inn, working for the Radical. He knows her, too—and, one can only hope, for Miltoun's sake, too well—an attractive person, with red moustaches, rather nice and mad. Bertie has just come down; I must get him to have a talk with Miltoun, and see if he can find out how the land lies. One can trust Bertie—he's really very astute. I must say, that she's quite a sweet-looking woman; but absolutely nothing's known of her here except that she divorced her husband. How does one find out about people? Miltoun's being so extraordinarily straiht-laced makes it all the more awkward. The earnestness of this rising generation is most remarkable. I don't remember taking such a serious view of life in my youth.

      Lady Casterley lowered the coronetted sheet of paper. The ghost of a grimace haunted her face—she had not forgotten her daughter's youth. Raising the letter again, she read on:

      "I'm sure Geoffrey and I feel years younger than either Miltoun or Agatha, though we did produce them. One doesn't feel it with Bertie or Babs, luckily. The war scare is having an excellent effect on Miltoun's candidature. Claud Harbinger is with us, too, working for Miltoun; but, as a matter of fact, I think he's after Babs. It's rather melancholy, when you think that Babs isn't quite twenty—still, one can't expect anything else, I suppose, with her looks; and Claud is rather a fine specimen. They talk of him a lot now; he's quite coming to the fore among the young Tories."

      Lady Casterley again lowered the letter, and stood listening. A prolonged, muffled sound as of distant cheering and groans had penetrated the great conservatory, vibrating among the pale petals of the lilies and setting free their scent in short waves of perfume. She passed into the hall; where, stood an old man with sallow face and long white whiskers.

      What was that noise, Clifton?

      A posse of Socialists, my lady, on their way to Putney to hold a demonstration: the people are hooting them. They've got blocked just outside the gates.

      Are they making speeches?

      "They are talking some kind of rant, my lady."

      I'll go and hear them. Give me my black stick.

      Above the velvet-dark, flat-boughed cedar trees, which rose like pagodas of ebony on either side of the drive, the sky hung lowering in one great purple cloud, endowed with sinister life by a single white beam striking up into it from the horizon. Beneath this canopy of cloud a small phalanx of dusty, dishevelled-looking men and women were drawn up in the road, guarding, and encouraging with cheers, a tall, black-coated orator. Before and behind this phalanx, a little mob of men and boys kept up an accompaniment of groans and jeering.

      Lady Casterley and her 'major-domo' stood six paces inside the scrolled iron gates, and watched. The slight, steel-coloured figure with steel-coloured hair, was more arresting in its immobility than all the vociferations and gestures of the mob. Her eyes alone moved under their half-drooped lids; her right hand clutched tightly the handle of her stick. The speaker's voice rose in shrill protest against the exploitation of 'the people'; it sank in ironical comment on Christianity; it demanded passionately to be free from the continuous burden of 'this insensate militarist taxation'; it threatened that the people would take things into their own hands.

      Lady Casterley turned her head:

      He is talking nonsense, Clifton. It is going to rain. I shall go in.

      Under the stone porch she paused. The purple cloud had broken; a blind fury of rain was deluging the fast-scattering crowd. A faint smile came on Lady Casterley's lips.

      It will do them good to have their ardour damped a little. You will get wet, Clifton—hurry! I expect Lord Valleys to dinner. Have a room got ready for him to dress. He's motoring from Monkland.

      CHAPTER III

      IN a very high, white-pannelled room, with but little furniture, Lord Valleys greeted his mother-in-law respectfully.

      Motored up in nine hours, Ma'am—not bad going.

      I am glad you came. When is Miltoun's election?

      On the twenty-ninth.

      Pity! He should be away from Monkland, with that—anonymous woman living there.

      Ah! yes; you've heard of her!

      Lady Casterley replied sharply:

      You're too easy-going, Geoffrey.

      Lord Valleys smiled.

      These war scares, he said, are getting a bore. Can't quite make out what the feeling of the country is about them.

      Lady Casterley rose:

      It has none. When war comes, the feeling will be all right. It always is. Give me your arm. Are you hungry? . . .

      When Lord Valleys spoke of war, he spoke as one who, since he arrived at years of discretion, had lived within the circle of those who direct the destinies of States. It was for him—as for the lilies in the great glass house—impossible to see with the eyes, or feel with the feelings of a flower of the garden outside. Soaked in the best prejudices and manners of his class, he lived a life no more shut off from the general than was to be expected. Indeed, in some sort, as a man of facts and common sense, he was fairly in touch with the opinion of the average citizen. He was quite genuine when he said that he believed he knew what the people wanted better than those who prated on the subject; and no doubt he was right, for temperamentally he was nearer to them than their own leaders, though he would not perhaps have liked to be told so. His man-of-the-world, political shrewdness had been superimposed by life on a nature whose prime strength was its practicality and lack of imagination. It was his business to be efficient, but not strenuous, or desirous of pushing ideas to their logical conclusions; to be neither narrow nor puritanical, so long as the shell of 'good form' was preserved intact; to be a liberal landlord up to the point of not seriously damaging his interests; to be well-disposed towards the arts until those arts revealed that which he had not before perceived; it was his business to have light hands, steady eyes, iron nerves, and those excellent manners that have no mannerisms. It was his nature to be easy-going as a husband; indulgent as a father; careful and straightforward as a politician; and as a man, addicted to pleasure, to work, and to fresh air. He admired, and was fond of his wife, and had never regretted his marriage. He had never perhaps regretted anything, unless it were that he had not yet won the Derby, or quite succeeded in getting his special strain of blue-ticked pointers to breed absolutely true to type. His mother-in-law he respected, as one might respect a principle.

      There was indeed in the personality of that little old lady the tremendous force of accumulated decision—the inherited assurance of one whose prestige had never been questioned; who, from long immunity, and a certain clear-cut matter-of-factness, bred by the habit of command, had indeed lost the power of perceiving that her prestige ever could be questioned. Her knowledge of her own mind was no ordinary piece of learning, had not, in fact, been learned at all, but sprang full-fledged from an active dominating temperament. Fortified by the necessity, common to her class, of knowing thoroughly the more patent side of public affairs; armoured by the tradition of a culture demanded by leadership; inspired by ideas, but always the same ideas; owning no master, but in servitude to her own custom of leading, she had a mind, formidable as the two-edged swords wielded by her ancestors the Fitz-Harolds, at Agincourt or Poitiers—a mind which had ever instinctively rejected that inner knowledge of herself or of the selves of others, produced by those foolish practices of introspection, contemplation, and understanding, so deleterious to authority. If Lord Valleys was the body of the aristocratic machine, Lady Casterley was the steel spring inside it. All her life studiously unaffected and simple in attire; of plain and frugal habit; an early riser; working at something or other from morning till night, and as little worn-out at seventy-eight as most women of fifty, she had only one weak spot—and that was her strength—blindness as to the nature and size of her place in the scheme of things. She was a type, a force.

      Wonderfully well she went with the room in which they were dining, whose grey walls, surmounted by a deep frieze painted somewhat in the style of Fragonard, contained many nymphs and roses now rather dim; with the furniture, too, which had a look of having survived into times not its own. On the tables were no flowers, save five lilies in an old silver chalice; and on the wall over the great sideboard a portrait of the late Lord Casterley.

      She spoke:

      I hope Miltoun is taking his own line?

      That's the trouble. He suffers from swollen principles—only wish he could keep them out of his speeches.

      Let him be; and get him away from that woman as soon as his election's over. What is her real name?

      Mrs. something Lees Noel.

      How long has she been there?

      About a year, I think.

      And you don't know anything about her?

      Lord Valleys raised his shoulders.

      Ah! said Lady Casterley; exactly! You're letting the thing drift. I shall go down myself. I suppose Gertrude can have me? What has that Mr. Courtier to do with this good lady?

      Lord Valleys smiled. In this smile was the whole of his polite and easy-going philosophy. I am no meddler, it seemed to say; and at sight of that smile Lady Casterley tightened her lips.

      He is a firebrand, she said. I read that book of his against War—most inflammatory. Aimed at Grant—and Rosenstern, chiefly. I've just seen one of the results, outside my own gates. A mob of anti-War agitators.

      Lord Valleys controlled a yawn.

      Really? I'd no idea Courtier had any influence.

      He is dangerous. Most idealists are negligible—his book was clever.

      I wish to goodness we could see the last of these scares, they only make both countries look foolish, muttered Lord Valleys.

      Lady Casterley raised her glass, full of a blood-red wine. "The

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