THE THIRD GENERATION
Jolly Forsyte was strolling down High Street,Oxford,on a November afternoon;Val Dartie was strolling up.Jolly had just changed out of boating flannels and was on his way to the 'Frying-pan,'to which he had recently been elected.Val had just changed out of riding clothes and was on his way to the fire--a bookmaker's in Cornmarket.
"Hallo!"said Jolly.
"Hallo!"replied Val.
The cousins had met but twice,Jolly,the second-year man,having invited the freshman to breakfast;and last evening they had seen each other again under somewhat exotic circumstances.
Over a tailor's in the Cornmarket resided one of those privileged young beings called minors,whose inheritances are large,whose parents are dead,whose guardians are remote,and whose instincts are vicious.At nineteen he had commenced one of those careers attractive and inexplicable to ordinary mortals for whom a single bankruptcy is good as a feast.Already famous for having the only roulette table then to be found in Oxford,he was anticipating his expectations at a dazzling rate.He out-crummed Crum,though of a sanguine and rather beefy type which lacked the latter's fascinating languor.For Val it had been in the nature of baptism to be taken there to play roulette;in the nature of confirmation to get back into college,after hours,through a window whose bars were deceptive.Once,during that evening of delight,glancing up from the seductive green before him,he had caught sight,through a cloud of smoke,of his cousin standing opposite.'Rouge gagne,impair,et manque!'He had not seen him again.
"Come in to the Frying-pan and have tea,"said Jolly,and they went in.
A stranger,seeing them together,would have noticed an unseizable resemblance between these second cousins of the third generations of Forsytes;the same bone formation in face,though Jolly's eyes were darker grey,his hair lighter and more wavy.
"Tea and buttered buns,waiter,please,"said Jolly.
"Have one of my cigarettes?"said Val."I saw you last night.How did you do?""I didn't play."
"I won fifteen quid."
Though desirous of repeating a whimsical comment on gambling he had once heard his father make--'When you're fleeced you're sick,and when you fleece you're sorry--Jolly contented himself with:
"Rotten game,I think;I was at school with that chap.He's an awful fool.""Oh!I don't know,"said Val,as one might speak in defence of a disparaged god;"he's a pretty good sport."They exchanged whiffs in silence.
"You met my people,didn't you?"said Jolly."They're coming up to-morrow."Val grew a little red.
"Really!I can give you a rare good tip for the Manchester November handicap.""Thanks,I only take interest in the classic races.""You can't make any money over them,"said Val.
"I hate the ring,"said Jolly;"there's such a row and stink.Ilike the paddock."
"I like to back my judgment,"'answered Val.
Jolly smiled;his smile was like his father's.
"I haven't got any.I always lose money if I bet.""You have to buy experience,of course."
"Yes,but it's all messed-up with doing people in the eye.""Of course,or they'll do you--that's the excitement."Jolly looked a little scornful.
"What do you do with yourself?Row?"
"No--ride,and drive about.I'm going to play polo next term,if Ican get my granddad to stump up."
"That's old Uncle James,isn't it?What's he like?""Older than forty hills,"said Val,"and always thinking he's going to be ruined.""I suppose my granddad and he were brothers.""I don't believe any of that old lot were sportsmen,"said Val;they must have worshipped money."
"Mine didn't!"said Jolly warmly.
Val flipped the ash off his cigarette.
"Money's only fit to spend,"he said;"I wish the deuce I had more."Jolly gave him that direct upward look of judgment which he had inherited from old Jolyon:One didn't talk about money!And again there was silence,while they drank tea and ate the buttered buns.
"Where are your people going to stay?"asked Val,elaborately casual.
"'Rainbow.'What do you think of the war?"
"Rotten,so far.The Boers aren't sports a bit.Why don't they come out into the open?""Why should they?They've got everything against them except their way of fighting.I rather admire them.""They can ride and shoot,"admitted Val,"but they're a lousy lot.
Do you know Crum?"
"Of Merton?Only by sight.He's in that fast set too,isn't he?
Rather La-di-da and Brummagem."
Val said fixedly:"He's a friend of mine."
"Oh!Sorry!"And they sat awkwardly staring past each other,having pitched on their pet points of snobbery.For Jolly was forming himself unconsciously on a set whose motto was:
'We defy you to bore us.Life isn't half long enough,and we're going to talk faster and more crisply,do more and know more,and dwell less on any subject than you can possibly imagine.We are "the best"--made of wire and whipcord.'And Val was unconsciously forming himself on a set whose motto was:'We defy you to interest or excite us.We have had every sensation,or if we haven't,we pretend we have.We are so exhausted with living that no hours are too small for us.We will lose our shirts with equanimity.We have flown fast and are past everything.All is cigarette smoke.
Bismillah!'Competitive spirit,bone-deep in the English,was obliging those two young Forsytes to have ideals;and at the close of a century ideals are mixed.The aristocracy had already in the main adopted the 'jumping-Jesus'principle;though here and there one like Crum--who was an 'honourable'--stood starkly languid for that gambler's Nirvana which had been the summum bonum of the old 'dandies'and of 'the mashers'in the eighties.And round Crum were still gathered a forlorn hope of blue-bloods with a plutocratic following.
