IN MEMORY OF
ANN,
The Beloved Wife of
Jolyon Forsyte.
Born Feb. 1, 1780; Died April 16, 1821

A bright May day and no one in that crowded graveyard but himself.
Old Jolyon shifted in his chair; his cigar was out, his cheeks above those grizzling whiskers–indispensable to the sixties–had coloured suddenly, his eyes looked angrily from deep beneath his frowning brows, for he was suddenly in the grip of another memory–bitter, wrathful and ashamed–of only ten years back.
That was on a Spring day too, in 1851, the year after they had buried their father up at Highgate, thirty years after their mother’s death. That had put it into his mind, and he had gone down to Bosport for the first time since, travelling by train, in a Scotch cap. He had hardly known the place, so changed and spread. Having found the old parish church, he had made his way to the corner of the graveyard where she had been buried, and had stood aghast, rubbing his eyes. That corner was no longer there! The trees, the graves, all were gone. In place, a wall cut diagonally across, and beyond it ran the railway line. What in the name of God had they done with his mother’s grave? Frowning, he had searched, quartering the graveyard like a dog. At least, they had placed it somewhere else. But no–not a sign! And there had risen in him a revengeful anger shot through with a shame which heightened the passion in his blood. The Goths, the Vandals, the ruffians! His mother–her bones scattered–her name defaced–her rest annulled! A stinking railway track across her grave. What right–! Clasping the railing of a tomb his hands had trembled, and sweat had broken out on his flushed forehead. If there were any law that he could put in motion, he would put it! If there were anyone he could punish, by Heaven he would punish him! And then, that shame, so foreign to his nature, came sweeping in on him again. What had his father been about–what had they all been about that not one of them had come down in all those years to see that all was well with her! Too busy making money–like the age itself, laying that sacrilegious railway track, scattering with its progress the decency of death! And he had bowed his head down on his trembling hands. His mother! And he had not defended her, who had lain defenceless! But what had the parson been about not to give notice of what they were going to do? He raised his head again, and stared around him. Over on the far side was someone weeding paths. He moved forward and accosted him.
“How long is it since they put that railway here?”
The old chap had paused, leaning on his spud.
“Ten year and more.”
“What did they do with the graves in that corner?”
“Ah! I never did ‘old with that.”
“What did they do with them? I asked you.”
“Why–just dug ’em up.”
“And the coffins?”
“I dunno. Ax parson. They was old graves–an ‘undred years or more, mostly.”
“They were not–one was my mother’s. 1821.”
“Ah! I mind–there was a newish stone.”
“What did they do with it?”
The old chap had gazed up at him, then, as if suddenly aware of the abnormal on the path before him:
“I b’lieve they couldn’t trace the owner–ax parson, ‘e may know.”
“How long has he been here?”
“Four year come Michaelmas. Old parson’s dead, but present parson ‘e may ‘ave some informashun.”
Like some beast deprived of his kill old Jolyon stood. Dead! That ruffian dead!
“Don’t you know what they did with the coffins–with the bones?”
“Couldn’ say–buried somewhere again, I suppose–maybe the doctors got some–couldn’ say. As I tell you. Vicar ‘e may know.”
And spitting on his hands he turned again to weeding.
The Vicar? He had been no good, had known nothing, or so he had said–no one had known! Liars–yes, liars–he didn’t believe a word of what they said. They hadn’t wanted to trace the owner, for fear of having a stopper put on them! Gone, dispersed–all but the entry of the burial! Over the ground where she had lain that railway sprawled, trains roared. And he, by one of those trains, had been forced to go back to that London which had enmeshed his heart and soul so that, as it were, he had betrayed her who had borne him! But who would have thought of such a thing? Sacred ground! Was nothing proof against the tide of Progress–not even the dead committed to the earth?
He reached for a match, but his cigar tasted bitter and he pitched it away. He hadn’t told Jo, he shouldn’t tell Jo–not a thing for a boy to hear. A boy would never understand how life got hold of you when you once began to make your way. How one thing brought another till the past went out of your head, and interests multiplied in an ever-swelling tide lapping over sentiment and memory, and the green things of youth. A boy would never comprehend how Progress marched inexorably on, transforming the quiet places of the earth. And yet, perhaps the boy ought to know–might be a lesson to him. No! He shouldn’t tell him–it would hurt to let him know that one had let one’s own mother–! He took up The Times. Ah! What a difference! He could remember The Times when he first came up to London–tiny print, such as they couldn’t read nowadays. The Times–one double sheet with the Parliamentary debates, and a few advertisements of places wanted, and people wanting them. And look at it now, a great crackling flourishing affair with print twice the size!
The door creaked. What was that? Oh, yes–tea coming in! His wife was upstairs, unwell; and they had brought it to him here.
“Send some up to your mistress,” he said, “and tell Master Jo.”
Stirring his tea–his own firm’s best Soochong–he read about the health of Lord Palmerston and of how that precious mountebank of a chap–the French Emperor–was expected to visit the Queen. And then the boy came in. “Ah! Here you are, Jo! Tea’s getting strong.”
And, as the little chap drank, old Jolyon looked at him. To-morrow he was going to that great place where they turned out Prime Ministers and bishops and that, where they taught manners–at least he hoped so–and how to despise trade. H’m! Would the boy learn to despise his own father? And suddenly there welled up in old Jolyon all his primeval honesty, and that peculiar independence which made him respected among men, and a little feared.
“You asked just now about your grandmother, Jo. I didn’t tell you how, when I went down thirty years after her death, I found that her grave had been dug up to make room for a railway. There wasn’t a trace of it to be found, and nobody could or would tell me anything about it.”
The boy held his teaspoon above his cup, and gazed; how innocent and untouched he looked; then suddenly his face went pinker and he said:
“What a shame, Dad!”
“Yes; some ruffian of a parson allowed it, and never let us know. But it was my fault, Jo; I ought to have been seeing to her grave all along.”
And again the boy said nothing, eating his cake, and looking at his father. And old Jolyon thought: ‘Well, I’ve told him.’
Suddenly the boy piped up:
“That’s what they did with the mummies, Dad.”
The mummies! What mummies? Oh! Those things they had been seeing at the British Museum. And old Jolyon was silent, staring back over the sands of time. Odd! how it hadn’t occurred to him. Odd! Yet the boy had noticed it! Um! Now, what did that signify? And in old Jolyon there stirred some dim perception of mental movement between his generation and his son’s. Two and two made four. And he hadn’t seen it! Queer! But in Egypt they said it was all sand: Perhaps things came up of their own accord. And then–though there might be, as he had said, descendants living, they were not sons or grandsons. Still! The boy had seen the bearing of it and he hadn’t. He said abruptly:
“Finished your packing, Jo?”
“Yes, Dad, only do you think I could take my white mice?”
“Well, my boy, I don’t know–perhaps they’re a bit young for Eton. The place thinks a lot of itself, you know.”
“Yes, Dad.”
Old Jolyon’s heart turned over within him. Bless the little chap! What he was in for!
“Did you have white mice, Dad?”
Old Jolyon shook his head.
“No, Jo; we weren’t as civilised as all that in my young day.”
“I wonder if those mummies had them,” said young Jolyon.

HESTER’S LITTLE TOUR, 1845

Those who frequented Forsyte ‘Change at Timothy’s on the Bayswater Road, and were accustomed to the sight of Aunt Hester sitting in her chair to the left of the fireplace with a book on her lap which she seemed almost too quiescent to be reading, must often have wondered: What, if any, adventures or emotional disturbances had ever come the way of that still figure? Had she ever loved, and if so–whom? Was she ever ill, and if so–where? To whom had she ever confided–what? Not that she imparted to the observer the impression of a sphinx. That would hardly have been nice. And yet, curiously enough, of the three sisters who dwelled at Timothy’s, it was Aunt Hester who exhaled, in spite of all her quietism, an atmosphere of–one would almost say free thought, but for fear of going too far. Better, perhaps, say that she conveyed a feeling of having abandoned, out of love of a quiet life, more desires, thoughts, hopes and dislikes, than either of her sisters had ever been capable of entertaining.
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