Лучшее из «Саги о Форсайтах» / The Best of The Forsyte Saga. Джон Голсуорси
an all-too-sad sadness beaming in his fine eyes; his iron-grey beard, in mourning like the rest of him, giving the feeling of an all-too-black tie behind it.
The occasion indeed was a melancholy one, only six weeks having elapsed since that telegram had come from Scorrier, the mining expert, on a private mission to the Mines, informing them that Pippin, their Superintendent, had committed suicide in endeavouring, after his extraordinary two years’ silence, to write a letter to his Board. That letter was on the table now; it would be read to the Shareholders, who would of course be put into possession of all the facts.
Hemmings had often said to Soames, standing with his coat-tails divided before the fireplace:
“What our Shareholders don’t know about our affairs isn’t worth knowing. You may take that from me, Mr. Soames.”
On one occasion, old Jolyon being present, Soames recollected a little unpleasantness. His uncle had looked up sharply and said: “Don’t talk nonsense, Hemmings! You mean that what they do know isn’t worth knowing!” Old Jolyon detested humbug.
Hemmings, angry-eyed, and wearing a smile like that of a trained poodle, had replied in an outburst of artificial applause: “Come, now, that’s good, sir – that’s very good. Your uncle will have his joke!”
The next time he had seen Soames he had taken the opportunity of saying to him: “The chairman’s getting very old! – I can’t get him to understand things; and he’s so wilful – but what can you expect, with a chin like his?”
Soames had nodded.
Everyone knew that Uncle Jolyon’s chin was a caution. He was looking worried to-day, in spite of his General Meeting look; he (Soames) should certainly speak to him about Bosinney.
Beyond old Jolyon on the left was little Mr. Booker, and he, too, wore his General Meeting look, as though searching for some particularly tender shareholder. And next him was the deaf director, with a frown; and beyond the deaf director, again, was old Mr. Bleedham, very bland, and having an air of conscious virtue – as well he might, knowing that the brown-paper parcel he always brought to the Board-room was concealed behind his hat (one of that old-fashioned class, of flat-brimmed top-hats which go with very large bow ties, clean-shaven lips, fresh cheeks, and neat little, white whiskers).
Soames always attended the General Meeting; it was considered better that he should do so, in case ‘anything should arise!’ He glanced round with his close, supercilious air at the walls of the room, where hung plans of the mine and harbour, together with a large photograph of a shaft leading to a working which had proved quite remarkably unprofitable. This photograph – a witness to the eternal irony underlying commercial enterprise – still retained its position on the wall, an effigy of the directors’ pet, but dead, lamb.
And now old Jolyon rose, to present the report and accounts.
Veiling under a Jove-like serenity that perpetual antagonism deep-seated in the bosom of a director towards his shareholders, he faced them calmly. Soames faced them too. He knew most of them by sight. There was old Scrubsole, a tar man, who always came, as Hemmings would say, ‘to make himself nasty,’ a cantankerous-looking old fellow with a red face, a jowl, and an enormous low-crowned hat reposing on his knee. And the Rev. Mr. Boms, who always proposed a vote of thanks to the chairman, in which he invariably expressed the hope that the Board would not forget to elevate their employees, using the word with a double e, as being more vigorous and Anglo-Saxon (he had the strong Imperialistic tendencies of his cloth). It was his salutary custom to buttonhole[29] a director afterwards, and ask him whether he thought the coming year would be good or bad; and, according to the trend of the answer, to buy or sell three shares within the ensuing fortnight.
And there was that military man, Major O’Bally, who could not help speaking, if only to second the re-election of the auditor, and who sometimes caused serious consternation by taking toasts – proposals rather – out of the hands of persons who had been flattered with little slips of paper, entrusting the said proposals to their care.
These made up the lot, together with four or five strong, silent shareholders, with whom Soames could sympathize – men of business, who liked to keep an eye on their affairs for themselves, without being fussy – good, solid men, who came to the City every day and went back in the evening to good, solid wives.
Good, solid wives! There was something in that thought which roused the nameless uneasiness in Soames again.
What should he say to his uncle? What answer should he make to this letter?
…. “If any shareholder has any question to put, I shall be glad to answer it.” A soft thump. Old Jolyon had let the report and accounts fall, and stood twisting his tortoise-shell glasses between thumb and forefinger.
The ghost of a smile appeared on Soames’ face. They had better hurry up with their questions! He well knew his uncle’s method (the ideal one) of at once saying: “I propose, then, that the report and accounts be adopted!” Never let them get their wind – shareholders were notoriously wasteful of time!
A tall, white-bearded man, with a gaunt, dissatisfied face, arose:
“I believe I am in order, Mr. Chairman, in raising a question on this figure of £5000 in the accounts. ‘To the widow and family”’ (he looked sourly round), “‘of our late superintendent,’ who so – er – ill-advisedly (I say – ill-advisedly) committed suicide, at a time when his services were of the utmost value to this Company. You have stated that the agreement which he has so unfortunately cut short with his own hand was for a period of five years, of which one only had expired – I – ”
Old Jolyon made a gesture of impatience.
“I believe I am in order, Mr. Chairman – I ask whether this amount paid, or proposed to be paid, by the Board to the er – deceased – is for services which might have been rendered to the Company – had he not committed suicide?”
“It is in recognition of past services, which we all know – you as well as any of us – to have been of vital value.”
“Then, sir, all I have to say is that the services being past, the amount is too much.”
The shareholder sat down.
Old Jolyon waited a second and said: “I now propose that the report and – ”
The shareholder rose again: “May I ask if the Board realizes that it is not their money which – I don’t hesitate to say that if it were their money….”
A second shareholder, with a round, dogged face, whom Soames recognised as the late superintendent’s brother-in-law, got up and said warmly: “In my opinion, sir, the sum is not enough!”
The Rev. Mr. Boms now rose to his feet. “If I may venture to express myself,” he said, “I should say that the fact of the – er – deceased having committed suicide should weigh very heavily – very heavily with our worthy chairman. I have no doubt it has weighed with him, for – I say this for myself and I think for everyone present (hear, hear) – he enjoys our confidence in a high degree. We all desire, I should hope, to be charitable. But I feel sure” (he-looked severely at the late superintendent’s brother-in-law) “that he will in some way, by some written expression, or better perhaps by reducing the amount, record our grave disapproval that so promising and valuable a life should have been thus impiously removed from a sphere where both its own interests and – if I may say so – our interests so imperatively demanded its continuance. We should not – nay, we may not – countenance so grave a dereliction of all duty, both human and divine.”
The reverend gentleman resumed his seat. The late superintendent’s brother-in-law again rose: “What I have said I stick to,” he said; “the amount is not enough!”
The first shareholder struck in: “I challenge the legality of the payment. In my opinion this payment is not legal. The Company’s solicitor is present; I believe I am in order in asking him the question.”
All eyes
to buttonhole – to detain in conversation.