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John Galsworthy
John Galsworthy (1867-1933) was an English novelist and playwright renowned for his series of novels collectively titled "The Forsyte Saga," which offers a critical portrayal of the upper-middle-class in Britain during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1932 for his distinguished art of narration which takes its highest form in "The Forsyte Saga." Galsworthy was also a social activist, advocating for prison reform, women's rights, and animal welfare throughout his life.
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John Galsworthy
ACT I The scene is the managing clerk's room, at the offices of Jamesand Walter How, on a July morning. The room is old fashioned,furnished with well-worn mahogany and leather, and lined withtin boxes and estate plans. It has three doors. Two of themare close together in the centre of a wall. One of these twodoors leads to the outer office, which is only divided from themanaging clerk's room...
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John Galsworthy
ACT I SCENE I The study of JOHN BUILDER in the provincial town of Breconridge.A panelled room wherein nothing is ever studied, except perhapsBUILDER'S face in the mirror over the fireplace. It is, however,comfortable, and has large leather chairs and a writing table in thecentre, on which is a typewriter, and many papers. At the back is alarge window with French outside shutters, overlooking the...
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John Galsworthy
THE FIRST AND LAST "So the last shall be first, and the first last."—HOLY WRIT. It was a dark room at that hour of six in the evening, when just the single oil reading-lamp under its green shade let fall a dapple of light over the Turkey carpet; over the covers of books taken out of the bookshelves, and the open pages of the one selected; over the deep blue and gold of the coffee service on...
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John Galsworthy
In the last day of May in the early 'nineties, about six o'clock of the evening, old Jolyon Forsyte sat under the oak tree below the terrace of his house at Robin Hill. He was waiting for the midges to bite him, before abandoning the glory of the afternoon. His thin brown hand, where blue veins stood out, held the end of a cigar in its tapering, long-nailed fingers—a pointed polished nail...
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John Galsworthy
ACT I SCENE I The curtain rises on the BARTHWICK'S dining-room, large, modern, and well furnished; the window curtains drawn. Electric light is burning. On the large round dining-table is set out a tray with whisky, a syphon, and a silver cigarette-box. It is past midnight. A fumbling is heard outside the door. It is opened suddenly; JACK BARTHWICK seems to fall into the room. He stands holding by...
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John Galsworthy
ACT I SCENE I The dressing-room of CHARLES WINSOR, owner of Meldon Court, nearNewmarket; about eleven-thirty at night. The room has pale greywalls, unadorned; the curtains are drawn over a window Back LeftCentre. A bed lies along the wall, Left. An open door, Right Back,leads into LADY ADELA's bedroom; a door, Right Forward, into a longcorridor, on to which abut rooms in a row, the whole length of...
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John Galsworthy
ACT I It is the night of Christmas Eve, the SCENE is a Studio, flushwith the street, having a skylight darkened by a fall of snow.There is no one in the room, the walls of which are whitewashed,above a floor of bare dark boards. A fire is cheerfullyburning. On a model's platform stands an easel and canvas.There are busts and pictures; a screen, a little stool, two arm.chairs, and a long...
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John Galsworthy
THE INN OF TRANQUILLITY Under a burning blue sky, among the pine-trees and junipers, the cypresses and olives of that Odyssean coast, we came one afternoon on a pink house bearing the legend: "Osteria di Tranquillita,"; and, partly because of the name, and partly because we did not expect to find a house at all in those goat-haunted groves above the waves, we tarried for contemplation. To the...
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John Galsworthy
CHAPTER I THE SHADOW In the afternoon of the last day of April, 190-, a billowy sea of little broken clouds crowned the thin air above High Street, Kensington. This soft tumult of vapours, covering nearly all the firmament, was in onslaught round a patch of blue sky, shaped somewhat like a star, which still gleamed—a single gentian flower amongst innumerable grass. Each of these small clouds seemed...
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John Galsworthy
PART I—SPRINGIHe walked along Holywell that afternoon of early June with his short gown drooping down his arms, and no cap on his thick dark hair. A youth of middle height, and built as if he had come of two very different strains, one sturdy, the other wiry and light. His face, too, was a curious blend, for, though it was strongly formed, its expression was rather soft and moody. His eyes—dark...
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