Beauty of nature, of England and of London, of humans that appreciate it and take it for granted, live it, and imbibe it in different ways in their own lives and their own psyche - and are coming from different castes socially and economically, brought up with, different sets of circumstances, leading to different values and conclusions about life and people - and their interactions that bring joy and pain to more than those that they encounter.
Pure Galsworthy, all of it.
If there is beauty and love and expectation, as is usual in Galsworthy, there is going to be expectation too, and in this the book falls short only in that it stops halfway compared to what one is led to expect if one read Forsyte Chronicles before this. Which a generic reader is likely to have.
But if one has read more than only the superlative Forsyte Chronicles, one is likely also to have realised that that work was probably a more matured, later achievement, while the other works are all leading up to it. This work is probably half way in that it does not lack finesse, but stops short of courage to bring about a satisfactory resolution to the love thwarted by circumstances. Then again, those were the realities of the day and it is probably a good thing to face how it was, even as times were changing. So some were able to go forth in the Forsyte best fashion while others, like even the majority of Forsyte clan, were not quite that fortunate.
One will recognise the various characters here as earlier sketches of what matures in Forsyte Chronicles, but it is nevertheless wonderful to go through this, and of course, the lyrical portrayal of beauty of nature as the characters live through it, walk in it, is always lovely, and never same.
