These are the considerations which must be borne in mind when we come to the recital of an episode current on Forsyte ‘Change in the year 1890.
Swithin had spent the early months at Brighton and was undoubtedly feeling his liver by April. The last three years had tried him severely and for some time past he had parted with his phaeton, confining his carriage exercise to a double brougham, in which, drawn by his greys, he passed every afternoon up and down the front from the end of Hove to the beginning of Kemptown. What he thought of during these excursions has never been disclosed. Possibly of nothing. And why not? For so entirely lonely an old man, provocation towards thought was conspicuous by its absence; and though there was always himself to think about, a man cannot for ever be bothered by that. The return to his hotel would be achieved by four o’clock. He would be assisted to alight by his valet, and would walk into the hotel unaided, Alphonse following with the specially strong air-cushion on which he always sat, and his knee rug of a Highland plaid. In the hall Swithin would stand for perhaps a minute, settling his chin more firmly, rounding his heavy eyelids more carefully over his gouty eyes. He would then hold out his gold-headed malacca cane to be taken from him, and slightly spread his hands, gloved in bright wash-leather, to indicate that his coat, blue, lined with squirrel and collared with astrakhan, should be removed. This having been done and his gloves and black felt hat with somewhat square top taken off, he would touch the tuft on his lower lip, as if to assure himself that its distinction was still with him.
At this hour he was used to take a certain seat in a certain draughtless corner and smoke half a cigar before ascending in the lift to the sitting-room of his suite. He sat there so motionless and was known to be so deaf, that no one spoke to him; but it seemed to him that in this way he saw more life and maintained the out-lived reputation of ‘Four-inHand’ Forsyte. Wedged forward by cushions, as though still in his brougham, with his thick legs slightly apart, he would apply the cigar to his ear; having heard it carefully in its defence, he would hold it a minute between puffy thumb and puffier forefinger of that yellowish-white which betokens the gouty subject, then place it in his mouth and wait for it to be lighted. With chest pouted, under a black satin stock and diamond pin, so that he appeared to be of one thickness from neck down, he would sit, contemplating that which was not yet called the Lounge from under drooped puffy lids, as might some Buddha from the corner of a temple. His square old face, perfectly pale, of one long withdrawn from privilege of open air, would be held so still that people would glance at it as they might have at a clock. The little white moustaches and tuft on the lower lip, the tufts above the eyes, and hair still stylish on the forehead, accentuated perhaps its resemblance to a dial. Once in a way, someone whose father or uncle had known him in old days would halt in passing, as though about to set his watch by him, and say: “How d’you do, Mr. Forsyte?” Then would an expression as of a cat purring spread on Swithin’s face, and he would murmur in a voice fat and distinguished: “Ah! How de do? Haven’t seen your father lately.” And as the father was almost always dead, this would end the conversation. But Swithin would sit the squarer because he had been spoken to.
When his cigar was about half smoked a change would come. The hand holding it would loll over the arm of the chair, trembling a little. The chin would slip slowly down between the wide apart points of the stiff white collar; the puffy rounding of the eyelids would become complete; a slight twitching would possess the lips, a faint steady puffing take its place—Swithin would be asleep. And those who passed would look at him with cold amusement, a kind of impatience, possibly a touch of compassion, for, on these occasions, as if mindful of past glories, Swithin did not snore. And then, of course, would come the moment of awakening. The chin would jerk up, the lips part, all breath would seem to be expelled from him in a long sigh; the eyes coming ungummed would emit a glassy stare; the tongue would move over the roof of the mouth and the lips; and an expression as of a cross baby would appear on the old face. Pettishly he would raise the half-smoked cigar, look at it as if it owed him something which it was not going to pay, and let it slip between finger and thumb into a spittoon. Then he would sit the same, yet not the same, waiting for some servant to come near enough for him to say: “Hi! Tell my valet to come, will you?” and when Alphonse appeared: “Oh! There you are! I nodded off. I’ll go up now.”
Assisted from the chair, he would stand fully a minute feeling giddy, then square but bearing heavily on the cane and one leg, would move towards the lift, followed by Alphonse and the special cushions. And someone perhaps would mutter as he passed: “There goes old Forsyte. Funny old boy, isn’t he?”
But such was not the order of events on that particular April afternoon reported on Forsyte ‘Change. For when, divested of hat and overcoat, he was about to walk to his accustomed corner, he was observed to raise his cane with the words: “Here! There’s a lady sitting in my chair!”
A figure, indeed, in rather a short skirt, occupied that sacred spot.
“I’ll go up!” said Swithin, pettishly. But as he moved, she rose and came towards him.
“God bless me!” said Swithin, for he had recognised his niece Euphemia.
Now the youngest child of his brother Nicholas was in some respects Swithin’s pet aversion. She was, in his view, too thin, and always saying the wrong thing; besides, she squeaked. He had not seen her since, to his discomfort, he had sat next her at the concert of Francie’s fourpenny foreigner.
“How are you, Uncle? I thought I MUST look you up while I was down.”
“I’ve got gout,” said Swithin. “How’s your father?”
“Oh! just as usual. He says he’s bad, but he isn’t.” And she squeaked slightly.
Swithin fixed her with his stare. Upset already by her occupation of his chair, he was on the point of saying: ‘Your father’s worth twenty of you,’ but, remembering in time the exigencies of deportment, he murmured more gallantly: “Where have you sprung from?”
“My bicycle.”
“What!” said Swithin. “You ride one of those things!”
Again Euphemia squeaked.
“Oh! Uncle! One of those things!”
“Well,” said Swithin, “what else are they—invention of the devil. Have some tea?”
“Thank you, Uncle, but you must be tired after your drive.”
“Tired! Why should I be tired? Waiter! Bring some tea over there—to my chair.”
Having thus conveyed to her the faux fas she had committed by sitting in his chair, he motioned her towards it and followed.
On reaching the chair there was an ominous moment.
“Sit down,” said Swithin.
For a moment Euphemia hovered on its edge, then with a slight squeak said: “But it’s your chair, Uncle.”
“Alphonse,” said Swithin, “bring another.”
When the other chair had been brought, the cushions placed for Swithin in his own, and they were seated, Euphemia said:
“Didn’t you know that women were beginning to ride bicycles, Uncle?”
The hairs on Swithin’s underlip stood out.
“Women,” he said. “You may well say women. Fancy a lady riding a thing like that!”
Euphemia squeaked more notably.
“But, Uncle, why LIKE THAT?”
“With a leg on each side, disturbing the traffic,” and glancing at Euphemia’s skirt, he added: “Showing their legs.”
Euphemia gave way to silent laughter.
“Oh! Uncle,” she said, at last, in a strangled voice, “you’ll kill me!”
But at this moment came tea.
“Help yourself,” said Swithin, shortly; “I don’t drink it.” And, taking from the waiter a light for his cigar, he sat staring with pale eyes at his niece. Not till after her second cup did she break that silence.
“Uncle Swithin, do tell me why they called you ‘Four-in-Hand Forsyte,’ I’ve always wanted to know.”
Swithin’s stare grew rounder.