I
Swithin Forsyte lay in bed. The corners of his mouth under his white
moustache drooped towards his double chin. He panted:
“My doctor says I'm in a bad way, James.”
His twin-brother placed his hand behind his ear. “I can't hear you.
They tell me I ought to take a cure. There's always a cure wanted for
something. Emily had a cure.”
Swithin replied: “You mumble so. I hear my man, Adolph. I trained
him.... You ought to have an ear-trumpet. You're getting very shaky,
James.”
There was silence; then James Forsyte, as if galvanised, remarked: “I
s'pose you've made your will. I s'pose you've left your money to the
family; you've nobody else to leave it to. There was Danson died the
other day, and left his money to a hospital.”
The hairs of Swithin's white moustache bristled. “My fool of a doctor
told me to make my will,” he said, “I hate a fellow who tells you to
make your will. My appetite's good; I ate a partridge last night. I'm
all the better for eating. He told me to leave off champagne! I eat a
good breakfast. I'm not eighty. You're the same age, James. You look
very shaky.”
James Forsyte said: “You ought to have another opinion. Have Blank; he's
the first man now. I had him for Emily; cost me two hundred guineas.
He sent her to Homburg; that's the first place now. The Prince was
there—everybody goes there.”
Swithin Forsyte answered: “I don't get any sleep at night, now I can't
get out; and I've bought a new carriage—gave a pot of money for it. D'
you ever have bronchitis? They tell me champagne's dangerous; it's my
belief I couldn't take a better thing.”
James Forsyte rose.
“You ought to have another opinion. Emily sent her love; she would have
come in, but she had to go to Niagara. Everybody goes there; it's the
place now. Rachel goes every morning: she overdoes it—she'll be laid up
one of these days. There's a fancy ball there to-night; the Duke gives
the prizes.”
Swithin Forsyte said angrily: “I can't get things properly cooked here;
at the club I get spinach decently done.” The bed-clothes jerked at the
tremor of his legs.
James Forsyte replied: “You must have done well with Tintos; you must
have made a lot of money by them. Your ground-rents must be falling
in, too. You must have any amount you don't know what to do with.” He
mouthed the words, as if his lips were watering.
Swithin Forsyte glared. “Money!” he said; “my doctor's bill's enormous.”
James Forsyte stretched out a cold, damp hand “Goodbye! You ought to
have another opinion. I can't keep the horses waiting: they're a new
pair—stood me in three hundred. You ought to take care of yourself. I
shall speak to Blank about you. You ought to have him—everybody says
he's the first man. Good-bye!”
Swithin Forsyte continued to stare at the ceiling. He thought: 'A
poor thing, James! a selfish beggar! Must be worth a couple of hundred
thousand!' He wheezed, meditating on life....
He was ill and lonely. For many years he had been lonely, and for two
years ill; but as he had smoked his first cigar, so he would live his
life-stoutly, to its predestined end. Every day he was driven to the
club; sitting forward on the spring cushions of a single brougham, his
hands on his knees, swaying a little, strangely solemn. He ascended
the steps into that marble hall—the folds of his chin wedged into the
aperture of his collar—walking squarely with a stick. Later he would
dine, eating majestically, and savouring his food, behind a bottle of
champagne set in an ice-pail—his waistcoat defended by a napkin, his
eyes rolling a little or glued in a stare on the waiter. Never did he
suffer his head or back to droop, for it was not distinguished so to do.
Because he was old and deaf, he spoke to no one; and no one spoke to
him. The club gossip, an Irishman, said to each newcomer: “Old Forsyte!
Look at 'um! Must ha' had something in his life to sour 'um!” But
Swithin had had nothing in his life to sour him.
For many days now he had lain in bed in a room exuding silver, crimson,
and electric light, smelling of opopanax and of cigars. The curtains
were drawn, the firelight gleamed; on a table by his bed were a jug of
barley-water and the Times. He made an attempt to read, failed, and fell
again to thinking. His face with its square chin, looked like a block
of pale leather bedded in the pillow. It was lonely! A woman in the
room would have made all the difference! Why had he never married? He
breathed hard, staring froglike at the ceiling; a memory had come into
his mind. It was a long time ago—forty odd years—but it seemed like
yesterday....
It happened when he was thirty-eight, for the first and only time in his
life travelling on the Continent, with his twin-brother James and a man
named Traquair. On the way from Germany to Venice, he had found himself
at the Hotel Goldene Alp at Salzburg. It was late August, and weather
for the gods: sunshine on the walls and the shadows of the vine-leaves,
and at night, the moonlight, and again on the walls the shadows of the
vine-leaves. Averse to the suggestions of other people, Swithin had
refused to visit the Citadel; he had spent the day alone in the window
of his bedroom, smoking a succession of cigars, and disparaging the
appearance of the passers-by. After dinner he was driven by boredom into
the streets. His chest puffed out like a pigeon's, and with something of
a pigeon's cold and inquiring eye, he strutted, annoyed at the frequency
of uniforms, which seemed to him both needless and offensive. His spleen
rose at this crowd of foreigners, who spoke an unintelligible language,
wore hair on their faces, and smoked bad tobacco. 'A queer lot!' he
thought. The sound of music from a cafe attracted him; he walked in,
vaguely moved by a wish for the distinction of adventure, without the
trouble which adventure usually brought with it; spurred too, perhaps,
by an after-dinner demon. The cafe was the bier-halle of the 'Fifties,
with a door at either end, and lighted by a large wooden lantern. On a
small dais three musicians were fiddling. Solitary men, or groups,
sat at some dozen tables, and the waiters hurried about replenishing
glasses; the air was thick with smoke. Swithin sat down. “Wine!” he said
sternly. The astonished waiter brought him wine. Swithin pointed to a
beer glass on the table. “Here!” he said, with the same ferocity. The
waiter poured out the wine. 'Ah!' thought Swithin, 'they can understand
if they like.' A group of officers close by were laughing; Swithin
stared at them uneasily. A hollow cough sounded almost in his ear. To
his left a man sat reading, with his elbows on the corners of a journal,
and his gaunt shoulders raised almost to his eyes. He had a thin, long
nose, broadening suddenly at the nostrils; a black-brown beard, spread
in a savage fan over his chest; what was visible of the face was the
colour of old parchment. A strange, wild, haughty-looking creature!
Swithin observed his clothes with some displeasure—they were the clothes
of a journalist or strolling actor. And yet he was impressed. This was
singular. How could he be impressed by a fellow in such clothes! The man
reached out a hand, covered with black hairs, and took up a tumbler that
contained a dark-coloured fluid. 'Brandy!' thought Swithin. The crash of
a falling chair startled him—his neighbour had risen. He was of immense
height, and very thin; his great beard seemed to splash away from his
mouth; he was glaring at the group of officers, and speaking. Swithin
made out two words: “Hunde! Deutsche Hunde!” 'Hounds! Dutch hounds!'
he thought: 'Rather strong!' One of the officers had jumped up, and now
drew his sword. The tall man swung his chair up, and brought it down
with a thud. Everybody round started up and closed on him. The tall man
cried out, “To me, Magyars!”
Swithin grinned. The tall man fighting such odds excited his unwilling
admiration; he had a momentary impulse to go to his assistance. 'Only
get a broken nose!' he thought, and looked for a safe corner. But at
that moment a thrown lemon struck him on the jaw. He jumped out of his
chair and rushed at the officers. The Hungarian, swinging his chair,
threw him a look of gratitude—Swithin glowed with momentary admiration
of himself. A sword blade grazed his—arm; he felt a sudden dislike of
the Hungarian. 'This is too much,' he thought, and, catching up a chair,
flung it at the wooden lantern. There was a crash—faces and swords
vanished. He struck a match, and by the light of it bolted for the door.
A second later he was in the street.