On Forsyte ‘Change

“Take cover, can’t you!” he said, rudely.

Eustace freed his sleeve. “I don’t wish to.”

“Then you—well will,” replied the ‘special.’

Perceiving that he could only proceed over the considerable body of this intrusive being, Eustace shrugged his shoulders and endeavoured to stand still again, but an inflowing tide of his fellow-beings forced him down the slope into the hallway and on towards the stairs. Here he made a resolute effort to squeeze his way back towards the air. It was totally unavailing, and he was swept on till he was standing about halfway down the stairs among a solid mass of men, women and children of types that seemed to him in no way attractive. He had frequently noticed that mankind in the bulk is unpleasing to the eye, the ear, and the nose; but this deduction had, as it were, been formed by his brain. It was now reinforced by his senses in a ma

Placing his handkerchief, well tinctured by eau-de-Cologne, to his nose, he tried to calculate: It would probably be a couple of hours before the ‘all clear’ sounded. Could he not squeeze his way very gradually to the entrance? His neighbours seemed to think that by being where they were they had ‘struck it lucky’ and scored off the by-our-lady Huns. Since they evidently had no intention of departing, it seemed to Eustace that they would prefer his room to his company. He was startled, therefore, when his attempt to escape was greeted by growling admonitions not to ‘go shovin’,’ ‘to keep still, couldn’t he,’ and other displeased comments. It was his first lesson in mob psychology: what was good enough for them was good enough for him. If he persisted, he would be considered a traitor to the body politic, and would meet with strenuous resistance! So he abandoned his design and endeavoured to make himself slimmer, that the bodies round him might be in contact with his shell rather than with his essence. Behind his fast evaporating eau-de-Cologne he developed a kind of preservative disdain of people who clearly preferred this stinking ant-heap to the shrapnel and bombs of the open. Had they no sense of smell; were they totally indifferent to heat, had they no pride that they let the Huns inflict on them this exquisite discomfort? Did none of them feel, with him, that the only becoming way to treat danger was to look down your nose at it?

On the contrary, all these people seemed to think that by taking refuge in the bowels of the earth they had triumphed over the enemy. Their mental pictures of being blown into little bits, or stu

“He ought to be ‘ung,” said a voice to his right.

“My! Ain’t it hot here!” said a voice to his left. “I shall faint if it goes on much longer.”

‘It’ll stop her panting,’ thought Eustace, rubbing his ear.

“Am I standing on your foot, Sir?” asked the stout and splotchy woman.

“Thanks, not particularly.”

“Shift a bit, ‘Enry.”

“Shift a bit?” repeated the white-faced mechanician cheerfully: “That’s good, ain’t it? There’s not too much room, is there, Sir?”

The word ‘Sir’ thus repeated, or perhaps the first stirrings of a common humanity, moved Eustace to reply:

“The black hole of Calcutta’s not in it.”

“I’ll kill that Kaiser.”

“She don’t like these air-raids, and that’s a fact,” said the stout woman: “Do yer, Milly? But don’t you worry, dearie, we’re all right down ’ere.”

“Oh! You think so?” said Eustace.

“Ow! Yes! Everyone says the Tubes are safe.”

“What a comfort!”

As if with each opening of his lips some gas of rancour had escaped, Eustace felt almost well disposed to the little family which oppressed his front.

“Wish I ‘ad my girl ’ere,” said one of the Jewish youths, suddenly; “this is your cuddlin’ done for you, this is.”

“Strike me!” said the other.

‘Better dead!’ thought Eustace, even more emphatically.

“‘Ow long d’you give it, Sir?” said the mechanician, turning his white face a little.

“Another hour and a half, I suppose.”

“I’ll kill that Kaiser.”

“Stow it, Milly, you’ve said that before. One can ‘ave too much of a good thing, can’t one, Sir?”

“I was begi

“Well, she’s young to be knocked about like this. It gets on their nerves, ye know. I’ll be glad to get ‘er and the missis ‘ome, and that’s a fact.”

Something in the paper whiteness of his face, something in the tone of his hollow-chested voice, and the simple altruism of his remark, affected Eustace. He smelled of sweat and sawdust, but he was jolly decent!

And time went by, the heat and odour thickening; there was almost silence now. A voice said: “They’re a – long time abaht it!” and was greeted with a sighing clamour of acquiescence. All that crowded mass of beings had become preoccupied with the shifting of their limbs, the straining of their lungs towards any faint draught of air. Eustace had given up all speculation, his mind was concentrated blankly on the words: ‘Stand straight—stand straight!’ The spindly child, discouraged by the fleeting nature of success, had fallen into a sort of coma against his knee; he wondered whether she had ringworm; he wondered why everybody didn’t faint. The white-faced mechanician had encircled his wife’s waist. His face, ghostly patient, was the one thing Eustace noticed from time to time; it emerged as if supported by no body. Suddenly with a whispering sigh the young woman, behind, fell against his shoulder, and by a sort of miracle found space to crumple down. The mechanician’s white face came round:

“Poor lidy, she’s gone off!”

“Ah!” boomed the whisky-taster, “and no wonder, with this ‘eat.” He waggled his bowler hat above her head.

“Shove ‘er ‘ead between her knees,” said the mechanician.

Eustace pushed the head downwards, the whisky-taster applied a bunch of keys to her back. She came to with a loud sigh.

“Better for her dahn there,” said the mechanician, “the ‘ot air rises.”