Of Human Bondage (81 page)

  Next morning Leonard Upjohn appeared with a small
wreath of laurel. He was pleased with his idea of crowning the dead
poet with this; and attempted, notwithstanding Philip's
disapproving silence, to fix it on the bald head; but the wreath
fitted grotesquely. It looked like the brim of a hat worn by a low
comedian in a music-hall.

  "I'll put it over his heart instead," said
Upjohn.

  "You've put it on his stomach," remarked Philip.

  Upjohn gave a thin smile.

  "Only a poet knows where lies a poet's heart," he
answered.

  They went back into the sitting-room, and Philip
told him what arrangements he had made for the funeral.

  "I hoped you've spared no expense. I should like the
hearse to be followed by a long string of empty coaches, and I
should like the horses to wear tall nodding plumes, and there
should be a vast number of mutes with long streamers on their hats.
I like the thought of all those empty coaches."

  "As the cost of the funeral will apparently fall on
me and I'm not over flush just now, I've tried to make it as
moderate as possible."

  "But, my dear fellow, in that case, why didn't you
get him a pauper's funeral? There would have been something poetic
in that. You have an unerring instinct for mediocrity."

  Philip flushed a little, but did not answer; and
next day he and Upjohn followed the hearse in the one carriage
which Philip had ordered. Lawson, unable to come, had sent a
wreath; and Philip, so that the coffin should not seem too
neglected, had bought a couple. On the way back the coachman
whipped up his horses. Philip was dog-tired and presently went to
sleep. He was awakened by Upjohn's voice.

  "It's rather lucky the poems haven't come out yet. I
think we'd better hold them back a bit and I'll write a preface. I
began thinking of it during the drive to the cemetery. I believe I
can do something rather good. Anyhow I'll start with an article in
The Saturday."

  Philip did not reply, and there was silence between
them. At last Upjohn said:

  "I daresay I'd be wiser not to whittle away my copy.
I think I'll do an article for one of the reviews, and then I can
just print it afterwards as a preface."

  Philip kept his eye on the monthlies, and a few
weeks later it appeared. The article made something of a stir, and
extracts from it were printed in many of the papers. It was a very
good article, vaguely biographical, for no one knew much of
Cronshaw's early life, but delicate, tender, and picturesque.
Leonard Upjohn in his intricate style drew graceful little pictures
of Cronshaw in the Latin Quarter, talking, writing poetry: Cronshaw
became a picturesque figure, an English Verlaine; and Leonard
Upjohn's coloured phrases took on a tremulous dignity, a more
pathetic grandiloquence, as he described the sordid end, the shabby
little room in Soho; and, with a reticence which was wholly
charming and suggested a much greater generosity than modesty
allowed him to state, the efforts he made to transport the Poet to
some cottage embowered with honeysuckle amid a flowering orchard.
And the lack of sympathy, well-meaning but so tactless, which had
taken the poet instead to the vulgar respectability of Kennington!
Leonard Upjohn described Kennington with that restrained humour
which a strict adherence to the vocabulary of Sir Thomas Browne
necessitated. With delicate sarcasm he narrated the last weeks, the
patience with which Cronshaw bore the well-meaning clumsiness of
the young student who had appointed himself his nurse, and the
pitifulness of that divine vagabond in those hopelessly
middle-class surroundings. Beauty from ashes, he quoted from
Isaiah. It was a triumph of irony for that outcast poet to die amid
the trappings of vulgar respectability; it reminded Leonard Upjohn
of Christ among the Pharisees, and the analogy gave him opportunity
for an exquisite passage. And then he told how a friend – his good
taste did not suffer him more than to hint subtly who the friend
was with such gracious fancies – had laid a laurel wreath on the
dead poet's heart; and the beautiful dead hands had seemed to rest
with a voluptuous passion upon Apollo's leaves, fragrant with the
fragrance of art, and more green than jade brought by swart
mariners from the manifold, inexplicable China. And, an admirable
contrast, the article ended with a description of the middle-class,
ordinary, prosaic funeral of him who should have been buried like a
prince or like a pauper. It was the crowning buffet, the final
victory of Philistia over art, beauty, and immaterial things.

  Leonard Upjohn had never written anything better. It
was a miracle of charm, grace, and pity. He printed all Cronshaw's
best poems in the course of the article, so that when the volume
appeared much of its point was gone; but he advanced his own
position a good deal. He was thenceforth a critic to be reckoned
with. He had seemed before a little aloof; but there was a warm
humanity about this article which was infinitely attractive.

  In the spring Philip, having finished his dressing
in the out-patients' department, became an in-patients' clerk. This
appointment lasted six months. The clerk spent every morning in the
wards, first in the men's, then in the women's, with the
house-physician; he wrote up cases, made tests, and passed the time
of day with the nurses. On two afternoons a week the physician in
charge went round with a little knot of students, examined the
cases, and dispensed information. The work had not the excitement,
the constant change, the intimate contact with reality, of the work
in the out-patients' department; but Philip picked up a good deal
of knowledge. He got on very well with the patients, and he was a
little flattered at the pleasure they showed in his attendance on
them. He was not conscious of any deep sympathy in their
sufferings, but he liked them; and because he put on no airs he was
more popular with them than others of the clerks. He was pleasant,
encouraging, and friendly. Like everyone connected with hospitals
he found that male patients were more easy to get on with than
female. The women were often querulous and ill-tempered. They
complained bitterly of the hard-worked nurses, who did not show
them the attention they thought their right; and they were
troublesome, ungrateful, and rude.

  Presently Philip was fortunate enough to make a
friend. One morning the house-physician gave him a new case, a man;
and, seating himself at the bedside, Philip proceeded to write down
particulars on the `letter.' He noticed on looking at this that the
patient was described as a journalist: his name was Thorpe Athelny,
an unusual one for a hospital patient, and his age was forty-eight.
He was suffering from a sharp attack of jaundice, and had been
taken into the ward on account of obscure symptoms which it seemed
necessary to watch. He answered the various questions which it was
Philip's duty to ask him in a pleasant, educated voice. Since he
was lying in bed it was difficult to tell if he was short or tall,
but his small head and small hands suggested that he was a man of
less than average height. Philip had the habit of looking at
people's hands, and Athelny's astonished him: they were very small,
with long, tapering fingers and beautiful, rosy finger-nails; they
were very smooth and except for the jaundice would have been of a
surprising whiteness. The patient kept them outside the
bed-clothes, one of them slightly spread out, the second and third
fingers together, and, while he spoke to Philip, seemed to
contemplate them with satisfaction. With a twinkle in his eyes
Philip glanced at the man's face. Notwithstanding the yellowness it
was distinguished; he had blue eyes, a nose of an imposing
boldness, hooked, aggressive but not clumsy, and a small beard,
pointed and gray: he was rather bald, but his hair had evidently
been quite fine, curling prettily, and he still wore it long.

  "I see you're a journalist," said Philip. "What
papers d'you write for?"

  "I write for all the papers. You cannot open a paper
without seeing some of my writing." There was one by the side of
the bed and reaching for it he pointed out an advertisement. In
large letters was the name of a firm well-known to Philip, Lynn and
Sedley, Regent Street, London; and below, in type smaller but still
of some magnitude, was the dogmatic statement: Procrastination is
the Thief of Time. Then a question, startling because of its
reasonableness: Why not order today? There was a repetition, in
large letters, like the hammering of conscience on a murderer's
heart: Why not? Then, boldly: Thousands of pairs of gloves from the
leading markets of the world at astounding prices. Thousands of
pairs of stockings from the most reliable manufacturers of the
universe at sensational reductions. Finally the question recurred,
but flung now like a challenging gauntlet in the lists: Why not
order today?

  "I'm the press representative of Lynn and Sedley."
He gave a little wave of his beautiful hand. "To what base
uses..."

  Philip went on asking the regulation questions, some
a mere matter of routine, others artfully devised to lead the
patient to discover things which he might be expected to desire to
conceal.

  "Have you ever lived abroad?" asked Philip.

  "I was in Spain for eleven years."

  "What were you doing there?"

  "I was secretary of the English water company at
Toledo."

  Philip remembered that Clutton had spent some months
in Toledo, and the journalist's answer made him look at him with
more interest; but he felt it would be improper to show this: it
was necessary to preserve the distance between the hospital patient
and the staff. When he had finished his examination he went on to
other beds.

  Thorpe Athelny's illness was not grave, and, though
remaining very yellow, he soon felt much better: he stayed in bed
only because the physician thought he should be kept under
observation till certain reactions became normal. One day, on
entering the ward, Philip noticed that Athelny, pencil in hand, was
reading a book. He put it down when Philip came to his bed.

  "May I see what you're reading?" asked Philip, who
could never pass a book without looking at it.

  Philip took it up and saw that it was a volume of
Spanish verse, the poems of San Juan de la Cruz, and as he opened
it a sheet of paper fell out. Philip picked it up and noticed that
verse was written upon it.

  "You're not going to tell me you've been occupying
your leisure in writing poetry? That's a most improper proceeding
in a hospital patient."

  "I was trying to do some translations. D'you know
Spanish?"

  "No."

  "Well, you know all about San Juan de la Cruz, don't
you?"

  "I don't indeed."

  "He was one of the Spanish mystics. He's one of the
best poets they've ever had. I thought it would be worth while
translating him into English."

  "May I look at your translation?"

  "It's very rough," said Athelny, but he gave it to
Philip with an alacrity which suggested that he was eager for him
to read it.

  It was written in pencil, in a fine but very
peculiar handwriting, which was hard to read: it was just like
black letter.

  "Doesn't it take you an awful time to write like
that? It's wonderful."

  "I don't know why handwriting shouldn't be
beautiful." Philip read the first verse:

  In an obscure night With anxious love inflamed O
happy lot! Forth unobserved I went, My house being now at
rest...

  Philip looked curiously at Thorpe Athelny. He did
not know whether he felt a little shy with him or was attracted by
him. He was conscious that his manner had been slightly
patronising, and he flushed as it struck him that Athelny might
have thought him ridiculous.

  "What an unusual name you've got," he remarked, for
something to say.

  "It's a very old Yorkshire name. Once it took the
head of my family a day's hard riding to make the circuit of his
estates, but the mighty are fallen. Fast women and slow
horses."