Of Human Bondage (99 page)

  There was only one thing to free him and that was
the death of his uncle. He would get a few hundred pounds then, and
on this he could finish his course at the hospital. Philip began to
wish with all his might for the old man's death. He reckoned out
how long he could possibly live: he was well over seventy, Philip
did not know his exact age, but he must be at least seventy-five;
he suffered from chronic bronchitis and every winter had a bad
cough. Though he knew them by heart Philip read over and over again
the details in his text-book of medicine of chronic bronchitis in
the old. A severe winter might be too much for the old man. With
all his heart Philip longed for cold and rain. He thought of it
constantly, so that it became a monomania. Uncle William was
affected by the great heat too, and in August they had three weeks
of sweltering weather. Philip imagined to himself that one day
perhaps a telegram would come saying that the Vicar had died
suddenly, and he pictured to himself his unutterable relief. As he
stood at the top of the stairs and directed people to the
departments they wanted, he occupied his mind with thinking
incessantly what he would do with the money. He did not know how
much it would be, perhaps no more than five hundred pounds, but
even that would be enough. He would leave the shop at once, he
would not bother to give notice, he would pack his box and go
without saying a word to anybody; and then he would return to the
hospital. That was the first thing. Would he have forgotten much?
In six months he could get it all back, and then he would take his
three examinations as soon as he could, midwifery first, then
medicine and surgery. The awful fear seized him that his uncle,
notwithstanding his promises, might leave everything he had to the
parish or the church. The thought made Philip sick. He could not be
so cruel. But if that happened Philip was quite determined what to
do, he would not go on in that way indefinitely; his life was only
tolerable because he could look forward to something better. If he
had no hope he would have no fear. The only brave thing to do then
would be to commit suicide, and, thinking this over too, Philip
decided minutely what painless drug he would take and how he would
get hold of it. It encouraged him to think that, if things became
unendurable, he had at all events a way out.

  "Second to the right, madam, and down the stairs.
First on the left and straight through. Mr. Philips, forward
please."

  Once a month, for a week, Philip was `on duty.' He
had to go to the department at seven in the morning and keep an eye
on the sweepers. When they finished he had to take the sheets off
the cases and the models. Then, in the evening when the assistants
left, he had to put back the sheets on the models and the cases and
`gang' the sweepers again. It was a dusty, dirty job. He was not
allowed to read or write or smoke, but just had to walk about, and
the time hung heavily on his hands. When he went off at half past
nine he had supper given him, and this was the only consolation;
for tea at five o'clock had left him with a healthy appetite, and
the bread and cheese, the abundant cocoa which the firm provided,
were welcome.

  One day when Philip had been at Lynn's for three
months, Mr. Sampson, the buyer, came into the department, fuming
with anger. The manager, happening to notice the costume window as
he came in, had sent for the buyer and made satirical remarks upon
the colour scheme. Forced to submit in silence to his superior's
sarcasm, Mr. Sampson took it out of the assistants; and he rated
the wretched fellow whose duty it was to dress the window.

  "If you want a thing well done you must do it
yourself," Mr. Sampson stormed. "I've always said it and I always
shall. One can't leave anything to you chaps. Intelligent you call
yourselves, do you? Intelligent!"

  He threw the word at the assistants as though it
were the bitterest term of reproach.

  "Don't you know that if you put an electric blue in
the window it'll kill all the other blues?"

  He looked round the department ferociously, and his
eye fell upon Philip.

  "You'll dress the window next Friday, Carey. let's
see what you can make of it."

  He went into his office, muttering angrily. Philip's
heart sank. When Friday morning came he went into the window with a
sickening sense of shame. His cheeks were burning. It was horrible
to display himself to the passers-by, and though he told himself it
was foolish to give way to such a feeling he turned his back to the
street. There was not much chance that any of the students at the
hospital would pass along Oxford Street at that hour, and he knew
hardly anyone else in London; but as Philip worked, with a huge
lump in his throat, he fancied that on turning round he would catch
the eye of some man he knew. He made all the haste he could. By the
simple observation that all reds went together, and by spacing the
costumes more than was usual, Philip got a very good effect; and
when the buyer went into the street to look at the result he was
obviously pleased.

  "I knew I shouldn't go far wrong in putting you on
the window. The fact is, you and me are gentlemen, mind you I
wouldn't say this in the department, but you and me are gentlemen,
and that always tells. It's no good your telling me it doesn't
tell, because I know it does tell."

  Philip was put on the job regularly, but he could
not accustom himself to the publicity; and he dreaded Friday
morning, on which the window was dressed, with a terror that made
him awake at five o'clock and lie sleepless with sickness in his
heart. The girls in the department noticed his shamefaced way, and
they very soon discovered his trick of standing with his back to
the street. They laughed at him and called him `sidey.'

  "I suppose you're afraid your aunt'll come along and
cut you out of her will."

  On the whole he got on well enough with the girls.
They thought him a little queer; but his club-foot seemed to excuse
his not being like the rest, and they found in due course that he
was good-natured. He never minded helping anyone, and he was polite
and even tempered.

  "You can see he's a gentleman," they said.

  "Very reserved, isn't he?" said one young woman, to
whose passionate enthusiasm for the theatre he had listened
unmoved.

  Most of them had `fellers,' and those who hadn't
said they had rather than have it supposed that no one had an
inclination for them. One or two showed signs of being willing to
start a flirtation with Philip, and he watched their manoeuvres
with grave amusement. He had had enough of love-making for some
time; and he was nearly always tired and often hungry.

  Philip avoided the places he had known in happier
times. The little gatherings at the tavern in Beak Street were
broken up: Macalister, having let down his friends, no longer went
there, and Hayward was at the Cape. Only Lawson remained; and
Philip, feeling that now the painter and he had nothing in common,
did not wish to see him; but one Saturday afternoon, after dinner,
having changed his clothes he walked down Regent Street to go to
the free library in St. Martin's Lane, meaning to spend the
afternoon there, and suddenly found himself face to face with him.
His first instinct was to pass on without a word, but Lawson did
not give him the opportunity.

  "Where on earth have you been all this time?" he
cried.

  "I?" said Philip.

  "I wrote you and asked you to come to the studio for
a beano and you never even answered."

  "I didn't get your letter."

  "No, I know. I went to the hospital to ask for you,
and I saw my letter in the rack. Have you chucked the Medical?"

  Philip hesitated for a moment. He was ashamed to
tell the truth, but the shame he felt angered him, and he forced
himself to speak. He could not help reddening.

  "Yes, I lost the little money I had. I couldn't
afford to go on with it."

  "I say, I'm awfully sorry. What are you doing?"

  "I'm a shop-walker."

  The words choked Philip, but he was determined not
to shirk the truth. He kept his eyes on Lawson and saw his
embarrassment. Philip smiled savagely.

  "If you went into Lynn and Sedley, and made your way
into the `made robes' department, you would see me in a frock coat,
walking about with a degage air and directing ladies who want to
buy petticoats or stockings. First to the right, madam, and second
on the left."

  Lawson, seeing that Philip was making a jest of it,
laughed awkwardly. He did not know what to say. The picture that
Philip called up horrified him, but he was afraid to show his
sympathy.

  "That's a bit of a change for you," he said.

  His words seemed absurd to him, and immediately he
wished he had not said them. Philip flushed darkly.

  "A bit," he said. "By the way, I owe you five
bob."

  He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some
silver.

  "Oh, it doesn't matter. I'd forgotten all about
it."

  "Go on, take it."

  Lawson received the money silently. They stood in
the middle of the pavement, and people jostled them as they passed.
There was a sardonic twinkle in Philip's eyes, which made the
painter intensely uncomfortable, and he could not tell that
Philip's heart was heavy with despair. Lawson wanted dreadfully to
do something, but he did not know what to do.

  "I say, won't you come to the studio and have a
talk?"

  "No," said Philip.

  "Why not?"

  "There's nothing to talk about."

  He saw the pain come into Lawson's eyes, he could
not help it, he was sorry, but he had to think of himself; he could
not bear the thought of discussing his situation, he could endure
it only by determining resolutely not to think about it. He was
afraid of his weakness if once he began to open his heart.
Moreover, he took irresistible dislikes to the places where he had
been miserable: he remembered the humiliation he had endured when
he had waited in that studio, ravenous with hunger, for Lawson to
offer him a meal, and the last occasion when he had taken the five
shillings off him. He hated the sight of Lawson, because he
recalled those days of utter abasement.

  "Then look here, come and dine with me one night.
Choose your own evening."

  Philip was touched with the painter's kindness. All
sorts of people were strangely kind to him, he thought.

  "It's awfully good of you, old man, but I'd rather
not." He held out his hand. "Good-bye."

  Lawson, troubled by a behaviour which seemed
inexplicable, took his hand, and Philip quickly limped away. His
heart was heavy; and, as was usual with him, he began to reproach
himself for what he had done: he did not know what madness of pride
had made him refuse the offered friendship. But he heard someone
running behind him and presently Lawson's voice calling him; he
stopped and suddenly the feeling of hostility got the better of
him; he presented to Lawson a cold, set face.

  "What is it?"

  "I suppose you heard about Hayward, didn't you?"

  "I know he went to the Cape."

  "He died, you know, soon after landing."

  For a moment Philip did not answer. He could hardly
believe his ears.

  "How?" he asked.

  "Oh, enteric. Hard luck, wasn't it? I thought you
mightn't know. Gave me a bit of a turn when I heard it."

  Lawson nodded quickly and walked away. Philip felt a
shiver pass through his heart. He had never before lost a friend of
his own age, for the death of Cronshaw, a man so much older than
himself, had seemed to come in the normal course of things. The
news gave him a peculiar shock. It reminded him of his own
mortality, for like everyone else Philip, knowing perfectly that
all men must die, had no intimate feeling that the same must apply
to himself; and Hayward's death, though he had long ceased to have
any warm feeling for him, affected him deeply. He remembered on a
sudden all the good talks they had had, and it pained him to think
that they would never talk with one another again; he remembered
their first meeting and the pleasant months they had spent together
in Heidelberg. Philip's heart sank as he thought of the lost years.
He walked on mechanically, not noticing where he went, and realised
suddenly, with a movement of irritation, that instead of turning
down the Haymarket he had sauntered along Shaftesbury Avenue. It
bored him to retrace his steps; and besides, with that news, he did
not want to read, he wanted to sit alone and think. He made up his
mind to go to the British Museum. Solitude was now his only luxury.
Since he had been at Lynn's he had often gone there and sat in
front of the groups from the Parthenon; and, not deliberately
thinking, had allowed their divine masses to rest his troubled
soul. But this afternoon they had nothing to say to him, and after
a few minutes, impatiently, he wandered out of the room. There were
too many people, provincials with foolish faces, foreigners poring
over guide-books; their hideousness besmirched the everlasting
masterpieces, their restlessness troubled the god's immortal
repose. He went into another room and here there was hardly anyone.
Philip sat down wearily. His nerves were on edge. He could not get
the people out of his mind. Sometimes at Lynn's they affected him
in the same way, and he looked at them file past him with horror;
they were so ugly and there was such meanness in their faces, it
was terrifying; their features were distorted with paltry desires,
and you felt they were strange to any ideas of beauty. They had
furtive eyes and weak chins. There was no wickedness in them, but
only pettiness and vulgarity. Their humour was a low facetiousness.
Sometimes he found himself looking at them to see what animal they
resembled (he tried not to, for it quickly became an obsession,)
and he saw in them all the sheep or the horse or the fox or the
goat. Human beings filled him with disgust.