Of Human Bondage
that, without so much as a good-evening, to see his girl. Harris went
out too, and only the boy remained to watch Philip curiously while he
unpacked his things. His name was Bell and he was serving his time for
nothing in the haberdashery. He was much interested in Philip’s evening
clothes. He told him about the other men in the room and asked him
every sort of question about himself. He was a cheerful youth, and in
the intervals of conversation sang in a half-broken voice snatches of
music-hall songs. When Philip had finished he went out to walk about
the streets and look at the crowd; occasionally he stopped outside the
doors of restaurants and watched the people going in; he felt hungry,
so he bought a bath bun and ate it while he strolled along. He had been
given a latch-key by the prefect, the man who turned out the gas at a
quarter past eleven, but afraid of being locked out he returned in good
time; he had learned already the system of fines: you had to pay a
shilling if you came in after eleven, and half a crown after a quarter
past, and you were reported besides: if it happened three times you
were dismissed.
All but the soldier were in when Philip arrived and two were already in
bed. Philip was greeted with cries.
“Oh, Clarence! Naughty boy!”
He discovered that Bell had dressed up the bolster in his evening
clothes. The boy was delighted with his joke.
“You must wear them at the social evening, Clarence.”
“He’ll catch the belle of Lynn’s, if he’s not careful.”
Philip had already heard of the social evenings, for the money stopped
from the wages to pay for them was one of the grievances of the staff.
It was only two shillings a month, and it covered medical attendance
and the use of a library of worn novels; but as four shillings a month
besides was stopped for washing, Philip discovered that a quarter of
his six shillings a week would never be paid to him.
Most of the men were eating thick slices of fat bacon between a roll of
bread cut in two. These sandwiches, the assistants’ usual supper, were
supplied by a small shop a few doors off at twopence each. The soldier
rolled in; silently, rapidly, took off his clothes and threw himself
into bed. At ten minutes past eleven the gas gave a big jump and five
minutes later went out. The soldier went to sleep, but the others
crowded round the big window in their pyjamas and night-shirts and,
throwing remains of their sandwiches at the women who passed in the
street below, shouted to them facetious remarks. The house opposite,
six storeys high, was a workshop for Jewish tailors who left off work
at eleven; the rooms were brightly lit and there were no blinds to the
windows. The sweater’s daughter—the family consisted of father, mother,
two small boys, and a girl of twenty—went round the house to put out
the lights when work was over, and sometimes she allowed herself to be
made love to by one of the tailors. The shop assistants in Philip’s
room got a lot of amusement out of watching the manoeuvres of one man
or another to stay behind, and they made small bets on which would
succeed. At midnight the people were turned out of the Harrington Arms
at the end of the street, and soon after they all went to bed: Bell,
who slept nearest the door, made his way across the room by jumping
from bed to bed, and even when he got to his own would not stop
talking. At last everything was silent but for the steady snoring of
the soldier, and Philip went to sleep.
He was awaked at seven by the loud ringing of a bell, and by a quarter
to eight they were all dressed and hurrying downstairs in their
stockinged feet to pick out their boots. They laced them as they ran
along to the shop in Oxford Street for breakfast. If they were a minute
later than eight they got none, nor, once in, were they allowed out to
get themselves anything to eat. Sometimes, if they knew they could not
get into the building in time, they stopped at the little shop near
their quarters and bought a couple of buns; but this cost money, and
most went without food till dinner. Philip ate some bread and butter,
drank a cup of tea, and at half past eight began his day’s work again.
“First to the right. Second on the left, madam.”
Soon he began to answer the questions quite mechanically. The work was
monotonous and very tiring. After a few days his feet hurt him so that
he could hardly stand: the thick soft carpets made them burn, and at
night his socks were painful to remove. It was a common complaint, and
his fellow ‘floormen’ told him that socks and boots just rotted away
from the continual sweating. All the men in his room suffered in the
same fashion, and they relieved the pain by sleeping with their feet
outside the bed-clothes. At first Philip could not walk at all and was
obliged to spend a good many of his evenings in the sitting-room at
Harrington Street with his feet in a pail of cold water. His companion
on these occasions was Bell, the lad in the haberdashery, who stayed in
often to arrange the stamps he collected. As he fastened them with
little pieces of stamp-paper he whistled monotonously.
CIV
The social evenings took place on alternate Mondays. There was one at
the beginning of Philip’s second week at Lynn’s. He arranged to go with
one of the women in his department.
“Meet ’em ’alf-way,” she said, “same as I do.”
This was Mrs. Hodges, a little woman of five-and-forty, with badly dyed
hair; she had a yellow face with a network of small red veins all over
it, and yellow whites to her pale blue eyes. She took a fancy to Philip
and called him by his Christian name before he had been in the shop a
week.
“We’ve both known what it is to come down,” she said.
She told Philip that her real name was not Hodges, but she always
referred to “me ’usband Misterodges;” he was a barrister and he treated
her simply shocking, so she left him as she preferred to be independent
like; but she had known what it was to drive in her own carriage,
dear—she called everyone dear—and they always had late dinner at home.
She used to pick her teeth with the pin of an enormous silver brooch.
It was in the form of a whip and a hunting-crop crossed, with two spurs
in the middle. Philip was ill at ease in his new surroundings, and the
girls in the shop called him ‘sidey.’ One addressed him as Phil, and he
did not answer because he had not the least idea that she was speaking
to him; so she tossed her head, saying he was a ‘stuck-up thing,’ and
next time with ironical emphasis called him Mister Carey. She was a
Miss Jewell, and she was going to marry a doctor. The other girls had
never seen him, but they said he must be a gentleman as he gave her
such lovely presents.
“Never you mind what they say, dear,” said Mrs. Hodges. “I’ve ’ad to go
through it same as you ’ave. They don’t know any better, poor things.
You take my word for it, they’ll like you all right if you ’old your
own same as I ’ave.”
The social evening was held in the restaurant in the basement. The
tables were put on one side so that there might be room for dancing,
and smaller ones were set out for progressive whist.
“The ’eads ’ave to get there early,” said Mrs. Hodges.
She introduced him to Miss Bennett, who was the belle of Lynn’s. She
was the buyer in the ‘Petticoats,’ and when Philip entered was engaged
in conversation with the buyer in the ‘Gentlemen’s Hosiery;’ Miss
Bennett was a woman of massive proportions, with a very large red face
heavily powdered and a bust of imposing dimensions; her flaxen hair was
arranged with elaboration. She was overdressed, but not badly dressed,
in black with a high collar, and she wore black glace gloves, in which
she played cards; she had several heavy gold chains round her neck,
bangles on her wrists, and circular photograph pendants, one being of
Queen Alexandra; she carried a black satin bag and chewed Sen-sens.
“Please to meet you, Mr. Carey,” she said. “This is your first visit to
our social evenings, ain’t it? I expect you feel a bit shy, but there’s
no cause to, I promise you that.”
She did her best to make people feel at home. She slapped them on the
shoulders and laughed a great deal.
“Ain’t I a pickle?” she cried, turning to Philip. “What must you think
of me? But I can’t ’elp meself.”
Those who were going to take part in the social evening came in, the
younger members of the staff mostly, boys who had not girls of their
own, and girls who had not yet found anyone to walk with. Several of
the young gentlemen wore lounge suits with white evening ties and red
silk handkerchiefs; they were going to perform, and they had a busy,
abstracted air; some were self-confident, but others were nervous, and
they watched their public with an anxious eye. Presently a girl with a
great deal of hair sat at the piano and ran her hands noisily across
the keyboard. When the audience had settled itself she looked round and
gave the name of her piece.
“A Drive in Russia.”
There was a round of clapping during which she deftly fixed bells to
her wrists. She smiled a little and immediately burst into energetic
melody. There was a great deal more clapping when she finished, and
when this was over, as an encore, she gave a piece which imitated the
sea; there were little trills to represent the lapping waves and
thundering chords, with the loud pedal down, to suggest a storm. After
this a gentleman sang a song called Bid me Good-bye, and as an encore
obliged with Sing me to Sleep. The audience measured their enthusiasm
with a nice discrimination. Everyone was applauded till he gave an
encore, and so that there might be no jealousy no one was applauded
more than anyone else. Miss Bennett sailed up to Philip.
“I’m sure you play or sing, Mr. Carey,” she said archly. “I can see it
in your face.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Don’t you even recite?”
“I have no parlour tricks.”
The buyer in the ‘gentleman’s hosiery’ was a well-known reciter, and he
was called upon loudly to perform by all the assistants in his
department. Needing no pressing, he gave a long poem of tragic
character, in which he rolled his eyes, put his hand on his chest, and
acted as though he were in great agony. The point, that he had eaten
cucumber for supper, was divulged in the last line and was greeted with
laughter, a little forced because everyone knew the poem well, but loud
and long. Miss Bennett did not sing, play, or recite.
“Oh no, she ’as a little game of her own,” said Mrs. Hodges.
“Now, don’t you begin chaffing me. The fact is I know quite a lot about
palmistry and second sight.”
“Oh, do tell my ’and, Miss Bennett,” cried the girls in her department,
eager to please her.
“I don’t like telling ’ands, I don’t really. I’ve told people such
terrible things and they’ve all come true, it makes one superstitious
like.”
“Oh, Miss Bennett, just for once.”
A little crowd collected round her, and, amid screams of embarrassment,
giggles, blushings, and cries of dismay or admiration, she talked
mysteriously of fair and dark men, of money in a letter, and of
journeys, till the sweat stood in heavy beads on her painted face.
“Look at me,” she said. “I’m all of a perspiration.”
Supper was at nine. There were cakes, buns, sandwiches, tea and coffee,
all free; but if you wanted mineral water you had to pay for it.
Gallantry often led young men to offer the ladies ginger beer, but
common decency made them refuse. Miss Bennett was very fond of ginger
beer, and she drank two and sometimes three bottles during the evening;
but she insisted on paying for them herself. The men liked her for
that.
“She’s a rum old bird,” they said, “but mind you, she’s not a bad sort,
she’s not like what some are.”
After supper progressive whist was played. This was very noisy, and