Of Human Bondage
brocades of Byzantium, might have created a troubling beauty.
Considering it, the mind reeled under visions of the feasts of
Elagabalus; and the subtle harmonies of Debussy mingled with the musty,
fragrant romance of chests in which have been kept old clothes, ruffs,
hose, doublets, of a forgotten generation, and the wan odour of lilies
of the valley and the savour of Cheddar cheese.
Hayward discovered the tavern at which this priceless beverage was to
be obtained by meeting in the street a man called Macalister who had
been at Cambridge with him. He was a stockbroker and a philosopher. He
was accustomed to go to the tavern once a week; and soon Philip,
Lawson, and Hayward got into the habit of meeting there every Tuesday
evening: change of manners made it now little frequented, which was an
advantage to persons who took pleasure in conversation. Macalister was
a big-boned fellow, much too short for his width, with a large, fleshy
face and a soft voice. He was a student of Kant and judged everything
from the standpoint of pure reason. He was fond of expounding his
doctrines. Philip listened with excited interest. He had long come to
the conclusion that nothing amused him more than metaphysics, but he
was not so sure of their efficacy in the affairs of life. The neat
little system which he had formed as the result of his meditations at
Blackstable had not been of conspicuous use during his infatuation for
Mildred. He could not be positive that reason was much help in the
conduct of life. It seemed to him that life lived itself. He remembered
very vividly the violence of the emotion which had possessed him and
his inability, as if he were tied down to the ground with ropes, to
react against it. He read many wise things in books, but he could only
judge from his own experience (he did not know whether he was different
from other people); he did not calculate the pros and cons of an
action, the benefits which must befall him if he did it, the harm which
might result from the omission; but his whole being was urged on
irresistibly. He did not act with a part of himself but altogether. The
power that possessed him seemed to have nothing to do with reason: all
that reason did was to point out the methods of obtaining what his
whole soul was striving for.
Macalister reminded him of the Categorical Imperative.
“Act so that every action of yours should be capable of becoming a
universal rule of action for all men.”
“That seems to me perfect nonsense,” said Philip.
“You’re a bold man to say that of anything stated by Immanuel Kant,”
retorted Macalister.
“Why? Reverence for what somebody said is a stultifying quality:
there’s a damned sight too much reverence in the world. Kant thought
things not because they were true, but because he was Kant.”
“Well, what is your objection to the Categorical Imperative?” (They
talked as though the fate of empires were in the balance.)
“It suggests that one can choose one’s course by an effort of will. And
it suggests that reason is the surest guide. Why should its dictates be
any better than those of passion? They’re different. That’s all.”
“You seem to be a contented slave of your passions.”
“A slave because I can’t help myself, but not a contented one,” laughed
Philip.
While he spoke he thought of that hot madness which had driven him in
pursuit of Mildred. He remembered how he had chafed against it and how
he had felt the degradation of it.
“Thank God, I’m free from all that now,” he thought.
And yet even as he said it he was not quite sure whether he spoke
sincerely. When he was under the influence of passion he had felt a
singular vigour, and his mind had worked with unwonted force. He was
more alive, there was an excitement in sheer being, an eager vehemence
of soul, which made life now a trifle dull. For all the misery he had
endured there was a compensation in that sense of rushing, overwhelming
existence.
But Philip’s unlucky words engaged him in a discussion on the freedom
of the will, and Macalister, with his well-stored memory, brought out
argument after argument. He had a mind that delighted in dialectics,
and he forced Philip to contradict himself; he pushed him into corners
from which he could only escape by damaging concessions; he tripped him
up with logic and battered him with authorities.
At last Philip said:
“Well, I can’t say anything about other people. I can only speak for
myself. The illusion of free will is so strong in my mind that I can’t
get away from it, but I believe it is only an illusion. But it is an
illusion which is one of the strongest motives of my actions. Before I
do anything I feel that I have choice, and that influences what I do;
but afterwards, when the thing is done, I believe that it was
inevitable from all eternity.”
“What do you deduce from that?” asked Hayward.
“Why, merely the futility of regret. It’s no good crying over spilt
milk, because all the forces of the universe were bent on spilling it.”
LXVIII
One morning Philip on getting up felt his head swim, and going back to
bed suddenly discovered he was ill. All his limbs ached and he shivered
with cold. When the landlady brought in his breakfast he called to her
through the open door that he was not well, and asked for a cup of tea
and a piece of toast. A few minutes later there was a knock at his
door, and Griffiths came in. They had lived in the same house for over
a year, but had never done more than nod to one another in the passage.
“I say, I hear you’re seedy,” said Griffiths. “I thought I’d come in
and see what was the matter with you.”
Philip, blushing he knew not why, made light of the whole thing. He
would be all right in an hour or two.
“Well, you’d better let me take your temperature,” said Griffiths.
“It’s quite unnecessary,” answered Philip irritably.
“Come on.”
Philip put the thermometer in his mouth. Griffiths sat on the side of
the bed and chatted brightly for a moment, then he took it out and
looked at it.
“Now, look here, old man, you must stay in bed, and I’ll bring old
Deacon in to have a look at you.”
“Nonsense,” said Philip. “There’s nothing the matter. I wish you
wouldn’t bother about me.”
“But it isn’t any bother. You’ve got a temperature and you must stay in
bed. You will, won’t you?”
There was a peculiar charm in his manner, a mingling of gravity and
kindliness, which was infinitely attractive.
“You’ve got a wonderful bed-side manner,” Philip murmured, closing his
eyes with a smile.
Griffiths shook out his pillow for him, deftly smoothed down the
bedclothes, and tucked him up. He went into Philip’s sitting-room to
look for a siphon, could not find one, and fetched it from his own
room. He drew down the blind.
“Now, go to sleep and I’ll bring the old man round as soon as he’s done
the wards.”
It seemed hours before anyone came to Philip. His head felt as if it
would split, anguish rent his limbs, and he was afraid he was going to
cry. Then there was a knock at the door and Griffiths, healthy, strong,
and cheerful, came in.
“Here’s Doctor Deacon,” he said.
The physician stepped forward, an elderly man with a bland manner, whom
Philip knew only by sight. A few questions, a brief examination, and
the diagnosis.
“What d’you make it?” he asked Griffiths, smiling.
“Influenza.”
“Quite right.”
Doctor Deacon looked round the dingy lodging-house room.
“Wouldn’t you like to go to the hospital? They’ll put you in a private
ward, and you can be better looked after than you can here.”
“I’d rather stay where I am,” said Philip.
He did not want to be disturbed, and he was always shy of new
surroundings. He did not fancy nurses fussing about him, and the dreary
cleanliness of the hospital.
“I can look after him, sir,” said Griffiths at once.
“Oh, very well.”
He wrote a prescription, gave instructions, and left.
“Now you’ve got to do exactly as I tell you,” said Griffiths. “I’m
day-nurse and night-nurse all in one.”
“It’s very kind of you, but I shan’t want anything,” said Philip.
Griffiths put his hand on Philip’s forehead, a large cool, dry hand,
and the touch seemed to him good.
“I’m just going to take this round to the dispensary to have it made
up, and then I’ll come back.”
In a little while he brought the medicine and gave Philip a dose. Then
he went upstairs to fetch his books.
“You won’t mind my working in your room this afternoon, will you?” he
said, when he came down. “I’ll leave the door open so that you can give
me a shout if you want anything.”
Later in the day Philip, awaking from an uneasy doze, heard voices in
his sitting-room. A friend had come in to see Griffiths.
“I say, you’d better not come in tonight,” he heard Griffiths saying.
And then a minute or two afterwards someone else entered the room and
expressed his surprise at finding Griffiths there. Philip heard him
explain.
“I’m looking after a second year’s man who’s got these rooms. The
wretched blighter’s down with influenza. No whist tonight, old man.”
Presently Griffiths was left alone and Philip called him.
“I say, you’re not putting off a party tonight, are you?” he asked.
“Not on your account. I must work at my surgery.”
“Don’t put it off. I shall be all right. You needn’t bother about me.”
“That’s all right.”
Philip grew worse. As the night came on he became slightly delirious,
but towards morning he awoke from a restless sleep. He saw Griffiths
get out of an arm-chair, go down on his knees, and with his fingers put
piece after piece of coal on the fire. He was in pyjamas and a
dressing-gown.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Did I wake you up? I tried to make up the fire without making a row.”
“Why aren’t you in bed? What’s the time?”
“About five. I thought I’d better sit up with you tonight. I brought an
arm-chair in as I thought if I put a mattress down I should sleep so
soundly that I shouldn’t hear you if you wanted anything.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so good to me,” groaned Philip. “Suppose you
catch it?”
“Then you shall nurse me, old man,” said Griffiths, with a laugh.
In the morning Griffiths drew up the blind. He looked pale and tired
after his night’s watch, but was full of spirits.
“Now, I’m going to wash you,” he said to Philip cheerfully.
“I can wash myself,” said Philip, ashamed.
“Nonsense. If you were in the small ward a nurse would wash you, and I
can do it just as well as a nurse.”
Philip, too weak and wretched to resist, allowed Griffiths to wash his
hands and face, his feet, his chest and back. He did it with charming
tenderness, carrying on meanwhile a stream of friendly chatter; then he
changed the sheet just as they did at the hospital, shook out the
pillow, and arranged the bed-clothes.
“I should like Sister Arthur to see me. It would make her sit up.
Deacon’s coming in to see you early.”
“I can’t imagine why you should be so good to me,” said Philip.
“It’s good practice for me. It’s rather a lark having a patient.”
Griffiths gave him his breakfast and went off to get dressed and have
something to eat. A few minutes before ten he came back with a bunch of
grapes and a few flowers.
“You are awfully kind,” said Philip.
He was in bed for five days.
Norah and Griffiths nursed him between them. Though Griffiths was the
same age as Philip he adopted towards him a humorous, motherly
attitude. He was a thoughtful fellow, gentle and encouraging; but his
greatest quality was a vitality which seemed to give health to everyone
with whom he came in contact. Philip was unused to the petting which
most people enjoy from mothers or sisters and he was deeply touched by
the feminine tenderness of this strong young man. Philip grew better.