Of Human Bondage
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.
LXXXVI
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.”
He was short-sighted and when he spoke looked at you with a peculiar
intensity. He took up his volume of poetry.
“You should read Spanish,” he said. “It is a noble tongue. It has not
the mellifluousness of Italian, Italian is the language of tenors and
organ-grinders, but it has grandeur: it does not ripple like a brook in
a garden, but it surges tumultuous like a mighty river in flood.”
His grandiloquence amused Philip, but he was sensitive to rhetoric; and
he listened with pleasure while Athelny, with picturesque expressions
and the fire of a real enthusiasm, described to him the rich delight of
reading Don Quixote in the original and the music, romantic, limpid,
passionate, of the enchanting Calderon.
“I must get on with my work,” said Philip presently.
“Oh, forgive me, I forgot. I will tell my wife to bring me a photograph
of Toledo, and I will show it you. Come and talk to me when you have
the chance. You don’t know what a pleasure it gives me.”
During the next few days, in moments snatched whenever there was
opportunity, Philip’s acquaintance with the journalist increased.
Thorpe Athelny was a good talker. He did not say brilliant things, but
he talked inspiringly, with an eager vividness which fired the
imagination; Philip, living so much in a world of make-believe, found
his fancy teeming with new pictures. Athelny had very good manners. He
knew much more than Philip, both of the world and of books; he was a
much older man; and the readiness of his conversation gave him a
certain superiority; but he was in the hospital a recipient of charity,
subject to strict rules; and he held himself between the two positions
with ease and humour. Once Philip asked him why he had come to the