Of Human Bondage
“Then you must just sell them for what you can get.”
Macalister looked at Philip narrowly. He wondered whether he was very
hard hit.
“I’m awfully sorry, old man, but we’re all in the same boat. No one
thought the war was going to hang on this way. I put you into them, but
I was in myself too.”
“It doesn’t matter at all,” said Philip. “One has to take one’s
chance.”
He moved back to the table from which he had got up to talk to
Macalister. He was dumfounded; his head suddenly began to ache
furiously; but he did not want them to think him unmanly. He sat on for
an hour. He laughed feverishly at everything they said. At last he got
up to go.
“You take it pretty coolly,” said Macalister, shaking hands with him.
“I don’t suppose anyone likes losing between three and four hundred
pounds.”
When Philip got back to his shabby little room he flung himself on his
bed, and gave himself over to his despair. He kept on regretting his
folly bitterly; and though he told himself that it was absurd to regret
for what had happened was inevitable just because it had happened, he
could not help himself. He was utterly miserable. He could not sleep.
He remembered all the ways he had wasted money during the last few
years. His head ached dreadfully.
The following evening there came by the last post the statement of his
account. He examined his pass-book. He found that when he had paid
everything he would have seven pounds left. Seven pounds! He was
thankful he had been able to pay. It would have been horrible to be
obliged to confess to Macalister that he had not the money. He was
dressing in the eye-department during the summer session, and he had
bought an ophthalmoscope off a student who had one to sell. He had not
paid for this, but he lacked the courage to tell the student that he
wanted to go back on his bargain. Also he had to buy certain books. He
had about five pounds to go on with. It lasted him six weeks; then he
wrote to his uncle a letter which he thought very business-like; he
said that owing to the war he had had grave losses and could not go on
with his studies unless his uncle came to his help. He suggested that
the Vicar should lend him a hundred and fifty pounds paid over the next
eighteen months in monthly instalments; he would pay interest on this
and promised to refund the capital by degrees when he began to earn
money. He would be qualified in a year and a half at the latest, and he
could be pretty sure then of getting an assistantship at three pounds a
week. His uncle wrote back that he could do nothing. It was not fair to
ask him to sell out when everything was at its worst, and the little he
had he felt that his duty to himself made it necessary for him to keep
in case of illness. He ended the letter with a little homily. He had
warned Philip time after time, and Philip had never paid any attention
to him; he could not honestly say he was surprised; he had long
expected that this would be the end of Philip’s extravagance and want
of balance. Philip grew hot and cold when he read this. It had never
occurred to him that his uncle would refuse, and he burst into furious
anger; but this was succeeded by utter blankness: if his uncle would
not help him he could not go on at the hospital. Panic seized him and,
putting aside his pride, he wrote again to the Vicar of Blackstable,
placing the case before him more urgently; but perhaps he did not
explain himself properly and his uncle did not realise in what
desperate straits he was, for he answered that he could not change his
mind; Philip was twenty-five and really ought to be earning his living.
When he died Philip would come into a little, but till then he refused
to give him a penny. Philip felt in the letter the satisfaction of a
man who for many years had disapproved of his courses and now saw
himself justified.
XCIX
Philip began to pawn his clothes. He reduced his expenses by eating
only one meal a day beside his breakfast; and he ate it, bread and
butter and cocoa, at four so that it should last him till next morning.
He was so hungry by nine o’clock that he had to go to bed. He thought
of borrowing money from Lawson, but the fear of a refusal held him
back; at last he asked him for five pounds. Lawson lent it with
pleasure, but, as he did so, said:
“You’ll let me have it back in a week or so, won’t you? I’ve got to pay
my framer, and I’m awfully broke just now.”
Philip knew he would not be able to return it, and the thought of what
Lawson would think made him so ashamed that in a couple of days he took
the money back untouched. Lawson was just going out to luncheon and
asked Philip to come too. Philip could hardly eat, he was so glad to
get some solid food. On Sunday he was sure of a good dinner from
Athelny. He hesitated to tell the Athelnys what had happened to him:
they had always looked upon him as comparatively well-to-do, and he had
a dread that they would think less well of him if they knew he was
penniless.
Though he had always been poor, the possibility of not having enough to
eat had never occurred to him; it was not the sort of thing that
happened to the people among whom he lived; and he was as ashamed as if
he had some disgraceful disease. The situation in which he found
himself was quite outside the range of his experience. He was so taken
aback that he did not know what else to do than to go on at the
hospital; he had a vague hope that something would turn up; he could
not quite believe that what was happening to him was true; and he
remembered how during his first term at school he had often thought his
life was a dream from which he would awake to find himself once more at
home. But very soon he foresaw that in a week or so he would have no
money at all. He must set about trying to earn something at once. If he
had been qualified, even with a club-foot, he could have gone out to
the Cape, since the demand for medical men was now great. Except for
his deformity he might have enlisted in one of the yeomanry regiments
which were constantly being sent out. He went to the secretary of the
Medical School and asked if he could give him the coaching of some
backward student; but the secretary held out no hope of getting him
anything of the sort. Philip read the advertisement columns of the
medical papers, and he applied for the post of unqualified assistant to
a man who had a dispensary in the Fulham Road. When he went to see him,
he saw the doctor glance at his club-foot; and on hearing that Philip
was only in his fourth year at the hospital he said at once that his
experience was insufficient: Philip understood that this was only an
excuse; the man would not have an assistant who might not be as active
as he wanted. Philip turned his attention to other means of earning
money. He knew French and German and thought there might be some chance
of finding a job as correspondence clerk; it made his heart sink, but
he set his teeth; there was nothing else to do. Though too shy to
answer the advertisements which demanded a personal application, he
replied to those which asked for letters; but he had no experience to
state and no recommendations: he was conscious that neither his German
nor his French was commercial; he was ignorant of the terms used in
business; he knew neither shorthand nor typewriting. He could not help
recognising that his case was hopeless. He thought of writing to the
solicitor who had been his father’s executor, but he could not bring
himself to, for it was contrary to his express advice that he had sold
the mortgages in which his money had been invested. He knew from his
uncle that Mr. Nixon thoroughly disapproved of him. He had gathered
from Philip’s year in the accountant’s office that he was idle and
incompetent.
“I’d sooner starve,” Philip muttered to himself.
Once or twice the possibility of suicide presented itself to him; it
would be easy to get something from the hospital dispensary, and it was
a comfort to think that if the worst came to the worst he had at hand
means of making a painless end of himself; but it was not a course that
he considered seriously. When Mildred had left him to go with Griffiths
his anguish had been so great that he wanted to die in order to get rid
of the pain. He did not feel like that now. He remembered that the
Casualty Sister had told him how people oftener did away with
themselves for want of money than for want of love; and he chuckled
when he thought that he was an exception. He wished only that he could
talk his worries over with somebody, but he could not bring himself to
confess them. He was ashamed. He went on looking for work. He left his
rent unpaid for three weeks, explaining to his landlady that he would
get money at the end of the month; she did not say anything, but pursed
her lips and looked grim. When the end of the month came and she asked
if it would be convenient for him to pay something on account, it made
him feel very sick to say that he could not; he told her he would write
to his uncle and was sure to be able to settle his bill on the
following Saturday.
“Well, I ’ope you will, Mr. Carey, because I ’ave my rent to pay, and I
can’t afford to let accounts run on.” She did not speak with anger, but
with determination that was rather frightening. She paused for a moment
and then said: “If you don’t pay next Saturday, I shall ’ave to
complain to the secretary of the ’ospital.”
“Oh yes, that’ll be all right.”
She looked at him for a little and glanced round the bare room. When
she spoke it was without any emphasis, as though it were quite a
natural thing to say.
“I’ve got a nice ’ot joint downstairs, and if you like to come down to
the kitchen you’re welcome to a bit of dinner.”
Philip felt himself redden to the soles of his feet, and a sob caught
at his throat.
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Higgins, but I’m not at all hungry.”
“Very good, sir.”
When she left the room Philip threw himself on his bed. He had to
clench his fists in order to prevent himself from crying.
C
Saturday. It was the day on which he had promised to pay his landlady.
He had been expecting something to turn up all through the week. He had
found no work. He had never been driven to extremities before, and he
was so dazed that he did not know what to do. He had at the back of his
mind a feeling that the whole thing was a preposterous joke. He had no
more than a few coppers left, he had sold all the clothes he could do
without; he had some books and one or two odds and ends upon which he
might have got a shilling or two, but the landlady was keeping an eye
on his comings and goings: he was afraid she would stop him if he took
anything more from his room. The only thing was to tell her that he
could not pay his bill. He had not the courage. It was the middle of
June. The night was fine and warm. He made up his mind to stay out. He
walked slowly along the Chelsea Embankment, because the river was
restful and quiet, till he was tired, and then sat on a bench and
dozed. He did not know how long he slept; he awoke with a start,
dreaming that he was being shaken by a policeman and told to move on;
but when he opened his eyes he found himself alone. He walked on, he
did not know why, and at last came to Chiswick, where he slept again.
Presently the hardness of the bench roused him. The night seemed very
long. He shivered. He was seized with a sense of his misery; and he did
not know what on earth to do: he was ashamed at having slept on the
Embankment; it seemed peculiarly humiliating, and he felt his cheeks
flush in the darkness. He remembered stories he had heard of those who
did and how among them were officers, clergymen, and men who had been
to universities: he wondered if he would become one of them, standing