Of Human Bondage
in a line to get soup from a charitable institution. It would be much
better to commit suicide. He could not go on like that: Lawson would
help him when he knew what straits he was in; it was absurd to let his
pride prevent him from asking for assistance. He wondered why he had
come such a cropper. He had always tried to do what he thought best,
and everything had gone wrong. He had helped people when he could, he
did not think he had been more selfish than anyone else, it seemed
horribly unjust that he should be reduced to such a pass.
But it was no good thinking about it. He walked on. It was now light:
the river was beautiful in the silence, and there was something
mysterious in the early day; it was going to be very fine, and the sky,
pale in the dawn, was cloudless. He felt very tired, and hunger was
gnawing at his entrails, but he could not sit still; he was constantly
afraid of being spoken to by a policeman. He dreaded the mortification
of that. He felt dirty and wished he could have a wash. At last he
found himself at Hampton Court. He felt that if he did not have
something to eat he would cry. He chose a cheap eating-house and went
in; there was a smell of hot things, and it made him feel slightly
sick: he meant to eat something nourishing enough to keep up for the
rest of the day, but his stomach revolted at the sight of food. He had
a cup of tea and some bread and butter. He remembered then that it was
Sunday and he could go to the Athelnys; he thought of the roast beef
and the Yorkshire pudding they would eat; but he was fearfully tired
and could not face the happy, noisy family. He was feeling morose and
wretched. He wanted to be left alone. He made up his mind that he would
go into the gardens of the palace and lie down. His bones ached.
Perhaps he would find a pump so that he could wash his hands and face
and drink something; he was very thirsty; and now that he was no longer
hungry he thought with pleasure of the flowers and the lawns and the
great leafy trees. He felt that there he could think out better what he
must do. He lay on the grass, in the shade, and lit his pipe. For
economy’s sake he had for a long time confined himself to two pipes a
day; he was thankful now that his pouch was full. He did not know what
people did when they had no money. Presently he fell asleep. When he
awoke it was nearly mid-day, and he thought that soon he must be
setting out for London so as to be there in the early morning and
answer any advertisements which seemed to promise. He thought of his
uncle, who had told him that he would leave him at his death the little
he had; Philip did not in the least know how much this was: it could
not be more than a few hundred pounds. He wondered whether he could
raise money on the reversion. Not without the old man’s consent, and
that he would never give.
“The only thing I can do is to hang on somehow till he dies.”
Philip reckoned his age. The Vicar of Blackstable was well over
seventy. He had chronic bronchitis, but many old men had that and lived
on indefinitely. Meanwhile something must turn up; Philip could not get
away from the feeling that his position was altogether abnormal; people
in his particular station did not starve. It was because he could not
bring himself to believe in the reality of his experience that he did
not give way to utter despair. He made up his mind to borrow half a
sovereign from Lawson. He stayed in the garden all day and smoked when
he felt very hungry; he did not mean to eat anything until he was
setting out again for London: it was a long way and he must keep up his
strength for that. He started when the day began to grow cooler, and
slept on benches when he was tired. No one disturbed him. He had a wash
and brush up, and a shave at Victoria, some tea and bread and butter,
and while he was eating this read the advertisement columns of the
morning paper. As he looked down them his eye fell upon an announcement
asking for a salesman in the ‘furnishing drapery’ department of some
well-known stores. He had a curious little sinking of the heart, for
with his middle-class prejudices it seemed dreadful to go into a shop;
but he shrugged his shoulders, after all what did it matter? and he
made up his mind to have a shot at it. He had a queer feeling that by
accepting every humiliation, by going out to meet it even, he was
forcing the hand of fate. When he presented himself, feeling horribly
shy, in the department at nine o’clock he found that many others were
there before him. They were of all ages, from boys of sixteen to men of
forty; some were talking to one another in undertones, but most were
silent; and when he took up his place those around him gave him a look
of hostility. He heard one man say:
“The only thing I look forward to is getting my refusal soon enough to
give me time to look elsewhere.”
The man, standing next him, glanced at Philip and asked:
“Had any experience?”
“No,” said Philip.
He paused a moment and then made a remark: “Even the smaller houses
won’t see you without appointment after lunch.”
Philip looked at the assistants. Some were draping chintzes and
cretonnes, and others, his neighbour told him were preparing country
orders that had come in by post. At about a quarter past nine the buyer
arrived. He heard one of the men who were waiting say to another that
it was Mr. Gibbons. He was middle-aged, short and corpulent, with a
black beard and dark, greasy hair. He had brisk movements and a clever
face. He wore a silk hat and a frock coat, the lapel of which was
adorned with a white geranium surrounded by leaves. He went into his
office, leaving the door open; it was very small and contained only an
American roll-desk in the corner, a bookcase, and a cupboard. The men
standing outside watched him mechanically take the geranium out of his
coat and put it in an ink-pot filled with water. It was against the
rules to wear flowers in business.
During the day the department men who wanted to keep in with the
governor admired the flower.
“I’ve never seen better,” they said, “you didn’t grow it yourself?”
“Yes I did,” he smiled, and a gleam of pride filled his intelligent
eyes.
He took off his hat and changed his coat, glanced at the letters and
then at the men who were waiting to see him. He made a slight sign with
one finger, and the first in the queue stepped into the office. They
filed past him one by one and answered his questions. He put them very
briefly, keeping his eyes fixed on the applicant’s face.
“Age? Experience? Why did you leave your job?”
He listened to the replies without expression. When it came to Philip’s
turn he fancied that Mr. Gibbons stared at him curiously. Philip’s
clothes were neat and tolerably cut. He looked a little different from
the others.
“Experience?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t any,” said Philip.
“No good.”
Philip walked out of the office. The ordeal had been so much less
painful than he expected that he felt no particular disappointment. He
could hardly hope to succeed in getting a place the first time he
tried. He had kept the newspaper and now looked at the advertisements
again: a shop in Holborn needed a salesman too, and he went there; but
when he arrived he found that someone had already been engaged. If he
wanted to get anything to eat that day he must go to Lawson’s studio
before he went out to luncheon, so he made his way along the Brompton
Road to Yeoman’s Row.
“I say, I’m rather broke till the end of the month,” he said as soon as
he found an opportunity. “I wish you’d lend me half a sovereign, will
you?”
It was incredible the difficulty he found in asking for money; and he
remembered the casual way, as though almost they were conferring a
favour, men at the hospital had extracted small sums out of him which
they had no intention of repaying.
“Like a shot,” said Lawson.
But when he put his hand in his pocket he found that he had only eight
shillings. Philip’s heart sank.
“Oh well, lend me five bob, will you?” he said lightly.
“Here you are.”
Philip went to the public baths in Westminster and spent sixpence on a
bath. Then he got himself something to eat. He did not know what to do
with himself in the afternoon. He would not go back to the hospital in
case anyone should ask him questions, and besides, he had nothing to do
there now; they would wonder in the two or three departments he had
worked in why he did not come, but they must think what they chose, it
did not matter: he would not be the first student who had dropped out
without warning. He went to the free library, and looked at the papers
till they wearied him, then he took out Stevenson’s New Arabian Nights;
but he found he could not read: the words meant nothing to him, and he
continued to brood over his helplessness. He kept on thinking the same
things all the time, and the fixity of his thoughts made his head ache.
At last, craving for fresh air, he went into the Green Park and lay
down on the grass. He thought miserably of his deformity, which made it
impossible for him to go to the war. He went to sleep and dreamt that
he was suddenly sound of foot and out at the Cape in a regiment of
Yeomanry; the pictures he had looked at in the illustrated papers gave
materials for his fancy; and he saw himself on the Veldt, in khaki,
sitting with other men round a fire at night. When he awoke he found
that it was still quite light, and presently he heard Big Ben strike
seven. He had twelve hours to get through with nothing to do. He
dreaded the interminable night. The sky was overcast and he feared it
would rain; he would have to go to a lodging-house where he could get a
bed; he had seen them advertised on lamps outside houses in Lambeth:
Good Beds sixpence; he had never been inside one, and dreaded the foul
smell and the vermin. He made up his mind to stay in the open air if he
possibly could. He remained in the park till it was closed and then
began to walk about. He was very tired. The thought came to him that an
accident would be a piece of luck, so that he could be taken to a
hospital and lie there, in a clean bed, for weeks. At midnight he was
so hungry that he could not go without food any more, so he went to a
coffee stall at Hyde Park Corner and ate a couple of potatoes and had a
cup of coffee. Then he walked again. He felt too restless to sleep, and
he had a horrible dread of being moved on by the police. He noted that
he was beginning to look upon the constable from quite a new angle.
This was the third night he had spent out. Now and then he sat on the
benches in Piccadilly and towards morning he strolled down to The
Embankment. He listened to the striking of Big Ben, marking every
quarter of an hour, and reckoned out how long it left till the city
woke again. In the morning he spent a few coppers on making himself
neat and clean, bought a paper to read the advertisements, and set out
once more on the search for work.
He went on in this way for several days. He had very little food and
began to feel weak and ill, so that he had hardly enough energy to go
on looking for the work which seemed so desperately hard to find. He
was growing used now to the long waiting at the back of a shop on the
chance that he would be taken on, and the curt dismissal. He walked to
all parts of London in answer to the advertisements, and he came to
know by sight men who applied as fruitlessly as himself. One or two
tried to make friends with him, but he was too tired and too wretched
to accept their advances. He did not go any more to Lawson, because he
owed him five shillings. He began to be too dazed to think clearly and
ceased very much to care what would happen to him. He cried a good
deal. At first he was very angry with himself for this and ashamed, but