Julius (20 page)

Julius came up full of enthusiasm and vitality, he had been discussing the price of his site in the Strand. For three hours he had argued and he had won his point, the sum was agreed - large, of course, but he could afford it - and he had only to sign the agreement and the site would be his. Building would start in November.

‘Fancy,’ she said, and tried to smile and show pleasure, but this silly weakness that had come upon her made her feel faint and queer. She touched nothing and watched him while he ate an enormous meal. He was in a great humour, boisterous and rough, and sweeping aside her complaint of feeling tired he made love to her.

She awoke suddenly - just before dawn - with a feeling of fear and dread that could not be explained. It was as though a blanket hung above her, and would fall at any moment and suffocate her.There was a weight on her chest, and something tearing and scratching at her, something that called out to her to cough, and cough, and yet if she did she knew a wound would open, gaping like a sponge. She sat up in bed, her head swimming, and she felt her way on to the floor and went to the washstand for a glass of water. As she lifted the jug the thing inside her broke, and a torrent of coughing rose up in her from her chest, sweeping her like a suffocating tide. She leant against the washstand fainting and exhausted, and came suddenly to her senses with the realisation of the stale dull taste in her mouth, something that came from the depths of her, frothy and strangely warm, the taste of a rusty knife. She opened her mouth, shuddering in nausea, and let it pass from her, and then she lit a candle and looked into the basin and saw the blood. She was wide awake, and her mind was clear.

‘It’s come,’ she thought. ‘The doctor said it would. Why did it wait so long? Why did it have to wait till I was happy?’

She wiped her mouth and sat down on a chair. Julius stirred in his sleep, and muttered something and was awakened by the light.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said.

‘I’ve been ill,’ she told him after a moment.

‘Eaten something that’s sent you sick?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she said.

‘Well, you’d better come back to bed,’ he said. She felt helpless and very tired. She wanted him to lift this thing from her mind and to tell her she was safe.

‘There’s blood in the basin,’ she said, and her voice sounded far away from her, not her voice at all. ‘I think you had better send for the doctor.’

‘Blood?’ he repeated, still heavy from sleep. ‘Have you cut yourself?’

She shook her head; she began to shiver now, she was very cold.

‘It came from me when I coughed,’ she said; ‘it’s not just a little, my mouth was full. It’s haemorrhage. One of the girls in Ahèmed’s house had this - we used to take turns in nursing her. It isn’t anything I could make a mistake about.’

He stared at her, got slowly out of bed and stared down at the basin.

‘It’s blood,’ he said stupidly; ‘it’s all frothy,’ and he tipped the basin sideways. ‘How could all this come from your chest?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said; ‘it’s haemorrhage. It’s always like that.’

He poured her out a glass of water. He wondered what he ought to do.

‘Drink this; perhaps you’ll feel better,’ he said. She drank a sip and then put it away.

‘Carry me to bed,’ she said, and two tears rolled slowly down her cheeks and into her mouth. It was weakness, he supposed. She felt very light in his arms. Her nightdress smelt stale, of sweat. He laid her in the bed and covered her up with the blanket. ‘If you lay quietly, you may get some sleep,’ he suggested after a while. ‘If you’re not better in the morning I’ll get hold of a doctor.’

She did not answer for a moment and then she said: ‘A doctor will want to order in all sorts of things, there will be so much expense. Supposing he says I should have a nurse?’

‘Oh! come,’ he said, ‘it can’t be as bad as that. Just rest for a day or so, and slops to eat. A doctor will soon put you right.’

She reached out for his hand and held it between hers.

‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘This isn’t just a little thing of resting for a few days. I ought to have started resting before - months ago; two, three years ago. I’ve always been near this - ready - and now it’s come. Hæmorrhage, I mean. To get well you would have to have sent me to Switzerland, you would have to have me nursed by the cleverest doctors in the world. It would have meant months of care and trouble and expense. You couldn’t afford it.’

‘You’re exaggerating,’ he told her stubbornly, ‘it can’t be as bad as that.’

‘It’s no use,’ she said. ‘We can’t make things any better by pretending. I’m willing to face what’s ahead. It isn’t anybody’s fault, it had to happen. Only - coming now, just when I was being happy ...’ she broke off suddenly, and was silent, and stared up at the ceiling. She thought of the girl in Ahèmed’s house lying on the little strip of coloured blanket, and she remembered her poor face wasted and terrible, and the suffering she had endured for three months, and how at the end she had thrown her arms above her head . . .

‘I’ll talk to the doctor,’ repeated Julius; ‘he’ll know what to say. I’m bad at this sort of thing - I’ve never been ill, it’s queer to me. I’ll talk to the doctor. He’ll know about the treatment, he’ll tell you what to do.’

He was thinking about the agreement for the site in the Strand and how it would be signed in the morning. Why did she have to fall ill at just this time? He had to buy that site in the Strand. He had always said that nothing and no one should stand between him and his plans.

‘I don’t suppose it will be such a long business,’ he went on; ‘if you’re taken care of properly you’ll soon be all right again. It’s this heat in late September, that’s helped against you I expect.’

‘I believe there are places in Switzerland not so expensive,’ she said later; ‘of course the getting out there would be difficult, and then having a nurse - it would all mount up.’ She was struggling in her mind for some loophole of escape. Not the girl in Ahèmed’s house, not like that.

But he was thinking of the site in the Strand. He would not give up his site in the Strand. The agreement was to be signed to-morrow.

‘If it’s really consumption,’ he said, ‘there are ways of curing that now. Anyway, it’s nothing to be afraid of. Lots of people go about with consumption. My father had it for years; he was always coughing. He didn’t suffer, either, not even at the end, and then it was only his heart that carried him off.’ He went on talking, stroking her hand, watching the curtain to see if the light were breaking.

‘You needn’t be frightened, there’s no suffering with consumption; it only needs rest and quiet,’ and he was thinking, ‘Tomorrow I shall sign the agreement for the site in the Strand.’

‘No, I’m not frightened, you mustn’t worry about me. I’m all right,’ she reassured him, but she was thinking, ‘I was with her when she died - I saw her face - I was with her when she died.’

They lay together, side by side, waiting for the morning, making a little pretence to one another that they were sleeping and were not afraid.

 

When the doctor came to see Elsa early the next day he sent Julius out of the bedroom and remained with her for some little time, the door closed, only the murmur of voices coming to Julius as he stood by the window in the sitting-room looking down upon Holborn.

He watched the heavy drays pass along the street Cityward, and the slow plodding omnibuses; now and then a bicycle would thread its way in amongst the horse traffic, while the pavements were already filled with people hurrying to work. The rooms were at the top of the building, and beneath him the routine and life of the café were starting, his employees passing in at the swing doors to make themselves ready for the business of the day. Two fellows were straining to shift aside the heavy shutters, and a carter and boy were staggering into the premises with great blocks of ice.

A woman was brushing and cleaning away the dust in front of the café, calling something over her shoulder to her helper inside who, hands and knees on the ground, with a pail of water beside her, was scrubbing at the stone floor.

Julius closed down the window and glanced at his watch. Surely the doctor must have finished his examination by now. He paced up and down the room, he lit a cigarette, a thing he never did in the mornings, he turned over some papers on the table.

In the pit of his belly a pain gripped him, a pain that he could not recognise as fear; but suddenly for no other reason but that this pain must be connected with a sensation of grief, there came to his senses the memory of a little boy throwing his cat into the Seine, and the feel of the cat’s claws upon his shoulders as he loosened their grasp. A shudder ran through him and deliberately he forced his mind away from the picture and began to concentrate on the wording of his speech to the owner of the site in the Strand, whom he would be seeing in two or three hours’ time.

Then the doctor came into the room, and Julius turned to him, the pain in his belly gripping him once more.

‘Well?’ he said briskly, waiting for no preliminary chatter that would waste his time, ‘what have you got to say?’

The man hesitated and cleared his throat, rubbing a handkerchief between his hands.

‘I gather that you must have understood the position from the first, Mr Lévy,’ he began; ‘after that hæmorrhage of last night there could be no doubt in your mind. Well - briefly, the situation is this. In her present condition and with things as they are she cannot possibly live beyond three months - at the utmost. Another hæmorrhage and everything would be over. The disease has too firm a hold on her, Mr Lévy. If I had been consulted before . . .’ he broke off, searching the other’s eyes. ‘Of course,’ he went on doubtfully, ‘even now I might be able to save her, but it would mean a complete break-up of her present existence. She would have to be moved to a clinic and receive very special treatment. Possibly you have heard of Doctor Lorder, the great authority on tuberculosis, it is his clinic, I mean; only you must understand that the expense would be considerable, and again I could not guarantee the result. A year ago Doctor Lorder cured a patient in very much the same condition as your - your wife, I take it. The girl is living in Switzerland now - but there, it is for you to say, Mr Lévy; I don’t know anything about your circumstances. All I can tell you is that she might - “might,” I say - be saved, but at very considerable expense; the treatment would be long; you understand. On the other hand,’ he hesitated again, ‘on the other hand, if that is out of the question, I will do everything in my power to help her, to see that she is comfortable and that she does not suffer too much. She must have a nurse, naturally, and anything she fancies in the way of food - you see, it won’t be very long that way. I am being perfectly frank with you, Mr Lévy. I am not trying to make things easier for you. I don’t believe you would have me lie to you or pretend a hope when there is none.’

Julius did not seem as though he were listening. He stared straight in front of him, tap-tapping with his fingers on the table.

‘That’s all right,’ he said after a moment; ‘thank you very much. I understand the position. I want you to see that Elsa - she is not my wife - has every comfort and attention, a nurse if you wish it - but above all that she is not told she is dying. I don’t see that there is any need for that. It’s stupid, unnecessary. Be careful about that, will you? That’s all, I think.’ He moved towards the door. The doctor realised that the interview was at an end, but Julius Lévy had made no mention of Doctor Lorder and the clinic.

‘Then you don’t wish me to . . .’ he began, reaching for his hat, but Julius cut him short: ‘There is nothing more to discuss,’ he said. ‘I thought I had made that quite clear. I mustn’t keep you, doctor; you are a very busy man and so am I for that matter. Will you make the arrangements for the nurse to come in to-day?’

They moved into the passage to the head of the stairs. The doctor made a last effort in the cause of humanity. ‘If you would like me to arrange a consultation with Doctor Lorder,’ he said in a low voice, ‘it can easily be managed. A word to him - I could let you know, about eleven-thirty this morning, he lives in Upper Wimpole Street ...’

Julius Lévy shook his head.

‘I can’t manage it,’ he said. ‘I have an appointment. Good day to you.’

Then he turned and went into the bedroom where Elsa was lying like a pale thin child against the pillows.

‘Hullo, you little shammer,’ he said, smiling, and crossed over to her bed and took her hands in his; ‘you’re just pretending to be ill, I know you. You’re a lazy little devil and you like me to fuss over you. That’s it, isn’t it?’

She smiled at him, shaking her head.

‘What did the doctor tell you?’ she asked. ‘He wouldn’t say anything to me. Tell me - I won’t be afraid.’

‘Afraid?’ said Julius. ‘I should think not! What’s there to be afraid of? No - you’ve got to lie here like a lamb for about three months - fed up and petted and a hospital nurse to fuss over you - and after that, well, by then you’ll be strong enough to be moved off to Switzerland. Some place in the mountains where you can bask in the sun and listen to sleigh bells. Does that suit you, little silly thing?’

‘Do you mean that, Julius? Shall I really get well and will I really go to Switzerland?’

He winked at her, laying one finger on her cheek. They laughed together, and then she coughed, and had to struggle for breath on the pillows.

‘Try and not do that,’ he told her.

‘I can’t help it,’ she said; ‘it’s stronger than me. Oh! I’m going to shut my eyes as I lie here and imagine the air in those Swiss mountains. They say the sky is always blue there and the sun shines. You don’t feel the cold for all the snow . . . the horses drag sleighs at quite a pace up and down the slippery roads. I’m sure I don’t know how they do it, do you? I’ve seen picture postcards of the Lake Lucerne; perhaps I could go somewhere near there.’