Of Human Bondage (79 page)

  "Who's that?"

  He recognised Cronshaw's voice.

  "Carey. Can I come in?"

  He received no answer. He walked in. The window was
closed and the stink was overpowering. There was a certain amount
of light from the arc-lamp in the street, and he saw that it was a
small room with two beds in it, end to end; there was a
washing-stand and one chair, but they left little space for anyone
to move in. Cronshaw was in the bed nearest the window. He made no
movement, but gave a low chuckle.

  "Why don't you light the candle?" he said then.

  Philip struck a match and discovered that there was
a candlestick on the floor beside the bed. He lit it and put it on
the washing-stand. Cronshaw was lying on his back immobile; he
looked very odd in his nightshirt; and his baldness was
disconcerting. His face was earthy and death-like.

  "I say, old man, you look awfully ill. Is there
anyone to look after you here?"

  "George brings me in a bottle of milk in the morning
before he goes to his work."

  "Who's George?"

  "I call him George because his name is Adolphe. He
shares this palatial apartment with me."

  Philip noticed then that the second bed had not been
made since it was slept in. The pillow was black where the head had
rested.

  "You don't mean to say you're sharing this room with
somebody else?" he cried.

  "Why not? Lodging costs money in Soho. George is a
waiter, he goes out at eight in the morning and does not come in
till closing time, so he isn't in my way at all. We neither of us
sleep well, and he helps to pass away the hours of the night by
telling me stories of his life. He's a Swiss, and I've always had a
taste for waiters. They see life from an entertaining angle."

  "How long have you been in bed?"

  "Three days."

  "D'you mean to say you've had nothing but a bottle
of milk for the last three days? Why on earth didn't you send me a
line? I can't bear to think of you lying here all day long without
a soul to attend to you."

  Cronshaw gave a little laugh.

  "Look at your face. Why, dear boy, I really believe
you're distressed. You nice fellow."

  Philip blushed. He had not suspected that his face
showed the dismay he felt at the sight of that horrible room and
the wretched circumstances of the poor poet. Cronshaw, watching
Philip, went on with a gentle smile.

  "I've been quite happy. Look, here are my proofs.
Remember that I am indifferent to discomforts which would harass
other folk. What do the circumstances of life matter if your dreams
make you lord paramount of time and space?"

  The proofs were lying on his bed, and as he lay in
the darkness he had been able to place his hands on them. He showed
them to Philip and his eyes glowed. He turned over the pages,
rejoicing in the clear type; he read out a stanza.

  "They don't look bad, do they?"

  Philip had an idea. It would involve him in a little
expense and he could not afford even the smallest increase of
expenditure; but on the other hand this was a case where it
revolted him to think of economy.

  "I say, I can't bear the thought of your remaining
here. I've got an extra room, it's empty at present, but I can
easily get someone to lend me a bed. Won't you come and live with
me for a while? It'll save you the rent of this."

  "Oh, my dear boy, you'd insist on my keeping my
window open."

  "You shall have every window in the place sealed if
you like."

  "I shall be all right tomorrow. I could have got up
today, only I felt lazy."

  "Then you can very easily make the move. And then if
you don't feel well at any time you can just go to bed, and I shall
be there to look after you."

  "If it'll please you I'll come," said Cronshaw, with
his torpid not unpleasant smile.

  "That'll be ripping."

  They settled that Philip should fetch Cronshaw next
day, and Philip snatched an hour from his busy morning to arrange
the change. He found Cronshaw dressed, sitting in his hat and
great-coat on the bed, with a small, shabby portmanteau, containing
his clothes and books, already packed: it was on the floor by his
feet, and he looked as if he were sitting in the waiting-room of a
station. Philip laughed at the sight of him. They went over to
Kennington in a four-wheeler, of which the windows were carefully
closed, and Philip installed his guest in his own room. He had gone
out early in the morning and bought for himself a second-hand
bedstead, a cheap chest of drawers, and a looking-glass. Cronshaw
settled down at once to correct his proofs. He was much better.

  Philip found him, except for the irritability which
was a symptom of his disease, an easy guest. He had a lecture at
nine in the morning, so did not see Cronshaw till the night. Once
or twice Philip persuaded him to share the scrappy meal he prepared
for himself in the evening, but Cronshaw was too restless to stay
in, and preferred generally to get himself something to eat in one
or other of the cheapest restaurants in Soho. Philip asked him to
see Dr. Tyrell, but he stoutly refused; he knew a doctor would tell
him to stop drinking, and this he was resolved not to do. He always
felt horribly ill in the morning, but his absinthe at mid-day put
him on his feet again, and by the time he came home, at midnight,
he was able to talk with the brilliancy which had astonished Philip
when first he made his acquaintance. His proofs were corrected; and
the volume was to come out among the publications of the early
spring, when the public might be supposed to have recovered from
the avalanche of Christmas books.

  At the new year Philip became dresser in the
surgical out-patients' department. The work was of the same
character as that which he had just been engaged on, but with the
greater directness which surgery has than medicine; and a larger
proportion of the patients suffered from those two diseases which a
supine public allows, in its prudishness, to be spread broadcast.
The assistant-surgeon for whom Philip dressed was called Jacobs. He
was a short, fat man, with an exuberant joviality, a bald head, and
a loud voice; he had a cockney accent, and was generally described
by the students as an `awful bounder'; but his cleverness, both as
a surgeon and as a teacher, caused some of them to overlook this.
He had also a considerable facetiousness, which he exercised
impartially on the patients and on the students. He took a great
pleasure in making his dressers look foolish. Since they were
ignorant, nervous, and could not answer as if he were their equal,
this was not very difficult. He enjoyed his afternoons, with the
home truths he permitted himself, much more than the students who
had to put up with them with a smile. One day a case came up of a
boy with a club-foot. His parents wanted to know whether anything
could be done. Mr. Jacobs turned to Philip.

  "You'd better take this case, Carey. It's a subject
you ought to know something about."

  Philip flushed, all the more because the surgeon
spoke obviously with a humorous intention, and his brow-beaten
dressers laughed obsequiously. It was in point of fact a subject
which Philip, since coming to the hospital, had studied with
anxious attention. He had read everything in the library which
treated of talipes in its various forms. He made the boy take off
his boot and stocking. He was fourteen, with a snub nose, blue
eyes, and a freckled face. His father explained that they wanted
something done if possible, it was such a hindrance to the kid in
earning his living. Philip looked at him curiously. He was a jolly
boy, not at all shy, but talkative and with a cheekiness which his
father reproved. He was much interested in his foot.

  "It's only for the looks of the thing, you know," he
said to Philip. "I don't find it no trouble."

  "Be quiet, Ernie," said his father. "There's too
much gas about you."

  Philip examined the foot and passed his hand slowly
over the shapelessness of it. He could not understand why the boy
felt none of the humiliation which always oppressed himself. He
wondered why he could not take his deformity with that philosophic
indifference. Presently Mr. Jacobs came up to him. The boy was
sitting on the edge of a couch, the surgeon and Philip stood on
each side of him; and in a semi-circle, crowding round, were
students. With accustomed brilliancy Jacobs gave a graphic little
discourse upon the club-foot: he spoke of its varieties and of the
forms which followed upon different anatomical conditions.

  "I suppose you've got talipes equinus?" he said,
turning suddenly to Philip.

  "Yes."

  Philip felt the eyes of his fellow-students rest on
him, and he cursed himself because he could not help blushing. He
felt the sweat start up in the palms of his hands. The surgeon
spoke with the fluency due to long practice and with the admirable
perspicacity which distinguished him. He was tremendously
interested in his profession. But Philip did not listen. He was
only wishing that the fellow would get done quickly. Suddenly he
realised that Jacobs was addressing him.

  "You don't mind taking off your sock for a moment,
Carey?"

  Philip felt a shudder pass through him. He had an
impulse to tell the surgeon to go to hell, but he had not the
courage to make a scene. He feared his brutal ridicule. He forced
himself to appear indifferent.

  "Not a bit," he said.

  He sat down and unlaced his boot. His fingers were
trembling and he thought he should never untie the knot. He
remembered how they had forced him at school to show his foot, and
the misery which had eaten into his soul.

  "He keeps his feet nice and clean, doesn't he?" said
Jacobs, in his rasping, cockney voice.

  The attendant students giggled. Philip noticed that
the boy whom they were examining looked down at his foot with eager
curiosity. Jacobs took the foot in his hands and said:

  "Yes, that's what I thought. I see you've had an
operation. When you were a child, I suppose?"

  He went on with his fluent explanations. The
students leaned over and looked at the foot. Two or three examined
it minutely when Jacobs let it go.

  "When you've quite done," said Philip, with a smile,
ironically.

  He could have killed them all. He thought how jolly
it would be to jab a chisel (he didn't know why that particular
instrument came into his mind) into their necks. What beasts men
were! He wished he could believe in hell so as to comfort himself
with the thought of the horrible tortures which would be theirs.
Mr. Jacobs turned his attention to treatment. He talked partly to
the boy's father and partly to the students. Philip put on his sock
and laced his boot. At last the surgeon finished. But he seemed to
have an afterthought and turned to Philip.

  "You know, I think it might be worth your while to
have an operation. Of course I couldn't give you a normal foot, but
I think I can do something. You might think about it, and when you
want a holiday you can just come into the hospital for a bit."

  Philip had often asked himself whether anything
could be done, but his distaste for any reference to the subject
had prevented him from consulting any of the surgeons at the
hospital. His reading told him that whatever might have been done
when he was a small boy, and then treatment of talipes was not as
skilful as in the present day, there was small chance now of any
great benefit. Still it would be worth while if an operation made
it possible for him to wear a more ordinary boot and to limp less.
He remembered how passionately he had prayed for the miracle which
his uncle had assured him was possible to omnipotence. He smiled
ruefully.

  "I was rather a simple soul in those days," he
thought.

  Towards the end of February it was clear that
Cronshaw was growing much worse. He was no longer able to get up.
He lay in bed, insisting that the window should be closed always,
and refused to see a doctor; he would take little nourishment, but
demanded whiskey and cigarettes: Philip knew that he should have
neither, but Cronshaw's argument was unanswerable.