Of Human Bondage (82 page)

  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 hospital.

  "Oh, my principle is to profit by all the benefits
that society provides. I take advantage of the age I live in. When
I'm ill I get myself patched up in a hospital and I have no false
shame, and I send my children to be educated at the
board-school."

  "Do you really?" said Philip.

  "And a capital education they get too, much better
than I got at Winchester. How else do you think I could educate
them at all? I've got nine. You must come and see them all when I
get home again. Will you?"

  "I'd like to very much," said Philip.

  Ten days later Thorpe Athelny was well enough to
leave the hospital. He gave Philip his address, and Philip promised
to dine with him at one o'clock on the following Sunday. Athelny
had told him that he lived in a house built by Inigo Jones; he had
raved, as he raved over everything, over the balustrade of old oak;
and when he came down to open the door for Philip he made him at
once admire the elegant carving of the lintel. It was a shabby
house, badly needing a coat of paint, but with the dignity of its
period, in a little street between Chancery Lane and Holborn, which
had once been fashionable but was now little better than a slum:
there was a plan to pull it down in order to put up handsome
offices; meanwhile the rents were small, and Athelny was able to
get the two upper floors at a price which suited his income. Philip
had not seen him up before and was surprised at his small size; he
was not more than five feet and five inches high. He was dressed
fantastically in blue linen trousers of the sort worn by working
men in France, and a very old brown velvet coat; he wore a bright
red sash round his waist, a low collar, and for tie a flowing bow
of the kind used by the comic Frenchman in the pages of Punch. He
greeted Philip with enthusiasm. He began talking at once of the
house and passed his hand lovingly over the balusters.

  "Look at it, feel it, it's like silk. What a miracle
of grace! And in five years the house-breaker will sell it for
firewood."

  He insisted on taking Philip into a room on the
first floor, where a man in shirt sleeves, a blousy woman, and
three children were having their Sunday dinner.

  "I've just brought this gentleman in to show him
your ceiling. Did you ever see anything so wonderful? How are you,
Mrs. Hodgson? This is Mr. Carey, who looked after me when I was in
the hospital."

  "Come in, sir," said the man. "Any friend of Mr.
Athelny's is welcome. Mr. Athelny shows the ceiling to all his
friends. And it don't matter what we're doing, if we're in bed or
if I'm 'aving a wash, in 'e comes."

  Philip could see that they looked upon Athelny as a
little queer; but they liked him none the less and they listened
open-mouthed while he discoursed with his impetuous fluency on the
beauty of the seventeenth-century ceiling.

  "What a crime to pull this down, eh, Hodgson? You're
an influential citizen, why don't you write to the papers and
protest?"

  The man in shirt sleeves gave a laugh and said to
Philip:

  "Mr. Athelny will 'ave his little joke. They do say
these 'ouses are that insanitory, it's not safe to live in
them."

  "Sanitation be damned, give me art," cried Athelny.
"I've got nine children and they thrive on bad drains. No, no, I'm
not going to take any risk. None of your new-fangled notions for
me! When I move from here I'm going to make sure the drains are bad
before I take anything."

  There was a knock at the door, and a little
fair-haired girl opened it.

  "Daddy, mummy says, do stop talking and come and eat
your dinner."

  "This is my third daughter," said Athelny, pointing
to her with a dramatic forefinger. "She is called Maria del Pilar,
but she answers more willingly to the name of Jane. Jane, your nose
wants blowing."

  "I haven't got a hanky, daddy."

  "Tut, tut, child," he answered, as he produced a
vast, brilliant bandanna, "what do you suppose the Almighty gave
you fingers for?"

  They went upstairs, and Philip was taken into a room
with walls panelled in dark oak. In the middle was a narrow table
of teak on trestle legs, with two supporting bars of iron, of the
kind called in Spain mesa de hieraje. They were to dine there, for
two places were laid, and there were two large arm-chairs, with
broad flat arms of oak and leathern backs, and leathern seats. They
were severe, elegant, and uncomfortable. The only other piece of
furniture was a bargueno, elaborately ornamented with gilt
iron-work, on a stand of ecclesiastical design roughly but very
finely carved. There stood on this two or three lustre plates, much
broken but rich in colour; and on the walls were old masters of the
Spanish school in beautiful though dilapidated frames: though
gruesome in subject, ruined by age and bad treatment, and
second-rate in their conception, they had a glow of passion. There
was nothing in the room of any value, but the effect was lovely. It
was magnificent and yet austere. Philip felt that it offered the
very spirit of old Spain. Athelny was in the middle of showing him
the inside of the bargueno, with its beautiful ornamentation and
secret drawers, when a tall girl, with two plaits of bright brown
hair hanging down her back, came in.

  "Mother says dinner's ready and waiting and I'm to
bring it in as soon as you sit down."

  "Come and shake hands with Mr. Carey, Sally." He
turned to Philip. "Isn't she enormous? She's my eldest. How old are
you, Sally?"

  "Fifteen, father, come next June."

  "I christened her Maria del Sol, because she was my
first child and I dedicated her to the glorious sun of Castile; but
her mother calls her Sally and her brother Pudding-Face."

  The girl smiled shyly, she had even, white teeth,
and blushed. She was well set-up, tall for her age, with pleasant
gray eyes and a broad forehead. She had red cheeks.

  "Go and tell your mother to come in and shake hands
with Mr. Carey before he sits down."

  "Mother says she'll come in after dinner. She hasn't
washed herself yet."

  "Then we'll go in and see her ourselves. He mustn't
eat the Yorkshire pudding till he's shaken the hand that made
it."

  Philip followed his host into the kitchen. It was
small and much overcrowded. There had been a lot of noise, but it
stopped as soon as the stranger entered. There was a large table in
the middle and round it, eager for dinner, were seated Athelny's
children. A woman was standing at the oven, taking out baked
potatoes one by one.

  "Here's Mr. Carey, Betty," said Athelny.

  "Fancy bringing him in here. What will he
think?"

  She wore a dirty apron, and the sleeves of her
cotton dress were turned up above her elbows; she had curling pins
in her hair. Mrs. Athelny was a large woman, a good three inches
taller than her husband, fair, with blue eyes and a kindly
expression; she had been a handsome creature, but advancing years
and the bearing of many children had made her fat and blousy; her
blue eyes had become pale, her skin was coarse and red, the colour
had gone out of her hair. She straightened herself, wiped her hand
on her apron, and held it out.

  "You're welcome, sir," she said, in a slow voice,
with an accent that seemed oddly familiar to Philip. "Athelny said
you was very kind to him in the 'orspital."

  "Now you must be introduced to the live stock," said
Athelny. "That is Thorpe," he pointed to a chubby boy with curly
hair, "he is my eldest son, heir to the title, estates, and
responsibilities of the family. There is Athelstan, Harold,
Edward." He pointed with his forefinger to three smaller boys, all
rosy, healthy, and smiling, though when they felt Philip's smiling
eyes upon them they looked shyly down at their plates. "Now the
girls in order: Maria del Sol..."

  "Pudding-Face," said one of the small boys.

  "Your sense of humour is rudimentary, my son. Maria
de los Mercedes, Maria del Pilar, Maria de la Concepcion, Maria del
Rosario."

  "I call them Sally, Molly, Connie, Rosie, and Jane,"
said Mrs. Athelny. "Now, Athelny, you go into your own room and
I'll send you your dinner. I'll let the children come in afterwards
for a bit when I've washed them."

  "My dear, if I'd had the naming of you I should have
called you Maria of the Soapsuds. You're always torturing these
wretched brats with soap."

  "You go first, Mr. Carey, or I shall never get him
to sit down and eat his dinner."

  Athelny and Philip installed themselves in the great
monkish chairs, and Sally brought them in two plates of beef,
Yorkshire pudding, baked potatoes, and cabbage. Athelny took
sixpence out of his pocket and sent her for a jug of beer.

  "I hope you didn't have the table laid here on my
account," said Philip. "I should have been quite happy to eat with
the children."

  "Oh no, I always have my meals by myself. I like
these antique customs. I don't think that women ought to sit down
at table with men. It ruins conversation and I'm sure it's very bad
for them. It puts ideas in their heads, and women are never at ease
with themselves when they have ideas."

  Both host and guest ate with a hearty appetite.

  "Did you ever taste such Yorkshire pudding? No one
can make it like my wife. That's the advantage of not marrying a
lady. You noticed she wasn't a lady, didn't you?"

  It was an awkward question, and Philip did not know
how to answer it.

  "I never thought about it," he said lamely.

  Athelny laughed. He had a peculiarly joyous
laugh.

  "No, she's not a lady, nor anything like it. Her
father was a farmer, and she's never bothered about aitches in her
life. We've had twelve children and nine of them are alive. I tell
her it's about time she stopped, but she's an obstinate woman,
she's got into the habit of it now, and I don't believe she'll be
satisfied till she's had twenty."

  At that moment Sally came in with the beer, and,
having poured out a glass for Philip, went to the other side of the
table to pour some out for her father. He put his hand round her
waist.

  "Did you ever see such a handsome, strapping girl?
Only fifteen and she might be twenty. Look at her cheeks. She's
never had a day's illness in her life. It'll be a lucky man who
marries her, won't it, Sally?"