Chapter C

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Saturday. It was the day on which he had promised to pay his landlady. Hehad been expecting something to turn up all through the week. He had foundno work. He had never been driven to extremities before, and he was sodazed that he did not know what to do. He had at the back of his mind afeeling that the whole thing was a preposterous joke. He had no more thana few coppers left, he had sold all the clothes he could do without; hehad some books and one or two odds and ends upon which he might have gota shilling or two, but the landlady was keeping an eye on his comings andgoings: he was afraid she would stop him if he took anything more from hisroom. The only thing was to tell her that he could not pay his bill. Hehad not the courage. It was the middle of June. The night was fine andwarm. He made up his mind to stay out. He walked slowly along the ChelseaEmbankment, 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; heawoke with a start, dreaming that he was being shaken by a policeman andtold to move on; but when he opened his eyes he found himself alone. Hewalked on, he did not know why, and at last came to Chiswick, where heslept again. Presently the hardness of the bench roused him. The nightseemed 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 onthe Embankment; it seemed peculiarly humiliating, and he felt his cheeksflush in the darkness. He remembered stories he had heard of those who didand how among them were officers, clergymen, and men who had been touniversities: he wondered if he would become one of them, standing in aline to get soup from a charitable institution. It would be much better tocommit suicide. He could not go on like that: Lawson would help him whenhe knew what straits he was in; it was absurd to let his pride prevent himfrom asking for assistance. He wondered why he had come such a cropper. Hehad always tried to do what he thought best, and everything had gonewrong. He had helped people when he could, he did not think he had beenmore selfish than anyone else, it seemed horribly unjust that he should bereduced to such a pass.But it was no good thinking about it. He walked on. It was now light: theriver was beautiful in the silence, and there was something mysterious inthe early day; it was going to be very fine, and the sky, pale in thedawn, was cloudless. He felt very tired, and hunger was gnawing at hisentrails, but he could not sit still; he was constantly afraid of beingspoken to by a policeman. He dreaded the mortification of that. He feltdirty and wished he could have a wash. At last he found himself at HamptonCourt. He felt that if he did not have something to eat he would cry. Hechose 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 nourishingenough to keep up for the rest of the day, but his stomach revolted at thesight of food. He had a cup of tea and some bread and butter. Heremembered then that it was Sunday and he could go to the Athelnys; hethought of the roast beef and the Yorkshire pudding they would eat; but hewas fearfully tired and could not face the happy, noisy family. He wasfeeling morose and wretched. He wanted to be left alone. He made up hismind that he would go into the gardens of the palace and lie down. Hisbones ached. Perhaps he would find a pump so that he could wash his handsand face and drink something; he was very thirsty; and now that he was nolonger hungry he thought with pleasure of the flowers and the lawns andthe great leafy trees. He felt that there he could think out better whathe must do. He lay on the grass, in the shade, and lit his pipe. Foreconomy'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 peopledid when they had no money. Presently he fell asleep. When he awoke it wasnearly mid-day, and he thought that soon he must be setting out for Londonso as to be there in the early morning and answer any advertisements whichseemed to promise. He thought of his uncle, who had told him that he wouldleave him at his death the little he had; Philip did not in the least knowhow much this was: it could not be more than a few hundred pounds. Hewondered whether he could raise money on the reversion. Not without theold 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 onindefinitely. Meanwhile something must turn up; Philip could not get awayfrom the feeling that his position was altogether abnormal; people in hisparticular station did not starve. It was because he could not bringhimself to believe in the reality of his experience that he did not giveway to utter despair. He made up his mind to borrow half a sovereign fromLawson. He stayed in the garden all day and smoked when he felt veryhungry; he did not mean to eat anything until he was setting out again forLondon: it was a long way and he must keep up his strength for that. Hestarted when the day began to grow cooler, and slept on benches when hewas tired. No one disturbed him. He had a wash and brush up, and a shaveat Victoria, some tea and bread and butter, and while he was eating thisread the advertisement columns of the morning paper. As he looked downthem his eye fell upon an announcement asking for a salesman in the`furnishing drapery' department of some well-known stores. He had acurious little sinking of the heart, for with his middle-class prejudicesit seemed dreadful to go into a shop; but he shrugged his shoulders, afterall what did it matter? and he made up his mind to have a shot at it. Hehad a queer feeling that by accepting every humiliation, by going out tomeet 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 manyothers were there before him. They were of all ages, from boys of sixteento men of forty; some were talking to one another in undertones, but mostwere silent; and when he took up his place those around him gave him alook of hostility. He heard one man say:"The only thing I look forward to is getting my refusal soon enough togive 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'tsee 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 hadcome in by post. At about a quarter past nine the buyer arrived. He heardone of the men who were waiting say to another that it was Mr. Gibbons. Hewas middle-aged, short and corpulent, with a black beard and dark, greasyhair. He had brisk movements and a clever face. He wore a silk hat and afrock coat, the lapel of which was adorned with a white geraniumsurrounded by leaves. He went into his office, leaving the door open; itwas very small and contained only an American roll-desk in the corner, abookcase, and a cupboard. The men standing outside watched himmechanically take the geranium out of his coat and put it in an ink-potfilled 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 governoradmired 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 thenat the men who were waiting to see him. He made a slight sign with onefinger, and the first in the queue stepped into the office. They filedpast 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'sturn he fancied that Mr. Gibbons stared at him curiously. Philip's clotheswere 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 painfulthan he expected that he felt no particular disappointment. He couldhardly hope to succeed in getting a place the first time he tried. He hadkept the newspaper and now looked at the advertisements again: a shop inHolborn needed a salesman too, and he went there; but when he arrived hefound that someone had already been engaged. If he wanted to get anythingto eat that day he must go to Lawson's studio before he went out toluncheon, 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 hefound 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 heremembered 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 nointention of repaying."Like a shot," said Lawson.But when he put his hand in his pocket he found that he had only eightshillings. 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 abath. Then he got himself something to eat. He did not know what to dowith himself in the afternoon. He would not go back to the hospital incase anyone should ask him questions, and besides, he had nothing to dothere now; they would wonder in the two or three departments he had workedin why he did not come, but they must think what they chose, it did notmatter: he would not be the first student who had dropped out withoutwarning. He went to the free library, and looked at the papers till theywearied him, then he took out Stevenson's New Arabian Nights; but hefound he could not read: the words meant nothing to him, and he continuedto brood over his helplessness. He kept on thinking the same things allthe 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 thegrass. He thought miserably of his deformity, which made it impossible forhim to go to the war. He went to sleep and dreamt that he was suddenlysound of foot and out at the Cape in a regiment of Yeomanry; the pictureshe 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 afire at night. When he awoke he found that it was still quite light, andpresently he heard Big Ben strike seven. He had twelve hours to getthrough with nothing to do. He dreaded the interminable night. The sky wasovercast and he feared it would rain; he would have to go to alodging-house where he could get a bed; he had seen them advertised onlamps outside houses in Lambeth: Good Beds sixpence; he had never beeninside one, and dreaded the foul smell and the vermin. He made up his mindto stay in the open air if he possibly could. He remained in the park tillit was closed and then began to walk about. He was very tired. The thoughtcame to him that an accident would be a piece of luck, so that he could betaken to a hospital and lie there, in a clean bed, for weeks. At midnighthe was so hungry that he could not go without food any more, so he went toa coffee stall at Hyde Park Corner and ate a couple of potatoes and had acup of coffee. Then he walked again. He felt too restless to sleep, and hehad a horrible dread of being moved on by the police. He noted that he wasbeginning to look upon the constable from quite a new angle. This was thethird night he had spent out. Now and then he sat on the benches inPiccadilly and towards morning he strolled down to The Embankment. Helistened to the striking of Big Ben, marking every quarter of an hour, andreckoned out how long it left till the city woke again. In the morning hespent a few coppers on making himself neat and clean, bought a paper toread 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 beganto feel weak and ill, so that he had hardly enough energy to go on lookingfor the work which seemed so desperately hard to find. He was growing usednow to the long waiting at the back of a shop on the chance that he wouldbe taken on, and the curt dismissal. He walked to all parts of London inanswer to the advertisements, and he came to know by sight men who appliedas fruitlessly as himself. One or two tried to make friends with him, buthe was too tired and too wretched to accept their advances. He did not goany more to Lawson, because he owed him five shillings. He began to be toodazed to think clearly and ceased very much to care what would happen tohim. He cried a good deal. At first he was very angry with himself forthis and ashamed, but he found it relieved him, and somehow made him feelless hungry. In the very early morning he suffered a good deal from cold.One night he went into his room to change his linen; he slipped in aboutthree, when he was quite sure everyone would be asleep, and out again atfive; he lay on the bed and its softness was enchanting; all his bonesached, and as he lay he revelled in the pleasure of it; it was sodelicious that he did not want to go to sleep. He was growing used to wantof food and did not feel very hungry, but only weak. Constantly now at theback of his mind was the thought of doing away with himself, but he usedall the strength he had not to dwell on it, because he was afraid thetemptation would get hold of him so that he would not be able to helphimself. He kept on saying to himself that it would be absurd to commitsuicide, since something must happen soon; he could not get over theimpression that his situation was too preposterous to be taken quiteseriously; it was like an illness which must be endured but from which hewas bound to recover. Every night he swore that nothing would induce himto put up with such another and determined next morning to write to hisuncle, or to Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, or to Lawson; but when the timecame he could not bring himself to make the humiliating confession of hisutter failure. He did not know how Lawson would take it. In theirfriendship Lawson had been scatter-brained and he had prided himself onhis common sense. He would have to tell the whole history of his folly. Hehad an uneasy feeling that Lawson, after helping him, would turn the coldshoulder on him. His uncle and the solicitor would of course do somethingfor him, but he dreaded their reproaches. He did not want anyone toreproach him: he clenched his teeth and repeated that what had happenedwas inevitable just because it had happened. Regret was absurd.The days were unending, and the five shillings Lawson had lent him wouldnot last much longer. Philip longed for Sunday to come so that he could goto Athelny's. He did not know what prevented him from going there sooner,except perhaps that he wanted so badly to get through on his own; forAthelny, who had been in straits as desperate, was the only person whocould do anything for him. Perhaps after dinner he could bring himself totell Athelny that he was in difficulties. Philip repeated to himself overand over again what he should say to him. He was dreadfully afraid thatAthelny would put him off with airy phrases: that would be so horriblethat he wanted to delay as long as possible the putting of him to thetest. Philip had lost all confidence in his fellows.Saturday night was cold and raw. Philip suffered horribly. From midday onSaturday till he dragged himself wearily to Athelny's house he atenothing. He spent his last twopence on Sunday morning on a wash and abrush up in the lavatory at Charing Cross.