Chapter CV

by William Somerset Maugham

　　The wages were paid once a month by the secretary. On pay-day each batchof assistants, coming down from tea, went into the passage and joined thelong line of people waiting orderly like the audience in a queue outsidea gallery door. One by one they entered the office. The secretary sat ata desk with wooden bowls of money in front of him, and he asked theemploye's name; he referred to a book, quickly, after a suspiciousglance at the assistant, said aloud the sum due, and taking money out ofthe bowl counted it into his hand."Thank you," he said. "Next.""Thank you," was the reply.The assistant passed on to the second secretary and before leaving theroom paid him four shillings for washing money, two shillings for theclub, and any fines that he might have incurred. With what he had left hewent back into his department and there waited till it was time to go.Most of the men in Philip's house were in debt with the woman who sold thesandwiches they generally ate for supper. She was a funny old thing, veryfat, with a broad, red face, and black hair plastered neatly on each sideof the forehead in the fashion shown in early pictures of Queen Victoria.She always wore a little black bonnet and a white apron; her sleeves weretucked up to the elbow; she cut the sandwiches with large, dirty, greasyhands; and there was grease on her bodice, grease on her apron, grease onher skirt. She was called Mrs. Fletcher, but everyone addressed her as`Ma'; she was really fond of the shop assistants, whom she called herboys; she never minded giving credit towards the end of the month, and itwas known that now and then she had lent someone or other a few shillingswhen he was in straits. She was a good woman. When they were leaving orwhen they came back from the holidays, the boys kissed her fat red cheek;and more than one, dismissed and unable to find another job, had got fornothing food to keep body and soul together. The boys were sensible of herlarge heart and repaid her with genuine affection. There was a story theyliked to tell of a man who had done well for himself at Bradford, and hadfive shops of his own, and had come back after fifteen years and visitedMa Fletcher and given her a gold watch.Philip found himself with eighteen shillings left out of his month's pay.It was the first money he had ever earned in his life. It gave him none ofthe pride which might have been expected, but merely a feeling of dismay.The smallness of the sum emphasised the hopelessness of his position. Hetook fifteen shillings to Mrs. Athelny to pay back part of what he owedher, but she would not take more than half a sovereign."D'you know, at that rate it'll take me eight months to settle up withyou.""As long as Athelny's in work I can afford to wait, and who knows, p'rapsthey'll give you a rise."Athelny kept on saying that he would speak to the manager about Philip, itwas absurd that no use should be made of his talents; but he did nothing,and Philip soon came to the conclusion that the press-agent was not aperson of so much importance in the manager's eyes as in his own.Occasionally he saw Athelny in the shop. His flamboyance was extinguished;and in neat, commonplace, shabby clothes he hurried, a subdued, unassuminglittle man, through the departments as though anxious to escape notice."When I think of how I'm wasted there," he said at home, "I'm almosttempted to give in my notice. There's no scope for a man like me. I'mstunted, I'm starved."Mrs. Athelny, quietly sewing, took no notice of his complaints. Her mouthtightened a little."It's very hard to get jobs in these times. It's regular and it's safe; Iexpect you'll stay there as long as you give satisfaction."It was evident that Athelny would. It was interesting to see theascendency which the uneducated woman, bound to him by no legal tie, hadacquired over the brilliant, unstable man. Mrs. Athelny treated Philipwith motherly kindness now that he was in a different position, and he wastouched by her anxiety that he should make a good meal. It was the solaceof his life (and when he grew used to it, the monotony of it was whatchiefly appalled him) that he could go every Sunday to that friendlyhouse. It was a joy to sit in the stately Spanish chairs and discuss allmanner of things with Athelny. Though his condition seemed so desperate henever left him to go back to Harrington Street without a feeling ofexultation. At first Philip, in order not to forget what he had learned,tried to go on reading his medical books, but he found it useless; hecould not fix his attention on them after the exhausting work of the day;and it seemed hopeless to continue working when he did not know in howlong he would be able to go back to the hospital. He dreamed constantlythat he was in the wards. The awakening was painful. The sensation ofother people sleeping in the room was inexpressibly irksome to him; he hadbeen used to solitude, and to be with others always, never to be byhimself for an instant was at these moments horrible to him. It was thenthat he found it most difficult to combat his despair. He saw himselfgoing on with that life, first to the right, second on the left, madam,indefinitely; and having to be thankful if he was not sent away: the menwho had gone to the war would be coming home soon, the firm had guaranteedto take them back, and this must mean that others would be sacked; hewould have to stir himself even to keep the wretched post he had.There was only one thing to free him and that was the death of his uncle.He would get a few hundred pounds then, and on this he could finish hiscourse at the hospital. Philip began to wish with all his might for theold man's death. He reckoned out how long he could possibly live: he waswell over seventy, Philip did not know his exact age, but he must be atleast seventy-five; he suffered from chronic bronchitis and every winterhad a bad cough. Though he knew them by heart Philip read over and overagain the details in his text-book of medicine of chronic bronchitis inthe old. A severe winter might be too much for the old man. With all hisheart Philip longed for cold and rain. He thought of it constantly, sothat it became a monomania. Uncle William was affected by the great heattoo, and in August they had three weeks of sweltering weather. Philipimagined to himself that one day perhaps a telegram would come saying thatthe Vicar had died suddenly, and he pictured to himself his unutterablerelief. As he stood at the top of the stairs and directed people to thedepartments they wanted, he occupied his mind with thinking incessantlywhat he would do with the money. He did not know how much it would be,perhaps no more than five hundred pounds, but even that would be enough.He would leave the shop at once, he would not bother to give notice, hewould pack his box and go without saying a word to anybody; and then hewould return to the hospital. That was the first thing. Would he haveforgotten much? In six months he could get it all back, and then he wouldtake his three examinations as soon as he could, midwifery first, thenmedicine and surgery. The awful fear seized him that his uncle,notwithstanding his promises, might leave everything he had to the parishor the church. The thought made Philip sick. He could not be so cruel. Butif that happened Philip was quite determined what to do, he would not goon in that way indefinitely; his life was only tolerable because he couldlook forward to something better. If he had no hope he would have no fear.The only brave thing to do then would be to commit suicide, and, thinkingthis over too, Philip decided minutely what painless drug he would takeand how he would get hold of it. It encouraged him to think that, ifthings became unendurable, he had at all events a way out."Second to the right, madam, and down the stairs. First on the left andstraight through. Mr. Philips, forward please."Once a month, for a week, Philip was `on duty.' He had to go to thedepartment at seven in the morning and keep an eye on the sweepers. Whenthey finished he had to take the sheets off the cases and the models.Then, in the evening when the assistants left, he had to put back thesheets on the models and the cases and `gang' the sweepers again. It wasa dusty, dirty job. He was not allowed to read or write or smoke, but justhad to walk about, and the time hung heavily on his hands. When he wentoff at half past nine he had supper given him, and this was the onlyconsolation; for tea at five o'clock had left him with a healthy appetite,and the bread and cheese, the abundant cocoa which the firm provided, werewelcome.One day when Philip had been at Lynn's for three months, Mr. Sampson, thebuyer, came into the department, fuming with anger. The manager, happeningto notice the costume window as he came in, had sent for the buyer andmade satirical remarks upon the colour scheme. Forced to submit in silenceto his superior's sarcasm, Mr. Sampson took it out of the assistants; andhe rated the wretched fellow whose duty it was to dress the window."If you want a thing well done you must do it yourself," Mr. Sampsonstormed. "I've always said it and I always shall. One can't leave anythingto you chaps. Intelligent you call yourselves, do you? Intelligent!"He threw the word at the assistants as though it were the bitterest termof reproach."Don't you know that if you put an electric blue in the window it'll killall the other blues?"He looked round the department ferociously, and his eye fell upon Philip."You'll dress the window next Friday, Carey. let's see what you can makeof it."He went into his office, muttering angrily. Philip's heart sank. WhenFriday morning came he went into the window with a sickening sense ofshame. His cheeks were burning. It was horrible to display himself to thepassers-by, and though he told himself it was foolish to give way to sucha feeling he turned his back to the street. There was not much chance thatany of the students at the hospital would pass along Oxford Street at thathour, and he knew hardly anyone else in London; but as Philip worked, witha huge lump in his throat, he fancied that on turning round he would catchthe eye of some man he knew. He made all the haste he could. By the simpleobservation that all reds went together, and by spacing the costumes morethan was usual, Philip got a very good effect; and when the buyer wentinto the street to look at the result he was obviously pleased."I knew I shouldn't go far wrong in putting you on the window. The factis, you and me are gentlemen, mind you I wouldn't say this in thedepartment, but you and me are gentlemen, and that always tells. It's nogood your telling me it doesn't tell, because I know it does tell."Philip was put on the job regularly, but he could not accustom himself tothe publicity; and he dreaded Friday morning, on which the window wasdressed, with a terror that made him awake at five o'clock and liesleepless with sickness in his heart. The girls in the department noticedhis shamefaced way, and they very soon discovered his trick of standingwith his back to the street. They laughed at him and called him `sidey.'"I suppose you're afraid your aunt'll come along and cut you out of herwill."On the whole he got on well enough with the girls. They thought him alittle queer; but his club-foot seemed to excuse his not being like therest, and they found in due course that he was good-natured. He neverminded helping anyone, and he was polite and even tempered."You can see he's a gentleman," they said."Very reserved, isn't he?" said one young woman, to whose passionateenthusiasm for the theatre he had listened unmoved.Most of them had `fellers,' and those who hadn't said they had rather thanhave it supposed that no one had an inclination for them. One or twoshowed signs of being willing to start a flirtation with Philip, and hewatched their manoeuvres with grave amusement. He had had enough oflove-making for some time; and he was nearly always tired and oftenhungry.