Chapter CVIII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　The winter passed. Now and then Philip went to the hospital, slinking inwhen it was late and there was little chance of meeting anyone he knew, tosee whether there were letters for him. At Easter he received one from hisuncle. He was surprised to hear from him, for the Vicar of Blackstable hadnever written him more than half a dozen letters in his whole life, andthey were on business matters.Dear Philip,If you are thinking of taking a holiday soon and care to come down here Ishall be pleased to see you. I was very ill with my bronchitis in thewinter and Doctor Wigram never expected me to pull through. I have awonderful constitution and I made, thank God, a marvellous recovery.Yours affectionately,William Carey.The letter made Philip angry. How did his uncle think he was living? Hedid not even trouble to inquire. He might have starved for all the old mancared. But as he walked home something struck him; he stopped under alamp-post and read the letter again; the handwriting had no longer thebusiness-like firmness which had characterised it; it was larger andwavering: perhaps the illness had shaken him more than he was willing toconfess, and he sought in that formal note to express a yearning to seethe only relation he had in the world. Philip wrote back that he couldcome down to Blackstable for a fortnight in July. The invitation wasconvenient, for he had not known what to do, with his brief holiday. TheAthelnys went hopping in September, but he could not then be spared, sinceduring that month the autumn models were prepared. The rule of Lynn's wasthat everyone must take a fortnight whether he wanted it or not; andduring that time, if he had nowhere to go, the assistant might sleep inhis room, but he was not allowed food. A number had no friends withinreasonable distance of London, and to these the holiday was an awkwardinterval when they had to provide food out of their small wages and, withthe whole day on their hands, had nothing to spend. Philip had not beenout of London since his visit to Brighton with Mildred, now two yearsbefore, and he longed for fresh air and the silence of the sea. He thoughtof it with such a passionate desire, all through May and June, that, whenat length the time came for him to go, he was listless.On his last evening, when he talked with the buyer of one or two jobs hehad to leave over, Mr. Sampson suddenly said to him:"What wages have you been getting?""Six shillings.""I don't think it's enough. I'll see that you're put up to twelve when youcome back.""Thank you very much," smiled Philip. "I'm beginning to want some newclothes badly.""If you stick to your work and don't go larking about with the girls likewhat some of them do, I'll look after you, Carey. Mind you, you've got alot to learn, but you're promising, I'll say that for you, you'repromising, and I'll see that you get a pound a week as soon as you deserveit."Philip wondered how long he would have to wait for that. Two years?He was startled at the change in his uncle. When last he had seen him hewas a stout man, who held himself upright, clean-shaven, with a round,sensual face; but he had fallen in strangely, his skin was yellow; therewere great bags under the eyes, and he was bent and old. He had grown abeard during his last illness, and he walked very slowly."I 'm not at my best today," he said when Philip, having just arrived, wassitting with him in the dining-room. "The heat upsets me."Philip, asking after the affairs of the parish, looked at him and wonderedhow much longer he could last. A hot summer would finish him; Philipnoticed how thin his hands were; they trembled. It meant so much toPhilip. If he died that summer he could go back to the hospital at thebeginning of the winter session; his heart leaped at the thought ofreturning no more to Lynn's. At dinner the Vicar sat humped up on hischair, and the housekeeper who had been with him since his wife's deathsaid:"Shall Mr. Philip carve, sir?"The old man, who had been about to do so from disinclination to confesshis weakness, seemed glad at the first suggestion to relinquish theattempt."You've got a very good appetite," said Philip."Oh yes, I always eat well. But I'm thinner than when you were here last.I'm glad to be thinner, I didn't like being so fat. Dr. Wigram thinks I'mall the better for being thinner than I was."When dinner was over the housekeeper brought him some medicine."Show the prescription to Master Philip," he said. "He's a doctor too. I'dlike him to see that he thinks it's all right. I told Dr. Wigram that nowyou're studying to be a doctor he ought to make a reduction in hischarges. It's dreadful the bills I've had to pay. He came every day fortwo months, and he charges five shillings a visit. It's a lot of money,isn't it? He comes twice a week still. I'm going to tell him he needn'tcome any more. I'll send for him if I want him."He looked at Philip eagerly while he read the prescriptions. They werenarcotics. There were two of them, and one was a medicine which the Vicarexplained he was to use only if his neuritis grew unendurable."I'm very careful," he said. "I don't want to get into the opium habit."He did not mention his nephew's affairs. Philip fancied that it was by wayof precaution, in case he asked for money, that his uncle kept dwelling onthe financial calls upon him. He had spent so much on the doctor and somuch more on the chemist, while he was ill they had had to have a fireevery day in his bed-room, and now on Sunday he needed a carriage to go tochurch in the evening as well as in the morning. Philip felt angrilyinclined to say he need not be afraid, he was not going to borrow fromhim, but he held his tongue. It seemed to him that everything had left theold man now but two things, pleasure in his food and a grasping desire formoney. It was a hideous old age.In the afternoon Dr. Wigram came, and after the visit Philip walked withhim to the garden gate."How d'you think he is?" said Philip.Dr. Wigram was more anxious not to do wrong than to do right, and he neverhazarded a definite opinion if he could help it. He had practised atBlackstable for five-and-thirty years. He had the reputation of being verysafe, and many of his patients thought it much better that a doctor shouldbe safe than clever. There was a new man at Blackstable--he had beensettled there for ten years, but they still looked upon him as aninterloper--and he was said to be very clever; but he had not muchpractice among the better people, because no one really knew anythingabout him."Oh, he's as well as can be expected," said Dr. Wigram in answer toPhilip's inquiry."Has he got anything seriously the matter with him?""Well, Philip, your uncle is no longer a young man," said the doctor witha cautious little smile, which suggested that after all the Vicar ofBlackstable was not an old man either."He seems to think his heart's in a bad way.""I'm not satisfied with his heart," hazarded the doctor, "I think heshould be careful, very careful."On the tip of Philip's tongue was the question: how much longer can helive? He was afraid it would shock. In these matters a periphrase wasdemanded by the decorum of life, but, as he asked another questioninstead, it flashed through him that the doctor must be accustomed to theimpatience of a sick man's relatives. He must see through theirsympathetic expressions. Philip, with a faint smile at his own hypocrisy,cast down his eyes."I suppose he's in no immediate danger?"This was the kind of question the doctor hated. If you said a patientcouldn't live another month the family prepared itself for a bereavement,and if then the patient lived on they visited the medical attendant withthe resentment they felt at having tormented themselves before it wasnecessary. On the other hand, if you said the patient might live a yearand he died in a week the family said you did not know your business. Theythought of all the affection they would have lavished on the defunct ifthey had known the end was so near. Dr. Wigram made the gesture of washinghis hands."I don't think there's any grave risk so long as he--remains as he is," heventured at last. "But on the other hand, we mustn't forget that he's nolonger a young man, and well, the machine is wearing out. If he gets overthe hot weather I don't see why he shouldn't get on very comfortably tillthe winter, and then if the winter does not bother him too much, well, Idon't see why anything should happen."Philip went back to the dining-room where his uncle was sitting. With hisskull-cap and a crochet shawl over his shoulders he looked grotesque. Hiseyes had been fixed on the door, and they rested on Philip's face as heentered. Philip saw that his uncle had been waiting anxiously for hisreturn."Well, what did he say about me?"Philip understood suddenly that the old man was frightened of dying. Itmade Philip a little ashamed, so that he looked away involuntarily. He wasalways embarrassed by the weakness of human nature."He says he thinks you're much better," said Philip.A gleam of delight came into his uncle's eyes."I've got a wonderful constitution," he said. "What else did he say?" headded suspiciously.Philip smiled."He said that if you take care of yourself there's no reason why youshouldn't live to be a hundred.""I don't know that I can expect to do that, but I don't see why Ishouldn't see eighty. My mother lived till she was eighty-four."There was a little table by the side of Mr. Carey's chair, and on it werea Bible and the large volume of the Common Prayer from which for so manyyears he had been accustomed to read to his household. He stretched outnow his shaking hand and took his Bible."Those old patriarchs lived to a jolly good old age, didn't they?" hesaid, with a queer little laugh in which Philip read a sort of timidappeal.The old man clung to life. Yet he believed implicitly all that hisreligion taught him. He had no doubt in the immortality of the soul, andhe felt that he had conducted himself well enough, according to hiscapacities, to make it very likely that he would go to heaven. In his longcareer to how many dying persons must he have administered theconsolations of religion! Perhaps he was like the doctor who could get nobenefit from his own prescriptions. Philip was puzzled and shocked by thateager cleaving to the earth. He wondered what nameless horror was at theback of the old man's mind. He would have liked to probe into his soul sothat he might see in its nakedness the dreadful dismay of the unknownwhich he suspected.The fortnight passed quickly and Philip returned to London. He passed asweltering August behind his screen in the costumes department, drawing inhis shirt sleeves. The assistants in relays went for their holidays. Inthe evening Philip generally went into Hyde Park and listened to the band.Growing more accustomed to his work it tired him less, and his mind,recovering from its long stagnation, sought for fresh activity. His wholedesire now was set on his uncle's death. He kept on dreaming the samedream: a telegram was handed to him one morning, early, which announcedthe Vicar's sudden demise, and freedom was in his grasp. When he awoke andfound it was nothing but a dream he was filled with sombre rage. Heoccupied himself, now that the event seemed likely to happen at any time,with elaborate plans for the future. In these he passed rapidly over theyear which he must spend before it was possible for him to be qualifiedand dwelt on the journey to Spain on which his heart was set. He readbooks about that country, which he borrowed from the free library, andalready he knew from photographs exactly what each city looked like. Hesaw himself lingering in Cordova on the bridge that spanned theGaudalquivir; he wandered through tortuous streets in Toledo and sat inchurches where he wrung from El Greco the secret which he felt themysterious painter held for him. Athelny entered into his humour, and onSunday afternoons they made out elaborate itineraries so that Philipshould miss nothing that was noteworthy. To cheat his impatience Philipbegan to teach himself Spanish, and in the deserted sitting-room inHarrington Street he spent an hour every evening doing Spanish exercisesand puzzling out with an English translation by his side the magnificentphrases of Don Quixote. Athelny gave him a lesson once a week, and Philiplearned a few sentences to help him on his journey. Mrs. Athelny laughedat them."You two and your Spanish!" she said. "Why don't you do something useful?"But Sally, who was growing up and was to put up her hair at Christmas,stood by sometimes and listened in her grave way while her father andPhilip exchanged remarks in a language she did not understand. She thoughther father the most wonderful man who had ever existed, and she expressedher opinion of Philip only through her father's commendations."Father thinks a rare lot of your Uncle Philip," she remarked to herbrothers and sisters.Thorpe, the eldest boy, was old enough to go on the Arethusa, and Athelnyregaled his family with magnificent descriptions of the appearance the ladwould make when he came back in uniform for his holidays. As soon as Sallywas seventeen she was to be apprenticed to a dressmaker. Athelny in hisrhetorical way talked of the birds, strong enough to fly now, who wereleaving the parental nest, and with tears in his eyes told them that thenest would be there still if ever they wished to return to it. A shakedownand a dinner would always be theirs, and the heart of a father would neverbe closed to the troubles of his children."You do talk, Athelny," said his wife. "I don't know what trouble they'relikely to get into so long as they're steady. So long as you're honest andnot afraid of work you'll never be out of a job, that's what I think, andI can tell you I shan't be sorry when I see the last of them earning theirown living."Child-bearing, hard work, and constant anxiety were beginning to tell onMrs. Athelny; and sometimes her back ached in the evening so that she hadto sit down and rest herself. Her ideal of happiness was to have a girl todo the rough work so that she need not herself get up before seven.Athelny waved his beautiful white hand."Ah, my Betty, we've deserved well of the state, you and I. We've rearednine healthy children, and the boys shall serve their king; the girlsshall cook and sew and in their turn breed healthy children." He turned toSally, and to comfort her for the anti-climax of the contrast addedgrandiloquently: "They also serve who only stand and wait."Athelny had lately added socialism to the other contradictory theories hevehemently believed in, and he stated now:"In a socialist state we should be richly pensioned, you and I, Betty.""Oh, don't talk to me about your socialists, I've got no patience withthem," she cried. "It only means that another lot of lazy loafers willmake a good thing out of the working classes. My motto is, leave me alone;I don't want anyone interfering with me; I'll make the best of a bad job,and the devil take the hindmost.""D'you call life a bad job?" said Athelny. "Never! We've had our ups anddowns, we've had our struggles, we've always been poor, but it's beenworth it, ay, worth it a hundred times I say when I look round at mychildren.""You do talk, Athelny," she said, looking at him, not with anger but withscornful calm. "You've had the pleasant part of the children, I've had thebearing of them, and the bearing with them. I don't say that I'm not fondof them, now they're there, but if I had my time over again I'd remainsingle. Why, if I'd remained single I might have a little shop by now, andfour or five hundred pounds in the bank, and a girl to do the rough work.Oh, I wouldn't go over my life again, not for something."Philip thought of the countless millions to whom life is no more thanunending labour, neither beautiful nor ugly, but just to be accepted inthe same spirit as one accepts the changes of the seasons. Fury seized himbecause it all seemed useless. He could not reconcile himself to thebelief that life had no meaning and yet everything he saw, all histhoughts, added to the force of his conviction. But though fury seized himit was a joyful fury. life was not so horrible if it was meaningless, andhe faced it with a strange sense of power.