Chapter CX

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Christmas that year falling on Thursday, the shop was to close for fourdays: Philip wrote to his uncle asking whether it would be convenient forhim to spend the holidays at the vicarage. He received an answer from Mrs.Foster, saying that Mr. Carey was not well enough to write himself, butwished to see his nephew and would be glad if he came down. She met Philipat the door, and when she shook hands with him, said:"You'll find him changed since you was here last, sir; but you'll pretendyou don't notice anything, won't you, sir? He's that nervous abouthimself."Philip nodded, and she led him into the dining-room."Here's Mr. Philip, sir."The Vicar of Blackstable was a dying man. There was no mistaking that whenyou looked at the hollow cheeks and the shrunken body. He sat huddled inthe arm-chair, with his head strangely thrown back, and a shawl over hisshoulders. He could not walk now without the help of sticks, and his handstrembled so that he could only feed himself with difficulty."He can't last long now," thought Philip, as he looked at him."How d'you think I'm looking?" asked the Vicar. "D'you think I've changedsince you were here last?""I think you look stronger than you did last summer.""It was the heat. That always upsets me."Mr. Carey's history of the last few months consisted in the number ofweeks he had spent in his bed-room and the number of weeks he had spentdownstairs. He had a hand-bell by his side and while he talked he rang itfor Mrs. Foster, who sat in the next room ready to attend to his wants, toask on what day of the month he had first left his room."On the seventh of November, sir."Mr. Carey looked at Philip to see how he took the information."But I eat well still, don't I, Mrs. Foster?""Yes, sir, you've got a wonderful appetite.""I don't seem to put on flesh though."Nothing interested him now but his health. He was set upon one thingindomitably and that was living, just living, notwithstanding the monotonyof his life and the constant pain which allowed him to sleep only when hewas under the influence of morphia."It's terrible, the amount of money I have to spend on doctor's bills." Hetinkled his bell again. "Mrs. Foster, show Master Philip the chemist'sbill."Patiently she took it off the chimney-piece and handed it to Philip."That's only one month. I was wondering if as you're doctoring yourselfyou couldn't get me the drugs cheaper. I thought of getting them down fromthe stores, but then there's the postage."Though apparently taking so little interest in him that he did not troubleto inquire what Phil was doing, he seemed glad to have him there. He askedhow long he could stay, and when Philip told him he must leave on Tuesdaymorning, expressed a wish that the visit might have been longer. He toldhim minutely all his symptoms and repeated what the doctor had said ofhim. He broke off to ring his bell, and when Mrs. Foster came in, said:"Oh, I wasn't sure if you were there. I only rang to see if you were."When she had gone he explained to Philip that it made him uneasy if he wasnot certain that Mrs. Foster was within earshot; she knew exactly what todo with him if anything happened. Philip, seeing that she was tired andthat her eyes were heavy from want of sleep, suggested that he was workingher too hard."Oh, nonsense," said the Vicar, "she's as strong as a horse." And whennext she came in to give him his medicine he said to her:"Master Philip says you've got too much to do, Mrs. Foster. You likelooking after me, don't you?""Oh, I don't mind, sir. I want to do everything I can."Presently the medicine took effect and Mr. Carey fell asleep. Philip wentinto the kitchen and asked Mrs. Foster whether she could stand the work.He saw that for some months she had had little peace."Well, sir, what can I do?" she answered. "The poor old gentleman's sodependent on me, and, although he is troublesome sometimes, you can't helpliking him, can you? I've been here so many years now, I don't know whatI shall do when he comes to go."Philip saw that she was really fond of the old man. She washed and dressedhim, gave him his food, and was up half a dozen times in the night; forshe slept in the next room to his and whenever he awoke he tinkled hislittle bell till she came in. He might die at any moment, but he mightlive for months. It was wonderful that she should look after a strangerwith such patient tenderness, and it was tragic and pitiful that sheshould be alone in the world to care for him.It seemed to Philip that the religion which his uncle had preached all hislife was now of no more than formal importance to him: every Sunday thecurate came and administered to him Holy Communion, and he often read hisBible; but it was clear that he looked upon death with horror. He believedthat it was the gateway to life everlasting, but he did not want to enterupon that life. In constant pain, chained to his chair and having given upthe hope of ever getting out into the open again, like a child in thehands of a woman to whom he paid wages, he clung to the world he knew.In Philip's head was a question he could not ask, because he was awarethat his uncle would never give any but a conventional answer: he wonderedwhether at the very end, now that the machine was painfully wearing itselfout, the clergyman still believed in immortality; perhaps at the bottom ofhis soul, not allowed to shape itself into words in case it became urgent,was the conviction that there was no God and after this life nothing.On the evening of Boxing Day Philip sat in the dining-room with his uncle.He had to start very early next morning in order to get to the shop bynine, and he was to say good-night to Mr. Carey then. The Vicar ofBlackstable was dozing and Philip, lying on the sofa by the window, lethis book fall on his knees and looked idly round the room. He askedhimself how much the furniture would fetch. He had walked round the houseand looked at the things he had known from his childhood; there were a fewpieces of china which might go for a decent price and Philip wondered ifit would be worth while to take them up to London; but the furniture wasof the Victorian order, of mahogany, solid and ugly; it would go fornothing at an auction. There were three or four thousand books, buteveryone knew how badly they sold, and it was not probable that they wouldfetch more than a hundred pounds. Philip did not know how much his unclewould leave, and he reckoned out for the hundredth time what was the leastsum upon which he could finish the curriculum at the hospital, take hisdegree, and live during the time he wished to spend on hospitalappointments. He looked at the old man, sleeping restlessly: there was nohumanity left in that shrivelled face; it was the face of some queeranimal. Philip thought how easy it would be to finish that useless life.He had thought it each evening when Mrs. Foster prepared for his uncle themedicine which was to give him an easy night. There were two bottles: onecontained a drug which he took regularly, and the other an opiate if thepain grew unendurable. This was poured out for him and left by hisbed-side. He generally took it at three or four in the morning. It wouldbe a simple thing to double the dose; he would die in the night, and noone would suspect anything; for that was how Doctor Wigram expected him todie. The end would be painless. Philip clenched his hands as he thought ofthe money he wanted so badly. A few more months of that wretched lifecould matter nothing to the old man, but the few more months meanteverything to him: he was getting to the end of his endurance, and when hethought of going back to work in the morning he shuddered with horror. Hisheart beat quickly at the thought which obsessed him, and though he madean effort to put it out of his mind he could not. It would be so easy, sodesperately easy. He had no feeling for the old man, he had never likedhim; he had been selfish all his life, selfish to his wife who adored him,indifferent to the boy who had been put in his charge; he was not a cruelman, but a stupid, hard man, eaten up with a small sensuality. It would beeasy, desperately easy. Philip did not dare. He was afraid of remorse; itwould be no good having the money if he regretted all his life what he haddone. Though he had told himself so often that regret was futile, therewere certain things that came back to him occasionally and worried him. Hewished they were not on his conscience.His uncle opened his eyes; Philip was glad, for he looked a little morehuman then. He was frankly horrified at the idea that had come to him, itwas murder that he was meditating; and he wondered if other people hadsuch thoughts or whether he was abnormal and depraved. He supposed hecould not have done it when it came to the point, but there the thoughtwas, constantly recurring: if he held his hand it was from fear. His unclespoke."You're not looking forward to my death, Philip?" Philip felt his heartbeat against his chest."Good heavens, no.""That's a good boy. I shouldn't like you to do that. You'll get a littlebit of money when I pass away, but you mustn't look forward to it. Itwouldn't profit you if you did."He spoke in a low voice, and there was a curious anxiety in his tone. Itsent a pang into Philip's heart. He wondered what strange insight mighthave led the old man to surmise what strange desires were in Philip'smind."I hope you'll live for another twenty years," he said."Oh, well, I can't expect to do that, but if I take care of myself I don'tsee why I shouldn't last another three or four."He was silent for a while, and Philip found nothing to say. Then, as if hehad been thinking it all over, the old man spoke again."Everyone has the right to live as long as he can."Philip wanted to distract his mind."By the way, I suppose you never hear from Miss Wilkinson now?""Yes, I had a letter some time this year. She's married, you know.""Really?""Yes, she married a widower. I believe they're quite comfortable."