Chapter CXIV

by William Somerset Maugham

　　The three weeks which the appointment lasted drew to an end. Philip hadattended sixty-two cases, and he was tired out. When he came home aboutten o'clock on his last night he hoped with all his heart that he wouldnot be called out again. He had not had a whole night's rest for ten days.The case which he had just come from was horrible. He had been fetched bya huge, burly man, the worse for liquor, and taken to a room in anevil-smelling court, which was filthier than any he had seen: it was atiny attic; most of the space was taken up by a wooden bed, with a canopyof dirty red hangings, and the ceiling was so low that Philip could touchit with the tips of his fingers; with the solitary candle that affordedwhat light there was he went over it, frizzling up the bugs that crawledupon it. The woman was a blowsy creature of middle age, who had had a longsuccession of still-born children. It was a story that Philip was notunaccustomed to: the husband had been a soldier in India; the legislationforced upon that country by the prudery of the English public had given afree run to the most distressing of all diseases; the innocent suffered.Yawning, Philip undressed and took a bath, then shook his clothes over thewater and watched the animals that fell out wriggling. He was just goingto get into bed when there was a knock at the door, and the hospitalporter brought him a card."Curse you," said Philip. "You're the last person I wanted to see tonight.Who's brought it?""I think it's the 'usband, sir. Shall I tell him to wait?"Philip looked at the address, saw that the street was familiar to him, andtold the porter that he would find his own way. He dressed himself and infive minutes, with his black bag in his hand, stepped into the street. Aman, whom he could not see in the darkness, came up to him, and said hewas the husband."I thought I'd better wait, sir," he said. "It's a pretty roughneighbour'ood, and them not knowing who you was."Philip laughed."Bless your heart, they all know the doctor, I've been in some damnedsight rougher places than Waver Street."It was quite true. The black bag was a passport through wretched alleysand down foul-smelling courts into which a policeman was not ready toventure by himself. Once or twice a little group of men had looked atPhilip curiously as he passed; he heard a mutter of observations and thenone say:"It's the 'orspital doctor."As he went by one or two of them said: "Good-night, sir.""We shall 'ave to step out if you don't mind, sir," said the man whoaccompanied him now. "They told me there was no time to lose.""Why did you leave it so late?" asked Philip, as he quickened his pace.He glanced at the fellow as they passed a lamp-post."You look awfully young," he said."I'm turned eighteen, sir."He was fair, and he had not a hair on his face, he looked no more than aboy; he was short, but thick set."You're young to be married," said Philip."We 'ad to.""How much d'you earn?""Sixteen, sir."Sixteen shillings a week was not much to keep a wife and child on. Theroom the couple lived in showed that their poverty was extreme. It was afair size, but it looked quite large, since there was hardly any furniturein it; there was no carpet on the floor; there were no pictures on thewalls; and most rooms had something, photographs or supplements in cheapframes from the Christmas numbers of the illustrated papers. The patientlay on a little iron bed of the cheapest sort. It startled Philip to seehow young she was."By Jove, she can't be more than sixteen," he said to the woman who hadcome in to `see her through.'She had given her age as eighteen on the card, but when they were veryyoung they often put on a year or two. Also she was pretty, which was rarein those classes in which the constitution has been undermined by badfood, bad air, and unhealthy occupations; she had delicate features andlarge blue eyes, and a mass of dark hair done in the elaborate fashion ofthe coster girl. She and her husband were very nervous."You'd better wait outside, so as to be at hand if I want you," Philipsaid to him.Now that he saw him better Philip was surprised again at his boyish air:you felt that he should be larking in the street with the other ladsinstead of waiting anxiously for the birth of a child. The hours passed,and it was not till nearly two that the baby was born. Everything seemedto be going satisfactorily; the husband was called in, and it touchedPhilip to see the awkward, shy way in which he kissed his wife; Philippacked up his things. Before going he felt once more his patient's pulse."Hulloa!" he said.He looked at her quickly: something had happened. In cases of emergencythe S. O. C.--senior obstetric clerk--had to be sent for; he was aqualified man, and the `district' was in his charge. Philip scribbled anote, and giving it to the husband, told him to run with it to thehospital; he bade him hurry, for his wife was in a dangerous state. Theman set off. Philip waited anxiously; he knew the woman was bleeding todeath; he was afraid she would die before his chief arrived; he took whatsteps he could. He hoped fervently that the S. O. C. would not have beencalled elsewhere. The minutes were interminable. He came at last, and,while he examined the patient, in a low voice asked Philip questions.Philip saw by his face that he thought the case very grave. His name wasChandler. He was a tall man of few words, with a long nose and a thin facemuch lined for his age. He shook his head."It was hopeless from the beginning. Where's the husband?""I told him to wait on the stairs," said Philip."You'd better bring him in."Philip opened the door and called him. He was sitting in the dark on thefirst step of the flight that led to the next floor. He came up to thebed."What's the matter?" he asked."Why, there's internal bleeding. It's impossible to stop it." The S. O. C.hesitated a moment, and because it was a painful thing to say he forcedhis voice to become brusque. "She's dying."The man did not say a word; he stopped quite still, looking at his wife,who lay, pale and unconscious, on the bed. It was the midwife who spoke."The gentlemen 'ave done all they could, 'Arry," she said. "I saw what wascomin' from the first.""Shut up," said Chandler.There were no curtains on the windows, and gradually the night seemed tolighten; it was not yet the dawn, but the dawn was at hand. Chandler waskeeping the woman alive by all the means in his power, but life wasslipping away from her, and suddenly she died. The boy who was her husbandstood at the end of the cheap iron bed with his hands resting on the rail;he did not speak; but he looked very pale and once or twice Chandler gavehim an uneasy glance, thinking he was going to faint: his lips were gray.The midwife sobbed noisily, but he took no notice of her. His eyes werefixed upon his wife, and in them was an utter bewilderment. He remindedyou of a dog whipped for something he did not know was wrong. WhenChandler and Philip had gathered together their things Chandler turned tothe husband."You'd better lie down for a bit. I expect you're about done up.""There's nowhere for me to lie down, sir," he answered, and there was inhis voice a humbleness which was very distressing."Don't you know anyone in the house who'll give you a shakedown?""No, sir.""They only moved in last week," said the midwife. "They don't know nobodyyet."Chandler hesitated a moment awkwardly, then he went up to the man andsaid:"I'm very sorry this has happened."He held out his hand and the man, with an instinctive glance at his own tosee if it was clean, shook it."Thank you, sir."Philip shook hands with him too. Chandler told the midwife to come andfetch the certificate in the morning. They left the house and walked alongtogether in silence."It upsets one a bit at first, doesn't it?" said Chandler at last."A bit," answered Philip."If you like I'll tell the porter not to bring you any more callstonight.""I'm off duty at eight in the morning in any case.""How many cases have you had?""Sixty-three.""Good. You'll get your certificate then."They arrived at the hospital, and the S. O. C. went in to see if anyonewanted him. Philip walked on. It had been very hot all the day before, andeven now in the early morning there was a balminess in the air. The streetwas very still. Philip did not feel inclined to go to bed. It was the endof his work and he need not hurry. He strolled along, glad of the freshair and the silence; he thought that he would go on to the bridge and lookat day break on the river. A policeman at the corner bade himgood-morning. He knew who Philip was from his bag."Out late tonight, sir," he said.Philip nodded and passed. He leaned against the parapet and looked towardsthe morning. At that hour the great city was like a city of the dead. Thesky was cloudless, but the stars were dim at the approach of day; therewas a light mist on the river, and the great buildings on the north sidewere like palaces in an enchanted island. A group of barges was moored inmidstream. It was all of an unearthly violet, troubling somehow andawe-inspiring; but quickly everything grew pale, and cold, and gray. Thenthe sun rose, a ray of yellow gold stole across the sky, and the sky wasiridescent. Philip could not get out of his eyes the dead girl lying onthe bed, wan and white, and the boy who stood at the end of it like astricken beast. The bareness of the squalid room made the pain of it morepoignant. It was cruel that a stupid chance should have cut off her lifewhen she was just entering upon it; but in the very moment of saying thisto himself, Philip thought of the life which had been in store for her,the bearing of children, the dreary fight with poverty, the youth brokenby toil and deprivation into a slatternly middle age--he saw the prettyface grow thin and white, the hair grow scanty, the pretty hands, worndown brutally by work, become like the claws of an old animal--then, whenthe man was past his prime, the difficulty of getting jobs, the smallwages he had to take; and the inevitable, abject penury of the end: shemight be energetic, thrifty, industrious, it would not have saved her; inthe end was the workhouse or subsistence on the charity of her children.Who could pity her because she had died when life offered so little?But pity was inane. Philip felt it was not that which these people needed.They did not pity themselves. They accepted their fate. It was the naturalorder of things. Otherwise, good heavens! otherwise they would swarm overthe river in their multitude to the side where those great buildings were,secure and stately. and they would pillage, burn, and sack. But the day,tender and pale, had broken now, and the mist was tenuous; it bathedeverything in a soft radiance; and the Thames was gray, rosy, and green;gray like mother-of-pearl and green like the heart of a yellow rose. Thewharfs and store-houses of the Surrey Side were massed in disorderlyloveliness. The scene was so exquisite that Philip's heart beatpassionately. He was overwhelmed by the beauty of the world. Beside thatnothing seemed to matter.