Chapter LXXVII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　After lunching in the basement of the Medical School Philip went back tohis rooms. It was Saturday afternoon, and the landlady was cleaning thestairs."Is Mr. Griffiths in?" he asked."No, sir. He went away this morning, soon after you went out.""Isn't he coming back?""I don't think so, sir. He's taken his luggage."Philip wondered what this could mean. He took a book and began to read. Itwas Burton's Journey to Meccah, which he had just got out of theWestminster Public Library; and he read the first page, but could make nosense of it, for his mind was elsewhere; he was listening all the time fora ring at the bell. He dared not hope that Griffiths had gone awayalready, without Mildred, to his home in Cumberland. Mildred would becoming presently for the money. He set his teeth and read on; he trieddesperately to concentrate his attention; the sentences etched themselvesin his brain by the force of his effort, but they were distorted by theagony he was enduring. He wished with all his heart that he had not madethe horrible proposition to give them money; but now that he had made ithe lacked the strength to go back on it, not on Mildred's account, but onhis own. There was a morbid obstinacy in him which forced him to do thething he had determined. He discovered that the three pages he had readhad made no impression on him at all; and he went back and started fromthe beginning: he found himself reading one sentence over and over again;and now it weaved itself in with his thoughts, horribly, like some formulain a nightmare. One thing he could do was to go out and keep away tillmidnight; they could not go then; and he saw them calling at the houseevery hour to ask if he was in. He enjoyed the thought of theirdisappointment. He repeated that sentence to himself mechanically. But hecould not do that. Let them come and take the money, and he would knowthen to what depths of infamy it was possible for men to descend. He couldnot read any more now. He simply could not see the words. He leaned backin his chair, closing his eyes, and, numb with misery, waited for Mildred.The landlady came in."Will you see Mrs. Miller, sir?""Show her in."Philip pulled himself together to receive her without any sign of what hewas feeling. He had an impulse to throw himself on his knees and seize herhands and beg her not to go; but he knew there was no way of moving her;she would tell Griffiths what he had said and how he acted. He wasashamed."Well, how about the little jaunt?" he said gaily."We're going. Harry's outside. I told him you didn't want to see him, sohe's kept out of your way. But he wants to know if he can come in just fora minute to say good-bye to you.""No, I won't see him," said Philip.He could see she did not care if he saw Griffiths or not. Now that she wasthere he wanted her to go quickly."Look here, here's the fiver. I'd like you to go now."She took it and thanked him. She turned to leave the room."When are you coming back?" he asked."Oh, on Monday. Harry must go home then."He knew what he was going to say was humiliating, but he was broken downwith jealousy and desire."Then I shall see you, shan't I?"He could not help the note of appeal in his voice."Of course. I'll let you know the moment I'm back."He shook hands with her. Through the curtains he watched her jump into afour-wheeler that stood at the door. It rolled away. Then he threw himselfon his bed and hid his face in his hands. He felt tears coming to hiseyes, and he was angry with himself; he clenched his hands and screwed uphis body to prevent them; but he could not; and great painful sobs wereforced from him.He got up at last, exhausted and ashamed, and washed his face. He mixedhimself a strong whiskey and soda. It made him feel a little better. Thenhe caught sight of the tickets to Paris, which were on the chimney-piece,and, seizing them, with an impulse of rage he flung them in the fire. Heknew he could have got the money back on them, but it relieved him todestroy them. Then he went out in search of someone to be with. The clubwas empty. He felt he would go mad unless he found someone to talk to; butLawson was abroad; he went on to Hayward's rooms: the maid who opened thedoor told him that he had gone down to Brighton for the week-end. ThenPhilip went to a gallery and found it was just closing. He did not knowwhat to do. He was distracted. And he thought of Griffiths and Mildredgoing to Oxford, sitting opposite one another in the train, happy. He wentback to his rooms, but they filled him with horror, he had been sowretched in them; he tried once more to read Burton's book, but, as heread, he told himself again and again what a fool he had been; it was hewho had made the suggestion that they should go away, he had offered themoney, he had forced it upon them; he might have known what would happenwhen he introduced Griffiths to Mildred; his own vehement passion wasenough to arouse the other's desire. By this time they had reached Oxford.They would put up in one of the lodging-houses in John Street; Philip hadnever been to Oxford, but Griffiths had talked to him about it so muchthat he knew exactly where they would go; and they would dine at theClarendon: Griffiths had been in the habit of dining there when he went onthe spree. Philip got himself something to eat in a restaurant nearCharing Cross; he had made up his mind to go to a play, and afterwards hefought his way into the pit of a theatre at which one of Oscar Wilde'spieces was being performed. He wondered if Mildred and Griffiths would goto a play that evening: they must kill the evening somehow; they were toostupid, both of them to content themselves with conversation: he got afierce delight in reminding himself of the vulgarity of their minds whichsuited them so exactly to one another. He watched the play with anabstracted mind, trying to give himself gaiety by drinking whiskey in eachinterval; he was unused to alcohol, and it affected him quickly, but hisdrunkenness was savage and morose. When the play was over he had anotherdrink. He could not go to bed, he knew he would not sleep, and he dreadedthe pictures which his vivid imagination would place before him. He triednot to think of them. He knew he had drunk too much. Now he was seizedwith a desire to do horrible, sordid things; he wanted to roll himself ingutters; his whole being yearned for beastliness; he wanted to grovel.He walked up Piccadilly, dragging his club-foot, sombrely drunk, with rageand misery clawing at his heart. He was stopped by a painted harlot, whoput her hand on his arm; he pushed her violently away with brutal words.He walked on a few steps and then stopped. She would do as well asanother. He was sorry he had spoken so roughly to her. He went up to her."I say," he began."Go to hell," she said.Philip laughed."I merely wanted to ask if you'd do me the honour of supping with metonight."She looked at him with amazement, and hesitated for a while. She saw hewas drunk."I don't mind."He was amused that she should use a phrase he had heard so often onMildred's lips. He took her to one of the restaurants he had been in thehabit of going to with Mildred. He noticed as they walked along that shelooked down at his limb."I've got a club-foot," he said. "Have you any objection?""You are a cure," she laughed.When he got home his bones were aching, and in his head there was ahammering that made him nearly scream. He took another whiskey and soda tosteady himself, and going to bed sank into a dreamless sleep till mid-day.