Chapter LXXXIV

by William Somerset Maugham

　　At the new year Philip became dresser in the surgical out-patients'department. The work was of the same character as that which he had justbeen engaged on, but with the greater directness which surgery has thanmedicine; and a larger proportion of the patients suffered from those twodiseases which a supine public allows, in its prudishness, to be spreadbroadcast. The assistant-surgeon for whom Philip dressed was calledJacobs. He was a short, fat man, with an exuberant joviality, a bald head,and a loud voice; he had a cockney accent, and was generally described bythe students as an `awful bounder'; but his cleverness, both as a surgeonand as a teacher, caused some of them to overlook this. He had also aconsiderable facetiousness, which he exercised impartially on the patientsand on the students. He took a great pleasure in making his dressers lookfoolish. Since they were ignorant, nervous, and could not answer as if hewere their equal, this was not very difficult. He enjoyed his afternoons,with the home truths he permitted himself, much more than the students whohad to put up with them with a smile. One day a case came up of a boy witha club-foot. His parents wanted to know whether anything could be done.Mr. Jacobs turned to Philip."You'd better take this case, Carey. It's a subject you ought to knowsomething about."Philip flushed, all the more because the surgeon spoke obviously with ahumorous intention, and his brow-beaten dressers laughed obsequiously. Itwas in point of fact a subject which Philip, since coming to the hospital,had studied with anxious attention. He had read everything in the librarywhich treated of talipes in its various forms. He made the boy take offhis boot and stocking. He was fourteen, with a snub nose, blue eyes, anda freckled face. His father explained that they wanted something done ifpossible, it was such a hindrance to the kid in earning his living. Philiplooked at him curiously. He was a jolly boy, not at all shy, but talkativeand with a cheekiness which his father reproved. He was much interested inhis foot."It's only for the looks of the thing, you know," he said to Philip. "Idon't find it no trouble.""Be quiet, Ernie," said his father. "There's too much gas about you."Philip examined the foot and passed his hand slowly over the shapelessnessof it. He could not understand why the boy felt none of the humiliationwhich always oppressed himself. He wondered why he could not take hisdeformity with that philosophic indifference. Presently Mr. Jacobs came upto him. The boy was sitting on the edge of a couch, the surgeon and Philipstood on each side of him; and in a semi-circle, crowding round, werestudents. With accustomed brilliancy Jacobs gave a graphic littlediscourse upon the club-foot: he spoke of its varieties and of the formswhich followed upon different anatomical conditions."I suppose you've got talipes equinus?" he said, turning suddenly toPhilip."Yes."Philip felt the eyes of his fellow-students rest on him, and he cursedhimself because he could not help blushing. He felt the sweat start up inthe palms of his hands. The surgeon spoke with the fluency due to longpractice and with the admirable perspicacity which distinguished him. Hewas tremendously interested in his profession. But Philip did not listen.He was only wishing that the fellow would get done quickly. Suddenly herealised that Jacobs was addressing him."You don't mind taking off your sock for a moment, Carey?"Philip felt a shudder pass through him. He had an impulse to tell thesurgeon to go to hell, but he had not the courage to make a scene. Hefeared his brutal ridicule. He forced himself to appear indifferent."Not a bit," he said.He sat down and unlaced his boot. His fingers were trembling and hethought he should never untie the knot. He remembered how they had forcedhim at school to show his foot, and the misery which had eaten into hissoul."He keeps his feet nice and clean, doesn't he?" said Jacobs, in hisrasping, cockney voice.The attendant students giggled. Philip noticed that the boy whom they wereexamining looked down at his foot with eager curiosity. Jacobs took thefoot in his hands and said:"Yes, that's what I thought. I see you've had an operation. When you werea child, I suppose?"He went on with his fluent explanations. The students leaned over andlooked at the foot. Two or three examined it minutely when Jacobs let itgo."When you've quite done," said Philip, with a smile, ironically.He could have killed them all. He thought how jolly it would be to jab achisel (he didn't know why that particular instrument came into his mind)into their necks. What beasts men were! He wished he could believe in hellso as to comfort himself with the thought of the horrible tortures whichwould be theirs. Mr. Jacobs turned his attention to treatment. He talkedpartly to the boy's father and partly to the students. Philip put on hissock and laced his boot. At last the surgeon finished. But he seemed tohave an afterthought and turned to Philip."You know, I think it might be worth your while to have an operation. Ofcourse I couldn't give you a normal foot, but I think I can do something.You might think about it, and when you want a holiday you can just comeinto the hospital for a bit."Philip had often asked himself whether anything could be done, but hisdistaste for any reference to the subject had prevented him fromconsulting any of the surgeons at the hospital. His reading told him thatwhatever might have been done when he was a small boy, and then treatmentof talipes was not as skilful as in the present day, there was smallchance now of any great benefit. Still it would be worth while if anoperation made it possible for him to wear a more ordinary boot and tolimp less. He remembered how passionately he had prayed for the miraclewhich his uncle had assured him was possible to omnipotence. He smiledruefully."I was rather a simple soul in those days," he thought.Towards the end of February it was clear that Cronshaw was growing muchworse. He was no longer able to get up. He lay in bed, insisting that thewindow should be closed always, and refused to see a doctor; he would takelittle nourishment, but demanded whiskey and cigarettes: Philip knew thathe should have neither, but Cronshaw's argument was unanswerable."I daresay they are killing me. I don't care. You've warned me, you'vedone all that was necessary: I ignore your warning. Give me something todrink and be damned to you."Leonard Upjohn blew in two or three times a week, and there was somethingof the dead leaf in his appearance which made the word exactly descriptiveof the manner of his appearance. He was a weedy-looking fellow offive-and-thirty, with long pale hair and a white face; he had the look ofa man who lived too little in the open air. He wore a hat like adissenting minister's. Philip disliked him for his patronising manner andwas bored by his fluent conversation. Leonard Upjohn liked to hear himselftalk. He was not sensitive to the interest of his listeners, which is thefirst requisite of the good talker; and he never realised that he wastelling people what they knew already. With measured words he told Philipwhat to think of Rodin, Albert Samain, and Caesar Franck. Philip'scharwoman only came in for an hour in the morning, and since Philip wasobliged to be at the hospital all day Cronshaw was left much alone. Upjohntold Philip that he thought someone should remain with him, but did notoffer to make it possible."It's dreadful to think of that great poet alone. Why, he might diewithout a soul at hand.""I think he very probably will," said Philip."How can you be so callous!""Why don't you come and do your work here every day, and then you'd benear if he wanted anything?" asked Philip drily."I? My dear fellow, I can only work in the surroundings I'm used to, andbesides I go out so much."Upjohn was also a little put out because Philip had brought Cronshaw tohis own rooms."I wish you had left him in Soho," he said, with a wave of his long, thinhands. "There was a touch of romance in that sordid attic. I could evenbear it if it were Wapping or Shoreditch, but the respectability ofKennington! What a place for a poet to die!"Cronshaw was often so ill-humoured that Philip could only keep his temperby remembering all the time that this irritability was a symptom of thedisease. Upjohn came sometimes before Philip was in, and then Cronshawwould complain of him bitterly. Upjohn listened with complacency."The fact is that Carey has no sense of beauty," he smiled. "He has amiddle-class mind."He was very sarcastic to Philip, and Philip exercised a good deal ofself-control in his dealings with him. But one evening he could notcontain himself. He had had a hard day at the hospital and was tired out.Leonard Upjohn came to him, while he was making himself a cup of tea inthe kitchen, and said that Cronshaw was complaining of Philip's insistencethat he should have a doctor."Don't you realise that you're enjoying a very rare, a very exquisiteprivilege? You ought to do everything in your power, surely, to show yoursense of the greatness of your trust.""It's a rare and exquisite privilege which I can ill afford," said Philip.Whenever there was any question of money, Leonard Upjohn assumed aslightly disdainful expression. His sensitive temperament was offended bythe reference."There's something fine in Cronshaw's attitude, and you disturb it by yourimportunity. You should make allowances for the delicate imaginings whichyou cannot feel."Philip's face darkened."Let us go in to Cronshaw," he said frigidly.The poet was lying on his back, reading a book, with a pipe in his mouth.The air was musty; and the room, notwithstanding Philip's tidying up, hadthe bedraggled look which seemed to accompany Cronshaw wherever he went.He took off his spectacles as they came in. Philip was in a towering rage."Upjohn tells me you've been complaining to him because I've urged you tohave a doctor," he said. "I want you to have a doctor, because you may dieany day, and if you hadn't been seen by anyone I shouldn't be able to geta certificate. There'd have to be an inquest and I should be blamed fornot calling a doctor in.""I hadn't thought of that. I thought you wanted me to see a doctor for mysake and not for your own. I'll see a doctor whenever you like."Philip did not answer, but gave an almost imperceptible shrug of theshoulders. Cronshaw, watching him, gave a little chuckle."Don't look so angry, my dear. I know very well you want to do everythingyou can for me. Let's see your doctor, perhaps he can do something for me,and at any rate it'll comfort you." He turned his eyes to Upjohn. "You'rea damned fool, Leonard. Why d'you want to worry the boy? He has quiteenough to do to put up with me. You'll do nothing more for me than writea pretty article about me after my death. I know you."Next day Philip went to Dr. Tyrell. He felt that he was the sort of man tobe interested by the story, and as soon as Tyrell was free of his day'swork he accompanied Philip to Kennington. He could only agree with whatPhilip had told him. The case was hopeless."I'll take him into the hospital if you like," he said. "He can have asmall ward.""Nothing would induce him to come.""You know, he may die any minute, or else he may get another attack ofpneumonia."Philip nodded. Dr. Tyrell made one or two suggestions, and promised tocome again whenever Philip wanted him to. He left his address. When Philipwent back to Cronshaw he found him quietly reading. He did not trouble toinquire what the doctor had said."Are you satisfied now, dear boy?" he asked."I suppose nothing will induce you to do any of the things Tyrelladvised?""Nothing," smiled Cronshaw.