Chapter LXXXVI

by William Somerset Maugham

　　In the spring Philip, having finished his dressing in the out-patients'department, became an in-patients' clerk. This appointment lasted sixmonths. The clerk spent every morning in the wards, first in the men's,then in the women's, with the house-physician; he wrote up cases, madetests, and passed the time of day with the nurses. On two afternoons aweek the physician in charge went round with a little knot of students,examined the cases, and dispensed information. The work had not theexcitement, the constant change, the intimate contact with reality, of thework in the out-patients' department; but Philip picked up a good deal ofknowledge. He got on very well with the patients, and he was a littleflattered at the pleasure they showed in his attendance on them. He wasnot conscious of any deep sympathy in their sufferings, but he liked them;and because he put on no airs he was more popular with them than others ofthe clerks. He was pleasant, encouraging, and friendly. Like everyoneconnected with hospitals he found that male patients were more easy to geton with than female. The women were often querulous and ill-tempered. Theycomplained bitterly of the hard-worked nurses, who did not show them theattention they thought their right; and they were troublesome, ungrateful,and rude.Presently Philip was fortunate enough to make a friend. One morning thehouse-physician gave him a new case, a man; and, seating himself at thebedside, Philip proceeded to write down particulars on the `letter.' Henoticed on looking at this that the patient was described as a journalist:his name was Thorpe Athelny, an unusual one for a hospital patient, andhis age was forty-eight. He was suffering from a sharp attack of jaundice,and had been taken into the ward on account of obscure symptoms which itseemed necessary to watch. He answered the various questions which it wasPhilip's duty to ask him in a pleasant, educated voice. Since he was lyingin bed it was difficult to tell if he was short or tall, but his smallhead and small hands suggested that he was a man of less than averageheight. Philip had the habit of looking at people's hands, and Athelny'sastonished him: they were very small, with long, tapering fingers andbeautiful, rosy finger-nails; they were very smooth and except for thejaundice would have been of a surprising whiteness. The patient kept themoutside the bed-clothes, one of them slightly spread out, the second andthird fingers together, and, while he spoke to Philip, seemed tocontemplate them with satisfaction. With a twinkle in his eyes Philipglanced at the man's face. Notwithstanding the yellowness it wasdistinguished; he had blue eyes, a nose of an imposing boldness, hooked,aggressive but not clumsy, and a small beard, pointed and gray: he wasrather bald, but his hair had evidently been quite fine, curling prettily,and he still wore it long."I see you're a journalist," said Philip. "What papers d'you write for?""I write for all the papers. You cannot open a paper without seeing someof my writing." There was one by the side of the bed and reaching for ithe pointed out an advertisement. In large letters was the name of a firmwell-known to Philip, Lynn and Sedley, Regent Street, London; and below,in type smaller but still of some magnitude, was the dogmatic statement:Procrastination is the Thief of Time. Then a question, startling becauseof its reasonableness: Why not order today? There was a repetition, inlarge letters, like the hammering of conscience on a murderer's heart: Whynot? Then, boldly: Thousands of pairs of gloves from the leading marketsof the world at astounding prices. Thousands of pairs of stockings fromthe most reliable manufacturers of the universe at sensational reductions.Finally the question recurred, but flung now like a challenging gauntletin the lists: Why not order today?"I'm the press representative of Lynn and Sedley." He gave a little waveof his beautiful hand. "To what base uses..."Philip went on asking the regulation questions, some a mere matter ofroutine, others artfully devised to lead the patient to discover thingswhich he might be expected to desire to conceal."Have you ever lived abroad?" asked Philip."I was in Spain for eleven years.""What were you doing there?""I was secretary of the English water company at Toledo."Philip remembered that Clutton had spent some months in Toledo, and thejournalist's answer made him look at him with more interest; but he feltit would be improper to show this: it was necessary to preserve thedistance between the hospital patient and the staff. When he had finishedhis examination he went on to other beds.Thorpe Athelny's illness was not grave, and, though remaining very yellow,he soon felt much better: he stayed in bed only because the physicianthought he should be kept under observation till certain reactions becamenormal. One day, on entering the ward, Philip noticed that Athelny, pencilin hand, was reading a book. He put it down when Philip came to his bed."May I see what you're reading?" asked Philip, who could never pass a bookwithout looking at it.Philip took it up and saw that it was a volume of Spanish verse, the poemsof San Juan de la Cruz, and as he opened it a sheet of paper fell out.Philip picked it up and noticed that verse was written upon it."You're not going to tell me you've been occupying your leisure in writingpoetry? That's a most improper proceeding in a hospital patient.""I was trying to do some translations. D'you know Spanish?""No.""Well, you know all about San Juan de la Cruz, don't you?""I don't indeed.""He was one of the Spanish mystics. He's one of the best poets they'veever had. I thought it would be worth while translating him into English.""May I look at your translation?""It's very rough," said Athelny, but he gave it to Philip with an alacritywhich suggested that he was eager for him to read it.It was written in pencil, in a fine but very peculiar handwriting, whichwas hard to read: it was just like black letter."Doesn't it take you an awful time to write like that? It's wonderful.""I don't know why handwriting shouldn't be beautiful." Philip read thefirst verse:In an obscure nightWith anxious love inflamedO happy lot!Forth unobserved I went,My house being now at rest...Philip looked curiously at Thorpe Athelny. He did not know whether he felta little shy with him or was attracted by him. He was conscious that hismanner had been slightly patronising, and he flushed as it struck him thatAthelny might have thought him ridiculous."What an unusual name you've got," he remarked, for something to say."It's a very old Yorkshire name. Once it took the head of my family aday's hard riding to make the circuit of his estates, but the mighty arefallen. Fast women and slow horses."He was short-sighted and when he spoke looked at you with a peculiarintensity. He took up his volume of poetry."You should read Spanish," he said. "It is a noble tongue. It has not themellifluousness of Italian, Italian is the language of tenors andorgan-grinders, but it has grandeur: it does not ripple like a brook in agarden, but it surges tumultuous like a mighty river in flood."His grandiloquence amused Philip, but he was sensitive to rhetoric; and helistened with pleasure while Athelny, with picturesque expressions and thefire of a real enthusiasm, described to him the rich delight of readingDon Quixote in the original and the music, romantic, limpid, passionate,of the enchanting Calderon."I must get on with my work," said Philip presently."Oh, forgive me, I forgot. I will tell my wife to bring me a photograph ofToledo, and I will show it you. Come and talk to me when you have thechance. You don't know what a pleasure it gives me."During the next few days, in moments snatched whenever there wasopportunity, Philip's acquaintance with the journalist increased. ThorpeAthelny was a good talker. He did not say brilliant things, but he talkedinspiringly, with an eager vividness which fired the imagination; Philip,living so much in a world of make-believe, found his fancy teeming withnew pictures. Athelny had very good manners. He knew much more thanPhilip, both of the world and of books; he was a much older man; and thereadiness of his conversation gave him a certain superiority; but he wasin the hospital a recipient of charity, subject to strict rules; and heheld himself between the two positions with ease and humour. Once Philipasked him why he had come to the hospital."Oh, my principle is to profit by all the benefits that society provides.I take advantage of the age I live in. When I'm ill I get myself patchedup in a hospital and I have no false shame, and I send my children to beeducated at the board-school.""Do you really?" said Philip."And a capital education they get too, much better than I got atWinchester. How else do you think I could educate them at all? I've gotnine. You must come and see them all when I get home again. Will you?""I'd like to very much," said Philip.