Chapter XCV

by William Somerset Maugham

　　When they returned to London Philip began his dressing in the surgicalwards. He was not so much interested in surgery as in medicine, which, amore empirical science, offered greater scope to the imagination. The workwas a little harder than the corresponding work on the medical side. Therewas a lecture from nine till ten, when he went into the wards; therewounds had to be dressed, stitches taken out, bandages renewed: Philipprided himself a little on his skill in bandaging, and it amused him towring a word of approval from a nurse. On certain afternoons in the weekthere were operations; and he stood in the well of the theatre, in a whitejacket, ready to hand the operating surgeon any instrument he wanted or tosponge the blood away so that he could see what he was about. When somerare operation was to be performed the theatre would fill up, butgenerally there were not more than half a dozen students present, and thenthe proceedings had a cosiness which Philip enjoyed. At that time theworld at large seemed to have a passion for appendicitis, and a good manycases came to the operating theatre for this complaint: the surgeon forwhom Philip dressed was in friendly rivalry with a colleague as to whichcould remove an appendix in the shortest time and with the smallestincision.In due course Philip was put on accident duty. The dressers took this inturn; it lasted three days, during which they lived in hospital and atetheir meals in the common-room; they had a room on the ground floor nearthe casualty ward, with a bed that shut up during the day into a cupboard.The dresser on duty had to be at hand day and night to see to any casualtythat came in. You were on the move all the time, and not more than an houror two passed during the night without the clanging of the bell just aboveyour head which made you leap out of bed instinctively. Saturday night wasof course the busiest time and the closing of the public-houses thebusiest hour. Men would be brought in by the police dead drunk and itwould be necessary to administer a stomach-pump; women, rather the worsefor liquor themselves, would come in with a wound on the head or ableeding nose which their husbands had given them: some would vow to havethe law on him, and others, ashamed, would declare that it had been anaccident. What the dresser could manage himself he did, but if there wasanything important he sent for the house-surgeon: he did this with care,since the house-surgeon was not vastly pleased to be dragged down fiveflights of stairs for nothing. The cases ranged from a cut finger to a cutthroat. Boys came in with hands mangled by some machine, men were broughtwho had been knocked down by a cab, and children who had broken a limbwhile playing: now and then attempted suicides were carried in by thepolice: Philip saw a ghastly, wild-eyed man with a great gash from ear toear, and he was in the ward for weeks afterwards in charge of a constable,silent, angry because he was alive, and sullen; he made no secret of thefact that he would try again to kill himself as soon as he was released.The wards were crowded, and the house-surgeon was faced with a dilemmawhen patients were brought in by the police: if they were sent on to thestation and died there disagreeable things were said in the papers; and itwas very difficult sometimes to tell if a man was dying or drunk. Philipdid not go to bed till he was tired out, so that he should not have thebother of getting up again in an hour; and he sat in the casualty wardtalking in the intervals of work with the night-nurse. She was agray-haired woman of masculine appearance, who had been night-nurse in thecasualty department for twenty years. She liked the work because she washer own mistress and had no sister to bother her. Her movements were slow,but she was immensely capable and she never failed in an emergency. Thedressers, often inexperienced or nervous, found her a tower of strength.She had seen thousands of them, and they made no impression upon her: shealways called them Mr. Brown; and when they expostulated and told hertheir real names, she merely nodded and went on calling them Mr. Brown. Itinterested Philip to sit with her in the bare room, with its twohorse-hair couches and the flaring gas, and listen to her. She had longceased to look upon the people who came in as human beings; they weredrunks, or broken arms, or cut throats. She took the vice and misery andcruelty of the world as a matter of course; she found nothing to praise orblame in human actions: she accepted. She had a certain grim humour."I remember one suicide," she said to Philip, "who threw himself into theThames. They fished him out and brought him here, and ten days later hedeveloped typhoid fever from swallowing Thames water.""Did he die?""Yes, he did all right. I could never make up my mind if it was suicide ornot.... They're a funny lot, suicides. I remember one man who couldn't getany work to do and his wife died, so he pawned his clothes and bought arevolver; but he made a mess of it, he only shot out an eye and he got allright. And then, if you please, with an eye gone and a piece of his faceblow away, he came to the conclusion that the world wasn't such a badplace after all, and he lived happily ever afterwards. Thing I've alwaysnoticed, people don't commit suicide for love, as you'd expect, that'sjust a fancy of novelists; they commit suicide because they haven't gotany money. I wonder why that is.""I suppose money's more important than love," suggested Philip.Money was in any case occupying Philip's thoughts a good deal just then.He discovered the little truth there was in the airy saying which himselfhad repeated, that two could live as cheaply as one, and his expenses werebeginning to worry him. Mildred was not a good manager, and it cost themas much to live as if they had eaten in restaurants; the child neededclothes, and Mildred boots, an umbrella, and other small things which itwas impossible for her to do without. When they returned from Brighton shehad announced her intention of getting a job, but she took no definitesteps, and presently a bad cold laid her up for a fortnight. When she waswell she answered one or two advertisements, but nothing came of it:either she arrived too late and the vacant place was filled, or the workwas more than she felt strong enough to do. Once she got an offer, but thewages were only fourteen shillings a week, and she thought she was worthmore than that."It's no good letting oneself be put upon," she remarked. "People don'trespect you if you let yourself go too cheap.""I don't think fourteen shillings is so bad," answered Philip, drily.He could not help thinking how useful it would be towards the expenses ofthe household, and Mildred was already beginning to hint that she did notget a place because she had not got a decent dress to interview employersin. He gave her the dress, and she made one or two more attempts, butPhilip came to the conclusion that they were not serious. She did not wantto work. The only way he knew to make money was on the Stock Exchange, andhe was very anxious to repeat the lucky experiment of the summer; but warhad broken out with the Transvaal and nothing was doing in South Africans.Macalister told him that Redvers Buller would march into Pretoria in amonth and then everything would boom. The only thing was to waitpatiently. What they wanted was a British reverse to knock things down abit, and then it might be worth while buying. Philip began readingassiduously the `city chat' of his favourite newspaper. He was worried andirritable. Once or twice he spoke sharply to Mildred, and since she wasneither tactful nor patient she answered with temper, and they quarrelled.Philip always expressed his regret for what he had said, but Mildred hadnot a forgiving nature, and she would sulk for a couple of days. She goton his nerves in all sorts of ways; by the manner in which she ate, and bythe untidiness which made her leave articles of clothing about theirsitting-room: Philip was excited by the war and devoured the papers,morning and evening; but she took no interest in anything that happened.She had made the acquaintance of two or three people who lived in thestreet, and one of them had asked if she would like the curate to call onher. She wore a wedding-ring and called herself Mrs. Carey. On Philip'swalls were two or three of the drawings which he had made in Paris, nudes,two of women and one of Miguel Ajuria, standing very square on his feet,with clenched fists. Philip kept them because they were the best things hehad done, and they reminded him of happy days. Mildred had long looked atthem with disfavour."I wish you'd take those drawings down, Philip," she said to him at last."Mrs. Foreman, of number thirteen, came in yesterday afternoon, and Ididn't know which way to look. I saw her staring at them.""What's the matter with them?""They're indecent. Disgusting, that's what I call it, to have drawings ofnaked people about. And it isn't nice for baby either. She's beginning tonotice things now.""How can you be so vulgar?""Vulgar? Modest, I call it. I've never said anything, but d'you think Ilike having to look at those naked people all day long.""Have you no sense of humour at all, Mildred?" he asked frigidly."I don't know what sense of humour's got to do with it. I've got a goodmind to take them down myself. If you want to know what I think aboutthem, I think they're disgusting.""I don't want to know what you think about them, and I forbid you to touchthem."When Mildred was cross with him she punished him through the baby. Thelittle girl was as fond of Philip as he was of her, and it was her greatpleasure every morning to crawl into his room (she was getting on for twonow and could walk pretty well), and be taken up into his bed. WhenMildred stopped this the poor child would cry bitterly. To Philip'sremonstrances she replied:"I don't want her to get into habits."And if then he said anything more she said:"It's nothing to do with you what I do with my child. To hear you talk onewould think you was her father. I'm her mother, and I ought to know what'sgood for her, oughtn't I?"Philip was exasperated by Mildred's stupidity; but he was so indifferentto her now that it was only at times she made him angry. He grew used tohaving her about. Christmas came, and with it a couple of days holiday forPhilip. He brought some holly in and decorated the flat, and on ChristmasDay he gave small presents to Mildred and the baby. There were only two ofthem so they could not have a turkey, but Mildred roasted a chicken andboiled a Christmas pudding which she had bought at a local grocer's. Theystood themselves a bottle of wine. When they had dined Philip sat in hisarm-chair by the fire, smoking his pipe; and the unaccustomed wine hadmade him forget for a while the anxiety about money which was soconstantly with him. He felt happy and comfortable. Presently Mildred camein to tell him that the baby wanted him to kiss her good-night, and witha smile he went into Mildred's bed-room. Then, telling the child to go tosleep, he turned down the gas and, leaving the door open in case shecried, went back into the sitting-room."Where are you going to sit?" he asked Mildred."You sit in your chair. I'm going to sit on the floor."When he sat down she settled herself in front of the fire and leanedagainst his knees. He could not help remembering that this was how theyhad sat together in her rooms in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, but thepositions had been reversed; it was he who had sat on the floor and leanedhis head against her knee. How passionately he had loved her then! Now hefelt for her a tenderness he had not known for a long time. He seemedstill to feel twined round his neck the baby's soft little arms."Are you comfy?" he asked.She looked up at him, gave a slight smile, and nodded. They gazed into thefire dreamily, without speaking to one another. At last she turned roundand stared at him curiously."D'you know that you haven't kissed me once since I came here?" she saidsuddenly."D'you want me to?" he smiled."I suppose you don't care for me in that way any more?""I'm very fond of you.""You're much fonder of baby."He did not answer, and she laid her cheek against his hand."You're not angry with me any more?" she asked presently, with her eyescast down."Why on earth should I be?""I've never cared for you as I do now. It's only since I passed throughthe fire that I've learnt to love you." It chilled Philip to hear her makeuse of the sort of phrase she read in the penny novelettes which shedevoured. Then he wondered whether what she said had any meaning for her:perhaps she knew no other way to express her genuine feelings than thestilted language of The Family Herald."It seems so funny our living together like this."He did not reply for quite a long time, and silence fell upon them again;but at last he spoke and seemed conscious of no interval."You mustn't be angry with me. One can't help these things. I rememberthat I thought you wicked and cruel because you did this, that, and theother; but it was very silly of me. You didn't love me, and it was absurdto blame you for that. I thought I could make you love me, but I know nowthat was impossible. I don't know what it is that makes someone love you,but whatever it is, it's the only thing that matters, and if it isn'tthere you won't create it by kindness, or generosity, or anything of thatsort.""I should have thought if you'd loved me really you'd have loved mestill.""I should have thought so too. I remember how I used to think that itwould last for ever, I felt I would rather die than be without you, and Iused to long for the time when you would be faded and wrinkled so thatnobody cared for you any more and I should have you all to myself."She did not answer, and presently she got up and said she was going tobed. She gave a timid little smile."It's Christmas Day, Philip, won't you kiss me good-night?"He gave a laugh, blushed slightly, and kissed her. She went to herbed-room and he began to read.