Chapter XCVII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Philip awoke with a start next morning, conscious that it was late, andlooking at his watch found it was nine o'clock. He jumped out of bed andwent into the kitchen to get himself some hot water to shave with. Therewas no sign of Mildred, and the things which she had used for her supperthe night before still lay in the sink unwashed. He knocked at her door."Wake up, Mildred. It's awfully late."She did not answer, even after a second louder knocking, and he concludedthat she was sulking. He was in too great a hurry to bother about that. Heput some water on to boil and jumped into his bath which was always pouredout the night before in order to take the chill off. He presumed thatMildred would cook his breakfast while he was dressing and leave it in thesitting-room. She had done that two or three times when she was out oftemper. But he heard no sound of her moving, and realised that if hewanted anything to eat he would have to get it himself. He was irritatedthat she should play him such a trick on a morning when he had over-slepthimself. There was still no sign of her when he was ready, but he heardher moving about her room. She was evidently getting up. He made himselfsome tea and cut himself a couple of pieces of bread and butter, which heate while he was putting on his boots, then bolted downstairs and alongthe street into the main road to catch his tram. While his eyes sought outthe newspaper shops to see the war news on the placards, he thought of thescene of the night before: now that it was over and he had slept on it, hecould not help thinking it grotesque; he supposed he had been ridiculous,but he was not master of his feelings; at the time they had beenoverwhelming. He was angry with Mildred because she had forced him intothat absurd position, and then with renewed astonishment he thought of heroutburst and the filthy language she had used. He could not help flushingwhen he remembered her final jibe; but he shrugged his shoulderscontemptuously. He had long known that when his fellows were angry withhim they never failed to taunt him with his deformity. He had seen men atthe hospital imitate his walk, not before him as they used at school, butwhen they thought he was not looking. He knew now that they did it from nowilful unkindness, but because man is naturally an imitative animal, andbecause it was an easy way to make people laugh: he knew it, but he couldnever resign himself to it.He was glad to throw himself into his work. The ward seemed pleasant andfriendly when he entered it. The sister greeted him with a quick,business-like smile."You're very late, Mr. Carey.""I was out on the loose last night.""You look it.""Thank you."Laughing, he went to the first of his cases, a boy with tuberculousulcers, and removed his bandages. The boy was pleased to see him, andPhilip chaffed him as he put a clean dressing on the wound. Philip was afavourite with the patients; he treated them good-humouredly; and he hadgentle, sensitive hands which did not hurt them: some of the dressers werea little rough and happy-go-lucky in their methods. He lunched with hisfriends in the club-room, a frugal meal consisting of a scone and butter,with a cup of cocoa, and they talked of the war. Several men were goingout, but the authorities were particular and refused everyone who had nothad a hospital appointment. Someone suggested that, if the war went on, ina while they would be glad to take anyone who was qualified; but thegeneral opinion was that it would be over in a month. Now that Roberts wasthere things would get all right in no time. This was Macalister's opiniontoo, and he had told Philip that they must watch their chance and buy justbefore peace was declared. There would be a boom then, and they might allmake a bit of money. Philip had left with Macalister instructions to buyhim stock whenever the opportunity presented itself. His appetite had beenwhetted by the thirty pounds he had made in the summer, and he wanted nowto make a couple of hundred.He finished his day's work and got on a tram to go back to Kennington. Hewondered how Mildred would behave that evening. It was a nuisance to thinkthat she would probably be surly and refuse to answer his questions. Itwas a warm evening for the time of year, and even in those gray streets ofSouth London there was the languor of February; nature is restless thenafter the long winter months, growing things awake from their sleep, andthere is a rustle in the earth, a forerunner of spring, as it resumes itseternal activities. Philip would have liked to drive on further, it wasdistasteful to him to go back to his rooms, and he wanted the air; but thedesire to see the child clutched suddenly at his heartstrings, and hesmiled to himself as he thought of her toddling towards him with a crow ofdelight. He was surprised, when he reached the house and looked upmechanically at the windows, to see that there was no light. He wentupstairs and knocked, but got no answer. When Mildred went out she leftthe key under the mat and he found it there now. He let himself in andgoing into the sitting-room struck a match. Something had happened, he didnot at once know what; he turned the gas on full and lit it; the room wassuddenly filled with the glare and he looked round. He gasped. The wholeplace was wrecked. Everything in it had been wilfully destroyed. Angerseized him, and he rushed into Mildred's room. It was dark and empty. Whenhe had got a light he saw that she had taken away all her things and thebaby's (he had noticed on entering that the go-cart was not in its usualplace on the landing, but thought Mildred had taken the baby out;) and allthe things on the washing-stand had been broken, a knife had been drawncross-ways through the seats of the two chairs, the pillow had been slitopen, there were large gashes in the sheets and the counterpane, thelooking-glass appeared to have been broken with a hammer. Philip wasbewildered. He went into his own room, and here too everything was inconfusion. The basin and the ewer had been smashed, the looking-glass wasin fragments, and the sheets were in ribands. Mildred had made a slitlarge enough to put her hand into the pillow and had scattered thefeathers about the room. She had jabbed a knife into the blankets. On thedressing-table were photographs of Philip's mother, the frames had beensmashed and the glass shivered. Philip went into the tiny kitchen.Everything that was breakable was broken, glasses, pudding-basins, plates,dishes.It took Philip's breath away. Mildred had left no letter, nothing but thisruin to mark her anger, and he could imagine the set face with which shehad gone about her work. He went back into the sitting-room and lookedabout him. He was so astonished that he no longer felt angry. He lookedcuriously at the kitchen-knife and the coal-hammer, which were lying onthe table where she had left them. Then his eye caught a largecarving-knife in the fireplace which had been broken. It must have takenher a long time to do so much damage. Lawson's portrait of him had beencut cross-ways and gaped hideously. His own drawings had been ripped inpieces; and the photographs, Manet's Olympia and the Odalisque ofIngres, the portrait of Philip IV, had been smashed with great blows ofthe coal-hammer. There were gashes in the table-cloth and in the curtainsand in the two arm-chairs. They were quite ruined. On one wall over thetable which Philip used as his desk was the little bit of Persian rugwhich Cronshaw had given him. Mildred had always hated it."If it's a rug it ought to go on the floor," she said, "and it's a dirtystinking bit of stuff, that's all it is."It made her furious because Philip told her it contained the answer to agreat riddle. She thought he was making fun of her. She had drawn theknife right through it three times, it must have required some strength,and it hung now in tatters. Philip had two or three blue and white plates,of no value, but he had bought them one by one for very small sums andliked them for their associations. They littered the floor in fragments.There were long gashes on the backs of his books, and she had taken thetrouble to tear pages out of the unbound French ones. The little ornamentson the chimney-piece lay on the hearth in bits. Everything that it hadbeen possible to destroy with a knife or a hammer was destroyed.The whole of Philip's belongings would not have sold for thirty pounds,but most of them were old friends, and he was a domestic creature,attached to all those odds and ends because they were his; he had beenproud of his little home, and on so little money had made it pretty andcharacteristic. He sank down now in despair. He asked himself how shecould have been so cruel. A sudden fear got him on his feet again and intothe passage, where stood a cupboard in which he kept his clothes. Heopened it and gave a sigh of relief. She had apparently forgotten it andnone of his things was touched.He went back into the sitting-room and, surveying the scene, wondered whatto do; he had not the heart to begin trying to set things straight;besides there was no food in the house, and he was hungry. He went out andgot himself something to eat. When he came in he was cooler. A little pangseized him as he thought of the child, and he wondered whether she wouldmiss him, at first perhaps, but in a week she would have forgotten him;and he was thankful to be rid of Mildred. He did not think of her withwrath, but with an overwhelming sense of boredom."I hope to God I never see her again," he said aloud.The only thing now was to leave the rooms, and he made up his mind to givenotice the next morning. He could not afford to make good the damage done,and he had so little money left that he must find cheaper lodgings still.He would be glad to get out of them. The expense had worried him, and nowthe recollection of Mildred would be in them always. Philip was impatientand could never rest till he had put in action the plan which he had inmind; so on the following afternoon he got in a dealer in second-handfurniture who offered him three pounds for all his goods damaged andundamaged; and two days later he moved into the house opposite thehospital in which he had had rooms when first he became a medical student.The landlady was a very decent woman. He took a bed-room at the top, whichshe let him have for six shillings a week; it was small and shabby andlooked on the yard of the house that backed on to it, but he had nothingnow except his clothes and a box of books, and he was glad to lodge socheaply.