Chapter XCVIII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　And now it happened that the fortunes of Philip Carey, of no consequenceto any but himself, were affected by the events through which his countrywas passing. History was being made, and the process was so significantthat it seemed absurd it should touch the life of an obscure medicalstudent. Battle after battle, Magersfontein, Colenso, Spion Kop, lost onthe playing fields of Eton, had humiliated the nation and dealt thedeath-blow to the prestige of the aristocracy and gentry who till then hadfound no one seriously to oppose their assertion that they possessed anatural instinct of government. The old order was being swept away:history was being made indeed. Then the colossus put forth his strength,and, blundering again, at last blundered into the semblance of victory.Cronje surrendered at Paardeberg, Ladysmith was relieved, and at thebeginning of March Lord Roberts marched into Bloemfontein.It was two or three days after the news of this reached London thatMacalister came into the tavern in Beak Street and announced joyfully thatthings were looking brighter on the Stock Exchange. Peace was in sight,Roberts would march into Pretoria within a few weeks, and shares weregoing up already. There was bound to be a boom."Now's the time to come in," he told Philip. "It's no good waiting tillthe public gets on to it. It's now or never."He had inside information. The manager of a mine in South Africa hadcabled to the senior partner of his firm that the plant was uninjured.They would start working again as soon as possible. It wasn't aspeculation, it was an investment. To show how good a thing the seniorpartner thought it Macalister told Philip that he had bought five hundredshares for both his sisters: he never put them into anything that wasn'tas safe as the Bank of England."I'm going to put my shirt on it myself," he said.The shares were two and an eighth to a quarter. He advised Philip not tobe greedy, but to be satisfied with a ten-shilling rise. He was buyingthree hundred for himself and suggested that Philip should do the same. Hewould hold them and sell when he thought fit. Philip had great faith inhim, partly because he was a Scotsman and therefore by nature cautious,and partly because he had been right before. He jumped at the suggestion."I daresay we shall be able to sell before the account," said Macalister,"but if not, I'll arrange to carry them over for you."It seemed a capital system to Philip. You held on till you got yourprofit, and you never even had to put your hand in your pocket. He beganto watch the Stock Exchange columns of the paper with new interest. Nextday everything was up a little, and Macalister wrote to say that he hadhad to pay two and a quarter for the shares. He said that the market wasfirm. But in a day or two there was a set-back. The news that came fromSouth Africa was less reassuring, and Philip with anxiety saw that hisshares had fallen to two; but Macalister was optimistic, the Boerscouldn't hold out much longer, and he was willing to bet a top-hat thatRoberts would march into Johannesburg before the middle of April. At theaccount Philip had to pay out nearly forty pounds. It worried himconsiderably, but he felt that the only course was to hold on: in hiscircumstances the loss was too great for him to pocket. For two or threeweeks nothing happened; the Boers would not understand that they werebeaten and nothing remained for them but to surrender: in fact they hadone or two small successes, and Philip's shares fell half a crown more. Itbecame evident that the war was not finished. There was a lot of selling.When Macalister saw Philip he was pessimistic."I'm not sure if the best thing wouldn't be to cut the loss. I've beenpaying out about as much as I want to in differences."Philip was sick with anxiety. He could not sleep at night; he bolted hisbreakfast, reduced now to tea and bread and butter, in order to get overto the club reading-room and see the paper; sometimes the news was bad,and sometimes there was no news at all, but when the shares moved it wasto go down. He did not know what to do. If he sold now he would losealtogether hard on three hundred and fifty pounds; and that would leavehim only eighty pounds to go on with. He wished with all his heart that hehad never been such a fool as to dabble on the Stock Exchange, but theonly thing was to hold on; something decisive might happen any day and theshares would go up; he did not hope now for a profit, but he wanted tomake good his loss. It was his only chance of finishing his course at thehospital. The Summer session was beginning in May, and at the end of it hemeant to take the examination in midwifery. Then he would only have a yearmore; he reckoned it out carefully and came to the conclusion that hecould manage it, fees and all, on a hundred and fifty pounds; but that wasthe least it could possibly be done on.Early in April he went to the tavern in Beak Street anxious to seeMacalister. It eased him a little to discuss the situation with him; andto realise that numerous people beside himself were suffering from loss ofmoney made his own trouble a little less intolerable. But when Philiparrived no one was there but Hayward, and no sooner had Philip seatedhimself than he said:"I'm sailing for the Cape on Sunday.""Are you!" exclaimed Philip.Hayward was the last person he would have expected to do anything of thekind. At the hospital men were going out now in numbers; the Governmentwas glad to get anyone who was qualified; and others, going out astroopers, wrote home that they had been put on hospital work as soon as itwas learned that they were medical students. A wave of patriotic feelinghad swept over the country, and volunteers were coming from all ranks ofsociety."What are you going as?" asked Philip."Oh, in the Dorset Yeomanry. I'm going as a trooper."Philip had known Hayward for eight years. The youthful intimacy which hadcome from Philip's enthusiastic admiration for the man who could tell himof art and literature had long since vanished; but habit had taken itsplace; and when Hayward was in London they saw one another once or twicea week. He still talked about books with a delicate appreciation. Philipwas not yet tolerant, and sometimes Hayward's conversation irritated him.He no longer believed implicitly that nothing in the world was ofconsequence but art. He resented Hayward's contempt for action andsuccess. Philip, stirring his punch, thought of his early friendship andhis ardent expectation that Hayward would do great things; it was longsince he had lost all such illusions, and he knew now that Hayward wouldnever do anything but talk. He found his three hundred a year moredifficult to live on now that he was thirty-five than he had when he wasa young man; and his clothes, though still made by a good tailor, wereworn a good deal longer than at one time he would have thought possible.He was too stout and no artful arrangement of his fair hair could concealthe fact that he was bald. His blue eyes were dull and pale. It was nothard to guess that he drank too much."What on earth made you think of going out to the Cape?" asked Philip."Oh, I don't know, I thought I ought to."Philip was silent. He felt rather silly. He understood that Hayward wasbeing driven by an uneasiness in his soul which he could not account for.Some power within him made it seem necessary to go and fight for hiscountry. It was strange, since he considered patriotism no more than aprejudice, and, flattering himself on his cosmopolitanism, he had lookedupon England as a place of exile. His countrymen in the mass wounded hissusceptibilities. Philip wondered what it was that made people do thingswhich were so contrary to all their theories of life. It would have beenreasonable for Hayward to stand aside and watch with a smile while thebarbarians slaughtered one another. It looked as though men were puppetsin the hands of an unknown force, which drove them to do this and that;and sometimes they used their reason to justify their actions; and whenthis was impossible they did the actions in despite of reason."People are very extraordinary," said Philip. "I should never haveexpected you to go out as a trooper."Hayward smiled, slightly embarrassed, and said nothing."I was examined yesterday," he remarked at last. "It was worth whileundergoing the gene of it to know that one was perfectly fit."Philip noticed that he still used a French word in an affected way when anEnglish one would have served. But just then Macalister came in."I wanted to see you, Carey," he said. "My people don't feel inclined tohold those shares any more, the market's in such an awful state, and theywant you to take them up."Philip's heart sank. He knew that was impossible. It meant that he mustaccept the loss. His pride made him answer calmly."I don't know that I think that's worth while. You'd better sell them.""It's all very fine to say that, I'm not sure if I can. The market'sstagnant, there are no buyers.""But they're marked down at one and an eighth.""Oh yes, but that doesn't mean anything. You can't get that for them."Philip did not say anything for a moment. He was trying to collecthimself."D'you mean to say they're worth nothing at all?""Oh, I don't say that. Of course they're worth something, but you see,nobody's buying them now.""Then you must just sell them for what you can get."Macalister looked at Philip narrowly. He wondered whether he was very hardhit."I'm awfully sorry, old man, but we're all in the same boat. No onethought the war was going to hang on this way. I put you into them, but Iwas in myself too.""It doesn't matter at all," said Philip. "One has to take one's chance."He moved back to the table from which he had got up to talk to Macalister.He was dumfounded; his head suddenly began to ache furiously; but he didnot want them to think him unmanly. He sat on for an hour. He laughedfeverishly at everything they said. At last he got up to go."You take it pretty coolly," said Macalister, shaking hands with him. "Idon't suppose anyone likes losing between three and four hundred pounds."When Philip got back to his shabby little room he flung himself on hisbed, and gave himself over to his despair. He kept on regretting his follybitterly; and though he told himself that it was absurd to regret for whathad happened was inevitable just because it had happened, he could nothelp himself. He was utterly miserable. He could not sleep. He rememberedall the ways he had wasted money during the last few years. His head acheddreadfully.The following evening there came by the last post the statement of hisaccount. He examined his pass-book. He found that when he had paideverything he would have seven pounds left. Seven pounds! He was thankfulhe had been able to pay. It would have been horrible to be obliged toconfess to Macalister that he had not the money. He was dressing in theeye-department during the summer session, and he had bought anophthalmoscope off a student who had one to sell. He had not paid forthis, but he lacked the courage to tell the student that he wanted to goback on his bargain. Also he had to buy certain books. He had about fivepounds to go on with. It lasted him six weeks; then he wrote to his unclea letter which he thought very business-like; he said that owing to thewar he had had grave losses and could not go on with his studies unlesshis uncle came to his help. He suggested that the Vicar should lend him ahundred and fifty pounds paid over the next eighteen months in monthlyinstalments; he would pay interest on this and promised to refund thecapital by degrees when he began to earn money. He would be qualified ina year and a half at the latest, and he could be pretty sure then ofgetting an assistantship at three pounds a week. His uncle wrote back thathe could do nothing. It was not fair to ask him to sell out wheneverything was at its worst, and the little he had he felt that his dutyto himself made it necessary for him to keep in case of illness. He endedthe letter with a little homily. He had warned Philip time after time, andPhilip had never paid any attention to him; he could not honestly say hewas surprised; he had long expected that this would be the end of Philip'sextravagance and want of balance. Philip grew hot and cold when he readthis. It had never occurred to him that his uncle would refuse, and heburst into furious anger; but this was succeeded by utter blankness: ifhis uncle would not help him he could not go on at the hospital. Panicseized him and, putting aside his pride, he wrote again to the Vicar ofBlackstable, placing the case before him more urgently; but perhaps he didnot explain himself properly and his uncle did not realise in whatdesperate straits he was, for he answered that he could not change hismind; Philip was twenty-five and really ought to be earning his living.When he died Philip would come into a little, but till then he refused togive him a penny. Philip felt in the letter the satisfaction of a man whofor many years had disapproved of his courses and now saw himselfjustified.