Chapter CXVI

by William Somerset Maugham

　　During his last year at St. Luke's Philip had to work hard. He wascontented with life. He found it very comfortable to be heart-free and tohave enough money for his needs. He had heard people speak contemptuouslyof money: he wondered if they had ever tried to do without it. He knewthat the lack made a man petty, mean, grasping; it distorted his characterand caused him to view the world from a vulgar angle; when you had toconsider every penny, money became of grotesque importance: you needed acompetency to rate it at its proper value. He lived a solitary life,seeing no one except the Athelnys, but he was not lonely; he busiedhimself with plans for the future, and sometimes he thought of the past.His recollection dwelt now and then on old friends, but he made no effortto see them. He would have liked to know what was become of Norah Nesbit;she was Norah something else now, but he could not remember the name ofthe man she was going to marry; he was glad to have known her: she was agood and a brave soul. One evening about half past eleven he saw Lawson,walking along Piccadilly; he was in evening clothes and might be supposedto be coming back from a theatre. Philip gave way to a sudden impulse andquickly turned down a side street. He had not seen him for two years andfelt that he could not now take up again the interrupted friendship. Heand Lawson had nothing more to say to one another. Philip was no longerinterested in art; it seemed to him that he was able to enjoy beauty withgreater force than when he was a boy; but art appeared to him unimportant.He was occupied with the forming of a pattern out of the manifold chaos oflife, and the materials with which he worked seemed to make preoccupationwith pigments and words very trivial. Lawson had served his turn. Philip'sfriendship with him had been a motive in the design he was elaborating: itwas merely sentimental to ignore the fact that the painter was of nofurther interest to him.Sometimes Philip thought of Mildred. He avoided deliberately the streetsin which there was a chance of seeing her; but occasionally some feeling,perhaps curiosity, perhaps something deeper which he would notacknowledge, made him wander about Piccadilly and Regent Street during thehours when she might be expected to be there. He did not know then whetherhe wished to see her or dreaded it. Once he saw a back which reminded himof hers, and for a moment he thought it was she; it gave him a curioussensation: it was a strange sharp pain in his heart, there was fear in itand a sickening dismay; and when he hurried on and found that he wasmistaken he did not know whether it was relief that he experienced ordisappointment.At the beginning of August Philip passed his surgery, his lastexamination, and received his diploma. It was seven years since he hadentered St. Luke's Hospital. He was nearly thirty. He walked down thestairs of the Royal College of Surgeons with the roll in his hand whichqualified him to practice, and his heart beat with satisfaction."Now I'm really going to begin life," he thought.Next day he went to the secretary's office to put his name down for one ofthe hospital appointments. The secretary was a pleasant little man with ablack beard, whom Philip had always found very affable. He congratulatedhim on his success, and then said:"I suppose you wouldn't like to do a locum for a month on the South coast?Three guineas a week with board and lodging.""I wouldn't mind," said Philip."It's at Farnley, in Dorsetshire. Doctor South. You'd have to go down atonce; his assistant has developed mumps. I believe it's a very pleasantplace."There was something in the secretary's manner that puzzled Philip. It wasa little doubtful."What's the crab in it?" he asked.The secretary hesitated a moment and laughed in a conciliating fashion."Well, the fact is, I understand he's rather a crusty, funny old fellow.The agencies won't send him anyone any more. He speaks his mind veryopenly, and men don't like it.""But d'you think he'll be satisfied with a man who's only just qualified?After all I have no experience.""He ought to be glad to get you," said the secretary diplomatically.Philip thought for a moment. He had nothing to do for the next few weeks,and he was glad of the chance to earn a bit of money. He could put itaside for the holiday in Spain which he had promised himself when he hadfinished his appointment at St. Luke's or, if they would not give himanything there, at some other hospital."All right. I'll go.""The only thing is, you must go this afternoon. Will that suit you? If so,I'll send a wire at once."Philip would have liked a few days to himself; but he had seen theAthelnys the night before (he had gone at once to take them his good news)and there was really no reason why he should not start immediately. He hadlittle luggage to pack. Soon after seven that evening he got out of thestation at Farnley and took a cab to Doctor South's. It was a broad lowstucco house, with a Virginia creeper growing over it. He was shown intothe consulting-room. An old man was writing at a desk. He looked up as themaid ushered Philip in. He did not get up, and he did not speak; he merelystared at Philip. Philip was taken aback."I think you're expecting me," he said. "The secretary of St. Luke's wiredto you this morning.""I kept dinner back for half an hour. D'you want to wash?""I do," said Philip.Doctor South amused him by his odd manner. He got up now, and Philip sawthat he was a man of middle height, thin, with white hair cut very shortand a long mouth closed so tightly that he seemed to have no lips at all;he was clean-shaven but for small white whiskers, and they increased thesquareness of face which his firm jaw gave him. He wore a brown tweed suitand a white stock. His clothes hung loosely about him as though they hadbeen made for a much larger man. He looked like a respectable farmer ofthe middle of the nineteenth century. He opened the door."There is the dining-room," he said, pointing to the door opposite. "Yourbed-room is the first door you come to when you get on the landing. Comedownstairs when you're ready."During dinner Philip knew that Doctor South was examining him, but hespoke little, and Philip felt that he did not want to hear his assistanttalk."When were you qualified?" he asked suddenly."Yesterday.""Were you at a university?""No.""Last year when my assistant took a holiday they sent me a 'Varsity man.I told 'em not to do it again. Too damned gentlemanly for me."There was another pause. The dinner was very simple and very good. Philippreserved a sedate exterior, but in his heart he was bubbling over withexcitement. He was immensely elated at being engaged as a locum; it madehim feel extremely grown up; he had an insane desire to laugh at nothingin particular; and the more he thought of his professional dignity themore he was inclined to chuckle.But Doctor South broke suddenly into his thoughts. "How old are you?""Getting on for thirty.""How is it you're only just qualified?""I didn't go in for the medical till I was nearly twenty-three, and I hadto give it up for two years in the middle.""Why?""Poverty."Doctor South gave him an odd look and relapsed into silence. At the end ofdinner he got up from the table."D'you know what sort of a practice this is?""No," answered Philip."Mostly fishermen and their families. I have the Union and the Seamen'sHospital. I used to be alone here, but since they tried to make this intoa fashionable sea-side resort a man has set up on the cliff, and thewell-to-do people go to him. I only have those who can't afford to pay fora doctor at all."Philip saw that the rivalry was a sore point with the old man."You know that I have no experience," said Philip."You none of you know anything."He walked out of the room without another word and left Philip by himself.When the maid came in to clear away she told Philip that Doctor South sawpatients from six till seven. Work for that night was over. Philip fetcheda book from his room, lit his pipe, and settled himself down to read. Itwas a great comfort, since he had read nothing but medical books for thelast few months. At ten o'clock Doctor South came in and looked at him.Philip hated not to have his feet up, and he had dragged up a chair forthem."You seem able to make yourself pretty comfortable," said Doctor South,with a grimness which would have disturbed Philip if he had not been insuch high spirits.Philip's eyes twinkled as he answered."Have you any objection?"Doctor South gave him a look, but did not reply directly."What's that you're reading?""Peregrine Pickle. Smollett.""I happen to know that Smollett wrote Peregrine Pickle.""I beg your pardon. Medical men aren't much interested in literature, arethey?"Philip had put the book down on the table, and Doctor South took it up. Itwas a volume of an edition which had belonged to the Vicar of Blackstable.It was a thin book bound in faded morocco, with a copperplate engraving asa frontispiece; the pages were musty with age and stained with mould.Philip, without meaning to, started forward a little as Doctor South tookthe volume in his hands, and a slight smile came into his eyes. Verylittle escaped the old doctor."Do I amuse you?" he asked icily."I see you're fond of books. You can always tell by the way people handlethem."Doctor South put down the novel immediately."Breakfast at eight-thirty," he said and left the room."What a funny old fellow!" thought Philip.He soon discovered why Doctor South's assistants found it difficult to geton with him. In the first place, he set his face firmly against all thediscoveries of the last thirty years: he had no patience with the drugswhich became modish, were thought to work marvellous cures, and in a fewyears were discarded; he had stock mixtures which he had brought from St.Luke's where he had been a student, and had used all his life; he foundthem just as efficacious as anything that had come into fashion since.Philip was startled at Doctor South's suspicion of asepsis; he hadaccepted it in deference to universal opinion; but he used the precautionswhich Philip had known insisted upon so scrupulously at the hospital withthe disdainful tolerance of a man playing at soldiers with children."I've seen antiseptics come along and sweep everything before them, andthen I've seen asepsis take their place. Bunkum!"The young men who were sent down to him knew only hospital practice; andthey came with the unconcealed scorn for the General Practitioner whichthey had absorbed in the air at the hospital; but they had seen only thecomplicated cases which appeared in the wards; they knew how to treat anobscure disease of the suprarenal bodies, but were helpless when consultedfor a cold in the head. Their knowledge was theoretical and theirself-assurance unbounded. Doctor South watched them with tightened lips;he took a savage pleasure in showing them how great was their ignoranceand how unjustified their conceit. It was a poor practice, of fishingfolk, and the doctor made up his own prescriptions. Doctor South asked hisassistant how he expected to make both ends meet if he gave a fishermanwith a stomach-ache a mixture consisting of half a dozen expensive drugs.He complained too that the young medical men were uneducated: theirreading consisted of The Sporting Times and The British MedicalJournal; they could neither write a legible hand nor spell correctly. Fortwo or three days Doctor South watched Philip closely, ready to fall onhim with acid sarcasm if he gave him the opportunity; and Philip, aware ofthis, went about his work with a quiet sense of amusement. He was pleasedwith the change of occupation. He liked the feeling of independence and ofresponsibility. All sorts of people came to the consulting-room. He wasgratified because he seemed able to inspire his patients with confidence;and it was entertaining to watch the process of cure which at a hospitalnecessarily could be watched only at distant intervals. His rounds tookhim into low-roofed cottages in which were fishing tackle and sails andhere and there mementoes of deep-sea travelling, a lacquer box from Japan,spears and oars from Melanesia, or daggers from the bazaars of Stamboul;there was an air of romance in the stuffy little rooms, and the salt ofthe sea gave them a bitter freshness. Philip liked to talk to thesailor-men, and when they found that he was not supercilious they told himlong yarns of the distant journeys of their youth.Once or twice he made a mistake in diagnosis: (he had never seen a case ofmeasles before, and when he was confronted with the rash took it for anobscure disease of the skin;) and once or twice his ideas of treatmentdiffered from Doctor South's. The first time this happened Doctor Southattacked him with savage irony; but Philip took it with good humour; hehad some gift for repartee, and he made one or two answers which causedDoctor South to stop and look at him curiously. Philip's face was grave,but his eyes were twinkling. The old gentleman could not avoid theimpression that Philip was chaffing him. He was used to being disliked andfeared by his assistants, and this was a new experience. He had half amind to fly into a passion and pack Philip off by the next train, he haddone that before with his assistants; but he had an uneasy feeling thatPhilip then would simply laugh at him outright; and suddenly he feltamused. His mouth formed itself into a smile against his will, and heturned away. In a little while he grew conscious that Philip was amusinghimself systematically at his expense. He was taken aback at first andthen diverted."Damn his impudence," he chuckled to himself. "Damn his impudence."