Of Human Bondage (94 page)

  "I'd sooner starve," Philip muttered to himself.

  Once or twice the possibility of suicide presented
itself to him; it would be easy to get something from the hospital
dispensary, and it was a comfort to think that if the worst came to
the worst he had at hand means of making a painless end of himself;
but it was not a course that he considered seriously. When Mildred
had left him to go with Griffiths his anguish had been so great
that he wanted to die in order to get rid of the pain. He did not
feel like that now. He remembered that the Casualty Sister had told
him how people oftener did away with themselves for want of money
than for want of love; and he chuckled when he thought that he was
an exception. He wished only that he could talk his worries over
with somebody, but he could not bring himself to confess them. He
was ashamed. He went on looking for work. He left his rent unpaid
for three weeks, explaining to his landlady that he would get money
at the end of the month; she did not say anything, but pursed her
lips and looked grim. When the end of the month came and she asked
if it would be convenient for him to pay something on account, it
made him feel very sick to say that he could not; he told her he
would write to his uncle and was sure to be able to settle his bill
on the following Saturday.

  "Well, I 'ope you will, Mr. Carey, because I 'ave my
rent to pay, and I can't afford to let accounts run on." She did
not speak with anger, but with determination that was rather
frightening. She paused for a moment and then said: "If you don't
pay next Saturday, I shall 'ave to complain to the secretary of the
'ospital."

  "Oh yes, that'll be all right."

  She looked at him for a little and glanced round the
bare room. When she spoke it was without any emphasis, as though it
were quite a natural thing to say.

  "I've got a nice 'ot joint downstairs, and if you
like to come down to the kitchen you're welcome to a bit of
dinner."

  Philip felt himself redden to the soles of his feet,
and a sob caught at his throat.

  "Thank you very much, Mrs. Higgins, but I'm not at
all hungry."

  "Very good, sir."

  When she left the room Philip threw himself on his
bed. He had to clench his fists in order to prevent himself from
crying.

  Saturday. It was the day on which he had promised to
pay his landlady. He had been expecting something to turn up all
through the week. He had found no work. He had never been driven to
extremities before, and he was so dazed that he did not know what
to do. He had at the back of his mind a feeling that the whole
thing was a preposterous joke. He had no more than a few coppers
left, he had sold all the clothes he could do without; he had some
books and one or two odds and ends upon which he might have got a
shilling or two, but the landlady was keeping an eye on his comings
and goings: he was afraid she would stop him if he took anything
more from his room. The only thing was to tell her that he could
not pay his bill. He had not the courage. It was the middle of
June. The night was fine and warm. He made up his mind to stay out.
He walked slowly along the Chelsea Embankment, because the river
was restful and quiet, till he was tired, and then sat on a bench
and dozed. He did not know how long he slept; he awoke with a
start, dreaming that he was being shaken by a policeman and told to
move on; but when he opened his eyes he found himself alone. He
walked on, he did not know why, and at last came to Chiswick, where
he slept again. Presently the hardness of the bench roused him. The
night seemed very long. He shivered. He was seized with a sense of
his misery; and he did not know what on earth to do: he was ashamed
at having slept on the Embankment; it seemed peculiarly
humiliating, and he felt his cheeks flush in the darkness. He
remembered stories he had heard of those who did and how among them
were officers, clergymen, and men who had been to universities: he
wondered if he would become one of them, standing in a line to get
soup from a charitable institution. It would be much better to
commit suicide. He could not go on like that: Lawson would help him
when he knew what straits he was in; it was absurd to let his pride
prevent him from asking for assistance. He wondered why he had come
such a cropper. He had always tried to do what he thought best, and
everything had gone wrong. He had helped people when he could, he
did not think he had been more selfish than anyone else, it seemed
horribly unjust that he should be reduced to such a pass.

  But it was no good thinking about it. He walked on.
It was now light: the river was beautiful in the silence, and there
was something mysterious in the early day; it was going to be very
fine, and the sky, pale in the dawn, was cloudless. He felt very
tired, and hunger was gnawing at his entrails, but he could not sit
still; he was constantly afraid of being spoken to by a policeman.
He dreaded the mortification of that. He felt dirty and wished he
could have a wash. At last he found himself at Hampton Court. He
felt that if he did not have something to eat he would cry. He
chose a cheap eating-house and went in; there was a smell of hot
things, and it made him feel slightly sick: he meant to eat
something nourishing enough to keep up for the rest of the day, but
his stomach revolted at the sight of food. He had a cup of tea and
some bread and butter. He remembered then that it was Sunday and he
could go to the Athelnys; he thought of the roast beef and the
Yorkshire pudding they would eat; but he was fearfully tired and
could not face the happy, noisy family. He was feeling morose and
wretched. He wanted to be left alone. He made up his mind that he
would go into the gardens of the palace and lie down. His bones
ached. Perhaps he would find a pump so that he could wash his hands
and face and drink something; he was very thirsty; and now that he
was no longer hungry he thought with pleasure of the flowers and
the lawns and the great leafy trees. He felt that there he could
think out better what he must do. He lay on the grass, in the
shade, and lit his pipe. For economy's sake he had for a long time
confined himself to two pipes a day; he was thankful now that his
pouch was full. He did not know what people did when they had no
money. Presently he fell asleep. When he awoke it was nearly
mid-day, and he thought that soon he must be setting out for London
so as to be there in the early morning and answer any
advertisements which seemed to promise. He thought of his uncle,
who had told him that he would leave him at his death the little he
had; Philip did not in the least know how much this was: it could
not be more than a few hundred pounds. He wondered whether he could
raise money on the reversion. Not without the old man's consent,
and that he would never give.

  "The only thing I can do is to hang on somehow till
he dies."

  Philip reckoned his age. The Vicar of Blackstable
was well over seventy. He had chronic bronchitis, but many old men
had that and lived on indefinitely. Meanwhile something must turn
up; Philip could not get away from the feeling that his position
was altogether abnormal; people in his particular station did not
starve. It was because he could not bring himself to believe in the
reality of his experience that he did not give way to utter
despair. He made up his mind to borrow half a sovereign from
Lawson. He stayed in the garden all day and smoked when he felt
very hungry; he did not mean to eat anything until he was setting
out again for London: it was a long way and he must keep up his
strength for that. He started when the day began to grow cooler,
and slept on benches when he was tired. No one disturbed him. He
had a wash and brush up, and a shave at Victoria, some tea and
bread and butter, and while he was eating this read the
advertisement columns of the morning paper. As he looked down them
his eye fell upon an announcement asking for a salesman in the
`furnishing drapery' department of some well-known stores. He had a
curious little sinking of the heart, for with his middle-class
prejudices it seemed dreadful to go into a shop; but he shrugged
his shoulders, after all what did it matter? and he made up his
mind to have a shot at it. He had a queer feeling that by accepting
every humiliation, by going out to meet it even, he was forcing the
hand of fate. When he presented himself, feeling horribly shy, in
the department at nine o'clock he found that many others were there
before him. They were of all ages, from boys of sixteen to men of
forty; some were talking to one another in undertones, but most
were silent; and when he took up his place those around him gave
him a look of hostility. He heard one man say:

  "The only thing I look forward to is getting my
refusal soon enough to give me time to look elsewhere."

  The man, standing next him, glanced at Philip and
asked:

  "Had any experience?"

  "No," said Philip.

  He paused a moment and then made a remark: "Even the
smaller houses won't see you without appointment after lunch."

  Philip looked at the assistants. Some were draping
chintzes and cretonnes, and others, his neighbour told him were
preparing country orders that had come in by post. At about a
quarter past nine the buyer arrived. He heard one of the men who
were waiting say to another that it was Mr. Gibbons. He was
middle-aged, short and corpulent, with a black beard and dark,
greasy hair. He had brisk movements and a clever face. He wore a
silk hat and a frock coat, the lapel of which was adorned with a
white geranium surrounded by leaves. He went into his office,
leaving the door open; it was very small and contained only an
American roll-desk in the corner, a bookcase, and a cupboard. The
men standing outside watched him mechanically take the geranium out
of his coat and put it in an ink-pot filled with water. It was
against the rules to wear flowers in business.

  [During the day the department men who wanted to
keep in with the governor admired the flower.

  "I've never seen better," they said, "you didn't
grow it yourself?"

  "Yes I did," he smiled, and a gleam of pride filled
his intelligent eyes.]

  He took off his hat and changed his coat, glanced at
the letters and then at the men who were waiting to see him. He
made a slight sign with one finger, and the first in the queue
stepped into the office. They filed past him one by one and
answered his questions. He put them very briefly, keeping his eyes
fixed on the applicant's face.

  "Age? Experience? Why did you leave your job?"

  He listened to the replies without expression. When
it came to Philip's turn he fancied that Mr. Gibbons stared at him
curiously. Philip's clothes were neat and tolerably cut. He looked
a little different from the others.

  "Experience?"

  "I'm afraid I haven't any," said Philip.

  "No good."

  Philip walked out of the office. The ordeal had been
so much less painful than he expected that he felt no particular
disappointment. He could hardly hope to succeed in getting a place
the first time he tried. He had kept the newspaper and now looked
at the advertisements again: a shop in Holborn needed a salesman
too, and he went there; but when he arrived he found that someone
had already been engaged. If he wanted to get anything to eat that
day he must go to Lawson's studio before he went out to luncheon,
so he made his way along the Brompton Road to Yeoman's Row.

  "I say, I'm rather broke till the end of the month,"
he said as soon as he found an opportunity. "I wish you'd lend me
half a sovereign, will you?"

  It was incredible the difficulty he found in asking
for money; and he remembered the casual way, as though almost they
were conferring a favour, men at the hospital had extracted small
sums out of him which they had no intention of repaying.

  "Like a shot," said Lawson.