Philip began to pawn his clothes. He reduced his expenses by eating
only one meal a day beside his breakfast; and he ate it, bread and
butter and cocoa, at four so that it should last him till next morning.
He was so hungry by nine o’clock that he had to go to bed. He thought
of borrowing money from Lawson, but the fear of a refusal held him
back; at last he asked him for five pounds. Lawson lent it with
pleasure, but, as he did so, said:
“You’ll let me have it back in a week or so, won’t you? I’ve got to pay
my framer, and I’m awfully broke just now.”
Philip knew he would not be able to return it, and the thought of what
Lawson would think made him so ashamed that in a couple of days he took
the money back untouched. Lawson was just going out to luncheon and
asked Philip to come too. Philip could hardly eat, he was so glad to
get some solid food. On Sunday he was sure of a good dinner from
Athelny. He hesitated to tell the Athelnys what had happened to him:
they had always looked upon him as comparatively well-to-do, and he had
a dread that they would think less well of him if they knew he was
penniless.
Though he had always been poor, the possibility of not having enough to
eat had never occurred to him; it was not the sort of thing that
happened to the people among whom he lived; and he was as ashamed as if
he had some disgraceful disease. The situation in which he found
himself was quite outside the range of his experience. He was so taken
aback that he did not know what else to do than to go on at the
hospital; he had a vague hope that something would turn up; he could
not quite believe that what was happening to him was true; and he
remembered how during his first term at school he had often thought his
life was a dream from which he would awake to find himself once more at
home. But very soon he foresaw that in a week or so he would have no
money at all. He must set about trying to earn something at once. If he
had been qualified, even with a club-foot, he could have gone out to
the Cape, since the demand for medical men was now great. Except for
his deformity he might have enlisted in one of the yeomanry regiments
which were constantly being sent out. He went to the secretary of the
Medical School and asked if he could give him the coaching of some
backward student; but the secretary held out no hope of getting him
anything of the sort. Philip read the advertisement columns of the
medical papers, and he applied for the post of unqualified assistant to
a man who had a dispensary in the Fulham Road. When he went to see him,
he saw the doctor glance at his club-foot; and on hearing that Philip
was only in his fourth year at the hospital he said at once that his
experience was insufficient: Philip understood that this was only an
excuse; the man would not have an assistant who might not be as active
as he wanted. Philip turned his attention to other means of earning
money. He knew French and German and thought there might be some chance
of finding a job as correspondence clerk; it made his heart sink, but
he set his teeth; there was nothing else to do. Though too shy to
answer the advertisements which demanded a personal application, he
replied to those which asked for letters; but he had no experience to
state and no recommendations: he was conscious that neither his German
nor his French was commercial; he was ignorant of the terms used in
business; he knew neither shorthand nor typewriting. He could not help
recognising that his case was hopeless. He thought of writing to the
solicitor who had been his father’s executor, but he could not bring
himself to, for it was contrary to his express advice that he had sold
the mortgages in which his money had been invested. He knew from his
uncle that Mr. Nixon thoroughly disapproved of him. He had gathered
from Philip’s year in the accountant’s office that he was idle and
incompetent.
“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.
C
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.
But when he put his hand in his pocket he found that he had only eight
shillings. Philip’s heart sank.
“Oh well, lend me five bob, will you?” he said lightly.
“Here you are.”
Philip went to the public baths in Westminster and spent sixpence on a
bath. Then he got himself something to eat. He did not know what to do
with himself in the afternoon. He would not go back to the hospital in
case anyone should ask him questions, and besides, he had nothing to do
there now; they would wonder in the two or three departments he had
worked in why he did not come, but they must think what they chose, it
did not matter: he would not be the first student who had dropped out
without warning. He went to the free library, and looked at the papers
till they wearied him, then he took out Stevenson’s New Arabian Nights;
but he found he could not read: the words meant nothing to him, and he
continued to brood over his helplessness. He kept on thinking the same
things all the time, and the fixity of his thoughts made his head ache.
At last, craving for fresh air, he went into the Green Park and lay
down on the grass. He thought miserably of his deformity, which made it
impossible for him to go to the war. He went to sleep and dreamt that
he was suddenly sound of foot and out at the Cape in a regiment of
Yeomanry; the pictures he had looked at in the illustrated papers gave
materials for his fancy; and he saw himself on the Veldt, in khaki,
sitting with other men round a fire at night. When he awoke he found
that it was still quite light, and presently he heard Big Ben strike
seven. He had twelve hours to get through with nothing to do. He
dreaded the interminable night. The sky was overcast and he feared it
would rain; he would have to go to a lodging-house where he could get a
bed; he had seen them advertised on lamps outside houses in Lambeth:
Good Beds sixpence; he had never been inside one, and dreaded the foul
smell and the vermin. He made up his mind to stay in the open air if he
possibly could. He remained in the park till it was closed and then
began to walk about. He was very tired. The thought came to him that an
accident would be a piece of luck, so that he could be taken to a
hospital and lie there, in a clean bed, for weeks. At midnight he was
so hungry that he could not go without food any more, so he went to a
coffee stall at Hyde Park Corner and ate a couple of potatoes and had a
cup of coffee. Then he walked again. He felt too restless to sleep, and
he had a horrible dread of being moved on by the police. He noted that
he was beginning to look upon the constable from quite a new angle.
This was the third night he had spent out. Now and then he sat on the
benches in Piccadilly and towards morning he strolled down to The
Embankment. He listened to the striking of Big Ben, marking every
quarter of an hour, and reckoned out how long it left till the city
woke again. In the morning he spent a few coppers on making himself
neat and clean, bought a paper to read the advertisements, and set out
once more on the search for work.
He went on in this way for several days. He had very little food and
began to feel weak and ill, so that he had hardly enough energy to go
on looking for the work which seemed so desperately hard to find. He
was growing used now to the long waiting at the back of a shop on the
chance that he would be taken on, and the curt dismissal. He walked to
all parts of London in answer to the advertisements, and he came to
know by sight men who applied as fruitlessly as himself. One or two
tried to make friends with him, but he was too tired and too wretched
to accept their advances. He did not go any more to Lawson, because he
owed him five shillings. He began to be too dazed to think clearly and
ceased very much to care what would happen to him. He cried a good
deal. At first he was very angry with himself for this and ashamed, but
he found it relieved him, and somehow made him feel less hungry. In the
very early morning he suffered a good deal from cold. One night he went
into his room to change his linen; he slipped in about three, when he
was quite sure everyone would be asleep, and out again at five; he lay
on the bed and its softness was enchanting; all his bones ached, and as
he lay he revelled in the pleasure of it; it was so delicious that he
did not want to go to sleep. He was growing used to want of food and
did not feel very hungry, but only weak. Constantly now at the back of
his mind was the thought of doing away with himself, but he used all
the strength he had not to dwell on it, because he was afraid the
temptation would get hold of him so that he would not be able to help
himself. He kept on saying to himself that it would be absurd to commit
suicide, since something must happen soon; he could not get over the
impression that his situation was too preposterous to be taken quite
seriously; it was like an illness which must be endured but from which
he was bound to recover. Every night he swore that nothing would induce
him to put up with such another and determined next morning to write to
his uncle, or to Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, or to Lawson; but when the
time came he could not bring himself to make the humiliating confession
of his utter failure. He did not know how Lawson would take it. In
their friendship Lawson had been scatter-brained and he had prided
himself on his common sense. He would have to tell the whole history of
his folly. He had an uneasy feeling that Lawson, after helping him,
would turn the cold shoulder on him. His uncle and the solicitor would
of course do something for him, but he dreaded their reproaches. He did
not want anyone to reproach him: he clenched his teeth and repeated
that what had happened was inevitable just because it had happened.
Regret was absurd.
The days were unending, and the five shillings Lawson had lent him
would not last much longer. Philip longed for Sunday to come so that he
could go to Athelny’s. He did not know what prevented him from going
there sooner, except perhaps that he wanted so badly to get through on
his own; for Athelny, who had been in straits as desperate, was the
only person who could do anything for him. Perhaps after dinner he
could bring himself to tell Athelny that he was in difficulties. Philip
repeated to himself over and over again what he should say to him. He
was dreadfully afraid that Athelny would put him off with airy phrases:
that would be so horrible that he wanted to delay as long as possible
the putting of him to the test. Philip had lost all confidence in his
fellows.
Saturday night was cold and raw. Philip suffered horribly. From midday
on Saturday till he dragged himself wearily to Athelny’s house he ate
nothing. He spent his last twopence on Sunday morning on a wash and a
brush up in the lavatory at Charing Cross.