Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  “I don’t know how they’re going to feed ’em.”

  “Maybe the Lord’ll see fit to take ’em to ‘imself,” said the midwife.

  Philip caught sight of the husband’s face as he looked at the tiny pair lying side by side, and there was a ferocious sullenness in it which startled him. He felt in the family assembled there a hideous resentment against those poor atoms who had come into the world unwished for; and he had a suspicion that if he did not speak firmly an ‘accident’ would occur. Accidents occurred often; mothers ‘overlay’ their babies, and perhaps errors of diet were not always the result of carelessness.

  “I shall come every day,” he said. “I warn you that if anything happens to them there’ll have to be an inquest.”

  The father made no reply, but he gave Philip a scowl. There was murder in his soul.

  “Bless their little ‘earts,” said the grandmother, “what should ‘appen to them?”

  The great difficulty was to keep the mothers in bed for ten days, which was the minimum upon which the hospital practice insisted. It was awkward to look after the family, no one would see to the children without payment, and the husband tumbled because his tea was not right when he came home tired from his work and hungry. Philip had heard that the poor helped one another, but woman after woman complained to him that she could not get anyone in to clean up and see to the children’s dinner without paying for the service, and she could not afford to pay. By listening to the women as they talked and by chance remarks from which he could deduce much that was left unsaid, Philip learned how little there was in common between the poor and the classes above them. They did not envy their betters, for the life was too different, and they had an ideal of ease which made the existence of the middle-classes seem formal and stiff; moreover, they had a certain contempt for them because they were soft and did not work with their hands. The proud merely wished to be left alone, but the majority looked upon the well-to-do as people to be exploited; they knew what to say in order to get such advantages as the charitable put at their disposal, and they accepted benefits as a right which came to them from the folly of their superiors and their own astuteness. They bore the curate with contemptuous indifference, but the district visitor excited their bitter hatred. She came in and opened your windows without so much as a by your leave or with your leave, ‘and me with my bronchitis, enough to give me my death of cold;’ she poked her nose into corners, and if she didn’t say the place was dirty you saw what she thought right enough, ‘an’ it’s all very well for them as ‘as servants, but I’d like to see what she’d make of ‘er room if she ‘ad four children, and ‘ad to do the cookin’, and mend their clothes, and wash them.’

  Philip discovered that the greatest tragedy of life to these people was not separation or death, that was natural and the grief of it could be assuaged with tears, but loss of work. He saw a man come home one afternoon, three days after his wife’s confinement, and tell her he had been dismissed; he was a builder and at that time work was slack; he stated the fact, and sat down to his tea.

  “Oh, Jim,” she said.

  The man ate stolidly some mess which had been stewing in a sauce-pan against his coming; he stared at his plate; his wife looked at him two or three times, with little startled glances, and then quite silently began to cry. The builder was an uncouth little fellow with a rough, weather-beaten face and a long white scar on his forehead; he had large, stubbly hands. Presently he pushed aside his plate as if he must give up the effort to force himself to eat, and turned a fixed gaze out of the window. The room was at the top of the house, at the back, and one saw nothing but sullen clouds. The silence seemed heavy with despair. Philip felt that there was nothing to be said, he could only go; and as he walked away wearily, for he had been up most of the night, his heart was filled with rage against the cruelty of the world. He knew the hopelessness of the search for work and the desolation which is harder to bear than hunger. He was thankful not to have to believe in God, for then such a condition of things would be intolerable; one could reconcile oneself to existence only because it was meaningless.

  It seemed to Philip that the people who spent their time in helping the poorer classes erred because they sought to remedy things which would harass them if themselves had to endure them without thinking that they did not in the least disturb those who were used to them. The poor did not want large airy rooms; they suffered from cold, for their food was not nourishing and their circulation bad; space gave them a feeling of chilliness, and they wanted to burn as little coal as need be; there was no hardship for several to sleep in one room, they preferred it; they were never alone for a moment, from the time they were born to the time they died, and loneliness oppressed them; they enjoyed the promiscuity in which they dwelt, and the constant noise of their surroundings pressed upon their ears unnoticed. They did not feel the need of taking a bath constantly, and Philip often heard them speak with indignation of the necessity to do so with which they were faced on entering the hospital: it was both an affront and a discomfort. They wanted chiefly to be left alone; then if the man was in regular work life went easily and was not without its pleasures: there was plenty of time for gossip, after the day’s work a glass of beer was very good to drink, the streets were a constant source of entertainment, if you wanted to read there was Reynolds’ or The News of the World; ‘but there, you couldn’t make out ‘ow the time did fly, the truth was and that’s a fact, you was a rare one for reading when you was a girl, but what with one thing and another you didn’t get no time now not even to read the paper.’

  The usual practice was to pay three visits after a confinement, and one Sunday Philip went to see a patient at the dinner hour. She was up for the first time.

  “I couldn’t stay in bed no longer, I really couldn’t. I’m not one for idling, and it gives me the fidgets to be there and do nothing all day long, so I said to ‘Erb, I’m just going to get up and cook your dinner for you.”

  ‘Erb was sitting at table with his knife and fork already in his hands. He was a young man, with an open face and blue eyes. He was earning good money, and as things went the couple were in easy circumstances. They had only been married a few months, and were both delighted with the rosy boy who lay in the cradle at the foot of the bed. There was a savoury smell of beefsteak in the room and Philip’s eyes turned to the range.

  “I was just going to dish up this minute,” said the woman.

  “Fire away,” said Philip. “I’ll just have a look at the son and heir and then I’ll take myself off.”

  Husband and wife laughed at Philip’s expression, and ‘Erb getting up went over with Philip to the cradle. He looked at his baby proudly.

  “There doesn’t seem much wrong with him, does there?” said Philip.

  He took up his hat, and by this time ‘Erb’s wife had dished up the beefsteak and put on the table a plate of green peas.

  “You’re going to have a nice dinner,” smiled Philip.

  “He’s only in of a Sunday and I like to ‘ave something special for him, so as he shall miss his ‘ome when he’s out at work.”

  “I suppose you’d be above sittin’ down and ‘avin’ a bit of dinner with us?” said ‘Erb.

  “Oh, ‘Erb,” said his wife, in a shocked tone.

  “Not if you ask me,” answered Philip, with his attractive smile.

  “Well, that’s what I call friendly, I knew ‘e wouldn’t take offence,

  Polly. Just get another plate, my girl.”

  Polly was flustered, and she thought ‘Erb a regular caution, you never knew what ideas ‘e’d get in ‘is ‘ead next; but she got a plate and wiped it quickly with her apron, then took a new knife and fork from the chest of drawers, where her best cutlery rested among her best clothes. There was a jug of stout on the table, and ‘Erb poured Philip out a glass. He wanted to give him the lion’s share of the beefsteak, but Philip insisted that they should share alike. It was a sunny room with two windows that reached to the f
loor; it had been the parlour of a house which at one time was if not fashionable at least respectable: it might have been inhabited fifty years before by a well-to-do tradesman or an officer on half pay. ‘Erb had been a football player before he married, and there were photographs on the wall of various teams in self-conscious attitudes, with neatly plastered hair, the captain seated proudly in the middle holding a cup. There were other signs of prosperity: photographs of the relations of ‘Erb and his wife in Sunday clothes; on the chimney-piece an elaborate arrangement of shells stuck on a miniature rock; and on each side mugs, ‘A present from Southend’ in Gothic letters, with pictures of a pier and a parade on them. ‘Erb was something of a character; he was a non-union man and expressed himself with indignation at the efforts of the union to force him to join. The union wasn’t no good to him, he never found no difficulty in getting work, and there was good wages for anyone as ‘ad a head on his shoulders and wasn’t above puttin’ ‘is ‘and to anything as come ‘is way. Polly was timorous. If she was ‘im she’d join the union, the last time there was a strike she was expectin’ ‘im to be brought back in an ambulance every time he went out. She turned to Philip.

  “He’s that obstinate, there’s no doing anything with ‘im.”

  “Well, what I say is, it’s a free country, and I won’t be dictated to.”

  “It’s no good saying it’s a free country,” said Polly, “that won’t prevent ’em bashin’ your ‘ead in if they get the chanst.”

  When they had finished Philip passed his pouch over to ‘Erb and they lit their pipes; then he got up, for a ‘call’ might be waiting for him at his rooms, and shook hands. He saw that it had given them pleasure that he shared their meal, and they saw that he had thoroughly enjoyed it.

  “Well, good-bye, sir,” said ‘Erb, “and I ‘ope we shall ‘ave as nice a doctor next time the missus disgraces ‘erself.”

  “Go on with you, ‘Erb,” she retorted. “‘Ow d’you know there’s going to be a next time?”

  CXIV

  The three weeks which the appointment lasted drew to an end. Philip had attended sixty-two cases, and he was tired out. When he came home about ten o’clock on his last night he hoped with all his heart that he would not be called out again. He had not had a whole night’s rest for ten days. The case which he had just come from was horrible. He had been fetched by a huge, burly man, the worse for liquor, and taken to a room in an evil-smelling court, which was filthier than any he had seen: it was a tiny attic; most of the space was taken up by a wooden bed, with a canopy of dirty red hangings, and the ceiling was so low that Philip could touch it with the tips of his fingers; with the solitary candle that afforded what light there was he went over it, frizzling up the bugs that crawled upon it. The woman was a blowsy creature of middle age, who had had a long succession of still-born children. It was a story that Philip was not unaccustomed to: the husband had been a soldier in India; the legislation forced upon that country by the prudery of the English public had given a free run to the most distressing of all diseases; the innocent suffered. Yawning, Philip undressed and took a bath, then shook his clothes over the water and watched the animals that fell out wriggling. He was just going to get into bed when there was a knock at the door, and the hospital porter brought him a card.

  “Curse you,” said Philip. “You’re the last person I wanted to see tonight.

  Who’s brought it?”

  “I think it’s the ‘usband, sir. Shall I tell him to wait?”

  Philip looked at the address, saw that the street was familiar to him, and told the porter that he would find his own way. He dressed himself and in five minutes, with his black bag in his hand, stepped into the street. A man, whom he could not see in the darkness, came up to him, and said he was the husband.

  “I thought I’d better wait, sir,” he said. “It’s a pretty rough neighbour’ood, and them not knowing who you was.”

  Philip laughed.

  “Bless your heart, they all know the doctor, I’ve been in some damned sight rougher places than Waver Street.”

  It was quite true. The black bag was a passport through wretched alleys and down foul-smelling courts into which a policeman was not ready to venture by himself. Once or twice a little group of men had looked at Philip curiously as he passed; he heard a mutter of observations and then one say:

  “It’s the ‘orspital doctor.”

  As he went by one or two of them said: “Good-night, sir.”

  “We shall ‘ave to step out if you don’t mind, sir,” said the man who accompanied him now. “They told me there was no time to lose.”

  “Why did you leave it so late?” asked Philip, as he quickened his pace.

  He glanced at the fellow as they passed a lamp-post.

  “You look awfully young,” he said.

  “I’m turned eighteen, sir.”

  He was fair, and he had not a hair on his face, he looked no more than a boy; he was short, but thick set.

  “You’re young to be married,” said Philip.

  “We ‘ad to.”

  “How much d’you earn?”

  “Sixteen, sir.”

  Sixteen shillings a week was not much to keep a wife and child on. The room the couple lived in showed that their poverty was extreme. It was a fair size, but it looked quite large, since there was hardly any furniture in it; there was no carpet on the floor; there were no pictures on the walls; and most rooms had something, photographs or supplements in cheap frames from the Christmas numbers of the illustrated papers. The patient lay on a little iron bed of the cheapest sort. It startled Philip to see how young she was.

  “By Jove, she can’t be more than sixteen,” he said to the woman who had come in to ‘see her through.’

  She had given her age as eighteen on the card, but when they were very young they often put on a year or two. Also she was pretty, which was rare in those classes in which the constitution has been undermined by bad food, bad air, and unhealthy occupations; she had delicate features and large blue eyes, and a mass of dark hair done in the elaborate fashion of the coster girl. She and her husband were very nervous.

  “You’d better wait outside, so as to be at hand if I want you,” Philip said to him.

  Now that he saw him better Philip was surprised again at his boyish air: you felt that he should be larking in the street with the other lads instead of waiting anxiously for the birth of a child. The hours passed, and it was not till nearly two that the baby was born. Everything seemed to be going satisfactorily; the husband was called in, and it touched Philip to see the awkward, shy way in which he kissed his wife; Philip packed up his things. Before going he felt once more his patient’s pulse.

  “Hulloa!” he said.

  He looked at her quickly: something had happened. In cases of emergency the S. O. C. — senior obstetric clerk — had to be sent for; he was a qualified man, and the ‘district’ was in his charge. Philip scribbled a note, and giving it to the husband, told him to run with it to the hospital; he bade him hurry, for his wife was in a dangerous state. The man set off. Philip waited anxiously; he knew the woman was bleeding to death; he was afraid she would die before his chief arrived; he took what steps he could. He hoped fervently that the S. O. C. would not have been called elsewhere. The minutes were interminable. He came at last, and, while he examined the patient, in a low voice asked Philip questions. Philip saw by his face that he thought the case very grave. His name was Chandler. He was a tall man of few words, with a long nose and a thin face much lined for his age. He shook his head.

  “It was hopeless from the beginning. Where’s the husband?”

  “I told him to wait on the stairs,” said Philip.

  “You’d better bring him in.”

  Philip opened the door and called him. He was sitting in the dark on the first step of the flight that led to the next floor. He came up to the bed.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Why, there’s internal bleeding. I
t’s impossible to stop it.” The S. O. C. hesitated a moment, and because it was a painful thing to say he forced his voice to become brusque. “She’s dying.”

  The man did not say a word; he stopped quite still, looking at his wife, who lay, pale and unconscious, on the bed. It was the midwife who spoke.

  “The gentlemen ‘ave done all they could, ‘Arry,” she said. “I saw what was comin’ from the first.”

  “Shut up,” said Chandler.

  There were no curtains on the windows, and gradually the night seemed to lighten; it was not yet the dawn, but the dawn was at hand. Chandler was keeping the woman alive by all the means in his power, but life was slipping away from her, and suddenly she died. The boy who was her husband stood at the end of the cheap iron bed with his hands resting on the rail; he did not speak; but he looked very pale and once or twice Chandler gave him an uneasy glance, thinking he was going to faint: his lips were gray. The midwife sobbed noisily, but he took no notice of her. His eyes were fixed upon his wife, and in them was an utter bewilderment. He reminded you of a dog whipped for something he did not know was wrong. When Chandler and Philip had gathered together their things Chandler turned to the husband.