Of Human Bondage (80 page)

  "I daresay they are killing me. I don't care. You've
warned me, you've done all that was necessary: I ignore your
warning. Give me something to drink and be damned to you."

  Leonard Upjohn blew in two or three times a week,
and there was something of the dead leaf in his appearance which
made the word exactly descriptive of the manner of his appearance.
He was a weedy-looking fellow of five-and-thirty, with long pale
hair and a white face; he had the look of a man who lived too
little in the open air. He wore a hat like a dissenting minister's.
Philip disliked him for his patronising manner and was bored by his
fluent conversation. Leonard Upjohn liked to hear himself talk. He
was not sensitive to the interest of his listeners, which is the
first requisite of the good talker; and he never realised that he
was telling people what they knew already. With measured words he
told Philip what to think of Rodin, Albert Samain, and Caesar
Franck. Philip's charwoman only came in for an hour in the morning,
and since Philip was obliged to be at the hospital all day Cronshaw
was left much alone. Upjohn told Philip that he thought someone
should remain with him, but did not offer to make it possible.

  "It's dreadful to think of that great poet alone.
Why, he might die without a soul at hand."

  "I think he very probably will," said Philip.

  "How can you be so callous!"

  "Why don't you come and do your work here every day,
and then you'd be near if he wanted anything?" asked Philip
drily.

  "I? My dear fellow, I can only work in the
surroundings I'm used to, and besides I go out so much."

  Upjohn was also a little put out because Philip had
brought Cronshaw to his own rooms.

  "I wish you had left him in Soho," he said, with a
wave of his long, thin hands. "There was a touch of romance in that
sordid attic. I could even bear it if it were Wapping or
Shoreditch, but the respectability of Kennington! What a place for
a poet to die!"

  Cronshaw was often so ill-humoured that Philip could
only keep his temper by remembering all the time that this
irritability was a symptom of the disease. Upjohn came sometimes
before Philip was in, and then Cronshaw would complain of him
bitterly. Upjohn listened with complacency.

  "The fact is that Carey has no sense of beauty," he
smiled. "He has a middle-class mind."

  He was very sarcastic to Philip, and Philip
exercised a good deal of self-control in his dealings with him. But
one evening he could not contain himself. He had had a hard day at
the hospital and was tired out. Leonard Upjohn came to him, while
he was making himself a cup of tea in the kitchen, and said that
Cronshaw was complaining of Philip's insistence that he should have
a doctor.

  "Don't you realise that you're enjoying a very rare,
a very exquisite privilege? You ought to do everything in your
power, surely, to show your sense of the greatness of your
trust."

  "It's a rare and exquisite privilege which I can ill
afford," said Philip.

  Whenever there was any question of money, Leonard
Upjohn assumed a slightly disdainful expression. His sensitive
temperament was offended by the reference.

  "There's something fine in Cronshaw's attitude, and
you disturb it by your importunity. You should make allowances for
the delicate imaginings which you cannot feel."

  Philip's face darkened.

  "Let us go in to Cronshaw," he said frigidly.

  The poet was lying on his back, reading a book, with
a pipe in his mouth. The air was musty; and the room,
notwithstanding Philip's tidying up, had the bedraggled look which
seemed to accompany Cronshaw wherever he went. He took off his
spectacles as they came in. Philip was in a towering rage.

  "Upjohn tells me you've been complaining to him
because I've urged you to have a doctor," he said. "I want you to
have a doctor, because you may die any day, and if you hadn't been
seen by anyone I shouldn't be able to get a certificate. There'd
have to be an inquest and I should be blamed for not calling a
doctor in."

  "I hadn't thought of that. I thought you wanted me
to see a doctor for my sake and not for your own. I'll see a doctor
whenever you like."

  Philip did not answer, but gave an almost
imperceptible shrug of the shoulders. Cronshaw, watching him, gave
a little chuckle.

  "Don't look so angry, my dear. I know very well you
want to do everything you can for me. Let's see your doctor,
perhaps he can do something for me, and at any rate it'll comfort
you." He turned his eyes to Upjohn. "You're a damned fool, Leonard.
Why d'you want to worry the boy? He has quite enough to do to put
up with me. You'll do nothing more for me than write a pretty
article about me after my death. I know you."

  Next day Philip went to Dr. Tyrell. He felt that he
was the sort of man to be interested by the story, and as soon as
Tyrell was free of his day's work he accompanied Philip to
Kennington. He could only agree with what Philip had told him. The
case was hopeless.

  "I'll take him into the hospital if you like," he
said. "He can have a small ward."

  "Nothing would induce him to come."

  "You know, he may die any minute, or else he may get
another attack of pneumonia."

  Philip nodded. Dr. Tyrell made one or two
suggestions, and promised to come again whenever Philip wanted him
to. He left his address. When Philip went back to Cronshaw he found
him quietly reading. He did not trouble to inquire what the doctor
had said.

  "Are you satisfied now, dear boy?" he asked.

  "I suppose nothing will induce you to do any of the
things Tyrell advised?"

  "Nothing," smiled Cronshaw.

  About a fortnight after this Philip, going home one
evening after his day's work at the hospital, knocked at the door
of Cronshaw's room. He got no answer and walked in. Cronshaw was
lying huddled up on one side, and Philip went up to the bed. He did
not know whether Cronshaw was asleep or merely lay there in one of
his uncontrollable fits of irritability. He was surprised to see
that his mouth was open. He touched his shoulder. Philip gave a cry
of dismay. He slipped his hand under Cronshaw's shirt and felt his
heart; he did not know what to do; helplessly, because he had heard
of this being done, he held a looking-glass in front of his mouth.
It startled him to be alone with Cronshaw. He had his hat and coat
still on, and he ran down the stairs into the street; he hailed a
cab and drove to Harley Street. Dr. Tyrell was in.

  "I say, would you mind coming at once? I think
Cronshaw's dead."

  "If he is it's not much good my coming, is it?"

  "I should be awfully grateful if you would. I've got
a cab at the door. It'll only take half an hour."

  Tyrell put on his hat. In the cab he asked him one
or two questions.

  "He seemed no worse than usual when I left this
morning," said Philip. "It gave me an awful shock when I went in
just now. And the thought of his dying all alone.... D'you think he
knew he was going to die?"

  Philip remembered what Cronshaw had said. He
wondered whether at that last moment he had been seized with the
terror of death. Philip imagined himself in such a plight, knowing
it was inevitable and with no one, not a soul, to give an
encouraging word when the fear seized him.

  "You're rather upset," said Dr. Tyrell.

  He looked at him with his bright blue eyes. They
were not unsympathetic. When he saw Cronshaw, he said:

  "He must have been dead for some hours. I should
think he died in his sleep. They do sometimes."

  The body looked shrunk and ignoble. It was not like
anything human. Dr. Tyrell looked at it dispassionately. With a
mechanical gesture he took out his watch.

  "Well, I must be getting along. I'll send the
certificate round. I suppose you'll communicate with the
relatives."

  "I don't think there are any," said Philip.

  "How about the funeral?"

  "Oh, I'll see to that."

  Dr. Tyrell gave Philip a glance. He wondered whether
he ought to offer a couple of sovereigns towards it. He knew
nothing of Philip's circumstances; perhaps he could well afford the
expense; Philip might think it impertinent if he made any
suggestion.

  "Well, let me know if there's anything I can do," he
said.

  Philip and he went out together, parting on the
doorstep, and Philip went to a telegraph office in order to send a
message to Leonard Upjohn. Then he went to an undertaker whose shop
he passed every day on his way to the hospital. His attention had
been drawn to it often by the three words in silver lettering on a
black cloth, which, with two model coffins, adorned the window:
Economy, Celerity, Propriety. They had always diverted him. The
undertaker was a little fat Jew with curly black hair, long and
greasy, in black, with a large diamond ring on a podgy finger. He
received Philip with a peculiar manner formed by the mingling of
his natural blatancy with the subdued air proper to his calling. He
quickly saw that Philip was very helpless and promised to send
round a woman at once to perform the needful offices. His
suggestions for the funeral were very magnificent; and Philip felt
ashamed of himself when the undertaker seemed to think his
objections mean. It was horrible to haggle on such a matter, and
finally Philip consented to an expensiveness which he could ill
afford.

  "I quite understand, sir," said the undertaker, "you
don't want any show and that – I'm not a believer in ostentation
myself, mind you – but you want it done gentlemanly-like. You leave
it to me, I'll do it as cheap as it can be done, 'aving regard to
what's right and proper. I can't say more than that, can I?"

  Philip went home to eat his supper, and while he ate
the woman came along to lay out the corpse. Presently a telegram
arrived from Leonard Upjohn.

  Shocked and grieved beyond measure. Regret cannot
come tonight. Dining out. With you early tomorrow. Deepest
sympathy. Upjohn.

  In a little while the woman knocked at the door of
the sitting-room.

  "I've done now, sir. Will you come and look at 'im
and see it's all right?"

  Philip followed her. Cronshaw was lying on his back,
with his eyes closed and his hands folded piously across his
chest.

  "You ought by rights to 'ave a few flowers,
sir."

  "I'll get some tomorrow."

  She gave the body a glance of satisfaction. She had
performed her job, and now she rolled down her sleeves, took off
her apron, and put on her bonnet. Philip asked her how much he owed
her.

  "Well, sir, some give me two and sixpence and some
give me five shillings."

  Philip was ashamed to give her less than the larger
sum. She thanked him with just so much effusiveness as was seemly
in presence of the grief he might be supposed to feel, and left
him. Philip went back into his sitting-room, cleared away the
remains of his supper, and sat down to read Walsham's Surgery. He
found it difficult. He felt singularly nervous. When there was a
sound on the stairs he jumped, and his heart beat violently. That
thing in the adjoining room, which had been a man and now was
nothing, frightened him. The silence seemed alive, as if some
mysterious movement were taking place within it; the presence of
death weighed upon these rooms, unearthly and terrifying: Philip
felt a sudden horror for what had once been his friend. He tried to
force himself to read, but presently pushed away his book in
despair. What troubled him was the absolute futility of the life
which had just ended. It did not matter if Cronshaw was alive or
dead. It would have been just as well if he had never lived. Philip
thought of Cronshaw young; and it needed an effort of imagination
to picture him slender, with a springing step, and with hair on his
head, buoyant and hopeful. Philip's rule of life, to follow one's
instincts with due regard to the policeman round the corner, had
not acted very well there: it was because Cronshaw had done this
that he had made such a lamentable failure of existence. It seemed
that the instincts could not be trusted. Philip was puzzled, and he
asked himself what rule of life was there, if that one was useless,
and why people acted in one way rather than in another. They acted
according to their emotions, but their emotions might be good or
bad; it seemed just a chance whether they led to triumph or
disaster. Life seemed an inextricable confusion. Men hurried hither
and thither, urged by forces they knew not; and the purpose of it
all escaped them; they seemed to hurry just for hurrying's
sake.