Chapter 114

Thethreeweekswhichtheappointmentlasteddrewtoanend.Philiphadattendedsixty-twocases,andhewastiredout.Whenhecamehomeaboutteno’clockonhislastnighthehopedwithallhisheartthathewouldnotbecalledoutagain.Hehadnothadawholenight’srestfortendays.Thecasewhichhehadjustcomefromwashorrible.Hehadbeenfetchedbyahuge,burlyman,theworseforliquor,andtakentoaroominanevil-smellingcourt,whichwasfilthierthananyhehadseen:itwasatinyattic;mostofthespacewastakenupbyawoodenbed,withacanopyofdirtyredhangings,andtheceilingwassolowthatPhilipcouldtouchitwiththetipsofhisfingers;withthesolitarycandlethataffordedwhatlighttherewashewentoverit,frizzlingupthebugsthatcrawleduponit.Thewomanwasablowsycreatureofmiddleage,whohadhadalongsuccessionofstill-bornchildren.ItwasastorythatPhilipwasnotunaccustomedto:thehusbandhadbeenasoldierinIndia;thelegislationforceduponthatcountrybythepruderyoftheEnglishpublichadgivenafreeruntothemostdistressingofalldiseases;theinnocentsuffered.Yawning,Philipundressedandtookabath,thenshookhisclothesoverthewaterandwatchedtheanimalsthatfelloutwriggling.Hewasjustgoingtogetintobedwhentherewasaknockatthedoor,andthehospitalporterbroughthimacard.

“Curseyou,”saidPhilip.“You’rethelastpersonIwantedtoseetonight.Who’sbroughtit?”

“Ithinkit’sthe‘usband,sir.ShallItellhimtowait?”

Philiplookedattheaddress,sawthatthestreetwasfamiliartohim,andtoldtheporterthathewouldfindhisownway.Hedressedhimselfandinfiveminutes,withhisblackbaginhishand,steppedintothestreet.Aman,whomhecouldnotseeinthedarkness,cameuptohim,andsaidhewasthehusband.

“IthoughtI’dbetterwait,sir,”hesaid.“It’saprettyroughneighbour’ood,andthemnotknowingwhoyouwas.”

Philiplaughed.

“Blessyourheart,theyallknowthedoctor,I’vebeeninsomedamnedsightrougherplacesthanWaver

Street.”

Itwasquitetrue.Theblackbagwasapassportthroughwretchedalleysanddownfoul-smellingcourtsintowhichapolicemanwasnotreadytoventurebyhimself.OnceortwicealittlegroupofmenhadlookedatPhilipcuriouslyashepassed;heheardamutterofobservationsandthenonesay:

“It’sthe‘orspitaldoctor.”

Ashewentbyoneortwoofthemsaid:“Good-night,sir.”

“Weshall‘avetostepoutifyoudon’tmind,sir,”saidthemanwhoaccompaniedhimnow.“Theytoldmetherewasnotimetolose.”

“Whydidyouleaveitsolate?”askedPhilip,ashequickenedhispace.

Heglancedatthefellowastheypassedalamp-post.

“Youlookawfullyyoung,”hesaid.

“I’mturnedeighteen,sir.”

Hewasfair,andhehadnotahaironhisface,helookednomorethanaboy;hewasshort,butthickset.

“You’reyoungtobemarried,”saidPhilip.

“We‘adto.”

“Howmuchd’youearn?”

“Sixteen,sir.”

Sixteenshillingsaweekwasnotmuchtokeepawifeandchildon.Theroomthecouplelivedinshowedthattheirpovertywasextreme.Itwasafairsize,butitlookedquitelarge,sincetherewashardlyanyfurnitureinit;therewasnocarpetonthefloor;therewerenopicturesonthewalls;andmostroomshadsomething,photographsorsupplementsincheapframesfromtheChristmasnumbersoftheillustratedpapers.Thepatientlayonalittleironbedofthecheapestsort.ItstartledPhiliptoseehowyoungshewas.

“ByJove,shecan’tbemorethansixteen,”hesaidtothewomanwhohadcomeinto‘seeherthrough.’

Shehadgivenherageaseighteenonthecard,but

whentheywereveryyoungtheyoftenputonayearortwo.Alsoshewaspretty,whichwasrareinthoseclassesinwhichtheconstitutionhasbeenunderminedbybadfood,badair,andunhealthyoccupations;shehaddelicatefeaturesandlargeblueeyes,andamassofdarkhairdoneintheelaboratefashionofthecostergirl.Sheandherhusbandwereverynervous.

“You’dbetterwaitoutside,soastobeathandifIwantyou,”Philipsaidtohim.

NowthathesawhimbetterPhilipwassurprisedagainathisboyishair:youfeltthatheshouldbelarkinginthestreetwiththeotherladsinsteadofwaitinganxiouslyforthebirthofachild.Thehourspassed,anditwasnottillnearlytwothatthebabywasborn.Everythingseemedtobegoingsatisfactorily;thehusbandwascalledin,andittouchedPhiliptoseetheawkward,shywayinwhichhekissedhiswife;Philippackeduphisthings.Beforegoinghefeltoncemorehispatient’spulse.

“Hulloa!”hesaid.

Helookedatherquickly:somethinghadhappened.IncasesofemergencytheS.O.C.—seniorobstetricclerk—hadtobesentfor;hewasaqualifiedman,andthe‘district’wasinhischarge.Philipscribbledanote,andgivingittothehusband,toldhimtorunwithittothehospital;hebadehimhurry,forhiswifewasinadangerousstate.Themansetoff.Philipwaitedanxiously;heknewthewomanwasbleedingtodeath;hewasafraidshewoulddiebeforehischiefarrived;hetookwhatstepshecould.HehopedferventlythattheS.O.C.wouldnothavebeencalledelsewhere.Theminuteswereinterminable.Hecameatlast,and,whileheexaminedthepatient,inalowvoiceaskedPhilipquestions.Philipsawbyhisfacethathethoughtthecaseverygrave.HisnamewasChandler.Hewasatallmanoffewwords,withalongnoseandathinfacemuchlinedforhisage.Heshookhishead.

“Itwashopelessfromthebeginning.Where’sthe

husband?”

“Itoldhimtowaitonthestairs,”saidPhilip.

“You’dbetterbringhimin.”

Philipopenedthedoorandcalledhim.Hewassittinginthedarkonthefirststepoftheflightthatledtothenextfloor.Hecameuptothebed.

“What’sthematter?”heasked.

“Why,there’sinternalbleeding.It’simpossibletostopit.”TheS.O.C.hesitatedamoment,andbecauseitwasapainfulthingtosayheforcedhisvoicetobecomebrusque.“She’sdying.”

Themandidnotsayaword;hestoppedquitestill,lookingathiswife,wholay,paleandunconscious,onthebed.Itwasthemidwifewhospoke.

“Thegentlemen‘avedonealltheycould,‘Arry,”shesaid.“Isawwhatwascomin’fromthefirst.”

“Shutup,”saidChandler.

Therewerenocurtainsonthewindows,andgraduallythenightseemedtolighten;itwasnotyetthedawn,butthedawnwasathand.Chandlerwaskeepingthewomanalivebyallthemeansinhispower,butlifewasslippingawayfromher,andsuddenlyshedied.Theboywhowasherhusbandstoodattheendofthecheapironbedwithhishandsrestingontherail;hedidnotspeak;buthelookedverypaleandonceortwiceChandlergavehimanuneasyglance,thinkinghewasgoingtofaint:hislipsweregray.Themidwifesobbednoisily,buthetooknonoticeofher.Hiseyeswerefixeduponhiswife,andinthemwasanutterbewilderment.Heremindedyouofadogwhippedforsomethinghedidnotknowwaswrong.WhenChandlerandPhiliphadgatheredtogethertheirthingsChandlerturnedtothehusband.

“You’dbetterliedownforabit.Iexpectyou’reaboutdoneup.”

“There’snowhereformetoliedown,sir,”heanswered,andtherewasinhisvoiceahumblenesswhichwasverydistressing.

“Don’tyouknowanyoneinthehousewho’llgiveyouashakedown?”

“No,sir.”

“Theyonlymovedinlastweek,”saidthemidwife.“Theydon’tknownobodyyet.”

Chandlerhesitatedamomentawkwardly,thenhewentuptothemanandsaid:

“I’mverysorrythishashappened.”

Heheldouthishandandtheman,withaninstinctiveglanceathisowntoseeifitwasclean,shookit.

“Thankyou,sir.”

Philipshookhandswithhimtoo.Chandlertoldthemidwifetocomeandfetchthecertificateinthemorning.Theyleftthehouseandwalkedalongtogetherinsilence.

“Itupsetsoneabitatfirst,doesn’tit?”saidChandleratlast.

“Abit,”answeredPhilip.

“IfyoulikeI’lltelltheporternottobringyouanymorecallstonight.”

“I’moffdutyateightinthemorninginanycase.”

“Howmanycaseshaveyouhad?”

“Sixty-three.”

“Good.You’llgetyourcertificatethen.”

Theyarrivedatthehospital,andtheS.O.C.wentintoseeifanyonewantedhim.Philipwalkedon.Ithadbeenveryhotallthedaybefore,andevennowintheearlymorningtherewasabalminessintheair.Thestreetwasverystill.Philipdidnotfeelinclinedtogotobed.Itwastheendofhisworkandheneednothurry.Hestrolledalong,gladofthefreshairandthesilence;hethoughtthathewouldgoontothebridgeandlookatdaybreakontheriver.Apolicemanatthecornerbadehimgood-morning.HeknewwhoPhilipwasfromhisbag.

“Outlatetonight,sir,”hesaid.

Philipnoddedandpassed.Heleanedagainsttheparapetandlookedtowardsthemorning.Atthathourthegreatcitywaslikeacityofthedead.Theskywascloudless,butthestarsweredimattheapproachofday;therewasalightmistontheriver,andthegreatbuildingsonthenorthsidewerelikepalacesinanenchantedisland.Agroupofbargeswasmooredinmidstream.Itwasallofanunearthlyviolet,troublingsomehowandawe-inspiring;butquicklyeverythinggrewpale,andcold,andgray.Thenthesunrose,arayofyellowgoldstoleacrossthesky,andtheskywasiridescent.Philipcouldnotgetoutofhiseyesthedeadgirllyingonthebed,wanandwhite,andtheboywhostoodattheendofitlikeastrickenbeast.Thebarenessofthesqualidroommadethepainofitmorepoignant.Itwascruelthatastupidchanceshouldhavecutoffherlifewhenshewasjustenteringuponit;butintheverymomentofsayingthistohimself,Philipthoughtofthelifewhichhadbeeninstoreforher,thebearingofchildren,thedrearyfightwithpoverty,theyouthbrokenbytoilanddeprivationintoaslatternlymiddleage—hesawtheprettyfacegrowthinandwhite,thehairgrowscanty,theprettyhands,worndownbrutallybywork,becomeliketheclawsofanoldanimal—then,whenthemanwaspasthisprime,thedifficultyofgettingjobs,thesmallwageshehadtotake;andtheinevitable,abjectpenuryoftheend:shemightbeenergetic,thrifty,industrious,itwouldnothavesavedher;intheendwastheworkhouseorsubsistenceonthecharityofherchildren.Whocouldpityherbecauseshehaddiedwhenlifeofferedsolittle?

Butpitywasinane.Philipfeltitwasnotthatwhichthesepeopleneeded.Theydidnotpitythemselves.Theyacceptedtheirfate.Itwasthenaturalorderofthings.Otherwise,goodheavens!otherwisetheywouldswarmovertheriverintheirmultitudetothesidewherethosegreatbuildingswere,secureandstately,andtheywouldpillage,burn,andsack.Buttheday,tenderandpale,hadbrokennow,andthemist

wastenuous;itbathedeverythinginasoftradiance;andtheThameswasgray,rosy,andgreen;graylikemother-of-pearlandgreenliketheheartofayellowrose.Thewharfsandstore-housesoftheSurreySideweremassedindisorderlyloveliness.ThescenewassoexquisitethatPhilip’sheartbeatpassionately.Hewasoverwhelmedbythebeautyoftheworld.Besidethatnothingseemedtomatter.