Of Human Bondage - W. Somerset Maugham.mobi [217]
“It’s what they call a winter cough,” answered Dr. Tyrell gravely. “A great many middle-aged women have it. ”
“Well, I never! This is a nice thing to say to a lady. No one ever called me middle-aged before.”
She opened her eyes very wide and cocked her head on one side, looking at him with indescribable archness.
“That is the disadvantage of our profession,” said he. “It forces us sometimes to be ungallant.”
She took the prescription and gave him one last, luscious smile.
“You will come and see me dance, dearie, won’t you?”
“I will indeed.”
He rang the bell for the next case.
“I am glad you gentlemen were here to protect me.” But on the whole the impression was neither of tragedy nor of comedy. There was no describing it. It was manifold and various; there were tears and laughter, happiness and woe; it was tedious and interesting and indifferent; it was as you saw it: it was tumultuous and passionate; it was grave; it was sad and comic; it was trivial; it was simple and complex; joy was there and despair; the love of mothers for their children, and of men for women; lust trailed itself through the rooms with leaden feet, punishing the guilty and the innocent, helpless wives and wretched children; drink seized men and women and cost its inevitable price; death sighed in these rooms; and the beginning of life, filling some poor girl with terror and shame, was diagnosed there. There was neither good nor bad there. There were just facts. It was life.
LXXXII
Towards the end of the year, when Philip was bringing to a close his three months as clerk in the out-patients’ department, he received a letter from Lawson, who was in Paris.
Dear Philip—
Cronshaw is in London and would be glad to see you. He is living at 43 Hyde Street, Soho. I don’t know where it is, but I daresay you will be able to find out. Be a brick and look after him a bit. He is very down on his luck. He will tell you what he is doing. Things are going on here very much as usual. Nothing seems to have changed since you were here. Clutton is back, but he has become quite impossible. He has quarrelled with everybody. As far as I can make out he hasn’t got a cent, he lives in a little studio right away beyond the Jardin des Plantes, but he won’t let anybody see his work. He doesn’t show anywhere, so one doesn’t know what he is doing. He may be a genius, but on the other hand he may be off his head. By the way, I ran against Flanagan the other day. He was showing Mrs. Flanagan round the Quarter. He has chucked art and is now in popper’s business. He seems to be rolling. Mrs. Flanagan is very pretty and I’m trying to work a portrait. How much would you ask if you were me? I don’t want to frighten them, and then on the other hand I don’t want to be such an ass as to ask £150 if they’re quite willing to give £300.
Yours ever,
Frederick Lawson
Philip wrote to Cronshaw and received in reply the following letter. It was written on a half-sheet of common note-paper, and the flimsy envelope was dirtier than was justified by its passage through the post.
Dear Carey—
Of course I remember you very well. I have an idea that I had some part in rescuing you from the Slough of Despond in which myself am hopelessly immersed. I shall be glad to see you. I am a stranger in a strange city and I am buffeted by the philistines. It will be pleasant to talk of Paris. I do not ask you to come and see me, since my lodging is not of a magnificence fit for the reception of an eminent member of Monsieur Purgon’s profession, but you will find me eating modestly any evening between seven and eight at a restaurant yclept Au Bon Plaisir in Dean Street.
Your sincere
J. Cronshaw
Philip went the day he received this letter. The restaurant, consisting of one small room, was of the poorest class, and Cronshaw seemed to be its only customer. He was sitting in the comer, well away from draughts, wearing the same shabby great-coat which Philip had never seen him without, with his old bowler on his head.
“I eat here because I can be alone,” he said. “They are not doing well; the only people who come are a few trollops and one or two waiters out of a job; they are giving up business, and the food is execrable. But in the ruin of their fortunes is my advantage.