Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham (classic english novels .TXT) 📕

was lit by one jet of gas. There was a revolting odour in the house. When Philip was passing up a woman came out of a room on the first floor, looked at him suspiciously, but made no remark. There were three doors on the top landing. Philip knocked at one, and knocked again; there was no reply; he tried the handle, but the door was locked. He knocked at another door, got no answer, and tried the door again. It opened. The room was dark.

“Who’s that?”

He recognised Cronshaw’s voice.

“Carey. Can I come in?”

He received no answer. He walked in. The window was closed and the stink was overpowering. There was a certain amount of light from the arc-lamp in the street, and he saw that it was a small room with two beds in it, end to end; there was a washing-stand and one chair, but they left little space for anyone to move in. Cronshaw was in the bed nearest the window. He made no movement, but gave a low chuckle.

“Why don’t you light the candle?” he said then.

Philip struck a match and discovered that there was a candlestick on the floor beside the bed. He lit it and put it on the washing-stand. Cronshaw was lying on his back immobile; he looked very odd in his nightshirt; and his baldness was disconcerting. His face was earthy and deathlike.

“I say, old man, you look awfully ill. Is there anyone to look after you here?”

“George brings me in a bottle of milk in the morning before he goes to his work.”

“Who’s George?”

“I call him George because his name is Adolphe. He shares this palatial apartment with me.”

Philip noticed then that the second bed had not been made since it was slept in. The pillow was black where the head had rested.

“You don’t mean to say you’re sharing this room with somebody else?” he cried.

“Why not? Lodging costs money in Soho. George is a waiter, he goes out at eight in the morning and does not come in till closing time, so he isn’t in my way at all. We neither of us sleep well, and he helps to pass away the hours of the night by telling me stories of his life. He’s a Swiss, and I’ve always had a taste for waiters. They see life from an entertaining angle.”

“How long have you been in bed?”

“Three days.”

“D’you mean to say you’ve had nothing but a bottle of milk for the last three days? Why on earth didn’t you send me a line? I can’t bear to think of you lying here all day long without a soul to attend to you.”

Cronshaw gave a little laugh.

“Look at your face. Why, dear boy, I really believe you’re distressed. You nice fellow.”

Philip blushed. He had not suspected that his face showed the dismay he felt at the sight of that horrible room and the wretched circumstances of the poor poet. Cronshaw, watching Philip, went on with a gentle smile.

“I’ve been quite happy. Look, here are my proofs. Remember that I am indifferent to discomforts which would harass other folk. What do the circumstances of life matter if your dreams make you lord paramount of time and space?”

The proofs were lying on his bed, and as he lay in the darkness he had been able to place his hands on them. He showed them to Philip and his eyes glowed. He turned over the pages, rejoicing in the clear type; he read out a stanza.

“They don’t look bad, do they?”

Philip had an idea. It would involve him in a little expense and he could not afford even the smallest increase of expenditure; but on the other hand this was a case where it revolted him to think of economy.

“I say, I can’t bear the thought of your remaining here. I’ve got an extra room, it’s empty at present, but I can easily get someone to lend me a bed. Won’t you come and live with me for a while? It’ll save you the rent of this.”

“Oh, my dear boy, you’d insist on my keeping my window open.”

“You shall have every window in the place sealed if you like.”

“I shall be all right tomorrow. I could have got up today, only I felt lazy.”

“Then you can very easily make the move. And then if you don’t feel well at any time you can just go to bed, and I shall be there to look after you.”

“If it’ll please you I’ll come,” said Cronshaw, with his torpid not unpleasant smile.

“That’ll be ripping.”

They settled that Philip should fetch Cronshaw next day, and Philip snatched an hour from his busy morning to arrange the change. He found Cronshaw dressed, sitting in his hat and greatcoat on the bed, with a small, shabby portmanteau, containing his clothes and books, already packed: it was on the floor by his feet, and he looked as if he were sitting in the waiting-room of a station. Philip laughed at the sight of him. They went over to Kennington in a four-wheeler, of which the windows were carefully closed, and Philip installed his guest in his own room. He had gone out early in the morning and bought for himself a secondhand bedstead, a cheap chest of drawers, and a looking-glass. Cronshaw settled down at once to correct his proofs. He was much better.

Philip found him, except for the irritability which was a symptom of his disease, an easy guest. He had a lecture at nine in the morning, so did not see Cronshaw till the night. Once or twice Philip persuaded him to share the scrappy meal he prepared for himself in the evening, but Cronshaw was too restless to stay in, and preferred generally to get himself something to eat in one or other of the cheapest restaurants in Soho. Philip asked him to see Dr. Tyrell, but he stoutly refused; he knew a doctor would tell him to stop drinking, and this he was resolved not to do. He always