‘I shall get no more salaries,’ he quietly remarked.
Mrs Clinton looked at him; he was quite calm, and smilingly returned her glance.
‘What do you mean by that?’ she asked.
‘I am no longer at the office.’
‘James! You ‘aven’t been sacked?’ she screamed.
‘Oh, they said I did not any longer properly attend to my work. They said I was careless, and that I made mistakes; they complained that I was unpunctual, that I went late and came away early; and one day, because I ‘adn’t been there the day before, they told me to leave. I was watching at the bedside of a man who was dying and ‘ad need of me; so ‘ow could I go? But I didn’t really mind; the office ‘indered me in my work.’
‘But what are you going to do now?’ gasped Mrs Clinton.
‘I ‘ave my work; that is more important than ten thousand offices.’
‘But ‘ow are you going to earn your living? What’s to become of us?’
‘Don’t trouble me about those things. Come with me, and work for the poor.’
‘James, think of the children!’
‘What are your children to me more than any other children?’
‘But—’
‘Woman, I tell you not to trouble me about these things. ‘Ave we not money enough, and to spare?’
He waved his hand, and putting on his top hat, which looked more than ever in need of restoration, went out, leaving his wife in a perfect agony.
There was worse to follow. Coming home a few days later, Mr Clinton told his wife that he wished to speak with her.
‘I ‘ave been looking into my books,’ he said, ‘and I find that we have invested in various securities a sum of nearly seven ‘undred pounds.’
‘Thank ‘Eaven for that!’ answered his wife. ‘It’s the only thing that’ll save us from starvation now that you moon about all day, instead of working like a decent man.’
‘Well, I ‘ave been thinking, and I ‘ave been reading; and I ‘ave found it written — Give all and follow me.’
‘Well, there’s nothing new in that,’ said Mrs Clinton, viciously. ‘I’ve known that text ever since I was a child.’
‘And as it were a Spirit ‘as come to me and said that I too must give all. In short, I ‘ave determined to sell out my stocks and my shares; my breweries are seven points ‘igher than when I bought them; I knew it was a good investment. I am going to realise everything; I am going to take the money in my hand, and I am going to give it to the poor.’
Mrs Clinton burst into tears.
‘Do not weep,’ he said solemnly. ‘It is my duty, and it is a pleasant one. Oh, what joy to make a ‘undred people ‘appy; to relieve a poor man who is starving, to give a breath of country air to little children who are dying for the want of it, to ‘elp the poor, to feed the ‘ungry, to clothe the naked! Oh, if I only ‘ad a million pounds!’ He stretched out his arms in a gesture of embrace, and looked towards heaven with an ecstatic smile upon his lips.
It was too serious a matter for Mrs Clinton to waste any words on; she ran upstairs, put on her bonnet, and quickly walked to her friend, the doctor.
He looked graver than ever when she told him.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid it’s very serious. I’ve never heard of anyone doing such a thing before.... Of course I’ve known of people who have left all their money to charities after their death, when they didn’t want it; but it couldn’t ever occur to a normal, healthy man to do it in his lifetime.’
‘But what shall I do, doctor?’ Mrs Clinton was almost in hysterics.
‘Well, Mrs Clinton, d’you know the clergyman of the parish?’
‘I know Mr Evans, the curate, very well; he’s a very nice gentleman.’
‘Perhaps you could get him to have a talk with your husband. The fact is, it’s a sort of religious mania he’s got, and perhaps a clergyman could talk him out of it. Anyhow, it’s worth trying.’
Mrs Clinton straightway went to Mr Evans’s rooms, explained to him the case, and settled that on the following day he should come and see what he could do with her husband.
X
In expectation of the curate’s visit, Mrs Clinton tidied the house and adorned herself. It has been said that she was a woman of taste, and so she was. The mantelpiece and looking glass were artistically draped with green muslin, and this she proceeded to arrange, tying and carefully forming the yellow satin ribbon with which it was relieved. The chairs were covered with cretonne which might have come from the Tottenham Court Road, and these she placed in positions of careless and artistic confusion, smoothing down the antimacassars which were now her pride, as the silk petticoat from which she had manufactured them had been once her glory. For the flower-pots she made fresh coverings of red tissue paper, re-arranged the ornaments gracefully scattered about on little Japanese tables; then, after pausing a moment to admire her work and see that nothing had been left undone, she went upstairs to perform her own toilet.... In less than half an hour she reappeared, holding herself in a dignified posture, with her head slightly turned to one side and her hands meekly folded in front of her, stately and collected as Juno, a goddess in black satin. Her dress was very elegant; it might have typified her own life, for in its original state of virgin whiteness it had been her wedding garment; then it was dyed purple, and might have betokened a sense of change and coming responsibilities; lastly it was black, to signify the burden of a family, and the seriousness of life. No one had realised so intensely as Mrs Clinton the truth of the poet’s words. Life is not an empty dream. She took out her handkerchief, redolent with lascivious patchouli, and placed it in her bosom — a spot of whiteness against the black.... She sat herself down to wait.
There was a knock and a ring at the door, timid, as befitted a clergyman; and the servant-girl showed in Mr Evans. He was a thin and short young man, red faced, with a long nose and weak eyes, looking underfed and cold, keeping his shoulders screwed up in a perpetual shiver. He was an earnest, God-fearing man, spending much money in charities, and waging constant war against the encroachments of the Scarlet Woman.
‘I think I’ll just take my coat off, if you don’t mind, Mrs Clinton,’ he said, after the usual greetings. He folded it carefully, and hung it over the back of a chair; then, coming forward, he sat down and rubbed the back of his hands.
‘I asked my ‘usband to stay in because you wanted to see ’im, but he would go out. ‘Owever’ — Mrs Clinton always chose her language on such occasions—’’owever, ‘e’s promised to return at four, and I will say this for ’im, he never breaks ’is word.’
‘Oh, very well!’
‘May I ‘ave the pleasure of offering you a cup of tea, Mr Evans?’
The curate’s face brightened up.
‘Oh, thank you so much!’ And he rubbed his hands more energetically than ever.
Tea was brought in, and they drank it, talking of parish matters, Mrs Clinton discreetly trying to pump the curate. Was it really true that Mrs Palmer of No. 17 Adonis Road drank so terribly?
At last Mr Clinton came, and his wife glided out of the room, leaving the curate to convert him. There was a little pause while Mr Evans took stock of the clerk.
‘Well, Mr Clinton,’ he said finally, ‘I’ve come to talk to you about yourself.... Your wife tells me that you have adopted certain curious views on religious matters; and she wishes me to have some conversation with you about them.’
‘You are a man of God,’ replied Mr Clinton; ‘I am at your service.’
Mr Evans, on principle, objected to the use of the Deity’s name out of church, thinking it a little blasphemous, but he said nothing.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘of course, religion is a very good thing; in fact, it is the very best thing; but it must not be abused, Mr Clinton,’ and he repeated gravely, as if his interlocutor were a naughty schoolboy— ‘it mustn’t be abused. Now, I want to know exactly what you views are.’
Mr Clinton smiled gently.
<
br /> ‘I ‘ave no views, sir. The only rule I ‘ave for guidance is this — love thy neighbour as thyself.’
‘Hum!’ murmured the curate; there was really nothing questionable in that, but he was just slightly prejudiced against a man who made such a quotation; it sounded a little priggish.
‘But your wife tells me that you’ve been going about with all sorts of queer people?’
‘I found that there was misery and un’appiness among people, and I tried to relieve it.’
‘Of course, I strongly approve of district visiting; I do a great deal of it myself; but you’ve been going about with public-house loafers and — bad women.’
’Is it not said: “I am not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance”?’
‘No doubt,’ answered Mr Evans, slightly frowning. ‘But obviously one isn’t meant to do that to such an extent as to be dismissed from one’s place.’
‘My wife ‘as posted you well up in all my private affairs.’
‘Well, I don’t think you can have done well to be sent away from your office.’
’Is it not said: “Forsake all and follow me”?’
Decidedly this was bad form, and Mr Evans, pursing up his lips and raising his eyebrows, was silent. ‘That’s the worst of these half-educated people,’ he said to himself; ‘they get some idea in their heads which they don’t understand, and, of course, they do idiotic things....’
‘Well, to pass over all that,’ he added out loud, ‘apparently you’ve been spending your money on these people to such an extent that your wife and children are actually inconvenienced by it.’
‘I ‘ave clothed the naked,’ said Mr Clinton, looking into the curate’s eyes; ‘I ‘ave visited the sick; I ‘ave given food to ’im that was an ‘ungered, and drink to ’im that was athirst.’
‘Yes, yes, yes; that’s all very well, but you should always remember that charity begins at home.... I shouldn’t have anything to say to a rich man’s doing these things, but it’s positively wicked for you to do them. Don’t you understand that? And last of all, your wife tells me that you’re realising your property with the idea of giving it away.’
‘It’s perfectly true,’ said Mr Clinton.
Mr Evans’s mind was too truly pious for a wicked expletive to cross it; but a bad man expressing the curate’s feeling would have said that Mr Clinton was a damned fool.
‘Well, don’t you see that it’s a perfectly ridiculous and unheard-of thing?’ he asked emphatically.
‘“Sell all that thou ‘ast, and distribute unto the poor.” It is in the Gospel of St Luke. Do you know it?’
‘Of course I know it, but, naturally, these things aren’t to be taken quite literally.’
‘It is clearly written. What makes you say it is not to be taken literally?’
Mr Evans shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
‘Why, don’t you see it would be impossible? The world couldn’t go on. How do you expect your children to live if you give this money away?’
‘“Look at the lilies of the field. They toil not, neither do they spin; yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed as one of these.”’....
‘Oh, my dear sir, you make me lose my patience. You’re full of the hell-fire platitudes of a park spouter, and you think it’s religion.... I tell you all these things are allegorical. Don’t you understand that? You mustn’t carry them out to the letter. They are not meant to be taken in that way.’
Mr Clinton smiled a little pitifully at the curate.
‘And think of yourself — one must think of oneself. “God helps those who help themselves.” How are you going to exist when this little money of yours is gone? You’ll simply have to go to the workhouse.... It’s absurd, I tell you.’
Mr Clinton took no further notice of the curate, but he broke into a loud chant, —
‘“Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon the earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal. But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal.”’ Then, turning on the unhappy curate, he stretched out his arm and pointed his finger at him. ‘Last Sunday,’ he said, ‘I ‘eard you read those very words from the chancel steps. Go! go! I tell you, go! You are a bad man, a wolf in sheep’s clothing — go!’ Mr Clinton walked up to him threateningly, and the curate, with a gasp of astonishment and indignation, fled from the room.
He met Mrs Clinton outside.
‘I can’t do anything with him at all,’ he said angrily. ‘I’ve never heard such things in my life. He’s either mad or he’s got into the hands of the Dissenters. That’s the only explanation I can offer.’
Then, to quiet his feelings, he called on a wealthy female parishioner, with whom he was a great favourite, because she thought him ‘such a really pious man,’ and it was not till he had drunk two cups of tea that he recovered his equilibrium.
XI
Mrs Clinton was at her wit’s end. Her husband had sold out his shares, and the money was lying at the bank ready to be put to its destined use. Visions of debt and bankruptcy presented themselves to her. She saw her black satin dress in the ruthless clutches of a pawnbroker, the house and furniture sold over her head, the children down at heel, and herself driven to work for her living — needlework, nursing, charing — what might not things come to? However, she went to the doctor and told him of the failure of their scheme.
‘I’ve come to the end of my tether, Mrs Clinton; I really don’t know what to do. The only thing I can suggest is that a mental specialist should examine into the state of his mind. I really think he’s wrong in his head, and, you know, it may be necessary for your welfare and his own that he be kept under restriction.’
‘Well, doctor,’ answered Mrs Clinton, putting her handkerchief up to her eyes and beginning to cry, ‘well, doctor, of course I shouldn’t like him to be shut up — it seems a terrible thing, and I shall never ‘ave a moment’s peace all the rest of my life; but if he must be shut up, for Heaven’s sake let it be done at once, before the money’s gone.’ And here she began to sob very violently.
The doctor said he would immediately write to the specialist, so that they might hold a consultation on Mr Clinton the very next day.
So, the following morning, Mrs Clinton again put on her black satin dress, and, further, sent to her grocer’s for a bottle of sherry, her inner consciousness giving her to understand that specialists expected something of the kind....
The specialist came. He was a tall, untidily-dressed man, with his hair wild and straggling, as if he had just got out of bed. He was very clever, and very impatient of stupid people, and he seldom met anyone whom he did not think in one way or another intensely stupid.
Mr Clinton, as before, had gone out, but Mrs Clinton did her best to entertain the two doctors. The specialist, who talked most incessantly himself, was extremely impatient of other people’s conversation.
‘Why on earth don’t people see that they’re much more interesting when they hold their tongues than when they speak?’ he was in the habit of saying, and immediately would pour out a deluge of words, emphasising and explaining the point, giving instances of its truth....
‘You must see a lot of strange things, doctor,’ said Mrs Clinton, amiably.
‘Yes,’ answered the specialist.
‘I think it must be very interesting to be a doctor,’ said Mrs Clinton.
‘Yes, yes.’
‘You must see a lot of strange things.’
‘Yes, yes,’ repeated the doctor, and as Mrs Clinton went on complacently, he frowned and drummed his fingers on the table and looked to the right and left. ‘When is the man coming in?’ he asked impatiently.
And at last he could not contain himself.
‘If you don’t mind, Mrs Clinton, I should like to talk to your doctor alone about the case. You can wait in the next room.’
‘I’m sure I don’t wish to intrude
,’ said Mrs Clinton, bridling up, and she rose in a dignified manner from her chair. She thought his manners were distinctly queer. ‘But, of course,’ she said to a friend afterwards, ‘he’s a genius, there’s no mistaking it, and people like that are always very eccentric.’
‘What an insufferable woman!’ he began, when the lady had retired, talking very rapidly, only stopping to take an occasional breath. ‘I thought she was going on all night. She’s enough to drive the man mad. One couldn’t get a word in edgeways. Why on earth doesn’t this man come? Just like these people, they don’t think that my time’s valuable. I expect she drinks. Shocking, you know, these women, how they drink!’ And still talking, he looked at his watch for the eighth time in ten minutes.
‘Well, my man,’ he said, as Mr Clinton at last came in, ‘what are you complaining of?... One moment,’ he added, as Mr Clinton was about to reply. He opened his notebook and took out a stylographic pen. ‘Now, I’m ready for you. What are you complaining of?’
‘I’m complaining that the world is out of joint,’ answered Mr Clinton, with a smile.
The specialist raised his eyebrows and significantly looked at the family doctor.
‘It’s astonishing how much you can get by a well-directed question,’ he said to him, taking no notice of Mr Clinton. ‘Some people go floundering about for hours, but, you see, by one question I get on the track.’ Turning to the patient again, he said, ‘Ah! and do you see things?’
‘Certainly; I see you.’
‘I don’t mean that,’ impatiently said the specialist. ‘Distinctly stupid, you know,’ he added to his colleague. ‘I mean, do you see things that other people don’t see?’
‘Alas! yes; I see Folly stalking abroad on a ‘obby ‘orse.’
‘Do you really? Anything else?’ said the doctor, making a note of the fact.
‘I see Wickedness and Vice beating the land with their wings.’
‘Sees things beating with their wings,’ wrote down the doctor.
‘I see misery and un’appiness everywhere.’
‘Indeed!’ said the doctor. ‘Has delusions. Do you think your wife puts things in your tea?’
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 260