Short stories, American; United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
And yet, as he had told Virginie, he had known of a similar case before,
though it belonged to a time so long ago that it had practically faded
from his mind. It was the case of his own brother, who had died in
infancy of some such trouble, one of the earliest victims of an
operation at that time in its earliest experimental stages. That was
more than half a century ago, and Vincent Egg had no remembrance
whatever of the little brother. But he did remember his first childish
impression of a visit to the hospital where the little one lay--of the
smell of the disinfectants and the chill of the whitewashed walls.
The heart of Mr. Egg was touched, and he felt himself moved with a
strong desire to extend some help to these people who were so much worse
off than he was. Yet Mr. Egg’s intellectual parts told him that there
was no possibility of his doing anything of the sort. He knew, beyond
any chance of fond delusion, his present position and his future
prospects. He had his ticket back to Lyons, where the local branch of
Messrs. Sculry & Co. had its office; he had in his valise at his
lodgings just enough money for his necessary sustenance upon his
journey. And not one other penny, not one soumarkee would he have until,
at Messrs. Sculry & Co.’s office, his work had been measured down to the
last syllable, and he had received therefor as many times eighteen-pence
as he had produced pages. That would be, it was true, quite a neat
little sum, but--and here came in the big BUT of Mr. Egg’s existence.
[Illustration]
For Mr. Egg knew exactly what was going to become of that money. To draw
it at all, he would have to present himself at the office in a condition
of sobriety, which would be the last effort of a period of abstinence
that he was beginning to find very trying. Then, so much of it must go
to buying himself back into the three or four attenuated credits by
grace of which he lived his poor life at Lyons; and just enough would be
left to give him that fortnight of drunken stupor for which he had
worked so long and so hard.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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