Fate and the Apothecary

by George Gissing

　　From The House of Cobwebs and Other Stories (1906).

　　'Farmiloe. Chemist by Examination.' So did the good man proclaim himself toa suburb of a city in the West of England. It was one of those pretty,clean, fresh-coloured suburbs only to be found in the west; a few daintylittle shops, everything about them bright or glistening, scattered amongpleasant little houses with gardens eternally green and all but perenniallyin bloom; every vista ending in foliage, and in one direction a far glimpseof the Cathedral towers, sending forth their music to fall dreamily uponthese quiet roads. The neighbourhood seemed to breathe a tranquilprosperity. Red-cheeked emissaries of butcher, baker, and grocer,order-book in hand, knocked cheerily at kitchen doors, and went smilingaway; the ponies they drove were well fed and frisky, their carts spick andspan. The church of the parish, an imposing edifice, dated only from a fewyears ago, and had cost its noble founder a sum of money which anychurch-going parishioner would have named to you with proper awe. Thepopulation was largely female, and every shopkeeper who knew his businesshad become proficient in bowing, smiling, and suave servility.Mr. Farmiloe, it is to be feared, had no very profound acquaintance withhis business from any point of view. True, he was 'chemist by examination,'but it had cost him repeated efforts to reach this unassailable ground andmore than one pharmaceutist with whom he abode as assistant had felt it ameasure of prudence to dispense with his services. Give him time, and hewas generally equal to the demands of suburban customers; hurry orinterrupt him, and he showed himself anything but the man for a crisis.Face and demeanour were against him. He had exceedingly plain features, anda persistently sour expression; even his smile suggested sarcasm. He couldnot tune his voice to the tradesman note, and on the slightest provocationhe became, quite unintentionally, offensive. Such a man had no chancewhatever in this flowery and bowery little suburb.Yet he came hither with hopes. One circumstance seemed to him especiallyfavourable: the shop was also a post-office, and no one could fail to see(it was put most impressively by the predecessor who sold him the business)how advantageous was this blending of public service with commercialinterest; especially as there was no telegraphic work to make a skilledassistant necessary. As a matter of course, people using the post-officewould patronise the chemist; and a provincial chemist can add to hislegitimate business sundry pleasant little tradings which benefit himselfwithout provoking the jealousy of neighbour shopmen. 'It will be your ownfault, my dear sir, if you do not make a very good thing of it indeed. Thesole and sufficient explanation of--of the decline during this last year ortwo is my shocking health. I really have not been able to do justice tothe business.'Necessarily, Mr. Farmiloe entered into negotiation with the postalauthorities; and it was with some little disappointment that he learnt howvery modest could be his direct remuneration for the responsibilities andlabours he undertook. The Post-Office is a very shrewdly managed departmentof the public service; it has brought to perfection the art of obtainingmaximum results with a minimum expenditure. But Mr. Farmiloe rememberedthe other aspect of the matter; he would benefit so largely by thisill-paid undertaking that grumbling was foolish. Moreover, the thingcarried dignity with it; he served his Majesty, he served the nation.And--ha, ha!--how very odd it would be to post one's letters in one's ownpost-office. One might really get a good deal of amusement out of thethought, after business hours. His age was eight-and-thirty. For some yearshe had pondered matrimony, though without fixing his affections on anyparticular person. It was plain, indeed, that he ought to marry. Everytradesman is made more respectable by wedlock, and a chemist who, in somedegree, resembles a medical man, seems especially to stand in need of thematrimonial guarantee. Had it been feasible, Mr. Farmiloe would havebrought a wife with him from the town where he had lived for the past fewyears, but he was in the difficult position of knowing not a singlemarriageable female to whom he could address himself with hope or withself-respect. Natural shyness had always held him aloof from reputablewomen; he felt that he could not recommend himself to them--he who had suchan unlucky aptitude for saying the wrong word or keeping silence whenspeech was demanded. With the men of his acquaintance he could relieve hissense of awkwardness and deficiency by becoming aggressive; in fact, he hada reputation for cantankerousness, for pugnacity, which kept most of hisequals in some awe of him, and to perceive this was one solace amid manydiscontents. Nicely dressed and well-spoken and good-looking women abovethe class of domestic servants he worshipped from afar, and only invivacious moments pictured himself as the wooer of such a superior being.It seemed as though fate could do nothing with Mr. Farmiloe. Atsix-and-thirty he suffered the shock of learning that a relative--an oldwoman to whom he had occasionally written as a matter of kindness (Farmiloecould do such things)--had left him by will the sum of 600. It wasstrictly a shock; it upset his health for several days, and not for a weekor two could he realise the legacy as a fact. Just when he was beginning tolook about him with a new air of confidence, the solicitors who weremanaging the little affair for him drily acquainted him with the fact thathis relative's will was contested by other kinsfolk whom the old woman hadpassed over, on the ground that she was imbecile and incapable ofconducting her affairs. There followed a law-suit, which consumed manymonths and cost a good deal of money; so that, though he won his case, Mr.Farmiloe lost all satisfaction in his improved circumstances, and was onlymore embittered against the world at large.Then, no sooner had he purchased his business, than he learnt from smilingneighbours that he had paid considerably too much for it. His predecessor,beyond a doubt, would have taken very much less; had, indeed, been on thepoint of doing so just when Mr. Farmiloe appeared. This kind of experienceis a trial to any man. It threw Mr. Farmiloe into a silent rage, with theresult that two or three customers who chanced to enter his shop declaredthat they would never have anything more to do with such a surly creature.And now began his torment--a form of exasperation peculiar to his dualcapacity of shopkeeper and manager of a post-office. All day long he stoodon the watch for customers--literally stood, now behind the counter, now infront of it, his eager and angry eyes turning to the door whenever thesteps of a passer-by sounded without. If the door opened his nerves beganto tingle, and he straightened himself like a soldier at attention. For amoment he suffered an agony of doubt. Would the person entering turn to thecounter or to the post-office? And seldom was his hope fulfilled; not onein four of the people who came in was a genuine customer; the post-office,always the post-office. A stamp, a card, a newspaper wrapper, apostal-order, a letter to be registered--anything but an honest purchaseacross the counter or the blessed tendering of a prescription to make up.From vexation he passed to annoyance, to rage, to fury; he cursed thepost-office, and committed to eternal perdition the man who had waxedeloquent upon its advantages.Of course, he had hired an errand-boy, and never had errand-boy so littlelegitimate occupation. Resolved not to pay him for nothing, Mr. Farmiloekept him cleaning windows, washing bottles, and the like, until the ladfairly broke into rebellion. If this was the sort of work he was engagedfor he must have higher wages; he wasn't over strong and his mother said hemust lead an open-air life--that was why he had taken the place. To bebearded thus in his own shop was too much for Mr. Farmiloe, he seized theopportunity of giving his wrath full swing, and burst into a frenzy ofvilification. Just as his passion reached its height (he stood with hisback to the door) there entered a lady who wished to make a large purchaseof disinfectants. Alarmed and scandalised at what was going on, she had nosooner crossed the threshold than she turned again, and hurried away. Herfriends were not long in learning from her that the new chemist was a mostviolent man, a most disagreeable person--the very last man one could thinkof doing business with.The home was but poorly furnished, and Mr. Farmiloe had engaged a verycheap general servant, who involved him in dirt and discomfort. It was amatter of talk among the neighbouring tradesmen that the chemist lived in abeggarly fashion. When the dismissed errand-boy spread the story of how hehad been used, people jumped to the conclusion that Mr. Farmiloe drank.Before long there was a legend that he had been suffering from an acuteattack of delirium tremens.The post-office, always the post-office. If he sat down at a meal theshop-bell clanged, and hope springing eternal, he hurried forth inreadiness to make up a packet or concoct a mixture; but it was an old ladywho held him in talk for ten minutes about rates of postage to SouthAmerica. When, by rare luck, he had a prescription to dispense (the hideousscrawl of that pestilent Dr. Bunker) in came somebody with letters andparcels which he was requested to weigh; and his hand shook so with ragethat he could not resume his dispensing for the next quarter of an hour.People asked extraordinary questions, and were surprised, offended, when hedeclared he could not answer them. When could a letter be delivered at avillage on the north-west coast of Ireland? Was it true that thePost-Office contemplated a reduction of rates to Hong-Kong? Would heexplain in detail the new system of express delivery? Invariably hebetrayed impatience, and occasionally he lost his temper; people went awayexclaiming what a horrid man he was!'Mr. What's-your-name,' said a shopkeeper one day, after receiving a shortanswer, 'I shall make it my business to complain of you to thePostmaster-General. I don't come here to be insulted.''Who insulted you?' returned Farmiloe like a sullen schoolboy.'Why, you did. And you are always doing it.''I'm not.''You are.''If I did'--terror stole upon the chemist's heart--'I didn't mean it, andI--I'm sure I apologise. It's a way I have.''A damned bad way, let me tell you. I advise you to get out of it.''I'm sorry--''So you should be.'And the tradesman walked off, only half appeased.Mr. Farmiloe could have shed tears in his mortification, and for someminutes he stood looking at a bottle of laudanum, wishing he had thecourage to have done with life. Plainly he could not live very long unlessthings improved. His ready money was coming to an end, rents and taxesloomed before him. An awful thought of bankruptcy haunted him in the earlymorning hours.The most frequent visitor to the post-office was a well-dressed,middle-aged man, who spoke civilly, and did his business in the fewestpossible words. Mr. Farmiloe rather liked the look of him, and once ortwice made conversational overtures, but with no encouraging result. Oneday, feeling bolder than usual the chemist ventured to speak what he had inmind. After supplying the grave gentleman with stamps and postal-orders, hesaid, in a tone meant to be conciliatory--'I don't know whether you ever have need of mineral waters, sir?''Why, yes, sometimes. My ordinary tradesman supplies them.''I thought I'd just mention that I keep them in stock.''Ah--thank you--''I've noticed,' went on the luckless apothecary, his bosom heaving with asense of his wrongs, 'that you're a pretty large customer of thepost-office, and it seems to me'--he meant to speak jocosely--'that itwould be only fair if you gave me a turn now and then. I get next tonothing out of this, you know. I should be much obliged if you--'The man of few words was looking at him, half in surprise, half inindignation, and when the chemist blundered into silence he spoke:--'I really have nothing to do with that. As a matter of fact, I was on thepoint of making a little purchase in your shop, but I decidedly object tothis kind of behaviour, and shall make my purchase elsewhere.'He strode solemnly into the street, and Mr. Farmiloe, unconscious of allabout him, glared at vacancy.Whether from the angry tradesman, or from some lady with whom Mr. Farmiloehad been abrupt, a complaint did presently reach the postal authorities,with the result that an official called at the chemist's shop. Theinterview was unpleasant. It happened that Mr. Farmiloe (not for the firsttime) had just then allowed himself to run out of certain things always indemand by the public--halfpenny stamps, for instance. Moreover, hisaccounts were not in perfect order. This, he had to hear, was emphaticallyunbusinesslike, and, in brief, would not do.'It shall not occur again, sir,' mumbled the unhappy man. 'But, if youconsider my position--''Mr. Farmiloe, allow me to tell you that this is a matter for your ownconsideration, and no one else's.''True, sir, quite true. Still, when you come to think of it--I assureyou--''The only assurance I want is that the business of the post-office will beproperly attended to, and that assurance I must have. I shall probably callagain before long. Good morning.'It was always with a savage satisfaction that Mr. Farmiloe heard the clockstrike eight on Saturday evening. His shop remained open till ten, but ateight came the end of the post-office business. If, as happened, any oneentered five minutes too late, it delighted him to refuse their request.These were the only moments in which he felt himself a free man. Aftereating his poor supper, he smoked a pipe or two of cheap tobacco, brooding;or he fingered the pages of his menacing account-books; or, very rarely, hewalked about the dark country roads, asking himself, with many atragi-comic gesture and ejaculation, why he could not get on like othermen.One afternoon it seemed that he, at length, had his chance. There entered amaidservant with a prescription to be made up and sent as soon as possible.A glance at the name delighted Mr. Farmiloe; it was that of the richestfamily in the suburbs. The medicine, to be sure, was only for a governess,but his existence was recognised, and the patronage of such people would dohim good. But for the never-sufficiently-to-be-condemned handwriting of Dr.Bunker, the prescription offered no difficulty. Rubbing his palms together,and smiling as he seldom smiled, he told the domestic that the medicineshould be delivered in less than half an hour.Scarcely had he begun upon it, when a lady came in, a lady whom he knewwell. Her business was at the post-office side, and she looked a peremptorydemand for his attention. Inwardly furious, he crossed the shop.'Be so good as to tell me what this will cost by book-post.'It seemed to be a pamphlet. Giving a glance at one of the open ends, Mr.Farmiloe saw handwriting within, and his hostility to the woman found ventin a sharp remark.'There's a written communication in this. It will be letter rate.'The lady eyed him with terrible scorn.'You will oblige me by minding your own business. Your remark is the merestimpertinence. That packet consists of MS., and will, therefore, go at bookrate. Be so good as to weigh it at once.'Mr. Farmiloe lost all control of himself, and well-nigh screamed.'No, madam, I will not weigh it. And let me inform you, as you are soignorant, that to weigh packets is not part of my duty. I do it merely tooblige civil persons, and you, madam, are not one of them.'The lady instantly turned and withdrew.'Damn the post-office!' yelled Mr. Farmiloe, alone with his errand-boy, andshaking his fist in the air. 'This very day I write to give it up. Isay--damn the post-office.'He returned to his dispensing, completed it, wrapped up the bottle in thecustomary manner, and despatched the boy to the house.Five minutes later a thought flashed through his mind which put him in acold sweat. He happened to glance along the shelf from which he had takenthe bottle containing the last ingredient of the mixture, and it struckhim, with all the force of a horrible doubt, that he had made a mistake. Inthe irate confusion of his thoughts, he had done the dispensing almostmechanically. The bottle he ought to have taken down was that, but had henot actually poured from that other? Of poisoning there was no fear, but,if indeed he had made a slip, the result would be a very extraordinarymixture; so surprising, in fact, that the patient would be sure to speak toDr. Bunker about it. Good heavens! He felt sure he had made the mistake.Any other man would have taken down the two bottles in question, and haveexamined the mouths of them for traces of moisture. Mr. Farmiloe, a victimof destiny, could do nothing so reasonable. Heedless of the fact that hisshop remained unguarded, he seized his hat and rushed after the errand-boy.If he could only have a sniff at the mixture it would either confirm hisfear or set his mind at rest. He tore along the road--and was too late. Theboy met him, having just completed his errand.With a wild curse he sped to the house, he rushed to the tradesman's door.The medicine just delivered! He must examine it--he feared there was amistake--an extraordinary oversight.The bottle had not yet been upstairs. Mr. Farmiloe tore off the wrapper,wrenched out the cork, sniffed--and smiled feebly.'Thank you. I'm glad to find there was no mistake. I'll take it back, andhave it wrapped up again, and send it immediately--immediately. And, by thebye'--he fumbled in his pocket for half-a-crown, still smiling like adetected culprit--'I'm sure you won't mention this little affair. A newassistant of mine--stupid fellow--I am going to get rid of him at once.Thank you, thank you.'Notwithstanding that half-crown the incident was, of course, talked ofthrough the house before a quarter of an hour had elapsed. Next day it wasthe gossip of the suburbs; and the day after the city itself heard thestory. People were alarmed and scandalised. Why, such a chemist was apublic danger! One lady declared that he ought at once to be 'struck offthe roll!'And so in a sense he was. Another month and the flowery, bowery littlesuburb knew him no more. He hid himself in a great town, living on thewreck of his fortune whilst he sought a place as an assistant. A leaky pairof boots and a bad east wind found the vulnerable spot of his constitution.After all, there was just enough money left to bury him.

　　THE END.* * * * * * * * * * * *