Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham (read novels website .txt) 📕

admiration for her. She was a delightful companion. He could not help comparing her with Mildred; and he contrasted with the one’s obstinate stupidity, which refused interest to everything she did not know, the other’s quick appreciation and ready intelligence. His heart sank when he thought that he might have been tied for life to such a woman as Mildred. One evening he told Norah the whole story of his love. It was not one to give him much reason for self-esteem, and it was very pleasant to receive such charming sympathy.

“I think you’re well out of it,” she said, when he had finished.

She had a funny way at times of holding her head on one side like an Aberdeen puppy. She was sitting in an upright chair, sewing, for she had no time to do nothing, and Philip had made himself comfortable at her feet.

“I can’t tell you how heartily thankful I am it’s all over,” he sighed.

“Poor thing, you must have had a rotten time,” she murmured, and by way of showing her sympathy put her hand on his shoulder.

He took it and kissed it, but she withdrew it quickly.

“Why did you do that?” she asked, with a blush.

“Have you any objection?”

She looked at him for a moment with twinkling eyes, and she smiled.

“No,” she said.

He got up on his knees and faced her. She looked into his eyes steadily, and her large mouth trembled with a smile.

“Well?” she said.

“You know, you are a ripper. I’m so grateful to you for being nice to me. I like you so much.”

“Don’t be idiotic,” she said.

Philip took hold of her elbows and drew her towards him. She made no resistance, but bent forward a little, and he kissed her red lips.

“Why did you do that?” she asked again.

“Because it’s comfortable.”

She did not answer, but a tender look came into her eyes, and she passed her hand softly over his hair.

“You know, it’s awfully silly of you to behave like this. We were such good friends. It would be so jolly to leave it at that.”

“If you really want to appeal to my better nature,” replied Philip, “you’ll do well not to stroke my cheek while you’re doing it.”

She gave a little chuckle, but she did not stop.

“It’s very wrong of me, isn’t it?” she said.

Philip, surprised and a little amused, looked into her eyes, and as he looked he saw them soften and grow liquid, and there was an expression in them that enchanted him. His heart was suddenly stirred, and tears came to his eyes.

“Norah, you’re not fond of me, are you?” he asked, incredulously.

“You clever boy, you ask such stupid questions.”

“Oh, my dear, it never struck me that you could be.”

He flung his arms round her and kissed her, while she, laughing, blushing, and crying, surrendered herself willingly to his embrace.

Presently he released her and sitting back on his heels looked at her curiously.

“Well, I’m blowed!” he said.

“Why?”

“I’m so surprised.”

“And pleased?”

“Delighted,” he cried with all his heart, “and so proud and so happy and so grateful.”

He took her hands and covered them with kisses. This was the beginning for Philip of a happiness which seemed both solid and durable. They became lovers but remained friends. There was in Norah a maternal instinct which received satisfaction in her love for Philip; she wanted someone to pet, and scold, and make a fuss of; she had a domestic temperament and found pleasure in looking after his health and his linen. She pitied his deformity, over which he was so sensitive, and her pity expressed itself instinctively in tenderness. She was young, strong, and healthy, and it seemed quite natural to her to give her love. She had high spirits and a merry soul. She liked Philip because he laughed with her at all the amusing things in life that caught her fancy, and above all she liked him because he was he.

When she told him this he answered gaily:

“Nonsense. You like me because I’m a silent person and never want to get a word in.”

Philip did not love her at all. He was extremely fond of her, glad to be with her, amused and interested by her conversation. She restored his belief in himself and put healing ointments, as it were, on all the bruises of his soul. He was immensely flattered that she cared for him. He admired her courage, her optimism, her impudent defiance of fate; she had a little philosophy of her own, ingenuous and practical.

“You know, I don’t believe in churches and parsons and all that,” she said, “but I believe in God, and I don’t believe He minds much about what you do as long as you keep your end up and help a lame dog over a stile when you can. And I think people on the whole are very nice, and I’m sorry for those who aren’t.”

“And what about afterwards?” asked Philip.

“Oh, well, I don’t know for certain, you know,” she smiled, “but I hope for the best. And anyhow there’ll be no rent to pay and no novelettes to write.”

She had a feminine gift for delicate flattery. She thought that Philip did a brave thing when he left Paris because he was conscious he could not be a great artist; and he was enchanted when she expressed enthusiastic admiration for him. He had never been quite certain whether this action indicated courage or infirmity of purpose. It was delightful to realise that she considered it heroic. She ventured to tackle him on a subject which his friends instinctively avoided.

“It’s very silly of you to be so sensitive about your club-foot,” she said. She saw him bush darkly, but went on. “You know, people don’t think about it nearly as much as you do. They notice it the first time they see you, and then they forget about it.”

He would not answer.

“You’re not angry with me, are you?”

“No.”

She put her arm round his neck.

“You know, I only speak about it because I love you. I don’t want it to make you unhappy.”

“I think you can say anything you choose to me,” he answered, smiling. “I wish I could do something to show you how grateful I am to you.”

She took him in hand in other ways. She would not let him be bearish and laughed at him when he was out of temper. She made him more urbane.

“You can make me do anything you like,” he said to her once.

“D’you mind?”

“No, I want to do what you like.”

He had the sense to realise his happiness. It seemed to him that she gave him all that a wife could, and he preserved his freedom; she was the most charming friend he had ever had, with a sympathy that he had never found in a man. The sexual relationship was no more than the strongest link in their friendship. It completed it, but was not essential. And because Philip’s appetites were satisfied, he became more equable and easier to live with. He felt in complete possession of himself. He thought sometimes of the winter, during which he had been obsessed by a hideous passion, and he was filled with loathing for Mildred and with horror of himself.

His examinations were approaching, and Norah was as interested in them as he. He was flattered and touched by her eagerness. She made him promise to come at once and tell her the results. He passed the three parts this time without mishap, and when he went to tell her she burst into tears.

“Oh, I’m so glad, I was so anxious.”

“You silly little thing,” he laughed, but he was choking.

No one could help being pleased with the way she took it.

“And what are you going to do now?” she asked.

“I can take a holiday with a clear conscience. I have no work to do till the winter session begins in October.”

“I suppose you’ll go down to your uncle’s at Blackstable?”

“You suppose quite wrong. I’m going to stay in London and play with you.”

“I’d rather you went away.”

“Why? Are you tired of me?”

She laughed and put her hands on his shoulders.

“Because you’ve been working hard, and you look utterly washed out. You want some fresh air and a rest. Please go.”

He did not answer for a moment. He looked at her with loving eyes.

“You know, I’d never believe it of anyone but you. You’re only thinking of my good. I wonder what you see in me.”

“Will you give me a good character with my month’s notice?” she laughed gaily.

“I’ll say that you’re thoughtful and kind, and you’re not exacting; you never worry, you’re not troublesome, and you’re easy to please.”

“All that’s nonsense,” she said, “but I’ll tell you one thing: I’m one of the few persons I ever met who are able to learn from experience.”

LXVII

Philip looked forward to his return to London with impatience. During the two months he spent at Blackstable Norah wrote to him frequently, long letters in a bold, large hand, in which with cheerful humour she described the little events of the daily round, the domestic troubles of her landlady, rich food for laughter, the comic vexations of her rehearsals—she was walking on in an important spectacle at one of the London theatres—and her odd adventures with the publishers of novelettes. Philip read a great deal, bathed, played tennis, and sailed. At the beginning of October he settled down in London to work for the Second Conjoint examination. He was eager to pass it, since that ended the drudgery of the curriculum; after it was done with the student became an out-patients’ clerk, and was brought in contact with men and women as well as with text-books. Philip saw Norah every day.

Lawson had been spending the summer at Poole, and had a number of sketches to show of the harbour and of the beach. He had a couple of commissions for portraits and proposed to stay in London till the bad light drove him away. Hayward, in London too, intended to spend the winter abroad, but remained week after week from sheer inability to make up his mind to go. Hayward had run to fat during the last two or three years—it was five years since Philip first met him in Heidelberg—and he was prematurely bald. He was very sensitive about it and wore his hair long to conceal the unsightly patch on the crown of his head. His only consolation was that his brow was now very noble. His blue eyes had lost their colour; they had a listless droop; and his mouth, losing the fulness of youth, was weak and pale. He still talked vaguely of the things he was going to do in the future, but with less conviction; and he was conscious that his friends no longer believed in him: when he had drank two or three glasses of whiskey he was inclined to be elegiac.

“I’m a failure,” he murmured, “I’m unfit for the brutality of the struggle of life. All I can do is to stand aside and let the vulgar throng hustle by in their pursuit of the good things.”

He gave you the impression that to fail was a more delicate, a more exquisite thing, than to succeed. He insinuated that his aloofness was due to distaste for all that was common and low. He talked beautifully of Plato.

“I should have thought you’d got through with Plato by now,” said Philip impatiently.

“Would you?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

He was not inclined to pursue the subject. He had discovered of late the