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

“You’re a bold man to say that of anything stated by Immanuel Kant,” retorted Macalister.

“Why? Reverence for what somebody said is a stultifying quality: there’s a damned sight too much reverence in the world. Kant thought things not because they were true, but because he was Kant.”

“Well, what is your objection to the Categorical Imperative?” (They talked as though the fate of empires were in the balance.)

“It suggests that one can choose one’s course by an effort of will. And it suggests that reason is the surest guide. Why should its dictates be any better than those of passion? They’re different. That’s all.”

“You seem to be a contented slave of your passions.”

“A slave because I can’t help myself, but not a contented one,” laughed Philip.

While he spoke he thought of that hot madness which had driven him in pursuit of Mildred. He remembered how he had chafed against it and how he had felt the degradation of it.

“Thank God, I’m free from all that now,” he thought.

And yet even as he said it he was not quite sure whether he spoke sincerely. When he was under the influence of passion he had felt a singular vigour, and his mind had worked with unwonted force. He was more alive, there was an excitement in sheer being, an eager vehemence of soul, which made life now a trifle dull. For all the misery he had endured there was a compensation in that sense of rushing, overwhelming existence.

But Philip’s unlucky words engaged him in a discussion on the freedom of the will, and Macalister, with his well-stored memory, brought out argument after argument. He had a mind that delighted in dialectics, and he forced Philip to contradict himself; he pushed him into corners from which he could only escape by damaging concessions; he tripped him up with logic and battered him with authorities.

At last Philip said:

“Well, I can’t say anything about other people. I can only speak for myself. The illusion of free will is so strong in my mind that I can’t get away from it, but I believe it is only an illusion. But it is an illusion which is one of the strongest motives of my actions. Before I do anything I feel that I have choice, and that influences what I do; but afterwards, when the thing is done, I believe that it was inevitable from all eternity.”

“What do you deduce from that?” asked Hayward.

“Why, merely the futility of regret. It’s no good crying over spilt milk, because all the forces of the universe were bent on spilling it.”

One morning Philip on getting up felt his head swim, and going back to bed suddenly discovered he was ill. All his limbs ached and he shivered with cold. When the landlady brought in his breakfast he called to her through the open door that he was not well, and asked for a cup of tea and a piece of toast. A few minutes later there was a knock at his door, and Griffiths came in. They had lived in the same house for over a year, but had never done more than nod to one another in the passage.

“I say, I hear you’re seedy,” said Griffiths. “I thought I’d come in and see what was the matter with you.”

Philip, blushing he knew not why, made light of the whole thing. He would be all right in an hour or two.

“Well, you’d better let me take your temperature,” said Griffiths.

“It’s quite unnecessary,” answered Philip irritably.

“Come on.”

Philip put the thermometer in his mouth. Griffiths sat on the side of the bed and chatted brightly for a moment, then he took it out and looked at it.

“Now, look here, old man, you must stay in bed, and I’ll bring old Deacon in to have a look at you.”

“Nonsense,” said Philip. “There’s nothing the matter. I wish you wouldn’t bother about me.”

“But it isn’t any bother. You’ve got a temperature and you must stay in bed. You will, won’t you?”

There was a peculiar charm in his manner, a mingling of gravity and kindliness, which was infinitely attractive.

“You’ve got a wonderful bedside manner,” Philip murmured, closing his eyes with a smile.

Griffiths shook out his pillow for him, deftly smoothed down the bedclothes, and tucked him up. He went into Philip’s sitting-room to look for a siphon, could not find one, and fetched it from his own room. He drew down the blind.

“Now, go to sleep and I’ll bring the old man round as soon as he’s done the wards.”

It seemed hours before anyone came to Philip. His head felt as if it would split, anguish rent his limbs, and he was afraid he was going to cry. Then there was a knock at the door and Griffiths, healthy, strong, and cheerful, came in.

“Here’s Doctor Deacon,” he said.

The physician stepped forward, an elderly man with a bland manner, whom Philip knew only by sight. A few questions, a brief examination, and the diagnosis.

“What d’you make it?” he asked Griffiths, smiling.

“Influenza.”

“Quite right.”

Doctor Deacon looked round the dingy lodging-house room.

“Wouldn’t you like to go to the hospital? They’ll put you in a private ward, and you can be better looked after than you can here.”

“I’d rather stay where I am,” said Philip.

He did not want to be disturbed, and he was always shy of new surroundings. He did not fancy nurses fussing about him, and the dreary cleanliness of the hospital.

“I can look after him, sir,” said Griffiths at once.

“Oh, very well.”

He wrote a prescription, gave instructions, and left.

“Now you’ve got to do exactly as I tell you,” said Griffiths. “I’m day-nurse and night-nurse all in one.”

“It’s very kind of you, but I shan’t want anything,” said Philip.

Griffiths put his hand on Philip’s forehead, a large cool, dry hand, and the touch seemed to him good.

“I’m just going to take this round to the dispensary to have it made up, and then I’ll come back.”

In a