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

She complained of the vulgarity of German life, and compared it bitterly with the brilliance of Paris, where she had spent a number of years. She did not say how many. She had been governess in the family of a fashionable portrait-painter, who had married a Jewish wife of means, and in their house she had met many distinguished people. She dazzled Philip with their names. Actors from the Comédie Française had come to the house frequently, and Coquelin, sitting next her at dinner, had told her he had never met a foreigner who spoke such perfect French. Alphonse Daudet had come also, and he had given her a copy of Sappho: he had promised to write her name in it, but she had forgotten to remind him. She treasured the volume none the less and she would lend it to Philip. Then there was Maupassant. Miss Wilkinson with a rippling laugh looked at Philip knowingly. What a man, but what a writer! Hayward had talked of Maupassant, and his reputation was not unknown to Philip.

“Did he make love to you?” he asked.

The words seemed to stick funnily in his throat, but he asked them nevertheless. He liked Miss Wilkinson very much now, and was thrilled by her conversation, but he could not imagine anyone making love to her.

“What a question!” she cried. “Poor Guy, he made love to every woman he met. It was a habit that he could not break himself of.”

She sighed a little, and seemed to look back tenderly on the past.

“He was a charming man,” she murmured.

A greater experience than Philip’s would have guessed from these words the probabilities of the encounter: the distinguished writer invited to luncheon en famille, the governess coming in sedately with the two tall girls she was teaching; the introduction:

“Notre Miss Anglaise.”

“Mademoiselle.”

And the luncheon during which the Miss Anglaise sat silent while the distinguished writer talked to his host and hostess.

But to Philip her words called up much more romantic fancies.

“Do tell me all about him,” he said excitedly.

“There’s nothing to tell,” she said truthfully, but in such a manner as to convey that three volumes would scarcely have contained the lurid facts. “You mustn’t be curious.”

She began to talk of Paris. She loved the boulevards and the Bois. There was grace in every street, and the trees in the Champs Élysées had a distinction which trees had not elsewhere. They were sitting on a stile now by the highroad, and Miss Wilkinson looked with disdain upon the stately elms in front of them. And the theatres: the plays were brilliant, and the acting was incomparable. She often went with Madame Foyot, the mother of the girls she was educating, when she was trying on clothes.

“Oh, what a misery to be poor!” she cried. “These beautiful things, it’s only in Paris they know how to dress, and not to be able to afford them! Poor Madame Foyot, she had no figure. Sometimes the dressmaker used to whisper to me: ‘Ah, Mademoiselle, if she only had your figure.’ ”

Philip noticed then that Miss Wilkinson had a robust form and was proud of it.

“Men are so stupid in England. They only think of the face. The French, who are a nation of lovers, know how much more important the figure is.”

Philip had never thought of such things before, but he observed now that Miss Wilkinson’s ankles were thick and ungainly. He withdrew his eyes quickly.

“You should go to France. Why don’t you go to Paris for a year? You would learn French, and it would⁠—déniaiser you.”

“What is that?” asked Philip.

She laughed slyly.

“You must look it out in the dictionary. Englishmen do not know how to treat women. They are so shy. Shyness is ridiculous in a man. They don’t know how to make love. They can’t even tell a woman she is charming without looking foolish.”

Philip felt himself absurd. Miss Wilkinson evidently expected him to behave very differently; and he would have been delighted to say gallant and witty things, but they never occurred to him; and when they did he was too much afraid of making a fool of himself to say them.

“Oh, I love Paris,” sighed Miss Wilkinson. “But I had to go to Berlin. I was with the Foyots till the girls married, and then I could get nothing to do, and I had the chance of this post in Berlin. They’re relations of Madame Foyot, and I accepted. I had a tiny apartment in the Rue Bréda, on the cinquième: it wasn’t at all respectable. You know about the Rue Bréda⁠—çes dames, you know.”

Philip nodded, not knowing at all what she meant, but vaguely suspecting, and anxious she should not think him too ignorant.

“But I didn’t care. Je suis libre, n’est-çe pas?” She was very fond of speaking French, which indeed she spoke well. “Once I had such a curious adventure there.”

She paused a little and Philip pressed her to tell it.

“You wouldn’t tell me yours in Heidelberg,” she said.

“They were so unadventurous,” he retorted.

“I don’t know what Mrs. Carey would say if she knew the sort of things we talk about together.”

“You don’t imagine I shall tell her.”

“Will you promise?”

When he had done this, she told him how an art-student who had a room on the floor above her⁠—but she interrupted herself.

“Why don’t you go in for art? You paint so prettily.”

“Not well enough for that.”

“That is for others to judge. Je m’y connais, and I believe you have the making of a great artist.”

“Can’t you see Uncle William’s face if I suddenly told him I wanted to go to Paris and study art?”

“You’re your own master, aren’t you?”

“You’re trying to put me off. Please go on with the story.” Miss Wilkinson, with a little laugh, went on. The art-student had passed her several times on the stairs, and she had paid no particular attention. She saw that he had fine eyes, and he took