Of Human Bondage
to force himself back to his book. He went out for a walk. The streets
on the South side of the river were dingy enough on week-days, but
there was an energy, a coming and going, which gave them a sordid
vivacity; but on Sundays, with no shops open, no carts in the roadway,
silent and depressed, they were indescribably dreary. Philip thought
that day would never end. But he was so tired that he slept heavily,
and when Monday came he entered upon life with determination. Christmas
was approaching, and a good many of the students had gone into the
country for the short holiday between the two parts of the winter
session; but Philip had refused his uncle’s invitation to go down to
Blackstable. He had given the approaching examination as his excuse,
but in point of fact he had been unwilling to leave London and Mildred.
He had neglected his work so much that now he had only a fortnight to
learn what the curriculum allowed three months for. He set to work
seriously. He found it easier each day not to think of Mildred. He
congratulated himself on his force of character. The pain he suffered
was no longer anguish, but a sort of soreness, like what one might be
expected to feel if one had been thrown off a horse and, though no
bones were broken, were bruised all over and shaken. Philip found that
he was able to observe with curiosity the condition he had been in
during the last few weeks. He analysed his feelings with interest. He
was a little amused at himself. One thing that struck him was how
little under those circumstances it mattered what one thought; the
system of personal philosophy, which had given him great satisfaction
to devise, had not served him. He was puzzled by this.
But sometimes in the street he would see a girl who looked so like
Mildred that his heart seemed to stop beating. Then he could not help
himself, he hurried on to catch her up, eager and anxious, only to find
that it was a total stranger. Men came back from the country, and he
went with Dunsford to have tea at an A. B. C. shop. The well-known
uniform made him so miserable that he could not speak. The thought came
to him that perhaps she had been transferred to another establishment
of the firm for which she worked, and he might suddenly find himself
face to face with her. The idea filled him with panic, so that he
feared Dunsford would see that something was the matter with him: he
could not think of anything to say; he pretended to listen to what
Dunsford was talking about; the conversation maddened him; and it was
all he could do to prevent himself from crying out to Dunsford for
Heaven’s sake to hold his tongue.
Then came the day of his examination. Philip, when his turn arrived,
went forward to the examiner’s table with the utmost confidence. He
answered three or four questions. Then they showed him various
specimens; he had been to very few lectures and, as soon as he was
asked about things which he could not learn from books, he was floored.
He did what he could to hide his ignorance, the examiner did not
insist, and soon his ten minutes were over. He felt certain he had
passed; but next day, when he went up to the examination buildings to
see the result posted on the door, he was astounded not to find his
number among those who had satisfied the examiners. In amazement he
read the list three times. Dunsford was with him.
“I say, I’m awfully sorry you’re ploughed,” he said.
He had just inquired Philip’s number. Philip turned and saw by his
radiant face that Dunsford had passed.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter a bit,” said Philip. “I’m jolly glad you’re all
right. I shall go up again in July.”
He was very anxious to pretend he did not mind, and on their way back
along The Embankment insisted on talking of indifferent things.
Dunsford good-naturedly wanted to discuss the causes of Philip’s
failure, but Philip was obstinately casual. He was horribly mortified;
and the fact that Dunsford, whom he looked upon as a very pleasant but
quite stupid fellow, had passed made his own rebuff harder to bear. He
had always been proud of his intelligence, and now he asked himself
desperately whether he was not mistaken in the opinion he held of
himself. In the three months of the winter session the students who had
joined in October had already shaken down into groups, and it was clear
which were brilliant, which were clever or industrious, and which were
‘rotters.’ Philip was conscious that his failure was a surprise to no
one but himself. It was tea-time, and he knew that a lot of men would
be having tea in the basement of the Medical School: those who had
passed the examination would be exultant, those who disliked him would
look at him with satisfaction, and the poor devils who had failed would
sympathise with him in order to receive sympathy. His instinct was not
to go near the hospital for a week, when the affair would be no more
thought of, but, because he hated so much to go just then, he went: he
wanted to inflict suffering upon himself. He forgot for the moment his
maxim of life to follow his inclinations with due regard for the
policeman round the corner; or, if he acted in accordance with it,
there must have been some strange morbidity in his nature which made
him take a grim pleasure in self-torture.
But later on, when he had endured the ordeal to which he forced
himself, going out into the night after the noisy conversation in the
smoking-room, he was seized with a feeling of utter loneliness. He
seemed to himself absurd and futile. He had an urgent need of
consolation, and the temptation to see Mildred was irresistible. He
thought bitterly that there was small chance of consolation from her;
but he wanted to see her even if he did not speak to her; after all,
she was a waitress and would be obliged to serve him. She was the only
person in the world he cared for. There was no use in hiding that fact
from himself. Of course it would be humiliating to go back to the shop
as though nothing had happened, but he had not much self-respect left.
Though he would not confess it to himself, he had hoped each day that
she would write to him; she knew that a letter addressed to the
hospital would find him; but she had not written: it was evident that
she cared nothing if she saw him again or not. And he kept on repeating
to himself:
“I must see her. I must see her.”
The desire was so great that he could not give the time necessary to
walk, but jumped in a cab. He was too thrifty to use one when it could
possibly be avoided. He stood outside the shop for a minute or two. The
thought came to him that perhaps she had left, and in terror he walked
in quickly. He saw her at once. He sat down and she came up to him.
“A cup of tea and a muffin, please,” he ordered.
He could hardly speak. He was afraid for a moment that he was going to
cry.
“I almost thought you was dead,” she said.
She was smiling. Smiling! She seemed to have forgotten completely that
last scene which Philip had repeated to himself a hundred times.
“I thought if you’d wanted to see me you’d write,” he answered.
“I’ve got too much to do to think about writing letters.”
It seemed impossible for her to say a gracious thing. Philip cursed the
fate which chained him to such a woman. She went away to fetch his tea.
“Would you like me to sit down for a minute or two?” she said, when she
brought it.
“Yes.”
“Where have you been all this time?”
“I’ve been in London.”
“I thought you’d gone away for the holidays. Why haven’t you been in
then?”
Philip looked at her with haggard, passionate eyes.
“Don’t you remember that I said I’d never see you again?”
“What are you doing now then?”
She seemed anxious to make him drink up the cup of his humiliation; but
he knew her well enough to know that she spoke at random; she hurt him
frightfully, and never even tried to. He did not answer.
“It was a nasty trick you played on me, spying on me like that. I
always thought you was a gentleman in every sense of the word.”
“Don’t be beastly to me, Mildred. I can’t bear it.”
“You are a funny feller. I can’t make you out.”
“It’s very simple. I’m such a blasted fool as to love you with all my
heart and soul, and I know that you don’t care twopence for me.”
“If you had been a gentleman I think you’d have come next day and
begged my pardon.”
She had no mercy. He looked at her neck and thought how he would like
to jab it with the knife he had for his muffin. He knew enough anatomy
to make pretty certain of getting the carotid artery. And at the same
time he wanted to cover her pale, thin face with kisses.
“If I could only make you understand how frightfully I’m in love with
you.”
“You haven’t begged my pardon yet.”
He grew very white. She felt that she had done nothing wrong on that
occasion. She wanted him now to humble himself. He was very proud. For
one instant he felt inclined to tell her to go to hell, but he dared
not. His passion made him abject. He was willing to submit to anything
rather than not see her.
“I’m very sorry, Mildred. I beg your pardon.”
He had to force the words out. It was a horrible effort.
“Now you’ve said that I don’t mind telling you that I wish I had come
out with you that evening. I thought Miller was a gentleman, but I’ve
discovered my mistake now. I soon sent him about his business.”
Philip gave a little gasp.
“Mildred, won’t you come out with me tonight? Let’s go and dine
somewhere.”
“Oh, I can’t. My aunt’ll be expecting me home.”
“I’ll send her a wire. You can say you’ve been detained in the shop;
she won’t know any better. Oh, do come, for God’s sake. I haven’t seen
you for so long, and I want to talk to you.”
She looked down at her clothes.
“Never mind about that. We’ll go somewhere where it doesn’t matter how
you’re dressed. And we’ll go to a music-hall afterwards. Please say
yes. It would give me so much pleasure.”
She hesitated a moment; he looked at her with pitifully appealing eyes.
“Well, I don’t mind if I do. I haven’t been out anywhere since I don’t
know how long.”
It was with the greatest difficulty he could prevent himself from
seizing her hand there and then to cover it with kisses.
LX
They dined in Soho. Philip was tremulous with joy. It was not one of
the more crowded of those cheap restaurants where the respectable and
needy dine in the belief that it is bohemian and the assurance that it
is economical. It was a humble establishment, kept by a good man from
Rouen and his wife, that Philip had discovered by accident. He had been
attracted by the Gallic look of the window, in which was generally an
uncooked steak on one plate and on each side two dishes of raw
vegetables. There was one seedy French waiter, who was attempting to
learn English in a house where he never heard anything but French; and
the customers were a few ladies of easy virtue, a menage or two, who
had their own napkins reserved for them, and a few queer men who came
in for hurried, scanty meals.
Here Mildred and Philip were able to get a table to themselves. Philip
sent the waiter for a bottle of Burgundy from the neighbouring tavern,
and they had a potage aux herbes, a steak from the window aux pommes,
and an omelette au kirsch. There was really an air of romance in the
meal and in the place. Mildred, at first a little reserved in her
appreciation—“I never quite trust these foreign places, you never know
what there is in these messed up dishes”—was insensibly moved by it.
“I like this place, Philip,” she said. “You feel you can put your
elbows on the table, don’t you?”
A tall fellow came in, with a mane of gray hair and a ragged thin
beard. He wore a dilapidated cloak and a wide-awake hat. He nodded to
Philip, who had met him there before.