Of Human Bondage
“He looks like an anarchist,” said Mildred.
“He is, one of the most dangerous in Europe. He’s been in every prison
on the Continent and has assassinated more persons than any gentleman
unhung. He always goes about with a bomb in his pocket, and of course
it makes conversation a little difficult because if you don’t agree
with him he lays it on the table in a marked manner.”
She looked at the man with horror and surprise, and then glanced
suspiciously at Philip. She saw that his eyes were laughing. She
frowned a little.
“You’re getting at me.”
He gave a little shout of joy. He was so happy. But Mildred didn’t like
being laughed at.
“I don’t see anything funny in telling lies.”
“Don’t be cross.”
He took her hand, which was lying on the table, and pressed it gently.
“You are lovely, and I could kiss the ground you walk on,” he said.
The greenish pallor of her skin intoxicated him, and her thin white
lips had an extraordinary fascination. Her anaemia made her rather
short of breath, and she held her mouth slightly open. It seemed to add
somehow to the attractiveness of her face.
“You do like me a bit, don’t you?” he asked.
“Well, if I didn’t I suppose I shouldn’t be here, should I? You’re a
gentleman in every sense of the word, I will say that for you.”
They had finished their dinner and were drinking coffee. Philip,
throwing economy to the winds, smoked a three-penny cigar.
“You can’t imagine what a pleasure it is to me just to sit opposite and
look at you. I’ve yearned for you. I was sick for a sight of you.”
Mildred smiled a little and faintly flushed. She was not then suffering
from the dyspepsia which generally attacked her immediately after a
meal. She felt more kindly disposed to Philip than ever before, and the
unaccustomed tenderness in her eyes filled him with joy. He knew
instinctively that it was madness to give himself into her hands; his
only chance was to treat her casually and never allow her to see the
untamed passions that seethed in his breast; she would only take
advantage of his weakness; but he could not be prudent now: he told her
all the agony he had endured during the separation from her; he told
her of his struggles with himself, how he had tried to get over his
passion, thought he had succeeded, and how he found out that it was as
strong as ever. He knew that he had never really wanted to get over it.
He loved her so much that he did not mind suffering. He bared his heart
to her. He showed her proudly all his weakness.
Nothing would have pleased him more than to sit on in the cosy, shabby
restaurant, but he knew that Mildred wanted entertainment. She was
restless and, wherever she was, wanted after a while to go somewhere
else. He dared not bore her.
“I say, how about going to a music-hall?” he said.
He thought rapidly that if she cared for him at all she would say she
preferred to stay there.
“I was just thinking we ought to be going if we are going,” she
answered.
“Come on then.”
Philip waited impatiently for the end of the performance. He had made
up his mind exactly what to do, and when they got into the cab he
passed his arm, as though almost by accident, round her waist. But he
drew it back quickly with a little cry. He had pricked himself. She
laughed.
“There, that comes of putting your arm where it’s got no business to
be,” she said. “I always know when men try and put their arm round my
waist. That pin always catches them.”
“I’ll be more careful.”
He put his arm round again. She made no objection.
“I’m so comfortable,” he sighed blissfully.
“So long as you’re happy,” she retorted.
They drove down St. James’ Street into the Park, and Philip quickly
kissed her. He was strangely afraid of her, and it required all his
courage. She turned her lips to him without speaking. She neither
seemed to mind nor to like it.
“If you only knew how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured.
He tried to kiss her again, but she turned her head away.
“Once is enough,” she said.
On the chance of kissing her a second time he travelled down to Herne
Hill with her, and at the end of the road in which she lived he asked
her:
“Won’t you give me another kiss?”
She looked at him indifferently and then glanced up the road to see
that no one was in sight.
“I don’t mind.”
He seized her in his arms and kissed her passionately, but she pushed
him away.
“Mind my hat, silly. You are clumsy,” she said.
LXI
He saw her then every day. He began going to lunch at the shop, but
Mildred stopped him: she said it made the girls talk; so he had to
content himself with tea; but he always waited about to walk with her
to the station; and once or twice a week they dined together. He gave
her little presents, a gold bangle, gloves, handkerchiefs, and the
like. He was spending more than he could afford, but he could not help
it: it was only when he gave her anything that she showed any
affection. She knew the price of everything, and her gratitude was in
exact proportion with the value of his gift. He did not care. He was
too happy when she volunteered to kiss him to mind by what means he got
her demonstrativeness. He discovered that she found Sundays at home
tedious, so he went down to Herne Hill in the morning, met her at the
end of the road, and went to church with her.
“I always like to go to church once,” she said. “It looks well, doesn’t
it?”
Then she went back to dinner, he got a scrappy meal at a hotel, and in
the afternoon they took a walk in Brockwell Park. They had nothing much
to say to one another, and Philip, desperately afraid she was bored
(she was very easily bored), racked his brain for topics of
conversation. He realised that these walks amused neither of them, but
he could not bear to leave her, and did all he could to lengthen them
till she became tired and out of temper. He knew that she did not care
for him, and he tried to force a love which his reason told him was not
in her nature: she was cold. He had no claim on her, but he could not
help being exacting. Now that they were more intimate he found it less
easy to control his temper; he was often irritable and could not help
saying bitter things. Often they quarrelled, and she would not speak to
him for a while; but this always reduced him to subjection, and he
crawled before her. He was angry with himself for showing so little
dignity. He grew furiously jealous if he saw her speaking to any other
man in the shop, and when he was jealous he seemed to be beside
himself. He would deliberately insult her, leave the shop and spend
afterwards a sleepless night tossing on his bed, by turns angry and
remorseful. Next day he would go to the shop and appeal for
forgiveness.
“Don’t be angry with me,” he said. “I’m so awfully fond of you that I
can’t help myself.”
“One of these days you’ll go too far,” she answered.
He was anxious to come to her home in order that the greater intimacy
should give him an advantage over the stray acquaintances she made
during her working-hours; but she would not let him.
“My aunt would think it so funny,” she said.
He suspected that her refusal was due only to a disinclination to let
him see her aunt. Mildred had represented her as the widow of a
professional man (that was her formula of distinction), and was
uneasily conscious that the good woman could hardly be called
distinguished. Philip imagined that she was in point of fact the widow
of a small tradesman. He knew that Mildred was a snob. But he found no
means by which he could indicate to her that he did not mind how common
the aunt was.
Their worst quarrel took place one evening at dinner when she told him
that a man had asked her to go to a play with him. Philip turned pale,
and his face grew hard and stern.
“You’re not going?” he said.
“Why shouldn’t I? He’s a very nice gentlemanly fellow.”
“I’ll take you anywhere you like.”
“But that isn’t the same thing. I can’t always go about with you.
Besides he’s asked me to fix my own day, and I’ll just go one evening
when I’m not going out with you. It won’t make any difference to you.”
“If you had any sense of decency, if you had any gratitude, you
wouldn’t dream of going.”
“I don’t know what you mean by gratitude. If you’re referring to the
things you’ve given me you can have them back. I don’t want them.”
Her voice had the shrewish tone it sometimes got.
“It’s not very lively, always going about with you. It’s always do you
love me, do you love me, till I just get about sick of it.”
He knew it was madness to go on asking her that, but he could not help
himself.
“Oh, I like you all right,” she would answer.
“Is that all? I love you with all my heart.”
“I’m not that sort, I’m not one to say much.”
“If you knew how happy just one word would make me!”
“Well, what I always say is, people must take me as they find me, and
if they don’t like it they can lump it.”
But sometimes she expressed herself more plainly still, and, when he
asked the question, answered:
“Oh, don’t go on at that again.”
Then he became sulky and silent. He hated her.
And now he said:
“Oh, well, if you feel like that about it I wonder you condescend to
come out with me at all.”
“It’s not my seeking, you can be very sure of that, you just force me
to.”
His pride was bitterly hurt, and he answered madly.
“You think I’m just good enough to stand you dinners and theatres when
there’s no one else to do it, and when someone else turns up I can go
to hell. Thank you, I’m about sick of being made a convenience.”
“I’m not going to be talked to like that by anyone. I’ll just show you
how much I want your dirty dinner.”
She got up, put on her jacket, and walked quickly out of the
restaurant. Philip sat on. He determined he would not move, but ten
minutes afterwards he jumped in a cab and followed her. He guessed that
she would take a ’bus to Victoria, so that they would arrive about the
same time. He saw her on the platform, escaped her notice, and went
down to Herne Hill in the same train. He did not want to speak to her
till she was on the way home and could not escape him.
As soon as she had turned out of the main street, brightly lit and
noisy with traffic, he caught her up.
“Mildred,” he called.
She walked on and would neither look at him nor answer. He repeated her
name. Then she stopped and faced him.
“What d’you want? I saw you hanging about Victoria. Why don’t you leave
me alone?”
“I’m awfully sorry. Won’t you make it up?”
“No, I’m sick of your temper and your jealousy. I don’t care for you, I
never have cared for you, and I never shall care for you. I don’t want
to have anything more to do with you.”
She walked on quickly, and he had to hurry to keep up with her.
“You never make allowances for me,” he said. “It’s all very well to be
jolly and amiable when you’re indifferent to anyone. It’s very hard
when you’re as much in love as I am. Have mercy on me. I don’t mind
that you don’t care for me. After all you can’t help it. I only want
you to let me love you.”
She walked on, refusing to speak, and Philip saw with agony that they
had only a few hundred yards to go before they reached her house. He
abased himself. He poured out an incoherent story of love and
penitence.
“If you’ll only forgive me this time I promise you you’ll never have to
complain of me in future. You can go out with whoever you choose. I’ll
be only too glad if you’ll come with me when you’ve got nothing better
to do.”
She stopped again, for they had reached the corner at which he always
left her.
“Now you can take yourself off. I won’t have you coming up to the
door.”
“I won’t go till you say you’ll forgive me.”
“I’m sick and tired of the whole thing.”