Of Human Bondage
were a leaf in the wind, and when passion seized him he was powerless.
He had no self-control. He merely seemed to possess it because he was
indifferent to many of the things which moved other people.
He considered with some irony the philosophy which he had developed for
himself, for it had not been of much use to him in the conjuncture he
had passed through; and he wondered whether thought really helped a man
in any of the critical affairs of life: it seemed to him rather that he
was swayed by some power alien to and yet within himself, which urged
him like that great wind of Hell which drove Paolo and Francesca
ceaselessly on. He thought of what he was going to do and, when the
time came to act, he was powerless in the grasp of instincts, emotions,
he knew not what. He acted as though he were a machine driven by the
two forces of his environment and his personality; his reason was
someone looking on, observing the facts but powerless to interfere: it
was like those gods of Epicurus, who saw the doings of men from their
empyrean heights and had no might to alter one smallest particle of
what occurred.
LXXIX
Philip went up to London a couple of days before the session began in
order to find himself rooms. He hunted about the streets that led out
of the Westminster Bridge Road, but their dinginess was distasteful to
him; and at last he found one in Kennington which had a quiet and
old-world air. It reminded one a little of the London which Thackeray
knew on that side of the river, and in the Kennington Road, through
which the great barouche of the Newcomes must have passed as it drove
the family to the West of London, the plane-trees were bursting into
leaf. The houses in the street which Philip fixed upon were
two-storied, and in most of the windows was a notice to state that
lodgings were to let. He knocked at one which announced that the
lodgings were unfurnished, and was shown by an austere, silent woman
four very small rooms, in one of which there was a kitchen range and a
sink. The rent was nine shillings a week. Philip did not want so many
rooms, but the rent was low and he wished to settle down at once. He
asked the landlady if she could keep the place clean for him and cook
his breakfast, but she replied that she had enough work to do without
that; and he was pleased rather than otherwise because she intimated
that she wished to have nothing more to do with him than to receive his
rent. She told him that, if he inquired at the grocer’s round the
corner, which was also a post office, he might hear of a woman who
would ‘do’ for him.
Philip had a little furniture which he had gathered as he went along,
an arm-chair that he had bought in Paris, and a table, a few drawings,
and the small Persian rug which Cronshaw had given him. His uncle had
offered a fold-up bed for which, now that he no longer let his house in
August, he had no further use; and by spending another ten pounds
Philip bought himself whatever else was essential. He spent ten
shillings on putting a corn-coloured paper in the room he was making
his parlour; and he hung on the walls a sketch which Lawson had given
him of the Quai des Grands Augustins, and the photograph of the
Odalisque by Ingres and Manet’s Olympia which in Paris had been the
objects of his contemplation while he shaved. To remind himself that he
too had once been engaged in the practice of art, he put up a charcoal
drawing of the young Spaniard Miguel Ajuria: it was the best thing he
had ever done, a nude standing with clenched hands, his feet gripping
the floor with a peculiar force, and on his face that air of
determination which had been so impressive; and though Philip after the
long interval saw very well the defects of his work its associations
made him look upon it with tolerance. He wondered what had happened to
Miguel. There is nothing so terrible as the pursuit of art by those who
have no talent. Perhaps, worn out by exposure, starvation, disease, he
had found an end in some hospital, or in an access of despair had
sought death in the turbid Seine; but perhaps with his Southern
instability he had given up the struggle of his own accord, and now, a
clerk in some office in Madrid, turned his fervent rhetoric to politics
and bull-fighting.
Philip asked Lawson and Hayward to come and see his new rooms, and they
came, one with a bottle of whiskey, the other with a pate de foie gras;
and he was delighted when they praised his taste. He would have invited
the Scotch stockbroker too, but he had only three chairs, and thus
could entertain only a definite number of guests. Lawson was aware that
through him Philip had become very friendly with Norah Nesbit and now
remarked that he had run across her a few days before.
“She was asking how you were.”
Philip flushed at the mention of her name (he could not get himself out
of the awkward habit of reddening when he was embarrassed), and Lawson
looked at him quizzically. Lawson, who now spent most of the year in
London, had so far surrendered to his environment as to wear his hair
short and to dress himself in a neat serge suit and a bowler hat.
“I gather that all is over between you,” he said.
“I’ve not seen her for months.”
“She was looking rather nice. She had a very smart hat on with a lot of
white ostrich feathers on it. She must be doing pretty well.”
Philip changed the conversation, but he kept thinking of her, and after
an interval, when the three of them were talking of something else, he
asked suddenly:
“Did you gather that Norah was angry with me?”
“Not a bit. She talked very nicely of you.”
“I’ve got half a mind to go and see her.”
“She won’t eat you.”
Philip had thought of Norah often. When Mildred left him his first
thought was of her, and he told himself bitterly that she would never
have treated him so. His impulse was to go to her; he could depend on
her pity; but he was ashamed: she had been good to him always, and he
had treated her abominably.
“If I’d only had the sense to stick to her!” he said to himself,
afterwards, when Lawson and Hayward had gone and he was smoking a last
pipe before going to bed.
He remembered the pleasant hours they had spent together in the cosy
sitting-room in Vincent Square, their visits to galleries and to the
play, and the charming evenings of intimate conversation. He
recollected her solicitude for his welfare and her interest in all that
concerned him. She had loved him with a love that was kind and lasting,
there was more than sensuality in it, it was almost maternal; he had
always known that it was a precious thing for which with all his soul
he should thank the gods. He made up his mind to throw himself on her
mercy. She must have suffered horribly, but he felt she had the
greatness of heart to forgive him: she was incapable of malice. Should
he write to her? No. He would break in on her suddenly and cast himself
at her feet—he knew that when the time came he would feel too shy to
perform such a dramatic gesture, but that was how he liked to think of
it—and tell her that if she would take him back she might rely on him
for ever. He was cured of the hateful disease from which he had
suffered, he knew her worth, and now she might trust him. His
imagination leaped forward to the future. He pictured himself rowing
with her on the river on Sundays; he would take her to Greenwich, he
had never forgotten that delightful excursion with Hayward, and the
beauty of the Port of London remained a permanent treasure in his
recollection; and on the warm summer afternoons they would sit in the
Park together and talk: he laughed to himself as he remembered her gay
chatter, which poured out like a brook bubbling over little stones,
amusing, flippant, and full of character. The agony he had suffered
would pass from his mind like a bad dream.
But when next day, about tea-time, an hour at which he was pretty
certain to find Norah at home, he knocked at her door his courage
suddenly failed him. Was it possible for her to forgive him? It would
be abominable of him to force himself on her presence. The door was
opened by a maid new since he had been in the habit of calling every
day, and he inquired if Mrs. Nesbit was in.
“Will you ask her if she could see Mr. Carey?” he said. “I’ll wait
here.”
The maid ran upstairs and in a moment clattered down again.
“Will you step up, please, sir. Second floor front.”
“I know,” said Philip, with a slight smile.
He went with a fluttering heart. He knocked at the door.
“Come in,” said the well-known, cheerful voice.
It seemed to say come in to a new life of peace and happiness. When he
entered Norah stepped forward to greet him. She shook hands with him as
if they had parted the day before. A man stood up.
“Mr. Carey—Mr. Kingsford.”
Philip, bitterly disappointed at not finding her alone, sat down and
took stock of the stranger. He had never heard her mention his name,
but he seemed to Philip to occupy his chair as though he were very much
at home. He was a man of forty, clean-shaven, with long fair hair very
neatly plastered down, and the reddish skin and pale, tired eyes which
fair men get when their youth is passed. He had a large nose, a large
mouth; the bones of his face were prominent, and he was heavily made;
he was a man of more than average height, and broad-shouldered.
“I was wondering what had become of you,” said Norah, in her sprightly
manner. “I met Mr. Lawson the other day—did he tell you?—and I informed
him that it was really high time you came to see me again.”
Philip could see no shadow of embarrassment in her countenance, and he
admired the use with which she carried off an encounter of which
himself felt the intense awkwardness. She gave him tea. She was about
to put sugar in it when he stopped her.
“How stupid of me!” she cried. “I forgot.”
He did not believe that. She must remember quite well that he never
took sugar in his tea. He accepted the incident as a sign that her
nonchalance was affected.
The conversation which Philip had interrupted went on, and presently he
began to feel a little in the way. Kingsford took no particular notice
of him. He talked fluently and well, not without humour, but with a
slightly dogmatic manner: he was a journalist, it appeared, and had
something amusing to say on every topic that was touched upon; but it
exasperated Philip to find himself edged out of the conversation. He
was determined to stay the visitor out. He wondered if he admired
Norah. In the old days they had often talked of the men who wanted to
flirt with her and had laughed at them together. Philip tried to bring
back the conversation to matters which only he and Norah knew about,
but each time the journalist broke in and succeeded in drawing it away
to a subject upon which Philip was forced to be silent. He grew faintly
angry with Norah, for she must see he was being made ridiculous; but
perhaps she was inflicting this upon him as a punishment, and with this
thought he regained his good humour. At last, however, the clock struck
six, and Kingsford got up.
“I must go,” he said.
Norah shook hands with him, and accompanied him to the landing. She
shut the door behind her and stood outside for a couple of minutes.
Philip wondered what they were talking about.
“Who is Mr. Kingsford?” he asked cheerfully, when she returned.
“Oh, he’s the editor of one of Harmsworth’s Magazines. He’s been taking
a good deal of my work lately.”
“I thought he was never going.”
“I’m glad you stayed. I wanted to have a talk with you.” She curled
herself into the large arm-chair, feet and all, in a way her small size
made possible, and lit a cigarette. He smiled when he saw her assume
the attitude which had always amused him.
“You look just like a cat.”