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Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham
first the novelty of the work kept Philip interested. Mr. Carter dictated
letters to him, and he had to make fair copies of statements of accounts.
Carter preferred to conduct the office on gentlemanly lines; he would have
nothing to do with typewriting and looked upon shorthand with disfavour:
the office-boy knew shorthand, but it was only Mr. Goodworthy who made use
of his accomplishment. Now and then Philip with one of the more
experienced clerks went out to audit the accounts of some firm: he came to
know which of the clients must be treated with respect and which were in
low water. Now and then long lists of figures were given him to add up. He
attended lectures for his first examination. Mr. Goodworthy repeated to
him that the work was dull at first, but he would grow used to it. Philip
left the office at six and walked across the river to Waterloo. His supper
was waiting for him when he reached his lodgings and he spent the evening
reading. On Saturday afternoons he went to the National Gallery. Hayward
had recommended to him a guide which had been compiled out of Ruskin's
works, and with this in hand he went industriously through room after
room: he read carefully what the critic had said about a picture and then
in a determined fashion set himself to see the same things in it. His
Sundays were difficult to get through. He knew no one in London and spent
them by himself. Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, asked him to spend a Sunday at
Hampstead, and Philip passed a happy day with a set of exuberant
strangers; he ate and drank a great deal, took a walk on the heath, and
came away with a general invitation to come again whenever he liked; but
he was morbidly afraid of being in the way, so waited for a formal
invitation. Naturally enough it never came, for with numbers of friends of
their own the Nixons did not think of the lonely, silent boy whose claim
upon their hospitality was so small. So on Sundays he got up late and took
a walk along the tow-path. At Barnes the river is muddy, dingy, and tidal;
it has neither the graceful charm of the Thames above the locks nor the
romance of the crowded stream below London Bridge. In the afternoon he
walked about the common; and that is gray and dingy too; it is neither
country nor town; the gorse is stunted; and all about is the litter of
civilisation. He went to a play every Saturday night and stood cheerfully
for an hour or more at the gallery-door. It was not worth while to go back
to Barnes for the interval between the closing of the Museum and his meal
in an A. B. C. shop, and the time hung heavily on his hands. He strolled
up Bond Street or through the Burlington Arcade, and when he was tired
went and sat down in the Park or in wet weather in the public library in
St. Martin's Lane. He looked at the people walking about and envied them
because they had friends; sometimes his envy turned to hatred because they
were happy and he was miserable. He had never imagined that it was
possible to be so lonely in a great city. Sometimes when he was standing
at the gallery-door the man next to him would attempt a conversation; but
Philip had the country boy's suspicion of strangers and answered in such a
way as to prevent any further acquaintance. After the play was over,
obliged to keep to himself all he thought about it, he hurried across the
bridge to Waterloo. When he got back to his rooms, in which for economy no
fire had been lit, his heart sank. It was horribly cheerless. He began to
loathe his lodgings and the long solitary evenings he spent in them.
Sometimes he felt so lonely that he could not read, and then he sat
looking into the fire hour after hour in bitter wretchedness.
had spent three months in London now, and except for that one Sunday at
Hampstead had never talked to anyone but his fellow-clerks. One evening
Watson asked him to dinner at a restaurant and they went to a music-hall
together; but he felt shy and uncomfortable. Watson talked all the time of
things he did not care about, and while he looked upon Watson as a
Philistine he could not help admiring him. He was angry because Watson
obviously set no store on his culture, and with his way of taking himself
at the estimate at which he saw others held him he began to despise the
acquirements which till then had seemed to him not unimportant. He felt
for the first time the humiliation of poverty. His uncle sent him fourteen
pounds a month and he had had to buy a good many clothes. His evening suit
cost him five guineas. He had not dared tell Watson that it was bought in
the Strand. Watson said there was only one tailor in London.
suppose you don't dance," said Watson, one day, with a glance at
I've been asked to bring some dancing men to a ball. I could have
introduced you to some jolly girls."
or twice, hating the thought of going back to Barnes, Philip had remained
in town, and late in the evening wandered through the West End till he
found some house at which there was a party. He stood among the little
group of shabby people, behind the footmen, watching the guests arrive,
and he listened to the music that floated through the window. Sometimes,
notwithstanding the cold, a couple came on to the balcony and stood for a
moment to get some fresh air; and Philip, imagining that they were in love
with one another, turned away and limped along the street with a heavy
hurt. He would never be able to stand in that man's place. He felt that no
woman could ever really look upon him without distaste for his deformity.
reminded him of Miss Wilkinson. He thought of her without satisfaction.
Before parting they had made an arrangement that she should write to
Charing Cross Post Office till he was able to send her an address, and
when he went there he found three letters from her. She wrote on blue
paper with violet ink, and she wrote in French. Philip wondered why she
could not write in English like a sensible woman, and her passionate
expressions, because they reminded him of a French novel, left him cold.
She upbraided him for not having written, and when he answered he excused
himself by saying that he had been busy. He did not quite know how to
start the letter. He could not bring himself to use dearest or darling,
and he hated to address her as Emily, so finally he began with the word
dear. It looked odd, standing by itself, and rather silly, but he made it
do. It was the first love letter he had ever written, and he was conscious
of its tameness; he felt that he should say all sorts of vehement things,
how he thought of her every minute of the day and how he longed to kiss
her beautiful hands and how he trembled at the thought of her red lips,
but some inexplicable modesty prevented him; and instead he told her of
his new rooms and his office. The answer came by return of post, angry,
heart-broken, reproachful: how could he be so cold? Did he not know that
she hung on his letters? She had given him all that a woman could give,
and this was her reward. Was he tired of her already? Then, because he did
not reply for several days, Miss Wilkinson bombarded him with letters. She
could not bear his unkindness, she waited for the post, and it never
brought her his letter, she cried herself to sleep night after night, she
was looking so ill that everyone remarked on it: if he did not love her
why did he not say so? She added that she could not live without him, and
the only thing was for her to commit suicide. She told him he was cold and
selfish and ungrateful. It was all in French, and Philip knew that she
wrote in that language to show off, but he was worried all the same. He
did not want to make her unhappy. In a little while she wrote that she
could not bear the separation any longer, she would arrange to come over
to London for Christmas. Philip wrote back that he would like nothing
better, only he had already an engagement to spend Christmas with friends
in the country, and he did not see how he could break it. She answered
that she did not wish to force herself on him, it was quite evident that
he did not wish to see her; she was deeply hurt, and she never thought he
would repay with such cruelty all her kindness. Her letter was touching,
and Philip thought he saw marks of her tears on the paper; he wrote an
impulsive reply saying that he was dreadfully sorry and imploring her to
come; but it was with relief that he received her answer in which she said
that she found it would be impossible for her to get away. Presently when
her letters came his heart sank: he delayed opening them, for he knew what
they would contain, angry reproaches and pathetic appeals; they would make
him feel a perfect beast, and yet he did not see with what he had to blame
himself. He put off his answer from day to day, and then another letter
would come, saying she was ill and lonely and miserable.
wish to God I'd never had anything to do with her," he said.
admired Watson because he arranged these things so easily. The young man
had been engaged in an intrigue with a girl who played in touring
companies, and his account of the affair filled Philip with envious
amazement. But after a time Watson's young affections changed, and one day
he described the rupture to Philip.
thought it was no good making any bones about it so I just told her I'd
had enough of her," he said.
she make an awful scene?" asked Philip.
usual thing, you know, but I told her it was no good trying on that sort
of thing with me."
began to, but I can't stand women when they cry, so I said she'd better
sense of humour was growing keener with advancing years.
did she hook it?" he asked smiling.
there wasn't anything else for her to do, was there?"
the Christmas holidays approached. Mrs. Carey had been ill all through
November, and the doctor suggested that she and the Vicar should go to
Cornwall for a couple of weeks round Christmas so that she should get back
her strength. The result was that Philip had nowhere to go, and he spent
Christmas Day in his lodgings. Under Hayward's influence he had persuaded
himself that the festivities that attend this season were vulgar and
barbaric, and he made up his mind that he would take no notice of the day;
but when it came, the jollity of all around affected him strangely. His
landlady and her husband were spending the day with a married daughter,
and to save trouble Philip announced that he would take his meals out. He
went up to London towards mid-day and ate a slice of turkey and some
Christmas pudding by himself at Gatti's, and since he had nothing to do
afterwards went to Westminster Abbey for the afternoon service. The
streets were almost empty, and the people who went along had a preoccupied
look; they did not saunter but walked with some definite goal in view, and
hardly anyone was alone. To Philip they all seemed happy. He felt himself
more solitary than he had ever done in his life. His intention had been to
kill the day somehow in the streets and then dine at a restaurant, but he
could not face again the sight of cheerful people, talking, laughing, and
making merry; so he went back to Waterloo, and on his way through the
Westminster Bridge Road bought some ham and a couple of mince pies and
went back to Barnes. He ate his food in his lonely little room and spent
the evening with a book. His depression was almost intolerable.
he was back at the office it made him very sore to listen to Watson's
account of the short holiday. They had had some jolly girls staying with
them, and after dinner they had cleared out the drawing-room and had a
didn't get to bed till three and I don't know how I got there then. By
George, I was squiffy."
last Philip asked desperately:
does one get to know people in London?"
looked at him with surprise and with a slightly contemptuous amusement.
I don't know, one just knows them. If you go to dances you soon get to
know as many people as you can do with."
hated Watson, and yet he would have given anything to change places with
him. The old feeling that he had had at school came back to him, and he
tried to throw himself into the other's skin, imagining what life would be
if he were Watson.