Of Human Bondage W. Somerset Maugham (epub e reader txt) 📖

“What is that?” asked Philip.

“Well, I happen to know that she’s not above going to Eastbourne with a man for the weekend now and again. One of the girls has a married sister who goes there with her husband, and she’s seen her. She was staying at the same boardinghouse, and she ’ad a wedding-ring on, and I know for one she’s not married.”

Philip filled her glass, hoping that champagne would make her more affable; he was anxious that his little jaunt should be a success. He noticed that she held her knife as though it were a pen-holder, and when she drank protruded her little finger. He started several topics of conversation, but he could get little out of her, and he remembered with irritation that he had seen her talking nineteen to the dozen and laughing with the German. They finished dinner and went to the play. Philip was a very cultured young man, and he looked upon musical comedy with scorn. He thought the jokes vulgar and the melodies obvious; it seemed to him that they did these things much better in France; but Mildred enjoyed herself thoroughly; she laughed till her sides ached, looking at Philip now and then when something tickled her to exchange a glance of pleasure; and she applauded rapturously.

“This is the seventh time I’ve been,” she said, after the first act, “and I don’t mind if I come seven times more.”

She was much interested in the women who surrounded them in the stalls. She pointed out to Philip those who were painted and those who wore false hair.

“It is horrible, these West-end people,” she said. “I don’t know how they can do it.” She put her hand to her hair. “Mine’s all my own, every bit of it.”

She found no one to admire, and whenever she spoke of anyone it was to say something disagreeable. It made Philip uneasy. He supposed that next day she would tell the girls in the shop that he had taken her out and that he had bored her to death. He disliked her, and yet, he knew not why, he wanted to be with her. On the way home he asked:

“I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself?”

“Rather.”

“Will you come out with me again one evening?”

“I don’t mind.”

He could never get beyond such expressions as that. Her indifference maddened him.

“That sounds as if you didn’t much care if you came or not.”

“Oh, if you don’t take me out some other fellow will. I need never want for men who’ll take me to the theatre.”

Philip was silent. They came to the station, and he went to the booking-office.

“I’ve got my season,” she said.

“I thought I’d take you home as it’s rather late, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, I don’t mind if it gives you any pleasure.”

He took a single first for her and a return for himself.

“Well, you’re not mean, I will say that for you,” she said, when he opened the carriage-door.

Philip did not know whether he was pleased or sorry when other people entered and it was impossible to speak. They got out at Herne Hill, and he accompanied her to the corner of the road in which she lived.

“I’ll say good night to you here,” she said, holding out her hand. “You’d better not come up to the door. I know what people are, and I don’t want to have anybody talking.”

She said good night and walked quickly away. He could see the white shawl in the darkness. He thought she might turn round, but she did not. Philip saw which house she went into, and in a moment he walked along to look at it. It was a trim, common little house of yellow brick, exactly like all the other little houses in the street. He stood outside for a few minutes, and presently the window on the top floor was darkened. Philip strolled slowly back to the station. The evening had been unsatisfactory. He felt irritated, restless, and miserable.

When he lay in bed he seemed still to see her sitting in the corner of the railway carriage, with the white crochet shawl over her head. He did not know how he was to get through the hours that must pass before his eyes rested on her again. He thought drowsily of her thin face, with its delicate features, and the greenish pallor of her skin. He was not happy with her, but he was unhappy away from her. He wanted to sit by her side and look at her, he wanted to touch her, he wanted⁠ ⁠… the thought came to him and he did not finish it, suddenly he grew wide awake⁠ ⁠… he wanted to kiss the thin, pale mouth with its narrow lips. The truth came to him at last. He was in love with her. It was incredible.

He had often thought of falling in love, and there was one scene which he had pictured to himself over and over again. He saw himself coming into a ballroom; his eyes fell on a little group of men and women talking; and one of the women turned round. Her eyes fell upon him, and he knew that the gasp in his throat was in her throat too. He stood quite still. She was tall and dark and beautiful with eyes like the night; she was dressed in white, and in her black hair shone diamonds; they stared at one another, forgetting that people surrounded them. He went straight up to her, and she moved a little towards him. Both felt that the formality of introduction was out of place. He spoke to her.

“I’ve been looking for you all my life,” he said.

“You’ve come at last,” she murmured.

“Will you dance with me?”

She surrendered herself to his outstretched hands and they danced. (Philip always pretended that he was not lame.) She danced divinely.

“I’ve never danced with anyone who danced like you,” she said.

She tore up her programme, and they danced together the whole evening.

“I’m