Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  ‘Now go down and wait for me at the door,’ said Arthur. ‘I will follow you immediately.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Susie.

  ‘Never mind. Do as I tell you. I have not finished here yet.’

  They went down the great oak staircase and waited in the hall. They wondered what Arthur was about. Presently he came running down.

  ‘Be quick!’ he cried. ‘We have no time to lose.’

  ‘What have you done, Arthur?’

  There’s no time to tell you now.’

  He hurried them out and slammed the door behind him. He took Susie’s hand.

  ‘Now we must run. Come.’

  She did not know what his haste signified, but her heart beat furiously. He dragged her along. Dr Porhoët hurried on behind them. Arthur plunged into the wood. He would not leave them time to breathe.

  ‘You must be quick,’ he said.

  At last they came to the opening in the fence, and he helped them to get through. Then he carefully replaced the wooden paling and, taking Susie’s arm began to walk rapidly towards their inn.

  ‘I’m frightfully tired,’ she said. ‘I simply can’t go so fast.’

  ‘You must. Presently you can rest as long as you like.’

  They walked very quickly for a while. Now and then Arthur looked back.

  The night was still quite dark, and the stars shone out in their myriads.

  At last he slackened their pace.

  ‘Now you can go more slowly,’ he said.

  Susie saw the smiling glance that he gave her. His eyes were full of tenderness. He put his arm affectionately round her shoulders to support her.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re quite exhausted, poor thing,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to have had to hustle you so much.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter at all.’

  She leaned against him comfortably. With that protecting arm about her, she felt capable of any fatigue. Dr Porhoët stopped.

  ‘You must really let me roll myself a cigarette,’ he said.

  ‘You may do whatever you like,’ answered Arthur.

  There was a different ring in his voice now, and it was soft with a good-humour that they had not heard in it for many months. He appeared singularly relieved. Susie was ready to forget the terrible past and give herself over to the happiness that seemed at last in store for her. They began to saunter slowly on. And now they could take pleasure in the exquisite night. The air was very suave, odorous with the heather that was all about them, and there was an enchanting peace in that scene which wonderfully soothed their weariness. It was dark still, but they knew the dawn was at hand, and Susie rejoiced in the approaching day. In the east the azure of the night began to thin away into pale amethyst, and the trees seemed gradually to stand out from the darkness in a ghostly beauty. Suddenly birds began to sing all around them in a splendid chorus. From their feet a lark sprang up with a rustle of wings and, mounting proudly upon the air, chanted blithe canticles to greet the morning. They stood upon a little hill.

  ‘Let us wait here and see the sun rise,’ said Susie.

  ‘As you will.’

  They stood all three of them, and Susie took in deep, joyful breaths of the sweet air of dawn. The whole land, spread at her feet, was clothed in the purple dimness that heralds day, and she exulted in its beauty. But she noticed that Arthur, unlike herself and Dr Porhoët, did not look toward the east. His eyes were fixed steadily upon the place from which they had come. What did he look for in the darkness of the west? She turned round, and a cry broke from her lips, for the shadows there were lurid with a deep red glow.

  ‘It looks like a fire,’ she said.

  ‘It is. Skene is burning like tinder.’

  And as he spoke it seemed that the roof fell in, for suddenly vast flames sprang up, rising high into the still night air; and they saw that the house they had just left was blazing furiously. It was a magnificent sight from the distant hill on which they stood to watch the fire as it soared and sank, as it shot scarlet tongues along like strange Titanic monsters, as it raged from room to room. Skene was burning. It was beyond the reach of human help. In a little while there would be no trace of all those crimes and all those horrors. Now it was one mass of flame. It looked like some primeval furnace, where the gods might work unheard-of miracles.

  ‘Arthur, what have you done?’ asked Susie, in a tone that was hardly audible.

  He did not answer directly. He put his arm about her shoulder again, so that she was obliged to turn round.

  ‘Look, the sun is rising.’

  In the east, a long ray of light climbed up the sky, and the sun, yellow and round, appeared upon the face of the earth.

  OF HUMAN BONDAGE

  The title for this story comes from the Dutch philosopher Spinoza, who gave Part IV of his work Ethics the title Of Human Bondage, or the Strength of the Emotions. Spinoza makes the point that humans are held hostage by their emotions and that to free oneself from this captivity, one has to know one’s aims in life and follow them. It is an apt title, as the novel is centred on the unconscious search of the main character, Philip Carey, for his path in life and the tribulations he faces in trying to find peace.

  Of Human Bondage is rightly cited as Maugham’s longest and most famous novel and the author freely admitted that it was strongly autobiographical in places. This is not a story of an idyllic childhood and a charmed life, and Maugham found the writing of it a cathartic experience. Having taken four years to write, it was finally published in both Britain (by Heinemann) and America (by Doran) in August 1915, when the author was in his late thirties. Of Human Bondage was one of many titles tried for the novel pre-publication, as Maugham, having a sense that this was to be a key work of his, was pedantic about what was chosen. It was slow to receive accolade, due to its subdued, even tragic themes, which did not sit well with a public at war and needing morale boosters; however, in the 1920’s it finally achieved the status it deserved, following the success of Maugham’s later work The Moon and Sixpence. In 1934, Of Human Bondage was made into a film starring Bette Davis and Leslie Howard, with Davis giving such a superb performance as a slatternly and cruel Mildred that it revived her faltering acting career and enabled her to move on to real star status – such is the depth of the multi-faceted character that had Maugham created. It has been suggested by one of Maugham’s biographers, Robert Calder, that Mildred was actually based on a boy at Maugham’s school, for whom he held a fascination.

  The story begins on a note of deep sadness; the illness and death of the widowed mother of a little boy, Philip Carey. An only child, he loses both his mother and his newborn sibling virtually at the same time, and he is sent from London to Kent to live with his childless, stuffy and deeply religious aunt and uncle. Uncle William is the local vicar in a small seaside town, and is a social snob – Philip is severely restricted in whom he is allowed to play with, and even middle class children on holiday there are rejected because they are Londoners and a potential bad influence. Philip has a club foot and cannot easily explore the area alone, and so his playground is the beautifully described vicarage and garden. After a lonely time in which Philip finds solace only in voracious reading, he is sent to boarding school. The descriptions of his school life are taken from Maugham’s own experiences at King’s School, Canterbury, and they do not flatter his alma mater (indeed, Maugham had to make his peace with the school in later years). Archetypal stories of ragging, fagging, dysfunctional and ill informed teachers and extreme snobbery abound, and it is little wonder that although Philip is a gifted scholar, he cannot wait to leave school early aged seventeen, foregoing a scholarship to Oxford University in order to study languages in Germany.

  Philip’s time in Germany as a student, lodging in a house with other scholars, is a happy and liberating time, but his aunt and uncle want him home and he has to take a job in London. This eventually leads to another spell abroad, this time studying art in France. This sojourn is compromised by Phi
lip’s lack of real artistic ability and by a doomed friendship with a young woman, Fanny, who dies. Yet again he returns to England, this time to study medicine and follow in the professional footsteps of his late father. However, once again, Philip is restless and unfulfilled, and his studies are a trial to him. In this frame of mind, he comes across a young waitress, Mildred, in a tea shop:

  “She had the small regular features... blue eyes, and… broad low brow… She seemed to have a great deal of hair... She was very anaemic. Her thin lips were pale, and her skin was delicate, of a faint green colour, without a touch of red even in the cheeks... She took great pains to prevent her work from spoiling her hands [and] she went about her duties with a bored look.”

  At first, Philip finds nothing attractive or of value in her. However, against his better judgement he finds himself falling for this insolent, rather plain, grandiose young woman, and becomes completely besotted. Mildred appears to give him no encouragement, receiving his treats and attentions with studied indifference: “he hated himself for loving her. She seemed to be constantly humiliating him, and for each snub that he endured he owed her a grudge.” His masochistic devotion to her only seems to heighten her contempt for him. The affair continues with Philip helpless to contain his jealous passion for Mildred, and the reader shares his discomfort – it is easy to find oneself willing him to lose his temper with the terrible way she treats him, and have done with Mildred once and for all. The inevitable happens; Mildred rejects Philip and announces she is to marry a man with better prospects, and the “romance” is abruptly ended. A distraction comes along in the form of Norah Nesbit, a young woman separated from her husband, working as a minor actress and a writer of romances. Norah is kindly, amusing and loving, and before long Philip and Norah are having an affair and the ghastly experience of Mildred is fading into the past.

  However, not too long after Philip has settled into this contented relationship, Mildred comes back into his life. The man that promised to marry her already has a wife, and has deserted her because he is tired of her and she is pregnant. Who else would Mildred turn to but the ever-loyal Philip? His dog-like devotion to her is resurrected and Norah is pushed aside. Philip lavishes time and money on Mildred, and supports her until and after she has her baby. Mildred still treats him with disdain however, and her final insult is to fall for his friend, Griffiths, and run away with him. Philip is devastated, but surely this sociopathic woman is now out of his life forever?

  This is a powerfully written story with strong autobiographical elements. The scenes describing the last illness of Philip’s mother, and her subsequent death, are deeply poignant; Maugham was deeply attached to his mother and by his own admittance never got over her death when he was only eight years old. Maugham’s next few years are transposed to the novel with unremitting gloom, and the reader is left in no doubt of the misery that both the character Philip and Maugham in real life, endured. It is a depressing thought that any child, whether Victorian or present day, could be subjected to such an emotionally repressive and socially stifling life. More personal memories must have dictated Maugham’s descriptions of the medical school, such as the banter and black humour of the dissection room, and the realistic descriptions of the poor, working class patients that presented themselves at the hospital clinics for treatment. There is a real density to the prose in this novel; no word is wasted or irrelevant, no scene that does not reveal something of plot or character, and they come one after the other with almost unrelenting speed. Of Human Bondage is certainly no light read, but more one to savour and take your time over.

  The first edition

  CONTENTS

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  XXXV

  XXXVI

  XXXVII

  XXXVIII

  XXXIX

  XL

  XLI

  XLII

  XLIII

  XLIV

  XLV

  XLVI

  XLVII

  XLVIII

  XLIX

  L

  LI

  LII

  LIII

  LIV

  LV

  LVI

  LVII

  LVIII

  LIX

  LX

  LXI

  LXII

  LXIII

  LXIV

  LXV

  LXVI

  LXVII

  LXVIII

  LXIX

  LXX

  LXXI

  LXXII

  LXXIII

  LXXIV

  LXXV

  LXXVI

  LXXVII

  LXXVIII

  LXXIX

  LXXX

  LXXXI

  LXXXII

  LXXXIII

  LXXXIV

  LXXXV

  LXXXVI

  LXXXVII

  LXXXVIII

  LXXXIX

  XC

  XCI

  XCII

  XCIII

  XCIV

  XCV

  XCVI

  XCVII

  XCVIII

  XCIX

  C

  CI

  CII

  CIII

  CIV

  CV

  CVI

  CVII

  CVIII

  CIX

  CX

  CXI

  CXII

  CXIII

  CXIV

  CXV

  CXVI

  CXVII

  CXVIII

  CXIX

  CXX

  CXXI

  CXXII

  The first edition’s title page

  The 1934 film adaptation

  I

  The day broke gray and dull. The clouds hung heavily, and there was a rawness in the air that suggested snow. A woman servant came into a room in which a child was sleeping and drew the curtains. She glanced mechanically at the house opposite, a stucco house with a portico, and went to the child’s bed.

  “Wake up, Philip,” she said.

  She pulled down the bed-clothes, took him in her arms, and carried him downstairs. He was only half awake.

  “Your mother wants you,” she said.

  She opened the door of a room on the floor below and took the child over to a bed in which a woman was lying. It was his mother. She stretched out her arms, and the child nestled by her side. He did not ask why he had been awakened. The woman kissed his eyes, and with thin, small hands felt the warm body through his white flannel nightgown. She pressed him closer to herself.

  “Are you sleepy, darling?” she said.

  Her voice was so weak that it seemed to come already from a great distance. The child did not answer, but smiled comfortably. He was very happy in the large, warm bed, with those soft arms about him. He tried to make himself smaller still as he cuddled up against his mother, and he kissed her sleepily. In a moment he closed his eyes and was fast asleep. The doctor came forwards and stood by the bed-side.

  “Oh, don’t take him away yet,” she moaned.

  The doctor, without answering, looked at her gravely. Knowing she would not be allowed to keep the child much longer, the woman kissed him again; and she passed her hand down his body till she came to his feet; she held the right foot in her hand and felt the five small toes; and then slowly passed her hand over the lef
t one. She gave a sob.

  “What’s the matter?” said the doctor. “You’re tired.”

  She shook her head, unable to speak, and the tears rolled down her cheeks.

  The doctor bent down.

  “Let me take him.”

  She was too weak to resist his wish, and she gave the child up. The doctor handed him back to his nurse.

  “You’d better put him back in his own bed.”

  “Very well, sir.” The little boy, still sleeping, was taken away. His mother sobbed now broken-heartedly.

  “What will happen to him, poor child?”

  The monthly nurse tried to quiet her, and presently, from exhaustion, the crying ceased. The doctor walked to a table on the other side of the room, upon which, under a towel, lay the body of a still-born child. He lifted the towel and looked. He was hidden from the bed by a screen, but the woman guessed what he was doing.

  “Was it a girl or a boy?” she whispered to the nurse.

  “Another boy.”

  The woman did not answer. In a moment the child’s nurse came back. She approached the bed.

  “Master Philip never woke up,” she said. There was a pause. Then the doctor felt his patient’s pulse once more.

  “I don’t think there’s anything I can do just now,” he said. “I’ll call again after breakfast.”

  “I’ll show you out, sir,” said the child’s nurse.

  They walked downstairs in silence. In the hall the doctor stopped.

  “You’ve sent for Mrs. Carey’s brother-in-law, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “D’you know at what time he’ll be here?”

  “No, sir, I’m expecting a telegram.”

  “What about the little boy? I should think he’d be better out of the way.”

  “Miss Watkin said she’d take him, sir.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “She’s his godmother, sir. D’you think Mrs. Carey will get over it, sir?”

  The doctor shook his head.

  II

  It was a week later. Philip was sitting on the floor in the drawing-room at Miss Watkin’s house in Onslow gardens. He was an only child and used to amusing himself. The room was filled with massive furniture, and on each of the sofas were three big cushions. There was a cushion too in each arm-chair. All these he had taken and, with the help of the gilt rout chairs, light and easy to move, had made an elaborate cave in which he could hide himself from the Red Indians who were lurking behind the curtains. He put his ear to the floor and listened to the herd of buffaloes that raced across the prairie. Presently, hearing the door open, he held his breath so that he might not be discovered; but a violent hand pulled away a chair and the cushions fell down.