Of Human Bondage - W. Somerset Maugham [182]
“You know, I don’t believe in churches and parsons and all that,” she said, “but I believe in God, and I don’t believe He minds much about what you do as long as you keep your end up and help a lame dog over a stile when you can. And I think people on the whole are very nice, and I’m sorry for those who aren’t.”
“And what about afterward?” asked Philip.
“Oh, well, I don’t know for certain, you know,” she smiled, “but I hope for the best. And anyhow there’ll be no rent to pay and no novelettes to write.”
She had a feminine gift for delicate flattery. She thought that Philip did a brave thing when he left Paris because he was conscious he could not be a great artist; and he was enchanted when she expressed enthusiastic admiration for him. He had never been quite certain whether this action indicated courage or infirmity of purpose. It was delightful to realize that she considered it heroic. She ventured to tackle him on a subject which his friends instinctively avoided.
“It’s very silly of you to be so sensitive about your club-foot,” she said. She saw him flush darkly, but went on. “You know, people don’t think about it nearly as much as you do. They notice it the first time they see you, and then they forget about it.”
He would not answer.
“You’re not angry with me, are you?”
“No.”
She put her arm round his neck.
“You know, I only speak about it because I love you. I don’t want it to make you unhappy.”
“I think you can say anything you choose to me,” he answered, smiling. “I wish I could do something to show you how grateful I am to you.”
She took him in hand in other ways. She would not let him be bearish and laughed at him when he was out of temper. She made him more urbane.
“You can make me do anything you like,” he said to her once.
“D’you mind?”
“No, I want to do what you like.”
He had the sense to realize his happiness. It seemed to him that she gave him all that a wife could, and he preserved his freedom; she was the most charming friend he had ever had, with a sympathy that he had never found in a man. The sexual relationship was no more than the strongest link in their friendship. It completed it, but was not essential. And because Philip’s appetites were satisfied, he became more equable and easier to live with. He felt in complete possession of himself. He thought sometimes of the winter, during which he had been obsessed by a hideous passion, and he was filled with loathing for Mildred and with horror of himself.
His examinations were approaching, and Norah was as interested in them as he. He was flattered and touched by her eagerness. She made him promise to come at once and tell her the result. He passed the three parts this time without mishap, and when he went to tell her she burst into tears.
“Oh, I’m so glad, I was so anxious.”
“You silly little thing,” he laughed, but he was choking.
No one could help being pleased with the way she took it.
“And what are you going to do now?” she asked.
“I can take a holiday with a clear conscience. I have no work to do till the winter session begins in October.”
“I suppose you’ll go down to your uncle’s at Blackstable?”
“You suppose quite wrong. I’m going to stay in London and play with you.”
“I’d rather you went away.”
“Why? Are you tired of me?”
She laughed and put her hands on his shoulders. “Because you’ve been working hard, and you look utterly washed out. You want some fresh air and a rest. Please go.”
He did not answer for a moment. He looked at her with loving eyes.
“You know, I’d never believe it of anyone but you. You’re only thinking of my good. I wonder what you see in me.”
“Will you give me a good character with my month’s notice?” she laughed gaily.
“I’ll say that you’re thoughtful and kind, and you’re not exacting; you never worry, you’re not troublesome, and you’re easy to please.”
“All that’s nonsense,