Chapter XCVI

by William Somerset Maugham

　　The climax came two or three weeks later. Mildred was driven by Philip'sbehaviour to a pitch of strange exasperation. There were many differentemotions in her soul, and she passed from mood to mood with facility. Shespent a great deal of time alone and brooded over her position. She didnot put all her feelings into words, she did not even know what they were,but certain things stood out in her mind, and she thought of them over andover again. She had never understood Philip, nor had very much liked him;but she was pleased to have him about her because she thought he was agentleman. She was impressed because his father had been a doctor and hisuncle was a clergyman. She despised him a little because she had made sucha fool of him, and at the same time was never quite comfortable in hispresence; she could not let herself go, and she felt that he wascriticising her manners.When she first came to live in the little rooms in Kennington she wastired out and ashamed. She was glad to be left alone. It was a comfort tothink that there was no rent to pay; she need not go out in all weathers,and she could lie quietly in bed if she did not feel well. She had hatedthe life she led. It was horrible to have to be affable and subservient;and even now when it crossed her mind she cried with pity for herself asshe thought of the roughness of men and their brutal language. But itcrossed her mind very seldom. She was grateful to Philip for coming to herrescue, and when she remembered how honestly he had loved her and howbadly she had treated him, she felt a pang of remorse. It was easy to makeit up to him. It meant very little to her. She was surprised when herefused her suggestion, but she shrugged her shoulders: let him put onairs if he liked, she did not care, he would be anxious enough in a littlewhile, and then it would be her turn to refuse; if he thought it was anydeprivation to her he was very much mistaken. She had no doubt of herpower over him. He was peculiar, but she knew him through and through. Hehad so often quarrelled with her and sworn he would never see her again,and then in a little while he had come on his knees begging to beforgiven. It gave her a thrill to think how he had cringed before her. Hewould have been glad to lie down on the ground for her to walk on him. Shehad seen him cry. She knew exactly how to treat him, pay no attention tohim, just pretend you didn't notice his tempers, leave him severely alone,and in a little while he was sure to grovel. She laughed a little toherself, good-humouredly, when she thought how he had come and eaten dirtbefore her. She had had her fling now. She knew what men were and did notwant to have anything more to do with them. She was quite ready to settledown with Philip. When all was said, he was a gentleman in every sense ofthe word, and that was something not to be sneezed at, wasn't it? Anyhowshe was in no hurry, and she was not going to take the first step. She wasglad to see how fond he was growing of the baby, though it tickled her agood deal; it was comic that he should set so much store on another man'schild. He was peculiar and no mistake.But one or two things surprised her. She had been used to hissubservience: he was only too glad to do anything for her in the old days,she was accustomed to see him cast down by a cross word and in ecstasy ata kind one; he was different now, and she said to herself that he had notimproved in the last year. It never struck her for a moment that therecould be any change in his feelings, and she thought it was only actingwhen he paid no heed to her bad temper. He wanted to read sometimes andtold her to stop talking: she did not know whether to flare up or to sulk,and was so puzzled that she did neither. Then came the conversation inwhich he told her that he intended their relations to be platonic, and,remembering an incident of their common past, it occurred to her that hedreaded the possibility of her being pregnant. She took pains to reassurehim. It made no difference. She was the sort of woman who was unable torealise that a man might not have her own obsession with sex; herrelations with men had been purely on those lines; and she could notunderstand that they ever had other interests. The thought struck her thatPhilip was in love with somebody else, and she watched him, suspectingnurses at the hospital or people he met out; but artful questions led herto the conclusion that there was no one dangerous in the Athelnyhousehold; and it forced itself upon her also that Philip, like mostmedical students, was unconscious of the sex of the nurses with whom hiswork threw him in contact. They were associated in his mind with a faintodour of iodoform. Philip received no letters, and there was no girl'sphotograph among his belongings. If he was in love with someone, he wasvery clever at hiding it; and he answered all Mildred's questions withfrankness and apparently without suspicion that there was any motive inthem."I don't believe he's in love with anybody else," she said to herself atlast.It was a relief, for in that case he was certainly still in love with her;but it made his behaviour very puzzling. If he was going to treat her likethat why did he ask her to come and live at the flat? It was unnatural.Mildred was not a woman who conceived the possibility of compassion,generosity, or kindness. Her only conclusion was that Philip was queer.She took it into her head that the reasons for his conduct werechivalrous; and, her imagination filled with the extravagances of cheapfiction, she pictured to herself all sorts of romantic explanations forhis delicacy. Her fancy ran riot with bitter misunderstandings,purifications by fire, snow-white souls, and death in the cruel cold of aChristmas night. She made up her mind that when they went to Brighton shewould put an end to all his nonsense; they would be alone there, everyonewould think them husband and wife, and there would be the pier and theband. When she found that nothing would induce Philip to share the sameroom with her, when he spoke to her about it with a tone in his voice shehad never heard before, she suddenly realised that he did not want her.She was astounded. She remembered all he had said in the past and howdesperately he had loved her. She felt humiliated and angry, but she hada sort of native insolence which carried her through. He needn't think shewas in love with him, because she wasn't. She hated him sometimes, and shelonged to humble him; but she found herself singularly powerless; she didnot know which way to handle him. She began to be a little nervous withhim. Once or twice she cried. Once or twice she set herself to beparticularly nice to him; but when she took his arm while they walkedalong the front at night he made some excuse in a while to releasehimself, as though it were unpleasant for him to be touched by her. Shecould not make it out. The only hold she had over him was through thebaby, of whom he seemed to grow fonder and fonder: she could make himwhite with anger by giving the child a slap or a push; and the only timethe old, tender smile came back into his eyes was when she stood with thebaby in her arms. She noticed it when she was being photographed like thatby a man on the beach, and afterwards she often stood in the same way forPhilip to look at her.When they got back to London Mildred began looking for the work she hadasserted was so easy to find; she wanted now to be independent of Philip;and she thought of the satisfaction with which she would announce to himthat she was going into rooms and would take the child with her. But herheart failed her when she came into closer contact with the possibility.She had grown unused to the long hours, she did not want to be at the beckand call of a manageress, and her dignity revolted at the thought ofwearing once more a uniform. She had made out to such of the neighbours asshe knew that they were comfortably off: it would be a come-down if theyheard that she had to go out and work. Her natural indolence asserteditself. She did not want to leave Philip, and so long as he was willing toprovide for her, she did not see why she should. There was no money tothrow away, but she got her board and lodging, and he might get betteroff. His uncle was an old man and might die any day, he would come into alittle then, and even as things were, it was better than slaving frommorning till night for a few shillings a week. Her efforts relaxed; shekept on reading the advertisement columns of the daily paper merely toshow that she wanted to do something if anything that was worth her whilepresented itself. But panic seized her, and she was afraid that Philipwould grow tired of supporting her. She had no hold over him at all now,and she fancied that he only allowed her to stay there because he was fondof the baby. She brooded over it all, and she thought to herself angrilythat she would make him pay for all this some day. She could not reconcileherself to the fact that he no longer cared for her. She would make him.She suffered from pique, and sometimes in a curious fashion she desiredPhilip. He was so cold now that it exasperated her. She thought of him inthat way incessantly. She thought that he was treating her very badly, andshe did not know what she had done to deserve it. She kept on saying toherself that it was unnatural they should live like that. Then she thoughtthat if things were different and she were going to have a baby, he wouldbe sure to marry her. He was funny, but he was a gentleman in every senseof the word, no one could deny that. At last it became an obsession withher, and she made up her mind to force a change in their relations. Henever even kissed her now, and she wanted him to: she remembered howardently he had been used to press her lips. It gave her a curious feelingto think of it. She often looked at his mouth.One evening, at the beginning of February, Philip told her that he wasdining with Lawson, who was giving a party in his studio to celebrate hisbirthday; and he would not be in till late; Lawson had bought a couple ofbottles of the punch they favoured from the tavern in Beak Street, andthey proposed to have a merry evening. Mildred asked if there were goingto be women there, but Philip told her there were not; only men had beeninvited; and they were just going to sit and talk and smoke: Mildred didnot think it sounded very amusing; if she were a painter she would havehalf a dozen models about. She went to bed, but could not sleep, andpresently an idea struck her; she got up and fixed the catch on the wicketat the landing, so that Philip could not get in. He came back about one,and she heard him curse when he found that the wicket was closed. She gotout of bed and opened."Why on earth did you shut yourself in? I'm sorry I've dragged you out ofbed.""I left it open on purpose, I can't think how it came to be shut.""Hurry up and get back to bed, or you'll catch cold."He walked into the sitting-room and turned up the gas. She followed himin. She went up to the fire."I want to warm my feet a bit. They're like ice."He sat down and began to take off his boots. His eyes were shining and hischeeks were flushed. She thought he had been drinking."Have you been enjoying yourself?" she asked, with a smile."Yes, I've had a ripping time."Philip was quite sober, but he had been talking and laughing, and he wasexcited still. An evening of that sort reminded him of the old days inParis. He was in high spirits. He took his pipe out of his pocket andfilled it."Aren't you going to bed?" she asked."Not yet, I'm not a bit sleepy. Lawson was in great form. He talkedsixteen to the dozen from the moment I got there till the moment I left.""What did you talk about?""Heaven knows! Of every subject under the sun. You should have seen us allshouting at the tops of our voices and nobody listening."Philip laughed with pleasure at the recollection, and Mildred laughed too.She was pretty sure he had drunk more than was good for him. That wasexactly what she had expected. She knew men."Can I sit down?" she said.Before he could answer she settled herself on his knees."If you're not going to bed you'd better go and put on a dressing-gown.""Oh, I'm all right as I am." Then putting her arms round his neck, sheplaced her face against his and said: "Why are you so horrid to me, Phil?"He tried to get up, but she would not let him."I do love you, Philip," she said."Don't talk damned rot.""It isn't, it's true. I can't live without you. I want you."He released himself from her arms."Please get up. You're making a fool of yourself and you're making me feela perfect idiot.""I love you, Philip. I want to make up for all the harm I did you. I can'tgo on like this, it's not in human nature."He slipped out of the chair and left her in it."I'm very sorry, but it's too late."She gave a heart-rending sob."But why? How can you be so cruel?""I suppose it's because I loved you too much. I wore the passion out. Thethought of anything of that sort horrifies me. I can't look at you nowwithout thinking of Emil and Griffiths. One can't help those things, Isuppose it's just nerves."She seized his hand and covered it with kisses."Don't," he cried.She sank back into the chair."I can't go on like this. If you won't love me, I'd rather go away.""Don't be foolish, you haven't anywhere to go. You can stay here as longas you like, but it must be on the definite understanding that we'refriends and nothing more."Then she dropped suddenly the vehemence of passion and gave a soft,insinuating laugh. She sidled up to Philip and put her arms round him. Shemade her voice low and wheedling."Don't be such an old silly. I believe you're nervous. You don't know hownice I can be."She put her face against his and rubbed his cheek with hers. To Philip hersmile was an abominable leer, and the suggestive glitter of her eyesfilled him with horror. He drew back instinctively."I won't," he said.But she would not let him go. She sought his mouth with her lips. He tookher hands and tore them roughly apart and pushed her away."You disgust me," he said."Me?"She steadied herself with one hand on the chimney-piece. She looked at himfor an instant, and two red spots suddenly appeared on her cheeks. Shegave a shrill, angry laugh."I disgust you."She paused and drew in her breath sharply. Then she burst into a furioustorrent of abuse. She shouted at the top of her voice. She called himevery foul name she could think of. She used language so obscene thatPhilip was astounded; she was always so anxious to be refined, so shockedby coarseness, that it had never occurred to him that she knew the wordsshe used now. She came up to him and thrust her face in his. It wasdistorted with passion, and in her tumultuous speech the spittle dribbledover her lips."I never cared for you, not once, I was making a fool of you always, youbored me, you bored me stiff, and I hated you, I would never have let youtouch me only for the money, and it used to make me sick when I had to letyou kiss me. We laughed at you, Griffiths and me, we laughed because youwas such a mug. A mug! A mug!"Then she burst again into abominable invective. She accused him of everymean fault; she said he was stingy, she said he was dull, she said he wasvain, selfish; she cast virulent ridicule on everything upon which he wasmost sensitive. And at last she turned to go. She kept on, with hystericalviolence, shouting at him an opprobrious, filthy epithet. She seized thehandle of the door and flung it open. Then she turned round and hurled athim the injury which she knew was the only one that really touched him.She threw into the word all the malice and all the venom of which she wascapable. She flung it at him as though it were a blow."Cripple!"