Of Human Bondage. Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

the Miss Anglaise sat silent while the distinguished writer talked to his host and hostess.

      But to Philip her words called up much more romantic fancies.

      “Do tell me all about him,” he said excitedly.

      “There’s nothing to tell,” she said truthfully, but in such a manner as to convey that three volumes would scarcely have contained the lurid facts. “You mustn’t be curious.”

      She began to talk of Paris. She loved the boulevards and the Bois. There was grace in every street, and the trees in the Champs Elysees had a distinction which trees had not elsewhere. They were sitting on a stile now by the high-road, and Miss Wilkinson looked with disdain upon the stately elms in front of them. And the theatres: the plays were brilliant, and the acting was incomparable. She often went with Madame Foyot, the mother of the girls she was educating, when she was trying on clothes.

      “Oh, what a misery to be poor!” she cried. “These beautiful things, it’s only in Paris they know how to dress, and not to be able to afford them! Poor Madame Foyot, she had no figure. Sometimes the dressmaker used to whisper to me: ‘Ah, Mademoiselle, if she only had your figure.’”

      Philip noticed then that Miss Wilkinson had a robust form and was proud of it.

      “Men are so stupid in England. They only think of the face. The French, who are a nation of lovers, know how much more important the figure is.”

      Philip had never thought of such things before, but he observed now that Miss Wilkinson’s ankles were thick and ungainly. He withdrew his eyes quickly.

      “You should go to France. Why don’t you go to Paris for a year? You would learn French, and it would–deniaiser you.”

      “What is that?” asked Philip.

      She laughed slyly.

      “You must look it out in the dictionary. Englishmen do not know how to treat women. They are so shy. Shyness is ridiculous in a man. They don’t know how to make love. They can’t even tell a woman she is charming without looking foolish.”

      Philip felt himself absurd. Miss Wilkinson evidently expected him to behave very differently; and he would have been delighted to say gallant and witty things, but they never occurred to him; and when they did he was too much afraid of making a fool of himself to say them.

      “Oh, I love Paris,” sighed Miss Wilkinson. “But I had to go to Berlin. I was with the Foyots till the girls married, and then I could get nothing to do, and I had the chance of this post in Berlin. They’re relations of Madame Foyot, and I accepted. I had a tiny apartment in the Rue Breda, on the cinquieme: it wasn’t at all respectable. You know about the Rue Breda–ces dames, you know.”

      Philip nodded, not knowing at all what she meant, but vaguely suspecting, and anxious she should not think him too ignorant.

      “But I didn’t care. Je suis libre, n’est-ce pas?” She was very fond of speaking French, which indeed she spoke well. “Once I had such a curious adventure there.”

      She paused a little and Philip pressed her to tell it.

      “You wouldn’t tell me yours in Heidelberg,” she said.

      “They were so unadventurous,” he retorted.

      “I don’t know what Mrs. Carey would say if she knew the sort of things we talk about together.”

      “You don’t imagine I shall tell her.”

      “Will you promise?”

      When he had done this, she told him how an art-student who had a room on the floor above her–but she interrupted herself.

      “Why don’t you go in for art? You paint so prettily.”

      “Not well enough for that.”

      “That is for others to judge. Je m’y connais, and I believe you have the making of a great artist.”

      “Can’t you see Uncle William’s face if I suddenly told him I wanted to go to Paris and study art?”

      “You’re your own master, aren’t you?”

      “You’re trying to put me off. Please go on with the story.” Miss Wilkinson, with a little laugh, went on. The art-student had passed her several times on the stairs, and she had paid no particular attention. She saw that he had fine eyes, and he took off his hat very politely. And one day she found a letter slipped under her door. It was from him. He told her that he had adored her for months, and that he waited about the stairs for her to pass. Oh, it was a charming letter! Of course she did not reply, but what woman could help being flattered? And next day there was another letter! It was wonderful, passionate, and touching. When next she met him on the stairs she did not know which way to look. And every day the letters came, and now he begged her to see him. He said he would come in the evening, vers neuf heures, and she did not know what to do. Of course it was impossible, and he might ring and ring, but she would never open the door; and then while she was waiting for the tinkling of the bell, all nerves, suddenly he stood before her. She had forgotten to shut the door when she came in.

      “C’etait une fatalite.”

      “And what happened then?” asked Philip.

      “That is the end of the story,” she replied, with a ripple of laughter.

      Philip was silent for a moment. His heart beat quickly, and strange emotions seemed to be hustling one another in his heart. He saw the dark staircase and the chance meetings, and he admired the boldness of the letters–oh, he would never have dared to do that–and then the silent, almost mysterious entrance. It seemed to him the very soul of romance.

      “What was he like?”

      “Oh, he was handsome. Charmant garcon.”

      “Do you know him still?”

      Philip felt a slight feeling of irritation as he asked this.

      “He treated me abominably. Men are always the same. You’re heartless, all of you.”

      “I don’t know about that,” said Philip, not without embarrassment.

      “Let us go home,” said Miss Wilkinson.

      XXXIII

      Philip could not get Miss Wilkinson’s story out of his head. It was clear enough what she meant even though she cut it short, and he was a little shocked. That sort of thing was all very well for married women, he had read enough French novels to know that in France it was indeed the rule, but Miss Wilkinson was English and unmarried; her father was a clergyman. Then it struck him that the art-student probably was neither the first nor the last of her lovers, and he gasped: he had never looked upon Miss Wilkinson like that; it seemed incredible that anyone should make love to her. In his ingenuousness he doubted her story as little as he doubted what he read in books, and he was angry that such wonderful things never happened to him. It was humiliating that if Miss Wilkinson insisted upon his telling her of his adventures in Heidelberg he would have nothing to tell. It was true that he had some power of invention, but he was not sure whether he could persuade her that he was steeped in vice; women were full of intuition, he had read that, and she might easily discover that he was fibbing. He blushed scarlet as he thought of her laughing up her sleeve.

      Miss Wilkinson played the piano and sang in a rather tired voice; but her songs, Massenet, Benjamin Goddard, and Augusta Holmes, were new to Philip; and together they spent many hours at the piano. One day she wondered if he had a voice and insisted on trying it. She told him he had a pleasant baritone and offered to give him lessons. At first with his usual bashfulness he refused, but she insisted, and then every morning at a convenient time after breakfast she gave him an hour’s lesson. She had a natural gift for teaching, and it was clear that she was an excellent governess. She had method and firmness. Though her French accent was so much part of her that it remained, all the mellifluousness of her manner left her when she was engaged in teaching. She put up with no nonsense. Her voice became a little