Of Human Bondage 人性的枷锁 Chapter 1 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 left 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. ‘ 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. chapter 122 He had arranged to meet Sally on Saturday in the National Gallery. She was to come there as soon as she was released from the shop and had agreed to lunch with him. Two days had passed since he had seen her, and his exultation had not left him for a moment. It was because he rejoiced in the feeling that he had not attempted to see her. He had repeated to himself exactly what he would say to her and how he should say it. Now his impatience was unbearable. He had written to Doctor South and had in his pocket a telegram from him received that morning: ‘ Sacking the mumpish fool. When will you come? ’ Philip walked along Parliament Street. It was a fine day, and there was a bright, frosty sun which made the light dance in the street. It was crowded. There was a tenuous mist in the distance, and it softened exquisitely the noble lines of the buildings. He crossed Trafalgar Square. Suddenly his heart gave a sort of twist in his body; he saw a woman in front of him who he thought was Mildred. She had the same figure, and she walked with that slight dragging of the feet which was so characteristic of her. Without thinking, but with a beating heart, he hurried till he came alongside, and then, when the woman turned, he saw it was someone unknown to him. It was the face of a much older person, with a lined, yellow skin. He slackened his pace. He was infinitely relieved, but it was not only relief that he felt; it was disappointment too; he was seized with horror of himself. Would he never be free from that passion? At the bottom of his heart, notwithstanding everything, he felt that a strange, desperate thirst for that vile woman would always linger. That love had caused him so much suffering that he knew he would never, never quite be free of it. Only death could finally assuage his desire. But he wrenched the pang from his heart. He thought of Sally, with her kind blue eyes; and his lips unconsciously formed themselves into a smile. He walked up the steps of the National Gallery and sat down in the first room, so that he should see her the moment she came in. It always comforted him to get among pictures. He looked at none in particular, but allowed the magnificence of their colour, the beauty of their lines, to work upon his soul. His imagination was busy with Sally. It would be pleasant to take her away from that London in which she seemed an unusual figure, like a cornflower in a shop among orchids and azaleas; he had learned in the Kentish hop-field that she did not belong to the town; and he was sure that she would blossom under the soft skies of Dorset to a rarer beauty. She came in, and he got up to meet her. She was in black, with white cuffs at her wrists and a lawn collar round her neck. They shook hands. ‘ Have you been waiting long? ’ ‘ No. Ten minutes. Are you hungry? ’ ‘ Not very. ’ ‘ Let ’ s sit here for a bit, shall we? ’ ‘ If you like. ’ They sat quietly, side by side, without speaking. Philip enjoyed having her near him. He was warmed by her radiant health. A glow of life seemed like an aureole to shine about her. ‘ Well, how have you been? ’ he said at last, with a little smile. ‘ Oh, it ’ s all right. It was a false alarm. ’ ‘ Was it? ’ ‘ Aren ’ t you glad? ’ An extraordinary sensation filled him. He had felt certain that Sally ’ s suspicion was well-founded; it had never occurred to him for an instant that there was a possibility of error. All his plans were suddenly overthrown, and the existence, so elaborately pictured, was no more than a dream which would never be realised. He was free once more. Free! He need give up none of his projects, and life still was in his hands for him to do what he liked with. He felt no exhilaration, but only dismay. His heart sank. The future stretched out before him in desolate emptiness. It was as though he had sailed for many years over a great waste of waters, with peril and privation, and at last had come upon a fair haven, but as he was about to enter, some contrary wind had arisen and drove him out again into the open sea; and because he had let his mind dwell on these soft meads and pleasant woods of the land, the vast deserts of the ocean filled him with anguish. He could not confront again the loneliness and the tempest. Sally looked at him with her clear eyes. ‘ Aren ’ t you glad? ’ she asked again. ‘ I thought you ’ d be as pleased as Punch. ’ He met her gaze haggardly. ‘ I ’ m not sure, ’ he muttered. ‘ You are funny. Most men would. ’ He realised that he had deceived himself; it was no self-sacrifice that had driven him to think of marrying, but the desire for a wife and a home and love; and now that it all seemed to slip through his fingers he was seized with despair. He wanted all that more than anything in the world. What did he care for Spain and its cities, Cordova, Toledo, Leon; what to him were the pagodas of Burmah and the lagoons of South Sea Islands? America was here and now. It seemed to him that all his life he had followed the ideals that other people, by their words or their writings, had instilled into him, and never the desires of his own heart. Always his course had been swayed by what he thought he should do and never by what he wanted with his whole soul to do. He put all that aside now with a gesture of impatience. He had lived always in the future, and the present always, always had slipped through his fingers. His ideals? He thought of his desire to make a design, intricate and beautiful, out of the myriad, meaningless facts of life: had he not seen also that the st pattern, that in which a man was born, worked, married, had children, and died, was likewise the most perfect? It might be that to surrender to happiness was to accept defeat, but it was a defeat better than many victories. He glanced quickly at Sally, he wondered what she was thinking, and then looked away again. ‘ I was going to ask you to marry me, ’ he said. ‘ I thought p ’ raps you might, but I shouldn ’ t have liked to stand in your way. ’ ‘ You wouldn ’ t have done that. ’ ‘ How about your travels, Spain and all that? ’ ‘ How d ’ you know I want to travel? ’ ‘ I ought to know something about it. I ’ ve heard you and Dad talk about it till you were blue in the face. ’ ‘ I don ’ t care a about all that. ’ He paused for an instant and then spoke in a low, hoarse whisper. ‘ I don ’ t want to leave you! I can ’ t leave you. ’ She did not answer. He could not tell what she thought. ‘ I wonder if you ’ ll marry me, Sally. ’ She did not move and th