Starvard.Starvard.
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Here it is, explained like you are 10:
Philip Carey is born with a club foot and raised by a cold vicar, and Maugham follows him through medicine, art, poverty, and one long, humiliating obsession with a waitress named Mildred who treats him terribly and whom he cannot stop loving. It is a book about every way a person can be bound: by body, by family, by desire, and by the need for life to mean something.
Philip Carey grows up with a club foot and a cold vicar uncle standing in for parents, then drifts: out of faith, into art school in Paris, out of art and into medicine, collecting humiliations like stamps. Worst is Mildred, a waitress who is cold, unfaithful, and unkind, and whom Philip cannot stop loving, giving her money and dignity until there is almost nothing left. An older friend leaves him a puzzle instead of advice: a Persian rug, whose pattern is supposed to explain life.
The bondage of the title is everything that chains a person: the body, other people's opinions, desire, money, and the craving for life to mean something. Philip tries each chain and each gospel, religion, art, love, and finds none of them is the answer by itself.
Maugham tells it coolly, forgiving Philip nothing and understanding him completely. Watch for the rug and the moment its meaning clicks: the pattern is simply the one your own choices weave.
Philip Carey, orphaned and born with a club foot, searches for meaning through art in Paris, medicine in London, and a humiliating obsession with a waitress named Mildred. Maugham's longest and most personal novel is a whole education in how a life gets built.
The first chapter
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 bedclothes, 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 bedside.
“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 stillborn 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.
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 bedclothes, 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 bedside.
“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 stillborn 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.
Source: Standard Ebooks. Published 1915. Author died 1965. Public domain in the US. Share this book: WhatsApp