Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  Mr. Perkins had spoken to him of the beauty of a life dedicated to the service of God. Philip knew what sort of lives the clergy led in the corner of East Anglia which was his home. There was the Vicar of Whitestone, a parish a little way from Blackstable: he was a bachelor and to give himself something to do had lately taken up farming: the local paper constantly reported the cases he had in the county court against this one and that, labourers he would not pay their wages to or tradesmen whom he accused of cheating him; scandal said he starved his cows, and there was much talk about some general action which should be taken against him. Then there was the Vicar of Ferne, a bearded, fine figure of a man: his wife had been forced to leave him because of his cruelty, and she had filled the neighbourhood with stories of his immorality. The Vicar of Surle, a tiny hamlet by the sea, was to be seen every evening in the public house a stone’s throw from his vicarage; and the churchwardens had been to Mr. Carey to ask his advice. There was not a soul for any of them to talk to except small farmers or fishermen; there were long winter evenings when the wind blew, whistling drearily through the leafless trees, and all around they saw nothing but the bare monotony of ploughed fields; and there was poverty, and there was lack of any work that seemed to matter; every kink in their characters had free play; there was nothing to restrain them; they grew narrow and eccentric: Philip knew all this, but in his young intolerance he did not offer it as an excuse. He shivered at the thought of leading such a life; he wanted to get out into the world.

  XXI

  Mr. Perkins soon saw that his words had had no effect on Philip, and for the rest of the term ignored him. He wrote a report which was vitriolic. When it arrived and Aunt Louisa asked Philip what it was like, he answered cheerfully.

  “Rotten.”

  “Is it?” said the Vicar. “I must look at it again.”

  “Do you think there’s any use in my staying on at Tercanbury? I should have thought it would be better if I went to Germany for a bit.”

  “What has put that in your head?” said Aunt Louisa.

  “Don’t you think it’s rather a good idea?”

  Sharp had already left King’s School and had written to Philip from Hanover. He was really starting life, and it made Philip more restless to think of it. He felt he could not bear another year of restraint.

  “But then you wouldn’t get a scholarship.”

  “I haven’t a chance of getting one anyhow. And besides, I don’t know that

  I particularly want to go to Oxford.”

  “But if you’re going to be ordained, Philip?” Aunt Louisa exclaimed in dismay.

  “I’ve given up that idea long ago.”

  Mrs. Carey looked at him with startled eyes, and then, used to self-restraint, she poured out another cup of tea for his uncle. They did not speak. In a moment Philip saw tears slowly falling down her cheeks. His heart was suddenly wrung because he caused her pain. In her tight black dress, made by the dressmaker down the street, with her wrinkled face and pale tired eyes, her gray hair still done in the frivolous ringlets of her youth, she was a ridiculous but strangely pathetic figure. Philip saw it for the first time.

  Afterwards, when the Vicar was shut up in his study with the curate, he put his arms round her waist.

  “I say, I’m sorry you’re upset, Aunt Louisa,” he said. “But it’s no good my being ordained if I haven’t a real vocation, is it?”

  “I’m so disappointed, Philip,” she moaned. “I’d set my heart on it. I thought you could be your uncle’s curate, and then when our time came — after all, we can’t last for ever, can we? — you might have taken his place.”

  Philip shivered. He was seized with panic. His heart beat like a pigeon in a trap beating with its wings. His aunt wept softly, her head upon his shoulder.

  “I wish you’d persuade Uncle William to let me leave Tercanbury. I’m so sick of it.”

  But the Vicar of Blackstable did not easily alter any arrangements he had made, and it had always been intended that Philip should stay at King’s School till he was eighteen, and should then go to Oxford. At all events he would not hear of Philip leaving then, for no notice had been given and the term’s fee would have to be paid in any case.

  “Then will you give notice for me to leave at Christmas?” said Philip, at the end of a long and often bitter conversation.

  “I’ll write to Mr. Perkins about it and see what he says.”

  “Oh, I wish to goodness I were twenty-one. It is awful to be at somebody else’s beck and call.”

  “Philip, you shouldn’t speak to your uncle like that,” said Mrs. Carey gently.

  “But don’t you see that Perkins will want me to stay? He gets so much a head for every chap in the school.”

  “Why don’t you want to go to Oxford?”

  “What’s the good if I’m not going into the Church?”

  “You can’t go into the Church: you’re in the Church already,” said the

  Vicar.

  “Ordained then,” replied Philip impatiently.

  “What are you going to be, Philip?” asked Mrs. Carey.

  “I don’t know. I’ve not made up my mind. But whatever I am, it’ll be useful to know foreign languages. I shall get far more out of a year in Germany than by staying on at that hole.”

  He would not say that he felt Oxford would be little better than a continuation of his life at school. He wished immensely to be his own master. Besides he would be known to a certain extent among old schoolfellows, and he wanted to get away from them all. He felt that his life at school had been a failure. He wanted to start fresh.

  It happened that his desire to go to Germany fell in with certain ideas which had been of late discussed at Blackstable. Sometimes friends came to stay with the doctor and brought news of the world outside; and the visitors spending August by the sea had their own way of looking at things. The Vicar had heard that there were people who did not think the old-fashioned education so useful nowadays as it had been in the past, and modern languages were gaining an importance which they had not had in his own youth. His own mind was divided, for a younger brother of his had been sent to Germany when he failed in some examination, thus creating a precedent but since he had there died of typhoid it was impossible to look upon the experiment as other than dangerous. The result of innumerable conversations was that Philip should go back to Tercanbury for another term, and then should leave. With this agreement Philip was not dissatisfied. But when he had been back a few days the headmaster spoke to him.

  “I’ve had a letter from your uncle. It appears you want to go to Germany, and he asks me what I think about it.”

  Philip was astounded. He was furious with his guardian for going back on his word.

  “I thought it was settled, sir,” he said.

  “Far from it. I’ve written to say I think it the greatest mistake to take you away.”

  Philip immediately sat down and wrote a violent letter to his uncle. He did not measure his language. He was so angry that he could not get to sleep till quite late that night, and he awoke in the early morning and began brooding over the way they had treated him. He waited impatiently for an answer. In two or three days it came. It was a mild, pained letter from Aunt Louisa, saying that he should not write such things to his uncle, who was very much distressed. He was unkind and unchristian. He must know they were only trying to do their best for him, and they were so much older than he that they must be better judges of what was good for him. Philip clenched his hands. He had heard that statement so often, and he could not see why it was true; they did not know the conditions as he did, why should they accept it as self-evident that their greater age gave them greater wisdom? The letter ended with the information that Mr. Carey had withdrawn the notice he had given.

  Philip nursed his wrath till the next half-holiday. They had them on Tuesdays and Thursdays, since on Saturday afternoons they had to go to a service in the Cathedral. He stopped behind when the rest of the Sixth went out.

>   “May I go to Blackstable this afternoon, please, sir?” he asked.

  “No,” said the headmaster briefly.

  “I wanted to see my uncle about something very important.”

  “Didn’t you hear me say no?”

  Philip did not answer. He went out. He felt almost sick with humiliation, the humiliation of having to ask and the humiliation of the curt refusal. He hated the headmaster now. Philip writhed under that despotism which never vouchsafed a reason for the most tyrannous act. He was too angry to care what he did, and after dinner walked down to the station, by the back ways he knew so well, just in time to catch the train to Blackstable. He walked into the vicarage and found his uncle and aunt sitting in the dining-room.

  “Hulloa, where have you sprung from?” said the Vicar.

  It was very clear that he was not pleased to see him. He looked a little uneasy.

  “I thought I’d come and see you about my leaving. I want to know what you mean by promising me one thing when I was here, and doing something different a week after.”

  He was a little frightened at his own boldness, but he had made up his mind exactly what words to use, and, though his heart beat violently, he forced himself to say them.

  “Have you got leave to come here this afternoon?”

  “No. I asked Perkins and he refused. If you like to write and tell him

  I’ve been here you can get me into a really fine old row.”

  Mrs. Carey sat knitting with trembling hands. She was unused to scenes and they agitated her extremely.

  “It would serve you right if I told him,” said Mr. Carey.

  “If you like to be a perfect sneak you can. After writing to Perkins as you did you’re quite capable of it.”

  It was foolish of Philip to say that, because it gave the Vicar exactly the opportunity he wanted.

  “I’m not going to sit still while you say impertinent things to me,” he said with dignity.

  He got up and walked quickly out of the room into his study. Philip heard him shut the door and lock it.

  “Oh, I wish to God I were twenty-one. It is awful to be tied down like this.”

  Aunt Louisa began to cry quietly.

  “Oh, Philip, you oughtn’t to have spoken to your uncle like that. Do please go and tell him you’re sorry.”

  “I’m not in the least sorry. He’s taking a mean advantage. Of course it’s just waste of money keeping me on at school, but what does he care? It’s not his money. It was cruel to put me under the guardianship of people who know nothing about things.”

  “Philip.”

  Philip in his voluble anger stopped suddenly at the sound of her voice. It was heart-broken. He had not realised what bitter things he was saying.

  “Philip, how can you be so unkind? You know we are only trying to do our best for you, and we know that we have no experience; it isn’t as if we’d had any children of our own: that’s why we consulted Mr. Perkins.” Her voice broke. “I’ve tried to be like a mother to you. I’ve loved you as if you were my own son.”

  She was so small and frail, there was something so pathetic in her old-maidish air, that Philip was touched. A great lump came suddenly in his throat and his eyes filled with tears.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be beastly.”

  He knelt down beside her and took her in his arms, and kissed her wet, withered cheeks. She sobbed bitterly, and he seemed to feel on a sudden the pity of that wasted life. She had never surrendered herself before to such a display of emotion.

  “I know I’ve not been what I wanted to be to you, Philip, but I didn’t know how. It’s been just as dreadful for me to have no children as for you to have no mother.”

  Philip forgot his anger and his own concerns, but thought only of consoling her, with broken words and clumsy little caresses. Then the clock struck, and he had to bolt off at once to catch the only train that would get him back to Tercanbury in time for call-over. As he sat in the corner of the railway carriage he saw that he had done nothing. He was angry with himself for his weakness. It was despicable to have allowed himself to be turned from his purpose by the pompous airs of the Vicar and the tears of his aunt. But as the result of he knew not what conversations between the couple another letter was written to the headmaster. Mr. Perkins read it with an impatient shrug of the shoulders. He showed it to Philip. It ran:

  Dear Mr. Perkins,

  Forgive me for troubling you again about my ward, but both his Aunt and I have been uneasy about him. He seems very anxious to leave school, and his Aunt thinks he is unhappy. It is very difficult for us to know what to do as we are not his parents. He does not seem to think he is doing very well and he feels it is wasting his money to stay on. I should be very much obliged if you would have a talk to him, and if he is still of the same mind perhaps it would be better if he left at Christmas as I originally intended.

  Yours very truly,

  William Carey.

  Philip gave him back the letter. He felt a thrill of pride in his triumph. He had got his own way, and he was satisfied. His will had gained a victory over the wills of others.

  “It’s not much good my spending half an hour writing to your uncle if he changes his mind the next letter he gets from you,” said the headmaster irritably.

  Philip said nothing, and his face was perfectly placid; but he could not prevent the twinkle in his eyes. Mr. Perkins noticed it and broke into a little laugh.

  “You’ve rather scored, haven’t you?” he said.

  Then Philip smiled outright. He could not conceal his exultation.

  “Is it true that you’re very anxious to leave?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you unhappy here?”

  Philip blushed. He hated instinctively any attempt to get into the depths of his feelings.

  “Oh, I don’t know, sir.”

  Mr. Perkins, slowly dragging his fingers through his beard, looked at him thoughtfully. He seemed to speak almost to himself.

  “Of course schools are made for the average. The holes are all round, and whatever shape the pegs are they must wedge in somehow. One hasn’t time to bother about anything but the average.” Then suddenly he addressed himself to Philip: “Look here, I’ve got a suggestion to make to you. It’s getting on towards the end of the term now. Another term won’t kill you, and if you want to go to Germany you’d better go after Easter than after Christmas. It’ll be much pleasanter in the spring than in midwinter. If at the end of the next term you still want to go I’ll make no objection. What d’you say to that?”

  “Thank you very much, sir.”

  Philip was so glad to have gained the last three months that he did not mind the extra term. The school seemed less of a prison when he knew that before Easter he would be free from it for ever. His heart danced within him. That evening in chapel he looked round at the boys, standing according to their forms, each in his due place, and he chuckled with satisfaction at the thought that soon he would never see them again. It made him regard them almost with a friendly feeling. His eyes rested on Rose. Rose took his position as a monitor very seriously: he had quite an idea of being a good influence in the school; it was his turn to read the lesson that evening, and he read it very well. Philip smiled when he thought that he would be rid of him for ever, and it would not matter in six months whether Rose was tall and straight-limbed; and where would the importance be that he was a monitor and captain of the eleven? Philip looked at the masters in their gowns. Gordon was dead, he had died of apoplexy two years before, but all the rest were there. Philip knew now what a poor lot they were, except Turner perhaps, there was something of a man in him; and he writhed at the thought of the subjection in which they had held him. In six months they would not matter either. Their praise would mean nothing to him, and he would shrug his shoulders at their censure.

  Philip had learned not to express his emotions by outward signs, and shyness still tormented him, but he had often very high spiri
ts; and then, though he limped about demurely, silent and reserved, it seemed to be hallooing in his heart. He seemed to himself to walk more lightly. All sorts of ideas danced through his head, fancies chased one another so furiously that he could not catch them; but their coming and their going filled him with exhilaration. Now, being happy, he was able to work, and during the remaining weeks of the term set himself to make up for his long neglect. His brain worked easily, and he took a keen pleasure in the activity of his intellect. He did very well in the examinations that closed the term. Mr. Perkins made only one remark: he was talking to him about an essay he had written, and, after the usual criticisms, said:

  “So you’ve made up your mind to stop playing the fool for a bit, have you?”

  He smiled at him with his shining teeth, and Philip, looking down, gave an embarrassed smile.

  The half dozen boys who expected to divide between them the various prizes which were given at the end of the summer term had ceased to look upon Philip as a serious rival, but now they began to regard him with some uneasiness. He told no one that he was leaving at Easter and so was in no sense a competitor, but left them to their anxieties. He knew that Rose flattered himself on his French, for he had spent two or three holidays in France; and he expected to get the Dean’s Prize for English essay; Philip got a good deal of satisfaction in watching his dismay when he saw how much better Philip was doing in these subjects than himself. Another fellow, Norton, could not go to Oxford unless he got one of the scholarships at the disposal of the school. He asked Philip if he was going in for them.

  “Have you any objection?” asked Philip.