Chapter CXII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Josiah Graves in his masterful way made arrangements, becoming buteconomical, for the funeral; and when it was over came back to thevicarage with Philip. The will was in his charge, and with a due sense ofthe fitness of things he read it to Philip over an early cup of tea. Itwas written on half a sheet of paper and left everything Mr. Carey had tohis nephew. There was the furniture, about eighty pounds at the bank,twenty shares in the A. B. C. company, a few in Allsop's brewery, some inthe Oxford music-hall, and a few more in a London restaurant. They hadbeen bought under Mr. Graves' direction, and he told Philip withsatisfaction:"You see, people must eat, they will drink, and they want amusement.You're always safe if you put your money in what the public thinksnecessities."His words showed a nice discrimination between the grossness of thevulgar, which he deplored but accepted, and the finer taste of the elect.Altogether in investments there was about five hundred pounds; and to thatmust be added the balance at the bank and what the furniture would fetch.It was riches to Philip. He was not happy but infinitely relieved.Mr. Graves left him, after they had discussed the auction which must beheld as soon as possible, and Philip sat himself down to go through thepapers of the deceased. The Rev. William Carey had prided himself on neverdestroying anything, and there were piles of correspondence dating backfor fifty years and bundles upon bundles of neatly docketed bills. He hadkept not only letters addressed to him, but letters which himself hadwritten. There was a yellow packet of letters which he had written to hisfather in the forties, when as an Oxford undergraduate he had gone toGermany for the long vacation. Philip read them idly. It was a differentWilliam Carey from the William Carey he had known, and yet there weretraces in the boy which might to an acute observer have suggested the man.The letters were formal and a little stilted. He showed himself strenuousto see all that was noteworthy, and he described with a fine enthusiasmthe castles of the Rhine. The falls of Schaffhausen made him `offerreverent thanks to the all-powerful Creator of the universe, whose workswere wondrous and beautiful,' and he could not help thinking that they wholived in sight of `this handiwork of their blessed Maker must be moved bythe contemplation to lead pure and holy lives.' Among some bills Philipfound a miniature which had been painted of William Carey soon after hewas ordained. It represented a thin young curate, with long hair that fellover his head in natural curls, with dark eyes, large and dreamy, and apale ascetic face. Philip remembered the chuckle with which his uncle usedto tell of the dozens of slippers which were worked for him by adoringladies.The rest of the afternoon and all the evening Philip toiled through theinnumerable correspondence. He glanced at the address and at thesignature, then tore the letter in two and threw it into thewashing-basket by his side. Suddenly he came upon one signed Helen. He didnot know the writing. It was thin, angular, and old-fashioned. It began:my dear William, and ended: your affectionate sister. Then it struck himthat it was from his own mother. He had never seen a letter of hersbefore, and her handwriting was strange to him. It was about himself.My dear William,Stephen wrote to you to thank you for your congratulations on the birth ofour son and your kind wishes to myself. Thank God we are both well and Iam deeply thankful for the great mercy which has been shown me. Now thatI can hold a pen I want to tell you and dear Louisa myself how trulygrateful I am to you both for all your kindness to me now and always sincemy marriage. I am going to ask you to do me a great favour. Both Stephenand I wish you to be the boy's godfather, and we hope that you willconsent. I know I am not asking a small thing, for I am sure you will takethe responsibilities of the position very seriously, but I am especiallyanxious that you should undertake this office because you are a clergymanas well as the boy's uncle. I am very anxious for the boy's welfare and Ipray God night and day that he may grow into a good, honest, and Christianman. With you to guide him I hope that he will become a soldier inChrist's Faith and be all the days of his life God-fearing, humble, andpious.Your affectionate sister,Helen.Philip pushed the letter away and, leaning forward, rested his face on hishands. It deeply touched and at the same time surprised him. He wasastonished at its religious tone, which seemed to him neither mawkish norsentimental. He knew nothing of his mother, dead now for nearly twentyyears, but that she was beautiful, and it was strange to learn that shewas simple and pious. He had never thought of that side of her. He readagain what she said about him, what she expected and thought about him; hehad turned out very differently; he looked at himself for a moment;perhaps it was better that she was dead. Then a sudden impulse caused himto tear up the letter; its tenderness and simplicity made it seempeculiarly private; he had a queer feeling that there was somethingindecent in his reading what exposed his mother's gentle soul. He went onwith the Vicar's dreary correspondence.A few days later he went up to London, and for the first time for twoyears entered by day the hall of St. Luke's Hospital. He went to see thesecretary of the Medical School; he was surprised to see him and askedPhilip curiously what he had been doing. Philip's experiences had givenhim a certain confidence in himself and a different outlook upon manythings: such a question would have embarrassed him before; but now heanswered coolly, with a deliberate vagueness which prevented furtherinquiry, that private affairs had obliged him to make a break in thecurriculum; he was now anxious to qualify as soon as possible. The firstexamination he could take was in midwifery and the diseases of women, andhe put his name down to be a clerk in the ward devoted to feminineailments; since it was holiday time there happened to be no difficulty ingetting a post as obstetric clerk; he arranged to undertake that dutyduring the last week of August and the first two of September. After thisinterview Philip walked through the Medical School, more or less deserted,for the examinations at the end of the summer session were all over; andhe wandered along the terrace by the river-side. His heart was full. Hethought that now he could begin a new life, and he would put behind himall the errors, follies, and miseries of the past. The flowing riversuggested that everything passed, was passing always, and nothingmattered; the future was before him rich with possibilities.He went back to Blackstable and busied himself with the settling up of hisuncle's estate. The auction was fixed for the middle of August, when thepresence of visitors for the summer holidays would make it possible to getbetter prices. Catalogues were made out and sent to the various dealers insecond-hand books at Tercanbury, Maidstone, and Ashford.One afternoon Philip took it into his head to go over to Tercanbury andsee his old school. He had not been there since the day when, with reliefin his heart, he had left it with the feeling that thenceforward he washis own master. It was strange to wander through the narrow streets ofTercanbury which he had known so well for so many years. He looked at theold shops, still there, still selling the same things; the booksellerswith school-books, pious works, and the latest novels in one window andphotographs of the Cathedral and of the city in the other; the games shop,with its cricket bats, fishing tackle, tennis rackets, and footballs; thetailor from whom he had got clothes all through his boyhood; and thefishmonger where his uncle whenever he came to Tercanbury bought fish. Hewandered along the sordid street in which, behind a high wall, lay the redbrick house which was the preparatory school. Further on was the gatewaythat led into King's School, and he stood in the quadrangle round whichwere the various buildings. It was just four and the boys were hurryingout of school. He saw the masters in their gowns and mortar-boards, andthey were strange to him. It was more than ten years since he had left andmany changes had taken place. He saw the headmaster; he walked slowly downfrom the schoolhouse to his own, talking to a big boy who Philip supposedwas in the sixth; he was little changed, tall, cadaverous, romantic asPhilip remembered him, with the same wild eyes; but the black beard wasstreaked with gray now and the dark, sallow face was more deeply lined.Philip had an impulse to go up and speak to him, but he was afraid hewould have forgotten him, and he hated the thought of explaining who hewas.Boys lingered talking to one another, and presently some who had hurriedto change came out to play fives; others straggled out in twos and threesand went out of the gateway, Philip knew they were going up to the cricketground; others again went into the precincts to bat at the nets. Philipstood among them a stranger; one or two gave him an indifferent glance;but visitors, attracted by the Norman staircase, were not rare and excitedlittle attention. Philip looked at them curiously. He thought withmelancholy of the distance that separated him from them, and he thoughtbitterly how much he had wanted to do and how little done. It seemed tohim that all those years, vanished beyond recall, had been utterly wasted.The boys, fresh and buoyant, were doing the same things that he had done,it seemed that not a day had passed since he left the school, and yet inthat place where at least by name he had known everybody now he knew nota soul. In a few years these too, others taking their place, would standalien as he stood; but the reflection brought him no solace; it merelyimpressed upon him the futility of human existence. Each generationrepeated the trivial round. He wondered what had become of the boys whowere his companions: they were nearly thirty now; some would be dead, butothers were married and had children; they were soldiers and parsons,doctors, lawyers; they were staid men who were beginning to put youthbehind them. Had any of them made such a hash of life as he? He thoughtof the boy he had been devoted to; it was funny, he could not recall hisname; he remembered exactly what he looked like, he had been his greatestfriend; but his name would not come back to him. He looked back withamusement on the jealous emotions he had suffered on his account. It wasirritating not to recollect his name. He longed to be a boy again, likethose he saw sauntering through the quadrangle, so that, avoiding hismistakes, he might start fresh and make something more out of life. Hefelt an intolerable loneliness. He almost regretted the penury which hehad suffered during the last two years, since the desperate strugglemerely to keep body and soul together had deadened the pain of living. Inthe sweat of thy brow shalt thou earn thy daily bread: it was not a curseupon mankind, but the balm which reconciled it to existence.But Philip was impatient with himself; he called to mind his idea of thepattern of life: the unhappiness he had suffered was no more than part ofa decoration which was elaborate and beautiful; he told himselfstrenuously that he must accept with gaiety everything, dreariness andexcitement, pleasure and pain, because it added to the richness of thedesign. He sought for beauty consciously, and he remembered how even as aboy he had taken pleasure in the Gothic cathedral as one saw it from theprecincts; he went there and looked at the massive pile, gray under thecloudy sky, with the central tower that rose like the praise of men totheir God; but the boys were batting at the nets, and they were lissom andstrong and active; he could not help hearing their shouts and laughter.The cry of youth was insistent, and he saw the beautiful thing before himonly with his eyes.