Chapter LII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Next day Philip arrived at Blackstable. Since the death of his mother hehad never lost anyone closely connected with him; his aunt's death shockedhim and filled him also with a curious fear; he felt for the first timehis own mortality. He could not realise what life would be for his unclewithout the constant companionship of the woman who had loved and tendedhim for forty years. He expected to find him broken down with hopelessgrief. He dreaded the first meeting; he knew that he could say nothingwhich would be of use. He rehearsed to himself a number of appositespeeches.He entered the vicarage by the side-door and went into the dining-room.Uncle William was reading the paper."Your train was late," he said, looking up.Philip was prepared to give way to his emotion, but the matter-of-factreception startled him. His uncle, subdued but calm, handed him the paper."There's a very nice little paragraph about her in The BlackstableTimes," he said.Philip read it mechanically."Would you like to come up and see her?"Philip nodded and together they walked upstairs. Aunt Louisa was lying inthe middle of the large bed, with flowers all round her."Would you like to say a short prayer?" said the Vicar.He sank on his knees, and because it was expected of him Philip followedhis example. He looked at the little shrivelled face. He was onlyconscious of one emotion: what a wasted life! In a minute Mr. Carey gavea cough, and stood up. He pointed to a wreath at the foot of the bed."That's from the Squire," he said. He spoke in a low voice as though hewere in church, but one felt that, as a clergyman, he found himself quiteat home. "I expect tea is ready."They went down again to the dining-room. The drawn blinds gave alugubrious aspect. The Vicar sat at the end of the table at which his wifehad always sat and poured out the tea with ceremony. Philip could not helpfeeling that neither of them should have been able to eat anything, butwhen he saw that his uncle's appetite was unimpaired he fell to with hisusual heartiness. They did not speak for a while. Philip set himself toeat an excellent cake with the air of grief which he felt was decent."Things have changed a great deal since I was a curate," said the Vicarpresently. "In my young days the mourners used always to be given a pairof black gloves and a piece of black silk for their hats. Poor Louisa usedto make the silk into dresses. She always said that twelve funerals gaveher a new dress."Then he told Philip who had sent wreaths; there were twenty-four of themalready; when Mrs. Rawlingson, wife of the Vicar at Ferne, had died shehad had thirty-two; but probably a good many more would come the next day;the funeral would start at eleven o'clock from the vicarage, and theyshould beat Mrs. Rawlingson easily. Louisa never liked Mrs. Rawlingson."I shall take the funeral myself. I promised Louisa I would never letanyone else bury her."Philip looked at his uncle with disapproval when he took a second piece ofcake. Under the circumstances he could not help thinking it greedy."Mary Ann certainly makes capital cakes. I'm afraid no one else will makesuch good ones.""She's not going?" cried Philip, with astonishment.Mary Ann had been at the vicarage ever since he could remember. She neverforgot his birthday, but made a point always of sending him a trifle,absurd but touching. He had a real affection for her."Yes," answered Mr. Carey. "I didn't think it would do to have a singlewoman in the house.""But, good heavens, she must be over forty.""Yes, I think she is. But she's been rather troublesome lately, she's beeninclined to take too much on herself, and I thought this was a very goodopportunity to give her notice.""It's certainly one which isn't likely to recur," said Philip.He took out a cigarette, but his uncle prevented him from lighting it."Not till after the funeral, Philip," he said gently."All right," said Philip."It wouldn't be quite respectful to smoke in the house so long as yourpoor Aunt Louisa is upstairs."Josiah Graves, churchwarden and manager of the bank, came back to dinnerat the vicarage after the funeral. The blinds had been drawn up, andPhilip, against his will, felt a curious sensation of relief. The body inthe house had made him uncomfortable: in life the poor woman had been allthat was kind and gentle; and yet, when she lay upstairs in her bed-room,cold and stark, it seemed as though she cast upon the survivors a balefulinfluence. The thought horrified Philip.He found himself alone for a minute or two in the dining-room with thechurchwarden."I hope you'll be able to stay with your uncle a while," he said. "I don'tthink he ought to be left alone just yet.""I haven't made any plans," answered Philip. "if he wants me I shall bevery pleased to stay."By way of cheering the bereaved husband the churchwarden during dinnertalked of a recent fire at Blackstable which had partly destroyed theWesleyan chapel."I hear they weren't insured," he said, with a little smile."That won't make any difference," said the Vicar. "They'll get as muchmoney as they want to rebuild. Chapel people are always ready to givemoney.""I see that Holden sent a wreath."Holden was the dissenting minister, and, though for Christ's sake who diedfor both of them, Mr. Carey nodded to him in the street, he did not speakto him."I think it was very pushing," he remarked. "There were forty-one wreaths.Yours was beautiful. Philip and I admired it very much.""Don't mention it," said the banker.He had noticed with satisfaction that it was larger than anyone's else. Ithad looked very well. They began to discuss the people who attended thefuneral. Shops had been closed for it, and the churchwarden took out ofhis pocket the notice which had been printed: Owing to the funeral ofMrs. Carey this establishment will not be opened till one o'clock.""It was my idea," he said."I think it was very nice of them to close," said the Vicar. "Poor Louisawould have appreciated that."Philip ate his dinner. Mary Ann had treated the day as Sunday, and theyhad roast chicken and a gooseberry tart."I suppose you haven't thought about a tombstone yet?" said thechurchwarden."Yes, I have. I thought of a plain stone cross. Louisa was always againstostentation.""I don't think one can do much better than a cross. If you're thinking ofa text, what do you say to: With Christ, which is far better?"The Vicar pursed his lips. It was just like Bismarck to try and settleeverything himself. He did not like that text; it seemed to cast anaspersion on himself."I don't think I should put that. I much prefer: The Lord has given andthe Lord has taken away.""Oh, do you? That always seems to me a little indifferent."The Vicar answered with some acidity, and Mr. Graves replied in a tonewhich the widower thought too authoritative for the occasion. Things weregoing rather far if he could not choose his own text for his own wife'stombstone. There was a pause, and then the conversation drifted to parishmatters. Philip went into the garden to smoke his pipe. He sat on a bench,and suddenly began to laugh hysterically.A few days later his uncle expressed the hope that he would spend the nextfew weeks at Blackstable."Yes, that will suit me very well," said Philip."I suppose it'll do if you go back to Paris in September."Philip did not reply. He had thought much of what Foinet said to him, buthe was still so undecided that he did not wish to speak of the future.There would be something fine in giving up art because he was convincedthat he could not excel; but unfortunately it would seem so only tohimself: to others it would be an admission of defeat, and he did not wantto confess that he was beaten. He was an obstinate fellow, and thesuspicion that his talent did not lie in one direction made him inclinedto force circumstances and aim notwithstanding precisely in thatdirection. He could not bear that his friends should laugh at him. Thismight have prevented him from ever taking the definite step of abandoningthe study of painting, but the different environment made him on a suddensee things differently. Like many another he discovered that crossing theChannel makes things which had seemed important singularly futile. Thelife which had been so charming that he could not bear to leave it nowseemed inept; he was seized with a distaste for the cafes, the restaurantswith their ill-cooked food, the shabby way in which they all lived. He didnot care any more what his friends thought about him: Cronshaw with hisrhetoric, Mrs. Otter with her respectability, Ruth Chalice with heraffectations, Lawson and Clutton with their quarrels; he felt a revulsionfrom them all. He wrote to Lawson and asked him to send over all hisbelongings. A week later they arrived. When he unpacked his canvases hefound himself able to examine his work without emotion. He noticed thefact with interest. His uncle was anxious to see his pictures. Though hehad so greatly disapproved of Philip's desire to go to Paris, he acceptedthe situation now with equanimity. He was interested in the life ofstudents and constantly put Philip questions about it. He was in fact alittle proud of him because he was a painter, and when people were presentmade attempts to draw him out. He looked eagerly at the studies of modelswhich Philip showed him. Philip set before him his portrait of MiguelAjuria."Why did you paint him?" asked Mr. Carey."Oh, I wanted a model, and his head interested me.""As you haven't got anything to do here I wonder you don't paint me.""It would bore you to sit.""I think I should like it.""We must see about it."Philip was amused at his uncle's vanity. It was clear that he was dying tohave his portrait painted. To get something for nothing was a chance notto be missed. For two or three days he threw out little hints. Hereproached Philip for laziness, asked him when he was going to start work,and finally began telling everyone he met that Philip was going to painthim. At last there came a rainy day, and after breakfast Mr. Carey said toPhilip:"Now, what d'you say to starting on my portrait this morning?" Philip putdown the book he was reading and leaned back in his chair."I've given up painting," he said."Why?" asked his uncle in astonishment."I don't think there's much object in being a second-rate painter, and Icame to the conclusion that I should never be anything else.""You surprise me. Before you went to Paris you were quite certain that youwere a genius.""I was mistaken," said Philip."I should have thought now you'd taken up a profession you'd have thepride to stick to it. It seems to me that what you lack is perseverance."Philip was a little annoyed that his uncle did not even see how trulyheroic his determination was."'A rolling stone gathers no moss,'" proceeded the clergyman. Philip hatedthat proverb above all, and it seemed to him perfectly meaningless. Hisuncle had repeated it often during the arguments which had preceded hisdeparture from business. Apparently it recalled that occasion to hisguardian."You're no longer a boy, you know; you must begin to think of settlingdown. First you insist on becoming a chartered accountant, and then youget tired of that and you want to become a painter. And now if you pleaseyou change your mind again. It points to..."He hesitated for a moment to consider what defects of character exactly itindicated, and Philip finished the sentence."Irresolution, incompetence, want of foresight, and lack ofdetermination."The Vicar looked up at his nephew quickly to see whether he was laughingat him. Philip's face was serious, but there was a twinkle in his eyeswhich irritated him. Philip should really be getting more serious. He feltit right to give him a rap over the knuckles."Your money matters have nothing to do with me now. You're your ownmaster; but I think you should remember that your money won't last forever, and the unlucky deformity you have doesn't exactly make it easierfor you to earn your living."Philip knew by now that whenever anyone was angry with him his firstthought was to say something about his club-foot. His estimate of thehuman race was determined by the fact that scarcely anyone failed toresist the temptation. But he had trained himself not to show any signthat the reminder wounded him. He had even acquired control over theblushing which in his boyhood had been one of his torments."As you justly remark," he answered, "my money matters have nothing to dowith you and I am my own master.""At all events you will do me the justice to acknowledge that I wasjustified in my opposition when you made up your mind to become anart-student.""I don't know so much about that. I daresay one profits more by themistakes one makes off one's own bat than by doing the right thing onsomebody's else advice. I've had my fling, and I don't mind settling downnow.""What at?"Philip was not prepared for the question, since in fact he had not made uphis mind. He had thought of a dozen callings."The most suitable thing you could do is to enter your father's professionand become a doctor.""Oddly enough that is precisely what I intend."He had thought of doctoring among other things, chiefly because it was anoccupation which seemed to give a good deal of personal freedom, and hisexperience of life in an office had made him determine never to haveanything more to do with one; his answer to the Vicar slipped out almostunawares, because it was in the nature of a repartee. It amused him tomake up his mind in that accidental way, and he resolved then and there toenter his father's old hospital in the autumn."Then your two years in Paris may be regarded as so much wasted time?""I don't know about that. I had a very jolly two years, and I learned oneor two useful things.""What?"Philip reflected for an instant, and his answer was not devoid of a gentledesire to annoy."I learned to look at hands, which I'd never looked at before. And insteadof just looking at houses and trees I learned to look at houses and treesagainst the sky. And I learned also that shadows are not black butcoloured.""I suppose you think you're very clever. I think your flippancy is quiteinane."