Chapter LXIV

by William Somerset Maugham

　　But about three in the morning Philip awoke and could not sleep again. Hebegan to think of Mildred. He tried not to, but could not help himself. Herepeated to himself the same thing time after time till his brain reeled.It was inevitable that she should marry: life was hard for a girl who hadto earn her own living; and if she found someone who could give her acomfortable home she should not be blamed if she accepted. Philipacknowledged that from her point of view it would have been madness tomarry him: only love could have made such poverty bearable, and she didnot love him. It was no fault of hers; it was a fact that must be acceptedlike any other. Philip tried to reason with himself. He told himself thatdeep down in his heart was mortified pride; his passion had begun inwounded vanity, and it was this at bottom which caused now a great part ofhis wretchedness. He despised himself as much as he despised her. Then hemade plans for the future, the same plans over and over again, interruptedby recollections of kisses on her soft pale cheek and by the sound of hervoice with its trailing accent; he had a great deal of work to do, sincein the summer he was taking chemistry as well as the two examinations hehad failed in. He had separated himself from his friends at the hospital,but now he wanted companionship. There was one happy occurrence: Haywarda fortnight before had written to say that he was passing through Londonand had asked him to dinner; but Philip, unwilling to be bothered, hadrefused. He was coming back for the season, and Philip made up his mind towrite to him.He was thankful when eight o'clock struck and he could get up. He was paleand weary. But when he had bathed, dressed, and had breakfast, he felthimself joined up again with the world at large; and his pain was a littleeasier to bear. He did not feel like going to lectures that morning, butwent instead to the Army and Navy Stores to buy Mildred a wedding-present.After much wavering he settled on a dressing-bag. It cost twenty pounds,which was much more than he could afford, but it was showy and vulgar: heknew she would be aware exactly how much it cost; he got a melancholysatisfaction in choosing a gift which would give her pleasure and at thesame time indicate for himself the contempt he had for her.Philip had looked forward with apprehension to the day on which Mildredwas to be married; he was expecting an intolerable anguish; and it waswith relief that he got a letter from Hayward on Saturday morning to saythat he was coming up early on that very day and would fetch Philip tohelp him to find rooms. Philip, anxious to be distracted, looked up atime-table and discovered the only train Hayward was likely to come by; hewent to meet him, and the reunion of the friends was enthusiastic. Theyleft the luggage at the station, and set off gaily. Haywardcharacteristically proposed that first of all they should go for an hourto the National Gallery; he had not seen pictures for some time, and hestated that it needed a glimpse to set him in tune with life. Philip formonths had had no one with whom he could talk of art and books. Since theParis days Hayward had immersed himself in the modern French versifiers,and, such a plethora of poets is there in France, he had several newgeniuses to tell Philip about. They walked through the gallery pointingout to one another their favourite pictures; one subject led to another;they talked excitedly. The sun was shining and the air was warm."Let's go and sit in the Park," said Hayward. "We'll look for rooms afterluncheon."The spring was pleasant there. It was a day upon which one felt it goodmerely to live. The young green of the trees was exquisite against thesky; and the sky, pale and blue, was dappled with little white clouds. Atthe end of the ornamental water was the gray mass of the Horse Guards. Theordered elegance of the scene had the charm of an eighteenth-centurypicture. It reminded you not of Watteau, whose landscapes are so idyllicthat they recall only the woodland glens seen in dreams, but of the moreprosaic Jean-Baptiste Pater. Philip's heart was filled with lightness. Herealised, what he had only read before, that art (for there was art in themanner in which he looked upon nature) might liberate the soul from pain.They went to an Italian restaurant for luncheon and ordered themselves afiaschetto of Chianti. Lingering over the meal they talked on. Theyreminded one another of the people they had known at Heidelberg, theyspoke of Philip's friends in Paris, they talked of books, pictures,morals, life; and suddenly Philip heard a clock strike three. Heremembered that by this time Mildred was married. He felt a sort of stitchin his heart, and for a minute or two he could not hear what Hayward wassaying. But he filled his glass with Chianti. He was unaccustomed toalcohol and it had gone to his head. For the time at all events he wasfree from care. His quick brain had lain idle for so many months that hewas intoxicated now with conversation. He was thankful to have someone totalk to who would interest himself in the things that interested him."I say don't let's waste this beautiful day in looking for rooms. I'll putyou up tonight. You can look for rooms tomorrow or Monday.""All right. What shall we do?" answered Hayward."Let's get on a penny steamboat and go down to Greenwich."The idea appealed to Hayward, and they jumped into a cab which took themto Westminster Bridge. They got on the steamboat just as she was starting.Presently Philip, a smile on his lips, spoke."I remember when first I went to Paris, Clutton, I think it was, gave along discourse on the subject that beauty is put into things by paintersand poets. They create beauty. In themselves there is nothing to choosebetween the Campanile of Giotto and a factory chimney. And then beautifulthings grow rich with the emotion that they have aroused in succeedinggenerations. That is why old things are more beautiful than modern. TheOde on a Grecian Urn is more lovely now than when it was written,because for a hundred years lovers have read it and the sick at hearttaken comfort in its lines."Philip left Hayward to infer what in the passing scene had suggested thesewords to him, and it was a delight to know that he could safely leave theinference. It was in sudden reaction from the life he had been leading forso long that he was now deeply affected. The delicate iridescence of theLondon air gave the softness of a pastel to the gray stone of thebuildings; and in the wharfs and storehouses there was the severity ofgrace of a Japanese print. They went further down; and the splendidchannel, a symbol of the great empire, broadened, and it was crowded withtraffic; Philip thought of the painters and the poets who had made allthese things so beautiful, and his heart was filled with gratitude. Theycame to the Pool of London, and who can describe its majesty? Theimagination thrills, and Heaven knows what figures people still its broadstream, Doctor Johnson with Boswell by his side, an old Pepys going onboard a man-o'-war: the pageant of English history, and romance, and highadventure. Philip turned to Hayward with shining eyes."Dear Charles Dickens," he murmured, smiling a little at his own emotion."Aren't you rather sorry you chucked painting?" asked Hayward."No.""I suppose you like doctoring?""No, I hate it, but there was nothing else to do. The drudgery of thefirst two years is awful, and unfortunately I haven't got the scientifictemperament.""Well, you can't go on changing professions.""Oh, no. I'm going to stick to this. I think I shall like it better whenI get into the wards. I have an idea that I'm more interested in peoplethan in anything else in the world. And as far as I can see, it's the onlyprofession in which you have your freedom. You carry your knowledge inyour head; with a box of instruments and a few drugs you can make yourliving anywhere.""Aren't you going to take a practice then?""Not for a good long time at any rate," Philip answered. "As soon as I'vegot through my hospital appointments I shall get a ship; I want to go tothe East--the Malay Archipelago, Siam, China, and all that sort ofthing--and then I shall take odd jobs. Something always comes along,cholera duty in India and things like that. I want to go from place toplace. I want to see the world. The only way a poor man can do that is bygoing in for the medical."They came to Greenwich then. The noble building of Inigo Jones faced theriver grandly."I say, look, that must be the place where Poor Jack dived into the mudfor pennies," said Philip.They wandered in the park. Ragged children were playing in it, and it wasnoisy with their cries: here and there old seamen were basking in the sun.There was an air of a hundred years ago."It seems a pity you wasted two years in Paris," said Hayward."Waste? Look at the movement of that child, look at the pattern which thesun makes on the ground, shining through the trees, look at that sky--why,I should never have seen that sky if I hadn't been to Paris."Hayward thought that Philip choked a sob, and he looked at him withastonishment."What's the matter with you?""Nothing. I'm sorry to be so damned emotional, but for six months I'vebeen starved for beauty.""You used to be so matter of fact. It's very interesting to hear you saythat.""Damn it all, I don't want to be interesting," laughed Philip. "Let's goand have a stodgy tea."