Chapter LXV

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Hayward's visit did Philip a great deal of good. Each day his thoughtsdwelt less on Mildred. He looked back upon the past with disgust. He couldnot understand how he had submitted to the dishonour of such a love; andwhen he thought of Mildred it was with angry hatred, because she hadsubmitted him to so much humiliation. His imagination presented her to himnow with her defects of person and manner exaggerated, so that heshuddered at the thought of having been connected with her."It just shows how damned weak I am," he said to himself. The adventurewas like a blunder that one had committed at a party so horrible that onefelt nothing could be done to excuse it: the only remedy was to forget.His horror at the degradation he had suffered helped him. He was like asnake casting its skin and he looked upon the old covering with nausea. Heexulted in the possession of himself once more; he realised how much ofthe delight of the world he had lost when he was absorbed in that madnesswhich they called love; he had had enough of it; he did not want to be inlove any more if love was that. Philip told Hayward something of what hehad gone through."Wasn't it Sophocles," he asked, "who prayed for the time when he would bedelivered from the wild beast of passion that devoured his heart-strings?"Philip seemed really to be born again. He breathed the circumambient airas though he had never breathed it before, and he took a child's pleasurein all the facts of the world. He called his period of insanity sixmonths' hard labour.Hayward had only been settled in London a few days when Philip receivedfrom Blackstable, where it had been sent, a card for a private view atsome picture gallery. He took Hayward, and, on looking at the catalogue,saw that Lawson had a picture in it."I suppose he sent the card," said Philip. "Let's go and find him, he'ssure to be in front of his picture."This, a profile of Ruth Chalice, was tucked away in a corner, and Lawsonwas not far from it. He looked a little lost, in his large soft hat andloose, pale clothes, amongst the fashionable throng that had gathered forthe private view. He greeted Philip with enthusiasm, and with his usualvolubility told him that he had come to live in London, Ruth Chalice wasa hussy, he had taken a studio, Paris was played out, he had a commissionfor a portrait, and they'd better dine together and have a good old talk.Philip reminded him of his acquaintance with Hayward, and was entertainedto see that Lawson was slightly awed by Hayward's elegant clothes andgrand manner. They sat upon him better than they had done in the shabbylittle studio which Lawson and Philip had shared.At dinner Lawson went on with his news. Flanagan had gone back to America.Clutton had disappeared. He had come to the conclusion that a man had nochance of doing anything so long as he was in contact with art andartists: the only thing was to get right away. To make the step easier hehad quarrelled with all his friends in Paris. He developed a talent fortelling them home truths, which made them bear with fortitude hisdeclaration that he had done with that city and was settling in Gerona, alittle town in the north of Spain which had attracted him when he saw itfrom the train on his way to Barcelona. He was living there now alone."I wonder if he'll ever do any good," said Philip.He was interested in the human side of that struggle to express somethingwhich was so obscure in the man's mind that he was become morbid andquerulous. Philip felt vaguely that he was himself in the same case, butwith him it was the conduct of his life as a whole that perplexed him.That was his means of self-expression, and what he must do with it was notclear. But he had no time to continue with this train of thought, forLawson poured out a frank recital of his affair with Ruth Chalice. She hadleft him for a young student who had just come from England, and wasbehaving in a scandalous fashion. Lawson really thought someone ought tostep in and save the young man. She would ruin him. Philip gathered thatLawson's chief grievance was that the rupture had come in the middle of aportrait he was painting."Women have no real feeling for art," he said. "They only pretend theyhave." But he finished philosophically enough: "However, I got fourportraits out of her, and I'm not sure if the last I was working on wouldever have been a success."Philip envied the easy way in which the painter managed his love affairs.He had passed eighteen months pleasantly enough, had got an excellentmodel for nothing, and had parted from her at the end with no great pang."And what about Cronshaw?" asked Philip."Oh, he's done for," answered Lawson, with the cheerful callousness of hisyouth. "He'll be dead in six months. He got pneumonia last winter. He wasin the English hospital for seven weeks, and when he came out they toldhim his only chance was to give up liquor.""Poor devil," smiled the abstemious Philip."He kept off for a bit. He used to go to the Lilas all the same, hecouldn't keep away from that, but he used to drink hot milk, avec de lafleur d'oranger, and he was damned dull.""I take it you did not conceal the fact from him.""Oh, he knew it himself. A little while ago he started on whiskey again.He said he was too old to turn over any new leaves. He would rather behappy for six months and die at the end of it than linger on for fiveyears. And then I think he's been awfully hard up lately. You see, hedidn't earn anything while he was ill, and the slut he lives with has beengiving him a rotten time.""I remember, the first time I saw him I admired him awfully," said Philip."I thought he was wonderful. It is sickening that vulgar, middle-classvirtue should pay.""Of course he was a rotter. He was bound to end in the gutter sooner orlater," said Lawson.Philip was hurt because Lawson would not see the pity of it. Of course itwas cause and effect, but in the necessity with which one follows theother lay all tragedy of life."Oh, I' d forgotten," said Lawson. "Just after you left he sent round apresent for you. I thought you'd be coming back and I didn't bother aboutit, and then I didn't think it worth sending on; but it'll come over toLondon with the rest of my things, and you can come to my studio one dayand fetch it away if you want it.""You haven't told me what it is yet.""Oh, it's only a ragged little bit of carpet. I shouldn't think it's worthanything. I asked him one day what the devil he'd sent the filthy thingfor. He told me he'd seen it in a shop in the Rue de Rennes and bought itfor fifteen francs. It appears to be a Persian rug. He said you'd askedhim the meaning of life and that was the answer. But he was very drunk."Philip laughed."Oh yes, I know. I'll take it. It was a favourite wheeze of his. He saidI must find out for myself, or else the answer meant nothing."