Chapter XVIII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　But Philip could not live long in the rarefied air of the hilltops. Whathad happened to him when first he was seized by the religious emotionhappened to him now. Because he felt so keenly the beauty of faith,because the desire for self-sacrifice burned in his heart with such agem-like glow, his strength seemed inadequate to his ambition. He wastired out by the violence of his passion. His soul was filled on a suddenwith a singular aridity. He began to forget the presence of God which hadseemed so surrounding; and his religious exercises, still very punctuallyperformed, grew merely formal. At first he blamed himself for this fallingaway, and the fear of hell-fire urged him to renewed vehemence; but thepassion was dead, and gradually other interests distracted his thoughts.Philip had few friends. His habit of reading isolated him: it became sucha need that after being in company for some time he grew tired andrestless; he was vain of the wider knowledge he had acquired from theperusal of so many books, his mind was alert, and he had not the skill tohide his contempt for his companions' stupidity. They complained that hewas conceited; and, since he excelled only in matters which to them wereunimportant, they asked satirically what he had to be conceited about. Hewas developing a sense of humour, and found that he had a knack of sayingbitter things, which caught people on the raw; he said them because theyamused him, hardly realising how much they hurt, and was much offendedwhen he found that his victims regarded him with active dislike. Thehumiliations he suffered when first he went to school had caused in him ashrinking from his fellows which he could never entirely overcome; heremained shy and silent. But though he did everything to alienate thesympathy of other boys he longed with all his heart for the popularitywhich to some was so easily accorded. These from his distance he admiredextravagantly; and though he was inclined to be more sarcastic with themthan with others, though he made little jokes at their expense, he wouldhave given anything to change places with them. Indeed he would gladlyhave changed places with the dullest boy in the school who was whole oflimb. He took to a singular habit. He would imagine that he was some boywhom he had a particular fancy for; he would throw his soul, as it were,into the other's body, talk with his voice and laugh with his heart; hewould imagine himself doing all the things the other did. It was so vividthat he seemed for a moment really to be no longer himself. In this way heenjoyed many intervals of fantastic happiness.At the beginning of the Christmas term which followed on his confirmationPhilip found himself moved into another study. One of the boys who sharedit was called Rose. He was in the same form as Philip, and Philip hadalways looked upon him with envious admiration. He was not good-looking;though his large hands and big bones suggested that he would be a tallman, he was clumsily made; but his eyes were charming, and when he laughed(he was constantly laughing) his face wrinkled all round them in a jollyway. He was neither clever nor stupid, but good enough at his work andbetter at games. He was a favourite with masters and boys, and he in histurn liked everyone.When Philip was put in the study he could not help seeing that the others,who had been together for three terms, welcomed him coldly. It made himnervous to feel himself an intruder; but he had learned to hide hisfeelings, and they found him quiet and unobtrusive. With Rose, because hewas as little able as anyone else to resist his charm, Philip was evenmore than usually shy and abrupt; and whether on account of this,unconsciously bent upon exerting the fascination he knew was his only bythe results, or whether from sheer kindness of heart, it was Rose whofirst took Philip into the circle. One day, quite suddenly, he askedPhilip if he would walk to the football field with him. Philip flushed."I can't walk fast enough for you," he said."Rot. Come on."And just before they were setting out some boy put his head in thestudy-door and asked Rose to go with him."I can't," he answered. "I've already promised Carey.""Don't bother about me," said Philip quickly. "I shan't mind.""Rot," said Rose.He looked at Philip with those good-natured eyes of his and laughed.Philip felt a curious tremor in his heart.In a little while, their friendship growing with boyish rapidity, the pairwere inseparable. Other fellows wondered at the sudden intimacy, and Rosewas asked what he saw in Philip."Oh, I don't know," he answered. "He's not half a bad chap really."Soon they grew accustomed to the two walking into chapel arm in arm orstrolling round the precincts in conversation; wherever one was the othercould be found also, and, as though acknowledging his proprietorship, boyswho wanted Rose would leave messages with Carey. Philip at first wasreserved. He would not let himself yield entirely to the proud joy thatfilled him; but presently his distrust of the fates gave way before a wildhappiness. He thought Rose the most wonderful fellow he had ever seen. Hisbooks now were insignificant; he could not bother about them when therewas something infinitely more important to occupy him. Rose's friends usedto come in to tea in the study sometimes or sit about when there wasnothing better to do--Rose liked a crowd and the chance of a rag--and theyfound that Philip was quite a decent fellow. Philip was happy.When the last day of term came he and Rose arranged by which train theyshould come back, so that they might meet at the station and have tea inthe town before returning to school. Philip went home with a heavy heart.He thought of Rose all through the holidays, and his fancy was active withthe things they would do together next term. He was bored at the vicarage,and when on the last day his uncle put him the usual question in the usualfacetious tone:"Well, are you glad to be going back to school?"Philip answered joyfully."Rather."In order to be sure of meeting Rose at the station he took an earliertrain than he usually did, and he waited about the platform for an hour.When the train came in from Faversham, where he knew Rose had to change,he ran along it excitedly. But Rose was not there. He got a porter to tellhim when another train was due, and he waited; but again he wasdisappointed; and he was cold and hungry, so he walked, throughside-streets and slums, by a short cut to the school. He found Rose in thestudy, with his feet on the chimney-piece, talking eighteen to the dozenwith half a dozen boys who were sitting on whatever there was to sit on.He shook hands with Philip enthusiastically, but Philip's face fell, forhe realised that Rose had forgotten all about their appointment."I say, why are you so late?" said Rose. "I thought you were nevercoming.""You were at the station at half-past four," said another boy. "I saw youwhen I came."Philip blushed a little. He did not want Rose to know that he had beensuch a fool as to wait for him."I had to see about a friend of my people's," he invented readily. "I wasasked to see her off."But his disappointment made him a little sulky. He sat in silence, andwhen spoken to answered in monosyllables. He was making up his mind tohave it out with Rose when they were alone. But when the others had goneRose at once came over and sat on the arm of the chair in which Philip waslounging."I say, I'm jolly glad we're in the same study this term. Ripping, isn'tit?"He seemed so genuinely pleased to see Philip that Philip's annoyancevanished. They began as if they had not been separated for five minutes totalk eagerly of the thousand things that interested them.