Chapter XX

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Philip was moved into the Sixth, but he hated school now with all hisheart, and, having lost his ambition, cared nothing whether he did ill orwell. He awoke in the morning with a sinking heart because he must gothrough another day of drudgery. He was tired of having to do thingsbecause he was told; and the restrictions irked him, not because they wereunreasonable, but because they were restrictions. He yearned for freedom.He was weary of repeating things that he knew already and of the hammeringaway, for the sake of a thick-witted fellow, at something that heunderstood from the beginning.With Mr. Perkins you could work or not as you chose. He was at once eagerand abstracted. The Sixth Form room was in a part of the old abbey whichhad been restored, and it had a gothic window: Philip tried to cheat hisboredom by drawing this over and over again; and sometimes out of his headhe drew the great tower of the Cathedral or the gateway that led into theprecincts. He had a knack for drawing. Aunt Louisa during her youth hadpainted in water colours, and she had several albums filled with sketchesof churches, old bridges, and picturesque cottages. They were often shownat the vicarage tea-parties. She had once given Philip a paint-box as aChristmas present, and he had started by copying her pictures. He copiedthem better than anyone could have expected, and presently he did littlepictures of his own. Mrs. Carey encouraged him. It was a good way to keephim out of mischief, and later on his sketches would be useful forbazaars. Two or three of them had been framed and hung in his bed-room.But one day, at the end of the morning's work, Mr. Perkins stopped him ashe was lounging out of the form-room."I want to speak to you, Carey."Philip waited. Mr. Perkins ran his lean fingers through his beard andlooked at Philip. He seemed to be thinking over what he wanted to say."What's the matter with you, Carey?" he said abruptly.Philip, flushing, looked at him quickly. But knowing him well by now,without answering, he waited for him to go on."I've been dissatisfied with you lately. You've been slack andinattentive. You seem to take no interest in your work. It's been slovenlyand bad.""I'm very sorry, sir," said Philip."Is that all you have to say for yourself?"Philip looked down sulkily. How could he answer that he was bored todeath?"You know, this term you'll go down instead of up. I shan't give you avery good report."Philip wondered what he would say if he knew how the report was treated.It arrived at breakfast, Mr. Carey glanced at it indifferently, and passedit over to Philip."There's your report. You'd better see what it says," he remarked, as heran his fingers through the wrapper of a catalogue of second-hand books.Philip read it."Is it good?" asked Aunt Louisa."Not so good as I deserve," answered Philip, with a smile, giving it toher."I'll read it afterwards when I've got my spectacles," she said.But after breakfast Mary Ann came in to say the butcher was there, and shegenerally forgot.Mr. Perkins went on."I'm disappointed with you. And I can't understand. I know you can dothings if you want to, but you don't seem to want to any more. I was goingto make you a monitor next term, but I think I'd better wait a bit."Philip flushed. He did not like the thought of being passed over. Hetightened his lips."And there's something else. You must begin thinking of your scholarshipnow. You won't get anything unless you start working very seriously."Philip was irritated by the lecture. He was angry with the headmaster, andangry with himself."I don't think I'm going up to Oxford," he said."Why not? I thought your idea was to be ordained.""I've changed my mind.""Why?"Philip did not answer. Mr. Perkins, holding himself oddly as he alwaysdid, like a figure in one of Perugino's pictures, drew his fingersthoughtfully through his beard. He looked at Philip as though he weretrying to understand and then abruptly told him he might go.Apparently he was not satisfied, for one evening, a week later, whenPhilip had to go into his study with some papers, he resumed theconversation; but this time he adopted a different method: he spoke toPhilip not as a schoolmaster with a boy but as one human being withanother. He did not seem to care now that Philip's work was poor, that heran small chance against keen rivals of carrying off the scholarshipnecessary for him to go to Oxford: the important matter was his changedintention about his life afterwards. Mr. Perkins set himself to revive hiseagerness to be ordained. With infinite skill he worked on his feelings,and this was easier since he was himself genuinely moved. Philip's changeof mind caused him bitter distress, and he really thought he was throwingaway his chance of happiness in life for he knew not what. His voice wasvery persuasive. And Philip, easily moved by the emotion of others, veryemotional himself notwithstanding a placid exterior--his face, partly bynature but also from the habit of all these years at school, seldom exceptby his quick flushing showed what he felt--Philip was deeply touched bywhat the master said. He was very grateful to him for the interest heshowed, and he was conscience-stricken by the grief which he felt hisbehaviour caused him. It was subtly flattering to know that with the wholeschool to think about Mr. Perkins should trouble with him, but at the sametime something else in him, like another person standing at his elbow,clung desperately to two words."I won't. I won't. I won't."He felt himself slipping. He was powerless against the weakness thatseemed to well up in him; it was like the water that rises up in an emptybottle held over a full basin; and he set his teeth, saying the words overand over to himself."I won't. I won't. I won't."At last Mr. Perkins put his hand on Philip's shoulder."I don't want to influence you," he said. "You must decide for yourself.Pray to Almighty God for help and guidance."When Philip came out of the headmaster's house there was a light rainfalling. He went under the archway that led to the precincts, there wasnot a soul there, and the rooks were silent in the elms. He walked roundslowly. He felt hot, and the rain did him good. He thought over all thatMr. Perkins had said, calmly now that he was withdrawn from the fervour ofhis personality, and he was thankful he had not given way.In the darkness he could but vaguely see the great mass of the Cathedral:he hated it now because of the irksomeness of the long services which hewas forced to attend. The anthem was interminable, and you had to standdrearily while it was being sung; you could not hear the droning sermon,and your body twitched because you had to sit still when you wanted tomove about. Then philip thought of the two services every Sunday atBlackstable. The church was bare and cold, and there was a smell all aboutone of pomade and starched clothes. The curate preached once and his unclepreached once. As he grew up he had learned to know his uncle; Philip wasdownright and intolerant, and he could not understand that a man mightsincerely say things as a clergyman which he never acted up to as a man.The deception outraged him. His uncle was a weak and selfish man, whosechief desire it was to be saved trouble.Mr. Perkins had spoken to him of the beauty of a life dedicated to theservice of God. Philip knew what sort of lives the clergy led in thecorner of East Anglia which was his home. There was the Vicar ofWhitestone, a parish a little way from Blackstable: he was a bachelor andto give himself something to do had lately taken up farming: the localpaper constantly reported the cases he had in the county court againstthis one and that, labourers he would not pay their wages to or tradesmenwhom he accused of cheating him; scandal said he starved his cows, andthere was much talk about some general action which should be takenagainst him. Then there was the Vicar of Ferne, a bearded, fine figure ofa man: his wife had been forced to leave him because of his cruelty, andshe had filled the neighbourhood with stories of his immorality. The Vicarof Surle, a tiny hamlet by the sea, was to be seen every evening in thepublic house a stone's throw from his vicarage; and the churchwardens hadbeen to Mr. Carey to ask his advice. There was not a soul for any of themto talk to except small farmers or fishermen; there were long winterevenings when the wind blew, whistling drearily through the leaflesstrees, and all around they saw nothing but the bare monotony of ploughedfields; and there was poverty, and there was lack of any work that seemedto matter; every kink in their characters had free play; there was nothingto restrain them; they grew narrow and eccentric: Philip knew all this,but in his young intolerance he did not offer it as an excuse. He shiveredat the thought of leading such a life; he wanted to get out into theworld.