Chapter XXI

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Mr. Perkins soon saw that his words had had no effect on Philip, and forthe rest of the term ignored him. He wrote a report which was vitriolic.When it arrived and Aunt Louisa asked Philip what it was like, he answeredcheerfully."Rotten.""Is it?" said the Vicar. "I must look at it again.""Do you think there's any use in my staying on at Tercanbury? I shouldhave thought it would be better if I went to Germany for a bit.""What has put that in your head?" said Aunt Louisa."Don't you think it's rather a good idea?"Sharp had already left King's School and had written to Philip fromHanover. He was really starting life, and it made Philip more restless tothink of it. He felt he could not bear another year of restraint."But then you wouldn't get a scholarship.""I haven't a chance of getting one anyhow. And besides, I don't know thatI particularly want to go to Oxford.""But if you're going to be ordained, Philip?" Aunt Louisa exclaimed indismay."I've given up that idea long ago."Mrs. Carey looked at him with startled eyes, and then, used toself-restraint, she poured out another cup of tea for his uncle. They didnot speak. In a moment Philip saw tears slowly falling down her cheeks.His heart was suddenly wrung because he caused her pain. In her tightblack dress, made by the dressmaker down the street, with her wrinkledface and pale tired eyes, her gray hair still done in the frivolousringlets of her youth, she was a ridiculous but strangely pathetic figure.Philip saw it for the first time.Afterwards, when the Vicar was shut up in his study with the curate, heput his arms round her waist."I say, I'm sorry you're upset, Aunt Louisa," he said. "But it's no goodmy being ordained if I haven't a real vocation, is it?""I'm so disappointed, Philip," she moaned. "I'd set my heart on it. Ithought you could be your uncle's curate, and then when our timecame--after all, we can't last for ever, can we?--you might have taken hisplace."Philip shivered. He was seized with panic. His heart beat like a pigeon ina trap beating with its wings. His aunt wept softly, her head upon hisshoulder."I wish you'd persuade Uncle William to let me leave Tercanbury. I'm sosick of it."But the Vicar of Blackstable did not easily alter any arrangements he hadmade, and it had always been intended that Philip should stay at King'sSchool till he was eighteen, and should then go to Oxford. At all eventshe would not hear of Philip leaving then, for no notice had been given andthe term's fee would have to be paid in any case."Then will you give notice for me to leave at Christmas?" said Philip, atthe end of a long and often bitter conversation."I'll write to Mr. Perkins about it and see what he says.""Oh, I wish to goodness I were twenty-one. It is awful to be at somebodyelse's beck and call.""Philip, you shouldn't speak to your uncle like that," said Mrs. Careygently."But don't you see that Perkins will want me to stay? He gets so much ahead for every chap in the school.""Why don't you want to go to Oxford?""What's the good if I'm not going into the Church?""You can't go into the Church: you're in the Church already," said theVicar."Ordained then," replied Philip impatiently."What are you going to be, Philip?" asked Mrs. Carey."I don't know. I've not made up my mind. But whatever I am, it'll beuseful to know foreign languages. I shall get far more out of a year inGermany than by staying on at that hole."He would not say that he felt Oxford would be little better than acontinuation of his life at school. He wished immensely to be his ownmaster. Besides he would be known to a certain extent among oldschoolfellows, and he wanted to get away from them all. He felt that hislife at school had been a failure. He wanted to start fresh.It happened that his desire to go to Germany fell in with certain ideaswhich had been of late discussed at Blackstable. Sometimes friends came tostay with the doctor and brought news of the world outside; and thevisitors spending August by the sea had their own way of looking atthings. The Vicar had heard that there were people who did not think theold-fashioned education so useful nowadays as it had been in the past, andmodern languages were gaining an importance which they had not had in hisown youth. His own mind was divided, for a younger brother of his had beensent to Germany when he failed in some examination, thus creating aprecedent but since he had there died of typhoid it was impossible to lookupon the experiment as other than dangerous. The result of innumerableconversations was that Philip should go back to Tercanbury for anotherterm, and then should leave. With this agreement Philip was notdissatisfied. But when he had been back a few days the headmaster spoke tohim."I've had a letter from your uncle. It appears you want to go to Germany,and he asks me what I think about it."Philip was astounded. He was furious with his guardian for going back onhis word."I thought it was settled, sir," he said."Far from it. I've written to say I think it the greatest mistake to takeyou away."Philip immediately sat down and wrote a violent letter to his uncle. Hedid not measure his language. He was so angry that he could not get tosleep till quite late that night, and he awoke in the early morning andbegan brooding over the way they had treated him. He waited impatientlyfor an answer. In two or three days it came. It was a mild, pained letterfrom Aunt Louisa, saying that he should not write such things to hisuncle, who was very much distressed. He was unkind and unchristian. Hemust know they were only trying to do their best for him, and they were somuch older than he that they must be better judges of what was good forhim. Philip clenched his hands. He had heard that statement so often, andhe could not see why it was true; they did not know the conditions as hedid, why should they accept it as self-evident that their greater age gavethem greater wisdom? The letter ended with the information that Mr. Careyhad withdrawn the notice he had given.Philip nursed his wrath till the next half-holiday. They had them onTuesdays and Thursdays, since on Saturday afternoons they had to go to aservice in the Cathedral. He stopped behind when the rest of the Sixthwent out."May I go to Blackstable this afternoon, please, sir?" he asked."No," said the headmaster briefly."I wanted to see my uncle about something very important.""Didn't you hear me say no?"Philip did not answer. He went out. He felt almost sick with humiliation,the humiliation of having to ask and the humiliation of the curt refusal.He hated the headmaster now. Philip writhed under that despotism whichnever vouchsafed a reason for the most tyrannous act. He was too angry tocare what he did, and after dinner walked down to the station, by the backways he knew so well, just in time to catch the train to Blackstable. Hewalked into the vicarage and found his uncle and aunt sitting in thedining-room."Hulloa, where have you sprung from?" said the Vicar.It was very clear that he was not pleased to see him. He looked a littleuneasy."I thought I'd come and see you about my leaving. I want to know what youmean by promising me one thing when I was here, and doing somethingdifferent a week after."He was a little frightened at his own boldness, but he had made up hismind exactly what words to use, and, though his heart beat violently, heforced himself to say them."Have you got leave to come here this afternoon?""No. I asked Perkins and he refused. If you like to write and tell himI've been here you can get me into a really fine old row."Mrs. Carey sat knitting with trembling hands. She was unused to scenes andthey agitated her extremely."It would serve you right if I told him," said Mr. Carey."If you like to be a perfect sneak you can. After writing to Perkins asyou did you're quite capable of it."It was foolish of Philip to say that, because it gave the Vicar exactlythe opportunity he wanted."I'm not going to sit still while you say impertinent things to me," hesaid with dignity.He got up and walked quickly out of the room into his study. Philip heardhim shut the door and lock it."Oh, I wish to God I were twenty-one. It is awful to be tied down likethis."Aunt Louisa began to cry quietly."Oh, Philip, you oughtn't to have spoken to your uncle like that. Doplease go and tell him you're sorry.""I'm not in the least sorry. He's taking a mean advantage. Of course it'sjust waste of money keeping me on at school, but what does he care? It'snot his money. It was cruel to put me under the guardianship of people whoknow nothing about things.""Philip."Philip in his voluble anger stopped suddenly at the sound of her voice. Itwas heart-broken. He had not realised what bitter things he was saying."Philip, how can you be so unkind? You know we are only trying to do ourbest for you, and we know that we have no experience; it isn't as if we'dhad any children of our own: that's why we consulted Mr. Perkins." Hervoice broke. "I've tried to be like a mother to you. I've loved you as ifyou were my own son."She was so small and frail, there was something so pathetic in herold-maidish air, that Philip was touched. A great lump came suddenly inhis throat and his eyes filled with tears."I'm so sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to be beastly."He knelt down beside her and took her in his arms, and kissed her wet,withered cheeks. She sobbed bitterly, and he seemed to feel on a suddenthe pity of that wasted life. She had never surrendered herself before tosuch a display of emotion."I know I've not been what I wanted to be to you, Philip, but I didn'tknow how. It's been just as dreadful for me to have no children as for youto have no mother."Philip forgot his anger and his own concerns, but thought only ofconsoling her, with broken words and clumsy little caresses. Then theclock struck, and he had to bolt off at once to catch the only train thatwould get him back to Tercanbury in time for call-over. As he sat in thecorner of the railway carriage he saw that he had done nothing. He wasangry with himself for his weakness. It was despicable to have allowedhimself to be turned from his purpose by the pompous airs of the Vicar andthe tears of his aunt. But as the result of he knew not what conversationsbetween the couple another letter was written to the headmaster. Mr.Perkins read it with an impatient shrug of the shoulders. He showed it toPhilip. It ran:Dear Mr. Perkins,Forgive me for troubling you again about my ward, but both his Aunt and Ihave been uneasy about him. He seems very anxious to leave school, and hisAunt thinks he is unhappy. It is very difficult for us to know what to doas we are not his parents. He does not seem to think he is doing very welland he feels it is wasting his money to stay on. I should be very muchobliged if you would have a talk to him, and if he is still of the samemind perhaps it would be better if he left at Christmas as I originallyintended.Yours very truly,William Carey.Philip gave him back the letter. He felt a thrill of pride in his triumph.He had got his own way, and he was satisfied. His will had gained avictory over the wills of others."It's not much good my spending half an hour writing to your uncle if hechanges his mind the next letter he gets from you," said the headmasterirritably.Philip said nothing, and his face was perfectly placid; but he could notprevent the twinkle in his eyes. Mr. Perkins noticed it and broke into alittle laugh."You've rather scored, haven't you?" he said.Then Philip smiled outright. He could not conceal his exultation."Is it true that you're very anxious to leave?""Yes, sir.""Are you unhappy here?"Philip blushed. He hated instinctively any attempt to get into the depthsof his feelings."Oh, I don't know, sir."Mr. Perkins, slowly dragging his fingers through his beard, looked at himthoughtfully. He seemed to speak almost to himself."Of course schools are made for the average. The holes are all round, andwhatever shape the pegs are they must wedge in somehow. One hasn't time tobother about anything but the average." Then suddenly he addressed himselfto Philip: "Look here, I've got a suggestion to make to you. It's gettingon towards the end of the term now. Another term won't kill you, and ifyou want to go to Germany you'd better go after Easter than afterChristmas. It'll be much pleasanter in the spring than in midwinter. If atthe end of the next term you still want to go I'll make no objection. Whatd'you say to that?""Thank you very much, sir."Philip was so glad to have gained the last three months that he did notmind the extra term. The school seemed less of a prison when he knew thatbefore Easter he would be free from it for ever. His heart danced withinhim. That evening in chapel he looked round at the boys, standingaccording to their forms, each in his due place, and he chuckled withsatisfaction at the thought that soon he would never see them again. Itmade him regard them almost with a friendly feeling. His eyes rested onRose. Rose took his position as a monitor very seriously: he had quite anidea of being a good influence in the school; it was his turn to read thelesson that evening, and he read it very well. Philip smiled when hethought that he would be rid of him for ever, and it would not matter insix months whether Rose was tall and straight-limbed; and where would theimportance be that he was a monitor and captain of the eleven? Philiplooked at the masters in their gowns. Gordon was dead, he had died ofapoplexy two years before, but all the rest were there. Philip knew nowwhat a poor lot they were, except Turner perhaps, there was something ofa man in him; and he writhed at the thought of the subjection in whichthey had held him. In six months they would not matter either. Theirpraise would mean nothing to him, and he would shrug his shoulders attheir censure.Philip had learned not to express his emotions by outward signs, andshyness still tormented him, but he had often very high spirits; and then,though he limped about demurely, silent and reserved, it seemed to behallooing in his heart. He seemed to himself to walk more lightly. Allsorts of ideas danced through his head, fancies chased one another sofuriously that he could not catch them; but their coming and their goingfilled him with exhilaration. Now, being happy, he was able to work, andduring the remaining weeks of the term set himself to make up for his longneglect. His brain worked easily, and he took a keen pleasure in theactivity of his intellect. He did very well in the examinations thatclosed the term. Mr. Perkins made only one remark: he was talking to himabout an essay he had written, and, after the usual criticisms, said:"So you've made up your mind to stop playing the fool for a bit, haveyou?"He smiled at him with his shining teeth, and Philip, looking down, gave anembarrassed smile.The half dozen boys who expected to divide between them the various prizeswhich were given at the end of the summer term had ceased to look uponPhilip as a serious rival, but now they began to regard him with someuneasiness. He told no one that he was leaving at Easter and so was in nosense a competitor, but left them to their anxieties. He knew that Roseflattered himself on his French, for he had spent two or three holidays inFrance; and he expected to get the Dean's Prize for English essay; Philipgot a good deal of satisfaction in watching his dismay when he saw howmuch better Philip was doing in these subjects than himself. Anotherfellow, Norton, could not go to Oxford unless he got one of thescholarships at the disposal of the school. He asked Philip if he wasgoing in for them."Have you any objection?" asked Philip.It entertained him to think that he held someone else's future in hishand. There was something romantic in getting these various rewardsactually in his grasp, and then leaving them to others because hedisdained them. At last the breaking-up day came, and he went to Mr.Perkins to bid him good-bye."You don't mean to say you really want to leave?"Philip's face fell at the headmaster's evident surprise."You said you wouldn't put any objection in the way, sir," he answered."I thought it was only a whim that I'd better humour. I know you'reobstinate and headstrong. What on earth d'you want to leave for now?You've only got another term in any case. You can get the Magdalenscholarship easily; you'll get half the prizes we've got to give."Philip looked at him sullenly. He felt that he had been tricked; but hehad the promise, and Perkins would have to stand by it."You'll have a very pleasant time at Oxford. You needn't decide at oncewhat you're going to do afterwards. I wonder if you realise how delightfulthe life is up there for anyone who has brains.""I've made all my arrangements now to go to Germany, sir," said Philip."Are they arrangements that couldn't possibly be altered?" asked Mr.Perkins, with his quizzical smile. "I shall be very sorry to lose you. Inschools the rather stupid boys who work always do better than the cleverboy who's idle, but when the clever boy works--why then, he does whatyou've done this term."Philip flushed darkly. He was unused to compliments, and no one had evertold him he was clever. The headmaster put his hand on Philip's shoulder."You know, driving things into the heads of thick-witted boys is dullwork, but when now and then you have the chance of teaching a boy whocomes half-way towards you, who understands almost before you've got thewords out of your mouth, why, then teaching is the most exhilarating thingin the world." Philip was melted by kindness; it had never occurred to himthat it mattered really to Mr. Perkins whether he went or stayed. He wastouched and immensely flattered. It would be pleasant to end up hisschool-days with glory and then go to Oxford: in a flash there appearedbefore him the life which he had heard described from boys who came backto play in the O.K.S. match or in letters from the University read out inone of the studies. But he was ashamed; he would look such a fool in hisown eyes if he gave in now; his uncle would chuckle at the success of theheadmaster's ruse. It was rather a come-down from the dramatic surrenderof all these prizes which were in his reach, because he disdained to takethem, to the plain, ordinary winning of them. It only required a littlemore persuasion, just enough to save his self-respect, and Philip wouldhave done anything that Mr. Perkins wished; but his face showed nothing ofhis conflicting emotions. It was placid and sullen."I think I'd rather go, sir," he said.Mr. Perkins, like many men who manage things by their personal influence,grew a little impatient when his power was not immediately manifest. Hehad a great deal of work to do, and could not waste more time on a boy whoseemed to him insanely obstinate."Very well, I promised to let you if you really wanted it, and I keep mypromise. When do you go to Germany?"Philip's heart beat violently. The battle was won, and he did not knowwhether he had not rather lost it."At the beginning of May, sir," he answered."Well, you must come and see us when you get back."He held out his hand. If he had given him one more chance Philip wouldhave changed his mind, but he seemed to look upon the matter as settled.Philip walked out of the house. His school-days were over, and he wasfree; but the wild exultation to which he had looked forward at thatmoment was not there. He walked round the precincts slowly, and a profounddepression seized him. He wished now that he had not been foolish. He didnot want to go, but he knew he could never bring himself to go to theheadmaster and tell him he would stay. That was a humiliation he couldnever put upon himself. He wondered whether he had done right. He wasdissatisfied with himself and with all his circumstances. He asked himselfdully whether whenever you got your way you wished afterwards that youhadn't.