Chapter XXIII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Philip thought occasionally of the King's School at Tercanbury, andlaughed to himself as he remembered what at some particular moment of theday they were doing. Now and then he dreamed that he was there still, andit gave him an extraordinary satisfaction, on awaking, to realise that hewas in his little room in the turret. From his bed he could see the greatcumulus clouds that hung in the blue sky. He revelled in his freedom. Hecould go to bed when he chose and get up when the fancy took him. Therewas no one to order him about. It struck him that he need not tell anymore lies.It had been arranged that Professor Erlin should teach him Latin andGerman; a Frenchman came every day to give him lessons in French; and theFrau Professor had recommended for mathematics an Englishman who wastaking a philological degree at the university. This was a man namedWharton. Philip went to him every morning. He lived in one room on the topfloor of a shabby house. It was dirty and untidy, and it was filled witha pungent odour made up of many different stinks. He was generally in bedwhen Philip arrived at ten o'clock, and he jumped out, put on a filthydressing-gown and felt slippers, and, while he gave instruction, ate hissimple breakfast. He was a short man, stout from excessive beer drinking,with a heavy moustache and long, unkempt hair. He had been in Germany forfive years and was become very Teutonic. He spoke with scorn of Cambridgewhere he had taken his degree and with horror of the life which awaitedhim when, having taken his doctorate in Heidelberg, he must return toEngland and a pedagogic career. He adored the life of the Germanuniversity with its happy freedom and its jolly companionships. He was amember of a Burschenschaft, and promised to take Philip to a Kneipe. Hewas very poor and made no secret that the lessons he was giving Philipmeant the difference between meat for his dinner and bread and cheese.Sometimes after a heavy night he had such a headache that he could notdrink his coffee, and he gave his lesson with heaviness of spirit. Forthese occasions he kept a few bottles of beer under the bed, and one ofthese and a pipe would help him to bear the burden of life."A hair of the dog that bit him," he would say as he poured out the beer,carefully so that the foam should not make him wait too long to drink.Then he would talk to Philip of the university, the quarrels between rivalcorps, the duels, and the merits of this and that professor. Philip learntmore of life from him than of mathematics. Sometimes Wharton would sitback with a laugh and say:"Look here, we've not done anything today. You needn't pay me for thelesson.""Oh, it doesn't matter," said Philip.This was something new and very interesting, and he felt that it was ofgreater import than trigonometry, which he never could understand. It waslike a window on life that he had a chance of peeping through, and helooked with a wildly beating heart."No, you can keep your dirty money," said Wharton."But how about your dinner?" said Philip, with a smile, for he knewexactly how his master's finances stood.Wharton had even asked him to pay him the two shillings which the lessoncost once a week rather than once a month, since it made things lesscomplicated."Oh, never mind my dinner. It won't be the first time I've dined off abottle of beer, and my mind's never clearer than when I do."He dived under the bed (the sheets were gray with want of washing), andfished out another bottle. Philip, who was young and did not know the goodthings of life, refused to share it with him, so he drank alone."How long are you going to stay here?" asked Wharton.Both he and Philip had given up with relief the pretence of mathematics."Oh, I don't know. I suppose about a year. Then my people want me to go toOxford."Wharton gave a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. It was a newexperience for Philip to learn that there were persons who did not lookupon that seat of learning with awe."What d'you want to go there for? You'll only be a glorified schoolboy.Why don't you matriculate here? A year's no good. Spend five years here.You know, there are two good things in life, freedom of thought andfreedom of action. In France you get freedom of action: you can do whatyou like and nobody bothers, but you must think like everybody else. InGermany you must do what everybody else does, but you may think as youchoose. They're both very good things. I personally prefer freedom ofthought. But in England you get neither: you're ground down by convention.You can't think as you like and you can't act as you like. That's becauseit's a democratic nation. I expect America's worse."He leaned back cautiously, for the chair on which he sat had a rickettyleg, and it was disconcerting when a rhetorical flourish was interruptedby a sudden fall to the floor."I ought to go back to England this year, but if I can scrape togetherenough to keep body and soul on speaking terms I shall stay another twelvemonths. But then I shall have to go. And I must leave all this"--he wavedhis arm round the dirty garret, with its unmade bed, the clothes lying onthe floor, a row of empty beer bottles against the wall, piles of unbound,ragged books in every corner--"for some provincial university where Ishall try and get a chair of philology. And I shall play tennis and go totea-parties." He interrupted himself and gave Philip, very neatly dressed,with a clean collar on and his hair well-brushed, a quizzical look. "And,my God! I shall have to wash."Philip reddened, feeling his own spruceness an intolerable reproach; forof late he had begun to pay some attention to his toilet, and he had comeout from England with a pretty selection of ties.The summer came upon the country like a conqueror. Each day was beautiful.The sky had an arrogant blue which goaded the nerves like a spur. Thegreen of the trees in the Anlage was violent and crude; and the houses,when the sun caught them, had a dazzling white which stimulated till ithurt. Sometimes on his way back from Wharton Philip would sit in the shadeon one of the benches in the Anlage, enjoying the coolness and watchingthe patterns of light which the sun, shining through the leaves, made onthe ground. His soul danced with delight as gaily as the sunbeams. Herevelled in those moments of idleness stolen from his work. Sometimes hesauntered through the streets of the old town. He looked with awe at thestudents of the corps, their cheeks gashed and red, who swaggered about intheir coloured caps. In the afternoons he wandered about the hills withthe girls in the Frau Professor's house, and sometimes they went up theriver and had tea in a leafy beer-garden. In the evenings they walkedround and round the Stadtgarten, listening to the band.Philip soon learned the various interests of the household. FrauleinThekla, the professor's elder daughter, was engaged to a man in Englandwho had spent twelve months in the house to learn German, and theirmarriage was to take place at the end of the year. But the young man wrotethat his father, an india-rubber merchant who lived in Slough, did notapprove of the union, and Fraulein Thekla was often in tears. Sometimesshe and her mother might be seen, with stern eyes and determined mouths,looking over the letters of the reluctant lover. Thekla painted in watercolour, and occasionally she and Philip, with another of the girls to keepthem company, would go out and paint little pictures. The pretty FrauleinHedwig had amorous troubles too. She was the daughter of a merchant inBerlin and a dashing hussar had fallen in love with her, a von if youplease: but his parents opposed a marriage with a person of her condition,and she had been sent to Heidelberg to forget him. She could never, neverdo this, and corresponded with him continually, and he was making everyeffort to induce an exasperating father to change his mind. She told allthis to Philip with pretty sighs and becoming blushes, and showed him thephotograph of the gay lieutenant. Philip liked her best of all the girlsat the Frau Professor's, and on their walks always tried to get by herside. He blushed a great deal when the others chaffed him for his obviouspreference. He made the first declaration in his life to Fraulein Hedwig,but unfortunately it was an accident, and it happened in this manner. Inthe evenings when they did not go out, the young women sang little songsin the green velvet drawing-room, while Fraulein Anna, who always madeherself useful, industriously accompanied. Fraulein Hedwig's favouritesong was called Ich liebe dich, I love you; and one evening after shehad sung this, when Philip was standing with her on the balcony, lookingat the stars, it occurred to him to make some remark about it. He began:"Ich liebe dich."His German was halting, and he looked about for the word he wanted. Thepause was infinitesimal, but before he could go on Fraulein Hedwig said:"Ach, Herr Carey, Sie mussen mir nicht du sagen--you mustn't talk to mein the second person singular."Philip felt himself grow hot all over, for he would never have dared to doanything so familiar, and he could think of nothing on earth to say. Itwould be ungallant to explain that he was not making an observation, butmerely mentioning the title of a song."Entschuldigen Sie," he said. "I beg your pardon.""It does not matter," she whispered.She smiled pleasantly, quietly took his hand and pressed it, then turnedback into the drawing-room.Next day he was so embarrassed that he could not speak to her, and in hisshyness did all that was possible to avoid her. When he was asked to gofor the usual walk he refused because, he said, he had work to do. ButFraulein Hedwig seized an opportunity to speak to him alone."Why are you behaving in this way?" she said kindly. "You know, I'm notangry with you for what you said last night. You can't help it if you loveme. I'm flattered. But although I'm not exactly engaged to Hermann I cannever love anyone else, and I look upon myself as his bride."Philip blushed again, but he put on quite the expression of a rejectedlover."I hope you'll be very happy," he said.