Chapter XXV

by William Somerset Maugham

　　The oddest of Philip's masters was his teacher of French. Monsieur Ducrozwas a citizen of Geneva. He was a tall old man, with a sallow skin andhollow cheeks; his gray hair was thin and long. He wore shabby blackclothes, with holes at the elbows of his coat and frayed trousers. Hislinen was very dirty. Philip had never seen him in a clean collar. He wasa man of few words, who gave his lesson conscientiously but withoutenthusiasm, arriving as the clock struck and leaving on the minute. Hischarges were very small. He was taciturn, and what Philip learnt about himhe learnt from others: it appeared that he had fought with Garibaldiagainst the Pope, but had left Italy in disgust when it was clear that allhis efforts for freedom, by which he meant the establishment of arepublic, tended to no more than an exchange of yokes; he had beenexpelled from Geneva for it was not known what political offences. Philiplooked upon him with puzzled surprise; for he was very unlike his idea ofthe revolutionary: he spoke in a low voice and was extraordinarily polite;he never sat down till he was asked to; and when on rare occasions he metPhilip in the street took off his hat with an elaborate gesture; he neverlaughed, he never even smiled. A more complete imagination than Philip'smight have pictured a youth of splendid hope, for he must have beenentering upon manhood in 1848 when kings, remembering their brother ofFrance, went about with an uneasy crick in their necks; and perhaps thatpassion for liberty which passed through Europe, sweeping before it whatof absolutism and tyranny had reared its head during the reaction from therevolution of 1789, filled no breast with a hotter fire. One might fancyhim, passionate with theories of human equality and human rights,discussing, arguing, fighting behind barricades in Paris, flying beforethe Austrian cavalry in Milan, imprisoned here, exiled from there, hopingon and upborne ever with the word which seemed so magical, the wordLiberty; till at last, broken with disease and starvation, old, withoutmeans to keep body and soul together but such lessons as he could pick upfrom poor students, he found himself in that little neat town under theheel of a personal tyranny greater than any in Europe. Perhaps histaciturnity hid a contempt for the human race which had abandoned thegreat dreams of his youth and now wallowed in sluggish ease; or perhapsthese thirty years of revolution had taught him that men are unfit forliberty, and he thought that he had spent his life in the pursuit of thatwhich was not worth the finding. Or maybe he was tired out and waited onlywith indifference for the release of death.One day Philip, with the bluntness of his age, asked him if it was true hehad been with Garibaldi. The old man did not seem to attach any importanceto the question. He answered quite quietly in as low a voice as usual."Oui, monsieur.""They say you were in the Commune?""Do they? Shall we get on with our work?"He held the book open and Philip, intimidated, began to translate thepassage he had prepared.One day Monsieur Ducroz seemed to be in great pain. He had been scarcelyable to drag himself up the many stairs to Philip's room: and when hearrived sat down heavily, his sallow face drawn, with beads of sweat onhis forehead, trying to recover himself."I'm afraid you're ill," said Philip."It's of no consequence."But Philip saw that he was suffering, and at the end of the hour askedwhether he would not prefer to give no more lessons till he was better."No," said the old man, in his even low voice. "I prefer to go on while Iam able."Philip, morbidly nervous when he had to make any reference to money,reddened."But it won't make any difference to you," he said. "I'll pay for thelessons just the same. If you wouldn't mind I'd like to give you the moneyfor next week in advance."Monsieur Ducroz charged eighteen pence an hour. Philip took a ten-markpiece out of his pocket and shyly put it on the table. He could not bringhimself to offer it as if the old man were a beggar."In that case I think I won't come again till I'm better." He took thecoin and, without anything more than the elaborate bow with which healways took his leave, went out."Bonjour, monsieur."Philip was vaguely disappointed. Thinking he had done a generous thing, hehad expected that Monsieur Ducroz would overwhelm him with expressions ofgratitude. He was taken aback to find that the old teacher accepted thepresent as though it were his due. He was so young, he did not realise howmuch less is the sense of obligation in those who receive favours than inthose who grant them. Monsieur Ducroz appeared again five or six dayslater. He tottered a little more and was very weak, but seemed to haveovercome the severity of the attack. He was no more communicative than hehad been before. He remained mysterious, aloof, and dirty. He made noreference to his illness till after the lesson: and then, just as he wasleaving, at the door, which he held open, he paused. He hesitated, asthough to speak were difficult."If it hadn't been for the money you gave me I should have starved. It wasall I had to live on."He made his solemn, obsequious bow, and went out. Philip felt a littlelump in his throat. He seemed to realise in a fashion the hopelessbitterness of the old man's struggle, and how hard life was for him whento himself it was so pleasant.