Chapter XXVI

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Philip had spent three months in Heidelberg when one morning the FrauProfessor told him that an Englishman named Hayward was coming to stay inthe house, and the same evening at supper he saw a new face. For some daysthe family had lived in a state of excitement. First, as the result ofheaven knows what scheming, by dint of humble prayers and veiled threats,the parents of the young Englishman to whom Fraulein Thekla was engagedhad invited her to visit them in England, and she had set off with analbum of water colours to show how accomplished she was and a bundle ofletters to prove how deeply the young man had compromised himself. A weeklater Fraulein Hedwig with radiant smiles announced that the lieutenant ofher affections was coming to Heidelberg with his father and mother.Exhausted by the importunity of their son and touched by the dowry whichFraulein Hedwig's father offered, the lieutenant's parents had consentedto pass through Heidelberg to make the young woman's acquaintance. Theinterview was satisfactory and Fraulein Hedwig had the satisfaction ofshowing her lover in the Stadtgarten to the whole of Frau ProfessorErlin's household. The silent old ladies who sat at the top of the tablenear the Frau Professor were in a flutter, and when Fraulein Hedwig saidshe was to go home at once for the formal engagement to take place, theFrau Professor, regardless of expense, said she would give a Maibowle.Professor Erlin prided himself on his skill in preparing this mildintoxicant, and after supper the large bowl of hock and soda, with scentedherbs floating in it and wild strawberries, was placed with solemnity onthe round table in the drawing-room. Fraulein Anna teased Philip about thedeparture of his lady-love, and he felt very uncomfortable and rathermelancholy. Fraulein Hedwig sang several songs, Fraulein Anna played theWedding March, and the Professor sang Die Wacht am Rhein. Amid all thisjollification Philip paid little attention to the new arrival. They hadsat opposite one another at supper, but Philip was chattering busily withFraulein Hedwig, and the stranger, knowing no German, had eaten his foodin silence. Philip, observing that he wore a pale blue tie, had on thataccount taken a sudden dislike to him. He was a man of twenty-six, veryfair, with long, wavy hair through which he passed his hand frequentlywith a careless gesture. His eyes were large and blue, but the blue wasvery pale, and they looked rather tired already. He was clean-shaven, andhis mouth, notwithstanding its thin lips, was well-shaped. Fraulein Annatook an interest in physiognomy, and she made Philip notice afterwards howfinely shaped was his skull, and how weak was the lower part of his face.The head, she remarked, was the head of a thinker, but the jaw lackedcharacter. Fraulein Anna, foredoomed to a spinster's life, with her highcheek-bones and large misshapen nose, laid great stress upon character.While they talked of him he stood a little apart from the others, watchingthe noisy party with a good-humoured but faintly supercilious expression.He was tall and slim. He held himself with a deliberate grace. Weeks, oneof the American students, seeing him alone, went up and began to talk tohim. The pair were oddly contrasted: the American very neat in his blackcoat and pepper-and-salt trousers, thin and dried-up, with something ofecclesiastical unction already in his manner; and the Englishman in hisloose tweed suit, large-limbed and slow of gesture.Philip did not speak to the newcomer till next day. They found themselvesalone on the balcony of the drawing-room before dinner. Hayward addressedhim."You're English, aren't you?""Yes.""Is the food always as bad it was last night?""It's always about the same.""Beastly, isn't it?""Beastly."Philip had found nothing wrong with the food at all, and in fact had eatenit in large quantities with appetite and enjoyment, but he did not want toshow himself a person of so little discrimination as to think a dinnergood which another thought execrable.Fraulein Thekla's visit to England made it necessary for her sister to domore in the house, and she could not often spare the time for long walks;and Fraulein Cacilie, with her long plait of fair hair and her littlesnub-nosed face, had of late shown a certain disinclination for society.Fraulein Hedwig was gone, and Weeks, the American who generallyaccompanied them on their rambles, had set out for a tour of SouthGermany. Philip was left a good deal to himself. Hayward sought hisacquaintance; but Philip had an unfortunate trait: from shyness or fromsome atavistic inheritance of the cave-dweller, he always disliked peopleon first acquaintance; and it was not till he became used to them that hegot over his first impression. It made him difficult of access. Hereceived Hayward's advances very shyly, and when Hayward asked him one dayto go for a walk he accepted only because he could not think of a civilexcuse. He made his usual apology, angry with himself for the flushingcheeks he could not control, and trying to carry it off with a laugh."I'm afraid I can't walk very fast.""Good heavens, I don't walk for a wager. I prefer to stroll. Don't youremember the chapter in Marius where Pater talks of the gentle exercise ofwalking as the best incentive to conversation?"Philip was a good listener; though he often thought of clever things tosay, it was seldom till after the opportunity to say them had passed; butHayward was communicative; anyone more experienced than Philip might havethought he liked to hear himself talk. His supercilious attitude impressedPhilip. He could not help admiring, and yet being awed by, a man whofaintly despised so many things which Philip had looked upon as almostsacred. He cast down the fetish of exercise, damning with the contemptuousword pot-hunters all those who devoted themselves to its various forms;and Philip did not realise that he was merely putting up in its stead theother fetish of culture.They wandered up to the castle, and sat on the terrace that overlooked thetown. It nestled in the valley along the pleasant Neckar with acomfortable friendliness. The smoke from the chimneys hung over it, a paleblue haze; and the tall roofs, the spires of the churches, gave it apleasantly medieval air. There was a homeliness in it which warmed theheart. Hayward talked of Richard Feverel and Madame Bovary, ofVerlaine, Dante, and Matthew Arnold. In those days Fitzgerald'stranslation of Omar Khayyam was known only to the elect, and Haywardrepeated it to Philip. He was very fond of reciting poetry, his own andthat of others, which he did in a monotonous sing-song. By the time theyreached home Philip's distrust of Hayward was changed to enthusiasticadmiration.They made a practice of walking together every afternoon, and Philiplearned presently something of Hayward's circumstances. He was the son ofa country judge, on whose death some time before he had inherited threehundred a year. His record at Charterhouse was so brilliant that when hewent to Cambridge the Master of Trinity Hall went out of his way toexpress his satisfaction that he was going to that college. He preparedhimself for a distinguished career. He moved in the most intellectualcircles: he read Browning with enthusiasm and turned up his well-shapednose at Tennyson; he knew all the details of Shelley's treatment ofHarriet; he dabbled in the history of art (on the walls of his rooms werereproductions of pictures by G. F. Watts, Burne-Jones, and Botticelli);and he wrote not without distinction verses of a pessimistic character.His friends told one another that he was a man of excellent gifts, and helistened to them willingly when they prophesied his future eminence. Incourse of time he became an authority on art and literature. He came underthe influence of Newman's Apologia; the picturesqueness of the RomanCatholic faith appealed to his esthetic sensibility; and it was only thefear of his father's wrath (a plain, blunt man of narrow ideas, who readMacaulay) which prevented him from 'going over.' When he only got a passdegree his friends were astonished; but he shrugged his shoulders anddelicately insinuated that he was not the dupe of examiners. He made onefeel that a first class was ever so slightly vulgar. He described one ofthe vivas with tolerant humour; some fellow in an outrageous collar wasasking him questions in logic; it was infinitely tedious, and suddenly henoticed that he wore elastic-sided boots: it was grotesque and ridiculous;so he withdrew his mind and thought of the gothic beauty of the Chapel atKing's. But he had spent some delightful days at Cambridge; he had givenbetter dinners than anyone he knew; and the conversation in his rooms hadbeen often memorable. He quoted to Philip the exquisite epigram:"They told me, Herakleitus, they told me you were dead."And now, when he related again the picturesque little anecdote about theexaminer and his boots, he laughed."Of course it was folly," he said, "but it was a folly in which there wassomething fine."Philip, with a little thrill, thought it magnificent.Then Hayward went to London to read for the Bar. He had charming rooms inClement's Inn, with panelled walls, and he tried to make them look likehis old rooms at the Hall. He had ambitions that were vaguely political,he described himself as a Whig, and he was put up for a club which was ofLiberal but gentlemanly flavour. His idea was to practise at the Bar (hechose the Chancery side as less brutal), and get a seat for some pleasantconstituency as soon as the various promises made him were carried out;meanwhile he went a great deal to the opera, and made acquaintance with asmall number of charming people who admired the things that he admired. Hejoined a dining-club of which the motto was, The Whole, The Good, and TheBeautiful. He formed a platonic friendship with a lady some years olderthan himself, who lived in Kensington Square; and nearly every afternoonhe drank tea with her by the light of shaded candles, and talked of GeorgeMeredith and Walter Pater. It was notorious that any fool could pass theexaminations of the Bar Council, and he pursued his studies in a dilatoryfashion. When he was ploughed for his final he looked upon it as apersonal affront. At the same time the lady in Kensington Square told himthat her husband was coming home from India on leave, and was a man,though worthy in every way, of a commonplace mind, who would notunderstand a young man's frequent visits. Hayward felt that life was fullof ugliness, his soul revolted from the thought of affronting again thecynicism of examiners, and he saw something rather splendid in kickingaway the ball which lay at his feet. He was also a good deal in debt: itwas difficult to live in London like a gentleman on three hundred a year;and his heart yearned for the Venice and Florence which John Ruskin had somagically described. He felt that he was unsuited to the vulgar bustle ofthe Bar, for he had discovered that it was not sufficient to put your nameon a door to get briefs; and modern politics seemed to lack nobility. Hefelt himself a poet. He disposed of his rooms in Clement's Inn and went toItaly. He had spent a winter in Florence and a winter in Rome, and now waspassing his second summer abroad in Germany so that he might read Goethein the original.Hayward had one gift which was very precious. He had a real feeling forliterature, and he could impart his own passion with an admirable fluency.He could throw himself into sympathy with a writer and see all that wasbest in him, and then he could talk about him with understanding. Philiphad read a great deal, but he had read without discrimination everythingthat he happened to come across, and it was very good for him now to meetsomeone who could guide his taste. He borrowed books from the smalllending library which the town possessed and began reading all thewonderful things that Hayward spoke of. He did not read always withenjoyment but invariably with perseverance. He was eager forself-improvement. He felt himself very ignorant and very humble. By theend of August, when Weeks returned from South Germany, Philip wascompletely under Hayward's influence. Hayward did not like Weeks. Hedeplored the American's black coat and pepper-and-salt trousers, and spokewith a scornful shrug of his New England conscience. Philip listenedcomplacently to the abuse of a man who had gone out of his way to be kindto him, but when Weeks in his turn made disagreeable remarks about Haywardhe lost his temper."Your new friend looks like a poet," said Weeks, with a thin smile on hiscareworn, bitter mouth."He is a poet.""Did he tell you so? In America we should call him a pretty fair specimenof a waster.""Well, we're not in America," said Philip frigidly."How old is he? Twenty-five? And he does nothing but stay in pensions andwrite poetry.""You don't know him," said Philip hotly."Oh yes, I do: I've met a hundred and forty-seven of him."Weeks' eyes twinkled, but Philip, who did not understand American humour,pursed his lips and looked severe. Weeks to Philip seemed a man of middleage, but he was in point of fact little more than thirty. He had a long,thin body and the scholar's stoop; his head was large and ugly; he hadpale scanty hair and an earthy skin; his thin mouth and thin, long nose,and the great protuberance of his frontal bones, gave him an uncouth look.He was cold and precise in his manner, a bloodless man, without passion;but he had a curious vein of frivolity which disconcerted theserious-minded among whom his instincts naturally threw him. He wasstudying theology in Heidelberg, but the other theological students of hisown nationality looked upon him with suspicion. He was very unorthodox,which frightened them; and his freakish humour excited their disapproval."How can you have known a hundred and forty-seven of him?" asked Philipseriously."I've met him in the Latin Quarter in Paris, and I've met him in pensionsin Berlin and Munich. He lives in small hotels in Perugia and Assisi. Hestands by the dozen before the Botticellis in Florence, and he sits on allthe benches of the Sistine Chapel in Rome. In Italy he drinks a little toomuch wine, and in Germany he drinks a great deal too much beer. He alwaysadmires the right thing whatever the right thing is, and one of these dayshe's going to write a great work. Think of it, there are a hundred andforty-seven great works reposing in the bosoms of a hundred andforty-seven great men, and the tragic thing is that not one of thosehundred and forty-seven great works will ever be written. And yet theworld goes on."Weeks spoke seriously, but his gray eyes twinkled a little at the end ofhis long speech, and Philip flushed when he saw that the American wasmaking fun of him."You do talk rot," he said crossly.