Chapter XXXI

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Hayward, after saying for a month that he was going South next day anddelaying from week to week out of inability to make up his mind to thebother of packing and the tedium of a journey, had at last been driven offjust before Christmas by the preparations for that festival. He could notsupport the thought of a Teutonic merry-making. It gave him goose-flesh tothink of the season's aggressive cheerfulness, and in his desire to avoidthe obvious he determined to travel on Christmas Eve.Philip was not sorry to see him off, for he was a downright person and itirritated him that anybody should not know his own mind. Though much underHayward's influence, he would not grant that indecision pointed to acharming sensitiveness; and he resented the shadow of a sneer with whichHayward looked upon his straight ways. They corresponded. Hayward was anadmirable letter-writer, and knowing his talent took pains with hisletters. His temperament was receptive to the beautiful influences withwhich he came in contact, and he was able in his letters from Rome to puta subtle fragrance of Italy. He thought the city of the ancient Romans alittle vulgar, finding distinction only in the decadence of the Empire;but the Rome of the Popes appealed to his sympathy, and in his chosenwords, quite exquisitely, there appeared a rococo beauty. He wrote of oldchurch music and the Alban Hills, and of the languor of incense and thecharm of the streets by night, in the rain, when the pavements shone andthe light of the street lamps was mysterious. Perhaps he repeated theseadmirable letters to various friends. He did not know what a troublingeffect they had upon Philip; they seemed to make his life very humdrum.With the spring Hayward grew dithyrambic. He proposed that Philip shouldcome down to Italy. He was wasting his time at Heidelberg. The Germanswere gross and life there was common; how could the soul come to her ownin that prim landscape? In Tuscany the spring was scattering flowersthrough the land, and Philip was nineteen; let him come and they couldwander through the mountain towns of Umbria. Their names sang in Philip'sheart. And Cacilie too, with her lover, had gone to Italy. When he thoughtof them Philip was seized with a restlessness he could not account for. Hecursed his fate because he had no money to travel, and he knew his unclewould not send him more than the fifteen pounds a month which had beenagreed upon. He had not managed his allowance very well. His pension andthe price of his lessons left him very little over, and he had found goingabout with Hayward expensive. Hayward had often suggested excursions, avisit to the play, or a bottle of wine, when Philip had come to the end ofhis month's money; and with the folly of his age he had been unwilling toconfess he could not afford an extravagance.Luckily Hayward's letters came seldom, and in the intervals Philip settleddown again to his industrious life. He had matriculated at the universityand attended one or two courses of lectures. Kuno Fischer was then at theheight of his fame and during the winter had been lecturing brilliantly onSchopenhauer. It was Philip's introduction to philosophy. He had apractical mind and moved uneasily amid the abstract; but he found anunexpected fascination in listening to metaphysical disquisitions; theymade him breathless; it was a little like watching a tight-rope dancerdoing perilous feats over an abyss; but it was very exciting. Thepessimism of the subject attracted his youth; and he believed that theworld he was about to enter was a place of pitiless woe and of darkness.That made him none the less eager to enter it; and when, in due course,Mrs. Carey, acting as the correspondent for his guardian's views,suggested that it was time for him to come back to England, he agreed withenthusiasm. He must make up his mind now what he meant to do. If he leftHeidelberg at the end of July they could talk things over during August,and it would be a good time to make arrangements.The date of his departure was settled, and Mrs. Carey wrote to him again.She reminded him of Miss Wilkinson, through whose kindness he had gone toFrau Erlin's house at Heidelberg, and told him that she had arranged tospend a few weeks with them at Blackstable. She would be crossing fromFlushing on such and such a day, and if he travelled at the same time hecould look after her and come on to Blackstable in her company. Philip'sshyness immediately made him write to say that he could not leave till aday or two afterwards. He pictured himself looking out for Miss Wilkinson,the embarrassment of going up to her and asking if it were she (and hemight so easily address the wrong person and be snubbed), and then thedifficulty of knowing whether in the train he ought to talk to her orwhether he could ignore her and read his book.At last he left Heidelberg. For three months he had been thinking ofnothing but the future; and he went without regret. He never knew that hehad been happy there. Fraulein Anna gave him a copy of Der Trompeter vonSackingen and in return he presented her with a volume of William Morris.Very wisely neither of them ever read the other's present.