Chapter XXXII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Philip was surprised when he saw his uncle and aunt. He had never noticedbefore that they were quite old people. The Vicar received him with hisusual, not unamiable indifference. He was a little stouter, a littlebalder, a little grayer. Philip saw how insignificant he was. His face wasweak and self-indulgent. Aunt Louisa took him in her arms and kissed him;and tears of happiness flowed down her cheeks. Philip was touched andembarrassed; he had not known with what a hungry love she cared for him."Oh, the time has seemed long since you've been away, Philip," she cried.She stroked his hands and looked into his face with glad eyes."You've grown. You're quite a man now."There was a very small moustache on his upper lip. He had bought a razorand now and then with infinite care shaved the down off his smooth chin."We've been so lonely without you." And then shyly, with a little break inher voice, she asked: "You are glad to come back to your home, aren'tyou?""Yes, rather."She was so thin that she seemed almost transparent, the arms she put roundhis neck were frail bones that reminded you of chicken bones, and herfaded face was oh! so wrinkled. The gray curls which she still wore in thefashion of her youth gave her a queer, pathetic look; and her littlewithered body was like an autumn leaf, you felt it might be blown away bythe first sharp wind. Philip realised that they had done with life, thesetwo quiet little people: they belonged to a past generation, and they werewaiting there patiently, rather stupidly, for death; and he, in his vigourand his youth, thirsting for excitement and adventure, was appalled at thewaste. They had done nothing, and when they went it would be just as ifthey had never been. He felt a great pity for Aunt Louisa, and he lovedher suddenly because she loved him.Then Miss Wilkinson, who had kept discreetly out of the way till theCareys had had a chance of welcoming their nephew, came into the room."This is Miss Wilkinson, Philip," said Mrs. Carey."The prodigal has returned," she said, holding out her hand. "I havebrought a rose for the prodigal's buttonhole."With a gay smile she pinned to Philip's coat the flower she had justpicked in the garden. He blushed and felt foolish. He knew that MissWilkinson was the daughter of his Uncle William's last rector, and he hada wide acquaintance with the daughters of clergymen. They wore ill-cutclothes and stout boots. They were generally dressed in black, for inPhilip's early years at Blackstable homespuns had not reached East Anglia,and the ladies of the clergy did not favour colours. Their hair was donevery untidily, and they smelt aggressively of starched linen. Theyconsidered the feminine graces unbecoming and looked the same whether theywere old or young. They bore their religion arrogantly. The closeness oftheir connection with the church made them adopt a slightly dictatorialattitude to the rest of mankind.Miss Wilkinson was very different. She wore a white muslin gown stampedwith gay little bunches of flowers, and pointed, high-heeled shoes, withopen-work stockings. To Philip's inexperience it seemed that she waswonderfully dressed; he did not see that her frock was cheap and showy.Her hair was elaborately dressed, with a neat curl in the middle of theforehead: it was very black, shiny and hard, and it looked as though itcould never be in the least disarranged. She had large black eyes and hernose was slightly aquiline; in profile she had somewhat the look of a birdof prey, but full face she was prepossessing. She smiled a great deal, buther mouth was large and when she smiled she tried to hide her teeth, whichwere big and rather yellow. But what embarrassed Philip most was that shewas heavily powdered: he had very strict views on feminine behaviour anddid not think a lady ever powdered; but of course Miss Wilkinson was alady because she was a clergyman's daughter, and a clergyman was agentleman.Philip made up his mind to dislike her thoroughly. She spoke with a slightFrench accent; and he did not know why she should, since she had been bornand bred in the heart of England. He thought her smile affected, and thecoy sprightliness of her manner irritated him. For two or three days heremained silent and hostile, but Miss Wilkinson apparently did not noticeit. She was very affable. She addressed her conversation almostexclusively to him, and there was something flattering in the way sheappealed constantly to his sane judgment. She made him laugh too, andPhilip could never resist people who amused him: he had a gift now andthen of saying neat things; and it was pleasant to have an appreciativelistener. Neither the Vicar nor Mrs. Carey had a sense of humour, and theynever laughed at anything he said. As he grew used to Miss Wilkinson, andhis shyness left him, he began to like her better; he found the Frenchaccent picturesque; and at a garden party which the doctor gave she wasvery much better dressed than anyone else. She wore a blue foulard withlarge white spots, and Philip was tickled at the sensation it caused."I'm certain they think you're no better than you should be," he told her,laughing."It's the dream of my life to be taken for an abandoned hussy," sheanswered.One day when Miss Wilkinson was in her room he asked Aunt Louisa how oldshe was."Oh, my dear, you should never ask a lady's age; but she's certainly tooold for you to marry."The Vicar gave his slow, obese smile."She's no chicken, Louisa," he said. "She was nearly grown up when we werein Lincolnshire, and that was twenty years ago. She wore a pigtail hangingdown her back.""She may not have been more than ten," said Philip."She was older than that," said Aunt Louisa."I think she was near twenty," said the Vicar."Oh no, William. Sixteen or seventeen at the outside.""That would make her well over thirty," said Philip.At that moment Miss Wilkinson tripped downstairs, singing a song byBenjamin Goddard. She had put her hat on, for she and Philip were goingfor a walk, and she held out her hand for him to button her glove. He didit awkwardly. He felt embarrassed but gallant. Conversation went easilybetween them now, and as they strolled along they talked of all manner ofthings. She told Philip about Berlin, and he told her of his year inHeidelberg. As he spoke, things which had appeared of no importance gaineda new interest: he described the people at Frau Erlin's house; and to theconversations between Hayward and Weeks, which at the time seemed sosignificant, he gave a little twist, so that they looked absurd. He wasflattered at Miss Wilkinson's laughter."I'm quite frightened of you," she said. "You're so sarcastic."Then she asked him playfully whether he had not had any love affairs atHeidelberg. Without thinking, he frankly answered that he had not; but sherefused to believe him."How secretive you are!" she said. "At your age is it likely?"He blushed and laughed."You want to know too much," he said."Ah, I thought so," she laughed triumphantly. "Look at him blushing."He was pleased that she should think he had been a sad dog, and he changedthe conversation so as to make her believe he had all sorts of romanticthings to conceal. He was angry with himself that he had not. There hadbeen no opportunity.Miss Wilkinson was dissatisfied with her lot. She resented having to earnher living and told Philip a long story of an uncle of her mother's, whohad been expected to leave her a fortune but had married his cook andchanged his will. She hinted at the luxury of her home and compared herlife in Lincolnshire, with horses to ride and carriages to drive in, withthe mean dependence of her present state. Philip was a little puzzled whenhe mentioned this afterwards to Aunt Louisa, and she told him that whenshe knew the Wilkinsons they had never had anything more than a pony anda dog-cart; Aunt Louisa had heard of the rich uncle, but as he was marriedand had children before Emily was born she could never have had much hopeof inheriting his fortune. Miss Wilkinson had little good to say ofBerlin, where she was now in a situation. She complained of the vulgarityof German life, and compared it bitterly with the brilliance of Paris,where she had spent a number of years. She did not say how many. She hadbeen governess in the family of a fashionable portrait-painter, who hadmarried a Jewish wife of means, and in their house she had met manydistinguished people. She dazzled Philip with their names. Actors from theComedie Francaise had come to the house frequently, and Coquelin, sittingnext her at dinner, had told her he had never met a foreigner who spokesuch perfect French. Alphonse Daudet had come also, and he had given hera copy of Sappho: he had promised to write her name in it, but she hadforgotten to remind him. She treasured the volume none the less and shewould lend it to Philip. Then there was Maupassant. Miss Wilkinson with arippling laugh looked at Philip knowingly. What a man, but what a writer!Hayward had talked of Maupassant, and his reputation was not unknown toPhilip."Did he make love to you?" he asked.The words seemed to stick funnily in his throat, but he asked themnevertheless. He liked Miss Wilkinson very much now, and was thrilled byher conversation, but he could not imagine anyone making love to her."What a question!" she cried. "Poor Guy, he made love to every woman hemet. It was a habit that he could not break himself of."She sighed a little, and seemed to look back tenderly on the past."He was a charming man," she murmured.A greater experience than Philip's would have guessed from these words theprobabilities of the encounter: the distinguished writer invited toluncheon en famille, the governess coming in sedately with the two tallgirls she was teaching; the introduction:"Notre Miss Anglaise.""Mademoiselle."And the luncheon during which the Miss Anglaise sat silent while thedistinguished writer talked to his host and hostess.But to Philip her words called up much more romantic fancies."Do tell me all about him," he said excitedly."There's nothing to tell," she said truthfully, but in such a manner as toconvey that three volumes would scarcely have contained the lurid facts."You mustn't be curious."She began to talk of Paris. She loved the boulevards and the Bois. Therewas grace in every street, and the trees in the Champs Elysees had adistinction which trees had not elsewhere. They were sitting on a stilenow by the high-road, and Miss Wilkinson looked with disdain upon thestately elms in front of them. And the theatres: the plays were brilliant,and the acting was incomparable. She often went with Madame Foyot, themother of the girls she was educating, when she was trying on clothes."Oh, what a misery to be poor!" she cried. "These beautiful things, it'sonly in Paris they know how to dress, and not to be able to afford them!Poor Madame Foyot, she had no figure. Sometimes the dressmaker used towhisper to me: `Ah, Mademoiselle, if she only had your figure.' "Philip noticed then that Miss Wilkinson had a robust form and was proud ofit."Men are so stupid in England. They only think of the face. The French,who are a nation of lovers, know how much more important the figure is."Philip had never thought of such things before, but he observed now thatMiss Wilkinson's ankles were thick and ungainly. He withdrew his eyesquickly."You should go to France. Why don't you go to Paris for a year? You wouldlearn French, and it would--deniaiser you.""What is that?" asked Philip.She laughed slyly."You must look it out in the dictionary. Englishmen do not know how totreat women. They are so shy. Shyness is ridiculous in a man. They don'tknow how to make love. They can't even tell a woman she is charmingwithout looking foolish."Philip felt himself absurd. Miss Wilkinson evidently expected him tobehave very differently; and he would have been delighted to say gallantand witty things, but they never occurred to him; and when they did he wastoo much afraid of making a fool of himself to say them."Oh, I love Paris," sighed Miss Wilkinson. "But I had to go to Berlin. Iwas with the Foyots till the girls married, and then I could get nothingto do, and I had the chance of this post in Berlin. They're relations ofMadame Foyot, and I accepted. I had a tiny apartment in the Rue Breda, onthe cinquieme: it wasn't at all respectable. You know about the RueBreda--ces dames, you know."Philip nodded, not knowing at all what she meant, but vaguely suspecting,and anxious she should not think him too ignorant."But I didn't care. Je suis libre, n'est-ce pas?" She was very fond ofspeaking French, which indeed she spoke well. "Once I had such a curiousadventure there."She paused a little and Philip pressed her to tell it."You wouldn't tell me yours in Heidelberg," she said."They were so unadventurous," he retorted."I don't know what Mrs. Carey would say if she knew the sort of things wetalk about together.""You don't imagine I shall tell her.""Will you promise?"When he had done this, she told him how an art-student who had a room onthe floor above her--but she interrupted herself."Why don't you go in for art? You paint so prettily.""Not well enough for that.""That is for others to judge. Je m'y connais, and I believe you have themaking of a great artist.""Can't you see Uncle William's face if I suddenly told him I wanted to goto Paris and study art?""You're your own master, aren't you?""You're trying to put me off. Please go on with the story." MissWilkinson, with a little laugh, went on. The art-student had passed herseveral times on the stairs, and she had paid no particular attention. Shesaw that he had fine eyes, and he took off his hat very politely. And oneday she found a letter slipped under her door. It was from him. He toldher that he had adored her for months, and that he waited about the stairsfor her to pass. Oh, it was a charming letter! Of course she did notreply, but what woman could help being flattered? And next day there wasanother letter! It was wonderful, passionate, and touching. When next shemet him on the stairs she did not know which way to look. And every daythe letters came, and now he begged her to see him. He said he would comein the evening, vers neuf heures, and she did not know what to do. Ofcourse it was impossible, and he might ring and ring, but she would neveropen the door; and then while she was waiting for the tinkling of thebell, all nerves, suddenly he stood before her. She had forgotten to shutthe door when she came in."C'etait une fatalite.""And what happened then?" asked Philip."That is the end of the story," she replied, with a ripple of laughter.Philip was silent for a moment. His heart beat quickly, and strangeemotions seemed to be hustling one another in his heart. He saw the darkstaircase and the chance meetings, and he admired the boldness of theletters--oh, he would never have dared to do that--and then the silent,almost mysterious entrance. It seemed to him the very soul of romance."What was he like?""Oh, he was handsome. Charmant garcon.""Do you know him still?"Philip felt a slight feeling of irritation as he asked this."He treated me abominably. Men are always the same. You're heartless, allof you.""I don't know about that," said Philip, not without embarrassment."Let us go home," said Miss Wilkinson.