Chapter XXXIII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Philip could not get Miss Wilkinson's story out of his head. It was clearenough what she meant even though she cut it short, and he was a littleshocked. That sort of thing was all very well for married women, he hadread enough French novels to know that in France it was indeed the rule,but Miss Wilkinson was English and unmarried; her father was a clergyman.Then it struck him that the art-student probably was neither the first northe last of her lovers, and he gasped: he had never looked upon MissWilkinson like that; it seemed incredible that anyone should make love toher. In his ingenuousness he doubted her story as little as he doubtedwhat he read in books, and he was angry that such wonderful things neverhappened to him. It was humiliating that if Miss Wilkinson insisted uponhis telling her of his adventures in Heidelberg he would have nothing totell. It was true that he had some power of invention, but he was not surewhether he could persuade her that he was steeped in vice; women were fullof intuition, he had read that, and she might easily discover that he wasfibbing. He blushed scarlet as he thought of her laughing up her sleeve.Miss Wilkinson played the piano and sang in a rather tired voice; but hersongs, Massenet, Benjamin Goddard, and Augusta Holmes, were new to Philip;and together they spent many hours at the piano. One day she wondered ifhe had a voice and insisted on trying it. She told him he had a pleasantbaritone and offered to give him lessons. At first with his usualbashfulness he refused, but she insisted, and then every morning at aconvenient time after breakfast she gave him an hour's lesson. She had anatural gift for teaching, and it was clear that she was an excellentgoverness. She had method and firmness. Though her French accent was somuch part of her that it remained, all the mellifluousness of her mannerleft her when she was engaged in teaching. She put up with no nonsense.Her voice became a little peremptory, and instinctively she suppressedinattention and corrected slovenliness. She knew what she was about andput Philip to scales and exercises.When the lesson was over she resumed without effort her seductive smiles,her voice became again soft and winning, but Philip could not so easilyput away the pupil as she the pedagogue; and this impression convictedwith the feelings her stories had aroused in him. He looked at her morenarrowly. He liked her much better in the evening than in the morning. Inthe morning she was rather lined and the skin of her neck was just alittle rough. He wished she would hide it, but the weather was very warmjust then and she wore blouses which were cut low. She was very fond ofwhite; in the morning it did not suit her. At night she often looked veryattractive, she put on a gown which was almost a dinner dress, and shewore a chain of garnets round her neck; the lace about her bosom and ather elbows gave her a pleasant softness, and the scent she wore (atBlackstable no one used anything but Eau de Cologne, and that only onSundays or when suffering from a sick headache) was troubling and exotic.She really looked very young then.Philip was much exercised over her age. He added twenty and seventeentogether, and could not bring them to a satisfactory total. He asked AuntLouisa more than once why she thought Miss Wilkinson was thirty-seven: shedidn't look more than thirty, and everyone knew that foreigners aged morerapidly than English women; Miss Wilkinson had lived so long abroad thatshe might almost be called a foreigner. He personally wouldn't havethought her more than twenty-six."She's more than that," said Aunt Louisa.Philip did not believe in the accuracy of the Careys' statements. All theydistinctly remembered was that Miss Wilkinson had not got her hair up thelast time they saw her in Lincolnshire. Well, she might have been twelvethen: it was so long ago and the Vicar was always so unreliable. They saidit was twenty years ago, but people used round figures, and it was just aslikely to be eighteen years, or seventeen. Seventeen and twelve were onlytwenty-nine, and hang it all, that wasn't old, was it? Cleopatra wasforty-eight when Antony threw away the world for her sake.It was a fine summer. Day after day was hot and cloudless; but the heatwas tempered by the neighbourhood of the sea, and there was a pleasantexhilaration in the air, so that one was excited and not oppressed by theAugust sunshine. There was a pond in the garden in which a fountainplayed; water lilies grew in it and gold fish sunned themselves on thesurface. Philip and Miss Wilkinson used to take rugs and cushions thereafter dinner and lie on the lawn in the shade of a tall hedge of roses.They talked and read all the afternoon. They smoked cigarettes, which theVicar did not allow in the house; he thought smoking a disgusting habit,and used frequently to say that it was disgraceful for anyone to grow aslave to a habit. He forgot that he was himself a slave to afternoon tea.One day Miss Wilkinson gave Philip La Vie de Boheme. She had found it byaccident when she was rummaging among the books in the Vicar's study. Ithad been bought in a lot with something Mr. Carey wanted and had remainedundiscovered for ten years.Philip began to read Murger's fascinating, ill-written, absurdmasterpiece, and fell at once under its spell. His soul danced with joy atthat picture of starvation which is so good-humoured, of squalor which isso picturesque, of sordid love which is so romantic, of bathos which is somoving. Rodolphe and Mimi, Musette and Schaunard! They wander through thegray streets of the Latin Quarter, finding refuge now in one attic, now inanother, in their quaint costumes of Louis Philippe, with their tears andtheir smiles, happy-go-lucky and reckless. Who can resist them? It is onlywhen you return to the book with a sounder judgment that you find howgross their pleasures were, how vulgar their minds; and you feel the utterworthlessness, as artists and as human beings, of that gay procession.Philip was enraptured."Don't you wish you were going to Paris instead of London?" asked MissWilkinson, smiling at his enthusiasm."It's too late now even if I did," he answered.During the fortnight he had been back from Germany there had been muchdiscussion between himself and his uncle about his future. He had refuseddefinitely to go to Oxford, and now that there was no chance of hisgetting scholarships even Mr. Carey came to the conclusion that he couldnot afford it. His entire fortune had consisted of only two thousandpounds, and though it had been invested in mortgages at five per cent, hehad not been able to live on the interest. It was now a little reduced. Itwould be absurd to spend two hundred a year, the least he could live on ata university, for three years at Oxford which would lead him no nearer toearning his living. He was anxious to go straight to London. Mrs. Careythought there were only four professions for a gentleman, the Army, theNavy, the Law, and the Church. She had added medicine because herbrother-in-law practised it, but did not forget that in her young days noone ever considered the doctor a gentleman. The first two were out of thequestion, and Philip was firm in his refusal to be ordained. Only the lawremained. The local doctor had suggested that many gentlemen now went infor engineering, but Mrs. Carey opposed the idea at once."I shouldn't like Philip to go into trade," she said."No, he must have a profession," answered the Vicar."Why not make him a doctor like his father?""I should hate it," said Philip.Mrs. Carey was not sorry. The Bar seemed out of the question, since he wasnot going to Oxford, for the Careys were under the impression that adegree was still necessary for success in that calling; and finally it wassuggested that he should become articled to a solicitor. They wrote to thefamily lawyer, Albert Nixon, who was co-executor with the Vicar ofBlackstable for the late Henry Carey's estate, and asked him whether hewould take Philip. In a day or two the answer came back that he had not avacancy, and was very much opposed to the whole scheme; the profession wasgreatly overcrowded, and without capital or connections a man had smallchance of becoming more than a managing clerk; he suggested, however, thatPhilip should become a chartered accountant. Neither the Vicar nor hiswife knew in the least what this was, and Philip had never heard of anyonebeing a chartered accountant; but another letter from the solicitorexplained that the growth of modern businesses and the increase ofcompanies had led to the formation of many firms of accountants to examinethe books and put into the financial affairs of their clients an orderwhich old-fashioned methods had lacked. Some years before a Royal Charterhad been obtained, and the profession was becoming every year morerespectable, lucrative, and important. The chartered accountants whomAlbert Nixon had employed for thirty years happened to have a vacancy foran articled pupil, and would take Philip for a fee of three hundredpounds. Half of this would be returned during the five years the articleslasted in the form of salary. The prospect was not exciting, but Philipfelt that he must decide on something, and the thought of living in Londonover-balanced the slight shrinking he felt. The Vicar of Blackstable wroteto ask Mr. Nixon whether it was a profession suited to a gentleman; andMr. Nixon replied that, since the Charter, men were going into it who hadbeen to public schools and a university; moreover, if Philip disliked thework and after a year wished to leave, Herbert Carter, for that was theaccountant's name, would return half the money paid for the articles. Thissettled it, and it was arranged that Philip should start work on thefifteenth of September."I have a full month before me," said Philip."And then you go to freedom and I to bondage," returned Miss Wilkinson.Her holidays were to last six weeks, and she would be leaving Blackstableonly a day or two before Philip."I wonder if we shall ever meet again," she said."I don't know why not.""Oh, don't speak in that practical way. I never knew anyone sounsentimental."Philip reddened. He was afraid that Miss Wilkinson would think him amilksop: after all she was a young woman, sometimes quite pretty, and hewas getting on for twenty; it was absurd that they should talk of nothingbut art and literature. He ought to make love to her. They had talked agood deal of love. There was the art-student in the Rue Breda, and thenthere was the painter in whose family she had lived so long in Paris: hehad asked her to sit for him, and had started to make love to her soviolently that she was forced to invent excuses not to sit to him again.It was clear enough that Miss Wilkinson was used to attentions of thatsort. She looked very nice now in a large straw hat: it was hot thatafternoon, the hottest day they had had, and beads of sweat stood in aline on her upper lip. He called to mind Fraulein Cacilie and Herr Sung.He had never thought of Cacilie in an amorous way, she was exceedinglyplain; but now, looking back, the affair seemed very romantic. He had achance of romance too. Miss Wilkinson was practically French, and thatadded zest to a possible adventure. When he thought of it at night in bed,or when he sat by himself in the garden reading a book, he was thrilled byit; but when he saw Miss Wilkinson it seemed less picturesque.At all events, after what she had told him, she would not be surprised ifhe made love to her. He had a feeling that she must think it odd of him tomake no sign: perhaps it was only his fancy, but once or twice in the lastday or two he had imagined that there was a suspicion of contempt in hereyes."A penny for your thoughts," said Miss Wilkinson, looking at him with asmile."I'm not going to tell you," he answered.He was thinking that he ought to kiss her there and then. He wondered ifshe expected him to do it; but after all he didn't see how he couldwithout any preliminary business at all. She would just think him mad, orshe might slap his face; and perhaps she would complain to his uncle. Hewondered how Herr Sung had started with Fraulein Cacilie. It would bebeastly if she told his uncle: he knew what his uncle was, he would tellthe doctor and Josiah Graves; and he would look a perfect fool. AuntLouisa kept on saying that Miss Wilkinson was thirty-seven if she was aday; he shuddered at the thought of the ridicule he would be exposed to;they would say she was old enough to be his mother."Twopence for your thoughts," smiled Miss Wilkinson."I was thinking about you," he answered boldly.That at all events committed him to nothing."What were you thinking?""Ah, now you want to know too much.""Naughty boy!" said Miss Wilkinson.There it was again! Whenever he had succeeded in working himself up shesaid something which reminded him of the governess. She called himplayfully a naughty boy when he did not sing his exercises to hersatisfaction. This time he grew quite sulky."I wish you wouldn't treat me as if I were a child.""Are you cross?""Very.""I didn't mean to."She put out her hand and he took it. Once or twice lately when they shookhands at night he had fancied she slightly pressed his hand, but this timethere was no doubt about it.He did not quite know what he ought to say next. Here at last was hischance of an adventure, and he would be a fool not to take it; but it wasa little ordinary, and he had expected more glamour. He had read manydescriptions of love, and he felt in himself none of that uprush ofemotion which novelists described; he was not carried off his feet in waveupon wave of passion; nor was Miss Wilkinson the ideal: he had oftenpictured to himself the great violet eyes and the alabaster skin of somelovely girl, and he had thought of himself burying his face in therippling masses of her auburn hair. He could not imagine himself buryinghis face in Miss Wilkinson's hair, it always struck him as a littlesticky. All the same it would be very satisfactory to have an intrigue,and he thrilled with the legitimate pride he would enjoy in his conquest.He owed it to himself to seduce her. He made up his mind to kiss MissWilkinson; not then, but in the evening; it would be easier in the dark,and after he had kissed her the rest would follow. He would kiss her thatvery evening. He swore an oath to that effect.He laid his plans. After supper he suggested that they should take astroll in the garden. Miss Wilkinson accepted, and they sauntered side byside. Philip was very nervous. He did not know why, but the conversationwould not lead in the right direction; he had decided that the first thingto do was to put his arm round her waist; but he could not suddenly puthis arm round her waist when she was talking of the regatta which was tobe held next week. He led her artfully into the darkest parts of thegarden, but having arrived there his courage failed him. They sat on abench, and he had really made up his mind that here was his opportunitywhen Miss Wilkinson said she was sure there were earwigs and insisted onmoving. They walked round the garden once more, and Philip promisedhimself he would take the plunge before they arrived at that bench again;but as they passed the house, they saw Mrs. Carey standing at the door."Hadn't you young people better come in? I'm sure the night air isn't goodfor you.""Perhaps we had better go in," said Philip. "I don't want you to catchcold."He said it with a sigh of relief. He could attempt nothing more thatnight. But afterwards, when he was alone in his room, he was furious withhimself. He had been a perfect fool. He was certain that Miss Wilkinsonexpected him to kiss her, otherwise she wouldn't have come into thegarden. She was always saying that only Frenchmen knew how to treat women.Philip had read French novels. If he had been a Frenchman he would haveseized her in his arms and told her passionately that he adored her; hewould have pressed his lips on her nuque. He did not know why Frenchmenalways kissed ladies on the nuque. He did not himself see anything sovery attractive in the nape of the neck. Of course it was much easier forFrenchmen to do these things; the language was such an aid; Philip couldnever help feeling that to say passionate things in English sounded alittle absurd. He wished now that he had never undertaken the siege ofMiss Wilkinson's virtue; the first fortnight had been so jolly, and now hewas wretched; but he was determined not to give in, he would never respecthimself again if he did, and he made up his mind irrevocably that thenext night he would kiss her without fail.Next day when he got up he saw it was raining, and his first thought wasthat they would not be able to go into the garden that evening. He was inhigh spirits at breakfast. Miss Wilkinson sent Mary Ann in to say that shehad a headache and would remain in bed. She did not come down tilltea-time, when she appeared in a becoming wrapper and a pale face; but shewas quite recovered by supper, and the meal was very cheerful. Afterprayers she said she would go straight to bed, and she kissed Mrs. Carey.Then she turned to Philip."Good gracious!" she cried. "I was just going to kiss you too.""Why don't you?" he said.She laughed and held out her hand. She distinctly pressed his.The following day there was not a cloud in the sky, and the garden wassweet and fresh after the rain. Philip went down to the beach to bathe andwhen he came home ate a magnificent dinner. They were having a tennisparty at the vicarage in the afternoon and Miss Wilkinson put on her bestdress. She certainly knew how to wear her clothes, and Philip could nothelp noticing how elegant she looked beside the curate's wife and thedoctor's married daughter. There were two roses in her waistband. She satin a garden chair by the side of the lawn, holding a red parasol overherself, and the light on her face was very becoming. Philip was fond oftennis. He served well and as he ran clumsily played close to the net:notwithstanding his club-foot he was quick, and it was difficult to get aball past him. He was pleased because he won all his sets. At tea he laydown at Miss Wilkinson's feet, hot and panting."Flannels suit you," she said. "You look very nice this afternoon."He blushed with delight."I can honestly return the compliment. You look perfectly ravishing."She smiled and gave him a long look with her black eyes.After supper he insisted that she should come out."Haven't you had enough exercise for one day?""It'll be lovely in the garden tonight. The stars are all out."He was in high spirits."D'you know, Mrs. Carey has been scolding me on your account?" said MissWilkinson, when they were sauntering through the kitchen garden. "She saysI mustn't flirt with you.""Have you been flirting with me? I hadn't noticed it.""She was only joking.""It was very unkind of you to refuse to kiss me last night.""If you saw the look your uncle gave me when I said what I did!""Was that all that prevented you?""I prefer to kiss people without witnesses.""There are no witnesses now."Philip put his arm round her waist and kissed her lips. She only laugheda little and made no attempt to withdraw. It had come quite naturally.Philip was very proud of himself. He said he would, and he had. It was theeasiest thing in the world. He wished he had done it before. He did itagain."Oh, you mustn't," she said."Why not?""Because I like it," she laughed.