Chapter XXXIX

by William Somerset Maugham

　　The Vicar of Blackstable would have nothing to do with the scheme whichPhilip laid before him. He had a great idea that one should stick towhatever one had begun. Like all weak men he laid an exaggerated stress onnot changing one's mind."You chose to be an accountant of your own free will," he said."I just took that because it was the only chance I saw of getting up totown. I hate London, I hate the work, and nothing will induce me to goback to it."Mr. and Mrs. Carey were frankly shocked at Philip's idea of being anartist. He should not forget, they said, that his father and mother weregentlefolk, and painting wasn't a serious profession; it was Bohemian,disreputable, immoral. And then Paris!"So long as I have anything to say in the matter, I shall not allow you tolive in Paris," said the Vicar firmly.It was a sink of iniquity. The scarlet woman and she of Babylon flauntedtheir vileness there; the cities of the plain were not more wicked."You've been brought up like a gentleman and Christian, and I should befalse to the trust laid upon me by your dead father and mother if Iallowed you to expose yourself to such temptation.""Well, I know I'm not a Christian and I'm beginning to doubt whether I'ma gentleman," said Philip.The dispute grew more violent. There was another year before Philip tookpossession of his small inheritance, and during that time Mr. Careyproposed only to give him an allowance if he remained at the office. Itwas clear to Philip that if he meant not to continue with accountancy hemust leave it while he could still get back half the money that had beenpaid for his articles. The Vicar would not listen. Philip, losing allreserve, said things to wound and irritate."You've got no right to waste my money," he said at last. "After all it'smy money, isn't it? I'm not a child. You can't prevent me from going toParis if I make up my mind to. You can't force me to go back to London.""All I can do is to refuse you money unless you do what I think fit.""Well, I don't care, I've made up my mind to go to Paris. I shall sell myclothes, and my books, and my father's jewellery."Aunt Louisa sat by in silence, anxious and unhappy. she saw that Philipwas beside himself, and anything she said then would but increase hisanger. Finally the Vicar announced that he wished to hear nothing moreabout it and with dignity left the room. For the next three days neitherPhilip nor he spoke to one another. Philip wrote to Hayward forinformation about Paris, and made up his mind to set out as soon as he gota reply. Mrs. Carey turned the matter over in her mind incessantly; shefelt that Philip included her in the hatred he bore her husband, and thethought tortured her. She loved him with all her heart. At length shespoke to him; she listened attentively while he poured out all hisdisillusionment of London and his eager ambition for the future."I may be no good, but at least let me have a try. I can't be a worsefailure than I was in that beastly office. And I feel that I can paint. Iknow I've got it in me."She was not so sure as her husband that they did right in thwarting sostrong an inclination. She had read of great painters whose parents hadopposed their wish to study, the event had shown with what folly; andafter all it was just as possible for a painter to lead a virtuous life tothe glory of God as for a chartered accountant."I'm so afraid of your going to Paris," she said piteously. "It wouldn'tbe so bad if you studied in London.""If I'm going in for painting I must do it thoroughly, and it's only inParis that you can get the real thing."At his suggestion Mrs. Carey wrote to the solicitor, saying that Philipwas discontented with his work in London, and asking what he thought of achange. Mr. Nixon answered as follows:Dear Mrs. Carey,I have seen Mr. Herbert Carter, and I am afraid I must tell you thatPhilip has not done so well as one could have wished. If he is verystrongly set against the work, perhaps it is better that he should takethe opportunity there is now to break his articles. I am naturally verydisappointed, but as you know you can take a horse to the water, but youcan't make him drink.Yours very sincerely,Albert Nixon.The letter was shown to the Vicar, but served only to increase hisobstinacy. He was willing enough that Philip should take up some otherprofession, he suggested his father's calling, medicine, but nothing wouldinduce him to pay an allowance if Philip went to Paris."It's a mere excuse for self-indulgence and sensuality," he said."I'm interested to hear you blame self-indulgence in others," retortedPhilip acidly.But by this time an answer had come from Hayward, giving the name of ahotel where Philip could get a room for thirty francs a month andenclosing a note of introduction to the massiere of a school. Philip readthe letter to Mrs. Carey and told her he proposed to start on the first ofSeptember."But you haven't got any money?" she said."I'm going into Tercanbury this afternoon to sell the jewellery."He had inherited from his father a gold watch and chain, two or threerings, some links, and two pins. One of them was a pearl and might fetcha considerable sum."It's a very different thing, what a thing's worth and what it'll fetch,"said Aunt Louisa.Philip smiled, for this was one of his uncle's stock phrases."I know, but at the worst I think I can get a hundred pounds on the lot,and that'll keep me till I'm twenty-one."Mrs. Carey did not answer, but she went upstairs, put on her little blackbonnet, and went to the bank. In an hour she came back. She went toPhilip, who was reading in the drawing-room, and handed him an envelope."What's this?" he asked."It's a little present for you," she answered, smiling shyly.He opened it and found eleven five-pound notes and a little paper sackbulging with sovereigns."I couldn't bear to let you sell your father's jewellery. It's the moneyI had in the bank. It comes to very nearly a hundred pounds."Philip blushed, and, he knew not why, tears suddenly filled his eyes."Oh, my dear, I can't take it," he said. "It's most awfully good of you,but I couldn't bear to take it."When Mrs. Carey was married she had three hundred pounds, and this money,carefully watched, had been used by her to meet any unforeseen expense,any urgent charity, or to buy Christmas and birthday presents for herhusband and for Philip. In the course of years it had diminished sadly,but it was still with the Vicar a subject for jesting. He talked of hiswife as a rich woman and he constantly spoke of the `nest egg.'"Oh, please take it, Philip. I'm so sorry I've been extravagant, andthere's only that left. But it'll make me so happy if you'll accept it.""But you'll want it," said Philip."No, I don't think I shall. I was keeping it in case your uncle diedbefore me. I thought it would be useful to have a little something I couldget at immediately if I wanted it, but I don't think I shall live verymuch longer now.""Oh, my dear, don't say that. Why, of course you're going to live forever. I can't possibly spare you.""Oh, I'm not sorry." Her voice broke and she hid her eyes, but in amoment, drying them, she smiled bravely. "At first, I used to pray to Godthat He might not take me first, because I didn't want your uncle to beleft alone, I didn't want him to have all the suffering, but now I knowthat it wouldn't mean so much to your uncle as it would mean to me. Hewants to live more than I do, I've never been the wife he wanted, and Idaresay he'd marry again if anything happened to me. So I should like togo first. You don't think it's selfish of me, Philip, do you? But Icouldn't bear it if he went."Philip kissed her wrinkled, thin cheek. He did not know why the sight hehad of that overwhelming love made him feel strangely ashamed. It wasincomprehensible that she should care so much for a man who was soindifferent, so selfish, so grossly self-indulgent; and he divined dimlythat in her heart she knew his indifference and his selfishness, knew themand loved him humbly all the same."You will take the money, Philip?" she said, gently stroking his hand. "Iknow you can do without it, but it'll give me so much happiness. I'vealways wanted to do something for you. You see, I never had a child of myown, and I've loved you as if you were my son. When you were a little boy,though I knew it was wicked, I used to wish almost that you might be ill,so that I could nurse you day and night. But you were only ill once andthen it was at school. I should so like to help you. It's the only chanceI shall ever have. And perhaps some day when you're a great artist youwon't forget me, but you'll remember that I gave you your start.""It's very good of you," said Philip. "I'm very grateful." A smile cameinto her tired eyes, a smile of pure happiness."Oh, I'm so glad."