Chapter XXXVII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　At first the novelty of the work kept Philip interested. Mr. Carterdictated letters to him, and he had to make fair copies of statements ofaccounts.Mr. Carter preferred to conduct the office on gentlemanly lines; he wouldhave nothing to do with typewriting and looked upon shorthand withdisfavour: the office-boy knew shorthand, but it was only Mr. Goodworthywho made use of his accomplishment. Now and then Philip with one of themore experienced clerks went out to audit the accounts of some firm: hecame to know which of the clients must be treated with respect and whichwere in low water. Now and then long lists of figures were given him toadd up. He attended lectures for his first examination. Mr. Goodworthyrepeated to him that the work was dull at first, but he would grow used toit. Philip left the office at six and walked across the river to Waterloo.His supper was waiting for him when he reached his lodgings and he spentthe evening reading. On Saturday afternoons he went to the NationalGallery. Hayward had recommended to him a guide which had been compiledout of Ruskin's works, and with this in hand he went industriously throughroom after room: he read carefully what the critic had said about apicture and then in a determined fashion set himself to see the samethings in it. His Sundays were difficult to get through. He knew no one inLondon and spent them by himself. Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, asked him tospend a Sunday at Hampstead, and Philip passed a happy day with a set ofexuberant strangers; he ate and drank a great deal, took a walk on theheath, and came away with a general invitation to come again whenever heliked; but he was morbidly afraid of being in the way, so waited for aformal invitation. Naturally enough it never came, for with numbers offriends of their own the Nixons did not think of the lonely, silent boywhose claim upon their hospitality was so small. So on Sundays he got uplate and took a walk along the tow-path. At Barnes the river is muddy,dingy, and tidal; it has neither the graceful charm of the Thames abovethe locks nor the romance of the crowded stream below London Bridge. Inthe afternoon he walked about the common; and that is gray and dingy too;it is neither country nor town; the gorse is stunted; and all about is thelitter of civilisation. He went to a play every Saturday night and stoodcheerfully for an hour or more at the gallery-door. It was not worth whileto go back to Barnes for the interval between the closing of the Museumand his meal in an A. B. C. shop, and the time hung heavily on his hands.He strolled up Bond Street or through the Burlington Arcade, and when hewas tired went and sat down in the Park or in wet weather in the publiclibrary in St. Martin's Lane. He looked at the people walking about andenvied them because they had friends; sometimes his envy turned to hatredbecause they were happy and he was miserable. He had never imagined thatit was possible to be so lonely in a great city. Sometimes when he wasstanding at the gallery-door the man next to him would attempt aconversation; but Philip had the country boy's suspicion of strangers andanswered in such a way as to prevent any further acquaintance. After theplay was over, obliged to keep to himself all he thought about it, hehurried across the bridge to Waterloo. When he got back to his rooms, inwhich for economy no fire had been lit, his heart sank. It was horriblycheerless. He began to loathe his lodgings and the long solitary eveningshe spent in them. Sometimes he felt so lonely that he could not read, andthen he sat looking into the fire hour after hour in bitter wretchedness.He had spent three months in London now, and except for that one Sunday atHampstead had never talked to anyone but his fellow-clerks. One eveningWatson asked him to dinner at a restaurant and they went to a music-halltogether; but he felt shy and uncomfortable. Watson talked all the time ofthings he did not care about, and while he looked upon Watson as aPhilistine he could not help admiring him. He was angry because Watsonobviously set no store on his culture, and with his way of taking himselfat the estimate at which he saw others held him he began to despise theacquirements which till then had seemed to him not unimportant. He feltfor the first time the humiliation of poverty. His uncle sent him fourteenpounds a month and he had had to buy a good many clothes. His evening suitcost him five guineas. He had not dared tell Watson that it was bought inthe Strand. Watson said there was only one tailor in London."I suppose you don't dance," said Watson, one day, with a glance atPhilip's club-foot."No," said Philip."Pity. I've been asked to bring some dancing men to a ball. I could haveintroduced you to some jolly girls."Once or twice, hating the thought of going back to Barnes, Philip hadremained in town, and late in the evening wandered through the West Endtill he found some house at which there was a party. He stood among thelittle group of shabby people, behind the footmen, watching the guestsarrive, and he listened to the music that floated through the window.Sometimes, notwithstanding the cold, a couple came on to the balcony andstood for a moment to get some fresh air; and Philip, imagining that theywere in love with one another, turned away and limped along the streetwith a heavy hurt. He would never be able to stand in that man's place. Hefelt that no woman could ever really look upon him without distaste forhis deformity.That reminded him of Miss Wilkinson. He thought of her withoutsatisfaction. Before parting they had made an arrangement that she shouldwrite to Charing Cross Post Office till he was able to send her anaddress, and when he went there he found three letters from her. She wroteon blue paper with violet ink, and she wrote in French. Philip wonderedwhy she could not write in English like a sensible woman, and herpassionate expressions, because they reminded him of a French novel, lefthim cold. She upbraided him for not having written, and when he answeredhe excused himself by saying that he had been busy. He did not quite knowhow to start the letter. He could not bring himself to use dearest ordarling, and he hated to address her as Emily, so finally he began withthe word dear. It looked odd, standing by itself, and rather silly, but hemade it do. It was the first love letter he had ever written, and he wasconscious of its tameness; he felt that he should say all sorts ofvehement things, how he thought of her every minute of the day and how helonged to kiss her beautiful hands and how he trembled at the thought ofher red lips, but some inexplicable modesty prevented him; and instead hetold her of his new rooms and his office. The answer came by return ofpost, angry, heart-broken, reproachful: how could he be so cold? Did henot know that she hung on his letters? She had given him all that a womancould give, and this was her reward. Was he tired of her already? Then,because he did not reply for several days, Miss Wilkinson bombarded himwith letters. She could not bear his unkindness, she waited for the post,and it never brought her his letter, she cried herself to sleep nightafter night, she was looking so ill that everyone remarked on it: if hedid not love her why did he not say so? She added that she could not livewithout him, and the only thing was for her to commit suicide. She toldhim he was cold and selfish and ungrateful. It was all in French, andPhilip knew that she wrote in that language to show off, but he wasworried all the same. He did not want to make her unhappy. In a littlewhile she wrote that she could not bear the separation any longer, shewould arrange to come over to London for Christmas. Philip wrote back thathe would like nothing better, only he had already an engagement to spendChristmas with friends in the country, and he did not see how he couldbreak it. She answered that she did not wish to force herself on him, itwas quite evident that he did not wish to see her; she was deeply hurt,and she never thought he would repay with such cruelty all her kindness.Her letter was touching, and Philip thought he saw marks of her tears onthe paper; he wrote an impulsive reply saying that he was dreadfully sorryand imploring her to come; but it was with relief that he received heranswer in which she said that she found it would be impossible for her toget away. Presently when her letters came his heart sank: he delayedopening them, for he knew what they would contain, angry reproaches andpathetic appeals; they would make him feel a perfect beast, and yet he didnot see with what he had to blame himself. He put off his answer from dayto day, and then another letter would come, saying she was ill and lonelyand miserable."I wish to God I'd never had anything to do with her," he said.He admired Watson because he arranged these things so easily. The youngman had been engaged in an intrigue with a girl who played in touringcompanies, and his account of the affair filled Philip with enviousamazement. But after a time Watson's young affections changed, and one dayhe described the rupture to Philip."I thought it was no good making any bones about it so I just told her I'dhad enough of her," he said."Didn't she make an awful scene?" asked Philip."The usual thing, you know, but I told her it was no good trying on thatsort of thing with me.""Did she cry?""She began to, but I can't stand women when they cry, so I said she'dbetter hook it."Philip's sense of humour was growing keener with advancing years."And did she hook it?" he asked smiling."Well, there wasn't anything else for her to do, was there?"Meanwhile the Christmas holidays approached. Mrs. Carey had been ill allthrough November, and the doctor suggested that she and the Vicar shouldgo to Cornwall for a couple of weeks round Christmas so that she shouldget back her strength. The result was that Philip had nowhere to go, andhe spent Christmas Day in his lodgings. Under Hayward's influence he hadpersuaded himself that the festivities that attend this season were vulgarand barbaric, and he made up his mind that he would take no notice of theday; but when it came, the jollity of all around affected him strangely.His landlady and her husband were spending the day with a marrieddaughter, and to save trouble Philip announced that he would take hismeals out. He went up to London towards mid-day and ate a slice of turkeyand some Christmas pudding by himself at Gatti's, and since he had nothingto do afterwards went to Westminster Abbey for the afternoon service. Thestreets were almost empty, and the people who went along had a preoccupiedlook; they did not saunter but walked with some definite goal in view, andhardly anyone was alone. To Philip they all seemed happy. He felt himselfmore solitary than he had ever done in his life. His intention had been tokill the day somehow in the streets and then dine at a restaurant, but hecould not face again the sight of cheerful people, talking, laughing, andmaking merry; so he went back to Waterloo, and on his way through theWestminster Bridge Road bought some ham and a couple of mince pies andwent back to Barnes. He ate his food in his lonely little room and spentthe evening with a book. His depression was almost intolerable.When he was back at the office it made him very sore to listen to Watson'saccount of the short holiday. They had had some jolly girls staying withthem, and after dinner they had cleared out the drawing-room and had adance."I didn't get to bed till three and I don't know how I got there then. ByGeorge, I was squiffy."At last Philip asked desperately:"How does one get to know people in London?"Watson looked at him with surprise and with a slightly contemptuousamusement."Oh, I don't know, one just knows them. If you go to dances you soon getto know as many people as you can do with."Philip hated Watson, and yet he would have given anything to change placeswith him. The old feeling that he had had at school came back to him, andhe tried to throw himself into the other's skin, imagining what life wouldbe if he were Watson.