Chapter XXXVIII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　At the end of the year there was a great deal to do. Philip went tovarious places with a clerk named Thompson and spent the day monotonouslycalling out items of expenditure, which the other checked; and sometimeshe was given long pages of figures to add up. He had never had a head forfigures, and he could only do this slowly. Thompson grew irritated at hismistakes. His fellow-clerk was a long, lean man of forty, sallow, withblack hair and a ragged moustache; he had hollow cheeks and deep lines oneach side of his nose. He took a dislike to Philip because he was anarticled clerk. Because he could put down three hundred guineas and keephimself for five years Philip had the chance of a career; while he, withhis experience and ability, had no possibility of ever being more than aclerk at thirty-five shillings a week. He was a cross-grained man,oppressed by a large family, and he resented the superciliousness which hefancied he saw in Philip. He sneered at Philip because he was bettereducated than himself, and he mocked at Philip's pronunciation; he couldnot forgive him because he spoke without a cockney accent, and when hetalked to him sarcastically exaggerated his aitches. At first his mannerwas merely gruff and repellent, but as he discovered that Philip had nogift for accountancy he took pleasure in humiliating him; his attacks weregross and silly, but they wounded Philip, and in self-defence he assumedan attitude of superiority which he did not feel."Had a bath this morning?" Thompson said when Philip came to the officelate, for his early punctuality had not lasted."Yes, haven't you?""No, I'm not a gentleman, I'm only a clerk. I have a bath on Saturdaynight.""I suppose that's why you're more than usually disagreeable on Monday.""Will you condescend to do a few sums in simple addition today? I'm afraidit's asking a great deal from a gentleman who knows Latin and Greek.""Your attempts at sarcasm are not very happy."But Philip could not conceal from himself that the other clerks, ill-paidand uncouth, were more useful than himself. Once or twice Mr. Goodworthygrew impatient with him."You really ought to be able to do better than this by now," he said."You're not even as smart as the office-boy."Philip listened sulkily. He did not like being blamed, and it humiliatedhim, when, having been given accounts to make fair copies of, Mr.Goodworthy was not satisfied and gave them to another clerk to do. Atfirst the work had been tolerable from its novelty, but now it grewirksome; and when he discovered that he had no aptitude for it, he beganto hate it. Often, when he should have been doing something that was givenhim, he wasted his time drawing little pictures on the office note-paper.He made sketches of Watson in every conceivable attitude, and Watson wasimpressed by his talent. It occurred to him to take the drawings home, andhe came back next day with the praises of his family."I wonder you didn't become a painter," he said. "Only of course there'sno money in it."It chanced that Mr. Carter two or three days later was dining with theWatsons, and the sketches were shown him. The following morning he sentfor Philip. Philip saw him seldom and stood in some awe of him."Look here, young fellow, I don't care what you do out of office-hours,but I've seen those sketches of yours and they're on office-paper, and Mr.Goodworthy tells me you're slack. You won't do any good as a charteredaccountant unless you look alive. It's a fine profession, and we'regetting a very good class of men in it, but it's a profession in which youhave to..." he looked for the termination of his phrase, but could notfind exactly what he wanted, so finished rather tamely, "in which you haveto look alive."Perhaps Philip would have settled down but for the agreement that if hedid not like the work he could leave after a year, and get back half themoney paid for his articles. He felt that he was fit for something betterthan to add up accounts, and it was humiliating that he did so illsomething which seemed contemptible. The vulgar scenes with Thompson goton his nerves. In March Watson ended his year at the office and Philip,though he did not care for him, saw him go with regret. The fact that theother clerks disliked them equally, because they belonged to a class alittle higher than their own, was a bond of union. When Philip thoughtthat he must spend over four years more with that dreary set of fellowshis heart sank. He had expected wonderful things from London and it hadgiven him nothing. He hated it now. He did not know a soul, and he had noidea how he was to get to know anyone. He was tired of going everywhere byhimself. He began to feel that he could not stand much more of such alife. He would lie in bed at night and think of the joy of never seeingagain that dingy office or any of the men in it, and of getting away fromthose drab lodgings.A great disappointment befell him in the spring. Hayward had announced hisintention of coming to London for the season, and Philip had lookedforward very much to seeing him again. He had read so much lately andthought so much that his mind was full of ideas which he wanted todiscuss, and he knew nobody who was willing to interest himself inabstract things. He was quite excited at the thought of talking his fillwith someone, and he was wretched when Hayward wrote to say that thespring was lovelier than ever he had known it in Italy, and he could notbear to tear himself away. He went on to ask why Philip did not come. Whatwas the use of squandering the days of his youth in an office when theworld was beautiful? The letter proceeded.I wonder you can bear it. I think of Fleet Street and Lincoln's Inn nowwith a shudder of disgust. There are only two things in the world thatmake life worth living, love and art. I cannot imagine you sitting in anoffice over a ledger, and do you wear a tall hat and an umbrella and alittle black bag? My feeling is that one should look upon life as anadventure, one should burn with the hard, gem-like flame, and one shouldtake risks, one should expose oneself to danger. Why do you not go toParis and study art? I always thought you had talent. The suggestion fell in with the possibility that Philip for some time hadbeen vaguely turning over in his mind. It startled him at first, but hecould not help thinking of it, and in the constant rumination over it hefound his only escape from the wretchedness of his present state. They allthought he had talent; at Heidelberg they had admired his water colours,Miss Wilkinson had told him over and over again that they were chasing;even strangers like the Watsons had been struck by his sketches. La Viede Boheme had made a deep impression on him. He had brought it to Londonand when he was most depressed he had only to read a few pages to betransported into those chasing attics where Rodolphe and the rest of themdanced and loved and sang. He began to think of Paris as before he hadthought of London, but he had no fear of a second disillusion; he yearnedfor romance and beauty and love, and Paris seemed to offer them all. Hehad a passion for pictures, and why should he not be able to paint as wellas anybody else? He wrote to Miss Wilkinson and asked her how much shethought he could live on in Paris. She told him that he could manageeasily on eighty pounds a year, and she enthusiastically approved of hisproject. She told him he was too good to be wasted in an office. Who wouldbe a clerk when he might be a great artist, she asked dramatically, andshe besought Philip to believe in himself: that was the great thing. ButPhilip had a cautious nature. It was all very well for Hayward to talk oftaking risks, he had three hundred a year in gilt-edged securities;Philip's entire fortune amounted to no more than eighteen-hundred pounds.He hesitated.Then it chanced that one day Mr. Goodworthy asked him suddenly if he wouldlike to go to Paris. The firm did the accounts for a hotel in the FaubourgSt. Honore, which was owned by an English company, and twice a year Mr.Goodworthy and a clerk went over. The clerk who generally went happened tobe ill, and a press of work prevented any of the others from getting away.Mr. Goodworthy thought of Philip because he could best be spared, and hisarticles gave him some claim upon a job which was one of the pleasures ofthe business. Philip was delighted."You'll 'ave to work all day," said Mr. Goodworthy, "but we get ourevenings to ourselves, and Paris is Paris." He smiled in a knowing way."They do us very well at the hotel, and they give us all our meals, so itdon't cost one anything. That's the way I like going to Paris, at otherpeople's expense."When they arrived at Calais and Philip saw the crowd of gesticulatingporters his heart leaped."This is the real thing," he said to himself.He was all eyes as the train sped through the country; he adored the sanddunes, their colour seemed to him more lovely than anything he had everseen; and he was enchanted with the canals and the long lines of poplars.When they got out of the Gare du Nord, and trundled along the cobbledstreets in a ramshackle, noisy cab, it seemed to him that he was breathinga new air so intoxicating that he could hardly restrain himself fromshouting aloud. They were met at the door of the hotel by the manager, astout, pleasant man, who spoke tolerable English; Mr. Goodworthy was anold friend and he greeted them effusively; they dined in his private roomwith his wife, and to Philip it seemed that he had never eaten anything sodelicious as the beefsteak aux pommes, nor drunk such nectar as the vinordinaire, which were set before them.To Mr. Goodworthy, a respectable householder with excellent principles,the capital of France was a paradise of the joyously obscene. He asked themanager next morning what there was to be seen that was `thick.' Hethoroughly enjoyed these visits of his to Paris; he said they kept youfrom growing rusty. In the evenings, after their work was over and theyhad dined, he took Philip to the Moulin Rouge and the Folies Bergeres. Hislittle eyes twinkled and his face wore a sly, sensual smile as he soughtout the pornographic. He went into all the haunts which were speciallyarranged for the foreigner, and afterwards said that a nation could cometo no good which permitted that sort of thing. He nudged Philip when atsome revue a woman appeared with practically nothing on, and pointed outto him the most strapping of the courtesans who walked about the hall. Itwas a vulgar Paris that he showed Philip, but Philip saw it with eyesblinded with illusion. In the early morning he would rush out of the hoteland go to the Champs Elysees, and stand at the Place de la Concorde. Itwas June, and Paris was silvery with the delicacy of the air. Philip felthis heart go out to the people. Here he thought at last was romance.They spent the inside of a week there, leaving on Sunday, and when Philiplate at night reached his dingy rooms in Barnes his mind was made up; hewould surrender his articles, and go to Paris to study art; but so that noone should think him unreasonable he determined to stay at the office tillhis year was up. He was to have his holiday during the last fortnight inAugust, and when he went away he would tell Herbert Carter that he had nointention of returning. But though Philip could force himself to go to theoffice every day he could not even pretend to show any interest in thework. His mind was occupied with the future. After the middle of Julythere was nothing much to do and he escaped a good deal by pretending hehad to go to lectures for his first examination. The time he got in thisway he spent in the National Gallery. He read books about Paris and booksabout painting. He was steeped in Ruskin. He read many of Vasari's livesof the painters. He liked that story of Correggio, and he fancied himselfstanding before some great masterpiece and crying: Anch' io son'pittore. His hesitation had left him now, and he was convinced that hehad in him the makings of a great painter."After all, I can only try," he said to himself. "The great thing in lifeis to take risks."At last came the middle of August. Mr. Carter was spending the month inScotland, and the managing clerk was in charge of the office. Mr.Goodworthy had seemed pleasantly disposed to Philip since their trip toParis, and now that Philip knew he was so soon to be free, he could lookupon the funny little man with tolerance."You're going for your holiday tomorrow, Carey?" he said to him in theevening.All day Philip had been telling himself that this was the last time hewould ever sit in that hateful office."Yes, this is the end of my year.""I'm afraid you've not done very well. Mr. Carter's very dissatisfied withyou.""Not nearly so dissatisfied as I am with Mr. Carter," returned Philipcheerfully."I don't think you should speak like that, Carey.""I'm not coming back. I made the arrangement that if I didn't likeaccountancy Mr. Carter would return me half the money I paid for myarticles and I could chuck it at the end of a year.""You shouldn't come to such a decision hastily.""For ten months I've loathed it all, I've loathed the work, I've loathedthe office, I loathe Loudon. I'd rather sweep a crossing than spend mydays here.""Well, I must say, I don't think you're very fitted for accountancy.""Good-bye," said Philip, holding out his hand. "I want to thank you foryour kindness to me. I'm sorry if I've been troublesome. I knew almostfrom the beginning I was no good.""Well, if you really do make up your mind it is good-bye. I don't knowwhat you're going to do, but if you're in the neighbourhood at any timecome in and see us."Philip gave a little laugh."I'm afraid it sounds very rude, but I hope from the bottom of my heartthat I shall never set eyes on any of you again."