Of Human Bondage. Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

Vicar.

      “Ordained then,” replied Philip impatiently.

      “What are you going to be, Philip?” asked Mrs. Carey.

      “I don’t know. I’ve not made up my mind. But whatever I am, it’ll be useful to know foreign languages. I shall get far more out of a year in Germany than by staying on at that hole.”

      He would not say that he felt Oxford would be little better than a continuation of his life at school. He wished immensely to be his own master. Besides he would be known to a certain extent among old schoolfellows, and he wanted to get away from them all. He felt that his life at school had been a failure. He wanted to start fresh.

      It happened that his desire to go to Germany fell in with certain ideas which had been of late discussed at Blackstable. Sometimes friends came to stay with the doctor and brought news of the world outside; and the visitors spending August by the sea had their own way of looking at things. The Vicar had heard that there were people who did not think the old-fashioned education so useful nowadays as it had been in the past, and modern languages were gaining an importance which they had not had in his own youth. His own mind was divided, for a younger brother of his had been sent to Germany when he failed in some examination, thus creating a precedent but since he had there died of typhoid it was impossible to look upon the experiment as other than dangerous. The result of innumerable conversations was that Philip should go back to Tercanbury for another term, and then should leave. With this agreement Philip was not dissatisfied. But when he had been back a few days the headmaster spoke to him.

      “I’ve had a letter from your uncle. It appears you want to go to Germany, and he asks me what I think about it.”

      Philip was astounded. He was furious with his guardian for going back on his word.

      “I thought it was settled, sir,” he said.

      “Far from it. I’ve written to say I think it the greatest mistake to take you away.”

      Philip immediately sat down and wrote a violent letter to his uncle. He did not measure his language. He was so angry that he could not get to sleep till quite late that night, and he awoke in the early morning and began brooding over the way they had treated him. He waited impatiently for an answer. In two or three days it came. It was a mild, pained letter from Aunt Louisa, saying that he should not write such things to his uncle, who was very much distressed. He was unkind and unchristian. He must know they were only trying to do their best for him, and they were so much older than he that they must be better judges of what was good for him. Philip clenched his hands. He had heard that statement so often, and he could not see why it was true; they did not know the conditions as he did, why should they accept it as self-evident that their greater age gave them greater wisdom? The letter ended with the information that Mr. Carey had withdrawn the notice he had given.

      Philip nursed his wrath till the next half-holiday. They had them on Tuesdays and Thursdays, since on Saturday afternoons they had to go to a service in the Cathedral. He stopped behind when the rest of the Sixth went out.

      “May I go to Blackstable this afternoon, please, sir?” he asked.

      “No,” said the headmaster briefly.

      “I wanted to see my uncle about something very important.”

      “Didn’t you hear me say no?”

      Philip did not answer. He went out. He felt almost sick with humiliation, the humiliation of having to ask and the humiliation of the curt refusal. He hated the headmaster now. Philip writhed under that despotism which never vouchsafed a reason for the most tyrannous act. He was too angry to care what he did, and after dinner walked down to the station, by the back ways he knew so well, just in time to catch the train to Blackstable. He walked into the vicarage and found his uncle and aunt sitting in the dining-room.

      “Hulloa, where have you sprung from?” said the Vicar.

      It was very clear that he was not pleased to see him. He looked a little uneasy.

      “I thought I’d come and see you about my leaving. I want to know what you mean by promising me one thing when I was here, and doing something different a week after.”

      He was a little frightened at his own boldness, but he had made up his mind exactly what words to use, and, though his heart beat violently, he forced himself to say them.

      “Have you got leave to come here this afternoon?”

      “No. I asked Perkins and he refused. If you like to write and tell him I’ve been here you can get me into a really fine old row.”

      Mrs. Carey sat knitting with trembling hands. She was unused to scenes and they agitated her extremely.

      “It would serve you right if I told him,” said Mr. Carey.

      “If you like to be a perfect sneak you can. After writing to Perkins as you did you’re quite capable of it.”

      It was foolish of Philip to say that, because it gave the Vicar exactly the opportunity he wanted.

      “I’m not going to sit still while you say impertinent things to me,” he said with dignity.

      He got up and walked quickly out of the room into his study. Philip heard him shut the door and lock it.

      “Oh, I wish to God I were twenty-one. It is awful to be tied down like this.”

      Aunt Louisa began to cry quietly.

      “Oh, Philip, you oughtn’t to have spoken to your uncle like that. Do please go and tell him you’re sorry.”

      “I’m not in the least sorry. He’s taking a mean advantage. Of course it’s just waste of money keeping me on at school, but what does he care? It’s not his money. It was cruel to put me under the guardianship of people who know nothing about things.”

      “Philip.”

      Philip in his voluble anger stopped suddenly at the sound of her voice. It was heart-broken. He had not realised what bitter things he was saying.

      “Philip, how can you be so unkind? You know we are only trying to do our best for you, and we know that we have no experience; it isn’t as if we’d had any children of our own: that’s why we consulted Mr. Perkins.” Her voice broke. “I’ve tried to be like a mother to you. I’ve loved you as if you were my own son.”

      She was so small and frail, there was something so pathetic in her old-maidish air, that Philip was touched. A great lump came suddenly in his throat and his eyes filled with tears.

      “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be beastly.”

      He knelt down beside her and took her in his arms, and kissed her wet, withered cheeks. She sobbed bitterly, and he seemed to feel on a sudden the pity of that wasted life. She had never surrendered herself before to such a display of emotion.

      “I know I’ve not been what I wanted to be to you, Philip, but I didn’t know how. It’s been just as dreadful for me to have no children as for you to have no mother.”

      Philip forgot his anger and his own concerns, but thought only of consoling her, with broken words and clumsy little caresses. Then the clock struck, and he had to bolt off at once to catch the only train that would get him back to Tercanbury in time for call-over. As he sat in the corner of the railway carriage he saw that he had done nothing. He was angry with himself for his weakness. It was despicable to have allowed himself to be turned from his purpose by the pompous airs of the Vicar and the tears of his aunt. But as the result of he knew not what conversations between the couple another letter was written to the headmaster. Mr. Perkins read it with an impatient shrug of the shoulders. He showed it to Philip. It ran:

      Dear Mr. Perkins,

      Forgive me for troubling you again about my ward, but both his Aunt and I have been uneasy about him. He seems very anxious to leave school, and his Aunt thinks he is unhappy. It is very difficult for us to know what to do as we are not his parents. He does not seem