Of Human Bondage W. Somerset Maugham (epub e reader txt) 📖

both of them, Mr. Carey nodded to him in the street, he did not speak to him.

“I think it was very pushing,” he remarked. “There were forty-one wreaths. Yours was beautiful. Philip and I admired it very much.”

“Don’t mention it,” said the banker.

He had noticed with satisfaction that it was larger than anyone’s else. It had looked very well. They began to discuss the people who attended the funeral. Shops had been closed for it, and the churchwarden took out of his pocket the notice which had been printed: “Owing to the funeral of Mrs. Carey this establishment will not be opened till one o’clock.”

“It was my idea,” he said.

“I think it was very nice of them to close,” said the Vicar. “Poor Louisa would have appreciated that.”

Philip ate his dinner. Mary Ann had treated the day as Sunday, and they had roast chicken and a gooseberry tart.

“I suppose you haven’t thought about a tombstone yet?” said the churchwarden.

“Yes, I have. I thought of a plain stone cross. Louisa was always against ostentation.”

“I don’t think one can do much better than a cross. If you’re thinking of a text, what do you say to: With Christ, which is far better?”

The Vicar pursed his lips. It was just like Bismarck to try and settle everything himself. He did not like that text; it seemed to cast an aspersion on himself.

“I don’t think I should put that. I much prefer: The Lord has given and the Lord has taken away.”

“Oh, do you? That always seems to me a little indifferent.”

The Vicar answered with some acidity, and Mr. Graves replied in a tone which the widower thought too authoritative for the occasion. Things were going rather far if he could not choose his own text for his own wife’s tombstone. There was a pause, and then the conversation drifted to parish matters. Philip went into the garden to smoke his pipe. He sat on a bench, and suddenly began to laugh hysterically.

A few days later his uncle expressed the hope that he would spend the next few weeks at Blackstable.

“Yes, that will suit me very well,” said Philip.

“I suppose it’ll do if you go back to Paris in September.”

Philip did not reply. He had thought much of what Foinet said to him, but he was still so undecided that he did not wish to speak of the future. There would be something fine in giving up art because he was convinced that he could not excel; but unfortunately it would seem so only to himself: to others it would be an admission of defeat, and he did not want to confess that he was beaten. He was an obstinate fellow, and the suspicion that his talent did not lie in one direction made him inclined to force circumstances and aim notwithstanding precisely in that direction. He could not bear that his friends should laugh at him. This might have prevented him from ever taking the definite step of abandoning the study of painting, but the different environment made him on a sudden see things differently. Like many another he discovered that crossing the Channel makes things which had seemed important singularly futile. The life which had been so charming that he could not bear to leave it now seemed inept; he was seized with a distaste for the cafés, the restaurants with their ill-cooked food, the shabby way in which they all lived. He did not care any more what his friends thought about him: Cronshaw with his rhetoric, Mrs. Otter with her respectability, Ruth Chalice with her affectations, Lawson and Clutton with their quarrels; he felt a revulsion from them all. He wrote to Lawson and asked him to send over all his belongings. A week later they arrived. When he unpacked his canvases he found himself able to examine his work without emotion. He noticed the fact with interest. His uncle was anxious to see his pictures. Though he had so greatly disapproved of Philip’s desire to go to Paris, he accepted the situation now with equanimity. He was interested in the life of students and constantly put Philip questions about it. He was in fact a little proud of him because he was a painter, and when people were present made attempts to draw him out. He looked eagerly at the studies of models which Philip showed him. Philip set before him his portrait of Miguel Ajuria.

“Why did you paint him?” asked Mr. Carey.

“Oh, I wanted a model, and his head interested me.”

“As you haven’t got anything to do here I wonder you don’t paint me.”

“It would bore you to sit.”

“I think I should like it.”

“We must see about it.”

Philip was amused at his uncle’s vanity. It was clear that he was dying to have his portrait painted. To get something for nothing was a chance not to be missed. For two or three days he threw out little hints. He reproached Philip for laziness, asked him when he was going to start work, and finally began telling everyone he met that Philip was going to paint him. At last there came a rainy day, and after breakfast Mr. Carey said to Philip:

“Now, what d’you say to starting on my portrait this morning?” Philip put down the book he was reading and leaned back in his chair.

“I’ve given up painting,” he said.

“Why?” asked his uncle in astonishment.

“I don’t think there’s much object in being a second-rate painter, and I came to the conclusion that I should never be anything else.”

“You surprise me. Before you went to Paris you were quite certain that you were a genius.”

“I was mistaken,” said Philip.

“I should have thought now you’d taken up a profession you’d have the pride to stick to it. It seems to me that what you lack is perseverance.”

Philip was a little annoyed that his uncle did not even see how truly heroic his determination was.

“ ‘A rolling stone gathers no moss,’ ” proceeded the clergyman. Philip hated that proverb above all, and it seemed to him perfectly meaningless. His