Chapter V

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Philip came gradually to know the people he was to live with, and byfragments of conversation, some of it not meant for his ears, learned agood deal both about himself and about his dead parents. Philip's fatherhad been much younger than the Vicar of Blackstable. After a brilliantcareer at St. Luke's Hospital he was put on the staff, and presently beganto earn money in considerable sums. He spent it freely. When the parsonset about restoring his church and asked his brother for a subscription,he was surprised by receiving a couple of hundred pounds: Mr. Carey,thrifty by inclination and economical by necessity, accepted it withmingled feelings; he was envious of his brother because he could afford togive so much, pleased for the sake of his church, and vaguely irritated bya generosity which seemed almost ostentatious. Then Henry Carey married apatient, a beautiful girl but penniless, an orphan with no near relations,but of good family; and there was an array of fine friends at the wedding.The parson, on his visits to her when he came to London, held himself withreserve. He felt shy with her and in his heart he resented her greatbeauty: she dressed more magnificently than became the wife of ahardworking surgeon; and the charming furniture of her house, the flowersamong which she lived even in winter, suggested an extravagance which hedeplored. He heard her talk of entertainments she was going to; and, as hetold his wife on getting home again, it was impossible to accepthospitality without making some return. He had seen grapes in thedining-room that must have cost at least eight shillings a pound; and atluncheon he had been given asparagus two months before it was ready in thevicarage garden. Now all he had anticipated was come to pass: the Vicarfelt the satisfaction of the prophet who saw fire and brimstone consumethe city which would not mend its way to his warning. Poor Philip waspractically penniless, and what was the good of his mother's fine friendsnow? He heard that his father's extravagance was really criminal, and itwas a mercy that Providence had seen fit to take his dear mother toitself: she had no more idea of money than a child.When Philip had been a week at Blackstable an incident happened whichseemed to irritate his uncle very much. One morning he found on thebreakfast table a small packet which had been sent on by post from thelate Mrs. Carey's house in London. It was addressed to her. When theparson opened it he found a dozen photographs of Mrs. Carey. They showedthe head and shoulders only, and her hair was more plainly done thanusual, low on the forehead, which gave her an unusual look; the face wasthin and worn, but no illness could impair the beauty of her features.There was in the large dark eyes a sadness which Philip did not remember.The first sight of the dead woman gave Mr. Carey a little shock, but thiswas quickly followed by perplexity. The photographs seemed quite recent,and he could not imagine who had ordered them."D'you know anything about these, Philip?" he asked."I remember mamma said she'd been taken," he answered. "Miss Watkinscolded her.... She said: I wanted the boy to have something to rememberme by when he grows up."Mr. Carey looked at Philip for an instant. The child spoke in a cleartreble. He recalled the words, but they meant nothing to him."You'd better take one of the photographs and keep it in your room," saidMr. Carey. "I'll put the others away."He sent one to Miss Watkin, and she wrote and explained how they came tobe taken.One day Mrs. Carey was lying in bed, but she was feeling a little betterthan usual, and the doctor in the morning had seemed hopeful; Emma hadtaken the child out, and the maids were downstairs in the basement:suddenly Mrs. Carey felt desperately alone in the world. A great fearseized her that she would not recover from the confinement which she wasexpecting in a fortnight. Her son was nine years old. How could he beexpected to remember her? She could not bear to think that he would growup and forget, forget her utterly; and she had loved him so passionately,because he was weakly and deformed, and because he was her child. She hadno photographs of herself taken since her marriage, and that was ten yearsbefore. She wanted her son to know what she looked like at the end. Hecould not forget her then, not forget utterly. She knew that if she calledher maid and told her she wanted to get up, the maid would prevent her,and perhaps send for the doctor, and she had not the strength now tostruggle or argue. She got out of bed and began to dress herself. She hadbeen on her back so long that her legs gave way beneath her, and then thesoles of her feet tingled so that she could hardly bear to put them to theground. But she went on. She was unused to doing her own hair and, whenshe raised her arms and began to brush it, she felt faint. She could neverdo it as her maid did. It was beautiful hair, very fine, and of a deeprich gold. Her eyebrows were straight and dark. She put on a black skirt,but chose the bodice of the evening dress which she liked best: it was ofa white damask which was fashionable in those days. She looked at herselfin the glass. Her face was very pale, but her skin was clear: she hadnever had much colour, and this had always made the redness of herbeautiful mouth emphatic. She could not restrain a sob. But she could notafford to be sorry for herself; she was feeling already desperately tired;and she put on the furs which Henry had given her the Christmasbefore--she had been so proud of them and so happy then--and slippeddownstairs with beating heart. She got safely out of the house and droveto a photographer. She paid for a dozen photographs. She was obliged toask for a glass of water in the middle of the sitting; and the assistant,seeing she was ill, suggested that she should come another day, but sheinsisted on staying till the end. At last it was finished, and she droveback again to the dingy little house in Kensington which she hated withall her heart. It was a horrible house to die in.She found the front door open, and when she drove up the maid and Emma randown the steps to help her. They had been frightened when they found herroom empty. At first they thought she must have gone to Miss Watkin, andthe cook was sent round. Miss Watkin came back with her and was waitinganxiously in the drawing-room. She came downstairs now full of anxiety andreproaches; but the exertion had been more than Mrs. Carey was fit for,and when the occasion for firmness no longer existed she gave way. Shefell heavily into Emma's arms and was carried upstairs. She remainedunconscious for a time that seemed incredibly long to those that watchedher, and the doctor, hurriedly sent for, did not come. It was next day,when she was a little better, that Miss Watkin got some explanation out ofher. Philip was playing on the floor of his mother's bed-room, and neitherof the ladies paid attention to him. He only understood vaguely what theywere talking about, and he could not have said why those words remained inhis memory."I wanted the boy to have something to remember me by when he grows up.""I can't make out why she ordered a dozen," said Mr. Carey. "Two wouldhave done."