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diff --git a/old/humbn10.txt b/old/humbn10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0663515 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/humbn10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,28958 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Etext "Of Human Bondage" by Somerset Maugham + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. We need your donations. + + +Of Human Bondage + +by W. 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If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association / Illinois + Benedictine College" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Illinois Benedictine College". + +*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +OF HUMAN BONDAGE +BY +W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM + + + + +I + +The day broke gray and dull. The clouds hung heavily, and there was a +rawness in the air that suggested snow. A woman servant came into a room +in which a child was sleeping and drew the curtains. She glanced +mechanically at the house opposite, a stucco house with a portico, and +went to the child's bed. + +"Wake up, Philip," she said. + +She pulled down the bed-clothes, took him in her arms, and carried him +downstairs. He was only half awake. + +"Your mother wants you," she said. + +She opened the door of a room on the floor below and took the child over +to a bed in which a woman was lying. It was his mother. She stretched out +her arms, and the child nestled by her side. He did not ask why he had +been awakened. The woman kissed his eyes, and with thin, small hands felt +the warm body through his white flannel nightgown. She pressed him closer +to herself. + +"Are you sleepy, darling?" she said. + +Her voice was so weak that it seemed to come already from a great +distance. The child did not answer, but smiled comfortably. He was very +happy in the large, warm bed, with those soft arms about him. He tried to +make himself smaller still as he cuddled up against his mother, and he +kissed her sleepily. In a moment he closed his eyes and was fast asleep. +The doctor came forwards and stood by the bed-side. + +"Oh, don't take him away yet," she moaned. + +The doctor, without answering, looked at her gravely. Knowing she would +not be allowed to keep the child much longer, the woman kissed him again; +and she passed her hand down his body till she came to his feet; she held +the right foot in her hand and felt the five small toes; and then slowly +passed her hand over the left one. She gave a sob. + +"What's the matter?" said the doctor. "You're tired." + +She shook her head, unable to speak, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. +The doctor bent down. + +"Let me take him." + +She was too weak to resist his wish, and she gave the child up. The doctor +handed him back to his nurse. + +"You'd better put him back in his own bed." + +"Very well, sir." The little boy, still sleeping, was taken away. His +mother sobbed now broken-heartedly. + +"What will happen to him, poor child?" + +The monthly nurse tried to quiet her, and presently, from exhaustion, the +crying ceased. The doctor walked to a table on the other side of the room, +upon which, under a towel, lay the body of a still-born child. He lifted +the towel and looked. He was hidden from the bed by a screen, but the +woman guessed what he was doing. + +"Was it a girl or a boy?" she whispered to the nurse. + +"Another boy." + +The woman did not answer. In a moment the child's nurse came back. She +approached the bed. + +"Master Philip never woke up," she said. There was a pause. Then the +doctor felt his patient's pulse once more. + +"I don't think there's anything I can do just now," he said. "I'll call +again after breakfast." + +"I'll show you out, sir," said the child's nurse. + +They walked downstairs in silence. In the hall the doctor stopped. + +"You've sent for Mrs. Carey's brother-in-law, haven't you?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"D'you know at what time he'll be here?" + +"No, sir, I'm expecting a telegram." + +"What about the little boy? I should think he'd be better out of the way." + +"Miss Watkin said she'd take him, sir." + +"Who's she?" + +"She's his godmother, sir. D'you think Mrs. Carey will get over it, sir?" + +The doctor shook his head. + + + +II + +It was a week later. Philip was sitting on the floor in the drawing-room +at Miss Watkin's house in Onslow gardens. He was an only child and used to +amusing himself. The room was filled with massive furniture, and on each +of the sofas were three big cushions. There was a cushion too in each +arm-chair. All these he had taken and, with the help of the gilt rout +chairs, light and easy to move, had made an elaborate cave in which he +could hide himself from the Red Indians who were lurking behind the +curtains. He put his ear to the floor and listened to the herd of +buffaloes that raced across the prairie. Presently, hearing the door open, +he held his breath so that he might not be discovered; but a violent hand +piled away a chair and the cushions fell down. + +"You naughty boy, Miss Watkin WILL be cross with you." + +"Hulloa, Emma!" he said. + +The nurse bent down and kissed him, then began to shake out the cushions, +and put them back in their places. + +"Am I to come home?" he asked. + +"Yes, I've come to fetch you." + +"You've got a new dress on." + +It was in eighteen-eighty-five, and she wore a bustle. Her gown was of +black velvet, with tight sleeves and sloping shoulders, and the skirt had +three large flounces. She wore a black bonnet with velvet strings. She +hesitated. The question she had expected did not come, and so she could +not give the answer she had prepared. + +"Aren't you going to ask how your mamma is?" she said at length. + +"Oh, I forgot. How is mamma?" + +Now she was ready. + +"Your mamma is quite well and happy." + +"Oh, I am glad." + +"Your mamma's gone away. You won't ever see her any more." Philip did not +know what she meant. + +"Why not?" + +"Your mamma's in heaven." + +She began to cry, and Philip, though he did not quite understand, cried +too. Emma was a tall, big-boned woman, with fair hair and large features. +She came from Devonshire and, notwithstanding her many years of service in +London, had never lost the breadth of her accent. Her tears increased her +emotion, and she pressed the little boy to her heart. She felt vaguely the +pity of that child deprived of the only love in the world that is quite +unselfish. It seemed dreadful that he must be handed over to strangers. +But in a little while she pulled herself together. + +"Your Uncle William is waiting in to see you," she said. "Go and say +good-bye to Miss Watkin, and we'll go home." + +"I don't want to say good-bye," he answered, instinctively anxious to hide +his tears. + +"Very well, run upstairs and get your hat." + +He fetched it, and when he came down Emma was waiting for him in the hall. +He heard the sound of voices in the study behind the dining-room. He +paused. He knew that Miss Watkin and her sister were talking to friends, +and it seemed to him--he was nine years old--that if he went in they would +be sorry for him. + +"I think I'll go and say good-bye to Miss Watkin." + +"I think you'd better," said Emma. + +"Go in and tell them I'm coming," he said. + +He wished to make the most of his opportunity. Emma knocked at the door +and walked in. He heard her speak. + +"Master Philip wants to say good-bye to you, miss." + +There was a sudden hush of the conversation, and Philip limped in. +Henrietta Watkin was a stout woman, with a red face and dyed hair. In +those days to dye the hair excited comment, and Philip had heard much +gossip at home when his godmother's changed colour. She lived with an +elder sister, who had resigned herself contentedly to old age. Two ladies, +whom Philip did not know, were calling, and they looked at him curiously. + +"My poor child," said Miss Watkin, opening her arms. + +She began to cry. Philip understood now why she had not been in to +luncheon and why she wore a black dress. She could not speak. + +"I've got to go home," said Philip, at last. + +He disengaged himself from Miss Watkin's arms, and she kissed him again. +Then he went to her sister and bade her good-bye too. One of the strange +ladies asked if she might kiss him, and he gravely gave her permission. +Though crying, he keenly enjoyed the sensation he was causing; he would +have been glad to stay a little longer to be made much of, but felt they +expected him to go, so he said that Emma was waiting for him. He went out +of the room. Emma had gone downstairs to speak with a friend in the +basement, and he waited for her on the landing. He heard Henrietta +Watkin's voice. + +"His mother was my greatest friend. I can't bear to think that she's +dead." + +"You oughtn't to have gone to the funeral, Henrietta," said her sister. "I +knew it would upset you." + +Then one of the strangers spoke. + +"Poor little boy, it's dreadful to think of him quite alone in the world. +I see he limps." + +"Yes, he's got a club-foot. It was such a grief to his mother." + +Then Emma came back. They called a hansom, and she told the driver where +to go. + + + +III + + +When they reached the house Mrs. Carey had died in--it was in a dreary, +respectable street between Notting Hill Gate and High Street, +Kensington--Emma led Philip into the drawing-room. His uncle was writing +letters of thanks for the wreaths which had been sent. One of them, which +had arrived too late for the funeral, lay in its cardboard box on the +hall-table. + +"Here's Master Philip," said Emma. + +Mr. Carey stood up slowly and shook hands with the little boy. Then on +second thoughts he bent down and kissed his forehead. He was a man of +somewhat less than average height, inclined to corpulence, with his hair, +worn long, arranged over the scalp so as to conceal his baldness. He was +clean-shaven. His features were regular, and it was possible to imagine +that in his youth he had been good-looking. On his watch-chain he wore a +gold cross. + +"You're going to live with me now, Philip," said Mr. Carey. "Shall you +like that?" + +Two years before Philip had been sent down to stay at the vicarage after +an attack of chicken-pox; but there remained with him a recollection of an +attic and a large garden rather than of his uncle and aunt. + +"Yes." + +"You must look upon me and your Aunt Louisa as your father and mother." + +The child's mouth trembled a little, he reddened, but did not answer. + +"Your dear mother left you in my charge." + +Mr. Carey had no great ease in expressing himself. When the news came that +his sister-in-law was dying, he set off at once for London, but on the way +thought of nothing but the disturbance in his life that would be caused if +her death forced him to undertake the care of her son. He was well over +fifty, and his wife, to whom he had been married for thirty years, was +childless; he did not look forward with any pleasure to the presence of a +small boy who might be noisy and rough. He had never much liked his +sister-in-law. + +"I'm going to take you down to Blackstable tomorrow," he said. + +"With Emma?" + +The child put his hand in hers, and she pressed it. + +"I'm afraid Emma must go away," said Mr. Carey. + +"But I want Emma to come with me." + +Philip began to cry, and the nurse could not help crying too. Mr. Carey +looked at them helplessly. + +"I think you'd better leave me alone with Master Philip for a moment." + +"Very good, sir." + +Though Philip clung to her, she released herself gently. Mr. Carey took +the boy on his knee and put his arm round him. + +"You mustn't cry," he said. "You're too old to have a nurse now. We must +see about sending you to school." + +"I want Emma to come with me," the child repeated. + +"It costs too much money, Philip. Your father didn't leave very much, and +I don't know what's become of it. You must look at every penny you spend." + +Mr. Carey had called the day before on the family solicitor. Philip's +father was a surgeon in good practice, and his hospital appointments +suggested an established position; so that it was a surprise on his sudden +death from blood-poisoning to find that he had left his widow little more +than his life insurance and what could be got for the lease of their house +in Bruton Street. This was six months ago; and Mrs. Carey, already in +delicate health, finding herself with child, had lost her head and +accepted for the lease the first offer that was made. She stored her +furniture, and, at a rent which the parson thought outrageous, took a +furnished house for a year, so that she might suffer from no inconvenience +till her child was born. But she had never been used to the management of +money, and was unable to adapt her expenditure to her altered +circumstances. The little she had slipped through her fingers in one way +and another, so that now, when all expenses were paid, not much more than +two thousand pounds remained to support the boy till he was able to earn +his own living. It was impossible to explain all this to Philip and he was +sobbing still. + +"You'd better go to Emma," Mr. Carey said, feeling that she could console +the child better than anyone. + +Without a word Philip slipped off his uncle's knee, but Mr. Carey stopped +him. + +"We must go tomorrow, because on Saturday I've got to prepare my sermon, +and you must tell Emma to get your things ready today. You can bring all +your toys. And if you want anything to remember your father and mother by +you can take one thing for each of them. Everything else is going to be +sold." + +The boy slipped out of the room. Mr. Carey was unused to work, and he +turned to his correspondence with resentment. On one side of the desk was +a bundle of bills, and these filled him with irritation. One especially +seemed preposterous. Immediately after Mrs. Carey's death Emma had ordered +from the florist masses of white flowers for the room in which the dead +woman lay. It was sheer waste of money. Emma took far too much upon +herself. Even if there had been no financial necessity, he would have +dismissed her. + +But Philip went to her, and hid his face in her bosom, and wept as though +his heart would break. And she, feeling that he was almost her own +son--she had taken him when he was a month old--consoled him with soft +words. She promised that she would come and see him sometimes, and that +she would never forget him; and she told him about the country he was +going to and about her own home in Devonshire--her father kept a turnpike +on the high-road that led to Exeter, and there were pigs in the sty, and +there was a cow, and the cow had just had a calf--till Philip forgot his +tears and grew excited at the thought of his approaching journey. +Presently she put him down, for there was much to be done, and he helped +her to lay out his clothes on the bed. She sent him into the nursery to +gather up his toys, and in a little while he was playing happily. + +But at last he grew tired of being alone and went back to the bed-room, in +which Emma was now putting his things into a big tin box; he remembered +then that his uncle had said he might take something to remember his +father and mother by. He told Emma and asked her what he should take. + +"You'd better go into the drawing-room and see what you fancy." + +"Uncle William's there." + +"Never mind that. They're your own things now." + +Philip went downstairs slowly and found the door open. Mr. Carey had left +the room. Philip walked slowly round. They had been in the house so short +a time that there was little in it that had a particular interest to him. +It was a stranger's room, and Philip saw nothing that struck his fancy. +But he knew which were his mother's things and which belonged to the +landlord, and presently fixed on a little clock that he had once heard his +mother say she liked. With this he walked again rather disconsolately +upstairs. Outside the door of his mother's bed-room he stopped and +listened. Though no one had told him not to go in, he had a feeling that +it would be wrong to do so; he was a little frightened, and his heart beat +uncomfortably; but at the same time something impelled him to turn the +handle. He turned it very gently, as if to prevent anyone within from +hearing, and then slowly pushed the door open. He stood on the threshold +for a moment before he had the courage to enter. He was not frightened +now, but it seemed strange. He closed the door behind him. The blinds were +drawn, and the room, in the cold light of a January afternoon, was dark. +On the dressing-table were Mrs. Carey's brushes and the hand mirror. In a +little tray were hairpins. There was a photograph of himself on the +chimney-piece and one of his father. He had often been in the room when +his mother was not in it, but now it seemed different. There was something +curious in the look of the chairs. The bed was made as though someone were +going to sleep in it that night, and in a case on the pillow was a +night-dress. + +Philip opened a large cupboard filled with dresses and, stepping in, took +as many of them as he could in his arms and buried his face in them. They +smelt of the scent his mother used. Then he pulled open the drawers, +filled with his mother's things, and looked at them: there were lavender +bags among the linen, and their scent was fresh and pleasant. The +strangeness of the room left it, and it seemed to him that his mother had +just gone out for a walk. She would be in presently and would come +upstairs to have nursery tea with him. And he seemed to feel her kiss on +his lips. + +It was not true that he would never see her again. It was not true simply +because it was impossible. He climbed up on the bed and put his head on +the pillow. He lay there quite still. + + + +IV + + +Philip parted from Emma with tears, but the journey to Blackstable amused +him, and, when they arrived, he was resigned and cheerful. Blackstable was +sixty miles from London. Giving their luggage to a porter, Mr. Carey set +out to walk with Philip to the vicarage; it took them little more than +five minutes, and, when they reached it, Philip suddenly remembered the +gate. It was red and five-barred: it swung both ways on easy hinges; and +it was possible, though forbidden, to swing backwards and forwards on it. +They walked through the garden to the front-door. This was only used by +visitors and on Sundays, and on special occasions, as when the Vicar went +up to London or came back. The traffic of the house took place through a +side-door, and there was a back door as well for the gardener and for +beggars and tramps. It was a fairly large house of yellow brick, with a +red roof, built about five and twenty years before in an ecclesiastical +style. The front-door was like a church porch, and the drawing-room +windows were gothic. + +Mrs. Carey, knowing by what train they were coming, waited in the +drawing-room and listened for the click of the gate. When she heard it she +went to the door. + +"There's Aunt Louisa," said Mr. Carey, when he saw her. "Run and give her +a kiss." + +Philip started to run, awkwardly, trailing his club-foot, and then +stopped. Mrs. Carey was a little, shrivelled woman of the same age as her +husband, with a face extraordinarily filled with deep wrinkles, and pale +blue eyes. Her gray hair was arranged in ringlets according to the fashion +of her youth. She wore a black dress, and her only ornament was a gold +chain, from which hung a cross. She had a shy manner and a gentle voice. + +"Did you walk, William?" she said, almost reproachfully, as she kissed her +husband. + +"I didn't think of it," he answered, with a glance at his nephew. + +"It didn't hurt you to walk, Philip, did it?" she asked the child. + +"No. I always walk." + +He was a little surprised at their conversation. Aunt Louisa told him to +come in, and they entered the hall. It was paved with red and yellow +tiles, on which alternately were a Greek Cross and the Lamb of God. An +imposing staircase led out of the hall. It was of polished pine, with a +peculiar smell, and had been put in because fortunately, when the church +was reseated, enough wood remained over. The balusters were decorated with +emblems of the Four Evangelists. + +"I've had the stove lighted as I thought you'd be cold after your +journey," said Mrs. Carey. + +It was a large black stove that stood in the hall and was only lighted if +the weather was very bad and the Vicar had a cold. It was not lighted if +Mrs. Carey had a cold. Coal was expensive. Besides, Mary Ann, the maid, +didn't like fires all over the place. If they wanted all them fires they +must keep a second girl. In the winter Mr. and Mrs. Carey lived in the +dining-room so that one fire should do, and in the summer they could not +get out of the habit, so the drawing-room was used only by Mr. Carey on +Sunday afternoons for his nap. But every Saturday he had a fire in the +study so that he could write his sermon. + +Aunt Louisa took Philip upstairs and showed him into a tiny bed-room that +looked out on the drive. Immediately in front of the window was a large +tree, which Philip remembered now because the branches were so low that it +was possible to climb quite high up it. + +"A small room for a small boy," said Mrs. Carey. "You won't be frightened +at sleeping alone?" + +"Oh, no." + +On his first visit to the vicarage he had come with his nurse, and Mrs. +Carey had had little to do with him. She looked at him now with some +uncertainty. + +"Can you wash your own hands, or shall I wash them for you?" + +"I can wash myself," he answered firmly. + +"Well, I shall look at them when you come down to tea," said Mrs. Carey. + +She knew nothing about children. After it was settled that Philip should +come down to Blackstable, Mrs. Carey had thought much how she should treat +him; she was anxious to do her duty; but now he was there she found +herself just as shy of him as he was of her. She hoped he would not be +noisy and rough, because her husband did not like rough and noisy boys. +Mrs. Carey made an excuse to leave Philip alone, but in a moment came back +and knocked at the door; she asked him, without coming in, if he could +pour out the water himself. Then she went downstairs and rang the bell for +tea. + +The dining-room, large and well-proportioned, had windows on two sides of +it, with heavy curtains of red rep; there was a big table in the middle; +and at one end an imposing mahogany sideboard with a looking-glass in it. +In one corner stood a harmonium. On each side of the fireplace were chairs +covered in stamped leather, each with an antimacassar; one had arms and +was called the husband, and the other had none and was called the wife. +Mrs. Carey never sat in the arm-chair: she said she preferred a chair that +was not too comfortable; there was always a lot to do, and if her chair +had had arms she might not be so ready to leave it. + +Mr. Carey was making up the fire when Philip came in, and he pointed out +to his nephew that there were two pokers. One was large and bright and +polished and unused, and was called the Vicar; and the other, which was +much smaller and had evidently passed through many fires, was called the +Curate. + +"What are we waiting for?" said Mr. Carey. + +"I told Mary Ann to make you an egg. I thought you'd be hungry after your +journey." + +Mrs. Carey thought the journey from London to Blackstable very tiring. She +seldom travelled herself, for the living was only three hundred a year, +and, when her husband wanted a holiday, since there was not money for two, +he went by himself. He was very fond of Church Congresses and usually +managed to go up to London once a year; and once he had been to Paris for +the exhibition, and two or three times to Switzerland. Mary Ann brought in +the egg, and they sat down. The chair was much too low for Philip, and for +a moment neither Mr. Carey nor his wife knew what to do. + +"I'll put some books under him," said Mary Ann. + +She took from the top of the harmonium the large Bible and the prayer-book +from which the Vicar was accustomed to read prayers, and put them on +Philip's chair. + +"Oh, William, he can't sit on the Bible," said Mrs. Carey, in a shocked +tone. "Couldn't you get him some books out of the study?" + +Mr. Carey considered the question for an instant. + +"I don't think it matters this once if you put the prayer-book on the top, +Mary Ann," he said. "The book of Common Prayer is the composition of men +like ourselves. It has no claim to divine authorship." + +"I hadn't thought of that, William," said Aunt Louisa. + +Philip perched himself on the books, and the Vicar, having said grace, cut +the top off his egg. + +"There," he said, handing it to Philip, "you can eat my top if you like." + +Philip would have liked an egg to himself, but he was not offered one, so +took what he could. + +"How have the chickens been laying since I went away?" asked the Vicar. + +"Oh, they've been dreadful, only one or two a day." + +"How did you like that top, Philip?" asked his uncle. + +"Very much, thank you." + +"You shall have another one on Sunday afternoon." + +Mr. Carey always had a boiled egg at tea on Sunday, so that he might be +fortified for the evening service. + + + +V + + +Philip came gradually to know the people he was to live with, and by +fragments of conversation, some of it not meant for his ears, learned a +good deal both about himself and about his dead parents. Philip's father +had been much younger than the Vicar of Blackstable. After a brilliant +career at St. Luke's Hospital he was put on the staff, and presently began +to earn money in considerable sums. He spent it freely. When the parson +set 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 with +mingled feelings; he was envious of his brother because he could afford to +give so much, pleased for the sake of his church, and vaguely irritated by +a generosity which seemed almost ostentatious. Then Henry Carey married a +patient, 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 with +reserve. He felt shy with her and in his heart he resented her great +beauty: she dressed more magnificently than became the wife of a +hardworking surgeon; and the charming furniture of her house, the flowers +among which she lived even in winter, suggested an extravagance which he +deplored. He heard her talk of entertainments she was going to; and, as he +told his wife on getting home again, it was impossible to accept +hospitality without making some return. He had seen grapes in the +dining-room that must have cost at least eight shillings a pound; and at +luncheon he had been given asparagus two months before it was ready in the +vicarage garden. Now all he had anticipated was come to pass: the Vicar +felt the satisfaction of the prophet who saw fire and brimstone consume +the city which would not mend its way to his warning. Poor Philip was +practically penniless, and what was the good of his mother's fine friends +now? He heard that his father's extravagance was really criminal, and it +was a mercy that Providence had seen fit to take his dear mother to +itself: she had no more idea of money than a child. + +When Philip had been a week at Blackstable an incident happened which +seemed to irritate his uncle very much. One morning he found on the +breakfast table a small packet which had been sent on by post from the +late Mrs. Carey's house in London. It was addressed to her. When the +parson opened it he found a dozen photographs of Mrs. Carey. They showed +the head and shoulders only, and her hair was more plainly done than +usual, low on the forehead, which gave her an unusual look; the face was +thin 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 this +was 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 Watkin +scolded her.... She said: I wanted the boy to have something to remember +me by when he grows up." + +Mr. Carey looked at Philip for an instant. The child spoke in a clear +treble. He recalled the words, but they meant nothing to him. + +"You'd better take one of the photographs and keep it in your room," said +Mr. Carey. "I'll put the others away." + +He sent one to Miss Watkin, and she wrote and explained how they came to +be taken. + +One day Mrs. Carey was lying in bed, but she was feeling a little better +than usual, and the doctor in the morning had seemed hopeful; Emma had +taken the child out, and the maids were downstairs in the basement: +suddenly Mrs. Carey felt desperately alone in the world. A great fear +seized her that she would not recover from the confinement which she was +expecting in a fortnight. Her son was nine years old. How could he be +expected to remember her? She could not bear to think that he would grow +up 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 had +no photographs of herself taken since her marriage, and that was ten years +before. She wanted her son to know what she looked like at the end. He +could not forget her then, not forget utterly. She knew that if she called +her 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 to +struggle or argue. She got out of bed and began to dress herself. She had +been on her back so long that her legs gave way beneath her, and then the +soles of her feet tingled so that she could hardly bear to put them to the +ground. But she went on. She was unused to doing her own hair and, when +she raised her arms and began to brush it, she felt faint. She could never +do it as her maid did. It was beautiful hair, very fine, and of a deep +rich 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 of +a white damask which was fashionable in those days. She looked at herself +in the glass. Her face was very pale, but her skin was clear: she had +never had much colour, and this had always made the redness of her +beautiful mouth emphatic. She could not restrain a sob. But she could not +afford to be sorry for herself; she was feeling already desperately tired; +and she put on the furs which Henry had given her the Christmas +before--she had been so proud of them and so happy then--and slipped +downstairs with beating heart. She got safely out of the house and drove +to a photographer. She paid for a dozen photographs. She was obliged to +ask 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 she +insisted on staying till the end. At last it was finished, and she drove +back again to the dingy little house in Kensington which she hated with +all 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 ran +down the steps to help her. They had been frightened when they found her +room empty. At first they thought she must have gone to Miss Watkin, and +the cook was sent round. Miss Watkin came back with her and was waiting +anxiously in the drawing-room. She came downstairs now full of anxiety and +reproaches; but the exertion had been more than Mrs. Carey was fit for, +and when the occasion for firmness no longer existed she gave way. She +fell heavily into Emma's arms and was carried upstairs. She remained +unconscious for a time that seemed incredibly long to those that watched +her, 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 of +her. Philip was playing on the floor of his mother's bed-room, and neither +of the ladies paid attention to him. He only understood vaguely what they +were talking about, and he could not have said why those words remained in +his 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 would +have done." + + + +VI + + +One day was very like another at the vicarage. + +Soon after breakfast Mary Ann brought in The Times. Mr. Carey shared it +with two neighbours. He had it from ten till one, when the gardener took +it over to Mr. Ellis at the Limes, with whom it remained till seven; then +it was taken to Miss Brooks at the Manor House, who, since she got it +late, had the advantage of keeping it. In summer Mrs. Carey, when she was +making jam, often asked her for a copy to cover the pots with. When the +Vicar settled down to his paper his wife put on her bonnet and went out to +do the shopping. Philip accompanied her. Blackstable was a fishing +village. It consisted of a high street in which were the shops, the bank, +the doctor's house, and the houses of two or three coalship owners; round +the little harbor were shabby streets in which lived fishermen and poor +people; but since they went to chapel they were of no account. When Mrs. +Carey passed the dissenting ministers in the street she stepped over to +the other side to avoid meeting them, but if there was not time for this +fixed her eyes on the pavement. It was a scandal to which the Vicar had +never resigned himself that there were three chapels in the High Street: +he could not help feeling that the law should have stepped in to prevent +their erection. Shopping in Blackstable was not a simple matter; for +dissent, helped by the fact that the parish church was two miles from the +town, was very common; and it was necessary to deal only with churchgoers; +Mrs. Carey knew perfectly that the vicarage custom might make all the +difference to a tradesman's faith. There were two butchers who went to +church, and they would not understand that the Vicar could not deal with +both of them at once; nor were they satisfied with his simple plan of +going for six months to one and for six months to the other. The butcher +who was not sending meat to the vicarage constantly threatened not to come +to church, and the Vicar was sometimes obliged to make a threat: it was +very wrong of him not to come to church, but if he carried iniquity +further and actually went to chapel, then of course, excellent as his meat +was, Mr. Carey would be forced to leave him for ever. Mrs. Carey often +stopped at the bank to deliver a message to Josiah Graves, the manager, +who was choir-master, treasurer, and churchwarden. He was a tall, thin man +with a sallow face and a long nose; his hair was very white, and to Philip +he seemed extremely old. He kept the parish accounts, arranged the treats +for the choir and the schools; though there was no organ in the parish +church, it was generally considered (in Blackstable) that the choir he led +was the best in Kent; and when there was any ceremony, such as a visit +from the Bishop for confirmation or from the Rural Dean to preach at the +Harvest Thanksgiving, he made the necessary preparations. But he had no +hesitation in doing all manner of things without more than a perfunctory +consultation with the Vicar, and the Vicar, though always ready to be +saved trouble, much resented the churchwarden's managing ways. He really +seemed to look upon himself as the most important person in the parish. +Mr. Carey constantly told his wife that if Josiah Graves did not take care +he would give him a good rap over the knuckles one day; but Mrs. Carey +advised him to bear with Josiah Graves: he meant well, and it was not his +fault if he was not quite a gentleman. The Vicar, finding his comfort in +the practice of a Christian virtue, exercised forbearance; but he revenged +himself by calling the churchwarden Bismarck behind his back. + +Once there had been a serious quarrel between the pair, and Mrs. Carey +still thought of that anxious time with dismay. The Conservative candidate +had announced his intention of addressing a meeting at Blackstable; and +Josiah Graves, having arranged that it should take place in the Mission +Hall, went to Mr. Carey and told him that he hoped he would say a few +words. It appeared that the candidate had asked Josiah Graves to take the +chair. This was more than Mr. Carey could put up with. He had firm views +upon the respect which was due to the cloth, and it was ridiculous for a +churchwarden to take the chair at a meeting when the Vicar was there. He +reminded Josiah Graves that parson meant person, that is, the vicar was +the person of the parish. Josiah Graves answered that he was the first to +recognise the dignity of the church, but this was a matter of politics, +and in his turn he reminded the Vicar that their Blessed Saviour had +enjoined upon them to render unto Caesar the things that were Caesar's. To +this Mr. Carey replied that the devil could quote scripture to his +purpose, himself had sole authority over the Mission Hall, and if he were +not asked to be chairman he would refuse the use of it for a political +meeting. Josiah Graves told Mr. Carey that he might do as he chose, and +for his part he thought the Wesleyan Chapel would be an equally suitable +place. Then Mr. Carey said that if Josiah Graves set foot in what was +little better than a heathen temple he was not fit to be churchwarden in +a Christian parish. Josiah Graves thereupon resigned all his offices, and +that very evening sent to the church for his cassock and surplice. His +sister, Miss Graves, who kept house for him, gave up her secretaryship of +the Maternity Club, which provided the pregnant poor with flannel, baby +linen, coals, and five shillings. Mr. Carey said he was at last master in +his own house. But soon he found that he was obliged to see to all sorts +of things that he knew nothing about; and Josiah Graves, after the first +moment of irritation, discovered that he had lost his chief interest in +life. Mrs. Carey and Miss Graves were much distressed by the quarrel; they +met after a discreet exchange of letters, and made up their minds to put +the matter right: they talked, one to her husband, the other to her +brother, from morning till night; and since they were persuading these +gentlemen to do what in their hearts they wanted, after three weeks of +anxiety a reconciliation was effected. It was to both their interests, but +they ascribed it to a common love for their Redeemer. The meeting was held +at the Mission Hall, and the doctor was asked to be chairman. Mr. Carey +and Josiah Graves both made speeches. + +When Mrs. Carey had finished her business with the banker, she generally +went upstairs to have a little chat with his sister; and while the ladies +talked of parish matters, the curate or the new bonnet of Mrs. Wilson--Mr. +Wilson was the richest man in Blackstable, he was thought to have at least +five hundred a year, and he had married his cook--Philip sat demurely in +the stiff parlour, used only to receive visitors, and busied himself with +the restless movements of goldfish in a bowl. The windows were never +opened except to air the room for a few minutes in the morning, and it had +a stuffy smell which seemed to Philip to have a mysterious connection with +banking. + +Then Mrs. Carey remembered that she had to go to the grocer, and they +continued their way. When the shopping was done they often went down a +side street of little houses, mostly of wood, in which fishermen dwelt +(and here and there a fisherman sat on his doorstep mending his nets, and +nets hung to dry upon the doors), till they came to a small beach, shut in +on each side by warehouses, but with a view of the sea. Mrs. Carey stood +for a few minutes and looked at it, it was turbid and yellow, [and who +knows what thoughts passed through her mind?] while Philip searched for +flat stones to play ducks and drakes. Then they walked slowly back. They +looked into the post office to get the right time, nodded to Mrs. Wigram +the doctor's wife, who sat at her window sewing, and so got home. + +Dinner was at one o'clock; and on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday it +consisted of beef, roast, hashed, and minced, and on Thursday, Friday, and +Saturday of mutton. On Sunday they ate one of their own chickens. In the +afternoon Philip did his lessons, He was taught Latin and mathematics by +his uncle who knew neither, and French and the piano by his aunt. Of +French she was ignorant, but she knew the piano well enough to accompany +the old-fashioned songs she had sung for thirty years. Uncle William used +to tell Philip that when he was a curate his wife had known twelve songs +by heart, which she could sing at a moment's notice whenever she was +asked. She often sang still when there was a tea-party at the vicarage. +There were few people whom the Careys cared to ask there, and their +parties consisted always of the curate, Josiah Graves with his sister, Dr. +Wigram and his wife. After tea Miss Graves played one or two of +Mendelssohn's Songs without Words, and Mrs. Carey sang When the +Swallows Homeward Fly, or Trot, Trot, My Pony. + +But the Careys did not give tea-parties often; the preparations upset +them, and when their guests were gone they felt themselves exhausted. They +preferred to have tea by themselves, and after tea they played backgammon. +Mrs. Carey arranged that her husband should win, because he did not like +losing. They had cold supper at eight. It was a scrappy meal because Mary +Ann resented getting anything ready after tea, and Mrs. Carey helped to +clear away. Mrs. Carey seldom ate more than bread and butter, with a +little stewed fruit to follow, but the Vicar had a slice of cold meat. +Immediately after supper Mrs. Carey rang the bell for prayers, and then +Philip went to bed. He rebelled against being undressed by Mary Ann and +after a while succeeded in establishing his right to dress and undress +himself. At nine o'clock Mary Ann brought in the eggs and the plate. Mrs. +Carey wrote the date on each egg and put the number down in a book. She +then took the plate-basket on her arm and went upstairs. Mr. Carey +continued to read one of his old books, but as the clock struck ten he got +up, put out the lamps, and followed his wife to bed. + +When Philip arrived there was some difficulty in deciding on which evening +he should have his bath. It was never easy to get plenty of hot water, +since the kitchen boiler did not work, and it was impossible for two +persons to have a bath on the same day. The only man who had a bathroom in +Blackstable was Mr. Wilson, and it was thought ostentatious of him. Mary +Ann had her bath in the kitchen on Monday night, because she liked to +begin the week clean. Uncle William could not have his on Saturday, +because he had a heavy day before him and he was always a little tired +after a bath, so he had it on Friday. Mrs. Carey had hers on Thursday for +the same reason. It looked as though Saturday were naturally indicated for +Philip, but Mary Ann said she couldn't keep the fire up on Saturday night: +what with all the cooking on Sunday, having to make pastry and she didn't +know what all, she did not feel up to giving the boy his bath on Saturday +night; and it was quite clear that he could not bath himself. Mrs. Carey +was shy about bathing a boy, and of course the Vicar had his sermon. But +the Vicar insisted that Philip should be clean and sweet for the lord's +Day. Mary Ann said she would rather go than be put upon--and after +eighteen years she didn't expect to have more work given her, and they +might show some consideration--and Philip said he didn't want anyone to +bath him, but could very well bath himself. This settled it. Mary Ann said +she was quite sure he wouldn't bath himself properly, and rather than he +should go dirty--and not because he was going into the presence of the +Lord, but because she couldn't abide a boy who wasn't properly +washed--she'd work herself to the bone even if it was Saturday night. + + + +VII + + +Sunday was a day crowded with incident. Mr. Carey was accustomed to say +that he was the only man in his parish who worked seven days a week. + +The household got up half an hour earlier than usual. No lying abed for a +poor parson on the day of rest, Mr. Carey remarked as Mary Ann knocked at +the door punctually at eight. It took Mrs. Carey longer to dress, and she +got down to breakfast at nine, a little breathless, only just before her +husband. Mr. Carey's boots stood in front of the fire to warm. Prayers +were longer than usual, and the breakfast more substantial. After +breakfast the Vicar cut thin slices of bread for the communion, and Philip +was privileged to cut off the crust. He was sent to the study to fetch a +marble paperweight, with which Mr. Carey pressed the bread till it was +thin and pulpy, and then it was cut into small squares. The amount was +regulated by the weather. On a very bad day few people came to church, and +on a very fine one, though many came, few stayed for communion. There were +most when it was dry enough to make the walk to church pleasant, but not +so fine that people wanted to hurry away. + +Then Mrs. Carey brought the communion plate out of the safe, which stood +in the pantry, and the Vicar polished it with a chamois leather. At ten +the fly drove up, and Mr. Carey got into his boots. Mrs. Carey took +several minutes to put on her bonnet, during which the Vicar, in a +voluminous cloak, stood in the hall with just such an expression on his +face as would have become an early Christian about to be led into the +arena. It was extraordinary that after thirty years of marriage his wife +could not be ready in time on Sunday morning. At last she came, in black +satin; the Vicar did not like colours in a clergyman's wife at any time, +but on Sundays he was determined that she should wear black; now and then, +in conspiracy with Miss Graves, she ventured a white feather or a pink +rose in her bonnet, but the Vicar insisted that it should disappear; he +said he would not go to church with the scarlet woman: Mrs. Carey sighed +as a woman but obeyed as a wife. They were about to step into the carriage +when the Vicar remembered that no one had given him his egg. They knew +that he must have an egg for his voice, there were two women in the house, +and no one had the least regard for his comfort. Mrs. Carey scolded Mary +Ann, and Mary Ann answered that she could not think of everything. She +hurried away to fetch an egg, and Mrs. Carey beat it up in a glass of +sherry. The Vicar swallowed it at a gulp. The communion plate was stowed +in the carriage, and they set off. + +The fly came from The Red Lion and had a peculiar smell of stale straw. +They drove with both windows closed so that the Vicar should not catch +cold. The sexton was waiting at the porch to take the communion plate, and +while the Vicar went to the vestry Mrs. Carey and Philip settled +themselves in the vicarage pew. Mrs. Carey placed in front of her the +sixpenny bit she was accustomed to put in the plate, and gave Philip +threepence for the same purpose. The church filled up gradually and the +service began. + +Philip grew bored during the sermon, but if he fidgetted Mrs. Carey put a +gentle hand on his arm and looked at him reproachfully. He regained +interest when the final hymn was sung and Mr. Graves passed round with the +plate. + +When everyone had gone Mrs. Carey went into Miss Graves' pew to have a few +words with her while they were waiting for the gentlemen, and Philip went +to the vestry. His uncle, the curate, and Mr. Graves were still in their +surplices. Mr. Carey gave him the remains of the consecrated bread and +told him he might eat it. He had been accustomed to eat it himself, as it +seemed blasphemous to throw it away, but Philip's keen appetite relieved +him from the duty. Then they counted the money. It consisted of pennies, +sixpences and threepenny bits. There were always two single shillings, one +put in the plate by the Vicar and the other by Mr. Graves; and sometimes +there was a florin. Mr. Graves told the Vicar who had given this. It was +always a stranger to Blackstable, and Mr. Carey wondered who he was. But +Miss Graves had observed the rash act and was able to tell Mrs. Carey that +the stranger came from London, was married and had children. During the +drive home Mrs. Carey passed the information on, and the Vicar made up his +mind to call on him and ask for a subscription to the Additional Curates +Society. Mr. Carey asked if Philip had behaved properly; and Mrs. Carey +remarked that Mrs. Wigram had a new mantle, Mr. Cox was not in church, and +somebody thought that Miss Phillips was engaged. When they reached the +vicarage they all felt that they deserved a substantial dinner. + +When this was over Mrs. Carey went to her room to rest, and Mr. Carey lay +down on the sofa in the drawing-room for forty winks. + +They had tea at five, and the Vicar ate an egg to support himself for +evensong. Mrs. Carey did not go to this so that Mary Ann might, but she +read the service through and the hymns. Mr. Carey walked to church in the +evening, and Philip limped along by his side. The walk through the +darkness along the country road strangely impressed him, and the church +with all its lights in the distance, coming gradually nearer, seemed very +friendly. At first he was shy with his uncle, but little by little grew +used to him, and he would slip his hand in his uncle's and walk more +easily for the feeling of protection. + +They had supper when they got home. Mr. Carey's slippers were waiting for +him on a footstool in front of the fire and by their side Philip's, one +the shoe of a small boy, the other misshapen and odd. He was dreadfully +tired when he went up to bed, and he did not resist when Mary Ann +undressed him. She kissed him after she tucked him up, and he began to +love her. + + + +VIII + + +Philip had led always the solitary life of an only child, and his +loneliness at the vicarage was no greater than it had been when his mother +lived. He made friends with Mary Ann. She was a chubby little person of +thirty-five, the daughter of a fisherman, and had come to the vicarage at +eighteen; it was her first place and she had no intention of leaving it; +but she held a possible marriage as a rod over the timid heads of her +master and mistress. Her father and mother lived in a little house off +Harbour Street, and she went to see them on her evenings out. Her stories +of the sea touched Philip's imagination, and the narrow alleys round the +harbour grew rich with the romance which his young fancy lent them. One +evening he asked whether he might go home with her; but his aunt was +afraid that he might catch something, and his uncle said that evil +communications corrupted good manners. He disliked the fisher folk, who +were rough, uncouth, and went to chapel. But Philip was more comfortable +in the kitchen than in the dining-room, and, whenever he could, he took +his toys and played there. His aunt was not sorry. She did not like +disorder, and though she recognised that boys must be expected to be +untidy she preferred that he should make a mess in the kitchen. If he +fidgeted his uncle was apt to grow restless and say it was high time he +went to school. Mrs. Carey thought Philip very young for this, and her +heart went out to the motherless child; but her attempts to gain his +affection were awkward, and the boy, feeling shy, received her +demonstrations with so much sullenness that she was mortified. Sometimes +she heard his shrill voice raised in laughter in the kitchen, but when she +went in, he grew suddenly silent, and he flushed darkly when Mary Ann +explained the joke. Mrs. Carey could not see anything amusing in what she +heard, and she smiled with constraint. + +"He seems happier with Mary Ann than with us, William," she said, when she +returned to her sewing. + +"One can see he's been very badly brought up. He wants licking into +shape." + +On the second Sunday after Philip arrived an unlucky incident occurred. +Mr. Carey had retired as usual after dinner for a little snooze in the +drawing-room, but he was in an irritable mood and could not sleep. Josiah +Graves that morning had objected strongly to some candlesticks with which +the Vicar had adorned the altar. He had bought them second-hand in +Tercanbury, and he thought they looked very well. But Josiah Graves said +they were popish. This was a taunt that always aroused the Vicar. He had +been at Oxford during the movement which ended in the secession from the +Established Church of Edward Manning, and he felt a certain sympathy for +the Church of Rome. He would willingly have made the service more ornate +than had been usual in the low-church parish of Blackstable, and in his +secret soul he yearned for processions and lighted candles. He drew the +line at incense. He hated the word protestant. He called himself a +Catholic. He was accustomed to say that Papists required an epithet, they +were Roman Catholic; but the Church of England was Catholic in the best, +the fullest, and the noblest sense of the term. He was pleased to think +that his shaven face gave him the look of a priest, and in his youth he +had possessed an ascetic air which added to the impression. He often +related that on one of his holidays in Boulogne, one of those holidays +upon which his wife for economy's sake did not accompany him, when he was +sitting in a church, the cure had come up to him and invited him to +preach a sermon. He dismissed his curates when they married, having +decided views on the celibacy of the unbeneficed clergy. But when at an +election the Liberals had written on his garden fence in large blue +letters: This way to Rome, he had been very angry, and threatened to +prosecute the leaders of the Liberal party in Blackstable. He made up his +mind now that nothing Josiah Graves said would induce him to remove the +candlesticks from the altar, and he muttered Bismarck to himself once or +twice irritably. + +Suddenly he heard an unexpected noise. He pulled the handkerchief off his +face, got up from the sofa on which he was lying, and went into the +dining-room. Philip was seated on the table with all his bricks around +him. He had built a monstrous castle, and some defect in the foundation +had just brought the structure down in noisy ruin. + +"What are you doing with those bricks, Philip? You know you're not allowed +to play games on Sunday." + +Philip stared at him for a moment with frightened eyes, and, as his habit +was, flushed deeply. + +"I always used to play at home," he answered. + +"I'm sure your dear mamma never allowed you to do such a wicked thing as +that." + +Philip did not know it was wicked; but if it was, he did not wish it to be +supposed that his mother had consented to it. He hung his head and did not +answer. + +"Don't you know it's very, very wicked to play on Sunday? What d'you +suppose it's called the day of rest for? You're going to church tonight, +and how can you face your Maker when you've been breaking one of His laws +in the afternoon?" + +Mr. Carey told him to put the bricks away at once, and stood over him +while Philip did so. + +"You're a very naughty boy," he repeated. "Think of the grief you're +causing your poor mother in heaven." + +Philip felt inclined to cry, but he had an instinctive disinclination to +letting other people see his tears, and he clenched his teeth to prevent +the sobs from escaping. Mr. Carey sat down in his arm-chair and began to +turn over the pages of a book. Philip stood at the window. The vicarage +was set back from the highroad to Tercanbury, and from the dining-room one +saw a semicircular strip of lawn and then as far as the horizon green +fields. Sheep were grazing in them. The sky was forlorn and gray. Philip +felt infinitely unhappy. + +Presently Mary Ann came in to lay the tea, and Aunt Louisa descended the +stairs. + +"Have you had a nice little nap, William?" she asked. + +"No," he answered. "Philip made so much noise that I couldn't sleep a +wink." + +This was not quite accurate, for he had been kept awake by his own +thoughts; and Philip, listening sullenly, reflected that he had only made +a noise once, and there was no reason why his uncle should not have slept +before or after. When Mrs. Carey asked for an explanation the Vicar +narrated the facts. + +"He hasn't even said he was sorry," he finished. + +"Oh, Philip, I'm sure you're sorry," said Mrs. Carey, anxious that the +child should not seem wickeder to his uncle than need be. + +Philip did not reply. He went on munching his bread and butter. He did not +know what power it was in him that prevented him from making any +expression of regret. He felt his ears tingling, he was a little inclined +to cry, but no word would issue from his lips. + +"You needn't make it worse by sulking," said Mr. Carey. + +Tea was finished in silence. Mrs. Carey looked at Philip surreptitiously +now and then, but the Vicar elaborately ignored him. When Philip saw his +uncle go upstairs to get ready for church he went into the hall and got +his hat and coat, but when the Vicar came downstairs and saw him, he said: + +"I don't wish you to go to church tonight, Philip. I don't think you're in +a proper frame of mind to enter the House of God." + +Philip did not say a word. He felt it was a deep humiliation that was +placed upon him, and his cheeks reddened. He stood silently watching his +uncle put on his broad hat and his voluminous cloak. Mrs. Carey as usual +went to the door to see him off. Then she turned to Philip. + +"Never mind, Philip, you won't be a naughty boy next Sunday, will you, and +then your uncle will take you to church with him in the evening." + +She took off his hat and coat, and led him into the dining-room. + +"Shall you and I read the service together, Philip, and we'll sing the +hymns at the harmonium. Would you like that?" + +Philip shook his head decidedly. Mrs. Carey was taken aback. If he would +not read the evening service with her she did not know what to do with +him. + +"Then what would you like to do until your uncle comes back?" she asked +helplessly. + +Philip broke his silence at last. + +"I want to be left alone," he said. + +"Philip, how can you say anything so unkind? Don't you know that your +uncle and I only want your good? Don't you love me at all?" + +"I hate you. I wish you was dead." + +Mrs. Carey gasped. He said the words so savagely that it gave her quite a +start. She had nothing to say. She sat down in her husband's chair; and as +she thought of her desire to love the friendless, crippled boy and her +eager wish that he should love her--she was a barren woman and, even +though it was clearly God's will that she should be childless, she could +scarcely bear to look at little children sometimes, her heart ached +so--the tears rose to her eyes and one by one, slowly, rolled down her +cheeks. Philip watched her in amazement. She took out her handkerchief, +and now she cried without restraint. Suddenly Philip realised that she was +crying because of what he had said, and he was sorry. He went up to her +silently and kissed her. It was the first kiss he had ever given her +without being asked. And the poor lady, so small in her black satin, +shrivelled up and sallow, with her funny corkscrew curls, took the little +boy on her lap and put her arms around him and wept as though her heart +would break. But her tears were partly tears of happiness, for she felt +that the strangeness between them was gone. She loved him now with a new +love because he had made her suffer. + + + +IX + + +On the following Sunday, when the Vicar was making his preparations to go +into the drawing-room for his nap--all the actions of his life were +conducted with ceremony--and Mrs. Carey was about to go upstairs, Philip +asked: + +"What shall I do if I'm not allowed to play?" + +"Can't you sit still for once and be quiet?" + +"I can't sit still till tea-time." + +Mr. Carey looked out of the window, but it was cold and raw, and he could +not suggest that Philip should go into the garden. + +"I know what you can do. You can learn by heart the collect for the day." + +He took the prayer-book which was used for prayers from the harmonium, and +turned the pages till he came to the place he wanted. + +"It's not a long one. If you can say it without a mistake when I come in +to tea you shall have the top of my egg." + +Mrs. Carey drew up Philip's chair to the dining-room table--they had +bought him a high chair by now--and placed the book in front of him. + +"The devil finds work for idle hands to do," said Mr. Carey. + +He put some more coals on the fire so that there should be a cheerful +blaze when he came in to tea, and went into the drawing-room. He loosened +his collar, arranged the cushions, and settled himself comfortably on the +sofa. But thinking the drawing-room a little chilly, Mrs. Carey brought +him a rug from the hall; she put it over his legs and tucked it round his +feet. She drew the blinds so that the light should not offend his eyes, +and since he had closed them already went out of the room on tiptoe. The +Vicar was at peace with himself today, and in ten minutes he was asleep. +He snored softly. + +It was the Sixth Sunday after Epiphany, and the collect began with the +words: O God, whose blessed Son was manifested that he might destroy the +works of the devil, and make us the sons of God, and heirs of Eternal +life. Philip read it through. He could make no sense of it. He began +saying the words aloud to himself, but many of them were unknown to him, +and the construction of the sentence was strange. He could not get more +than two lines in his head. And his attention was constantly wandering: +there were fruit trees trained on the walls of the vicarage, and a long +twig beat now and then against the windowpane; sheep grazed stolidly in +the field beyond the garden. It seemed as though there were knots inside +his brain. Then panic seized him that he would not know the words by +tea-time, and he kept on whispering them to himself quickly; he did not +try to understand, but merely to get them parrot-like into his memory. + +Mrs. Carey could not sleep that afternoon, and by four o'clock she was so +wide awake that she came downstairs. She thought she would hear Philip his +collect so that he should make no mistakes when he said it to his uncle. +His uncle then would be pleased; he would see that the boy's heart was in +the right place. But when Mrs. Carey came to the dining-room and was about +to go in, she heard a sound that made her stop suddenly. Her heart gave a +little jump. She turned away and quietly slipped out of the front-door. +She walked round the house till she came to the dining-room window and +then cautiously looked in. Philip was still sitting on the chair she had +put him in, but his head was on the table buried in his arms, and he was +sobbing desperately. She saw the convulsive movement of his shoulders. +Mrs. Carey was frightened. A thing that had always struck her about the +child was that he seemed so collected. She had never seen him cry. And now +she realised that his calmness was some instinctive shame of showing his +fillings: he hid himself to weep. + +Without thinking that her husband disliked being wakened suddenly, she +burst into the drawing-room. + +"William, William," she said. "The boy's crying as though his heart would +break." + +Mr. Carey sat up and disentangled himself from the rug about his legs. + +"What's he got to cry about?" + +"I don't know.... Oh, William, we can't let the boy be unhappy. D'you +think it's our fault? If we'd had children we'd have known what to do." + +Mr. Carey looked at her in perplexity. He felt extraordinarily helpless. + +"He can't be crying because I gave him the collect to learn. It's not more +than ten lines." + +"Don't you think I might take him some picture books to look at, William? +There are some of the Holy Land. There couldn't be anything wrong in +that." + +"Very well, I don't mind." + +Mrs. Carey went into the study. To collect books was Mr. Carey's only +passion, and he never went into Tercanbury without spending an hour or two +in the second-hand shop; he always brought back four or five musty +volumes. He never read them, for he had long lost the habit of reading, +but he liked to turn the pages, look at the illustrations if they were +illustrated, and mend the bindings. He welcomed wet days because on them +he could stay at home without pangs of conscience and spend the afternoon +with white of egg and a glue-pot, patching up the Russia leather of some +battered quarto. He had many volumes of old travels, with steel +engravings, and Mrs. Carey quickly found two which described Palestine. +She coughed elaborately at the door so that Philip should have time to +compose himself, she felt that he would be humiliated if she came upon him +in the midst of his tears, then she rattled the door handle. When she went +in Philip was poring over the prayer-book, hiding his eyes with his hands +so that she might not see he had been crying. + +"Do you know the collect yet?" she said. + +He did not answer for a moment, and she felt that he did not trust his +voice. She was oddly embarrassed. + +"I can't learn it by heart," he said at last, with a gasp. + +"Oh, well, never mind," she said. "You needn't. I've got some picture +books for you to look at. Come and sit on my lap, and we'll look at them +together." + +Philip slipped off his chair and limped over to her. He looked down so +that she should not see his eyes. She put her arms round him. + +"Look," she said, "that's the place where our blessed Lord was born." + +She showed him an Eastern town with flat roofs and cupolas and minarets. +In the foreground was a group of palm-trees, and under them were resting +two Arabs and some camels. Philip passed his hand over the picture as if +he wanted to feel the houses and the loose habiliments of the nomads. + +"Read what it says," he asked. + +Mrs. Carey in her even voice read the opposite page. It was a romantic +narrative of some Eastern traveller of the thirties, pompous maybe, but +fragrant with the emotion with which the East came to the generation that +followed Byron and Chateaubriand. In a moment or two Philip interrupted +her. + +"I want to see another picture." + +When Mary Ann came in and Mrs. Carey rose to help her lay the cloth. +Philip took the book in his hands and hurried through the illustrations. +It was with difficulty that his aunt induced him to put the book down for +tea. He had forgotten his horrible struggle to get the collect by heart; +he had forgotten his tears. Next day it was raining, and he asked for the +book again. Mrs. Carey gave it him joyfully. Talking over his future with +her husband she had found that both desired him to take orders, and this +eagerness for the book which described places hallowed by the presence of +Jesus seemed a good sign. It looked as though the boy's mind addressed +itself naturally to holy things. But in a day or two he asked for more +books. Mr. Carey took him into his study, showed him the shelf in which he +kept illustrated works, and chose for him one that dealt with Rome. Philip +took it greedily. The pictures led him to a new amusement. He began to +read the page before and the page after each engraving to find out what it +was about, and soon he lost all interest in his toys. + +Then, when no one was near, he took out books for himself; and perhaps +because the first impression on his mind was made by an Eastern town, he +found his chief amusement in those which described the Levant. His heart +beat with excitement at the pictures of mosques and rich palaces; but +there was one, in a book on Constantinople, which peculiarly stirred his +imagination. It was called the Hall of the Thousand Columns. It was a +Byzantine cistern, which the popular fancy had endowed with fantastic +vastness; and the legend which he read told that a boat was always moored +at the entrance to tempt the unwary, but no traveller venturing into the +darkness had ever been seen again. And Philip wondered whether the boat +went on for ever through one pillared alley after another or came at last +to some strange mansion. + +One day a good fortune befell him, for he hit upon Lane's translation of +The Thousand Nights and a Night. He was captured first by the +illustrations, and then he began to read, to start with, the stories that +dealt with magic, and then the others; and those he liked he read again +and again. He could think of nothing else. He forgot the life about him. +He had to be called two or three times before he would come to his dinner. +Insensibly he formed the most delightful habit in the world, the habit of +reading: he did not know that thus he was providing himself with a refuge +from all the distress of life; he did not know either that he was creating +for himself an unreal world which would make the real world of every day +a source of bitter disappointment. Presently he began to read other +things. His brain was precocious. His uncle and aunt, seeing that he +occupied himself and neither worried nor made a noise, ceased to trouble +themselves about him. Mr. Carey had so many books that he did not know +them, and as he read little he forgot the odd lots he had bought at one +time and another because they were cheap. Haphazard among the sermons and +homilies, the travels, the lives of the Saints, the Fathers, the histories +of the church, were old-fashioned novels; and these Philip at last +discovered. He chose them by their titles, and the first he read was The +Lancashire Witches, and then he read The Admirable Crichton, and then +many more. Whenever he started a book with two solitary travellers riding +along the brink of a desperate ravine he knew he was safe. + +The summer was come now, and the gardener, an old sailor, made him a +hammock and fixed it up for him in the branches of a weeping willow. And +here for long hours he lay, hidden from anyone who might come to the +vicarage, reading, reading passionately. Time passed and it was July; +August came: on Sundays the church was crowded with strangers, and the +collection at the offertory often amounted to two pounds. Neither the +Vicar nor Mrs. Carey went out of the garden much during this period; for +they disliked strange faces, and they looked upon the visitors from London +with aversion. The house opposite was taken for six weeks by a gentleman +who had two little boys, and he sent in to ask if Philip would like to go +and play with them; but Mrs. Carey returned a polite refusal. She was +afraid that Philip would be corrupted by little boys from London. He was +going to be a clergyman, and it was necessary that he should be preserved +from contamination. She liked to see in him an infant Samuel. + + + +X + + +The Careys made up their minds to send Philip to King's School at +Tercanbury. The neighbouring clergy sent their sons there. It was united +by long tradition to the Cathedral: its headmaster was an honorary Canon, +and a past headmaster was the Archdeacon. Boys were encouraged there to +aspire to Holy Orders, and the education was such as might prepare an +honest lad to spend his life in God's service. A preparatory school was +attached to it, and to this it was arranged that Philip should go. Mr. +Carey took him into Tercanbury one Thursday afternoon towards the end of +September. All day Philip had been excited and rather frightened. He knew +little of school life but what he had read in the stories of The Boy's +Own Paper. He had also read Eric, or Little by Little. + +When they got out of the train at Tercanbury, Philip felt sick with +apprehension, and during the drive in to the town sat pale and silent. The +high brick wall in front of the school gave it the look of a prison. There +was a little door in it, which opened on their ringing; and a clumsy, +untidy man came out and fetched Philip's tin trunk and his play-box. They +were shown into the drawing-room; it was filled with massive, ugly +furniture, and the chairs of the suite were placed round the walls with a +forbidding rigidity. They waited for the headmaster. + +"What's Mr. Watson like?" asked Philip, after a while. + +"You'll see for yourself." + +There was another pause. Mr. Carey wondered why the headmaster did not +come. Presently Philip made an effort and spoke again. + +"Tell him I've got a club-foot," he said. + +Before Mr. Carey could speak the door burst open and Mr. Watson swept into +the room. To Philip he seemed gigantic. He was a man of over six feet +high, and broad, with enormous hands and a great red beard; he talked +loudly in a jovial manner; but his aggressive cheerfulness struck terror +in Philip's heart. He shook hands with Mr. Carey, and then took Philip's +small hand in his. + +"Well, young fellow, are you glad to come to school?" he shouted. + +Philip reddened and found no word to answer. + +"How old are you?" + +"Nine," said Philip. + +"You must say sir," said his uncle. + +"I expect you've got a good lot to learn," the headmaster bellowed +cheerily. + +To give the boy confidence he began to tickle him with rough fingers. +Philip, feeling shy and uncomfortable, squirmed under his touch. + +"I've put him in the small dormitory for the present.... You'll like that, +won't you?" he added to Philip. "Only eight of you in there. You won't +feel so strange." + +Then the door opened, and Mrs. Watson came in. She was a dark woman with +black hair, neatly parted in the middle. She had curiously thick lips and +a small round nose. Her eyes were large and black. There was a singular +coldness in her appearance. She seldom spoke and smiled more seldom still. +Her husband introduced Mr. Carey to her, and then gave Philip a friendly +push towards her. + +"This is a new boy, Helen, His name's Carey." + +Without a word she shook hands with Philip and then sat down, not +speaking, while the headmaster asked Mr. Carey how much Philip knew and +what books he had been working with. The Vicar of Blackstable was a little +embarrassed by Mr. Watson's boisterous heartiness, and in a moment or two +got up. + +"I think I'd better leave Philip with you now." + +"That's all right," said Mr. Watson. "He'll be safe with me. He'll get on +like a house on fire. Won't you, young fellow?" + +Without waiting for an answer from Philip the big man burst into a great +bellow of laughter. Mr. Carey kissed Philip on the forehead and went away. + +"Come along, young fellow," shouted Mr. Watson. "I'll show you the +school-room." + +He swept out of the drawing-room with giant strides, and Philip hurriedly +limped behind him. He was taken into a long, bare room with two tables +that ran along its whole length; on each side of them were wooden forms. + +"Nobody much here yet," said Mr. Watson. "I'll just show you the +playground, and then I'll leave you to shift for yourself." + +Mr. Watson led the way. Philip found himself in a large play-ground with +high brick walls on three sides of it. On the fourth side was an iron +railing through which you saw a vast lawn and beyond this some of the +buildings of King's School. One small boy was wandering disconsolately, +kicking up the gravel as he walked. + +"Hulloa, Venning," shouted Mr. Watson. "When did you turn up?" + +The small boy came forward and shook hands. + +"Here's a new boy. He's older and bigger than you, so don't you bully +him." + +The headmaster glared amicably at the two children, filling them with fear +by the roar of his voice, and then with a guffaw left them. + +"What's your name?" + +"Carey." + +"What's your father?" + +"He's dead." + +"Oh! Does your mother wash?" + +"My mother's dead, too." + +Philip thought this answer would cause the boy a certain awkwardness, but +Venning was not to be turned from his facetiousness for so little. + +"Well, did she wash?" he went on. + +"Yes," said Philip indignantly. + +"She was a washerwoman then?" + +"No, she wasn't." + +"Then she didn't wash." + +The little boy crowed with delight at the success of his dialectic. Then +he caught sight of Philip's feet. + +"What's the matter with your foot?" + +Philip instinctively tried to withdraw it from sight. He hid it behind the +one which was whole. + +"I've got a club-foot," he answered. + +"How did you get it?" + +"I've always had it." + +"Let's have a look." + +"No." + +"Don't then." + +The little boy accompanied the words with a sharp kick on Philip's shin, +which Philip did not expect and thus could not guard against. The pain was +so great that it made him gasp, but greater than the pain was the +surprise. He did not know why Venning kicked him. He had not the presence +of mind to give him a black eye. Besides, the boy was smaller than he, and +he had read in The Boy's Own Paper that it was a mean thing to hit +anyone smaller than yourself. While Philip was nursing his shin a third +boy appeared, and his tormentor left him. In a little while he noticed +that the pair were talking about him, and he felt they were looking at his +feet. He grew hot and uncomfortable. + +But others arrived, a dozen together, and then more, and they began to +talk about their doings during the holidays, where they had been, and what +wonderful cricket they had played. A few new boys appeared, and with these +presently Philip found himself talking. He was shy and nervous. He was +anxious to make himself pleasant, but he could not think of anything to +say. He was asked a great many questions and answered them all quite +willingly. One boy asked him whether he could play cricket. + +"No," answered Philip. "I've got a club-foot." + +The boy looked down quickly and reddened. Philip saw that he felt he had +asked an unseemly question. He was too shy to apologise and looked at +Philip awkwardly. + + + +XI + + +Next morning when the clanging of a bell awoke Philip he looked round his +cubicle in astonishment. Then a voice sang out, and he remembered where he +was. + +"Are you awake, Singer?" + +The partitions of the cubicle were of polished pitch-pine, and there was +a green curtain in front. In those days there was little thought of +ventilation, and the windows were closed except when the dormitory was +aired in the morning. + +Philip got up and knelt down to say his prayers. It was a cold morning, +and he shivered a little; but he had been taught by his uncle that his +prayers were more acceptable to God if he said them in his nightshirt than +if he waited till he was dressed. This did not surprise him, for he was +beginning to realise that he was the creature of a God who appreciated the +discomfort of his worshippers. Then he washed. There were two baths for +the fifty boarders, and each boy had a bath once a week. The rest of his +washing was done in a small basin on a wash-stand, which with the bed and +a chair, made up the furniture of each cubicle. The boys chatted gaily +while they dressed. Philip was all ears. Then another bell sounded, and +they ran downstairs. They took their seats on the forms on each side of +the two long tables in the school-room; and Mr. Watson, followed by his +wife and the servants, came in and sat down. Mr. Watson read prayers in an +impressive manner, and the supplications thundered out in his loud voice +as though they were threats personally addressed to each boy. Philip +listened with anxiety. Then Mr. Watson read a chapter from the Bible, and +the servants trooped out. In a moment the untidy youth brought in two +large pots of tea and on a second journey immense dishes of bread and +butter. + +Philip had a squeamish appetite, and the thick slabs of poor butter on the +bread turned his stomach, but he saw other boys scraping it off and +followed their example. They all had potted meats and such like, which +they had brought in their play-boxes; and some had 'extras,' eggs or +bacon, upon which Mr. Watson made a profit. When he had asked Mr. Carey +whether Philip was to have these, Mr. Carey replied that he did not think +boys should be spoilt. Mr. Watson quite agreed with him--he considered +nothing was better than bread and butter for growing lads--but some +parents, unduly pampering their offspring, insisted on it. + +Philip noticed that 'extras' gave boys a certain consideration and made up +his mind, when he wrote to Aunt Louisa, to ask for them. + +After breakfast the boys wandered out into the play-ground. Here the +day-boys were gradually assembling. They were sons of the local clergy, of +the officers at the Depot, and of such manufacturers or men of business as +the old town possessed. Presently a bell rang, and they all trooped into +school. This consisted of a large, long room at opposite ends of which two +under-masters conducted the second and third forms, and of a smaller one, +leading out of it, used by Mr. Watson, who taught the first form. To +attach the preparatory to the senior school these three classes were known +officially, on speech days and in reports, as upper, middle, and lower +second. Philip was put in the last. The master, a red-faced man with a +pleasant voice, was called Rice; he had a jolly manner with boys, and the +time passed quickly. Philip was surprised when it was a quarter to eleven +and they were let out for ten minutes' rest. + +The whole school rushed noisily into the play-ground. The new boys were +told to go into the middle, while the others stationed themselves along +opposite walls. They began to play Pig in the Middle. The old boys ran +from wall to wall while the new boys tried to catch them: when one was +seized and the mystic words said--one, two, three, and a pig for me--he +became a prisoner and, turning sides, helped to catch those who were still +free. Philip saw a boy running past and tried to catch him, but his limp +gave him no chance; and the runners, taking their opportunity, made +straight for the ground he covered. Then one of them had the brilliant +idea of imitating Philip's clumsy run. Other boys saw it and began to +laugh; then they all copied the first; and they ran round Philip, limping +grotesquely, screaming in their treble voices with shrill laughter. They +lost their heads with the delight of their new amusement, and choked with +helpless merriment. One of them tripped Philip up and he fell, heavily as +he always fell, and cut his knee. They laughed all the louder when he got +up. A boy pushed him from behind, and he would have fallen again if +another had not caught him. The game was forgotten in the entertainment of +Philip's deformity. One of them invented an odd, rolling limp that struck +the rest as supremely ridiculous, and several of the boys lay down on the +ground and rolled about in laughter: Philip was completely scared. He +could not make out why they were laughing at him. His heart beat so that +he could hardly breathe, and he was more frightened than he had ever been +in his life. He stood still stupidly while the boys ran round him, +mimicking and laughing; they shouted to him to try and catch them; but he +did not move. He did not want them to see him run any more. He was using +all his strength to prevent himself from crying. + +Suddenly the bell rang, and they all trooped back to school. Philip's knee +was bleeding, and he was dusty and dishevelled. For some minutes Mr. Rice +could not control his form. They were excited still by the strange +novelty, and Philip saw one or two of them furtively looking down at his +feet. He tucked them under the bench. + +In the afternoon they went up to play football, but Mr. Watson stopped +Philip on the way out after dinner. + +"I suppose you can't play football, Carey?" he asked him. + +Philip blushed self-consciously. + +"No, sir." + +"Very well. You'd better go up to the field. You can walk as far as that, +can't you?" + +Philip had no idea where the field was, but he answered all the same. + +"Yes, sir." + +The boys went in charge of Mr. Rice, who glanced at Philip and seeing he +had not changed, asked why he was not going to play. + +"Mr. Watson said I needn't, sir," said Philip. + +"Why?" + +There were boys all round him, looking at him curiously, and a feeling of +shame came over Philip. He looked down without answering. Others gave the +reply. + +"He's got a club-foot, sir." + +"Oh, I see." + +Mr. Rice was quite young; he had only taken his degree a year before; and +he was suddenly embarrassed. His instinct was to beg the boy's pardon, but +he was too shy to do so. He made his voice gruff and loud. + +"Now then, you boys, what are you waiting about for? Get on with you." + +Some of them had already started and those that were left now set off, in +groups of two or three. + +"You'd better come along with me, Carey," said the master "You don't know +the way, do you?" + +Philip guessed the kindness, and a sob came to his throat. + +"I can't go very fast, sir." + +"Then I'll go very slow," said the master, with a smile. + +Philip's heart went out to the red-faced, commonplace young man who said +a gentle word to him. He suddenly felt less unhappy. + +But at night when they went up to bed and were undressing, the boy who was +called Singer came out of his cubicle and put his head in Philip's. + +"I say, let's look at your foot," he said. + +"No," answered Philip. + +He jumped into bed quickly. + +"Don't say no to me," said Singer. "Come on, Mason." + +The boy in the next cubicle was looking round the corner, and at the words +he slipped in. They made for Philip and tried to tear the bed-clothes off +him, but he held them tightly. + +"Why can't you leave me alone?" he cried. + +Singer seized a brush and with the back of it beat Philip's hands clenched +on the blanket. Philip cried out. + +"Why don't you show us your foot quietly?" + +"I won't." + +In desperation Philip clenched his fist and hit the boy who tormented him, +but he was at a disadvantage, and the boy seized his arm. He began to turn +it. + +"Oh, don't, don't," said Philip. "You'll break my arm." + +"Stop still then and put out your foot." + +Philip gave a sob and a gasp. The boy gave the arm another wrench. The +pain was unendurable. + +"All right. I'll do it," said Philip. + +He put out his foot. Singer still kept his hand on Philip's wrist. He +looked curiously at the deformity. + +"Isn't it beastly?" said Mason. + +Another came in and looked too. + +"Ugh," he said, in disgust. + +"My word, it is rum," said Singer, making a face. "Is it hard?" + +He touched it with the tip of his forefinger, cautiously, as though it +were something that had a life of its own. Suddenly they heard Mr. +Watson's heavy tread on the stairs. They threw the clothes back on Philip +and dashed like rabbits into their cubicles. Mr. Watson came into the +dormitory. Raising himself on tiptoe he could see over the rod that bore +the green curtain, and he looked into two or three of the cubicles. The +little boys were safely in bed. He put out the light and went out. + +Singer called out to Philip, but he did not answer. He had got his teeth +in the pillow so that his sobbing should be inaudible. He was not crying +for the pain they had caused him, nor for the humiliation he had suffered +when they looked at his foot, but with rage at himself because, unable to +stand the torture, he had put out his foot of his own accord. + +And then he felt the misery of his life. It seemed to his childish mind +that this unhappiness must go on for ever. For no particular reason he +remembered that cold morning when Emma had taken him out of bed and put +him beside his mother. He had not thought of it once since it happened, +but now he seemed to feel the warmth of his mother's body against his and +her arms around him. Suddenly it seemed to him that his life was a dream, +his mother's death, and the life at the vicarage, and these two wretched +days at school, and he would awake in the morning and be back again at +home. His tears dried as he thought of it. He was too unhappy, it must be +nothing but a dream, and his mother was alive, and Emma would come up +presently and go to bed. He fell asleep. + +But when he awoke next morning it was to the clanging of a bell, and the +first thing his eyes saw was the green curtain of his cubicle. + + + +XII + + +As time went on Philip's deformity ceased to interest. It was accepted +like one boy's red hair and another's unreasonable corpulence. But +meanwhile he had grown horribly sensitive. He never ran if he could help +it, because he knew it made his limp more conspicuous, and he adopted a +peculiar walk. He stood still as much as he could, with his club-foot +behind the other, so that it should not attract notice, and he was +constantly on the look out for any reference to it. Because he could not +join in the games which other boys played, their life remained strange to +him; he only interested himself from the outside in their doings; and it +seemed to him that there was a barrier between them and him. Sometimes +they seemed to think that it was his fault if he could not play football, +and he was unable to make them understand. He was left a good deal to +himself. He had been inclined to talkativeness, but gradually he became +silent. He began to think of the difference between himself and others. + +The biggest boy in his dormitory, Singer, took a dislike to him, and +Philip, small for his age, had to put up with a good deal of hard +treatment. About half-way through the term a mania ran through the school +for a game called Nibs. It was a game for two, played on a table or a form +with steel pens. You had to push your nib with the finger-nail so as to +get the point of it over your opponent's, while he manoeuvred to prevent +this and to get the point of his nib over the back of yours; when this +result was achieved you breathed on the ball of your thumb, pressed it +hard on the two nibs, and if you were able then to lift them without +dropping either, both nibs became yours. Soon nothing was seen but boys +playing this game, and the more skilful acquired vast stores of nibs. But +in a little while Mr. Watson made up his mind that it was a form of +gambling, forbade the game, and confiscated all the nibs in the boys' +possession. Philip had been very adroit, and it was with a heavy heart +that he gave up his winning; but his fingers itched to play still, and a +few days later, on his way to the football field, he went into a shop and +bought a pennyworth of J pens. He carried them loose in his pocket and +enjoyed feeling them. Presently Singer found out that he had them. Singer +had given up his nibs too, but he had kept back a very large one, called +a Jumbo, which was almost unconquerable, and he could not resist the +opportunity of getting Philip's Js out of him. Though Philip knew that he +was at a disadvantage with his small nibs, he had an adventurous +disposition and was willing to take the risk; besides, he was aware that +Singer would not allow him to refuse. He had not played for a week and sat +down to the game now with a thrill of excitement. He lost two of his small +nibs quickly, and Singer was jubilant, but the third time by some chance +the Jumbo slipped round and Philip was able to push his J across it. He +crowed with triumph. At that moment Mr. Watson came in. + +"What are you doing?" he asked. + +He looked from Singer to Philip, but neither answered. + +"Don't you know that I've forbidden you to play that idiotic game?" + +Philip's heart beat fast. He knew what was coming and was dreadfully +frightened, but in his fright there was a certain exultation. He had never +been swished. Of course it would hurt, but it was something to boast about +afterwards. + +"Come into my study." + +The headmaster turned, and they followed him side by side Singer whispered +to Philip: + +"We're in for it." + +Mr. Watson pointed to Singer. + +"Bend over," he said. + +Philip, very white, saw the boy quiver at each stroke, and after the third +he heard him cry out. Three more followed. + +"That'll do. Get up." + +Singer stood up. The tears were streaming down his face. Philip stepped +forward. Mr. Watson looked at him for a moment. + +"I'm not going to cane you. You're a new boy. And I can't hit a cripple. +Go away, both of you, and don't be naughty again." + +When they got back into the school-room a group of boys, who had learned +in some mysterious way what was happening, were waiting for them. They set +upon Singer at once with eager questions. Singer faced them, his face red +with the pain and marks of tears still on his cheeks. He pointed with his +head at Philip, who was standing a little behind him. + +"He got off because he's a cripple," he said angrily. + +Philip stood silent and flushed. He felt that they looked at him with +contempt. + +"How many did you get?" one boy asked Singer. + +But he did not answer. He was angry because he had been hurt + +"Don't ask me to play Nibs with you again," he said to Philip. "It's jolly +nice for you. You don't risk anything." + +"I didn't ask you." + +"Didn't you!" + +He quickly put out his foot and tripped Philip up. Philip was always +rather unsteady on his feet, and he fell heavily to the ground. + +"Cripple," said Singer. + +For the rest of the term he tormented Philip cruelly, and, though Philip +tried to keep out of his way, the school was so small that it was +impossible; he tried being friendly and jolly with him; he abased himself, +so far as to buy him a knife; but though Singer took the knife he was not +placated. Once or twice, driven beyond endurance, he hit and kicked the +bigger boy, but Singer was so much stronger that Philip was helpless, and +he was always forced after more or less torture to beg his pardon. It was +that which rankled with Philip: he could not bear the humiliation of +apologies, which were wrung from him by pain greater than he could bear. +And what made it worse was that there seemed no end to his wretchedness; +Singer was only eleven and would not go to the upper school till he was +thirteen. Philip realised that he must live two years with a tormentor +from whom there was no escape. He was only happy while he was working and +when he got into bed. And often there recurred to him then that queer +feeling that his life with all its misery was nothing but a dream, and +that he would awake in the morning in his own little bed in London. + + + +XIII + + +Two years passed, and Philip was nearly twelve. He was in the first form, +within two or three places of the top, and after Christmas when several +boys would be leaving for the senior school he would be head boy. He had +already quite a collection of prizes, worthless books on bad paper, but in +gorgeous bindings decorated with the arms of the school: his position had +freed him from bullying, and he was not unhappy. His fellows forgave him +his success because of his deformity. + +"After all, it's jolly easy for him to get prizes," they said, "there's +nothing he CAN do but swat." + +He had lost his early terror of Mr. Watson. He had grown used to the loud +voice, and when the headmaster's heavy hand was laid on his shoulder +Philip discerned vaguely the intention of a caress. He had the good memory +which is more useful for scholastic achievements than mental power, and he +knew Mr. Watson expected him to leave the preparatory school with a +scholarship. + +But he had grown very self-conscious. The new-born child does not realise +that his body is more a part of himself than surrounding objects, and will +play with his toes without any feeling that they belong to him more than +the rattle by his side; and it is only by degrees, through pain, that he +understands the fact of the body. And experiences of the same kind are +necessary for the individual to become conscious of himself; but here +there is the difference that, although everyone becomes equally conscious +of his body as a separate and complete organism, everyone does not become +equally conscious of himself as a complete and separate personality. The +feeling of apartness from others comes to most with puberty, but it is not +always developed to such a degree as to make the difference between the +individual and his fellows noticeable to the individual. It is such as he, +as little conscious of himself as the bee in a hive, who are the lucky in +life, for they have the best chance of happiness: their activities are +shared by all, and their pleasures are only pleasures because they are +enjoyed in common; you will see them on Whit-Monday dancing on Hampstead +Heath, shouting at a football match, or from club windows in Pall Mall +cheering a royal procession. It is because of them that man has been +called a social animal. + +Philip passed from the innocence of childhood to bitter consciousness of +himself by the ridicule which his club-foot had excited. The circumstances +of his case were so peculiar that he could not apply to them the +ready-made rules which acted well enough in ordinary affairs, and he was +forced to think for himself. The many books he had read filled his mind +with ideas which, because he only half understood them, gave more scope to +his imagination. Beneath his painful shyness something was growing up +within him, and obscurely he realised his personality. But at times it +gave him odd surprises; he did things, he knew not why, and afterwards +when he thought of them found himself all at sea. + +There was a boy called Luard between whom and Philip a friendship had +arisen, and one day, when they were playing together in the school-room, +Luard began to perform some trick with an ebony pen-holder of Philip's. + +"Don't play the giddy ox," said Philip. "You'll only break it." + +"I shan't." + +But no sooner were the words out of the boy's mouth than the pen-holder +snapped in two. Luard looked at Philip with dismay. + +"Oh, I say, I'm awfully sorry." + +The tears rolled down Philip's cheeks, but he did not answer. + +"I say, what's the matter?" said Luard, with surprise. "I'll get you +another one exactly the same." + +"It's not about the pen-holder I care," said Philip, in a trembling voice, +"only it was given me by my mater, just before she died." + +"I say, I'm awfully sorry, Carey." + +"It doesn't matter. It wasn't your fault." + +Philip took the two pieces of the pen-holder and looked at them. He tried +to restrain his sobs. He felt utterly miserable. And yet he could not tell +why, for he knew quite well that he had bought the pen-holder during his +last holidays at Blackstable for one and twopence. He did not know in the +least what had made him invent that pathetic story, but he was quite as +unhappy as though it had been true. The pious atmosphere of the vicarage +and the religious tone of the school had made Philip's conscience very +sensitive; he absorbed insensibly the feeling about him that the Tempter +was ever on the watch to gain his immortal soul; and though he was not +more truthful than most boys he never told a lie without suffering from +remorse. When he thought over this incident he was very much distressed, +and made up his mind that he must go to Luard and tell him that the story +was an invention. Though he dreaded humiliation more than anything in the +world, he hugged himself for two or three days at the thought of the +agonising joy of humiliating himself to the Glory of God. But he never got +any further. He satisfied his conscience by the more comfortable method of +expressing his repentance only to the Almighty. But he could not +understand why he should have been so genuinely affected by the story he +was making up. The tears that flowed down his grubby cheeks were real +tears. Then by some accident of association there occurred to him that +scene when Emma had told him of his mother's death, and, though he could +not speak for crying, he had insisted on going in to say good-bye to the +Misses Watkin so that they might see his grief and pity him. + + + +XIV + + +Then a wave of religiosity passed through the school. Bad language was no +longer heard, and the little nastinesses of small boys were looked upon +with hostility; the bigger boys, like the lords temporal of the Middle +Ages, used the strength of their arms to persuade those weaker than +themselves to virtuous courses. + +Philip, his restless mind avid for new things, became very devout. He +heard soon that it was possible to join a Bible League, and wrote to +London for particulars. These consisted in a form to be filled up with the +applicant's name, age, and school; a solemn declaration to be signed that +he would read a set portion of Holy Scripture every night for a year; and +a request for half a crown; this, it was explained, was demanded partly to +prove the earnestness of the applicant's desire to become a member of the +League, and partly to cover clerical expenses. Philip duly sent the papers +and the money, and in return received a calendar worth about a penny, on +which was set down the appointed passage to be read each day, and a sheet +of paper on one side of which was a picture of the Good Shepherd and a +lamb, and on the other, decoratively framed in red lines, a short prayer +which had to be said before beginning to read. + +Every evening he undressed as quickly as possible in order to have time +for his task before the gas was put out. He read industriously, as he read +always, without criticism, stories of cruelty, deceit, ingratitude, +dishonesty, and low cunning. Actions which would have excited his horror +in the life about him, in the reading passed through his mind without +comment, because they were committed under the direct inspiration of God. +The method of the League was to alternate a book of the Old Testament with +a book of the New, and one night Philip came across these words of Jesus +Christ: + +If ye have faith, and doubt not, ye shall not only do this which is done +to the fig-tree, but also if ye shall say unto this mountain, Be thou +removed, and be thou cast into the sea; it shall be done. + +And all this, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall +receive. + +They made no particular impression on him, but it happened that two or +three days later, being Sunday, the Canon in residence chose them for the +text of his sermon. Even if Philip had wanted to hear this it would have +been impossible, for the boys of King's School sit in the choir, and the +pulpit stands at the corner of the transept so that the preacher's back is +almost turned to them. The distance also is so great that it needs a man +with a fine voice and a knowledge of elocution to make himself heard in +the choir; and according to long usage the Canons of Tercanbury are chosen +for their learning rather than for any qualities which might be of use in +a cathedral church. But the words of the text, perhaps because he had read +them so short a while before, came clearly enough to Philip's ears, and +they seemed on a sudden to have a personal application. He thought about +them through most of the sermon, and that night, on getting into bed, he +turned over the pages of the Gospel and found once more the passage. +Though he believed implicitly everything he saw in print, he had learned +already that in the Bible things that said one thing quite clearly often +mysteriously meant another. There was no one he liked to ask at school, so +he kept the question he had in mind till the Christmas holidays, and then +one day he made an opportunity. It was after supper and prayers were just +finished. Mrs. Carey was counting the eggs that Mary Ann had brought in as +usual and writing on each one the date. Philip stood at the table and +pretended to turn listlessly the pages of the Bible. + +"I say, Uncle William, this passage here, does it really mean that?" + +He put his finger against it as though he had come across it accidentally. + +Mr. Carey looked up over his spectacles. He was holding The Blackstable +Times in front of the fire. It had come in that evening damp from the +press, and the Vicar always aired it for ten minutes before he began to +read. + +"What passage is that?" he asked. + +"Why, this about if you have faith you can remove mountains." + +"If it says so in the Bible it is so, Philip," said Mrs. Carey gently, +taking up the plate-basket. + +Philip looked at his uncle for an answer. + +"It's a matter of faith." + +"D'you mean to say that if you really believed you could move mountains +you could?" + +"By the grace of God," said the Vicar. + +"Now, say good-night to your uncle, Philip," said Aunt Louisa. "You're not +wanting to move a mountain tonight, are you?" + +Philip allowed himself to be kissed on the forehead by his uncle and +preceded Mrs. Carey upstairs. He had got the information he wanted. His +little room was icy, and he shivered when he put on his nightshirt. But he +always felt that his prayers were more pleasing to God when he said them +under conditions of discomfort. The coldness of his hands and feet were an +offering to the Almighty. And tonight he sank on his knees; buried his +face in his hands, and prayed to God with all his might that He would make +his club-foot whole. It was a very small thing beside the moving of +mountains. He knew that God could do it if He wished, and his own faith +was complete. Next morning, finishing his prayers with the same request, +he fixed a date for the miracle. + +"Oh, God, in Thy loving mercy and goodness, if it be Thy will, please make +my foot all right on the night before I go back to school." + +He was glad to get his petition into a formula, and he repeated it later +in the dining-room during the short pause which the Vicar always made +after prayers, before he rose from his knees. He said it again in the +evening and again, shivering in his nightshirt, before he got into bed. +And he believed. For once he looked forward with eagerness to the end of +the holidays. He laughed to himself as he thought of his uncle's +astonishment when he ran down the stairs three at a time; and after +breakfast he and Aunt Louisa would have to hurry out and buy a new pair of +boots. At school they would be astounded. + +"Hulloa, Carey, what have you done with your foot?" + +"Oh, it's all right now," he would answer casually, as though it were the +most natural thing in the world. + +He would be able to play football. His heart leaped as he saw himself +running, running, faster than any of the other boys. At the end of the +Easter term there were the sports, and he would be able to go in for the +races; he rather fancied himself over the hurdles. It would be splendid to +be like everyone else, not to be stared at curiously by new boys who did +not know about his deformity, nor at the baths in summer to need +incredible precautions, while he was undressing, before he could hide his +foot in the water. + +He prayed with all the power of his soul. No doubts assailed him. He was +confident in the word of God. And the night before he was to go back to +school he went up to bed tremulous with excitement. There was snow on the +ground, and Aunt Louisa had allowed herself the unaccustomed luxury of a +fire in her bed-room; but in Philip's little room it was so cold that his +fingers were numb, and he had great difficulty in undoing his collar. His +teeth chattered. The idea came to him that he must do something more than +usual to attract the attention of God, and he turned back the rug which +was in front of his bed so that he could kneel on the bare boards; and +then it struck him that his nightshirt was a softness that might displease +his Maker, so he took it off and said his prayers naked. When he got into +bed he was so cold that for some time he could not sleep, but when he did, +it was so soundly that Mary Ann had to shake him when she brought in his +hot water next morning. She talked to him while she drew the curtains, but +he did not answer; he had remembered at once that this was the morning for +the miracle. His heart was filled with joy and gratitude. His first +instinct was to put down his hand and feel the foot which was whole now, +but to do this seemed to doubt the goodness of God. He knew that his foot +was well. But at last he made up his mind, and with the toes of his right +foot he just touched his left. Then he passed his hand over it. + +He limped downstairs just as Mary Ann was going into the dining-room for +prayers, and then he sat down to breakfast. + +"You're very quiet this morning, Philip," said Aunt Louisa presently. + +"He's thinking of the good breakfast he'll have at school to-morrow," said +the Vicar. + +When Philip answered, it was in a way that always irritated his uncle, +with something that had nothing to do with the matter in hand. He called +it a bad habit of wool-gathering. + +"Supposing you'd asked God to do something," said Philip, "and really +believed it was going to happen, like moving a mountain, I mean, and you +had faith, and it didn't happen, what would it mean?" + +"What a funny boy you are!" said Aunt Louisa. "You asked about moving +mountains two or three weeks ago." + +"It would just mean that you hadn't got faith," answered Uncle William. + +Philip accepted the explanation. If God had not cured him, it was because +he did not really believe. And yet he did not see how he could believe +more than he did. But perhaps he had not given God enough time. He had +only asked Him for nineteen days. In a day or two he began his prayer +again, and this time he fixed upon Easter. That was the day of His Son's +glorious resurrection, and God in His happiness might be mercifully +inclined. But now Philip added other means of attaining his desire: he +began to wish, when he saw a new moon or a dappled horse, and he looked +out for shooting stars; during exeat they had a chicken at the vicarage, +and he broke the lucky bone with Aunt Louisa and wished again, each time +that his foot might be made whole. He was appealing unconsciously to gods +older to his race than the God of Israel. And he bombarded the Almighty +with his prayer, at odd times of the day, whenever it occurred to him, in +identical words always, for it seemed to him important to make his request +in the same terms. But presently the feeling came to him that this time +also his faith would not be great enough. He could not resist the doubt +that assailed him. He made his own experience into a general rule. + +"I suppose no one ever has faith enough," he said. + +It was like the salt which his nurse used to tell him about: you could +catch any bird by putting salt on his tail; and once he had taken a little +bag of it into Kensington Gardens. But he could never get near enough to +put the salt on a bird's tail. Before Easter he had given up the struggle. +He felt a dull resentment against his uncle for taking him in. The text +which spoke of the moving of mountains was just one of those that said one +thing and meant another. He thought his uncle had been playing a practical +joke on him. + + + +XV + + +The King's School at Tercanbury, to which Philip went when he was +thirteen, prided itself on its antiquity. It traced its origin to an abbey +school, founded before the Conquest, where the rudiments of learning were +taught by Augustine monks; and, like many another establishment of this +sort, on the destruction of the monasteries it had been reorganised by the +officers of King Henry VIII and thus acquired its name. Since then, +pursuing its modest course, it had given to the sons of the local gentry +and of the professional people of Kent an education sufficient to their +needs. One or two men of letters, beginning with a poet, than whom only +Shakespeare had a more splendid genius, and ending with a writer of prose +whose view of life has affected profoundly the generation of which Philip +was a member, had gone forth from its gates to achieve fame; it had +produced one or two eminent lawyers, but eminent lawyers are common, and +one or two soldiers of distinction; but during the three centuries since +its separation from the monastic order it had trained especially men of +the church, bishops, deans, canons, and above all country clergymen: there +were boys in the school whose fathers, grandfathers, great-grandfathers, +had been educated there and had all been rectors of parishes in the +diocese of Tercanbury; and they came to it with their minds made up +already to be ordained. But there were signs notwithstanding that even +there changes were coming; for a few, repeating what they had heard at +home, said that the Church was no longer what it used to be. It wasn't so +much the money; but the class of people who went in for it weren't the +same; and two or three boys knew curates whose fathers were tradesmen: +they'd rather go out to the Colonies (in those days the Colonies were +still the last hope of those who could get nothing to do in England) than +be a curate under some chap who wasn't a gentleman. At King's School, as +at Blackstable Vicarage, a tradesman was anyone who was not lucky enough +to own land (and here a fine distinction was made between the gentleman +farmer and the landowner), or did not follow one of the four professions +to which it was possible for a gentleman to belong. Among the day-boys, of +whom there were about a hundred and fifty, sons of the local gentry and of +the men stationed at the depot, those whose fathers were engaged in +business were made to feel the degradation of their state. + +The masters had no patience with modern ideas of education, which they +read of sometimes in The Times or The Guardian, and hoped fervently +that King's School would remain true to its old traditions. The dead +languages were taught with such thoroughness that an old boy seldom +thought of Homer or Virgil in after life without a qualm of boredom; and +though in the common room at dinner one or two bolder spirits suggested +that mathematics were of increasing importance, the general feeling was +that they were a less noble study than the classics. Neither German nor +chemistry was taught, and French only by the form-masters; they could keep +order better than a foreigner, and, since they knew the grammar as well as +any Frenchman, it seemed unimportant that none of them could have got a +cup of coffee in the restaurant at Boulogne unless the waiter had known a +little English. Geography was taught chiefly by making boys draw maps, and +this was a favourite occupation, especially when the country dealt with +was mountainous: it was possible to waste a great deal of time in drawing +the Andes or the Apennines. The masters, graduates of Oxford or Cambridge, +were ordained and unmarried; if by chance they wished to marry they could +only do so by accepting one of the smaller livings at the disposal of the +Chapter; but for many years none of them had cared to leave the refined +society of Tercanbury, which owing to the cavalry depot had a martial as +well as an ecclesiastical tone, for the monotony of life in a country +rectory; and they were now all men of middle age. + +The headmaster, on the other hand, was obliged to be married and he +conducted the school till age began to tell upon him. When he retired he +was rewarded with a much better living than any of the under-masters could +hope for, and an honorary Canonry. + +But a year before Philip entered the school a great change had come over +it. It had been obvious for some time that Dr. Fleming, who had been +headmaster for the quarter of a century, was become too deaf to continue +his work to the greater glory of God; and when one of the livings on the +outskirts of the city fell vacant, with a stipend of six hundred a year, +the Chapter offered it to him in such a manner as to imply that they +thought it high time for him to retire. He could nurse his ailments +comfortably on such an income. Two or three curates who had hoped for +preferment told their wives it was scandalous to give a parish that needed +a young, strong, and energetic man to an old fellow who knew nothing of +parochial work, and had feathered his nest already; but the mutterings of +the unbeneficed clergy do not reach the ears of a cathedral Chapter. And +as for the parishioners they had nothing to say in the matter, and +therefore nobody asked for their opinion. The Wesleyans and the Baptists +both had chapels in the village. + +When Dr. Fleming was thus disposed of it became necessary to find a +successor. It was contrary to the traditions of the school that one of the +lower-masters should be chosen. The common-room was unanimous in desiring +the election of Mr. Watson, headmaster of the preparatory school; he could +hardly be described as already a master of King's School, they had all +known him for twenty years, and there was no danger that he would make a +nuisance of himself. But the Chapter sprang a surprise on them. It chose +a man called Perkins. At first nobody knew who Perkins was, and the name +favourably impressed no one; but before the shock of it had passed away, +it was realised that Perkins was the son of Perkins the linendraper. Dr. +Fleming informed the masters just before dinner, and his manner showed his +consternation. Such of them as were dining in, ate their meal almost in +silence, and no reference was made to the matter till the servants had +left the room. Then they set to. The names of those present on this +occasion are unimportant, but they had been known to generations of +school-boys as Sighs, Tar, Winks, Squirts, and Pat. + +They all knew Tom Perkins. The first thing about him was that he was not +a gentleman. They remembered him quite well. He was a small, dark boy, +with untidy black hair and large eyes. He looked like a gipsy. He had come +to the school as a day-boy, with the best scholarship on their endowment, +so that his education had cost him nothing. Of course he was brilliant. At +every Speech-Day he was loaded with prizes. He was their show-boy, and +they remembered now bitterly their fear that he would try to get some +scholarship at one of the larger public schools and so pass out of their +hands. Dr. Fleming had gone to the linendraper his father--they all +remembered the shop, Perkins and Cooper, in St. Catherine's Street--and +said he hoped Tom would remain with them till he went to Oxford. The +school was Perkins and Cooper's best customer, and Mr. Perkins was only +too glad to give the required assurance. Tom Perkins continued to triumph, +he was the finest classical scholar that Dr. Fleming remembered, and on +leaving the school took with him the most valuable scholarship they had to +offer. He got another at Magdalen and settled down to a brilliant career +at the University. The school magazine recorded the distinctions he +achieved year after year, and when he got his double first Dr. Fleming +himself wrote a few words of eulogy on the front page. It was with greater +satisfaction that they welcomed his success, since Perkins and Cooper had +fallen upon evil days: Cooper drank like a fish, and just before Tom +Perkins took his degree the linendrapers filed their petition in +bankruptcy. + +In due course Tom Perkins took Holy Orders and entered upon the profession +for which he was so admirably suited. He had been an assistant master at +Wellington and then at Rugby. + +But there was quite a difference between welcoming his success at other +schools and serving under his leadership in their own. Tar had frequently +given him lines, and Squirts had boxed his ears. They could not imagine +how the Chapter had made such a mistake. No one could be expected to +forget that he was the son of a bankrupt linendraper, and the alcoholism +of Cooper seemed to increase the disgrace. It was understood that the Dean +had supported his candidature with zeal, so the Dean would probably ask +him to dinner; but would the pleasant little dinners in the precincts ever +be the same when Tom Perkins sat at the table? And what about the depot? +He really could not expect officers and gentlemen to receive him as one of +themselves. It would do the school incalculable harm. Parents would be +dissatisfied, and no one could be surprised if there were wholesale +withdrawals. And then the indignity of calling him Mr. Perkins! The +masters thought by way of protest of sending in their resignations in a +body, but the uneasy fear that they would be accepted with equanimity +restrained them. + +"The only thing is to prepare ourselves for changes," said Sighs, who had +conducted the fifth form for five and twenty years with unparalleled +incompetence. + +And when they saw him they were not reassured. Dr. Fleming invited them to +meet him at luncheon. He was now a man of thirty-two, tall and lean, but +with the same wild and unkempt look they remembered on him as a boy. His +clothes, ill-made and shabby, were put on untidily. His hair was as black +and as long as ever, and he had plainly never learned to brush it; it fell +over his forehead with every gesture, and he had a quick movement of the +hand with which he pushed it back from his eyes. He had a black moustache +and a beard which came high up on his face almost to the cheek-bones, He +talked to the masters quite easily, as though he had parted from them a +week or two before; he was evidently delighted to see them. He seemed +unconscious of the strangeness of the position and appeared not to notice +any oddness in being addressed as Mr. Perkins. + +When he bade them good-bye, one of the masters, for something to say, +remarked that he was allowing himself plenty of time to catch his train. + +"I want to go round and have a look at the shop," he answered cheerfully. + +There was a distinct embarrassment. They wondered that he could be so +tactless, and to make it worse Dr. Fleming had not heard what he said. His +wife shouted it in his ear. + +"He wants to go round and look at his father's old shop." + +Only Tom Perkins was unconscious of the humiliation which the whole party +felt. He turned to Mrs. Fleming. + +"Who's got it now, d'you know?" + +She could hardly answer. She was very angry. + +"It's still a linendraper's," she said bitterly. "Grove is the name. We +don't deal there any more." + +"I wonder if he'd let me go over the house." + +"I expect he would if you explain who you are." + +It was not till the end of dinner that evening that any reference was made +in the common-room to the subject that was in all their minds. Then it was +Sighs who asked: + +"Well, what did you think of our new head?" They thought of the +conversation at luncheon. It was hardly a conversation; it was a +monologue. Perkins had talked incessantly. He talked very quickly, with a +flow of easy words and in a deep, resonant voice. He had a short, odd +little laugh which showed his white teeth. They had followed him with +difficulty, for his mind darted from subject to subject with a connection +they did not always catch. He talked of pedagogics, and this was natural +enough; but he had much to say of modern theories in Germany which they +had never heard of and received with misgiving. He talked of the classics, +but he had been to Greece, and he discoursed of archaeology; he had once +spent a winter digging; they could not see how that helped a man to teach +boys to pass examinations, He talked of politics. It sounded odd to them +to hear him compare Lord Beaconsfield with Alcibiades. He talked of Mr. +Gladstone and Home Rule. They realised that he was a Liberal. Their hearts +sank. He talked of German philosophy and of French fiction. They could not +think a man profound whose interests were so diverse. + +It was Winks who summed up the general impression and put it into a form +they all felt conclusively damning. Winks was the master of the upper +third, a weak-kneed man with drooping eye-lids, He was too tall for his +strength, and his movements were slow and languid. He gave an impression +of lassitude, and his nickname was eminently appropriate. + +"He's very enthusiastic," said Winks. + +Enthusiasm was ill-bred. Enthusiasm was ungentlemanly. They thought of the +Salvation Army with its braying trumpets and its drums. Enthusiasm meant +change. They had goose-flesh when they thought of all the pleasant old +habits which stood in imminent danger. They hardly dared to look forward +to the future. + +"He looks more of a gipsy than ever," said one, after a pause. + +"I wonder if the Dean and Chapter knew that he was a Radical when they +elected him," another observed bitterly. + +But conversation halted. They were too much disturbed for words. + +When Tar and Sighs were walking together to the Chapter House on +Speech-Day a week later, Tar, who had a bitter tongue, remarked to his +colleague: + +"Well, we've seen a good many Speech-Days here, haven't we? I wonder if we +shall see another." + +Sighs was more melancholy even than usual. + +"If anything worth having comes along in the way of a living I don't mind +when I retire." + + + +XVI + + +A year passed, and when Philip came to the school the old masters were all +in their places; but a good many changes had taken place notwithstanding +their stubborn resistance, none the less formidable because it was +concealed under an apparent desire to fall in with the new head's ideas. +Though the form-masters still taught French to the lower school, another +master had come, with a degree of doctor of philology from the University +of Heidelberg and a record of three years spent in a French lycee, to +teach French to the upper forms and German to anyone who cared to take it +up instead of Greek. Another master was engaged to teach mathematics more +systematically than had been found necessary hitherto. Neither of these +was ordained. This was a real revolution, and when the pair arrived the +older masters received them with distrust. A laboratory had been fitted +up, army classes were instituted; they all said the character of the +school was changing. And heaven only knew what further projects Mr. +Perkins turned in that untidy head of his. The school was small as public +schools go, there were not more than two hundred boarders; and it was +difficult for it to grow larger, for it was huddled up against the +Cathedral; the precincts, with the exception of a house in which some of +the masters lodged, were occupied by the cathedral clergy; and there was +no more room for building. But Mr. Perkins devised an elaborate scheme by +which he might obtain sufficient space to make the school double its +present size. He wanted to attract boys from London. He thought it would +be good for them to be thrown in contact with the Kentish lads, and it +would sharpen the country wits of these. + +"It's against all our traditions," said Sighs, when Mr. Perkins made the +suggestion to him. "We've rather gone out of our way to avoid the +contamination of boys from London." + +"Oh, what nonsense!" said Mr. Perkins. + +No one had ever told the form-master before that he talked nonsense, and +he was meditating an acid reply, in which perhaps he might insert a veiled +reference to hosiery, when Mr. Perkins in his impetuous way attacked him +outrageously. + +"That house in the precincts--if you'd only marry I'd get the Chapter to +put another couple of stories on, and we'd make dormitories and studies, +and your wife could help you." + +The elderly clergyman gasped. Why should he marry? He was fifty-seven, a +man couldn't marry at fifty-seven. He couldn't start looking after a house +at his time of life. He didn't want to marry. If the choice lay between +that and the country living he would much sooner resign. All he wanted now +was peace and quietness. + +"I'm not thinking of marrying," he said. + +Mr. Perkins looked at him with his dark, bright eyes, and if there was a +twinkle in them poor Sighs never saw it. + +"What a pity! Couldn't you marry to oblige me? It would help me a great +deal with the Dean and Chapter when I suggest rebuilding your house." + +But Mr. Perkins' most unpopular innovation was his system of taking +occasionally another man's form. He asked it as a favour, but after all it +was a favour which could not be refused, and as Tar, otherwise Mr. Turner, +said, it was undignified for all parties. He gave no warning, but after +morning prayers would say to one of the masters: + +"I wonder if you'd mind taking the Sixth today at eleven. We'll change +over, shall we?" + +They did not know whether this was usual at other schools, but certainly +it had never been done at Tercanbury. The results were curious. Mr. +Turner, who was the first victim, broke the news to his form that the +headmaster would take them for Latin that day, and on the pretence that +they might like to ask him a question or two so that they should not make +perfect fools of themselves, spent the last quarter of an hour of the +history lesson in construing for them the passage of Livy which had been +set for the day; but when he rejoined his class and looked at the paper on +which Mr. Perkins had written the marks, a surprise awaited him; for the +two boys at the top of the form seemed to have done very ill, while others +who had never distinguished themselves before were given full marks. When +he asked Eldridge, his cleverest boy, what was the meaning of this the +answer came sullenly: + +"Mr. Perkins never gave us any construing to do. He asked me what I knew +about General Gordon." + +Mr. Turner looked at him in astonishment. The boys evidently felt they had +been hardly used, and he could not help agreeing with their silent +dissatisfaction. He could not see either what General Gordon had to do +with Livy. He hazarded an inquiry afterwards. + +"Eldridge was dreadfully put out because you asked him what he knew about +General Gordon," he said to the headmaster, with an attempt at a chuckle. + +Mr. Perkins laughed. + +"I saw they'd got to the agrarian laws of Caius Gracchus, and I wondered +if they knew anything about the agrarian troubles in Ireland. But all they +knew about Ireland was that Dublin was on the Liffey. So I wondered if +they'd ever heard of General Gordon." + +Then the horrid fact was disclosed that the new head had a mania for +general information. He had doubts about the utility of examinations on +subjects which had been crammed for the occasion. He wanted common sense. + +Sighs grew more worried every month; he could not get the thought out of +his head that Mr. Perkins would ask him to fix a day for his marriage; and +he hated the attitude the head adopted towards classical literature. There +was no doubt that he was a fine scholar, and he was engaged on a work +which was quite in the right tradition: he was writing a treatise on the +trees in Latin literature; but he talked of it flippantly, as though it +were a pastime of no great importance, like billiards, which engaged his +leisure but was not to be considered with seriousness. And Squirts, the +master of the Middle Third, grew more ill-tempered every day. + +It was in his form that Philip was put on entering the school. The Rev. B. +B. Gordon was a man by nature ill-suited to be a schoolmaster: he was +impatient and choleric. With no one to call him to account, with only +small boys to face him, he had long lost all power of self-control. He +began his work in a rage and ended it in a passion. He was a man of middle +height and of a corpulent figure; he had sandy hair, worn very short and +now growing gray, and a small bristly moustache. His large face, with +indistinct features and small blue eyes, was naturally red, but during his +frequent attacks of anger it grew dark and purple. His nails were bitten +to the quick, for while some trembling boy was construing he would sit at +his desk shaking with the fury that consumed him, and gnaw his fingers. +Stories, perhaps exaggerated, were told of his violence, and two years +before there had been some excitement in the school when it was heard that +one father was threatening a prosecution: he had boxed the ears of a boy +named Walters with a book so violently that his hearing was affected and +the boy had to be taken away from the school. The boy's father lived in +Tercanbury, and there had been much indignation in the city, the local +paper had referred to the matter; but Mr. Walters was only a brewer, so +the sympathy was divided. The rest of the boys, for reasons best known to +themselves, though they loathed the master, took his side in the affair, +and, to show their indignation that the school's business had been dealt +with outside, made things as uncomfortable as they could for Walters' +younger brother, who still remained. But Mr. Gordon had only escaped the +country living by the skin of his teeth, and he had never hit a boy since. +The right the masters possessed to cane boys on the hand was taken away +from them, and Squirts could no longer emphasize his anger by beating his +desk with the cane. He never did more now than take a boy by the shoulders +and shake him. He still made a naughty or refractory lad stand with one +arm stretched out for anything from ten minutes to half an hour, and he +was as violent as before with his tongue. + +No master could have been more unfitted to teach things to so shy a boy as +Philip. He had come to the school with fewer terrors than he had when +first he went to Mr. Watson's. He knew a good many boys who had been with +him at the preparatory school. He felt more grownup, and instinctively +realised that among the larger numbers his deformity would be less +noticeable. But from the first day Mr. Gordon struck terror in his heart; +and the master, quick to discern the boys who were frightened of him, +seemed on that account to take a peculiar dislike to him. Philip had +enjoyed his work, but now he began to look upon the hours passed in school +with horror. Rather than risk an answer which might be wrong and excite a +storm of abuse from the master, he would sit stupidly silent, and when it +came towards his turn to stand up and construe he grew sick and white with +apprehension. His happy moments were those when Mr. Perkins took the form. +He was able to gratify the passion for general knowledge which beset the +headmaster; he had read all sorts of strange books beyond his years, and +often Mr. Perkins, when a question was going round the room, would stop at +Philip with a smile that filled the boy with rapture, and say: + +"Now, Carey, you tell them." + +The good marks he got on these occasions increased Mr. Gordon's +indignation. One day it came to Philip's turn to translate, and the master +sat there glaring at him and furiously biting his thumb. He was in a +ferocious mood. Philip began to speak in a low voice. + +"Don't mumble," shouted the master. + +Something seemed to stick in Philip's throat. + +"Go on. Go on. Go on." + +Each time the words were screamed more loudly. The effect was to drive all +he knew out of Philip's head, and he looked at the printed page vacantly. +Mr. Gordon began to breathe heavily. + +"If you don't know why don't you say so? Do you know it or not? Did you +hear all this construed last time or not? Why don't you speak? Speak, you +blockhead, speak!" + +The master seized the arms of his chair and grasped them as though to +prevent himself from falling upon Philip. They knew that in past days he +often used to seize boys by the throat till they almost choked. The veins +in his forehead stood out and his face grew dark and threatening. He was +a man insane. + +Philip had known the passage perfectly the day before, but now he could +remember nothing. + +"I don't know it," he gasped. + +"Why don't you know it? Let's take the words one by one. We'll soon see if +you don't know it." + +Philip stood silent, very white, trembling a little, with his head bent +down on the book. The master's breathing grew almost stertorous. + +"The headmaster says you're clever. I don't know how he sees it. General +information." He laughed savagely. "I don't know what they put you in his +form for, Blockhead." + +He was pleased with the word, and he repeated it at the top of his voice. + +"Blockhead! Blockhead! Club-footed blockhead!" + +That relieved him a little. He saw Philip redden suddenly. He told him to +fetch the Black Book. Philip put down his Caesar and went silently out. +The Black Book was a sombre volume in which the names of boys were written +with their misdeeds, and when a name was down three times it meant a +caning. Philip went to the headmaster's house and knocked at his +study-door. Mr. Perkins was seated at his table. + +"May I have the Black Book, please, sir." + +"There it is," answered Mr. Perkins, indicating its place by a nod of his +head. "What have you been doing that you shouldn't?" + +"I don't know, sir." + +Mr. Perkins gave him a quick look, but without answering went on with his +work. Philip took the book and went out. When the hour was up, a few +minutes later, he brought it back. + +"Let me have a look at it," said the headmaster. "I see Mr. Gordon has +black-booked you for 'gross impertinence.' What was it?" + +"I don't know, sir. Mr. Gordon said I was a club-footed blockhead." + +Mr. Perkins looked at him again. He wondered whether there was sarcasm +behind the boy's reply, but he was still much too shaken. His face was +white and his eyes had a look of terrified distress. Mr. Perkins got up +and put the book down. As he did so he took up some photographs. + +"A friend of mine sent me some pictures of Athens this morning," he said +casually. "Look here, there's the Akropolis." + +He began explaining to Philip what he saw. The ruin grew vivid with his +words. He showed him the theatre of Dionysus and explained in what order +the people sat, and how beyond they could see the blue Aegean. And then +suddenly he said: + +"I remember Mr. Gordon used to call me a gipsy counter-jumper when I was +in his form." + +And before Philip, his mind fixed on the photographs, had time to gather +the meaning of the remark, Mr. Perkins was showing him a picture of +Salamis, and with his finger, a finger of which the nail had a little +black edge to it, was pointing out how the Greek ships were placed and how +the Persian. + + + +XVII + + +Philip passed the next two years with comfortable monotony. He was not +bullied more than other boys of his size; and his deformity, withdrawing +him from games, acquired for him an insignificance for which he was +grateful. He was not popular, and he was very lonely. He spent a couple of +terms with Winks in the Upper Third. Winks, with his weary manner and his +drooping eyelids, looked infinitely bored. He did his duty, but he did it +with an abstracted mind. He was kind, gentle, and foolish. He had a great +belief in the honour of boys; he felt that the first thing to make them +truthful was not to let it enter your head for a moment that it was +possible for them to lie. "Ask much," he quoted, "and much shall be given +to you." Life was easy in the Upper Third. You knew exactly what lines +would come to your turn to construe, and with the crib that passed from +hand to hand you could find out all you wanted in two minutes; you could +hold a Latin Grammar open on your knees while questions were passing +round; and Winks never noticed anything odd in the fact that the same +incredible mistake was to be found in a dozen different exercises. He had +no great faith in examinations, for he noticed that boys never did so well +in them as in form: it was disappointing, but not significant. In due +course they were moved up, having learned little but a cheerful effrontery +in the distortion of truth, which was possibly of greater service to them +in after life than an ability to read Latin at sight. + +Then they fell into the hands of Tar. His name was Turner; he was the most +vivacious of the old masters, a short man with an immense belly, a black +beard turning now to gray, and a swarthy skin. In his clerical dress there +was indeed something in him to suggest the tar-barrel; and though on +principle he gave five hundred lines to any boy on whose lips he overheard +his nickname, at dinner-parties in the precincts he often made little +jokes about it. He was the most worldly of the masters; he dined out more +frequently than any of the others, and the society he kept was not so +exclusively clerical. The boys looked upon him as rather a dog. He left +off his clerical attire during the holidays and had been seen in +Switzerland in gay tweeds. He liked a bottle of wine and a good dinner, +and having once been seen at the Cafe Royal with a lady who was very +probably a near relation, was thenceforward supposed by generations of +schoolboys to indulge in orgies the circumstantial details of which +pointed to an unbounded belief in human depravity. + +Mr. Turner reckoned that it took him a term to lick boys into shape after +they had been in the Upper Third; and now and then he let fall a sly hint, +which showed that he knew perfectly what went on in his colleague's form. +He took it good-humouredly. He looked upon boys as young ruffians who were +more apt to be truthful if it was quite certain a lie would be found out, +whose sense of honour was peculiar to themselves and did not apply to +dealings with masters, and who were least likely to be troublesome when +they learned that it did not pay. He was proud of his form and as eager at +fifty-five that it should do better in examinations than any of the others +as he had been when he first came to the school. He had the choler of the +obese, easily roused and as easily calmed, and his boys soon discovered +that there was much kindliness beneath the invective with which he +constantly assailed them. He had no patience with fools, but was willing +to take much trouble with boys whom he suspected of concealing +intelligence behind their wilfulness. He was fond of inviting them to tea; +and, though vowing they never got a look in with him at the cakes and +muffins, for it was the fashion to believe that his corpulence pointed to +a voracious appetite, and his voracious appetite to tapeworms, they +accepted his invitations with real pleasure. + +Philip was now more comfortable, for space was so limited that there were +only studies for boys in the upper school, and till then he had lived in +the great hall in which they all ate and in which the lower forms did +preparation in a promiscuity which was vaguely distasteful to him. Now and +then it made him restless to be with people and he wanted urgently to be +alone. He set out for solitary walks into the country. There was a little +stream, with pollards on both sides of it, that ran through green fields, +and it made him happy, he knew not why, to wander along its banks. When he +was tired he lay face-downward on the grass and watched the eager +scurrying of minnows and of tadpoles. It gave him a peculiar satisfaction +to saunter round the precincts. On the green in the middle they practised +at nets in the summer, but during the rest of the year it was quiet: boys +used to wander round sometimes arm in arm, or a studious fellow with +abstracted gaze walked slowly, repeating to himself something he had to +learn by heart. There was a colony of rooks in the great elms, and they +filled the air with melancholy cries. Along one side lay the Cathedral +with its great central tower, and Philip, who knew as yet nothing of +beauty, felt when he looked at it a troubling delight which he could not +understand. When he had a study (it was a little square room looking on a +slum, and four boys shared it), he bought a photograph of that view of the +Cathedral, and pinned it up over his desk. And he found himself taking a +new interest in what he saw from the window of the Fourth Form room. It +looked on to old lawns, carefully tended, and fine trees with foliage +dense and rich. It gave him an odd feeling in his heart, and he did not +know if it was pain or pleasure. It was the first dawn of the aesthetic +emotion. It accompanied other changes. His voice broke. It was no longer +quite under his control, and queer sounds issued from his throat. + +Then he began to go to the classes which were held in the headmaster's +study, immediately after tea, to prepare boys for confirmation. Philip's +piety had not stood the test of time, and he had long since given up his +nightly reading of the Bible; but now, under the influence of Mr. Perkins, +with this new condition of the body which made him so restless, his old +feelings revived, and he reproached himself bitterly for his backsliding. +The fires of Hell burned fiercely before his mind's eye. If he had died +during that time when he was little better than an infidel he would have +been lost; he believed implicitly in pain everlasting, he believed in it +much more than in eternal happiness; and he shuddered at the dangers he +had run. + +Since the day on which Mr. Perkins had spoken kindly to him, when he was +smarting under the particular form of abuse which he could least bear, +Philip had conceived for his headmaster a dog-like adoration. He racked +his brains vainly for some way to please him. He treasured the smallest +word of commendation which by chance fell from his lips. And when he came +to the quiet little meetings in his house he was prepared to surrender +himself entirely. He kept his eyes fixed on Mr. Perkins' shining eyes, and +sat with mouth half open, his head a little thrown forward so as to miss +no word. The ordinariness of the surroundings made the matters they dealt +with extraordinarily moving. And often the master, seized himself by the +wonder of his subject, would push back the book in front of him, and with +his hands clasped together over his heart, as though to still the beating, +would talk of the mysteries of their religion. Sometimes Philip did not +understand, but he did not want to understand, he felt vaguely that it was +enough to feel. It seemed to him then that the headmaster, with his black, +straggling hair and his pale face, was like those prophets of Israel who +feared not to take kings to task; and when he thought of the Redeemer he +saw Him only with the same dark eyes and those wan cheeks. + +Mr. Perkins took this part of his work with great seriousness. There was +never here any of that flashing humour which made the other masters +suspect him of flippancy. Finding time for everything in his busy day, he +was able at certain intervals to take separately for a quarter of an hour +or twenty minutes the boys whom he was preparing for confirmation. He +wanted to make them feel that this was the first consciously serious step +in their lives; he tried to grope into the depths of their souls; he +wanted to instil in them his own vehement devotion. In Philip, +notwithstanding his shyness, he felt the possibility of a passion equal to +his own. The boy's temperament seemed to him essentially religious. One +day he broke off suddenly from the subject on which he had been talking. + +"Have you thought at all what you're going to be when you grow up?" he +asked. + +"My uncle wants me to be ordained," said Philip. + +"And you?" + +Philip looked away. He was ashamed to answer that he felt himself +unworthy. + +"I don't know any life that's so full of happiness as ours. I wish I could +make you feel what a wonderful privilege it is. One can serve God in every +walk, but we stand nearer to Him. I don't want to influence you, but if +you made up your mind--oh, at once--you couldn't help feeling that joy and +relief which never desert one again." + +Philip did not answer, but the headmaster read in his eyes that he +realised already something of what he tried to indicate. + +"If you go on as you are now you'll find yourself head of the school one +of these days, and you ought to be pretty safe for a scholarship when you +leave. Have you got anything of your own?" + +"My uncle says I shall have a hundred a year when I'm twenty-one." + +"You'll be rich. I had nothing." + +The headmaster hesitated a moment, and then, idly drawing lines with a +pencil on the blotting paper in front of him, went on. + +"I'm afraid your choice of professions will be rather limited. You +naturally couldn't go in for anything that required physical activity." + +Philip reddened to the roots of his hair, as he always did when any +reference was made to his club-foot. Mr. Perkins looked at him gravely. + +"I wonder if you're not oversensitive about your misfortune. Has it ever +struck you to thank God for it?" + +Philip looked up quickly. His lips tightened. He remembered how for +months, trusting in what they told him, he had implored God to heal him as +He had healed the Leper and made the Blind to see. + +"As long as you accept it rebelliously it can only cause you shame. But if +you looked upon it as a cross that was given you to bear only because your +shoulders were strong enough to bear it, a sign of God's favour, then it +would be a source of happiness to you instead of misery." + +He saw that the boy hated to discuss the matter and he let him go. + +But Philip thought over all that the headmaster had said, and presently, +his mind taken up entirely with the ceremony that was before him, a +mystical rapture seized him. His spirit seemed to free itself from the +bonds of the flesh and he seemed to be living a new life. He aspired to +perfection with all the passion that was in him. He wanted to surrender +himself entirely to the service of God, and he made up his mind definitely +that he would be ordained. When the great day arrived, his soul deeply +moved by all the preparation, by the books he had studied and above all by +the overwhelming influence of the head, he could hardly contain himself +for fear and joy. One thought had tormented him. He knew that he would +have to walk alone through the chancel, and he dreaded showing his limp +thus obviously, not only to the whole school, who were attending the +service, but also to the strangers, people from the city or parents who +had come to see their sons confirmed. But when the time came he felt +suddenly that he could accept the humiliation joyfully; and as he limped +up the chancel, very small and insignificant beneath the lofty vaulting of +the Cathedral, he offered consciously his deformity as a sacrifice to the +God who loved him. + + + +XVIII + + +But Philip could not live long in the rarefied air of the hilltops. What +had happened to him when first he was seized by the religious emotion +happened to him now. Because he felt so keenly the beauty of faith, +because the desire for self-sacrifice burned in his heart with such a +gem-like glow, his strength seemed inadequate to his ambition. He was +tired out by the violence of his passion. His soul was filled on a sudden +with a singular aridity. He began to forget the presence of God which had +seemed so surrounding; and his religious exercises, still very punctually +performed, grew merely formal. At first he blamed himself for this falling +away, and the fear of hell-fire urged him to renewed vehemence; but the +passion was dead, and gradually other interests distracted his thoughts. + +Philip had few friends. His habit of reading isolated him: it became such +a need that after being in company for some time he grew tired and +restless; he was vain of the wider knowledge he had acquired from the +perusal of so many books, his mind was alert, and he had not the skill to +hide his contempt for his companions' stupidity. They complained that he +was conceited; and, since he excelled only in matters which to them were +unimportant, they asked satirically what he had to be conceited about. He +was developing a sense of humour, and found that he had a knack of saying +bitter things, which caught people on the raw; he said them because they +amused him, hardly realising how much they hurt, and was much offended +when he found that his victims regarded him with active dislike. The +humiliations he suffered when first he went to school had caused in him a +shrinking from his fellows which he could never entirely overcome; he +remained shy and silent. But though he did everything to alienate the +sympathy of other boys he longed with all his heart for the popularity +which to some was so easily accorded. These from his distance he admired +extravagantly; and though he was inclined to be more sarcastic with them +than with others, though he made little jokes at their expense, he would +have given anything to change places with them. Indeed he would gladly +have changed places with the dullest boy in the school who was whole of +limb. He took to a singular habit. He would imagine that he was some boy +whom he had a particular fancy for; he would throw his soul, as it were, +into the other's body, talk with his voice and laugh with his heart; he +would imagine himself doing all the things the other did. It was so vivid +that he seemed for a moment really to be no longer himself. In this way he +enjoyed many intervals of fantastic happiness. + +At the beginning of the Christmas term which followed on his confirmation +Philip found himself moved into another study. One of the boys who shared +it was called Rose. He was in the same form as Philip, and Philip had +always looked upon him with envious admiration. He was not good-looking; +though his large hands and big bones suggested that he would be a tall +man, he was clumsily made; but his eyes were charming, and when he laughed +(he was constantly laughing) his face wrinkled all round them in a jolly +way. He was neither clever nor stupid, but good enough at his work and +better at games. He was a favourite with masters and boys, and he in his +turn liked everyone. + +When Philip was put in the study he could not help seeing that the others, +who had been together for three terms, welcomed him coldly. It made him +nervous to feel himself an intruder; but he had learned to hide his +feelings, and they found him quiet and unobtrusive. With Rose, because he +was as little able as anyone else to resist his charm, Philip was even +more than usually shy and abrupt; and whether on account of this, +unconsciously bent upon exerting the fascination he knew was his only by +the results, or whether from sheer kindness of heart, it was Rose who +first took Philip into the circle. One day, quite suddenly, he asked +Philip if he would walk to the football field with him. Philip flushed. + +"I can't walk fast enough for you," he said. + +"Rot. Come on." + +And just before they were setting out some boy put his head in the +study-door and asked Rose to go with him. + +"I can't," he answered. "I've already promised Carey." + +"Don't bother about me," said Philip quickly. "I shan't mind." + +"Rot," said Rose. + +He looked at Philip with those good-natured eyes of his and laughed. +Philip felt a curious tremor in his heart. + +In a little while, their friendship growing with boyish rapidity, the pair +were inseparable. Other fellows wondered at the sudden intimacy, and Rose +was asked what he saw in Philip. + +"Oh, I don't know," he answered. "He's not half a bad chap really." + +Soon they grew accustomed to the two walking into chapel arm in arm or +strolling round the precincts in conversation; wherever one was the other +could be found also, and, as though acknowledging his proprietorship, boys +who wanted Rose would leave messages with Carey. Philip at first was +reserved. He would not let himself yield entirely to the proud joy that +filled him; but presently his distrust of the fates gave way before a wild +happiness. He thought Rose the most wonderful fellow he had ever seen. His +books now were insignificant; he could not bother about them when there +was something infinitely more important to occupy him. Rose's friends used +to come in to tea in the study sometimes or sit about when there was +nothing better to do--Rose liked a crowd and the chance of a rag--and they +found that Philip was quite a decent fellow. Philip was happy. + +When the last day of term came he and Rose arranged by which train they +should come back, so that they might meet at the station and have tea in +the town before returning to school. Philip went home with a heavy heart. +He thought of Rose all through the holidays, and his fancy was active with +the things they would do together next term. He was bored at the vicarage, +and when on the last day his uncle put him the usual question in the usual +facetious tone: + +"Well, are you glad to be going back to school?" + +Philip answered joyfully. + +"Rather." + +In order to be sure of meeting Rose at the station he took an earlier +train than he usually did, and he waited about the platform for an hour. +When the train came in from Faversham, where he knew Rose had to change, +he ran along it excitedly. But Rose was not there. He got a porter to tell +him when another train was due, and he waited; but again he was +disappointed; and he was cold and hungry, so he walked, through +side-streets and slums, by a short cut to the school. He found Rose in the +study, with his feet on the chimney-piece, talking eighteen to the dozen +with half a dozen boys who were sitting on whatever there was to sit on. +He shook hands with Philip enthusiastically, but Philip's face fell, for +he realised that Rose had forgotten all about their appointment. + +"I say, why are you so late?" said Rose. "I thought you were never +coming." + +"You were at the station at half-past four," said another boy. "I saw you +when I came." + +Philip blushed a little. He did not want Rose to know that he had been +such a fool as to wait for him. + +"I had to see about a friend of my people's," he invented readily. "I was +asked to see her off." + +But his disappointment made him a little sulky. He sat in silence, and +when spoken to answered in monosyllables. He was making up his mind to +have it out with Rose when they were alone. But when the others had gone +Rose at once came over and sat on the arm of the chair in which Philip was +lounging. + +"I say, I'm jolly glad we're in the same study this term. Ripping, isn't +it?" + +He seemed so genuinely pleased to see Philip that Philip's annoyance +vanished. They began as if they had not been separated for five minutes to +talk eagerly of the thousand things that interested them. + + + +XIX + + +At first Philip had been too grateful for Rose's friendship to make any +demands on him. He took things as they came and enjoyed life. But +presently he began to resent Rose's universal amiability; he wanted a more +exclusive attachment, and he claimed as a right what before he had +accepted as a favour. He watched jealously Rose's companionship with +others; and though he knew it was unreasonable could not help sometimes +saying bitter things to him. If Rose spent an hour playing the fool in +another study, Philip would receive him when he returned to his own with +a sullen frown. He would sulk for a day, and he suffered more because Rose +either did not notice his ill-humour or deliberately ignored it. Not +seldom Philip, knowing all the time how stupid he was, would force a +quarrel, and they would not speak to one another for a couple of days. But +Philip could not bear to be angry with him long, and even when convinced +that he was in the right, would apologise humbly. Then for a week they +would be as great friends as ever. But the best was over, and Philip could +see that Rose often walked with him merely from old habit or from fear of +his anger; they had not so much to say to one another as at first, and +Rose was often bored. Philip felt that his lameness began to irritate him. + +Towards the end of the term two or three boys caught scarlet fever, and +there was much talk of sending them all home in order to escape an +epidemic; but the sufferers were isolated, and since no more were attacked +it was supposed that the outbreak was stopped. One of the stricken was +Philip. He remained in hospital through the Easter holidays, and at the +beginning of the summer term was sent home to the vicarage to get a little +fresh air. The Vicar, notwithstanding medical assurance that the boy was +no longer infectious, received him with suspicion; he thought it very +inconsiderate of the doctor to suggest that his nephew's convalescence +should be spent by the seaside, and consented to have him in the house +only because there was nowhere else he could go. + +Philip went back to school at half-term. He had forgotten the quarrels he +had had with Rose, but remembered only that he was his greatest friend. He +knew that he had been silly. He made up his mind to be more reasonable. +During his illness Rose had sent him in a couple of little notes, and he +had ended each with the words: "Hurry up and come back." Philip thought +Rose must be looking forward as much to his return as he was himself to +seeing Rose. + +He found that owing to the death from scarlet fever of one of the boys in +the Sixth there had been some shifting in the studies and Rose was no +longer in his. It was a bitter disappointment. But as soon as he arrived +he burst into Rose's study. Rose was sitting at his desk, working with a +boy called Hunter, and turned round crossly as Philip came in. + +"Who the devil's that?" he cried. And then, seeing Philip: "Oh, it's you." + +Philip stopped in embarrassment. + +"I thought I'd come in and see how you were." + +"We were just working." + +Hunter broke into the conversation. + +"When did you get back?" + +"Five minutes ago." + +They sat and looked at him as though he was disturbing them. They +evidently expected him to go quickly. Philip reddened. + +"I'll be off. You might look in when you've done," he said to Rose. + +"All right." + +Philip closed the door behind him and limped back to his own study. He +felt frightfully hurt. Rose, far from seeming glad to see him, had looked +almost put out. They might never have been more than acquaintances. Though +he waited in his study, not leaving it for a moment in case just then Rose +should come, his friend never appeared; and next morning when he went in +to prayers he saw Rose and Hunter singing along arm in arm. What he could +not see for himself others told him. He had forgotten that three months is +a long time in a schoolboy's life, and though he had passed them in +solitude Rose had lived in the world. Hunter had stepped into the vacant +place. Philip found that Rose was quietly avoiding him. But he was not the +boy to accept a situation without putting it into words; he waited till he +was sure Rose was alone in his study and went in. + +"May I come in?" he asked. + +Rose looked at him with an embarrassment that made him angry with Philip. + +"Yes, if you want to." + +"It's very kind of you," said Philip sarcastically. + +"What d'you want?" + +"I say, why have you been so rotten since I came back?" + +"Oh, don't be an ass," said Rose. + +"I don't know what you see in Hunter." + +"That's my business." + +Philip looked down. He could not bring himself to say what was in his +heart. He was afraid of humiliating himself. Rose got up. + +"I've got to go to the Gym," he said. + +When he was at the door Philip forced himself to speak. + +"I say, Rose, don't be a perfect beast." + +"Oh, go to hell." + +Rose slammed the door behind him and left Philip alone. Philip shivered +with rage. He went back to his study and turned the conversation over in +his mind. He hated Rose now, he wanted to hurt him, he thought of biting +things he might have said to him. He brooded over the end to their +friendship and fancied that others were talking of it. In his +sensitiveness he saw sneers and wonderings in other fellows' manner when +they were not bothering their heads with him at all. He imagined to +himself what they were saying. + +"After all, it wasn't likely to last long. I wonder he ever stuck Carey at +all. Blighter!" + +To show his indifference he struck up a violent friendship with a boy +called Sharp whom he hated and despised. He was a London boy, with a +loutish air, a heavy fellow with the beginnings of a moustache on his lip +and bushy eyebrows that joined one another across the bridge of his nose. +He had soft hands and manners too suave for his years. He spoke with the +suspicion of a cockney accent. He was one of those boys who are too slack +to play games, and he exercised great ingenuity in making excuses to avoid +such as were compulsory. He was regarded by boys and masters with a vague +dislike, and it was from arrogance that Philip now sought his society. +Sharp in a couple of terms was going to Germany for a year. He hated +school, which he looked upon as an indignity to be endured till he was old +enough to go out into the world. London was all he cared for, and he had +many stories to tell of his doings there during the holidays. From his +conversation--he spoke in a soft, deep-toned voice--there emerged the +vague rumour of the London streets by night. Philip listened to him at +once fascinated and repelled. With his vivid fancy he seemed to see the +surging throng round the pit-door of theatres, and the glitter of cheap +restaurants, bars where men, half drunk, sat on high stools talking with +barmaids; and under the street lamps the mysterious passing of dark crowds +bent upon pleasure. Sharp lent him cheap novels from Holywell Row, which +Philip read in his cubicle with a sort of wonderful fear. + +Once Rose tried to effect a reconciliation. He was a good-natured fellow, +who did not like having enemies. + +"I say, Carey, why are you being such a silly ass? It doesn't do you any +good cutting me and all that." + +"I don't know what you mean," answered Philip. + +"Well, I don't see why you shouldn't talk." + +"You bore me," said Philip. + +"Please yourself." + +Rose shrugged his shoulders and left him. Philip was very white, as he +always became when he was moved, and his heart beat violently. When Rose +went away he felt suddenly sick with misery. He did not know why he had +answered in that fashion. He would have given anything to be friends with +Rose. He hated to have quarrelled with him, and now that he saw he had +given him pain he was very sorry. But at the moment he had not been master +of himself. It seemed that some devil had seized him, forcing him to say +bitter things against his will, even though at the time he wanted to shake +hands with Rose and meet him more than halfway. The desire to wound had +been too strong for him. He had wanted to revenge himself for the pain and +the humiliation he had endured. It was pride: it was folly too, for he +knew that Rose would not care at all, while he would suffer bitterly. The +thought came to him that he would go to Rose, and say: + +"I say, I'm sorry I was such a beast. I couldn't help it. Let's make it +up." + +But he knew he would never be able to do it. He was afraid that Rose would +sneer at him. He was angry with himself, and when Sharp came in a little +while afterwards he seized upon the first opportunity to quarrel with him. +Philip had a fiendish instinct for discovering other people's raw spots, +and was able to say things that rankled because they were true. But Sharp +had the last word. + +"I heard Rose talking about you to Mellor just now," he said. "Mellor +said: Why didn't you kick him? It would teach him manners. And Rose said: +I didn't like to. Damned cripple." + +Philip suddenly became scarlet. He could not answer, for there was a lump +in his throat that almost choked him. + + + +XX + + +Philip was moved into the Sixth, but he hated school now with all his +heart, and, having lost his ambition, cared nothing whether he did ill or +well. He awoke in the morning with a sinking heart because he must go +through another day of drudgery. He was tired of having to do things +because he was told; and the restrictions irked him, not because they were +unreasonable, but because they were restrictions. He yearned for freedom. +He was weary of repeating things that he knew already and of the hammering +away, for the sake of a thick-witted fellow, at something that he +understood from the beginning. + +With Mr. Perkins you could work or not as you chose. He was at once eager +and abstracted. The Sixth Form room was in a part of the old abbey which +had been restored, and it had a gothic window: Philip tried to cheat his +boredom by drawing this over and over again; and sometimes out of his head +he drew the great tower of the Cathedral or the gateway that led into the +precincts. He had a knack for drawing. Aunt Louisa during her youth had +painted in water colours, and she had several albums filled with sketches +of churches, old bridges, and picturesque cottages. They were often shown +at the vicarage tea-parties. She had once given Philip a paint-box as a +Christmas present, and he had started by copying her pictures. He copied +them better than anyone could have expected, and presently he did little +pictures of his own. Mrs. Carey encouraged him. It was a good way to keep +him out of mischief, and later on his sketches would be useful for +bazaars. Two or three of them had been framed and hung in his bed-room. + +But one day, at the end of the morning's work, Mr. Perkins stopped him as +he was lounging out of the form-room. + +"I want to speak to you, Carey." + +Philip waited. Mr. Perkins ran his lean fingers through his beard and +looked at Philip. He seemed to be thinking over what he wanted to say. + +"What's the matter with you, Carey?" he said abruptly. + +Philip, flushing, looked at him quickly. But knowing him well by now, +without answering, he waited for him to go on. + +"I've been dissatisfied with you lately. You've been slack and +inattentive. You seem to take no interest in your work. It's been slovenly +and bad." + +"I'm very sorry, sir," said Philip. + +"Is that all you have to say for yourself?" + +Philip looked down sulkily. How could he answer that he was bored to +death? + +"You know, this term you'll go down instead of up. I shan't give you a +very good report." + +Philip wondered what he would say if he knew how the report was treated. +It arrived at breakfast, Mr. Carey glanced at it indifferently, and passed +it over to Philip. + +"There's your report. You'd better see what it says," he remarked, as he +ran his fingers through the wrapper of a catalogue of second-hand books. + +Philip read it. + +"Is it good?" asked Aunt Louisa. + +"Not so good as I deserve," answered Philip, with a smile, giving it to +her. + +"I'll read it afterwards when I've got my spectacles," she said. + +But after breakfast Mary Ann came in to say the butcher was there, and she +generally forgot. + +Mr. Perkins went on. + +"I'm disappointed with you. And I can't understand. I know you can do +things if you want to, but you don't seem to want to any more. I was going +to make you a monitor next term, but I think I'd better wait a bit." + +Philip flushed. He did not like the thought of being passed over. He +tightened his lips. + +"And there's something else. You must begin thinking of your scholarship +now. You won't get anything unless you start working very seriously." + +Philip was irritated by the lecture. He was angry with the headmaster, and +angry with himself. + +"I don't think I'm going up to Oxford," he said. + +"Why not? I thought your idea was to be ordained." + +"I've changed my mind." + +"Why?" + +Philip did not answer. Mr. Perkins, holding himself oddly as he always +did, like a figure in one of Perugino's pictures, drew his fingers +thoughtfully through his beard. He looked at Philip as though he were +trying to understand and then abruptly told him he might go. + +Apparently he was not satisfied, for one evening, a week later, when +Philip had to go into his study with some papers, he resumed the +conversation; but this time he adopted a different method: he spoke to +Philip not as a schoolmaster with a boy but as one human being with +another. He did not seem to care now that Philip's work was poor, that he +ran small chance against keen rivals of carrying off the scholarship +necessary for him to go to Oxford: the important matter was his changed +intention about his life afterwards. Mr. Perkins set himself to revive his +eagerness to be ordained. With infinite skill he worked on his feelings, +and this was easier since he was himself genuinely moved. Philip's change +of mind caused him bitter distress, and he really thought he was throwing +away his chance of happiness in life for he knew not what. His voice was +very persuasive. And Philip, easily moved by the emotion of others, very +emotional himself notwithstanding a placid exterior--his face, partly by +nature but also from the habit of all these years at school, seldom except +by his quick flushing showed what he felt--Philip was deeply touched by +what the master said. He was very grateful to him for the interest he +showed, and he was conscience-stricken by the grief which he felt his +behaviour caused him. It was subtly flattering to know that with the whole +school to think about Mr. Perkins should trouble with him, but at the same +time something else in him, like another person standing at his elbow, +clung desperately to two words. + +"I won't. I won't. I won't." + +He felt himself slipping. He was powerless against the weakness that +seemed to well up in him; it was like the water that rises up in an empty +bottle held over a full basin; and he set his teeth, saying the words over +and over to himself. + +"I won't. I won't. I won't." + +At last Mr. Perkins put his hand on Philip's shoulder. + +"I don't want to influence you," he said. "You must decide for yourself. +Pray to Almighty God for help and guidance." + +When Philip came out of the headmaster's house there was a light rain +falling. He went under the archway that led to the precincts, there was +not a soul there, and the rooks were silent in the elms. He walked round +slowly. He felt hot, and the rain did him good. He thought over all that +Mr. Perkins had said, calmly now that he was withdrawn from the fervour of +his personality, and he was thankful he had not given way. + +In the darkness he could but vaguely see the great mass of the Cathedral: +he hated it now because of the irksomeness of the long services which he +was forced to attend. The anthem was interminable, and you had to stand +drearily while it was being sung; you could not hear the droning sermon, +and your body twitched because you had to sit still when you wanted to +move about. Then philip thought of the two services every Sunday at +Blackstable. The church was bare and cold, and there was a smell all about +one of pomade and starched clothes. The curate preached once and his uncle +preached once. As he grew up he had learned to know his uncle; Philip was +downright and intolerant, and he could not understand that a man might +sincerely say things as a clergyman which he never acted up to as a man. +The deception outraged him. His uncle was a weak and selfish man, whose +chief desire it was to be saved trouble. + +Mr. Perkins had spoken to him of the beauty of a life dedicated to the +service of God. Philip knew what sort of lives the clergy led in the +corner of East Anglia which was his home. There was the Vicar of +Whitestone, a parish a little way from Blackstable: he was a bachelor and +to give himself something to do had lately taken up farming: the local +paper constantly reported the cases he had in the county court against +this one and that, labourers he would not pay their wages to or tradesmen +whom he accused of cheating him; scandal said he starved his cows, and +there was much talk about some general action which should be taken +against him. Then there was the Vicar of Ferne, a bearded, fine figure of +a man: his wife had been forced to leave him because of his cruelty, and +she had filled the neighbourhood with stories of his immorality. The Vicar +of Surle, a tiny hamlet by the sea, was to be seen every evening in the +public house a stone's throw from his vicarage; and the churchwardens had +been to Mr. Carey to ask his advice. There was not a soul for any of them +to talk to except small farmers or fishermen; there were long winter +evenings when the wind blew, whistling drearily through the leafless +trees, and all around they saw nothing but the bare monotony of ploughed +fields; and there was poverty, and there was lack of any work that seemed +to matter; every kink in their characters had free play; there was nothing +to restrain them; they grew narrow and eccentric: Philip knew all this, +but in his young intolerance he did not offer it as an excuse. He shivered +at the thought of leading such a life; he wanted to get out into the +world. + + + +XXI + + +Mr. Perkins soon saw that his words had had no effect on Philip, and for +the rest of the term ignored him. He wrote a report which was vitriolic. +When it arrived and Aunt Louisa asked Philip what it was like, he answered +cheerfully. + +"Rotten." + +"Is it?" said the Vicar. "I must look at it again." + +"Do you think there's any use in my staying on at Tercanbury? I should +have thought it would be better if I went to Germany for a bit." + +"What has put that in your head?" said Aunt Louisa. + +"Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" + +Sharp had already left King's School and had written to Philip from +Hanover. He was really starting life, and it made Philip more restless to +think of it. He felt he could not bear another year of restraint. + +"But then you wouldn't get a scholarship." + +"I haven't a chance of getting one anyhow. And besides, I don't know that +I particularly want to go to Oxford." + +"But if you're going to be ordained, Philip?" Aunt Louisa exclaimed in +dismay. + +"I've given up that idea long ago." + +Mrs. Carey looked at him with startled eyes, and then, used to +self-restraint, she poured out another cup of tea for his uncle. They did +not speak. In a moment Philip saw tears slowly falling down her cheeks. +His heart was suddenly wrung because he caused her pain. In her tight +black dress, made by the dressmaker down the street, with her wrinkled +face and pale tired eyes, her gray hair still done in the frivolous +ringlets of her youth, she was a ridiculous but strangely pathetic figure. +Philip saw it for the first time. + +Afterwards, when the Vicar was shut up in his study with the curate, he +put his arms round her waist. + +"I say, I'm sorry you're upset, Aunt Louisa," he said. "But it's no good +my being ordained if I haven't a real vocation, is it?" + +"I'm so disappointed, Philip," she moaned. "I'd set my heart on it. I +thought you could be your uncle's curate, and then when our time +came--after all, we can't last for ever, can we?--you might have taken his +place." + +Philip shivered. He was seized with panic. His heart beat like a pigeon in +a trap beating with its wings. His aunt wept softly, her head upon his +shoulder. + +"I wish you'd persuade Uncle William to let me leave Tercanbury. I'm so +sick of it." + +But the Vicar of Blackstable did not easily alter any arrangements he had +made, and it had always been intended that Philip should stay at King's +School till he was eighteen, and should then go to Oxford. At all events +he would not hear of Philip leaving then, for no notice had been given and +the term's fee would have to be paid in any case. + +"Then will you give notice for me to leave at Christmas?" said Philip, at +the end of a long and often bitter conversation. + +"I'll write to Mr. Perkins about it and see what he says." + +"Oh, I wish to goodness I were twenty-one. It is awful to be at somebody +else's beck and call." + +"Philip, you shouldn't speak to your uncle like that," said Mrs. Carey +gently. + +"But don't you see that Perkins will want me to stay? He gets so much a +head for every chap in the school." + +"Why don't you want to go to Oxford?" + +"What's the good if I'm not going into the Church?" + +"You can't go into the Church: you're in the Church already," said the +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 to think he is doing very well +and he feels it is wasting his money to stay on. I should be very much +obliged if you would have a talk to him, and if he is still of the same +mind perhaps it would be better if he left at Christmas as I originally +intended. + Yours very truly, + William Carey. + +Philip gave him back the letter. He felt a thrill of pride in his triumph. +He had got his own way, and he was satisfied. His will had gained a +victory over the wills of others. + +"It's not much good my spending half an hour writing to your uncle if he +changes his mind the next letter he gets from you," said the headmaster +irritably. + +Philip said nothing, and his face was perfectly placid; but he could not +prevent the twinkle in his eyes. Mr. Perkins noticed it and broke into a +little laugh. + +"You've rather scored, haven't you?" he said. + +Then Philip smiled outright. He could not conceal his exultation. + +"Is it true that you're very anxious to leave?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"Are you unhappy here?" + +Philip blushed. He hated instinctively any attempt to get into the depths +of his feelings. + +"Oh, I don't know, sir." + +Mr. Perkins, slowly dragging his fingers through his beard, looked at him +thoughtfully. He seemed to speak almost to himself. + +"Of course schools are made for the average. The holes are all round, and +whatever shape the pegs are they must wedge in somehow. One hasn't time to +bother about anything but the average." Then suddenly he addressed himself +to Philip: "Look here, I've got a suggestion to make to you. It's getting +on towards the end of the term now. Another term won't kill you, and if +you want to go to Germany you'd better go after Easter than after +Christmas. It'll be much pleasanter in the spring than in midwinter. If at +the end of the next term you still want to go I'll make no objection. What +d'you say to that?" + +"Thank you very much, sir." + +Philip was so glad to have gained the last three months that he did not +mind the extra term. The school seemed less of a prison when he knew that +before Easter he would be free from it for ever. His heart danced within +him. That evening in chapel he looked round at the boys, standing +according to their forms, each in his due place, and he chuckled with +satisfaction at the thought that soon he would never see them again. It +made him regard them almost with a friendly feeling. His eyes rested on +Rose. Rose took his position as a monitor very seriously: he had quite an +idea of being a good influence in the school; it was his turn to read the +lesson that evening, and he read it very well. Philip smiled when he +thought that he would be rid of him for ever, and it would not matter in +six months whether Rose was tall and straight-limbed; and where would the +importance be that he was a monitor and captain of the eleven? Philip +looked at the masters in their gowns. Gordon was dead, he had died of +apoplexy two years before, but all the rest were there. Philip knew now +what a poor lot they were, except Turner perhaps, there was something of +a man in him; and he writhed at the thought of the subjection in which +they had held him. In six months they would not matter either. Their +praise would mean nothing to him, and he would shrug his shoulders at +their censure. + +Philip had learned not to express his emotions by outward signs, and +shyness still tormented him, but he had often very high spirits; and then, +though he limped about demurely, silent and reserved, it seemed to be +hallooing in his heart. He seemed to himself to walk more lightly. All +sorts of ideas danced through his head, fancies chased one another so +furiously that he could not catch them; but their coming and their going +filled him with exhilaration. Now, being happy, he was able to work, and +during the remaining weeks of the term set himself to make up for his long +neglect. His brain worked easily, and he took a keen pleasure in the +activity of his intellect. He did very well in the examinations that +closed the term. Mr. Perkins made only one remark: he was talking to him +about an essay he had written, and, after the usual criticisms, said: + +"So you've made up your mind to stop playing the fool for a bit, have +you?" + +He smiled at him with his shining teeth, and Philip, looking down, gave an +embarrassed smile. + +The half dozen boys who expected to divide between them the various prizes +which were given at the end of the summer term had ceased to look upon +Philip as a serious rival, but now they began to regard him with some +uneasiness. He told no one that he was leaving at Easter and so was in no +sense a competitor, but left them to their anxieties. He knew that Rose +flattered himself on his French, for he had spent two or three holidays in +France; and he expected to get the Dean's Prize for English essay; Philip +got a good deal of satisfaction in watching his dismay when he saw how +much better Philip was doing in these subjects than himself. Another +fellow, Norton, could not go to Oxford unless he got one of the +scholarships at the disposal of the school. He asked Philip if he was +going in for them. + +"Have you any objection?" asked Philip. + +It entertained him to think that he held someone else's future in his +hand. There was something romantic in getting these various rewards +actually in his grasp, and then leaving them to others because he +disdained them. At last the breaking-up day came, and he went to Mr. +Perkins to bid him good-bye. + +"You don't mean to say you really want to leave?" + + Philip's face fell at the headmaster's evident surprise. + +"You said you wouldn't put any objection in the way, sir," he answered. + +"I thought it was only a whim that I'd better humour. I know you're +obstinate and headstrong. What on earth d'you want to leave for now? +You've only got another term in any case. You can get the Magdalen +scholarship easily; you'll get half the prizes we've got to give." + +Philip looked at him sullenly. He felt that he had been tricked; but he +had the promise, and Perkins would have to stand by it. + +"You'll have a very pleasant time at Oxford. You needn't decide at once +what you're going to do afterwards. I wonder if you realise how delightful +the life is up there for anyone who has brains." + +"I've made all my arrangements now to go to Germany, sir," said Philip. + +"Are they arrangements that couldn't possibly be altered?" asked Mr. +Perkins, with his quizzical smile. "I shall be very sorry to lose you. In +schools the rather stupid boys who work always do better than the clever +boy who's idle, but when the clever boy works--why then, he does what +you've done this term." + +Philip flushed darkly. He was unused to compliments, and no one had ever +told him he was clever. The headmaster put his hand on Philip's shoulder. + +"You know, driving things into the heads of thick-witted boys is dull +work, but when now and then you have the chance of teaching a boy who +comes half-way towards you, who understands almost before you've got the +words out of your mouth, why, then teaching is the most exhilarating thing +in the world." Philip was melted by kindness; it had never occurred to him +that it mattered really to Mr. Perkins whether he went or stayed. He was +touched and immensely flattered. It would be pleasant to end up his +school-days with glory and then go to Oxford: in a flash there appeared +before him the life which he had heard described from boys who came back +to play in the O.K.S. match or in letters from the University read out in +one of the studies. But he was ashamed; he would look such a fool in his +own eyes if he gave in now; his uncle would chuckle at the success of the +headmaster's ruse. It was rather a come-down from the dramatic surrender +of all these prizes which were in his reach, because he disdained to take +them, to the plain, ordinary winning of them. It only required a little +more persuasion, just enough to save his self-respect, and Philip would +have done anything that Mr. Perkins wished; but his face showed nothing of +his conflicting emotions. It was placid and sullen. + +"I think I'd rather go, sir," he said. + +Mr. Perkins, like many men who manage things by their personal influence, +grew a little impatient when his power was not immediately manifest. He +had a great deal of work to do, and could not waste more time on a boy who +seemed to him insanely obstinate. + +"Very well, I promised to let you if you really wanted it, and I keep my +promise. When do you go to Germany?" + +Philip's heart beat violently. The battle was won, and he did not know +whether he had not rather lost it. + +"At the beginning of May, sir," he answered. + +"Well, you must come and see us when you get back." + +He held out his hand. If he had given him one more chance Philip would +have changed his mind, but he seemed to look upon the matter as settled. +Philip walked out of the house. His school-days were over, and he was +free; but the wild exultation to which he had looked forward at that +moment was not there. He walked round the precincts slowly, and a profound +depression seized him. He wished now that he had not been foolish. He did +not want to go, but he knew he could never bring himself to go to the +headmaster and tell him he would stay. That was a humiliation he could +never put upon himself. He wondered whether he had done right. He was +dissatisfied with himself and with all his circumstances. He asked himself +dully whether whenever you got your way you wished afterwards that you +hadn't. + + + +XXII + + +Philip's uncle had an old friend, called Miss Wilkinson, who lived in +Berlin. She was the daughter of a clergyman, and it was with her father, +the rector of a village in Lincolnshire, that Mr. Carey had spent his last +curacy; on his death, forced to earn her living, she had taken various +situations as a governess in France and Germany. She had kept up a +correspondence with Mrs. Carey, and two or three times had spent her +holidays at Blackstable Vicarage, paying as was usual with the Careys' +unfrequent guests a small sum for her keep. When it became clear that it +was less trouble to yield to Philip's wishes than to resist them, Mrs. +Carey wrote to ask her for advice. Miss Wilkinson recommended Heidelberg +as an excellent place to learn German in and the house of Frau Professor +Erlin as a comfortable home. Philip might live there for thirty marks a +week, and the Professor himself, a teacher at the local high school, would +instruct him. + +Philip arrived in Heidelberg one morning in May. His things were put on a +barrow and he followed the porter out of the station. The sky was bright +blue, and the trees in the avenue through which they passed were thick +with leaves; there was something in the air fresh to Philip, and mingled +with the timidity he felt at entering on a new life, among strangers, was +a great exhilaration. He was a little disconsolate that no one had come to +meet him, and felt very shy when the porter left him at the front door of +a big white house. An untidy lad let him in and took him into a +drawing-room. It was filled with a large suite covered in green velvet, +and in the middle was a round table. On this in water stood a bouquet of +flowers tightly packed together in a paper frill like the bone of a mutton +chop, and carefully spaced round it were books in leather bindings. There +was a musty smell. + +Presently, with an odour of cooking, the Frau Professor came in, a short, +very stout woman with tightly dressed hair and a red face; she had little +eyes, sparkling like beads, and an effusive manner. She took both Philip's +hands and asked him about Miss Wilkinson, who had twice spent a few weeks +with her. She spoke in German and in broken English. Philip could not make +her understand that he did not know Miss Wilkinson. Then her two daughters +appeared. They seemed hardly young to Philip, but perhaps they were not +more than twenty-five: the elder, Thekla, was as short as her mother, with +the same, rather shifty air, but with a pretty face and abundant dark +hair; Anna, her younger sister, was tall and plain, but since she had a +pleasant smile Philip immediately preferred her. After a few minutes of +polite conversation the Frau Professor took Philip to his room and left +him. It was in a turret, looking over the tops of the trees in the Anlage; +and the bed was in an alcove, so that when you sat at the desk it had not +the look of a bed-room at all. Philip unpacked his things and set out all +his books. He was his own master at last. + +A bell summoned him to dinner at one o'clock, and he found the Frau +Professor's guests assembled in the drawing-room. He was introduced to her +husband, a tall man of middle age with a large fair head, turning now to +gray, and mild blue eyes. He spoke to Philip in correct, rather archaic +English, having learned it from a study of the English classics, not from +conversation; and it was odd to hear him use words colloquially which +Philip had only met in the plays of Shakespeare. Frau Professor Erlin +called her establishment a family and not a pension; but it would have +required the subtlety of a metaphysician to find out exactly where the +difference lay. When they sat down to dinner in a long dark apartment that +led out of the drawing-room, Philip, feeling very shy, saw that there were +sixteen people. The Frau Professor sat at one end and carved. The service +was conducted, with a great clattering of plates, by the same clumsy lout +who had opened the door for him; and though he was quick it happened that +the first persons to be served had finished before the last had received +their appointed portions. The Frau Professor insisted that nothing but +German should be spoken, so that Philip, even if his bashfulness had +permitted him to be talkative, was forced to hold his tongue. He looked at +the people among whom he was to live. By the Frau Professor sat several +old ladies, but Philip did not give them much of his attention. There were +two young girls, both fair and one of them very pretty, whom Philip heard +addressed as Fraulein Hedwig and Fraulein Cacilie. Fraulein Cacilie had a +long pig-tail hanging down her back. They sat side by side and chattered +to one another, with smothered laughter: now and then they glanced at +Philip and one of them said something in an undertone; they both giggled, +and Philip blushed awkwardly, feeling that they were making fun of him. +Near them sat a Chinaman, with a yellow face and an expansive smile, who +was studying Western conditions at the University. He spoke so quickly, +with a queer accent, that the girls could not always understand him, and +then they burst out laughing. He laughed too, good-humouredly, and his +almond eyes almost closed as he did so. There were two or three American +men, in black coats, rather yellow and dry of skin: they were theological +students; Philip heard the twang of their New England accent through their +bad German, and he glanced at them with suspicion; for he had been taught +to look upon Americans as wild and desperate barbarians. + +Afterwards, when they had sat for a little on the stiff green velvet +chairs of the drawing-room, Fraulein Anna asked Philip if he would like to +go for a walk with them. + +Philip accepted the invitation. They were quite a party. There were the +two daughters of the Frau Professor, the two other girls, one of the +American students, and Philip. Philip walked by the side of Anna and +Fraulein Hedwig. He was a little fluttered. He had never known any girls. +At Blackstable there were only the farmers' daughters and the girls of the +local tradesmen. He knew them by name and by sight, but he was timid, and +he thought they laughed at his deformity. He accepted willingly the +difference which the Vicar and Mrs. Carey put between their own exalted +rank and that of the farmers. The doctor had two daughters, but they were +both much older than Philip and had been married to successive assistants +while Philip was still a small boy. At school there had been two or three +girls of more boldness than modesty whom some of the boys knew; and +desperate stories, due in all probability to the masculine imagination, +were told of intrigues with them; but Philip had always concealed under a +lofty contempt the terror with which they filled him. His imagination and +the books he had read had inspired in him a desire for the Byronic +attitude; and he was torn between a morbid self-consciousness and a +conviction that he owed it to himself to be gallant. He felt now that he +should be bright and amusing, but his brain seemed empty and he could not +for the life of him think of anything to say. Fraulein Anna, the Frau +Professor's daughter, addressed herself to him frequently from a sense of +duty, but the other said little: she looked at him now and then with +sparkling eyes, and sometimes to his confusion laughed outright. Philip +felt that she thought him perfectly ridiculous. They walked along the side +of a hill among pine-trees, and their pleasant odour caused Philip a keen +delight. The day was warm and cloudless. At last they came to an eminence +from which they saw the valley of the Rhine spread out before them under +the sun. It was a vast stretch of country, sparkling with golden light, +with cities in the distance; and through it meandered the silver ribband +of the river. Wide spaces are rare in the corner of Kent which Philip +knew, the sea offers the only broad horizon, and the immense distance he +saw now gave him a peculiar, an indescribable thrill. He felt suddenly +elated. Though he did not know it, it was the first time that he had +experienced, quite undiluted with foreign emotions, the sense of beauty. +They sat on a bench, the three of them, for the others had gone on, and +while the girls talked in rapid German, Philip, indifferent to their +proximity, feasted his eyes. + +"By Jove, I am happy," he said to himself unconsciously. + + + +XXIII + + +Philip thought occasionally of the King's School at Tercanbury, and +laughed to himself as he remembered what at some particular moment of the +day they were doing. Now and then he dreamed that he was there still, and +it gave him an extraordinary satisfaction, on awaking, to realise that he +was in his little room in the turret. From his bed he could see the great +cumulus clouds that hung in the blue sky. He revelled in his freedom. He +could go to bed when he chose and get up when the fancy took him. There +was no one to order him about. It struck him that he need not tell any +more lies. + +It had been arranged that Professor Erlin should teach him Latin and +German; a Frenchman came every day to give him lessons in French; and the +Frau Professor had recommended for mathematics an Englishman who was +taking a philological degree at the university. This was a man named +Wharton. Philip went to him every morning. He lived in one room on the top +floor of a shabby house. It was dirty and untidy, and it was filled with +a pungent odour made up of many different stinks. He was generally in bed +when Philip arrived at ten o'clock, and he jumped out, put on a filthy +dressing-gown and felt slippers, and, while he gave instruction, ate his +simple breakfast. He was a short man, stout from excessive beer drinking, +with a heavy moustache and long, unkempt hair. He had been in Germany for +five years and was become very Teutonic. He spoke with scorn of Cambridge +where he had taken his degree and with horror of the life which awaited +him when, having taken his doctorate in Heidelberg, he must return to +England and a pedagogic career. He adored the life of the German +university with its happy freedom and its jolly companionships. He was a +member of a Burschenschaft, and promised to take Philip to a Kneipe. He +was very poor and made no secret that the lessons he was giving Philip +meant the difference between meat for his dinner and bread and cheese. +Sometimes after a heavy night he had such a headache that he could not +drink his coffee, and he gave his lesson with heaviness of spirit. For +these occasions he kept a few bottles of beer under the bed, and one of +these and a pipe would help him to bear the burden of life. + +"A hair of the dog that bit him," he would say as he poured out the beer, +carefully so that the foam should not make him wait too long to drink. + +Then he would talk to Philip of the university, the quarrels between rival +corps, the duels, and the merits of this and that professor. Philip learnt +more of life from him than of mathematics. Sometimes Wharton would sit +back with a laugh and say: + +"Look here, we've not done anything today. You needn't pay me for the +lesson." + +"Oh, it doesn't matter," said Philip. + +This was something new and very interesting, and he felt that it was of +greater import than trigonometry, which he never could understand. It was +like a window on life that he had a chance of peeping through, and he +looked with a wildly beating heart. + +"No, you can keep your dirty money," said Wharton. + +"But how about your dinner?" said Philip, with a smile, for he knew +exactly how his master's finances stood. + +Wharton had even asked him to pay him the two shillings which the lesson +cost once a week rather than once a month, since it made things less +complicated. + +"Oh, never mind my dinner. It won't be the first time I've dined off a +bottle of beer, and my mind's never clearer than when I do." + +He dived under the bed (the sheets were gray with want of washing), and +fished out another bottle. Philip, who was young and did not know the good +things of life, refused to share it with him, so he drank alone. + +"How long are you going to stay here?" asked Wharton. + +Both he and Philip had given up with relief the pretence of mathematics. + +"Oh, I don't know. I suppose about a year. Then my people want me to go to +Oxford." + +Wharton gave a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. It was a new +experience for Philip to learn that there were persons who did not look +upon that seat of learning with awe. + +"What d'you want to go there for? You'll only be a glorified schoolboy. +Why don't you matriculate here? A year's no good. Spend five years here. +You know, there are two good things in life, freedom of thought and +freedom of action. In France you get freedom of action: you can do what +you like and nobody bothers, but you must think like everybody else. In +Germany you must do what everybody else does, but you may think as you +choose. They're both very good things. I personally prefer freedom of +thought. But in England you get neither: you're ground down by convention. +You can't think as you like and you can't act as you like. That's because +it's a democratic nation. I expect America's worse." + +He leaned back cautiously, for the chair on which he sat had a ricketty +leg, and it was disconcerting when a rhetorical flourish was interrupted +by a sudden fall to the floor. + +"I ought to go back to England this year, but if I can scrape together +enough to keep body and soul on speaking terms I shall stay another twelve +months. But then I shall have to go. And I must leave all this"--he waved +his arm round the dirty garret, with its unmade bed, the clothes lying on +the floor, a row of empty beer bottles against the wall, piles of unbound, +ragged books in every corner--"for some provincial university where I +shall try and get a chair of philology. And I shall play tennis and go to +tea-parties." He interrupted himself and gave Philip, very neatly dressed, +with a clean collar on and his hair well-brushed, a quizzical look. "And, +my God! I shall have to wash." + +Philip reddened, feeling his own spruceness an intolerable reproach; for +of late he had begun to pay some attention to his toilet, and he had come +out from England with a pretty selection of ties. + +The summer came upon the country like a conqueror. Each day was beautiful. +The sky had an arrogant blue which goaded the nerves like a spur. The +green of the trees in the Anlage was violent and crude; and the houses, +when the sun caught them, had a dazzling white which stimulated till it +hurt. Sometimes on his way back from Wharton Philip would sit in the shade +on one of the benches in the Anlage, enjoying the coolness and watching +the patterns of light which the sun, shining through the leaves, made on +the ground. His soul danced with delight as gaily as the sunbeams. He +revelled in those moments of idleness stolen from his work. Sometimes he +sauntered through the streets of the old town. He looked with awe at the +students of the corps, their cheeks gashed and red, who swaggered about in +their coloured caps. In the afternoons he wandered about the hills with +the girls in the Frau Professor's house, and sometimes they went up the +river and had tea in a leafy beer-garden. In the evenings they walked +round and round the Stadtgarten, listening to the band. + +Philip soon learned the various interests of the household. Fraulein +Thekla, the professor's elder daughter, was engaged to a man in England +who had spent twelve months in the house to learn German, and their +marriage was to take place at the end of the year. But the young man wrote +that his father, an india-rubber merchant who lived in Slough, did not +approve of the union, and Fraulein Thekla was often in tears. Sometimes +she and her mother might be seen, with stern eyes and determined mouths, +looking over the letters of the reluctant lover. Thekla painted in water +colour, and occasionally she and Philip, with another of the girls to keep +them company, would go out and paint little pictures. The pretty Fraulein +Hedwig had amorous troubles too. She was the daughter of a merchant in +Berlin and a dashing hussar had fallen in love with her, a von if you +please: but his parents opposed a marriage with a person of her condition, +and she had been sent to Heidelberg to forget him. She could never, never +do this, and corresponded with him continually, and he was making every +effort to induce an exasperating father to change his mind. She told all +this to Philip with pretty sighs and becoming blushes, and showed him the +photograph of the gay lieutenant. Philip liked her best of all the girls +at the Frau Professor's, and on their walks always tried to get by her +side. He blushed a great deal when the others chaffed him for his obvious +preference. He made the first declaration in his life to Fraulein Hedwig, +but unfortunately it was an accident, and it happened in this manner. In +the evenings when they did not go out, the young women sang little songs +in the green velvet drawing-room, while Fraulein Anna, who always made +herself useful, industriously accompanied. Fraulein Hedwig's favourite +song was called Ich liebe dich, I love you; and one evening after she +had sung this, when Philip was standing with her on the balcony, looking +at the stars, it occurred to him to make some remark about it. He began: + +"Ich liebe dich." + +His German was halting, and he looked about for the word he wanted. The +pause was infinitesimal, but before he could go on Fraulein Hedwig said: + +"Ach, Herr Carey, Sie mussen mir nicht du sagen--you mustn't talk to me +in the second person singular." + +Philip felt himself grow hot all over, for he would never have dared to do +anything so familiar, and he could think of nothing on earth to say. It +would be ungallant to explain that he was not making an observation, but +merely mentioning the title of a song. + +"Entschuldigen Sie," he said. "I beg your pardon." + +"It does not matter," she whispered. + +She smiled pleasantly, quietly took his hand and pressed it, then turned +back into the drawing-room. + +Next day he was so embarrassed that he could not speak to her, and in his +shyness did all that was possible to avoid her. When he was asked to go +for the usual walk he refused because, he said, he had work to do. But +Fraulein Hedwig seized an opportunity to speak to him alone. + +"Why are you behaving in this way?" she said kindly. "You know, I'm not +angry with you for what you said last night. You can't help it if you love +me. I'm flattered. But although I'm not exactly engaged to Hermann I can +never love anyone else, and I look upon myself as his bride." + +Philip blushed again, but he put on quite the expression of a rejected +lover. + +"I hope you'll be very happy," he said. + + + +XXIV + + +Professor Erlin gave Philip a lesson every day. He made out a list of +books which Philip was to read till he was ready for the final achievement +of Faust, and meanwhile, ingeniously enough, started him on a German +translation of one of the plays by Shakespeare which Philip had studied at +school. It was the period in Germany of Goethe's highest fame. +Notwithstanding his rather condescending attitude towards patriotism he +had been adopted as the national poet, and seemed since the war of seventy +to be one of the most significant glories of national unity. The +enthusiastic seemed in the wildness of the Walpurgisnacht to hear the +rattle of artillery at Gravelotte. But one mark of a writer's greatness is +that different minds can find in him different inspirations; and Professor +Erlin, who hated the Prussians, gave his enthusiastic admiration to Goethe +because his works, Olympian and sedate, offered the only refuge for a sane +mind against the onslaughts of the present generation. There was a +dramatist whose name of late had been much heard at Heidelberg, and the +winter before one of his plays had been given at the theatre amid the +cheers of adherents and the hisses of decent people. Philip heard +discussions about it at the Frau Professor's long table, and at these +Professor Erlin lost his wonted calm: he beat the table with his fist, and +drowned all opposition with the roar of his fine deep voice. It was +nonsense and obscene nonsense. He forced himself to sit the play out, but +he did not know whether he was more bored or nauseated. If that was what +the theatre was coming to, then it was high time the police stepped in and +closed the playhouses. He was no prude and could laugh as well as anyone +at the witty immorality of a farce at the Palais Royal, but here was +nothing but filth. With an emphatic gesture he held his nose and whistled +through his teeth. It was the ruin of the family, the uprooting of morals, +the destruction of Germany. + +"Aber, Adolf," said the Frau Professor from the other end of the table. +"Calm yourself." + +He shook his fist at her. He was the mildest of creatures and ventured +upon no action of his life without consulting her. + +"No, Helene, I tell you this," he shouted. "I would sooner my daughters +were lying dead at my feet than see them listening to the garbage of that +shameless fellow." + +The play was The Doll's House and the author was Henrik Ibsen. + +Professor Erlin classed him with Richard Wagner, but of him he spoke not +with anger but with good-humoured laughter. He was a charlatan but a +successful charlatan, and in that was always something for the comic +spirit to rejoice in. + +"Verruckter Kerl! A madman!" he said. + +He had seen Lohengrin and that passed muster. It was dull but no worse. +But Siegfried! When he mentioned it Professor Erlin leaned his head on +his hand and bellowed with laughter. Not a melody in it from beginning to +end! He could imagine Richard Wagner sitting in his box and laughing till +his sides ached at the sight of all the people who were taking it +seriously. It was the greatest hoax of the nineteenth century. He lifted +his glass of beer to his lips, threw back his head, and drank till the +glass was empty. Then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said: + +"I tell you young people that before the nineteenth century is out Wagner +will be as dead as mutton. Wagner! I would give all his works for one +opera by Donizetti." + + + +XXV + + +The oddest of Philip's masters was his teacher of French. Monsieur Ducroz +was a citizen of Geneva. He was a tall old man, with a sallow skin and +hollow cheeks; his gray hair was thin and long. He wore shabby black +clothes, with holes at the elbows of his coat and frayed trousers. His +linen was very dirty. Philip had never seen him in a clean collar. He was +a man of few words, who gave his lesson conscientiously but without +enthusiasm, arriving as the clock struck and leaving on the minute. His +charges were very small. He was taciturn, and what Philip learnt about him +he learnt from others: it appeared that he had fought with Garibaldi +against the Pope, but had left Italy in disgust when it was clear that all +his efforts for freedom, by which he meant the establishment of a +republic, tended to no more than an exchange of yokes; he had been +expelled from Geneva for it was not known what political offences. Philip +looked upon him with puzzled surprise; for he was very unlike his idea of +the revolutionary: he spoke in a low voice and was extraordinarily polite; +he never sat down till he was asked to; and when on rare occasions he met +Philip in the street took off his hat with an elaborate gesture; he never +laughed, he never even smiled. A more complete imagination than Philip's +might have pictured a youth of splendid hope, for he must have been +entering upon manhood in 1848 when kings, remembering their brother of +France, went about with an uneasy crick in their necks; and perhaps that +passion for liberty which passed through Europe, sweeping before it what +of absolutism and tyranny had reared its head during the reaction from the +revolution of 1789, filled no breast with a hotter fire. One might fancy +him, passionate with theories of human equality and human rights, +discussing, arguing, fighting behind barricades in Paris, flying before +the Austrian cavalry in Milan, imprisoned here, exiled from there, hoping +on and upborne ever with the word which seemed so magical, the word +Liberty; till at last, broken with disease and starvation, old, without +means to keep body and soul together but such lessons as he could pick up +from poor students, he found himself in that little neat town under the +heel of a personal tyranny greater than any in Europe. Perhaps his +taciturnity hid a contempt for the human race which had abandoned the +great dreams of his youth and now wallowed in sluggish ease; or perhaps +these thirty years of revolution had taught him that men are unfit for +liberty, and he thought that he had spent his life in the pursuit of that +which was not worth the finding. Or maybe he was tired out and waited only +with indifference for the release of death. + +One day Philip, with the bluntness of his age, asked him if it was true he +had been with Garibaldi. The old man did not seem to attach any importance +to the question. He answered quite quietly in as low a voice as usual. + +"Oui, monsieur." + +"They say you were in the Commune?" + +"Do they? Shall we get on with our work?" + +He held the book open and Philip, intimidated, began to translate the +passage he had prepared. + +One day Monsieur Ducroz seemed to be in great pain. He had been scarcely +able to drag himself up the many stairs to Philip's room: and when he +arrived sat down heavily, his sallow face drawn, with beads of sweat on +his forehead, trying to recover himself. + +"I'm afraid you're ill," said Philip. + +"It's of no consequence." + +But Philip saw that he was suffering, and at the end of the hour asked +whether he would not prefer to give no more lessons till he was better. + +"No," said the old man, in his even low voice. "I prefer to go on while I +am able." + +Philip, morbidly nervous when he had to make any reference to money, +reddened. + +"But it won't make any difference to you," he said. "I'll pay for the +lessons just the same. If you wouldn't mind I'd like to give you the money +for next week in advance." + +Monsieur Ducroz charged eighteen pence an hour. Philip took a ten-mark +piece out of his pocket and shyly put it on the table. He could not bring +himself to offer it as if the old man were a beggar. + +"In that case I think I won't come again till I'm better." He took the +coin and, without anything more than the elaborate bow with which he +always took his leave, went out. + +"Bonjour, monsieur." + +Philip was vaguely disappointed. Thinking he had done a generous thing, he +had expected that Monsieur Ducroz would overwhelm him with expressions of +gratitude. He was taken aback to find that the old teacher accepted the +present as though it were his due. He was so young, he did not realise how +much less is the sense of obligation in those who receive favours than in +those who grant them. Monsieur Ducroz appeared again five or six days +later. He tottered a little more and was very weak, but seemed to have +overcome the severity of the attack. He was no more communicative than he +had been before. He remained mysterious, aloof, and dirty. He made no +reference to his illness till after the lesson: and then, just as he was +leaving, at the door, which he held open, he paused. He hesitated, as +though to speak were difficult. + +"If it hadn't been for the money you gave me I should have starved. It was +all I had to live on." + +He made his solemn, obsequious bow, and went out. Philip felt a little +lump in his throat. He seemed to realise in a fashion the hopeless +bitterness of the old man's struggle, and how hard life was for him when +to himself it was so pleasant. + + + +XXVI + + +Philip had spent three months in Heidelberg when one morning the Frau +Professor told him that an Englishman named Hayward was coming to stay in +the house, and the same evening at supper he saw a new face. For some days +the family had lived in a state of excitement. First, as the result of +heaven knows what scheming, by dint of humble prayers and veiled threats, +the parents of the young Englishman to whom Fraulein Thekla was engaged +had invited her to visit them in England, and she had set off with an +album of water colours to show how accomplished she was and a bundle of +letters to prove how deeply the young man had compromised himself. A week +later Fraulein Hedwig with radiant smiles announced that the lieutenant of +her affections was coming to Heidelberg with his father and mother. +Exhausted by the importunity of their son and touched by the dowry which +Fraulein Hedwig's father offered, the lieutenant's parents had consented +to pass through Heidelberg to make the young woman's acquaintance. The +interview was satisfactory and Fraulein Hedwig had the satisfaction of +showing her lover in the Stadtgarten to the whole of Frau Professor +Erlin's household. The silent old ladies who sat at the top of the table +near the Frau Professor were in a flutter, and when Fraulein Hedwig said +she was to go home at once for the formal engagement to take place, the +Frau Professor, regardless of expense, said she would give a Maibowle. +Professor Erlin prided himself on his skill in preparing this mild +intoxicant, and after supper the large bowl of hock and soda, with scented +herbs floating in it and wild strawberries, was placed with solemnity on +the round table in the drawing-room. Fraulein Anna teased Philip about the +departure of his lady-love, and he felt very uncomfortable and rather +melancholy. Fraulein Hedwig sang several songs, Fraulein Anna played the +Wedding March, and the Professor sang Die Wacht am Rhein. Amid all this +jollification Philip paid little attention to the new arrival. They had +sat opposite one another at supper, but Philip was chattering busily with +Fraulein Hedwig, and the stranger, knowing no German, had eaten his food +in silence. Philip, observing that he wore a pale blue tie, had on that +account taken a sudden dislike to him. He was a man of twenty-six, very +fair, with long, wavy hair through which he passed his hand frequently +with a careless gesture. His eyes were large and blue, but the blue was +very pale, and they looked rather tired already. He was clean-shaven, and +his mouth, notwithstanding its thin lips, was well-shaped. Fraulein Anna +took an interest in physiognomy, and she made Philip notice afterwards how +finely shaped was his skull, and how weak was the lower part of his face. +The head, she remarked, was the head of a thinker, but the jaw lacked +character. Fraulein Anna, foredoomed to a spinster's life, with her high +cheek-bones and large misshapen nose, laid great stress upon character. +While they talked of him he stood a little apart from the others, watching +the noisy party with a good-humoured but faintly supercilious expression. +He was tall and slim. He held himself with a deliberate grace. Weeks, one +of the American students, seeing him alone, went up and began to talk to +him. The pair were oddly contrasted: the American very neat in his black +coat and pepper-and-salt trousers, thin and dried-up, with something of +ecclesiastical unction already in his manner; and the Englishman in his +loose tweed suit, large-limbed and slow of gesture. + +Philip did not speak to the newcomer till next day. They found themselves +alone on the balcony of the drawing-room before dinner. Hayward addressed +him. + +"You're English, aren't you?" + +"Yes." + +"Is the food always as bad it was last night?" + +"It's always about the same." + +"Beastly, isn't it?" + +"Beastly." + +Philip had found nothing wrong with the food at all, and in fact had eaten +it in large quantities with appetite and enjoyment, but he did not want to +show himself a person of so little discrimination as to think a dinner +good which another thought execrable. + +Fraulein Thekla's visit to England made it necessary for her sister to do +more in the house, and she could not often spare the time for long walks; +and Fraulein Cacilie, with her long plait of fair hair and her little +snub-nosed face, had of late shown a certain disinclination for society. +Fraulein Hedwig was gone, and Weeks, the American who generally +accompanied them on their rambles, had set out for a tour of South +Germany. Philip was left a good deal to himself. Hayward sought his +acquaintance; but Philip had an unfortunate trait: from shyness or from +some atavistic inheritance of the cave-dweller, he always disliked people +on first acquaintance; and it was not till he became used to them that he +got over his first impression. It made him difficult of access. He +received Hayward's advances very shyly, and when Hayward asked him one day +to go for a walk he accepted only because he could not think of a civil +excuse. He made his usual apology, angry with himself for the flushing +cheeks he could not control, and trying to carry it off with a laugh. + +"I'm afraid I can't walk very fast." + +"Good heavens, I don't walk for a wager. I prefer to stroll. Don't you +remember the chapter in Marius where Pater talks of the gentle exercise of +walking as the best incentive to conversation?" + +Philip was a good listener; though he often thought of clever things to +say, it was seldom till after the opportunity to say them had passed; but +Hayward was communicative; anyone more experienced than Philip might have +thought he liked to hear himself talk. His supercilious attitude impressed +Philip. He could not help admiring, and yet being awed by, a man who +faintly despised so many things which Philip had looked upon as almost +sacred. He cast down the fetish of exercise, damning with the contemptuous +word pot-hunters all those who devoted themselves to its various forms; +and Philip did not realise that he was merely putting up in its stead the +other fetish of culture. + +They wandered up to the castle, and sat on the terrace that overlooked the +town. It nestled in the valley along the pleasant Neckar with a +comfortable friendliness. The smoke from the chimneys hung over it, a pale +blue haze; and the tall roofs, the spires of the churches, gave it a +pleasantly medieval air. There was a homeliness in it which warmed the +heart. Hayward talked of Richard Feverel and Madame Bovary, of +Verlaine, Dante, and Matthew Arnold. In those days Fitzgerald's +translation of Omar Khayyam was known only to the elect, and Hayward +repeated it to Philip. He was very fond of reciting poetry, his own and +that of others, which he did in a monotonous sing-song. By the time they +reached home Philip's distrust of Hayward was changed to enthusiastic +admiration. + +They made a practice of walking together every afternoon, and Philip +learned presently something of Hayward's circumstances. He was the son of +a country judge, on whose death some time before he had inherited three +hundred a year. His record at Charterhouse was so brilliant that when he +went to Cambridge the Master of Trinity Hall went out of his way to +express his satisfaction that he was going to that college. He prepared +himself for a distinguished career. He moved in the most intellectual +circles: he read Browning with enthusiasm and turned up his well-shaped +nose at Tennyson; he knew all the details of Shelley's treatment of +Harriet; he dabbled in the history of art (on the walls of his rooms were +reproductions of pictures by G. F. Watts, Burne-Jones, and Botticelli); +and he wrote not without distinction verses of a pessimistic character. +His friends told one another that he was a man of excellent gifts, and he +listened to them willingly when they prophesied his future eminence. In +course of time he became an authority on art and literature. He came under +the influence of Newman's Apologia; the picturesqueness of the Roman +Catholic faith appealed to his esthetic sensibility; and it was only the +fear of his father's wrath (a plain, blunt man of narrow ideas, who read +Macaulay) which prevented him from 'going over.' When he only got a pass +degree his friends were astonished; but he shrugged his shoulders and +delicately insinuated that he was not the dupe of examiners. He made one +feel that a first class was ever so slightly vulgar. He described one of +the vivas with tolerant humour; some fellow in an outrageous collar was +asking him questions in logic; it was infinitely tedious, and suddenly he +noticed that he wore elastic-sided boots: it was grotesque and ridiculous; +so he withdrew his mind and thought of the gothic beauty of the Chapel at +King's. But he had spent some delightful days at Cambridge; he had given +better dinners than anyone he knew; and the conversation in his rooms had +been often memorable. He quoted to Philip the exquisite epigram: + +"They told me, Herakleitus, they told me you were dead." + +And now, when he related again the picturesque little anecdote about the +examiner and his boots, he laughed. + +"Of course it was folly," he said, "but it was a folly in which there was +something fine." + +Philip, with a little thrill, thought it magnificent. + +Then Hayward went to London to read for the Bar. He had charming rooms in +Clement's Inn, with panelled walls, and he tried to make them look like +his old rooms at the Hall. He had ambitions that were vaguely political, +he described himself as a Whig, and he was put up for a club which was of +Liberal but gentlemanly flavour. His idea was to practise at the Bar (he +chose the Chancery side as less brutal), and get a seat for some pleasant +constituency as soon as the various promises made him were carried out; +meanwhile he went a great deal to the opera, and made acquaintance with a +small number of charming people who admired the things that he admired. He +joined a dining-club of which the motto was, The Whole, The Good, and The +Beautiful. He formed a platonic friendship with a lady some years older +than himself, who lived in Kensington Square; and nearly every afternoon +he drank tea with her by the light of shaded candles, and talked of George +Meredith and Walter Pater. It was notorious that any fool could pass the +examinations of the Bar Council, and he pursued his studies in a dilatory +fashion. When he was ploughed for his final he looked upon it as a +personal affront. At the same time the lady in Kensington Square told him +that her husband was coming home from India on leave, and was a man, +though worthy in every way, of a commonplace mind, who would not +understand a young man's frequent visits. Hayward felt that life was full +of ugliness, his soul revolted from the thought of affronting again the +cynicism of examiners, and he saw something rather splendid in kicking +away the ball which lay at his feet. He was also a good deal in debt: it +was difficult to live in London like a gentleman on three hundred a year; +and his heart yearned for the Venice and Florence which John Ruskin had so +magically described. He felt that he was unsuited to the vulgar bustle of +the Bar, for he had discovered that it was not sufficient to put your name +on a door to get briefs; and modern politics seemed to lack nobility. He +felt himself a poet. He disposed of his rooms in Clement's Inn and went to +Italy. He had spent a winter in Florence and a winter in Rome, and now was +passing his second summer abroad in Germany so that he might read Goethe +in the original. + +Hayward had one gift which was very precious. He had a real feeling for +literature, and he could impart his own passion with an admirable fluency. +He could throw himself into sympathy with a writer and see all that was +best in him, and then he could talk about him with understanding. Philip +had read a great deal, but he had read without discrimination everything +that he happened to come across, and it was very good for him now to meet +someone who could guide his taste. He borrowed books from the small +lending library which the town possessed and began reading all the +wonderful things that Hayward spoke of. He did not read always with +enjoyment but invariably with perseverance. He was eager for +self-improvement. He felt himself very ignorant and very humble. By the +end of August, when Weeks returned from South Germany, Philip was +completely under Hayward's influence. Hayward did not like Weeks. He +deplored the American's black coat and pepper-and-salt trousers, and spoke +with a scornful shrug of his New England conscience. Philip listened +complacently to the abuse of a man who had gone out of his way to be kind +to him, but when Weeks in his turn made disagreeable remarks about Hayward +he lost his temper. + +"Your new friend looks like a poet," said Weeks, with a thin smile on his +careworn, bitter mouth. + +"He is a poet." + +"Did he tell you so? In America we should call him a pretty fair specimen +of a waster." + +"Well, we're not in America," said Philip frigidly. + +"How old is he? Twenty-five? And he does nothing but stay in pensions and +write poetry." + +"You don't know him," said Philip hotly. + +"Oh yes, I do: I've met a hundred and forty-seven of him." + +Weeks' eyes twinkled, but Philip, who did not understand American humour, +pursed his lips and looked severe. Weeks to Philip seemed a man of middle +age, but he was in point of fact little more than thirty. He had a long, +thin body and the scholar's stoop; his head was large and ugly; he had +pale scanty hair and an earthy skin; his thin mouth and thin, long nose, +and the great protuberance of his frontal bones, gave him an uncouth look. +He was cold and precise in his manner, a bloodless man, without passion; +but he had a curious vein of frivolity which disconcerted the +serious-minded among whom his instincts naturally threw him. He was +studying theology in Heidelberg, but the other theological students of his +own nationality looked upon him with suspicion. He was very unorthodox, +which frightened them; and his freakish humour excited their disapproval. + +"How can you have known a hundred and forty-seven of him?" asked Philip +seriously. + +"I've met him in the Latin Quarter in Paris, and I've met him in pensions +in Berlin and Munich. He lives in small hotels in Perugia and Assisi. He +stands by the dozen before the Botticellis in Florence, and he sits on all +the benches of the Sistine Chapel in Rome. In Italy he drinks a little too +much wine, and in Germany he drinks a great deal too much beer. He always +admires the right thing whatever the right thing is, and one of these days +he's going to write a great work. Think of it, there are a hundred and +forty-seven great works reposing in the bosoms of a hundred and +forty-seven great men, and the tragic thing is that not one of those +hundred and forty-seven great works will ever be written. And yet the +world goes on." + +Weeks spoke seriously, but his gray eyes twinkled a little at the end of +his long speech, and Philip flushed when he saw that the American was +making fun of him. + +"You do talk rot," he said crossly. + + + +XXVII + + +Weeks had two little rooms at the back of Frau Erlin's house, and one of +them, arranged as a parlour, was comfortable enough for him to invite +people to sit in. After supper, urged perhaps by the impish humour which +was the despair of his friends in Cambridge, Mass., he often asked Philip +and Hayward to come in for a chat. He received them with elaborate +courtesy and insisted on their sitting in the only two comfortable chairs +in the room. Though he did not drink himself, with a politeness of which +Philip recognised the irony, he put a couple of bottles of beer at +Hayward's elbow, and he insisted on lighting matches whenever in the heat +of argument Hayward's pipe went out. At the beginning of their +acquaintance Hayward, as a member of so celebrated a university, had +adopted a patronising attitude towards Weeks, who was a graduate of +Harvard; and when by chance the conversation turned upon the Greek +tragedians, a subject upon which Hayward felt he spoke with authority, he +had assumed the air that it was his part to give information rather than +to exchange ideas. Weeks had listened politely, with smiling modesty, till +Hayward finished; then he asked one or two insidious questions, so +innocent in appearance that Hayward, not seeing into what a quandary they +led him, answered blandly; Weeks made a courteous objection, then a +correction of fact, after that a quotation from some little known Latin +commentator, then a reference to a German authority; and the fact was +disclosed that he was a scholar. With smiling ease, apologetically, Weeks +tore to pieces all that Hayward had said; with elaborate civility he +displayed the superficiality of his attainments. He mocked him with gentle +irony. Philip could not help seeing that Hayward looked a perfect fool, +and Hayward had not the sense to hold his tongue; in his irritation, his +self-assurance undaunted, he attempted to argue: he made wild statements +and Weeks amicably corrected them; he reasoned falsely and Weeks proved +that he was absurd: Weeks confessed that he had taught Greek Literature at +Harvard. Hayward gave a laugh of scorn. + +"I might have known it. Of course you read Greek like a schoolmaster," he +said. "I read it like a poet." + +"And do you find it more poetic when you don't quite know what it means? +I thought it was only in revealed religion that a mistranslation improved +the sense." + +At last, having finished the beer, Hayward left Weeks' room hot and +dishevelled; with an angry gesture he said to Philip: + +"Of course the man's a pedant. He has no real feeling for beauty. Accuracy +is the virtue of clerks. It's the spirit of the Greeks that we aim at. +Weeks is like that fellow who went to hear Rubenstein and complained that +he played false notes. False notes! What did they matter when he played +divinely?" + +Philip, not knowing how many incompetent people have found solace in these +false notes, was much impressed. + +Hayward could never resist the opportunity which Weeks offered him of +regaining ground lost on a previous occasion, and Weeks was able with the +greatest ease to draw him into a discussion. Though he could not help +seeing how small his attainments were beside the American's, his British +pertinacity, his wounded vanity (perhaps they are the same thing), would +not allow him to give up the struggle. Hayward seemed to take a delight in +displaying his ignorance, self-satisfaction, and wrongheadedness. Whenever +Hayward said something which was illogical, Weeks in a few words would +show the falseness of his reasoning, pause for a moment to enjoy his +triumph, and then hurry on to another subject as though Christian charity +impelled him to spare the vanquished foe. Philip tried sometimes to put in +something to help his friend, and Weeks gently crushed him, but so kindly, +differently from the way in which he answered Hayward, that even Philip, +outrageously sensitive, could not feel hurt. Now and then, losing his calm +as he felt himself more and more foolish, Hayward became abusive, and only +the American's smiling politeness prevented the argument from degenerating +into a quarrel. On these occasions when Hayward left Weeks' room he +muttered angrily: + +"Damned Yankee!" + +That settled it. It was a perfect answer to an argument which had seemed +unanswerable. + +Though they began by discussing all manner of subjects in Weeks' little +room eventually the conversation always turned to religion: the +theological student took a professional interest in it, and Hayward +welcomed a subject in which hard facts need not disconcert him; when +feeling is the gauge you can snap your angers at logic, and when your +logic is weak that is very agreeable. Hayward found it difficult to +explain his beliefs to Philip without a great flow of words; but it was +clear (and this fell in with Philip's idea of the natural order of +things), that he had been brought up in the church by law established. +Though he had now given up all idea of becoming a Roman Catholic, he still +looked upon that communion with sympathy. He had much to say in its +praise, and he compared favourably its gorgeous ceremonies with the simple +services of the Church of England. He gave Philip Newman's Apologia to +read, and Philip, finding it very dull, nevertheless read it to the end. + +"Read it for its style, not for its matter," said Hayward. + +He talked enthusiastically of the music at the Oratory, and said charming +things about the connection between incense and the devotional spirit. +Weeks listened to him with his frigid smile. + +"You think it proves the truth of Roman Catholicism that John Henry Newman +wrote good English and that Cardinal Manning has a picturesque +appearance?" + +Hayward hinted that he had gone through much trouble with his soul. For a +year he had swum in a sea of darkness. He passed his fingers through his +fair, waving hair and told them that he would not for five hundred pounds +endure again those agonies of mind. Fortunately he had reached calm waters +at last. + +"But what do you believe?" asked Philip, who was never satisfied with +vague statements. + +"I believe in the Whole, the Good, and the Beautiful." + +Hayward with his loose large limbs and the fine carriage of his head +looked very handsome when he said this, and he said it with an air. + +"Is that how you would describe your religion in a census paper?" asked +Weeks, in mild tones. + +"I hate the rigid definition: it's so ugly, so obvious. If you like I will +say that I believe in the church of the Duke of Wellington and Mr. +Gladstone." + +"That's the Church of England," said Philip. + +"Oh wise young man!" retorted Hayward, with a smile which made Philip +blush, for he felt that in putting into plain words what the other had +expressed in a paraphrase, he had been guilty of vulgarity. "I belong to +the Church of England. But I love the gold and the silk which clothe the +priest of Rome, and his celibacy, and the confessional, and purgatory: and +in the darkness of an Italian cathedral, incense-laden and mysterious, I +believe with all my heart in the miracle of the Mass. In Venice I have +seen a fisherwoman come in, barefoot, throw down her basket of fish by her +side, fall on her knees, and pray to the Madonna; and that I felt was the +real faith, and I prayed and believed with her. But I believe also in +Aphrodite and Apollo and the Great God Pan." + +He had a charming voice, and he chose his words as he spoke; he uttered +them almost rhythmically. He would have gone on, but Weeks opened a second +bottle of beer. + +"Let me give you something to drink." + +Hayward turned to Philip with the slightly condescending gesture which so +impressed the youth. + +"Now are you satisfied?" he asked. + +Philip, somewhat bewildered, confessed that he was. + +"I'm disappointed that you didn't add a little Buddhism," said Weeks. "And +I confess I have a sort of sympathy for Mahomet; I regret that you should +have left him out in the cold." + +Hayward laughed, for he was in a good humour with himself that evening, +and the ring of his sentences still sounded pleasant in his ears. He +emptied his glass. + +"I didn't expect you to understand me," he answered. "With your cold +American intelligence you can only adopt the critical attitude. Emerson +and all that sort of thing. But what is criticism? Criticism is purely +destructive; anyone can destroy, but not everyone can build up. You are a +pedant, my dear fellow. The important thing is to construct: I am +constructive; I am a poet." + +Weeks looked at him with eyes which seemed at the same time to be quite +grave and yet to be smiling brightly. + +"I think, if you don't mind my saying so, you're a little drunk." + +"Nothing to speak of," answered Hayward cheerfully. "And not enough for me +to be unable to overwhelm you in argument. But come, I have unbosomed my +soul; now tell us what your religion is." + +Weeks put his head on one side so that he looked like a sparrow on a +perch. + +"I've been trying to find that out for years. I think I'm a Unitarian." + +"But that's a dissenter," said Philip. + +He could not imagine why they both burst into laughter, Hayward +uproariously, and Weeks with a funny chuckle. + +"And in England dissenters aren't gentlemen, are they?" asked Weeks. + +"Well, if you ask me point-blank, they're not," replied Philip rather +crossly. + +He hated being laughed at, and they laughed again. + +"And will you tell me what a gentleman is?" asked Weeks. + +"Oh, I don't know; everyone knows what it is." + +"Are you a gentleman?" + +No doubt had ever crossed Philip's mind on the subject, but he knew it was +not a thing to state of oneself. + +"If a man tells you he's a gentleman you can bet your boots he isn't," he +retorted. + +"Am I a gentleman?" + +Philip's truthfulness made it difficult for him to answer, but he was +naturally polite. + +"Oh, well, you're different," he said. "You're American, aren't you?" + +"I suppose we may take it that only Englishmen are gentlemen," said Weeks +gravely. + +Philip did not contradict him. + +"Couldn't you give me a few more particulars?" asked Weeks. + +Philip reddened, but, growing angry, did not care if he made himself +ridiculous. + +"I can give you plenty" He remembered his uncle's saying that it took +three generations to make a gentleman: it was a companion proverb to the +silk purse and the sow's ear. "First of all he's the son of a gentleman, +and he's been to a public school, and to Oxford or Cambridge." + +"Edinburgh wouldn't do, I suppose?" asked Weeks. + +"And he talks English like a gentleman, and he wears the right sort of +things, and if he's a gentleman he can always tell if another chap's a +gentleman." + +It seemed rather lame to Philip as he went on, but there it was: that was +what he meant by the word, and everyone he had ever known had meant that +too. + +"It is evident to me that I am not a gentleman," said Weeks. "I don't see +why you should have been so surprised because I was a dissenter." + +"I don't quite know what a Unitarian is," said Philip. + +Weeks in his odd way again put his head on one side: you almost expected +him to twitter. + +"A Unitarian very earnestly disbelieves in almost everything that anybody +else believes, and he has a very lively sustaining faith in he doesn't +quite know what." + +"I don't see why you should make fun of me," said Philip. "I really want +to know." + +"My dear friend, I'm not making fun of you. I have arrived at that +definition after years of great labour and the most anxious, nerve-racking +study." + +When Philip and Hayward got up to go, Weeks handed Philip a little book in +a paper cover. + +"I suppose you can read French pretty well by now. I wonder if this would +amuse you." + +Philip thanked him and, taking the book, looked at the title. It was +Renan's Vie de Jesus. + + + +XXVIII + + +It occurred neither to Hayward nor to Weeks that the conversations which +helped them to pass an idle evening were being turned over afterwards in +Philip's active brain. It had never struck him before that religion was a +matter upon which discussion was possible. To him it meant the Church of +England, and not to believe in its tenets was a sign of wilfulness which +could not fail of punishment here or hereafter. There was some doubt in +his mind about the chastisement of unbelievers. It was possible that a +merciful judge, reserving the flames of hell for the heathen--Mahommedans, +Buddhists, and the rest--would spare Dissenters and Roman Catholics +(though at the cost of how much humiliation when they were made to realise +their error!), and it was also possible that He would be pitiful to those +who had had no chance of learning the truth,--this was reasonable enough, +though such were the activities of the Missionary Society there could not +be many in this condition--but if the chance had been theirs and they had +neglected it (in which category were obviously Roman Catholics and +Dissenters), the punishment was sure and merited. It was clear that the +miscreant was in a parlous state. Perhaps Philip had not been taught it in +so many words, but certainly the impression had been given him that only +members of the Church of England had any real hope of eternal happiness. + +One of the things that Philip had heard definitely stated was that the +unbeliever was a wicked and a vicious man; but Weeks, though he believed +in hardly anything that Philip believed, led a life of Christian purity. +Philip had received little kindness in his life, and he was touched by the +American's desire to help him: once when a cold kept him in bed for three +days, Weeks nursed him like a mother. There was neither vice nor +wickedness in him, but only sincerity and loving-kindness. It was +evidently possible to be virtuous and unbelieving. + +Also Philip had been given to understand that people adhered to other +faiths only from obstinacy or self-interest: in their hearts they knew +they were false; they deliberately sought to deceive others. Now, for the +sake of his German he had been accustomed on Sunday mornings to attend the +Lutheran service, but when Hayward arrived he began instead to go with him +to Mass. He noticed that, whereas the Protestant church was nearly empty +and the congregation had a listless air, the Jesuit on the other hand was +crowded and the worshippers seemed to pray with all their hearts. They had +not the look of hypocrites. He was surprised at the contrast; for he knew +of course that the Lutherans, whose faith was closer to that of the Church +of England, on that account were nearer the truth than the Roman +Catholics. Most of the men--it was largely a masculine congregation--were +South Germans; and he could not help saying to himself that if he had been +born in South Germany he would certainly have been a Roman Catholic. He +might just as well have been born in a Roman Catholic country as in +England; and in England as well in a Wesleyan, Baptist, or Methodist +family as in one that fortunately belonged to the church by law +established. He was a little breathless at the danger he had run. Philip +was on friendly terms with the little Chinaman who sat at table with him +twice each day. His name was Sung. He was always smiling, affable, and +polite. It seemed strange that he should frizzle in hell merely because he +was a Chinaman; but if salvation was possible whatever a man's faith was, +there did not seem to be any particular advantage in belonging to the +Church of England. + +Philip, more puzzled than he had ever been in his life, sounded Weeks. He +had to be careful, for he was very sensitive to ridicule; and the +acidulous humour with which the American treated the Church of England +disconcerted him. Weeks only puzzled him more. He made Philip acknowledge +that those South Germans whom he saw in the Jesuit church were every bit +as firmly convinced of the truth of Roman Catholicism as he was of that of +the Church of England, and from that he led him to admit that the +Mahommedan and the Buddhist were convinced also of the truth of their +respective religions. It looked as though knowing that you were right +meant nothing; they all knew they were right. Weeks had no intention of +undermining the boy's faith, but he was deeply interested in religion, and +found it an absorbing topic of conversation. He had described his own +views accurately when he said that he very earnestly disbelieved in almost +everything that other people believed. Once Philip asked him a question, +which he had heard his uncle put when the conversation at the vicarage had +fallen upon some mildly rationalistic work which was then exciting +discussion in the newspapers. + +"But why should you be right and all those fellows like St. Anselm and St. +Augustine be wrong?" + +"You mean that they were very clever and learned men, while you have grave +doubts whether I am either?" asked Weeks. + +"Yes," answered Philip uncertainly, for put in that way his question +seemed impertinent. + +"St. Augustine believed that the earth was flat and that the sun turned +round it." + +"I don't know what that proves." + +"Why, it proves that you believe with your generation. Your saints lived +in an age of faith, when it was practically impossible to disbelieve what +to us is positively incredible." + +"Then how d'you know that we have the truth now?" + +"I don't." + +Philip thought this over for a moment, then he said: + +"I don't see why the things we believe absolutely now shouldn't be just as +wrong as what they believed in the past." + +"Neither do I." + +"Then how can you believe anything at all?" + +"I don't know." + +Philip asked Weeks what he thought of Hayward's religion. + +"Men have always formed gods in their own image," said Weeks. "He believes +in the picturesque." + +Philip paused for a little while, then he said: + +"I don't see why one should believe in God at all." + +The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he realised that he had +ceased to do so. It took his breath away like a plunge into cold water. He +looked at Weeks with startled eyes. Suddenly he felt afraid. He left Weeks +as quickly as he could. He wanted to be alone. It was the most startling +experience that he had ever had. He tried to think it all out; it was very +exciting, since his whole life seemed concerned (he thought his decision +on this matter must profoundly affect its course) and a mistake might lead +to eternal damnation; but the more he reflected the more convinced he was; +and though during the next few weeks he read books, aids to scepticism, +with eager interest it was only to confirm him in what he felt +instinctively. The fact was that he had ceased to believe not for this +reason or the other, but because he had not the religious temperament. +Faith had been forced upon him from the outside. It was a matter of +environment and example. A new environment and a new example gave him the +opportunity to find himself. He put off the faith of his childhood quite +simply, like a cloak that he no longer needed. At first life seemed +strange and lonely without the belief which, though he never realised it, +had been an unfailing support. He felt like a man who has leaned on a +stick and finds himself forced suddenly to walk without assistance. It +really seemed as though the days were colder and the nights more solitary. +But he was upheld by the excitement; it seemed to make life a more +thrilling adventure; and in a little while the stick which he had thrown +aside, the cloak which had fallen from his shoulders, seemed an +intolerable burden of which he had been eased. The religious exercises +which for so many years had been forced upon him were part and parcel of +religion to him. He thought of the collects and epistles which he had been +made to learn by heart, and the long services at the Cathedral through +which he had sat when every limb itched with the desire for movement; and +he remembered those walks at night through muddy roads to the parish +church at Blackstable, and the coldness of that bleak building; he sat +with his feet like ice, his fingers numb and heavy, and all around was the +sickly odour of pomatum. Oh, he had been so bored! His heart leaped when +he saw he was free from all that. + +He was surprised at himself because he ceased to believe so easily, and, +not knowing that he felt as he did on account of the subtle workings of +his inmost nature, he ascribed the certainty he had reached to his own +cleverness. He was unduly pleased with himself. With youth's lack of +sympathy for an attitude other than its own he despised not a little Weeks +and Hayward because they were content with the vague emotion which they +called God and would not take the further step which to himself seemed so +obvious. One day he went alone up a certain hill so that he might see a +view which, he knew not why, filled him always with wild exhilaration. It +was autumn now, but often the days were cloudless still, and then the sky +seemed to glow with a more splendid light: it was as though nature +consciously sought to put a fuller vehemence into the remaining days of +fair weather. He looked down upon the plain, a-quiver with the sun, +stretching vastly before him: in the distance were the roofs of Mannheim +and ever so far away the dimness of Worms. Here and there a more piercing +glitter was the Rhine. The tremendous spaciousness of it was glowing with +rich gold. Philip, as he stood there, his heart beating with sheer joy, +thought how the tempter had stood with Jesus on a high mountain and shown +him the kingdoms of the earth. To Philip, intoxicated with the beauty of +the scene, it seemed that it was the whole world which was spread before +him, and he was eager to step down and enjoy it. He was free from +degrading fears and free from prejudice. He could go his way without the +intolerable dread of hell-fire. Suddenly he realised that he had lost also +that burden of responsibility which made every action of his life a matter +of urgent consequence. He could breathe more freely in a lighter air. He +was responsible only to himself for the things he did. Freedom! He was his +own master at last. From old habit, unconsciously he thanked God that he +no longer believed in Him. + +Drunk with pride in his intelligence and in his fearlessness, Philip +entered deliberately upon a new life. But his loss of faith made less +difference in his behaviour than he expected. Though he had thrown on one +side the Christian dogmas it never occurred to him to criticise the +Christian ethics; he accepted the Christian virtues, and indeed thought it +fine to practise them for their own sake, without a thought of reward or +punishment. There was small occasion for heroism in the Frau Professor's +house, but he was a little more exactly truthful than he had been, and he +forced himself to be more than commonly attentive to the dull, elderly +ladies who sometimes engaged him in conversation. The gentle oath, the +violent adjective, which are typical of our language and which he had +cultivated before as a sign of manliness, he now elaborately eschewed. + +Having settled the whole matter to his satisfaction he sought to put it +out of his mind, but that was more easily said than done; and he could not +prevent the regrets nor stifle the misgivings which sometimes tormented +him. He was so young and had so few friends that immortality had no +particular attractions for him, and he was able without trouble to give up +belief in it; but there was one thing which made him wretched; he told +himself that he was unreasonable, he tried to laugh himself out of such +pathos; but the tears really came to his eyes when he thought that he +would never see again the beautiful mother whose love for him had grown +more precious as the years since her death passed on. And sometimes, as +though the influence of innumerable ancestors, Godfearing and devout, were +working in him unconsciously, there seized him a panic fear that perhaps +after all it was all true, and there was, up there behind the blue sky, a +jealous God who would punish in everlasting flames the atheist. At these +times his reason could offer him no help, he imagined the anguish of a +physical torment which would last endlessly, he felt quite sick with fear +and burst into a violent sweat. At last he would say to himself +desperately: + +"After all, it's not my fault. I can't force myself to believe. If there +is a God after all and he punishes me because I honestly don't believe in +Him I can't help it." + + + +XXIX + + +Winter set in. Weeks went to Berlin to attend the lectures of Paulssen, +and Hayward began to think of going South. The local theatre opened its +doors. Philip and Hayward went to it two or three times a week with the +praiseworthy intention of improving their German, and Philip found it a +more diverting manner of perfecting himself in the language than listening +to sermons. They found themselves in the midst of a revival of the drama. +Several of Ibsen's plays were on the repertory for the winter; Sudermann's +Die Ehre was then a new play, and on its production in the quiet +university town caused the greatest excitement; it was extravagantly +praised and bitterly attacked; other dramatists followed with plays +written under the modern influence, and Philip witnessed a series of works +in which the vileness of mankind was displayed before him. He had never +been to a play in his life till then (poor touring companies sometimes +came to the Assembly Rooms at Blackstable, but the Vicar, partly on +account of his profession, partly because he thought it would be vulgar, +never went to see them) and the passion of the stage seized him. He felt +a thrill the moment he got into the little, shabby, ill-lit theatre. Soon +he came to know the peculiarities of the small company, and by the casting +could tell at once what were the characteristics of the persons in the +drama; but this made no difference to him. To him it was real life. It was +a strange life, dark and tortured, in which men and women showed to +remorseless eyes the evil that was in their hearts: a fair face concealed +a depraved mind; the virtuous used virtue as a mask to hide their secret +vice, the seeming-strong fainted within with their weakness; the honest +were corrupt, the chaste were lewd. You seemed to dwell in a room where +the night before an orgy had taken place: the windows had not been opened +in the morning; the air was foul with the dregs of beer, and stale smoke, +and flaring gas. There was no laughter. At most you sniggered at the +hypocrite or the fool: the characters expressed themselves in cruel words +that seemed wrung out of their hearts by shame and anguish. + +Philip was carried away by the sordid intensity of it. He seemed to see +the world again in another fashion, and this world too he was anxious to +know. After the play was over he went to a tavern and sat in the bright +warmth with Hayward to eat a sandwich and drink a glass of beer. All round +were little groups of students, talking and laughing; and here and there +was a family, father and mother, a couple of sons and a girl; and +sometimes the girl said a sharp thing, and the father leaned back in his +chair and laughed, laughed heartily. It was very friendly and innocent. +There was a pleasant homeliness in the scene, but for this Philip had no +eyes. His thoughts ran on the play he had just come from. + +"You do feel it's life, don't you?" he said excitedly. "You know, I don't +think I can stay here much longer. I want to get to London so that I can +really begin. I want to have experiences. I'm so tired of preparing for +life: I want to live it now." + +Sometimes Hayward left Philip to go home by himself. He would never +exactly reply to Philip's eager questioning, but with a merry, rather +stupid laugh, hinted at a romantic amour; he quoted a few lines of +Rossetti, and once showed Philip a sonnet in which passion and purple, +pessimism and pathos, were packed together on the subject of a young lady +called Trude. Hayward surrounded his sordid and vulgar little adventures +with a glow of poetry, and thought he touched hands with Pericles and +Pheidias because to describe the object of his attentions he used the word +hetaira instead of one of those, more blunt and apt, provided by the +English language. Philip in the daytime had been led by curiosity to pass +through the little street near the old bridge, with its neat white houses +and green shutters, in which according to Hayward the Fraulein Trude +lived; but the women, with brutal faces and painted cheeks, who came out +of their doors and cried out to him, filled him with fear; and he fled in +horror from the rough hands that sought to detain him. He yearned above +all things for experience and felt himself ridiculous because at his age +he had not enjoyed that which all fiction taught him was the most +important thing in life; but he had the unfortunate gift of seeing things +as they were, and the reality which was offered him differed too terribly +from the ideal of his dreams. + +He did not know how wide a country, arid and precipitous, must be crossed +before the traveller through life comes to an acceptance of reality. It is +an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; +but the young know they are wretched, for they are full of the truthless +ideals which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in +contact with the real they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they +were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ideal by the +necessity of selection, and the conversation of their elders, who look +back upon the past through a rosy haze of forgetfulness, prepare them for +an unreal life. They must discover for themselves that all they have read +and all they have been told are lies, lies, lies; and each discovery is +another nail driven into the body on the cross of life. The strange thing +is that each one who has gone through that bitter disillusionment adds to +it in his turn, unconsciously, by the power within him which is stronger +than himself. The companionship of Hayward was the worst possible thing +for Philip. He was a man who saw nothing for himself, but only through a +literary atmosphere, and he was dangerous because he had deceived himself +into sincerity. He honestly mistook his sensuality for romantic emotion, +his vacillation for the artistic temperament, and his idleness for +philosophic calm. His mind, vulgar in its effort at refinement, saw +everything a little larger than life size, with the outlines blurred, in +a golden mist of sentimentality. He lied and never knew that he lied, and +when it was pointed out to him said that lies were beautiful. He was an +idealist. + + + +XXX + + +Philip was restless and dissatisfied. Hayward's poetic allusions troubled +his imagination, and his soul yearned for romance. At least that was how +he put it to himself. + +And it happened that an incident was taking place in Frau Erlin's house +which increased Philip's preoccupation with the matter of sex. Two or +three times on his walks among the hills he had met Fraulein Cacilie +wandering by herself. He had passed her with a bow, and a few yards +further on had seen the Chinaman. He thought nothing of it; but one +evening on his way home, when night had already fallen, he passed two +people walking very close together. Hearing his footstep, they separated +quickly, and though he could not see well in the darkness he was almost +certain they were Cacilie and Herr Sung. Their rapid movement apart +suggested that they had been walking arm in arm. Philip was puzzled and +surprised. He had never paid much attention to Fraulein Cacilie. She was +a plain girl, with a square face and blunt features. She could not have +been more than sixteen, since she still wore her long fair hair in a +plait. That evening at supper he looked at her curiously; and, though of +late she had talked little at meals, she addressed him. + +"Where did you go for your walk today, Herr Carey?" she asked. + +"Oh, I walked up towards the Konigstuhl." + +"I didn't go out," she volunteered. "I had a headache." + +The Chinaman, who sat next to her, turned round. + +"I'm so sorry," he said. "I hope it's better now." + +Fraulein Cacilie was evidently uneasy, for she spoke again to Philip. + +"Did you meet many people on the way?" + +Philip could not help reddening when he told a downright lie. + +"No. I don't think I saw a living soul." + +He fancied that a look of relief passed across her eyes. + +Soon, however, there could be no doubt that there was something between +the pair, and other people in the Frau Professor's house saw them lurking +in dark places. The elderly ladies who sat at the head of the table began +to discuss what was now a scandal. The Frau Professor was angry and +harassed. She had done her best to see nothing. The winter was at hand, +and it was not as easy a matter then as in the summer to keep her house +full. Herr Sung was a good customer: he had two rooms on the ground floor, +and he drank a bottle of Moselle at each meal. The Frau Professor charged +him three marks a bottle and made a good profit. None of her other guests +drank wine, and some of them did not even drink beer. Neither did she wish +to lose Fraulein Cacilie, whose parents were in business in South America +and paid well for the Frau Professor's motherly care; and she knew that if +she wrote to the girl's uncle, who lived in Berlin, he would immediately +take her away. The Frau Professor contented herself with giving them both +severe looks at table and, though she dared not be rude to the Chinaman, +got a certain satisfaction out of incivility to Cacilie. But the three +elderly ladies were not content. Two were widows, and one, a Dutchwoman, +was a spinster of masculine appearance; they paid the smallest possible +sum for their pension, and gave a good deal of trouble, but they were +permanent and therefore had to be put up with. They went to the Frau +Professor and said that something must be done; it was disgraceful, and +the house was ceasing to be respectable. The Frau Professor tried +obstinacy, anger, tears, but the three old ladies routed her, and with a +sudden assumption of virtuous indignation she said that she would put a +stop to the whole thing. + +After luncheon she took Cacilie into her bed-room and began to talk very +seriously to her; but to her amazement the girl adopted a brazen attitude; +she proposed to go about as she liked; and if she chose to walk with the +Chinaman she could not see it was anybody's business but her own. The Frau +Professor threatened to write to her uncle. + +"Then Onkel Heinrich will put me in a family in Berlin for the winter, and +that will be much nicer for me. And Herr Sung will come to Berlin too." + +The Frau Professor began to cry. The tears rolled down her coarse, red, +fat cheeks; and Cacilie laughed at her. + +"That will mean three rooms empty all through the winter," she said. + +Then the Frau Professor tried another plan. She appealed to Fraulein +Cacilie's better nature: she was kind, sensible, tolerant; she treated her +no longer as a child, but as a grown woman. She said that it wouldn't be +so dreadful, but a Chinaman, with his yellow skin and flat nose, and his +little pig's eyes! That's what made it so horrible. It filled one with +disgust to think of it. + +"Bitte, bitte," said Cacilie, with a rapid intake of the breath. "I won't +listen to anything against him." + +"But it's not serious?" gasped Frau Erlin. + +"I love him. I love him. I love him." + +"Gott im Himmel!" + +The Frau Professor stared at her with horrified surprise; she had thought +it was no more than naughtiness on the child's part, and innocent, folly. +but the passion in her voice revealed everything. Cacilie looked at her +for a moment with flaming eyes, and then with a shrug of her shoulders +went out of the room. + +Frau Erlin kept the details of the interview to herself, and a day or two +later altered the arrangement of the table. She asked Herr Sung if he +would not come and sit at her end, and he with his unfailing politeness +accepted with alacrity. Cacilie took the change indifferently. But as if +the discovery that the relations between them were known to the whole +household made them more shameless, they made no secret now of their walks +together, and every afternoon quite openly set out to wander about the +hills. It was plain that they did not care what was said of them. At last +even the placidity of Professor Erlin was moved, and he insisted that his +wife should speak to the Chinaman. She took him aside in his turn and +expostulated; he was ruining the girl's reputation, he was doing harm to +the house, he must see how wrong and wicked his conduct was; but she was +met with smiling denials; Herr Sung did not know what she was talking +about, he was not paying any attention to Fraulein Cacilie, he never +walked with her; it was all untrue, every word of it. + +"Ach, Herr Sung, how can you say such things? You've been seen again and +again." + +"No, you're mistaken. It's untrue." + +He looked at her with an unceasing smile, which showed his even, little +white teeth. He was quite calm. He denied everything. He denied with bland +effrontery. At last the Frau Professor lost her temper and said the girl +had confessed she loved him. He was not moved. He continued to smile. + +"Nonsense! Nonsense! It's all untrue." + +She could get nothing out of him. The weather grew very bad; there was +snow and frost, and then a thaw with a long succession of cheerless days, +on which walking was a poor amusement. One evening when Philip had just +finished his German lesson with the Herr Professor and was standing for a +moment in the drawing-room, talking to Frau Erlin, Anna came quickly in. + +"Mamma, where is Cacilie?" she said. + +"I suppose she's in her room." + +"There's no light in it." + +The Frau Professor gave an exclamation, and she looked at her daughter in +dismay. The thought which was in Anna's head had flashed across hers. + +"Ring for Emil," she said hoarsely. + +This was the stupid lout who waited at table and did most of the +housework. He came in. + +"Emil, go down to Herr Sung's room and enter without knocking. If anyone +is there say you came in to see about the stove." + +No sign of astonishment appeared on Emil's phlegmatic face. + +He went slowly downstairs. The Frau Professor and Anna left the door open +and listened. Presently they heard Emil come up again, and they called +him. + +"Was anyone there?" asked the Frau Professor. + +"Yes, Herr Sung was there." + +"Was he alone?" + +The beginning of a cunning smile narrowed his mouth. + +"No, Fraulein Cacilie was there." + +"Oh, it's disgraceful," cried the Frau Professor. + +Now he smiled broadly. + +"Fraulein Cacilie is there every evening. She spends hours at a time +there." + +Frau Professor began to wring her hands. + +"Oh, how abominable! But why didn't you tell me?" + +"It was no business of mine," he answered, slowly shrugging his shoulders. + +"I suppose they paid you well. Go away. Go." + +He lurched clumsily to the door. + +"They must go away, mamma," said Anna. + +"And who is going to pay the rent? And the taxes are falling due. It's all +very well for you to say they must go away. If they go away I can't pay +the bills." She turned to Philip, with tears streaming down her face. +"Ach, Herr Carey, you will not say what you have heard. If Fraulein +Forster--" this was the Dutch spinster--"if Fraulein Forster knew she +would leave at once. And if they all go we must close the house. I cannot +afford to keep it." + +"Of course I won't say anything." + +"If she stays, I will not speak to her," said Anna. + +That evening at supper Fraulein Cacilie, redder than usual, with a look of +obstinacy on her face, took her place punctually; but Herr Sung did not +appear, and for a while Philip thought he was going to shirk the ordeal. +At last he came, very smiling, his little eyes dancing with the apologies +he made for his late arrival. He insisted as usual on pouring out the Frau +Professor a glass of his Moselle, and he offered a glass to Fraulein +Forster. The room was very hot, for the stove had been alight all day and +the windows were seldom opened. Emil blundered about, but succeeded +somehow in serving everyone quickly and with order. The three old ladies +sat in silence, visibly disapproving: the Frau Professor had scarcely +recovered from her tears; her husband was silent and oppressed. +Conversation languished. It seemed to Philip that there was something +dreadful in that gathering which he had sat with so often; they looked +different under the light of the two hanging lamps from what they had ever +looked before; he was vaguely uneasy. Once he caught Cacilie's eye, and he +thought she looked at him with hatred and contempt. The room was stifling. +It was as though the beastly passion of that pair troubled them all; there +was a feeling of Oriental depravity; a faint savour of joss-sticks, a +mystery of hidden vices, seemed to make their breath heavy. Philip could +feel the beating of the arteries in his forehead. He could not understand +what strange emotion distracted him; he seemed to feel something +infinitely attractive, and yet he was repelled and horrified. + +For several days things went on. The air was sickly with the unnatural +passion which all felt about them, and the nerves of the little household +seemed to grow exasperated. Only Herr Sung remained unaffected; he was no +less smiling, affable, and polite than he had been before: one could not +tell whether his manner was a triumph of civilisation or an expression of +contempt on the part of the Oriental for the vanquished West. Cacilie was +flaunting and cynical. At last even the Frau Professor could bear the +position no longer. Suddenly panic seized her; for Professor Erlin with +brutal frankness had suggested the possible consequences of an intrigue +which was now manifest to everyone, and she saw her good name in +Heidelberg and the repute of her house ruined by a scandal which could not +possibly be hidden. For some reason, blinded perhaps by her interests, +this possibility had never occurred to her; and now, her wits muddled by +a terrible fear, she could hardly be prevented from turning the girl out +of the house at once. It was due to Anna's good sense that a cautious +letter was written to the uncle in Berlin suggesting that Cacilie should +be taken away. + +But having made up her mind to lose the two lodgers, the Frau Professor +could not resist the satisfaction of giving rein to the ill-temper she had +curbed so long. She was free now to say anything she liked to Cacilie. + +"I have written to your uncle, Cacilie, to take you away. I cannot have +you in my house any longer." + +Her little round eyes sparkled when she noticed the sudden whiteness of +the girl's face. + +"You're shameless. Shameless," she went on. + +She called her foul names. + +"What did you say to my uncle Heinrich, Frau Professor?" the girl asked, +suddenly falling from her attitude of flaunting independence. + +"Oh, he'll tell you himself. I expect to get a letter from him tomorrow." + +Next day, in order to make the humiliation more public, at supper she +called down the table to Cacilie. + +"I have had a letter from your uncle, Cacilie. You are to pack your things +tonight, and we will put you in the train tomorrow morning. He will meet +you himself in Berlin at the Central Bahnhof." + +"Very good, Frau Professor." + +Herr Sung smiled in the Frau Professor's eyes, and notwithstanding her +protests insisted on pouring out a glass of wine for her. The Frau +Professor ate her supper with a good appetite. But she had triumphed +unwisely. Just before going to bed she called the servant. + +"Emil, if Fraulein Cacilie's box is ready you had better take it +downstairs tonight. The porter will fetch it before breakfast." + +The servant went away and in a moment came back. + +"Fraulein Cacilie is not in her room, and her bag has gone." + +With a cry the Frau Professor hurried along: the box was on the floor, +strapped and locked; but there was no bag, and neither hat nor cloak. The +dressing-table was empty. Breathing heavily, the Frau Professor ran +downstairs to the Chinaman's rooms, she had not moved so quickly for +twenty years, and Emil called out after her to beware she did not fall; +she did not trouble to knock, but burst in. The rooms were empty. The +luggage had gone, and the door into the garden, still open, showed how it +had been got away. In an envelope on the table were notes for the money +due on the month's board and an approximate sum for extras. Groaning, +suddenly overcome by her haste, the Frau Professor sank obesely on to a +sofa. There could be no doubt. The pair had gone off together. Emil +remained stolid and unmoved. + + + +XXXI + + +Hayward, after saying for a month that he was going South next day and +delaying from week to week out of inability to make up his mind to the +bother of packing and the tedium of a journey, had at last been driven off +just before Christmas by the preparations for that festival. He could not +support the thought of a Teutonic merry-making. It gave him goose-flesh to +think of the season's aggressive cheerfulness, and in his desire to avoid +the obvious he determined to travel on Christmas Eve. + +Philip was not sorry to see him off, for he was a downright person and it +irritated him that anybody should not know his own mind. Though much under +Hayward's influence, he would not grant that indecision pointed to a +charming sensitiveness; and he resented the shadow of a sneer with which +Hayward looked upon his straight ways. They corresponded. Hayward was an +admirable letter-writer, and knowing his talent took pains with his +letters. His temperament was receptive to the beautiful influences with +which he came in contact, and he was able in his letters from Rome to put +a subtle fragrance of Italy. He thought the city of the ancient Romans a +little vulgar, finding distinction only in the decadence of the Empire; +but the Rome of the Popes appealed to his sympathy, and in his chosen +words, quite exquisitely, there appeared a rococo beauty. He wrote of old +church music and the Alban Hills, and of the languor of incense and the +charm of the streets by night, in the rain, when the pavements shone and +the light of the street lamps was mysterious. Perhaps he repeated these +admirable letters to various friends. He did not know what a troubling +effect they had upon Philip; they seemed to make his life very humdrum. +With the spring Hayward grew dithyrambic. He proposed that Philip should +come down to Italy. He was wasting his time at Heidelberg. The Germans +were gross and life there was common; how could the soul come to her own +in that prim landscape? In Tuscany the spring was scattering flowers +through the land, and Philip was nineteen; let him come and they could +wander through the mountain towns of Umbria. Their names sang in Philip's +heart. And Cacilie too, with her lover, had gone to Italy. When he thought +of them Philip was seized with a restlessness he could not account for. He +cursed his fate because he had no money to travel, and he knew his uncle +would not send him more than the fifteen pounds a month which had been +agreed upon. He had not managed his allowance very well. His pension and +the price of his lessons left him very little over, and he had found going +about with Hayward expensive. Hayward had often suggested excursions, a +visit to the play, or a bottle of wine, when Philip had come to the end of +his month's money; and with the folly of his age he had been unwilling to +confess he could not afford an extravagance. + +Luckily Hayward's letters came seldom, and in the intervals Philip settled +down again to his industrious life. He had matriculated at the university +and attended one or two courses of lectures. Kuno Fischer was then at the +height of his fame and during the winter had been lecturing brilliantly on +Schopenhauer. It was Philip's introduction to philosophy. He had a +practical mind and moved uneasily amid the abstract; but he found an +unexpected fascination in listening to metaphysical disquisitions; they +made him breathless; it was a little like watching a tight-rope dancer +doing perilous feats over an abyss; but it was very exciting. The +pessimism of the subject attracted his youth; and he believed that the +world he was about to enter was a place of pitiless woe and of darkness. +That made him none the less eager to enter it; and when, in due course, +Mrs. Carey, acting as the correspondent for his guardian's views, +suggested that it was time for him to come back to England, he agreed with +enthusiasm. He must make up his mind now what he meant to do. If he left +Heidelberg at the end of July they could talk things over during August, +and it would be a good time to make arrangements. + +The date of his departure was settled, and Mrs. Carey wrote to him again. +She reminded him of Miss Wilkinson, through whose kindness he had gone to +Frau Erlin's house at Heidelberg, and told him that she had arranged to +spend a few weeks with them at Blackstable. She would be crossing from +Flushing on such and such a day, and if he travelled at the same time he +could look after her and come on to Blackstable in her company. Philip's +shyness immediately made him write to say that he could not leave till a +day or two afterwards. He pictured himself looking out for Miss Wilkinson, +the embarrassment of going up to her and asking if it were she (and he +might so easily address the wrong person and be snubbed), and then the +difficulty of knowing whether in the train he ought to talk to her or +whether he could ignore her and read his book. + +At last he left Heidelberg. For three months he had been thinking of +nothing but the future; and he went without regret. He never knew that he +had been happy there. Fraulein Anna gave him a copy of Der Trompeter von +Sackingen and in return he presented her with a volume of William Morris. +Very wisely neither of them ever read the other's present. + + + +XXXII + + +Philip was surprised when he saw his uncle and aunt. He had never noticed +before that they were quite old people. The Vicar received him with his +usual, not unamiable indifference. He was a little stouter, a little +balder, a little grayer. Philip saw how insignificant he was. His face was +weak and self-indulgent. Aunt Louisa took him in her arms and kissed him; +and tears of happiness flowed down her cheeks. Philip was touched and +embarrassed; he had not known with what a hungry love she cared for him. + +"Oh, the time has seemed long since you've been away, Philip," she cried. + +She stroked his hands and looked into his face with glad eyes. + +"You've grown. You're quite a man now." + +There was a very small moustache on his upper lip. He had bought a razor +and now and then with infinite care shaved the down off his smooth chin. + +"We've been so lonely without you." And then shyly, with a little break in +her voice, she asked: "You are glad to come back to your home, aren't +you?" + +"Yes, rather." + +She was so thin that she seemed almost transparent, the arms she put round +his neck were frail bones that reminded you of chicken bones, and her +faded face was oh! so wrinkled. The gray curls which she still wore in the +fashion of her youth gave her a queer, pathetic look; and her little +withered body was like an autumn leaf, you felt it might be blown away by +the first sharp wind. Philip realised that they had done with life, these +two quiet little people: they belonged to a past generation, and they were +waiting there patiently, rather stupidly, for death; and he, in his vigour +and his youth, thirsting for excitement and adventure, was appalled at the +waste. They had done nothing, and when they went it would be just as if +they had never been. He felt a great pity for Aunt Louisa, and he loved +her suddenly because she loved him. + +Then Miss Wilkinson, who had kept discreetly out of the way till the +Careys had had a chance of welcoming their nephew, came into the room. + +"This is Miss Wilkinson, Philip," said Mrs. Carey. + +"The prodigal has returned," she said, holding out her hand. "I have +brought a rose for the prodigal's buttonhole." + +With a gay smile she pinned to Philip's coat the flower she had just +picked in the garden. He blushed and felt foolish. He knew that Miss +Wilkinson was the daughter of his Uncle William's last rector, and he had +a wide acquaintance with the daughters of clergymen. They wore ill-cut +clothes and stout boots. They were generally dressed in black, for in +Philip's early years at Blackstable homespuns had not reached East Anglia, +and the ladies of the clergy did not favour colours. Their hair was done +very untidily, and they smelt aggressively of starched linen. They +considered the feminine graces unbecoming and looked the same whether they +were old or young. They bore their religion arrogantly. The closeness of +their connection with the church made them adopt a slightly dictatorial +attitude to the rest of mankind. + +Miss Wilkinson was very different. She wore a white muslin gown stamped +with gay little bunches of flowers, and pointed, high-heeled shoes, with +open-work stockings. To Philip's inexperience it seemed that she was +wonderfully dressed; he did not see that her frock was cheap and showy. +Her hair was elaborately dressed, with a neat curl in the middle of the +forehead: it was very black, shiny and hard, and it looked as though it +could never be in the least disarranged. She had large black eyes and her +nose was slightly aquiline; in profile she had somewhat the look of a bird +of prey, but full face she was prepossessing. She smiled a great deal, but +her mouth was large and when she smiled she tried to hide her teeth, which +were big and rather yellow. But what embarrassed Philip most was that she +was heavily powdered: he had very strict views on feminine behaviour and +did not think a lady ever powdered; but of course Miss Wilkinson was a +lady because she was a clergyman's daughter, and a clergyman was a +gentleman. + +Philip made up his mind to dislike her thoroughly. She spoke with a slight +French accent; and he did not know why she should, since she had been born +and bred in the heart of England. He thought her smile affected, and the +coy sprightliness of her manner irritated him. For two or three days he +remained silent and hostile, but Miss Wilkinson apparently did not notice +it. She was very affable. She addressed her conversation almost +exclusively to him, and there was something flattering in the way she +appealed constantly to his sane judgment. She made him laugh too, and +Philip could never resist people who amused him: he had a gift now and +then of saying neat things; and it was pleasant to have an appreciative +listener. Neither the Vicar nor Mrs. Carey had a sense of humour, and they +never laughed at anything he said. As he grew used to Miss Wilkinson, and +his shyness left him, he began to like her better; he found the French +accent picturesque; and at a garden party which the doctor gave she was +very much better dressed than anyone else. She wore a blue foulard with +large white spots, and Philip was tickled at the sensation it caused. + +"I'm certain they think you're no better than you should be," he told her, +laughing. + +"It's the dream of my life to be taken for an abandoned hussy," she +answered. + +One day when Miss Wilkinson was in her room he asked Aunt Louisa how old +she was. + +"Oh, my dear, you should never ask a lady's age; but she's certainly too +old for you to marry." + +The Vicar gave his slow, obese smile. + +"She's no chicken, Louisa," he said. "She was nearly grown up when we were +in Lincolnshire, and that was twenty years ago. She wore a pigtail hanging +down her back." + +"She may not have been more than ten," said Philip. + +"She was older than that," said Aunt Louisa. + +"I think she was near twenty," said the Vicar. + +"Oh no, William. Sixteen or seventeen at the outside." + +"That would make her well over thirty," said Philip. + +At that moment Miss Wilkinson tripped downstairs, singing a song by +Benjamin Goddard. She had put her hat on, for she and Philip were going +for a walk, and she held out her hand for him to button her glove. He did +it awkwardly. He felt embarrassed but gallant. Conversation went easily +between them now, and as they strolled along they talked of all manner of +things. She told Philip about Berlin, and he told her of his year in +Heidelberg. As he spoke, things which had appeared of no importance gained +a new interest: he described the people at Frau Erlin's house; and to the +conversations between Hayward and Weeks, which at the time seemed so +significant, he gave a little twist, so that they looked absurd. He was +flattered at Miss Wilkinson's laughter. + +"I'm quite frightened of you," she said. "You're so sarcastic." + +Then she asked him playfully whether he had not had any love affairs at +Heidelberg. Without thinking, he frankly answered that he had not; but she +refused to believe him. + +"How secretive you are!" she said. "At your age is it likely?" + +He blushed and laughed. + +"You want to know too much," he said. + +"Ah, I thought so," she laughed triumphantly. "Look at him blushing." + +He was pleased that she should think he had been a sad dog, and he changed +the conversation so as to make her believe he had all sorts of romantic +things to conceal. He was angry with himself that he had not. There had +been no opportunity. + +Miss Wilkinson was dissatisfied with her lot. She resented having to earn +her living and told Philip a long story of an uncle of her mother's, who +had been expected to leave her a fortune but had married his cook and +changed his will. She hinted at the luxury of her home and compared her +life in Lincolnshire, with horses to ride and carriages to drive in, with +the mean dependence of her present state. Philip was a little puzzled when +he mentioned this afterwards to Aunt Louisa, and she told him that when +she knew the Wilkinsons they had never had anything more than a pony and +a dog-cart; Aunt Louisa had heard of the rich uncle, but as he was married +and had children before Emily was born she could never have had much hope +of inheriting his fortune. Miss Wilkinson had little good to say of +Berlin, where she was now in a situation. She complained of the vulgarity +of German life, and compared it bitterly with the brilliance of Paris, +where she had spent a number of years. She did not say how many. She had +been governess in the family of a fashionable portrait-painter, who had +married a Jewish wife of means, and in their house she had met many +distinguished people. She dazzled Philip with their names. Actors from the +Comedie Francaise had come to the house frequently, and Coquelin, sitting +next her at dinner, had told her he had never met a foreigner who spoke +such perfect French. Alphonse Daudet had come also, and he had given her +a copy of Sappho: he had promised to write her name in it, but she had +forgotten to remind him. She treasured the volume none the less and she +would lend it to Philip. Then there was Maupassant. Miss Wilkinson with a +rippling laugh looked at Philip knowingly. What a man, but what a writer! +Hayward had talked of Maupassant, and his reputation was not unknown to +Philip. + +"Did he make love to you?" he asked. + +The words seemed to stick funnily in his throat, but he asked them +nevertheless. He liked Miss Wilkinson very much now, and was thrilled by +her conversation, but he could not imagine anyone making love to her. + +"What a question!" she cried. "Poor Guy, he made love to every woman he +met. It was a habit that he could not break himself of." + +She sighed a little, and seemed to look back tenderly on the past. + +"He was a charming man," she murmured. + +A greater experience than Philip's would have guessed from these words the +probabilities of the encounter: the distinguished writer invited to +luncheon en famille, the governess coming in sedately with the two tall +girls she was teaching; the introduction: + +"Notre Miss Anglaise." + +"Mademoiselle." + +And the luncheon during which the Miss Anglaise sat silent while the +distinguished writer talked to his host and hostess. + +But to Philip her words called up much more romantic fancies. + +"Do tell me all about him," he said excitedly. + +"There's nothing to tell," she said truthfully, but in such a manner as to +convey that three volumes would scarcely have contained the lurid facts. +"You mustn't be curious." + +She began to talk of Paris. She loved the boulevards and the Bois. There +was grace in every street, and the trees in the Champs Elysees had a +distinction which trees had not elsewhere. They were sitting on a stile +now by the high-road, and Miss Wilkinson looked with disdain upon the +stately elms in front of them. And the theatres: the plays were brilliant, +and the acting was incomparable. She often went with Madame Foyot, the +mother of the girls she was educating, when she was trying on clothes. + +"Oh, what a misery to be poor!" she cried. "These beautiful things, it's +only in Paris they know how to dress, and not to be able to afford them! +Poor Madame Foyot, she had no figure. Sometimes the dressmaker used to +whisper to me: `Ah, Mademoiselle, if she only had your figure.' " + +Philip noticed then that Miss Wilkinson had a robust form and was proud of +it. + +"Men are so stupid in England. They only think of the face. The French, +who are a nation of lovers, know how much more important the figure is." + +Philip had never thought of such things before, but he observed now that +Miss Wilkinson's ankles were thick and ungainly. He withdrew his eyes +quickly. + +"You should go to France. Why don't you go to Paris for a year? You would +learn French, and it would--deniaiser you." + +"What is that?" asked Philip. + +She laughed slyly. + +"You must look it out in the dictionary. Englishmen do not know how to +treat women. They are so shy. Shyness is ridiculous in a man. They don't +know how to make love. They can't even tell a woman she is charming +without looking foolish." + +Philip felt himself absurd. Miss Wilkinson evidently expected him to +behave very differently; and he would have been delighted to say gallant +and witty things, but they never occurred to him; and when they did he was +too much afraid of making a fool of himself to say them. + +"Oh, I love Paris," sighed Miss Wilkinson. "But I had to go to Berlin. I +was with the Foyots till the girls married, and then I could get nothing +to do, and I had the chance of this post in Berlin. They're relations of +Madame Foyot, and I accepted. I had a tiny apartment in the Rue Breda, on +the cinquieme: it wasn't at all respectable. You know about the Rue +Breda--ces dames, you know." + +Philip nodded, not knowing at all what she meant, but vaguely suspecting, +and anxious she should not think him too ignorant. + +"But I didn't care. Je suis libre, n'est-ce pas?" She was very fond of +speaking French, which indeed she spoke well. "Once I had such a curious +adventure there." + +She paused a little and Philip pressed her to tell it. + +"You wouldn't tell me yours in Heidelberg," she said. + +"They were so unadventurous," he retorted. + +"I don't know what Mrs. Carey would say if she knew the sort of things we +talk about together." + +"You don't imagine I shall tell her." + +"Will you promise?" + +When he had done this, she told him how an art-student who had a room on +the floor above her--but she interrupted herself. + +"Why don't you go in for art? You paint so prettily." + +"Not well enough for that." + +"That is for others to judge. Je m'y connais, and I believe you have the +making of a great artist." + +"Can't you see Uncle William's face if I suddenly told him I wanted to go +to Paris and study art?" + +"You're your own master, aren't you?" + +"You're trying to put me off. Please go on with the story." Miss +Wilkinson, with a little laugh, went on. The art-student had passed her +several times on the stairs, and she had paid no particular attention. She +saw that he had fine eyes, and he took off his hat very politely. And one +day she found a letter slipped under her door. It was from him. He told +her that he had adored her for months, and that he waited about the stairs +for her to pass. Oh, it was a charming letter! Of course she did not +reply, but what woman could help being flattered? And next day there was +another letter! It was wonderful, passionate, and touching. When next she +met him on the stairs she did not know which way to look. And every day +the letters came, and now he begged her to see him. He said he would come +in the evening, vers neuf heures, and she did not know what to do. Of +course it was impossible, and he might ring and ring, but she would never +open the door; and then while she was waiting for the tinkling of the +bell, all nerves, suddenly he stood before her. She had forgotten to shut +the door when she came in. + +"C'etait une fatalite." + +"And what happened then?" asked Philip. + +"That is the end of the story," she replied, with a ripple of laughter. + +Philip was silent for a moment. His heart beat quickly, and strange +emotions seemed to be hustling one another in his heart. He saw the dark +staircase and the chance meetings, and he admired the boldness of the +letters--oh, he would never have dared to do that--and then the silent, +almost mysterious entrance. It seemed to him the very soul of romance. + +"What was he like?" + +"Oh, he was handsome. Charmant garcon." + +"Do you know him still?" + +Philip felt a slight feeling of irritation as he asked this. + +"He treated me abominably. Men are always the same. You're heartless, all +of you." + +"I don't know about that," said Philip, not without embarrassment. + +"Let us go home," said Miss Wilkinson. + + + +XXXIII + + +Philip could not get Miss Wilkinson's story out of his head. It was clear +enough what she meant even though she cut it short, and he was a little +shocked. That sort of thing was all very well for married women, he had +read enough French novels to know that in France it was indeed the rule, +but Miss Wilkinson was English and unmarried; her father was a clergyman. +Then it struck him that the art-student probably was neither the first nor +the last of her lovers, and he gasped: he had never looked upon Miss +Wilkinson like that; it seemed incredible that anyone should make love to +her. In his ingenuousness he doubted her story as little as he doubted +what he read in books, and he was angry that such wonderful things never +happened to him. It was humiliating that if Miss Wilkinson insisted upon +his telling her of his adventures in Heidelberg he would have nothing to +tell. It was true that he had some power of invention, but he was not sure +whether he could persuade her that he was steeped in vice; women were full +of intuition, he had read that, and she might easily discover that he was +fibbing. He blushed scarlet as he thought of her laughing up her sleeve. + +Miss Wilkinson played the piano and sang in a rather tired voice; but her +songs, Massenet, Benjamin Goddard, and Augusta Holmes, were new to Philip; +and together they spent many hours at the piano. One day she wondered if +he had a voice and insisted on trying it. She told him he had a pleasant +baritone and offered to give him lessons. At first with his usual +bashfulness he refused, but she insisted, and then every morning at a +convenient time after breakfast she gave him an hour's lesson. She had a +natural gift for teaching, and it was clear that she was an excellent +governess. She had method and firmness. Though her French accent was so +much part of her that it remained, all the mellifluousness of her manner +left her when she was engaged in teaching. She put up with no nonsense. +Her voice became a little peremptory, and instinctively she suppressed +inattention and corrected slovenliness. She knew what she was about and +put Philip to scales and exercises. + +When the lesson was over she resumed without effort her seductive smiles, +her voice became again soft and winning, but Philip could not so easily +put away the pupil as she the pedagogue; and this impression convicted +with the feelings her stories had aroused in him. He looked at her more +narrowly. He liked her much better in the evening than in the morning. In +the morning she was rather lined and the skin of her neck was just a +little rough. He wished she would hide it, but the weather was very warm +just then and she wore blouses which were cut low. She was very fond of +white; in the morning it did not suit her. At night she often looked very +attractive, she put on a gown which was almost a dinner dress, and she +wore a chain of garnets round her neck; the lace about her bosom and at +her elbows gave her a pleasant softness, and the scent she wore (at +Blackstable no one used anything but Eau de Cologne, and that only on +Sundays or when suffering from a sick headache) was troubling and exotic. +She really looked very young then. + +Philip was much exercised over her age. He added twenty and seventeen +together, and could not bring them to a satisfactory total. He asked Aunt +Louisa more than once why she thought Miss Wilkinson was thirty-seven: she +didn't look more than thirty, and everyone knew that foreigners aged more +rapidly than English women; Miss Wilkinson had lived so long abroad that +she might almost be called a foreigner. He personally wouldn't have +thought her more than twenty-six. + +"She's more than that," said Aunt Louisa. + +Philip did not believe in the accuracy of the Careys' statements. All they +distinctly remembered was that Miss Wilkinson had not got her hair up the +last time they saw her in Lincolnshire. Well, she might have been twelve +then: it was so long ago and the Vicar was always so unreliable. They said +it was twenty years ago, but people used round figures, and it was just as +likely to be eighteen years, or seventeen. Seventeen and twelve were only +twenty-nine, and hang it all, that wasn't old, was it? Cleopatra was +forty-eight when Antony threw away the world for her sake. + +It was a fine summer. Day after day was hot and cloudless; but the heat +was tempered by the neighbourhood of the sea, and there was a pleasant +exhilaration in the air, so that one was excited and not oppressed by the +August sunshine. There was a pond in the garden in which a fountain +played; water lilies grew in it and gold fish sunned themselves on the +surface. Philip and Miss Wilkinson used to take rugs and cushions there +after dinner and lie on the lawn in the shade of a tall hedge of roses. +They talked and read all the afternoon. They smoked cigarettes, which the +Vicar did not allow in the house; he thought smoking a disgusting habit, +and used frequently to say that it was disgraceful for anyone to grow a +slave to a habit. He forgot that he was himself a slave to afternoon tea. + +One day Miss Wilkinson gave Philip La Vie de Boheme. She had found it by +accident when she was rummaging among the books in the Vicar's study. It +had been bought in a lot with something Mr. Carey wanted and had remained +undiscovered for ten years. + +Philip began to read Murger's fascinating, ill-written, absurd +masterpiece, and fell at once under its spell. His soul danced with joy at +that picture of starvation which is so good-humoured, of squalor which is +so picturesque, of sordid love which is so romantic, of bathos which is so +moving. Rodolphe and Mimi, Musette and Schaunard! They wander through the +gray streets of the Latin Quarter, finding refuge now in one attic, now in +another, in their quaint costumes of Louis Philippe, with their tears and +their smiles, happy-go-lucky and reckless. Who can resist them? It is only +when you return to the book with a sounder judgment that you find how +gross their pleasures were, how vulgar their minds; and you feel the utter +worthlessness, as artists and as human beings, of that gay procession. +Philip was enraptured. + +"Don't you wish you were going to Paris instead of London?" asked Miss +Wilkinson, smiling at his enthusiasm. + +"It's too late now even if I did," he answered. + +During the fortnight he had been back from Germany there had been much +discussion between himself and his uncle about his future. He had refused +definitely to go to Oxford, and now that there was no chance of his +getting scholarships even Mr. Carey came to the conclusion that he could +not afford it. His entire fortune had consisted of only two thousand +pounds, and though it had been invested in mortgages at five per cent, he +had not been able to live on the interest. It was now a little reduced. It +would be absurd to spend two hundred a year, the least he could live on at +a university, for three years at Oxford which would lead him no nearer to +earning his living. He was anxious to go straight to London. Mrs. Carey +thought there were only four professions for a gentleman, the Army, the +Navy, the Law, and the Church. She had added medicine because her +brother-in-law practised it, but did not forget that in her young days no +one ever considered the doctor a gentleman. The first two were out of the +question, and Philip was firm in his refusal to be ordained. Only the law +remained. The local doctor had suggested that many gentlemen now went in +for engineering, but Mrs. Carey opposed the idea at once. + +"I shouldn't like Philip to go into trade," she said. + +"No, he must have a profession," answered the Vicar. + +"Why not make him a doctor like his father?" + +"I should hate it," said Philip. + +Mrs. Carey was not sorry. The Bar seemed out of the question, since he was +not going to Oxford, for the Careys were under the impression that a +degree was still necessary for success in that calling; and finally it was +suggested that he should become articled to a solicitor. They wrote to the +family lawyer, Albert Nixon, who was co-executor with the Vicar of +Blackstable for the late Henry Carey's estate, and asked him whether he +would take Philip. In a day or two the answer came back that he had not a +vacancy, and was very much opposed to the whole scheme; the profession was +greatly overcrowded, and without capital or connections a man had small +chance of becoming more than a managing clerk; he suggested, however, that +Philip should become a chartered accountant. Neither the Vicar nor his +wife knew in the least what this was, and Philip had never heard of anyone +being a chartered accountant; but another letter from the solicitor +explained that the growth of modern businesses and the increase of +companies had led to the formation of many firms of accountants to examine +the books and put into the financial affairs of their clients an order +which old-fashioned methods had lacked. Some years before a Royal Charter +had been obtained, and the profession was becoming every year more +respectable, lucrative, and important. The chartered accountants whom +Albert Nixon had employed for thirty years happened to have a vacancy for +an articled pupil, and would take Philip for a fee of three hundred +pounds. Half of this would be returned during the five years the articles +lasted in the form of salary. The prospect was not exciting, but Philip +felt that he must decide on something, and the thought of living in London +over-balanced the slight shrinking he felt. The Vicar of Blackstable wrote +to ask Mr. Nixon whether it was a profession suited to a gentleman; and +Mr. Nixon replied that, since the Charter, men were going into it who had +been to public schools and a university; moreover, if Philip disliked the +work and after a year wished to leave, Herbert Carter, for that was the +accountant's name, would return half the money paid for the articles. This +settled it, and it was arranged that Philip should start work on the +fifteenth of September. + +"I have a full month before me," said Philip. + +"And then you go to freedom and I to bondage," returned Miss Wilkinson. + +Her holidays were to last six weeks, and she would be leaving Blackstable +only a day or two before Philip. + +"I wonder if we shall ever meet again," she said. + +"I don't know why not." + +"Oh, don't speak in that practical way. I never knew anyone so +unsentimental." + +Philip reddened. He was afraid that Miss Wilkinson would think him a +milksop: after all she was a young woman, sometimes quite pretty, and he +was getting on for twenty; it was absurd that they should talk of nothing +but art and literature. He ought to make love to her. They had talked a +good deal of love. There was the art-student in the Rue Breda, and then +there was the painter in whose family she had lived so long in Paris: he +had asked her to sit for him, and had started to make love to her so +violently that she was forced to invent excuses not to sit to him again. +It was clear enough that Miss Wilkinson was used to attentions of that +sort. She looked very nice now in a large straw hat: it was hot that +afternoon, the hottest day they had had, and beads of sweat stood in a +line on her upper lip. He called to mind Fraulein Cacilie and Herr Sung. +He had never thought of Cacilie in an amorous way, she was exceedingly +plain; but now, looking back, the affair seemed very romantic. He had a +chance of romance too. Miss Wilkinson was practically French, and that +added zest to a possible adventure. When he thought of it at night in bed, +or when he sat by himself in the garden reading a book, he was thrilled by +it; but when he saw Miss Wilkinson it seemed less picturesque. + +At all events, after what she had told him, she would not be surprised if +he made love to her. He had a feeling that she must think it odd of him to +make no sign: perhaps it was only his fancy, but once or twice in the last +day or two he had imagined that there was a suspicion of contempt in her +eyes. + +"A penny for your thoughts," said Miss Wilkinson, looking at him with a +smile. + +"I'm not going to tell you," he answered. + +He was thinking that he ought to kiss her there and then. He wondered if +she expected him to do it; but after all he didn't see how he could +without any preliminary business at all. She would just think him mad, or +she might slap his face; and perhaps she would complain to his uncle. He +wondered how Herr Sung had started with Fraulein Cacilie. It would be +beastly if she told his uncle: he knew what his uncle was, he would tell +the doctor and Josiah Graves; and he would look a perfect fool. Aunt +Louisa kept on saying that Miss Wilkinson was thirty-seven if she was a +day; he shuddered at the thought of the ridicule he would be exposed to; +they would say she was old enough to be his mother. + +"Twopence for your thoughts," smiled Miss Wilkinson. + +"I was thinking about you," he answered boldly. + +That at all events committed him to nothing. + +"What were you thinking?" + +"Ah, now you want to know too much." + +"Naughty boy!" said Miss Wilkinson. + +There it was again! Whenever he had succeeded in working himself up she +said something which reminded him of the governess. She called him +playfully a naughty boy when he did not sing his exercises to her +satisfaction. This time he grew quite sulky. + +"I wish you wouldn't treat me as if I were a child." + +"Are you cross?" + +"Very." + +"I didn't mean to." + +She put out her hand and he took it. Once or twice lately when they shook +hands at night he had fancied she slightly pressed his hand, but this time +there was no doubt about it. + +He did not quite know what he ought to say next. Here at last was his +chance of an adventure, and he would be a fool not to take it; but it was +a little ordinary, and he had expected more glamour. He had read many +descriptions of love, and he felt in himself none of that uprush of +emotion which novelists described; he was not carried off his feet in wave +upon wave of passion; nor was Miss Wilkinson the ideal: he had often +pictured to himself the great violet eyes and the alabaster skin of some +lovely girl, and he had thought of himself burying his face in the +rippling masses of her auburn hair. He could not imagine himself burying +his face in Miss Wilkinson's hair, it always struck him as a little +sticky. All the same it would be very satisfactory to have an intrigue, +and he thrilled with the legitimate pride he would enjoy in his conquest. +He owed it to himself to seduce her. He made up his mind to kiss Miss +Wilkinson; not then, but in the evening; it would be easier in the dark, +and after he had kissed her the rest would follow. He would kiss her that +very evening. He swore an oath to that effect. + +He laid his plans. After supper he suggested that they should take a +stroll in the garden. Miss Wilkinson accepted, and they sauntered side by +side. Philip was very nervous. He did not know why, but the conversation +would not lead in the right direction; he had decided that the first thing +to do was to put his arm round her waist; but he could not suddenly put +his arm round her waist when she was talking of the regatta which was to +be held next week. He led her artfully into the darkest parts of the +garden, but having arrived there his courage failed him. They sat on a +bench, and he had really made up his mind that here was his opportunity +when Miss Wilkinson said she was sure there were earwigs and insisted on +moving. They walked round the garden once more, and Philip promised +himself he would take the plunge before they arrived at that bench again; +but as they passed the house, they saw Mrs. Carey standing at the door. + +"Hadn't you young people better come in? I'm sure the night air isn't good +for you." + +"Perhaps we had better go in," said Philip. "I don't want you to catch +cold." + +He said it with a sigh of relief. He could attempt nothing more that +night. But afterwards, when he was alone in his room, he was furious with +himself. He had been a perfect fool. He was certain that Miss Wilkinson +expected him to kiss her, otherwise she wouldn't have come into the +garden. She was always saying that only Frenchmen knew how to treat women. +Philip had read French novels. If he had been a Frenchman he would have +seized her in his arms and told her passionately that he adored her; he +would have pressed his lips on her nuque. He did not know why Frenchmen +always kissed ladies on the nuque. He did not himself see anything so +very attractive in the nape of the neck. Of course it was much easier for +Frenchmen to do these things; the language was such an aid; Philip could +never help feeling that to say passionate things in English sounded a +little absurd. He wished now that he had never undertaken the siege of +Miss Wilkinson's virtue; the first fortnight had been so jolly, and now he +was wretched; but he was determined not to give in, he would never respect +himself again if he did, and he made up his mind irrevocably that the +next night he would kiss her without fail. + +Next day when he got up he saw it was raining, and his first thought was +that they would not be able to go into the garden that evening. He was in +high spirits at breakfast. Miss Wilkinson sent Mary Ann in to say that she +had a headache and would remain in bed. She did not come down till +tea-time, when she appeared in a becoming wrapper and a pale face; but she +was quite recovered by supper, and the meal was very cheerful. After +prayers she said she would go straight to bed, and she kissed Mrs. Carey. +Then she turned to Philip. + +"Good gracious!" she cried. "I was just going to kiss you too." + +"Why don't you?" he said. + +She laughed and held out her hand. She distinctly pressed his. + +The following day there was not a cloud in the sky, and the garden was +sweet and fresh after the rain. Philip went down to the beach to bathe and +when he came home ate a magnificent dinner. They were having a tennis +party at the vicarage in the afternoon and Miss Wilkinson put on her best +dress. She certainly knew how to wear her clothes, and Philip could not +help noticing how elegant she looked beside the curate's wife and the +doctor's married daughter. There were two roses in her waistband. She sat +in a garden chair by the side of the lawn, holding a red parasol over +herself, and the light on her face was very becoming. Philip was fond of +tennis. He served well and as he ran clumsily played close to the net: +notwithstanding his club-foot he was quick, and it was difficult to get a +ball past him. He was pleased because he won all his sets. At tea he lay +down at Miss Wilkinson's feet, hot and panting. + +"Flannels suit you," she said. "You look very nice this afternoon." + +He blushed with delight. + +"I can honestly return the compliment. You look perfectly ravishing." + +She smiled and gave him a long look with her black eyes. + +After supper he insisted that she should come out. + +"Haven't you had enough exercise for one day?" + +"It'll be lovely in the garden tonight. The stars are all out." + +He was in high spirits. + +"D'you know, Mrs. Carey has been scolding me on your account?" said Miss +Wilkinson, when they were sauntering through the kitchen garden. "She says +I mustn't flirt with you." + +"Have you been flirting with me? I hadn't noticed it." + +"She was only joking." + +"It was very unkind of you to refuse to kiss me last night." + +"If you saw the look your uncle gave me when I said what I did!" + +"Was that all that prevented you?" + +"I prefer to kiss people without witnesses." + +"There are no witnesses now." + +Philip put his arm round her waist and kissed her lips. She only laughed +a little and made no attempt to withdraw. It had come quite naturally. +Philip was very proud of himself. He said he would, and he had. It was the +easiest thing in the world. He wished he had done it before. He did it +again. + +"Oh, you mustn't," she said. + +"Why not?" + +"Because I like it," she laughed. + + + +XXXIV + + +Next day after dinner they took their rugs and cushions to the fountain, +and their books; but they did not read. Miss Wilkinson made herself +comfortable and she opened the red sun-shade. Philip was not at all shy +now, but at first she would not let him kiss her. + +"It was very wrong of me last night," she said. "I couldn't sleep, I felt +I'd done so wrong." + +"What nonsense!" he cried. "I'm sure you slept like a top." + +"What do you think your uncle would say if he knew?" + +"There's no reason why he should know." + +He leaned over her, and his heart went pit-a-pat. + +"Why d'you want to kiss me?" + +He knew he ought to reply: "Because I love you." But he could not bring +himself to say it. + +"Why do you think?" he asked instead. + +She looked at him with smiling eyes and touched his face with the tips of +her fingers. + +"How smooth your face is," she murmured. + +"I want shaving awfully," he said. + +It was astonishing how difficult he found it to make romantic speeches. He +found that silence helped him much more than words. He could look +inexpressible things. Miss Wilkinson sighed. + +"Do you like me at all?" + +"Yes, awfully." + +When he tried to kiss her again she did not resist. He pretended to be +much more passionate than he really was, and he succeeded in playing a +part which looked very well in his own eyes. + +"I'm beginning to be rather frightened of you," said Miss Wilkinson. + +"You'll come out after supper, won't you?" he begged. + +"Not unless you promise to behave yourself." + +"I'll promise anything." + +He was catching fire from the flame he was partly simulating, and at +tea-time he was obstreperously merry. Miss Wilkinson looked at him +nervously. + +"You mustn't have those shining eyes," she said to him afterwards. "What +will your Aunt Louisa think?" + +"I don't care what she thinks." + +Miss Wilkinson gave a little laugh of pleasure. They had no sooner +finished supper than he said to her: + +"Are you going to keep me company while I smoke a cigarette?" + +"Why don't you let Miss Wilkinson rest?" said Mrs. Carey. "You must +remember she's not as young as you." + +"Oh, I'd like to go out, Mrs. Carey," she said, rather acidly. + +"After dinner walk a mile, after supper rest a while," said the Vicar. + +"Your aunt is very nice, but she gets on my nerves sometimes," said Miss +Wilkinson, as soon as they closed the side-door behind them. + +Philip threw away the cigarette he had just lighted, and flung his arms +round her. She tried to push him away. + +"You promised you'd be good, Philip." + +"You didn't think I was going to keep a promise like that?" + +"Not so near the house, Philip," she said. "Supposing someone should come +out suddenly?" + +He led her to the kitchen garden where no one was likely to come, and this +time Miss Wilkinson did not think of earwigs. He kissed her passionately. +It was one of the things that puzzled him that he did not like her at all +in the morning, and only moderately in the afternoon, but at night the +touch of her hand thrilled him. He said things that he would never have +thought himself capable of saying; he could certainly never have said them +in the broad light of day; and he listened to himself with wonder and +satisfaction. + +"How beautifully you make love," she said. + +That was what he thought himself. + +"Oh, if I could only say all the things that burn my heart!" he murmured +passionately. + +It was splendid. It was the most thrilling game he had ever played; and +the wonderful thing was that he felt almost all he said. It was only that +he exaggerated a little. He was tremendously interested and excited in the +effect he could see it had on her. It was obviously with an effort that at +last she suggested going in. + +"Oh, don't go yet," he cried. + +"I must," she muttered. "I'm frightened." + +He had a sudden intuition what was the right thing to do then. + +"I can't go in yet. I shall stay here and think. My cheeks are burning. I +want the night-air. Good-night." + +He held out his hand seriously, and she took it in silence. He thought she +stifled a sob. Oh, it was magnificent! When, after a decent interval +during which he had been rather bored in the dark garden by himself, he +went in he found that Miss Wilkinson had already gone to bed. + +After that things were different between them. The next day and the day +after Philip showed himself an eager lover. He was deliciously flattered +to discover that Miss Wilkinson was in love with him: she told him so in +English, and she told him so in French. She paid him compliments. No one +had ever informed him before that his eyes were charming and that he had +a sensual mouth. He had never bothered much about his personal appearance, +but now, when occasion presented, he looked at himself in the glass with +satisfaction. When he kissed her it was wonderful to feel the passion that +seemed to thrill her soul. He kissed her a good deal, for he found it +easier to do that than to say the things he instinctively felt she +expected of him. It still made him feel a fool to say he worshipped her. +He wished there were someone to whom he could boast a little, and he would +willingly have discussed minute points of his conduct. Sometimes she said +things that were enigmatic, and he was puzzled. He wished Hayward had been +there so that he could ask him what he thought she meant, and what he had +better do next. He could not make up his mind whether he ought to rush +things or let them take their time. There were only three weeks more. + +"I can't bear to think of that," she said. "It breaks my heart. And then +perhaps we shall never see one another again." + +"If you cared for me at all, you wouldn't be so unkind to me," he +whispered. + +"Oh, why can't you be content to let it go on as it is? Men are always the +same. They're never satisfied." + +And when he pressed her, she said: + +"But don't you see it's impossible. How can we here?" + +He proposed all sorts of schemes, but she would not have anything to do +with them. + +"I daren't take the risk. It would be too dreadful if your aunt found +out." + +A day or two later he had an idea which seemed brilliant. + +"Look here, if you had a headache on Sunday evening and offered to stay at +home and look after the house, Aunt Louisa would go to church." + +Generally Mrs. Carey remained in on Sunday evening in order to allow Mary +Ann to go to church, but she would welcome the opportunity of attending +evensong. + +Philip had not found it necessary to impart to his relations the change in +his views on Christianity which had occurred in Germany; they could not be +expected to understand; and it seemed less trouble to go to church +quietly. But he only went in the morning. He regarded this as a graceful +concession to the prejudices of society and his refusal to go a second +time as an adequate assertion of free thought. + +When he made the suggestion, Miss Wilkinson did not speak for a moment, +then shook her head. + +"No, I won't," she said. + +But on Sunday at tea-time she surprised Philip. "I don't think I'll come +to church this evening," she said suddenly. "I've really got a dreadful +headache." + +Mrs. Carey, much concerned, insisted on giving her some `drops' which she +was herself in the habit of using. Miss Wilkinson thanked her, and +immediately after tea announced that she would go to her room and lie +down. + +"Are you sure there's nothing you'll want?" asked Mrs. Carey anxiously. + +"Quite sure, thank you." + +"Because, if there isn't, I think I'll go to church. I don't often have +the chance of going in the evening." + +"Oh yes, do go." + +"I shall be in," said Philip. "If Miss Wilkinson wants anything, she can +always call me." + +"You'd better leave the drawing-room door open, Philip, so that if Miss +Wilkinson rings, you'll hear." + +"Certainly," said Philip. + +So after six o'clock Philip was left alone in the house with Miss +Wilkinson. He felt sick with apprehension. He wished with all his heart +that he had not suggested the plan; but it was too late now; he must take +the opportunity which he had made. What would Miss Wilkinson think of him +if he did not! He went into the hall and listened. There was not a sound. +He wondered if Miss Wilkinson really had a headache. Perhaps she had +forgotten his suggestion. His heart beat painfully. He crept up the stairs +as softly as he could, and he stopped with a start when they creaked. He +stood outside Miss Wilkinson's room and listened; he put his hand on the +knob of the door-handle. He waited. It seemed to him that he waited for at +least five minutes, trying to make up his mind; and his hand trembled. He +would willingly have bolted, but he was afraid of the remorse which he +knew would seize him. It was like getting on the highest diving-board in +a swimming-bath; it looked nothing from below, but when you got up there +and stared down at the water your heart sank; and the only thing that +forced you to dive was the shame of coming down meekly by the steps you +had climbed up. Philip screwed up his courage. He turned the handle softly +and walked in. He seemed to himself to be trembling like a leaf. + +Miss Wilkinson was standing at the dressing-table with her back to the +door, and she turned round quickly when she heard it open. + +"Oh, it's you. What d'you want?" + +She had taken off her skirt and blouse, and was standing in her petticoat. +It was short and only came down to the top of her boots; the upper part of +it was black, of some shiny material, and there was a red flounce. She +wore a camisole of white calico with short arms. She looked grotesque. +Philip's heart sank as he stared at her; she had never seemed so +unattractive; but it was too late now. He closed the door behind him and +locked it. + + + +XXXV + + +Philip woke early next morning. His sleep had been restless; but when he +stretched his legs and looked at the sunshine that slid through the +Venetian blinds, making patterns on the floor, he sighed with +satisfaction. He was delighted with himself. He began to think of Miss +Wilkinson. She had asked him to call her Emily, but, he knew not why, he +could not; he always thought of her as Miss Wilkinson. Since she chid him +for so addressing her, he avoided using her name at all. During his +childhood he had often heard a sister of Aunt Louisa, the widow of a naval +officer, spoken of as Aunt Emily. It made him uncomfortable to call Miss +Wilkinson by that name, nor could he think of any that would have suited +her better. She had begun as Miss Wilkinson, and it seemed inseparable +from his impression of her. He frowned a little: somehow or other he saw +her now at her worst; he could not forget his dismay when she turned round +and he saw her in her camisole and the short petticoat; he remembered the +slight roughness of her skin and the sharp, long lines on the side of the +neck. His triumph was short-lived. He reckoned out her age again, and he +did not see how she could be less than forty. It made the affair +ridiculous. She was plain and old. His quick fancy showed her to him, +wrinkled, haggard, made-up, in those frocks which were too showy for her +position and too young for her years. He shuddered; he felt suddenly that +he never wanted to see her again; he could not bear the thought of kissing +her. He was horrified with himself. Was that love? + +He took as long as he could over dressing in order to put back the moment +of seeing her, and when at last he went into the dining-room it was with +a sinking heart. Prayers were over, and they were sitting down at +breakfast. + +"Lazybones," Miss Wilkinson cried gaily. + +He looked at her and gave a little gasp of relief. She was sitting with +her back to the window. She was really quite nice. He wondered why he had +thought such things about her. His self-satisfaction returned to him. + +He was taken aback by the change in her. She told him in a voice thrilling +with emotion immediately after breakfast that she loved him; and when a +little later they went into the drawing-room for his singing lesson and +she sat down on the music-stool she put up her face in the middle of a +scale and said: + +"Embrasse-moi." + +When he bent down she flung her arms round his neck. It was slightly +uncomfortable, for she held him in such a position that he felt rather +choked. + +"Ah, je t'aime. Je t'aime. Je t'aime," she cried, with her extravagantly +French accent. + +Philip wished she would speak English. + +"I say, I don't know if it's struck you that the gardener's quite likely +to pass the window any minute." + +"Ah, je m'en fiche du jardinier. Je m'en refiche, et je m'en +contrefiche." + +Philip thought it was very like a French novel, and he did not know why it +slightly irritated him. + +At last he said: + +"Well, I think I'll tootle along to the beach and have a dip." + +"Oh, you're not going to leave me this morning--of all mornings?" Philip +did not quite know why he should not, but it did not matter. + +"Would you like me to stay?" he smiled. + +"Oh, you darling! But no, go. Go. I want to think of you mastering the +salt sea waves, bathing your limbs in the broad ocean." + +He got his hat and sauntered off. + +"What rot women talk!" he thought to himself. + +But he was pleased and happy and flattered. She was evidently frightfully +gone on him. As he limped along the high street of Blackstable he looked +with a tinge of superciliousness at the people he passed. He knew a good +many to nod to, and as he gave them a smile of recognition he thought to +himself, if they only knew! He did want someone to know very badly. He +thought he would write to Hayward, and in his mind composed the letter. He +would talk of the garden and the roses, and the little French governess, +like an exotic flower amongst them, scented and perverse: he would say she +was French, because--well, she had lived in France so long that she almost +was, and besides it would be shabby to give the whole thing away too +exactly, don't you know; and he would tell Hayward how he had seen her +first in her pretty muslin dress and of the flower she had given him. He +made a delicate idyl of it: the sunshine and the sea gave it passion and +magic, and the stars added poetry, and the old vicarage garden was a fit +and exquisite setting. There was something Meredithian about it: it was +not quite Lucy Feverel and not quite Clara Middleton; but it was +inexpressibly charming. Philip's heart beat quickly. He was so delighted +with his fancies that he began thinking of them again as soon as he +crawled back, dripping and cold, into his bathing-machine. He thought of +the object of his affections. She had the most adorable little nose and +large brown eyes--he would describe her to Hayward--and masses of soft +brown hair, the sort of hair it was delicious to bury your face in, and a +skin which was like ivory and sunshine, and her cheek was like a red, red +rose. How old was she? Eighteen perhaps, and he called her Musette. Her +laughter was like a rippling brook, and her voice was so soft, so low, it +was the sweetest music he had ever heard. + +"What ARE you thinking about?" + +Philip stopped suddenly. He was walking slowly home. + +"I've been waving at you for the last quarter of a mile. You ARE +absent-minded." + +Miss Wilkinson was standing in front of him, laughing at his surprise. + +"I thought I'd come and meet you." + +"That's awfully nice of you," he said. + +"Did I startle you?" + +"You did a bit," he admitted. + +He wrote his letter to Hayward all the same. There were eight pages of it. + +The fortnight that remained passed quickly, and though each evening, when +they went into the garden after supper, Miss Wilkinson remarked that one +day more had gone, Philip was in too cheerful spirits to let the thought +depress him. One night Miss Wilkinson suggested that it would be +delightful if she could exchange her situation in Berlin for one in +London. Then they could see one another constantly. Philip said it would +be very jolly, but the prospect aroused no enthusiasm in him; he was +looking forward to a wonderful life in London, and he preferred not to be +hampered. He spoke a little too freely of all he meant to do, and allowed +Miss Wilkinson to see that already he was longing to be off. + +"You wouldn't talk like that if you loved me," she cried. + +He was taken aback and remained silent. + +"What a fool I've been," she muttered. + +To his surprise he saw that she was crying. He had a tender heart, and +hated to see anyone miserable. + +"Oh, I'm awfully sorry. What have I done? Don't cry." + +"Oh, Philip, don't leave me. You don't know what you mean to me. I have +such a wretched life, and you've made me so happy." + +He kissed her silently. There really was anguish in her tone, and he was +frightened. It had never occurred to him that she meant what she said +quite, quite seriously. + +"I'm awfully sorry. You know I'm frightfully fond of you. I wish you would +come to London." + +"You know I can't. Places are almost impossible to get, and I hate English +life." + +Almost unconscious that he was acting a part, moved by her distress, he +pressed her more and more. Her tears vaguely flattered him, and he kissed +her with real passion. + +But a day or two later she made a real scene. There was a tennis-party at +the vicarage, and two girls came, daughters of a retired major in an +Indian regiment who had lately settled in Blackstable. They were very +pretty, one was Philip's age and the other was a year or two younger. +Being used to the society of young men (they were full of stories of +hill-stations in India, and at that time the stories of Rudyard Kipling +were in every hand) they began to chaff Philip gaily; and he, pleased with +the novelty--the young ladies at Blackstable treated the Vicar's nephew +with a certain seriousness--was gay and jolly. Some devil within him +prompted him to start a violent flirtation with them both, and as he was +the only young man there, they were quite willing to meet him half-way. It +happened that they played tennis quite well and Philip was tired of +pat-ball with Miss Wilkinson (she had only begun to play when she came to +Blackstable), so when he arranged the sets after tea he suggested that +Miss Wilkinson should play against the curate's wife, with the curate as +her partner; and he would play later with the new-comers. He sat down by +the elder Miss O'Connor and said to her in an undertone: + +"We'll get the duffers out of the way first, and then we'll have a jolly +set afterwards." + +Apparently Miss Wilkinson overheard him, for she threw down her racket, +and, saying she had a headache, went away. It was plain to everyone that +she was offended. Philip was annoyed that she should make the fact public. +The set was arranged without her, but presently Mrs. Carey called him. + +"Philip, you've hurt Emily's feelings. She's gone to her room and she's +crying." + +"What about?" + +"Oh, something about a duffer's set. Do go to her, and say you didn't mean +to be unkind, there's a good boy." + +"All right." + +He knocked at Miss Wilkinson's door, but receiving no answer went in. He +found her lying face downwards on her bed, weeping. He touched her on the +shoulder. + +"I say, what on earth's the matter?" + +"Leave me alone. I never want to speak to you again." + +"What have I done? I'm awfully sorry if I've hurt your feelings. I didn't +mean to. I say, do get up." + +"Oh, I'm so unhappy. How could you be cruel to me? You know I hate that +stupid game. I only play because I want to play with you." + +She got up and walked towards the dressing-table, but after a quick look +in the glass sank into a chair. She made her handkerchief into a ball and +dabbed her eyes with it. + +"I've given you the greatest thing a woman can give a man--oh, what a fool +I was--and you have no gratitude. You must be quite heartless. How could +you be so cruel as to torment me by flirting with those vulgar girls. +We've only got just over a week. Can't you even give me that?" + +Philip stood over her rather sulkily. He thought her behaviour childish. +He was vexed with her for having shown her ill-temper before strangers. + +"But you know I don't care twopence about either of the O'Connors. Why on +earth should you think I do?" + +Miss Wilkinson put away her handkerchief. Her tears had made marks on her +powdered face, and her hair was somewhat disarranged. Her white dress did +not suit her very well just then. She looked at Philip with hungry, +passionate eyes. + +"Because you're twenty and so's she," she said hoarsely. "And I'm old." + +Philip reddened and looked away. The anguish of her tone made him feel +strangely uneasy. He wished with all his heart that he had never had +anything to do with Miss Wilkinson. + +"I don't want to make you unhappy," he said awkwardly. "You'd better go +down and look after your friends. They'll wonder what has become of you." + +"All right." + +He was glad to leave her. + +The quarrel was quickly followed by a reconciliation, but the few days +that remained were sometimes irksome to Philip. He wanted to talk of +nothing but the future, and the future invariably reduced Miss Wilkinson +to tears. At first her weeping affected him, and feeling himself a beast +he redoubled his protestations of undying passion; but now it irritated +him: it would have been all very well if she had been a girl, but it was +silly of a grown-up woman to cry so much. She never ceased reminding him +that he was under a debt of gratitude to her which he could never repay. +He was willing to acknowledge this since she made a point of it, but he +did not really know why he should be any more grateful to her than she to +him. He was expected to show his sense of obligation in ways which were +rather a nuisance: he had been a good deal used to solitude, and it was a +necessity to him sometimes; but Miss Wilkinson looked upon it as an +unkindness if he was not always at her beck and call. The Miss O'Connors +asked them both to tea, and Philip would have liked to go, but Miss +Wilkinson said she only had five days more and wanted him entirely to +herself. It was flattering, but a bore. Miss Wilkinson told him stories of +the exquisite delicacy of Frenchmen when they stood in the same relation +to fair ladies as he to Miss Wilkinson. She praised their courtesy, their +passion for self-sacrifice, their perfect tact. Miss Wilkinson seemed to +want a great deal. + +Philip listened to her enumeration of the qualities which must be +possessed by the perfect lover, and he could not help feeling a certain +satisfaction that she lived in Berlin. + +"You will write to me, won't you? Write to me every day. I want to know +everything you're doing. You must keep nothing from me." + +"I shall be awfully, busy" he answered. "I'll write as often as I can." + +She flung her arms passionately round his neck. He was embarrassed +sometimes by the demonstrations of her affection. He would have preferred +her to be more passive. It shocked him a little that she should give him +so marked a lead: it did not tally altogether with his prepossessions +about the modesty of the feminine temperament. + +At length the day came on which Miss Wilkinson was to go, and she came +down to breakfast, pale and subdued, in a serviceable travelling dress of +black and white check. She looked a very competent governess. Philip was +silent too, for he did not quite know what to say that would fit the +circumstance; and he was terribly afraid that, if he said something +flippant, Miss Wilkinson would break down before his uncle and make a +scene. They had said their last good-bye to one another in the garden the +night before, and Philip was relieved that there was now no opportunity +for them to be alone. He remained in the dining-room after breakfast in +case Miss Wilkinson should insist on kissing him on the stairs. He did not +want Mary Ann, now a woman hard upon middle age with a sharp tongue, to +catch them in a compromising position. Mary Ann did not like Miss +Wilkinson and called her an old cat. Aunt Louisa was not very well and +could not come to the station, but the Vicar and Philip saw her off. Just +as the train was leaving she leaned out and kissed Mr. Carey. + +"I must kiss you too, Philip," she said. + +"All right," he said, blushing. + +He stood up on the step and she kissed him quickly. The train started, and +Miss Wilkinson sank into the corner of her carriage and wept +disconsolately. Philip, as he walked back to the vicarage, felt a distinct +sensation of relief. + +"Well, did you see her safely off?" asked Aunt Louisa, when they got in. + +"Yes, she seemed rather weepy. She insisted on kissing me and Philip." + +"Oh, well, at her age it's not dangerous." Mrs. Carey pointed to the +sideboard. "There's a letter for you, Philip. It came by the second post." + +It was from Hayward and ran as follows: + + +My dear boy, + +I answer your letter at once. I ventured to read it to a great friend of +mine, a charming woman whose help and sympathy have been very precious to +me, a woman withal with a real feeling for art and literature; and we +agreed that it was charming. You wrote from your heart and you do not know +the delightful naivete which is in every line. And because you love you +write like a poet. Ah, dear boy, that is the real thing: I felt the glow +of your young passion, and your prose was musical from the sincerity of +your emotion. You must be happy! I wish I could have been present unseen +in that enchanted garden while you wandered hand in hand, like Daphnis and +Chloe, amid the flowers. I can see you, my Daphnis, with the light of +young love in your eyes, tender, enraptured, and ardent; while Chloe in +your arms, so young and soft and fresh, vowing she would ne'er +consent--consented. Roses and violets and honeysuckle! Oh, my friend, I +envy you. It is so good to think that your first love should have been +pure poetry. Treasure the moments, for the immortal gods have given you +the Greatest Gift of All, and it will be a sweet, sad memory till your +dying day. You will never again enjoy that careless rapture. First love is +best love; and she is beautiful and you are young, and all the world is +yours. I felt my pulse go faster when with your adorable simplicity you +told me that you buried your face in her long hair. I am sure that it is +that exquisite chestnut which seems just touched with gold. I would have +you sit under a leafy tree side by side, and read together Romeo and +Juliet; and then I would have you fall on your knees and on my behalf kiss +the ground on which her foot has left its imprint; then tell her it is the +homage of a poet to her radiant youth and to your love for her. + Yours always, + G. Etheridge Hayward. + + +"What damned rot!" said Philip, when he finished the letter. + +Miss Wilkinson oddly enough had suggested that they should read Romeo and +Juliet together; but Philip had firmly declined. Then, as he put the +letter in his pocket, he felt a queer little pang of bitterness because +reality seemed so different from the ideal. + + + +XXXVI + + +A few days later Philip went to London. The curate had recommended rooms +in Barnes, and these Philip engaged by letter at fourteen shillings a +week. He reached them in the evening; and the landlady, a funny little old +woman with a shrivelled body and a deeply wrinkled face, had prepared high +tea for him. Most of the sitting-room was taken up by the sideboard and a +square table; against one wall was a sofa covered with horsehair, and by +the fireplace an arm-chair to match: there was a white antimacassar over +the back of it, and on the seat, because the springs were broken, a hard +cushion. + +After having his tea he unpacked and arranged his books, then he sat down +and tried to read; but he was depressed. The silence in the street made +him slightly uncomfortable, and he felt very much alone. + +Next day he got up early. He put on his tail-coat and the tall hat which +he had worn at school; but it was very shabby, and he made up his mind to +stop at the Stores on his way to the office and buy a new one. When he had +done this he found himself in plenty of time and so walked along the +Strand. The office of Messrs. Herbert Carter & Co. was in a little street +off Chancery Lane, and he had to ask his way two or three times. He felt +that people were staring at him a great deal, and once he took off his hat +to see whether by chance the label had been left on. When he arrived he +knocked at the door; but no one answered, and looking at his watch he +found it was barely half past nine; he supposed he was too early. He went +away and ten minutes later returned to find an office-boy, with a long +nose, pimply face, and a Scotch accent, opening the door. Philip asked for +Mr. Herbert Carter. He had not come yet. + +"When will he be here?" + +"Between ten and half past." + +"I'd better wait," said Philip. + +"What are you wanting?" asked the office-boy. + +Philip was nervous, but tried to hide the fact by a jocose manner. + +"Well, I'm going to work here if you have no objection." + +"Oh, you're the new articled clerk? You'd better come in. Mr. +Goodworthy'll be here in a while." + +Philip walked in, and as he did so saw the office-boy--he was about the +same age as Philip and called himself a junior clerk--look at his foot. He +flushed and, sitting down, hid it behind the other. He looked round the +room. It was dark and very dingy. It was lit by a skylight. There were +three rows of desks in it and against them high stools. Over the +chimney-piece was a dirty engraving of a prize-fight. Presently a clerk +came in and then another; they glanced at Philip and in an undertone asked +the office-boy (Philip found his name was Macdougal) who he was. A whistle +blew, and Macdougal got up. + +"Mr. Goodworthy's come. He's the managing clerk. Shall I tell him you're +here?" + +"Yes, please," said Philip. + +The office-boy went out and in a moment returned. + +"Will you come this way?" + +Philip followed him across the passage and was shown into a room, small +and barely furnished, in which a little, thin man was standing with his +back to the fireplace. He was much below the middle height, but his large +head, which seemed to hang loosely on his body, gave him an odd +ungainliness. His features were wide and flattened, and he had prominent, +pale eyes; his thin hair was sandy; he wore whiskers that grew unevenly on +his face, and in places where you would have expected the hair to grow +thickly there was no hair at all. His skin was pasty and yellow. He held +out his hand to Philip, and when he smiled showed badly decayed teeth. He +spoke with a patronising and at the same time a timid air, as though he +sought to assume an importance which he did not feel. He said he hoped +Philip would like the work; there was a good deal of drudgery about it, +but when you got used to it, it was interesting; and one made money, that +was the chief thing, wasn't it? He laughed with his odd mixture of +superiority and shyness. + +"Mr. Carter will be here presently," he said. "He's a little late on +Monday mornings sometimes. I'll call you when he comes. In the meantime I +must give you something to do. Do you know anything about book-keeping or +accounts?" + +"I'm afraid not," answered Philip. + +"I didn't suppose you would. They don't teach you things at school that +are much use in business, I'm afraid." He considered for a moment. "I +think I can find you something to do." + +He went into the next room and after a little while came out with a large +cardboard box. It contained a vast number of letters in great disorder, +and he told Philip to sort them out and arrange them alphabetically +according to the names of the writers. + +"I'll take you to the room in which the articled clerk generally sits. +There's a very nice fellow in it. His name is Watson. He's a son of +Watson, Crag, and Thompson--you know--the brewers. He's spending a year +with us to learn business." + +Mr. Goodworthy led Philip through the dingy office, where now six or eight +clerks were working, into a narrow room behind. It had been made into a +separate apartment by a glass partition, and here they found Watson +sitting back in a chair, reading The Sportsman. He was a large, stout +young man, elegantly dressed, and he looked up as Mr. Goodworthy entered. +He asserted his position by calling the managing clerk Goodworthy. The +managing clerk objected to the familiarity, and pointedly called him Mr. +Watson, but Watson, instead of seeing that it was a rebuke, accepted the +title as a tribute to his gentlemanliness. + +"I see they've scratched Rigoletto," he said to Philip, as soon as they +were left alone. + +"Have they?" said Philip, who knew nothing about horse-racing. + +He looked with awe upon Watson's beautiful clothes. His tail-coat fitted +him perfectly, and there was a valuable pin artfully stuck in the middle +of an enormous tie. On the chimney-piece rested his tall hat; it was saucy +and bell-shaped and shiny. Philip felt himself very shabby. Watson began +to talk of hunting--it was such an infernal bore having to waste one's +time in an infernal office, he would only be able to hunt on +Saturdays--and shooting: he had ripping invitations all over the country +and of course he had to refuse them. It was infernal luck, but he wasn't +going to put up with it long; he was only in this internal hole for a +year, and then he was going into the business, and he would hunt four days +a week and get all the shooting there was. + +"You've got five years of it, haven't you?" he said, waving his arm round +the tiny room. + +"I suppose so," said Philip. + +"I daresay I shall see something of you. Carter does our accounts, you +know." + +Philip was somewhat overpowered by the young gentleman's condescension. At +Blackstable they had always looked upon brewing with civil contempt, the +Vicar made little jokes about the beerage, and it was a surprising +experience for Philip to discover that Watson was such an important and +magnificent fellow. He had been to Winchester and to Oxford, and his +conversation impressed the fact upon one with frequency. When he +discovered the details of Philip's education his manner became more +patronising still. + +"Of course, if one doesn't go to a public school those sort of schools are +the next best thing, aren't they?" + +Philip asked about the other men in the office. + +"Oh, I don't bother about them much, you know," said Watson. "Carter's not +a bad sort. We have him to dine now and then. All the rest are awful +bounders." + +Presently Watson applied himself to some work he had in hand, and Philip +set about sorting his letters. Then Mr. Goodworthy came in to say that Mr. +Carter had arrived. He took Philip into a large room next door to his own. +There was a big desk in it, and a couple of big arm-chairs; a Turkey +carpet adorned the floor, and the walls were decorated with sporting +prints. Mr. Carter was sitting at the desk and got up to shake hands with +Philip. He was dressed in a long frock coat. He looked like a military +man; his moustache was waxed, his gray hair was short and neat, he held +himself upright, he talked in a breezy way, he lived at Enfield. He was +very keen on games and the good of the country. He was an officer in the +Hertfordshire Yeomanry and chairman of the Conservative Association. When +he was told that a local magnate had said no one would take him for a City +man, he felt that he had not lived in vain. He talked to Philip in a +pleasant, off-hand fashion. Mr. Goodworthy would look after him. Watson +was a nice fellow, perfect gentleman, good sportsman--did Philip hunt? +Pity, THE sport for gentlemen. Didn't have much chance of hunting now, +had to leave that to his son. His son was at Cambridge, he'd sent him to +Rugby, fine school Rugby, nice class of boys there, in a couple of years +his son would be articled, that would be nice for Philip, he'd like his +son, thorough sportsman. He hoped Philip would get on well and like the +work, he mustn't miss his lectures, they were getting up the tone of the +profession, they wanted gentlemen in it. Well, well, Mr. Goodworthy was +there. If he wanted to know anything Mr. Goodworthy would tell him. What +was his handwriting like? Ah well, Mr. Goodworthy would see about that. + +Philip was overwhelmed by so much gentlemanliness: in East Anglia they +knew who were gentlemen and who weren't, but the gentlemen didn't talk +about it. + + + +XXXVII + + +At first the novelty of the work kept Philip interested. Mr. Carter +dictated letters to him, and he had to make fair copies of statements of +accounts. + +Mr. Carter preferred to conduct the office on gentlemanly lines; he would +have nothing to do with typewriting and looked upon shorthand with +disfavour: the office-boy knew shorthand, but it was only Mr. Goodworthy +who made use of his accomplishment. Now and then Philip with one of the +more experienced clerks went out to audit the accounts of some firm: he +came to know which of the clients must be treated with respect and which +were in low water. Now and then long lists of figures were given him to +add up. He attended lectures for his first examination. Mr. Goodworthy +repeated to him that the work was dull at first, but he would grow used to +it. 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 spent +the evening reading. On Saturday afternoons he went to the National +Gallery. Hayward had recommended to him a guide which had been compiled +out of Ruskin's works, and with this in hand he went industriously through +room after room: he read carefully what the critic had said about a +picture and then in a determined fashion set himself to see the same +things in it. His Sundays were difficult to get through. He knew no one in +London and spent them by himself. Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, asked him to +spend a Sunday at Hampstead, and Philip passed a happy day with a set of +exuberant strangers; he ate and drank a great deal, took a walk on the +heath, and came away with a general invitation to come again whenever he +liked; but he was morbidly afraid of being in the way, so waited for a +formal invitation. Naturally enough it never came, for with numbers of +friends of their own the Nixons did not think of the lonely, silent boy +whose claim upon their hospitality was so small. So on Sundays he got up +late 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 above +the locks nor the romance of the crowded stream below London Bridge. In +the 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 the +litter of civilisation. He went to a play every Saturday night and stood +cheerfully for an hour or more at the gallery-door. It was not worth while +to go back to Barnes for the interval between the closing of the Museum +and 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 he +was tired went and sat down in the Park or in wet weather in the public +library in St. Martin's Lane. He looked at the people walking about and +envied them because they had friends; sometimes his envy turned to hatred +because they were happy and he was miserable. He had never imagined that +it was possible to be so lonely in a great city. Sometimes when he was +standing at the gallery-door the man next to him would attempt a +conversation; but Philip had the country boy's suspicion of strangers and +answered in such a way as to prevent any further acquaintance. After the +play was over, obliged to keep to himself all he thought about it, he +hurried across the bridge to Waterloo. When he got back to his rooms, in +which for economy no fire had been lit, his heart sank. It was horribly +cheerless. He began to loathe his lodgings and the long solitary evenings +he spent in them. Sometimes he felt so lonely that he could not read, and +then 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 at +Hampstead had never talked to anyone but his fellow-clerks. One evening +Watson asked him to dinner at a restaurant and they went to a music-hall +together; but he felt shy and uncomfortable. Watson talked all the time of +things he did not care about, and while he looked upon Watson as a +Philistine he could not help admiring him. He was angry because Watson +obviously set no store on his culture, and with his way of taking himself +at the estimate at which he saw others held him he began to despise the +acquirements which till then had seemed to him not unimportant. He felt +for the first time the humiliation of poverty. His uncle sent him fourteen +pounds a month and he had had to buy a good many clothes. His evening suit +cost him five guineas. He had not dared tell Watson that it was bought in +the Strand. Watson said there was only one tailor in London. + +"I suppose you don't dance," said Watson, one day, with a glance at +Philip's club-foot. + +"No," said Philip. + +"Pity. I've been asked to bring some dancing men to a ball. I could have +introduced you to some jolly girls." + +Once or twice, hating the thought of going back to Barnes, Philip had +remained in town, and late in the evening wandered through the West End +till he found some house at which there was a party. He stood among the +little group of shabby people, behind the footmen, watching the guests +arrive, and he listened to the music that floated through the window. +Sometimes, notwithstanding the cold, a couple came on to the balcony and +stood for a moment to get some fresh air; and Philip, imagining that they +were in love with one another, turned away and limped along the street +with a heavy hurt. He would never be able to stand in that man's place. He +felt that no woman could ever really look upon him without distaste for +his deformity. + +That reminded him of Miss Wilkinson. He thought of her without +satisfaction. Before parting they had made an arrangement that she should +write to Charing Cross Post Office till he was able to send her an +address, and when he went there he found three letters from her. She wrote +on blue paper with violet ink, and she wrote in French. Philip wondered +why she could not write in English like a sensible woman, and her +passionate expressions, because they reminded him of a French novel, left +him cold. She upbraided him for not having written, and when he answered +he excused himself by saying that he had been busy. He did not quite know +how to start the letter. He could not bring himself to use dearest or +darling, and he hated to address her as Emily, so finally he began with +the word dear. It looked odd, standing by itself, and rather silly, but he +made it do. It was the first love letter he had ever written, and he was +conscious of its tameness; he felt that he should say all sorts of +vehement things, how he thought of her every minute of the day and how he +longed to kiss her beautiful hands and how he trembled at the thought of +her red lips, but some inexplicable modesty prevented him; and instead he +told her of his new rooms and his office. The answer came by return of +post, angry, heart-broken, reproachful: how could he be so cold? Did he +not know that she hung on his letters? She had given him all that a woman +could give, and this was her reward. Was he tired of her already? Then, +because he did not reply for several days, Miss Wilkinson bombarded him +with letters. She could not bear his unkindness, she waited for the post, +and it never brought her his letter, she cried herself to sleep night +after night, she was looking so ill that everyone remarked on it: if he +did not love her why did he not say so? She added that she could not live +without him, and the only thing was for her to commit suicide. She told +him he was cold and selfish and ungrateful. It was all in French, and +Philip knew that she wrote in that language to show off, but he was +worried all the same. He did not want to make her unhappy. In a little +while she wrote that she could not bear the separation any longer, she +would arrange to come over to London for Christmas. Philip wrote back that +he would like nothing better, only he had already an engagement to spend +Christmas with friends in the country, and he did not see how he could +break it. She answered that she did not wish to force herself on him, it +was 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 on +the paper; he wrote an impulsive reply saying that he was dreadfully sorry +and imploring her to come; but it was with relief that he received her +answer in which she said that she found it would be impossible for her to +get away. Presently when her letters came his heart sank: he delayed +opening them, for he knew what they would contain, angry reproaches and +pathetic appeals; they would make him feel a perfect beast, and yet he did +not see with what he had to blame himself. He put off his answer from day +to day, and then another letter would come, saying she was ill and lonely +and 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 young +man had been engaged in an intrigue with a girl who played in touring +companies, and his account of the affair filled Philip with envious +amazement. But after a time Watson's young affections changed, and one day +he described the rupture to Philip. + +"I thought it was no good making any bones about it so I just told her I'd +had 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 that +sort of thing with me." + +"Did she cry?" + +"She began to, but I can't stand women when they cry, so I said she'd +better 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 all +through November, and the doctor suggested that she and the Vicar should +go to Cornwall for a couple of weeks round Christmas so that she should +get back her strength. The result was that Philip had nowhere to go, and +he spent Christmas Day in his lodgings. Under Hayward's influence he had +persuaded himself that the festivities that attend this season were vulgar +and barbaric, and he made up his mind that he would take no notice of the +day; but when it came, the jollity of all around affected him strangely. +His landlady and her husband were spending the day with a married +daughter, and to save trouble Philip announced that he would take his +meals out. He went up to London towards mid-day and ate a slice of turkey +and some Christmas pudding by himself at Gatti's, and since he had nothing +to do afterwards went to Westminster Abbey for the afternoon service. The +streets were almost empty, and the people who went along had a preoccupied +look; they did not saunter but walked with some definite goal in view, and +hardly anyone was alone. To Philip they all seemed happy. He felt himself +more solitary than he had ever done in his life. His intention had been to +kill the day somehow in the streets and then dine at a restaurant, but he +could not face again the sight of cheerful people, talking, laughing, and +making merry; so he went back to Waterloo, and on his way through the +Westminster Bridge Road bought some ham and a couple of mince pies and +went back to Barnes. He ate his food in his lonely little room and spent +the 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's +account of the short holiday. They had had some jolly girls staying with +them, and after dinner they had cleared out the drawing-room and had a +dance. + +"I didn't get to bed till three and I don't know how I got there then. By +George, 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 contemptuous +amusement. + +"Oh, I don't know, one just knows them. If you go to dances you soon get +to know as many people as you can do with." + +Philip hated Watson, and yet he would have given anything to change places +with him. The old feeling that he had had at school came back to him, and +he tried to throw himself into the other's skin, imagining what life would +be if he were Watson. + + + +XXXVIII + + +At the end of the year there was a great deal to do. Philip went to +various places with a clerk named Thompson and spent the day monotonously +calling out items of expenditure, which the other checked; and sometimes +he was given long pages of figures to add up. He had never had a head for +figures, and he could only do this slowly. Thompson grew irritated at his +mistakes. His fellow-clerk was a long, lean man of forty, sallow, with +black hair and a ragged moustache; he had hollow cheeks and deep lines on +each side of his nose. He took a dislike to Philip because he was an +articled clerk. Because he could put down three hundred guineas and keep +himself for five years Philip had the chance of a career; while he, with +his experience and ability, had no possibility of ever being more than a +clerk at thirty-five shillings a week. He was a cross-grained man, +oppressed by a large family, and he resented the superciliousness which he +fancied he saw in Philip. He sneered at Philip because he was better +educated than himself, and he mocked at Philip's pronunciation; he could +not forgive him because he spoke without a cockney accent, and when he +talked to him sarcastically exaggerated his aitches. At first his manner +was merely gruff and repellent, but as he discovered that Philip had no +gift for accountancy he took pleasure in humiliating him; his attacks were +gross and silly, but they wounded Philip, and in self-defence he assumed +an attitude of superiority which he did not feel. + +"Had a bath this morning?" Thompson said when Philip came to the office +late, 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 Saturday +night." + +"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 afraid +it'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-paid +and uncouth, were more useful than himself. Once or twice Mr. Goodworthy +grew 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 humiliated +him, when, having been given accounts to make fair copies of, Mr. +Goodworthy was not satisfied and gave them to another clerk to do. At +first the work had been tolerable from its novelty, but now it grew +irksome; and when he discovered that he had no aptitude for it, he began +to hate it. Often, when he should have been doing something that was given +him, he wasted his time drawing little pictures on the office note-paper. +He made sketches of Watson in every conceivable attitude, and Watson was +impressed by his talent. It occurred to him to take the drawings home, and +he came back next day with the praises of his family. + +"I wonder you didn't become a painter," he said. "Only of course there's +no money in it." + +It chanced that Mr. Carter two or three days later was dining with the +Watsons, and the sketches were shown him. The following morning he sent +for 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 chartered +accountant unless you look alive. It's a fine profession, and we're +getting a very good class of men in it, but it's a profession in which you +have to..." he looked for the termination of his phrase, but could not +find exactly what he wanted, so finished rather tamely, "in which you have +to look alive." + +Perhaps Philip would have settled down but for the agreement that if he +did not like the work he could leave after a year, and get back half the +money paid for his articles. He felt that he was fit for something better +than to add up accounts, and it was humiliating that he did so ill +something which seemed contemptible. The vulgar scenes with Thompson got +on 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 the +other clerks disliked them equally, because they belonged to a class a +little higher than their own, was a bond of union. When Philip thought +that he must spend over four years more with that dreary set of fellows +his heart sank. He had expected wonderful things from London and it had +given him nothing. He hated it now. He did not know a soul, and he had no +idea how he was to get to know anyone. He was tired of going everywhere by +himself. He began to feel that he could not stand much more of such a +life. He would lie in bed at night and think of the joy of never seeing +again that dingy office or any of the men in it, and of getting away from +those drab lodgings. + +A great disappointment befell him in the spring. Hayward had announced his +intention of coming to London for the season, and Philip had looked +forward very much to seeing him again. He had read so much lately and +thought so much that his mind was full of ideas which he wanted to +discuss, and he knew nobody who was willing to interest himself in +abstract things. He was quite excited at the thought of talking his fill +with someone, and he was wretched when Hayward wrote to say that the +spring was lovelier than ever he had known it in Italy, and he could not +bear to tear himself away. He went on to ask why Philip did not come. What +was the use of squandering the days of his youth in an office when the +world was beautiful? The letter proceeded. + + + I wonder you can bear it. I think of Fleet Street and Lincoln's Inn now +with a shudder of disgust. There are only two things in the world that +make life worth living, love and art. I cannot imagine you sitting in an +office over a ledger, and do you wear a tall hat and an umbrella and a +little black bag? My feeling is that one should look upon life as an +adventure, one should burn with the hard, gem-like flame, and one should +take risks, one should expose oneself to danger. Why do you not go to +Paris and study art? I always thought you had talent. + + +The suggestion fell in with the possibility that Philip for some time had +been vaguely turning over in his mind. It startled him at first, but he +could not help thinking of it, and in the constant rumination over it he +found his only escape from the wretchedness of his present state. They all +thought 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 Vie +de Boheme had made a deep impression on him. He had brought it to London +and when he was most depressed he had only to read a few pages to be +transported into those chasing attics where Rodolphe and the rest of them +danced and loved and sang. He began to think of Paris as before he had +thought of London, but he had no fear of a second disillusion; he yearned +for romance and beauty and love, and Paris seemed to offer them all. He +had a passion for pictures, and why should he not be able to paint as well +as anybody else? He wrote to Miss Wilkinson and asked her how much she +thought he could live on in Paris. She told him that he could manage +easily on eighty pounds a year, and she enthusiastically approved of his +project. She told him he was too good to be wasted in an office. Who would +be a clerk when he might be a great artist, she asked dramatically, and +she besought Philip to believe in himself: that was the great thing. But +Philip had a cautious nature. It was all very well for Hayward to talk of +taking 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 would +like to go to Paris. The firm did the accounts for a hotel in the Faubourg +St. 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 to +be 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 his +articles gave him some claim upon a job which was one of the pleasures of +the business. Philip was delighted. + +"You'll 'ave to work all day," said Mr. Goodworthy, "but we get our +evenings 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 it +don't cost one anything. That's the way I like going to Paris, at other +people's expense." + +When they arrived at Calais and Philip saw the crowd of gesticulating +porters 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 sand +dunes, their colour seemed to him more lovely than anything he had ever +seen; 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 cobbled +streets in a ramshackle, noisy cab, it seemed to him that he was breathing +a new air so intoxicating that he could hardly restrain himself from +shouting aloud. They were met at the door of the hotel by the manager, a +stout, pleasant man, who spoke tolerable English; Mr. Goodworthy was an +old friend and he greeted them effusively; they dined in his private room +with his wife, and to Philip it seemed that he had never eaten anything so +delicious as the beefsteak aux pommes, nor drunk such nectar as the vin +ordinaire, 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 the +manager next morning what there was to be seen that was `thick.' He +thoroughly enjoyed these visits of his to Paris; he said they kept you +from growing rusty. In the evenings, after their work was over and they +had dined, he took Philip to the Moulin Rouge and the Folies Bergeres. His +little eyes twinkled and his face wore a sly, sensual smile as he sought +out the pornographic. He went into all the haunts which were specially +arranged for the foreigner, and afterwards said that a nation could come +to no good which permitted that sort of thing. He nudged Philip when at +some revue a woman appeared with practically nothing on, and pointed out +to him the most strapping of the courtesans who walked about the hall. It +was a vulgar Paris that he showed Philip, but Philip saw it with eyes +blinded with illusion. In the early morning he would rush out of the hotel +and go to the Champs Elysees, and stand at the Place de la Concorde. It +was June, and Paris was silvery with the delicacy of the air. Philip felt +his 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 Philip +late at night reached his dingy rooms in Barnes his mind was made up; he +would surrender his articles, and go to Paris to study art; but so that no +one should think him unreasonable he determined to stay at the office till +his year was up. He was to have his holiday during the last fortnight in +August, and when he went away he would tell Herbert Carter that he had no +intention of returning. But though Philip could force himself to go to the +office every day he could not even pretend to show any interest in the +work. His mind was occupied with the future. After the middle of July +there was nothing much to do and he escaped a good deal by pretending he +had to go to lectures for his first examination. The time he got in this +way he spent in the National Gallery. He read books about Paris and books +about painting. He was steeped in Ruskin. He read many of Vasari's lives +of the painters. He liked that story of Correggio, and he fancied himself +standing before some great masterpiece and crying: Anch' io son' +pittore. His hesitation had left him now, and he was convinced that he +had in him the makings of a great painter. + +"After all, I can only try," he said to himself. "The great thing in life +is to take risks." + +At last came the middle of August. Mr. Carter was spending the month in +Scotland, and the managing clerk was in charge of the office. Mr. +Goodworthy had seemed pleasantly disposed to Philip since their trip to +Paris, and now that Philip knew he was so soon to be free, he could look +upon the funny little man with tolerance. + +"You're going for your holiday tomorrow, Carey?" he said to him in the +evening. + +All day Philip had been telling himself that this was the last time he +would 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 with +you." + +"Not nearly so dissatisfied as I am with Mr. Carter," returned Philip +cheerfully. + +"I don't think you should speak like that, Carey." + +"I'm not coming back. I made the arrangement that if I didn't like +accountancy Mr. Carter would return me half the money I paid for my +articles 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 loathed +the office, I loathe Loudon. I'd rather sweep a crossing than spend my +days 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 for +your kindness to me. I'm sorry if I've been troublesome. I knew almost +from the beginning I was no good." + +"Well, if you really do make up your mind it is good-bye. I don't know +what you're going to do, but if you're in the neighbourhood at any time +come in and see us." + +Philip gave a little laugh. + +"I'm afraid it sounds very rude, but I hope from the bottom of my heart +that I shall never set eyes on any of you again." + + + +XXXIX + + +The Vicar of Blackstable would have nothing to do with the scheme which +Philip laid before him. He had a great idea that one should stick to +whatever one had begun. Like all weak men he laid an exaggerated stress on +not changing one's mind. + +"You chose to be an accountant of your own free will," he said. + +"I just took that because it was the only chance I saw of getting up to +town. I hate London, I hate the work, and nothing will induce me to go +back to it." + +Mr. and Mrs. Carey were frankly shocked at Philip's idea of being an +artist. He should not forget, they said, that his father and mother were +gentlefolk, and painting wasn't a serious profession; it was Bohemian, +disreputable, immoral. And then Paris! + +"So long as I have anything to say in the matter, I shall not allow you to +live in Paris," said the Vicar firmly. + +It was a sink of iniquity. The scarlet woman and she of Babylon flaunted +their vileness there; the cities of the plain were not more wicked. + +"You've been brought up like a gentleman and Christian, and I should be +false to the trust laid upon me by your dead father and mother if I +allowed you to expose yourself to such temptation." + +"Well, I know I'm not a Christian and I'm beginning to doubt whether I'm +a gentleman," said Philip. + +The dispute grew more violent. There was another year before Philip took +possession of his small inheritance, and during that time Mr. Carey +proposed only to give him an allowance if he remained at the office. It +was clear to Philip that if he meant not to continue with accountancy he +must leave it while he could still get back half the money that had been +paid for his articles. The Vicar would not listen. Philip, losing all +reserve, said things to wound and irritate. + +"You've got no right to waste my money," he said at last. "After all it's +my money, isn't it? I'm not a child. You can't prevent me from going to +Paris if I make up my mind to. You can't force me to go back to London." + +"All I can do is to refuse you money unless you do what I think fit." + +"Well, I don't care, I've made up my mind to go to Paris. I shall sell my +clothes, and my books, and my father's jewellery." + +Aunt Louisa sat by in silence, anxious and unhappy. She saw that Philip +was beside himself, and anything she said then would but increase his +anger. Finally the Vicar announced that he wished to hear nothing more +about it and with dignity left the room. For the next three days neither +Philip nor he spoke to one another. Philip wrote to Hayward for +information about Paris, and made up his mind to set out as soon as he got +a reply. Mrs. Carey turned the matter over in her mind incessantly; she +felt that Philip included her in the hatred he bore her husband, and the +thought tortured her. She loved him with all her heart. At length she +spoke to him; she listened attentively while he poured out all his +disillusionment of London and his eager ambition for the future. + +"I may be no good, but at least let me have a try. I can't be a worse +failure than I was in that beastly office. And I feel that I can paint. I +know I've got it in me." + +She was not so sure as her husband that they did right in thwarting so +strong an inclination. She had read of great painters whose parents had +opposed their wish to study, the event had shown with what folly; and +after all it was just as possible for a painter to lead a virtuous life to +the glory of God as for a chartered accountant. + +"I'm so afraid of your going to Paris," she said piteously. "It wouldn't +be so bad if you studied in London." + +"If I'm going in for painting I must do it thoroughly, and it's only in +Paris that you can get the real thing." + +At his suggestion Mrs. Carey wrote to the solicitor, saying that Philip +was discontented with his work in London, and asking what he thought of a +change. Mr. Nixon answered as follows: + + +Dear Mrs. Carey, + +I have seen Mr. Herbert Carter, and I am afraid I must tell you that +Philip has not done so well as one could have wished. If he is very +strongly set against the work, perhaps it is better that he should take +the opportunity there is now to break his articles. I am naturally very +disappointed, but as you know you can take a horse to the water, but you +can't make him drink. + Yours very sincerely, + Albert Nixon. + + +The letter was shown to the Vicar, but served only to increase his +obstinacy. He was willing enough that Philip should take up some other +profession, he suggested his father's calling, medicine, but nothing would +induce him to pay an allowance if Philip went to Paris. + +"It's a mere excuse for self-indulgence and sensuality," he said. + +"I'm interested to hear you blame self-indulgence in others," retorted +Philip acidly. + +But by this time an answer had come from Hayward, giving the name of a +hotel where Philip could get a room for thirty francs a month and +enclosing a note of introduction to the massiere of a school. Philip read +the letter to Mrs. Carey and told her he proposed to start on the first of +September. + +"But you haven't got any money?" she said. + +"I'm going into Tercanbury this afternoon to sell the jewellery." + +He had inherited from his father a gold watch and chain, two or three +rings, some links, and two pins. One of them was a pearl and might fetch +a considerable sum. + +"It's a very different thing, what a thing's worth and what it'll fetch," +said Aunt Louisa. + +Philip smiled, for this was one of his uncle's stock phrases. + +"I know, but at the worst I think I can get a hundred pounds on the lot, +and that'll keep me till I'm twenty-one." + +Mrs. Carey did not answer, but she went upstairs, put on her little black +bonnet, and went to the bank. In an hour she came back. She went to +Philip, who was reading in the drawing-room, and handed him an envelope. + +"What's this?" he asked. + +"It's a little present for you," she answered, smiling shyly. + +He opened it and found eleven five-pound notes and a little paper sack +bulging with sovereigns. + +"I couldn't bear to let you sell your father's jewellery. It's the money +I had in the bank. It comes to very nearly a hundred pounds." + +Philip blushed, and, he knew not why, tears suddenly filled his eyes. + +"Oh, my dear, I can't take it," he said. "It's most awfully good of you, +but I couldn't bear to take it." + +When Mrs. Carey was married she had three hundred pounds, and this money, +carefully watched, had been used by her to meet any unforeseen expense, +any urgent charity, or to buy Christmas and birthday presents for her +husband and for Philip. In the course of years it had diminished sadly, +but it was still with the Vicar a subject for jesting. He talked of his +wife as a rich woman and he constantly spoke of the `nest egg.' + +"Oh, please take it, Philip. I'm so sorry I've been extravagant, and +there's only that left. But it'll make me so happy if you'll accept it." + +"But you'll want it," said Philip. + +"No, I don't think I shall. I was keeping it in case your uncle died +before me. I thought it would be useful to have a little something I could +get at immediately if I wanted it, but I don't think I shall live very +much longer now." + +"Oh, my dear, don't say that. Why, of course you're going to live for +ever. I can't possibly spare you." + +"Oh, I'm not sorry." Her voice broke and she hid her eyes, but in a +moment, drying them, she smiled bravely. "At first, I used to pray to God +that He might not take me first, because I didn't want your uncle to be +left alone, I didn't want him to have all the suffering, but now I know +that it wouldn't mean so much to your uncle as it would mean to me. He +wants to live more than I do, I've never been the wife he wanted, and I +daresay he'd marry again if anything happened to me. So I should like to +go first. You don't think it's selfish of me, Philip, do you? But I +couldn't bear it if he went." + +Philip kissed her wrinkled, thin cheek. He did not know why the sight he +had of that overwhelming love made him feel strangely ashamed. It was +incomprehensible that she should care so much for a man who was so +indifferent, so selfish, so grossly self-indulgent; and he divined dimly +that in her heart she knew his indifference and his selfishness, knew them +and loved him humbly all the same. + +"You will take the money, Philip?" she said, gently stroking his hand. "I +know you can do without it, but it'll give me so much happiness. I've +always wanted to do something for you. You see, I never had a child of my +own, and I've loved you as if you were my son. When you were a little boy, +though I knew it was wicked, I used to wish almost that you might be ill, +so that I could nurse you day and night. But you were only ill once and +then it was at school. I should so like to help you. It's the only chance +I shall ever have. And perhaps some day when you're a great artist you +won't forget me, but you'll remember that I gave you your start." + +"It's very good of you," said Philip. "I'm very grateful." A smile came +into her tired eyes, a smile of pure happiness. + +"Oh, I'm so glad." + + + +XL + + +A few days later Mrs. Carey went to the station to see Philip off. She +stood at the door of the carriage, trying to keep back her tears. Philip +was restless and eager. He wanted to be gone. + +"Kiss me once more," she said. + +He leaned out of the window and kissed her. The train started, and she +stood on the wooden platform of the little station, waving her +handkerchief till it was out of sight. Her heart was dreadfully heavy, and +the few hundred yards to the vicarage seemed very, very long. It was +natural enough that he should be eager to go, she thought, he was a boy +and the future beckoned to him; but she--she clenched her teeth so that +she should not cry. She uttered a little inward prayer that God would +guard him, and keep him out of temptation, and give him happiness and good +fortune. + +But Philip ceased to think of her a moment after he had settled down in +his carriage. He thought only of the future. He had written to Mrs. Otter, +the massiere to whom Hayward had given him an introduction, and had in +his pocket an invitation to tea on the following day. When he arrived in +Paris he had his luggage put on a cab and trundled off slowly through the +gay streets, over the bridge, and along the narrow ways of the Latin +Quarter. He had taken a room at the Hotel des Deux Ecoles, which was in a +shabby street off the Boulevard du Montparnasse; it was convenient for +Amitrano's School at which he was going to work. A waiter took his box up +five flights of stairs, and Philip was shown into a tiny room, fusty from +unopened windows, the greater part of which was taken up by a large wooden +bed with a canopy over it of red rep; there were heavy curtains on the +windows of the same dingy material; the chest of drawers served also as a +washing-stand; and there was a massive wardrobe of the style which is +connected with the good King Louis Philippe. The wall-paper was +discoloured with age; it was dark gray, and there could be vaguely seen on +it garlands of brown leaves. To Philip the room seemed quaint and +charming. + +Though it was late he felt too excited to sleep and, going out, made his +way into the boulevard and walked towards the light. This led him to the +station; and the square in front of it, vivid with arc-lamps, noisy with +the yellow trams that seemed to cross it in all directions, made him laugh +aloud with joy. There were cafes all round, and by chance, thirsty and +eager to get a nearer sight of the crowd, Philip installed himself at a +little table outside the Cafe de Versailles. Every other table was taken, +for it was a fine night; and Philip looked curiously at the people, here +little family groups, there a knot of men with odd-shaped hats and beards +talking loudly and gesticulating; next to him were two men who looked like +painters with women who Philip hoped were not their lawful wives; behind +him he heard Americans loudly arguing on art. His soul was thrilled. He +sat till very late, tired out but too happy to move, and when at last he +went to bed he was wide awake; he listened to the manifold noise of Paris. + +Next day about tea-time he made his way to the Lion de Belfort, and in a +new street that led out of the Boulevard Raspail found Mrs. Otter. She was +an insignificant woman of thirty, with a provincial air and a deliberately +lady-like manner; she introduced him to her mother. He discovered +presently that she had been studying in Paris for three years and later +that she was separated from her husband. She had in her small drawing-room +one or two portraits which she had painted, and to Philip's inexperience +they seemed extremely accomplished. + +"I wonder if I shall ever be able to paint as well as that," he said to +her. + +"Oh, I expect so," she replied, not without self-satisfaction. "You can't +expect to do everything all at once, of course." + +She was very kind. She gave him the address of a shop where he could get +a portfolio, drawing-paper, and charcoal. + +"I shall be going to Amitrano's about nine tomorrow, and if you'll be +there then I'll see that you get a good place and all that sort of thing." + +She asked him what he wanted to do, and Philip felt that he should not let +her see how vague he was about the whole matter. + +"Well, first I want to learn to draw," he said. + +"I'm so glad to hear you say that. People always want to do things in such +a hurry. I never touched oils till I'd been here for two years, and look +at the result." + +She gave a glance at the portrait of her mother, a sticky piece of +painting that hung over the piano. + +"And if I were you, I would be very careful about the people you get to +know. I wouldn't mix myself up with any foreigners. I'm very careful +myself." + +Philip thanked her for the suggestion, but it seemed to him odd. He did +not know that he particularly wanted to be careful. + +"We live just as we would if we were in England," said Mrs. Otter's +mother, who till then had spoken little. "When we came here we brought all +our own furniture over." + +Philip looked round the room. It was filled with a massive suite, and at +the window were the same sort of white lace curtains which Aunt Louisa put +up at the vicarage in summer. The piano was draped in Liberty silk and so +was the chimney-piece. Mrs. Otter followed his wandering eye. + +"In the evening when we close the shutters one might really feel one was +in England." + +"And we have our meals just as if we were at home," added her mother. "A +meat breakfast in the morning and dinner in the middle of the day." + +When he left Mrs. Otter Philip went to buy drawing materials; and next +morning at the stroke of nine, trying to seem self-assured, he presented +himself at the school. Mrs. Otter was already there, and she came forward +with a friendly smile. He had been anxious about the reception he would +have as a nouveau, for he had read a good deal of the rough joking to +which a newcomer was exposed at some of the studios; but Mrs. Otter had +reassured him. + +"Oh, there's nothing like that here," she said. "You see, about half our +students are ladies, and they set a tone to the place." + +The studio was large and bare, with gray walls, on which were pinned the +studies that had received prizes. A model was sitting in a chair with a +loose wrap thrown over her, and about a dozen men and women were standing +about, some talking and others still working on their sketch. It was the +first rest of the model. + +"You'd better not try anything too difficult at first," said Mrs. Otter. +"Put your easel here. You'll find that's the easiest pose." + +Philip placed an easel where she indicated, and Mrs. Otter introduced him +to a young woman who sat next to him. + +"Mr. Carey--Miss Price. Mr. Carey's never studied before, you won't mind +helping him a little just at first will you?" Then she turned to the +model. "La Pose." + +The model threw aside the paper she had been reading, La Petite +Republique, and sulkily, throwing off her gown, got on to the stand. She +stood, squarely on both feet with her hands clasped behind her head. + +"It's a stupid pose," said Miss Price. "I can't imagine why they chose +it." + +When Philip entered, the people in the studio had looked at him curiously, +and the model gave him an indifferent glance, but now they ceased to pay +attention to him. Philip, with his beautiful sheet of paper in front of +him, stared awkwardly at the model. He did not know how to begin. He had +never seen a naked woman before. She was not young and her breasts were +shrivelled. She had colourless, fair hair that fell over her forehead +untidily, and her face was covered with large freckles. He glanced at Miss +Price's work. She had only been working on it two days, and it looked as +though she had had trouble; her paper was in a mess from constant rubbing +out, and to Philip's eyes the figure looked strangely distorted. + +"I should have thought I could do as well as that," he said to himself. + +He began on the head, thinking that he would work slowly downwards, but, +he could not understand why, he found it infinitely more difficult to draw +a head from the model than to draw one from his imagination. He got into +difficulties. He glanced at Miss Price. She was working with vehement +gravity. Her brow was wrinkled with eagerness, and there was an anxious +look in her eyes. It was hot in the studio, and drops of sweat stood on +her forehead. She was a girl of twenty-six, with a great deal of dull gold +hair; it was handsome hair, but it was carelessly done, dragged back from +her forehead and tied in a hurried knot. She had a large face, with broad, +flat features and small eyes; her skin was pasty, with a singular +unhealthiness of tone, and there was no colour in the cheeks. She had an +unwashed air and you could not help wondering if she slept in her clothes. +She was serious and silent. When the next pause came, she stepped back to +look at her work. + +"I don't know why I'm having so much bother," she said. "But I mean to get +it right." She turned to Philip. "How are you getting on?" + +"Not at all," he answered, with a rueful smile. + +She looked at what he had done. + +"You can't expect to do anything that way. You must take measurements. And +you must square out your paper." + +She showed him rapidly how to set about the business. Philip was impressed +by her earnestness, but repelled by her want of charm. He was grateful for +the hints she gave him and set to work again. Meanwhile other people had +come in, mostly men, for the women always arrived first, and the studio +for the time of year (it was early yet) was fairly full. Presently there +came in a young man with thin, black hair, an enormous nose, and a face so +long that it reminded you of a horse. He sat down next to Philip and +nodded across him to Miss Price. + +"You're very late," she said. "Are you only just up?" + +"It was such a splendid day, I thought I'd lie in bed and think how +beautiful it was out." + +Philip smiled, but Miss Price took the remark seriously. + +"That seems a funny thing to do, I should have thought it would be more to +the point to get up and enjoy it." + +"The way of the humorist is very hard," said the young man gravely. + +He did not seem inclined to work. He looked at his canvas; he was working +in colour, and had sketched in the day before the model who was posing. He +turned to Philip. + +"Have you just come out from England?" + +"Yes." + +"How did you find your way to Amitrano's?" + +"It was the only school I knew of." + +"I hope you haven't come with the idea that you will learn anything here +which will be of the smallest use to you." + +"It's the best school in Paris," said Miss Price. "It's the only one where +they take art seriously." + +"Should art be taken seriously?" the young man asked; and since Miss Price +replied only with a scornful shrug, he added: "But the point is, all +schools are bad. They are academical, obviously. Why this is less +injurious than most is that the teaching is more incompetent than +elsewhere. Because you learn nothing...." + +"But why d'you come here then?" interrupted Philip. + +"I see the better course, but do not follow it. Miss Price, who is +cultured, will remember the Latin of that." + +"I wish you would leave me out of your conversation, Mr. Clutton," said +Miss Price brusquely. + +"The only way to learn to paint," he went on, imperturbable, "is to take +a studio, hire a model, and just fight it out for yourself." + +"That seems a simple thing to do," said Philip. + +"It only needs money," replied Clutton. + +He began to paint, and Philip looked at him from the corner of his eye. He +was long and desperately thin; his huge bones seemed to protrude from his +body; his elbows were so sharp that they appeared to jut out through the +arms of his shabby coat. His trousers were frayed at the bottom, and on +each of his boots was a clumsy patch. Miss Price got up and went over to +Philip's easel. + +"If Mr. Clutton will hold his tongue for a moment, I'll just help you a +little," she said. + +"Miss Price dislikes me because I have humour," said Clutton, looking +meditatively at his canvas, "but she detests me because I have genius." + +He spoke with solemnity, and his colossal, misshapen nose made what he +said very quaint. Philip was obliged to laugh, but Miss Price grew darkly +red with anger. + +"You're the only person who has ever accused you of genius." + +"Also I am the only person whose opinion is of the least value to me." + +Miss Price began to criticise what Philip had done. She talked glibly of +anatomy and construction, planes and lines, and of much else which Philip +did not understand. She had been at the studio a long time and knew the +main points which the masters insisted upon, but though she could show +what was wrong with Philip's work she could not tell him how to put it +right. + +"It's awfully kind of you to take so much trouble with me," said Philip. + +"Oh, it's nothing," she answered, flushing awkwardly. "People did the same +for me when I first came, I'd do it for anyone." + +"Miss Price wants to indicate that she is giving you the advantage of her +knowledge from a sense of duty rather than on account of any charms of +your person," said Clutton. + +Miss Price gave him a furious look, and went back to her own drawing. The +clock struck twelve, and the model with a cry of relief stepped down from +the stand. + +Miss Price gathered up her things. + +"Some of us go to Gravier's for lunch," she said to Philip, with a look at +Clutton. "I always go home myself." + +"I'll take you to Gravier's if you like," said Clutton. + +Philip thanked him and made ready to go. On his way out Mrs. Otter asked +him how he had been getting on. + +"Did Fanny Price help you?" she asked. "I put you there because I know she +can do it if she likes. She's a disagreeable, ill-natured girl, and she +can't draw herself at all, but she knows the ropes, and she can be useful +to a newcomer if she cares to take the trouble." + +On the way down the street Clutton said to him: + +"You've made an impression on Fanny Price. You'd better look out." + +Philip laughed. He had never seen anyone on whom he wished less to make an +impression. They came to the cheap little restaurant at which several of +the students ate, and Clutton sat down at a table at which three or four +men were already seated. For a franc, they got an egg, a plate of meat, +cheese, and a small bottle of wine. Coffee was extra. They sat on the +pavement, and yellow trams passed up and down the boulevard with a +ceaseless ringing of bells. + +"By the way, what's your name?" said Clutton, as they took their seats. + +"Carey." + +"Allow me to introduce an old and trusted friend, Carey by name," said +Clutton gravely. "Mr. Flanagan, Mr. Lawson." + +They laughed and went on with their conversation. They talked of a +thousand things, and they all talked at once. No one paid the smallest +attention to anyone else. They talked of the places they had been to in +the summer, of studios, of the various schools; they mentioned names which +were unfamiliar to Philip, Monet, Manet, Renoir, Pissarro, Degas. Philip +listened with all his ears, and though he felt a little out of it, his +heart leaped with exultation. The time flew. When Clutton got up he said: + +"I expect you'll find me here this evening if you care to come. You'll +find this about the best place for getting dyspepsia at the lowest cost in +the Quarter." + + + +XLI + + +Philip walked down the Boulevard du Montparnasse. It was not at all like +the Paris he had seen in the spring during his visit to do the accounts of +the Hotel St. Georges--he thought already of that part of his life with a +shudder--but reminded him of what he thought a provincial town must be. +There was an easy-going air about it, and a sunny spaciousness which +invited the mind to day-dreaming. The trimness of the trees, the vivid +whiteness of the houses, the breadth, were very agreeable; and he felt +himself already thoroughly at home. He sauntered along, staring at the +people; there seemed an elegance about the most ordinary, workmen with +their broad red sashes and their wide trousers, little soldiers in dingy, +charming uniforms. He came presently to the Avenue de l'Observatoire, and +he gave a sigh of pleasure at the magnificent, yet so graceful, vista. He +came to the gardens of the Luxembourg: children were playing, nurses with +long ribbons walked slowly two by two, busy men passed through with +satchels under their arms, youths strangely dressed. The scene was formal +and dainty; nature was arranged and ordered, but so exquisitely, that +nature unordered and unarranged seemed barbaric. Philip was enchanted. It +excited him to stand on that spot of which he had read so much; it was +classic ground to him; and he felt the awe and the delight which some old +don might feel when for the first time he looked on the smiling plain of +Sparta. + +As he wandered he chanced to see Miss Price sitting by herself on a bench. +He hesitated, for he did not at that moment want to see anyone, and her +uncouth way seemed out of place amid the happiness he felt around him; but +he had divined her sensitiveness to affront, and since she had seen him +thought it would be polite to speak to her. + +"What are you doing here?" she said, as he came up. + +"Enjoying myself. Aren't you?" + +"Oh, I come here every day from four to five. I don't think one does any +good if one works straight through." + +"May I sit down for a minute?" he said. + +"If you want to." + +"That doesn't sound very cordial," he laughed. + +"I'm not much of a one for saying pretty things." + +Philip, a little disconcerted, was silent as he lit a cigarette. + +"Did Clutton say anything about my work?" she asked suddenly. + +"No, I don't think he did," said Philip. + +"He's no good, you know. He thinks he's a genius, but he isn't. He's too +lazy, for one thing. Genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains. The +only thing is to peg away. If one only makes up one's mind badly enough to +do a thing one can't help doing it." + +She spoke with a passionate strenuousness which was rather striking. She +wore a sailor hat of black straw, a white blouse which was not quite +clean, and a brown skirt. She had no gloves on, and her hands wanted +washing. She was so unattractive that Philip wished he had not begun to +talk to her. He could not make out whether she wanted him to stay or go. + +"I'll do anything I can for you," she said all at once, without reference +to anything that had gone before. "I know how hard it is." + +"Thank you very much," said Philip, then in a moment: "Won't you come and +have tea with me somewhere?" + +She looked at him quickly and flushed. When she reddened her pasty skin +acquired a curiously mottled look, like strawberries and cream that had +gone bad. + +"No, thanks. What d'you think I want tea for? I've only just had lunch." + +"I thought it would pass the time," said Philip. + +"If you find it long you needn't bother about me, you know. I don't mind +being left alone." + +At that moment two men passed, in brown velveteens, enormous trousers, and +basque caps. They were young, but both wore beards. + +"I say, are those art-students?" said Philip. "They might have stepped out +of the Vie de Boheme." + +"They're Americans," said Miss Price scornfully. "Frenchmen haven't worn +things like that for thirty years, but the Americans from the Far West buy +those clothes and have themselves photographed the day after they arrive +in Paris. That's about as near to art as they ever get. But it doesn't +matter to them, they've all got money." + +Philip liked the daring picturesqueness of the Americans' costume; he +thought it showed the romantic spirit. Miss Price asked him the time. + +"I must be getting along to the studio," she said. "Are you going to the +sketch classes?" + +Philip did not know anything about them, and she told him that from five +to six every evening a model sat, from whom anyone who liked could go and +draw at the cost of fifty centimes. They had a different model every day, +and it was very good practice. + +"I don't suppose you're good enough yet for that. You'd better wait a +bit." + +"I don't see why I shouldn't try. I haven't got anything else to do." + +They got up and walked to the studio. Philip could not tell from her +manner whether Miss Price wished him to walk with her or preferred to walk +alone. He remained from sheer embarrassment, not knowing how to leave her; +but she would not talk; she answered his questions in an ungracious +manner. + +A man was standing at the studio door with a large dish into which each +person as he went in dropped his half franc. The studio was much fuller +than it had been in the morning, and there was not the preponderance of +English and Americans; nor were women there in so large a proportion. +Philip felt the assemblage was more the sort of thing he had expected. It +was very warm, and the air quickly grew fetid. It was an old man who sat +this time, with a vast gray beard, and Philip tried to put into practice +the little he had learned in the morning; but he made a poor job of it; he +realised that he could not draw nearly as well as he thought. He glanced +enviously at one or two sketches of men who sat near him, and wondered +whether he would ever be able to use the charcoal with that mastery. The +hour passed quickly. Not wishing to press himself upon Miss Price he sat +down at some distance from her, and at the end, as he passed her on his +way out, she asked him brusquely how he had got on. + +"Not very well," he smiled. + +"If you'd condescended to come and sit near me I could have given you some +hints. I suppose you thought yourself too grand." + +"No, it wasn't that. I was afraid you'd think me a nuisance." + +"When I do that I'll tell you sharp enough." + +Philip saw that in her uncouth way she was offering him help. + +"Well, tomorrow I'll just force myself upon you." + +"I don't mind," she answered. + +Philip went out and wondered what he should do with himself till dinner. +He was eager to do something characteristic. Absinthe! of course it was +indicated, and so, sauntering towards the station, he seated himself +outside a cafe and ordered it. He drank with nausea and satisfaction. He +found the taste disgusting, but the moral effect magnificent; he felt +every inch an art-student; and since he drank on an empty stomach his +spirits presently grew very high. He watched the crowds, and felt all men +were his brothers. He was happy. When he reached Gravier's the table at +which Clutton sat was full, but as soon as he saw Philip limping along he +called out to him. They made room. The dinner was frugal, a plate of soup, +a dish of meat, fruit, cheese, and half a bottle of wine; but Philip paid +no attention to what he ate. He took note of the men at the table. +Flanagan was there again: he was an American, a short, snub-nosed youth +with a jolly face and a laughing mouth. He wore a Norfolk jacket of bold +pattern, a blue stock round his neck, and a tweed cap of fantastic shape. +At that time impressionism reigned in the Latin Quarter, but its victory +over the older schools was still recent; and Carolus-Duran, Bouguereau, +and their like were set up against Manet, Monet, and Degas. To appreciate +these was still a sign of grace. Whistler was an influence strong with the +English and his compatriots, and the discerning collected Japanese prints. +The old masters were tested by new standards. The esteem in which Raphael +had been for centuries held was a matter of derision to wise young men. +They offered to give all his works for Velasquez' head of Philip IV in the +National Gallery. Philip found that a discussion on art was raging. +Lawson, whom he had met at luncheon, sat opposite to him. He was a thin +youth with a freckled face and red hair. He had very bright green eyes. As +Philip sat down he fixed them on him and remarked suddenly: + +"Raphael was only tolerable when he painted other people's pictures. When +he painted Peruginos or Pinturichios he was charming; when he painted +Raphaels he was," with a scornful shrug, "Raphael." + +Lawson spoke so aggressively that Philip was taken aback, but he was not +obliged to answer because Flanagan broke in impatiently. + +"Oh, to hell with art!" he cried. "Let's get ginny." + +"You were ginny last night, Flanagan," said Lawson. + +"Nothing to what I mean to be tonight," he answered. "Fancy being in +Pa-ris and thinking of nothing but art all the time." He spoke with a +broad Western accent. "My, it is good to be alive." He gathered himself +together and then banged his fist on the table. "To hell with art, I say." + +"You not only say it, but you say it with tiresome iteration," said +Clutton severely. + +There was another American at the table. He was dressed like those fine +fellows whom Philip had seen that afternoon in the Luxembourg. He had a +handsome face, thin, ascetic, with dark eyes; he wore his fantastic garb +with the dashing air of a buccaneer. He had a vast quantity of dark hair +which fell constantly over his eyes, and his most frequent gesture was to +throw back his head dramatically to get some long wisp out of the way. He +began to talk of the Olympia by Manet, which then hung in the +Luxembourg. + +"I stood in front of it for an hour today, and I tell you it's not a good +picture." + +Lawson put down his knife and fork. His green eyes flashed fire, he gasped +with rage; but he could be seen imposing calm upon himself. + +"It's very interesting to hear the mind of the untutored savage," he said. +"Will you tell us why it isn't a good picture?" + +Before the American could answer someone else broke in vehemently. + +"D'you mean to say you can look at the painting of that flesh and say it's +not good?" + +"I don't say that. I think the right breast is very well painted." + +"The right breast be damned," shouted Lawson. "The whole thing's a miracle +of painting." + +He began to describe in detail the beauties of the picture, but at this +table at Gravier's they who spoke at length spoke for their own +edification. No one listened to him. The American interrupted angrily. + +"You don't mean to say you think the head's good?" + +Lawson, white with passion now, began to defend the head; but Clutton, who +had been sitting in silence with a look on his face of good-humoured +scorn, broke in. + +"Give him the head. We don't want the head. It doesn't affect the +picture." + +"All right, I'll give you the head," cried Lawson. "Take the head and be +damned to you." + +"What about the black line?" cried the American, triumphantly pushing back +a wisp of hair which nearly fell in his soup. "You don't see a black line +round objects in nature." + +"Oh, God, send down fire from heaven to consume the blasphemer," said +Lawson. "What has nature got to do with it? No one knows what's in nature +and what isn't! The world sees nature through the eyes of the artist. Why, +for centuries it saw horses jumping a fence with all their legs extended, +and by Heaven, sir, they were extended. It saw shadows black until Monet +discovered they were coloured, and by Heaven, sir, they were black. If we +choose to surround objects with a black line, the world will see the black +line, and there will be a black line; and if we paint grass red and cows +blue, it'll see them red and blue, and, by Heaven, they will be red and +blue." + +"To hell with art," murmured Flanagan. "I want to get ginny." + +Lawson took no notice of the interruption. + +"Now look here, when Olympia was shown at the Salon, Zola--amid the +jeers of the Philistines and the hisses of the pompiers, the academicians, +and the public, Zola said: `I look forward to the day when Manet's picture +will hang in the Louvre opposite the Odalisque of Ingres, and it will +not be the Odalisque which will gain by comparison.' It'll be there. +Every day I see the time grow nearer. In ten years the Olympia will be +in the Louvre." + +"Never," shouted the American, using both hands now with a sudden +desperate attempt to get his hair once for all out of the way. "In ten +years that picture will be dead. It's only a fashion of the moment. No +picture can live that hasn't got something which that picture misses by a +million miles." + +"And what is that?" + +"Great art can't exist without a moral element." + +"Oh God!" cried Lawson furiously. "I knew it was that. He wants morality." +He joined his hands and held them towards heaven in supplication. "Oh, +Christopher Columbus, Christopher Columbus, what did you do when you +discovered America?" + +"Ruskin says..." + +But before he could add another word, Clutton rapped with the handle of +his knife imperiously on the table. + +"Gentlemen," he said in a stern voice, and his huge nose positively +wrinkled with passion, "a name has been mentioned which I never thought to +hear again in decent society. Freedom of speech is all very well, but we +must observe the limits of common propriety. You may talk of Bouguereau if +you will: there is a cheerful disgustingness in the sound which excites +laughter; but let us not sully our chaste lips with the names of J. +Ruskin, G. F. Watts, or E. B. Jones." + +"Who was Ruskin anyway?" asked Flanagan. + +"He was one of the Great Victorians. He was a master of English style." + +"Ruskin's style--a thing of shreds and purple patches," said Lawson. +"Besides, damn the Great Victorians. Whenever I open a paper and see Death +of a Great Victorian, I thank Heaven there's one more of them gone. Their +only talent was longevity, and no artist should be allowed to live after +he's forty; by then a man has done his best work, all he does after that +is repetition. Don't you think it was the greatest luck in the world for +them that Keats, Shelley, Bonnington, and Byron died early? What a genius +we should think Swinburne if he had perished on the day the first series +of Poems and Ballads was published!" + +The suggestion pleased, for no one at the table was more than twenty-four, +and they threw themselves upon it with gusto. They were unanimous for +once. They elaborated. Someone proposed a vast bonfire made out of the +works of the Forty Academicians into which the Great Victorians might be +hurled on their fortieth birthday. The idea was received with acclamation. +Carlyle and Ruskin, Tennyson, Browning, G. F. Watts, E. B. Jones, Dickens, +Thackeray, they were hurried into the flames; Mr. Gladstone, John Bright, +and Cobden; there was a moment's discussion about George Meredith, but +Matthew Arnold and Emerson were given up cheerfully. At last came Walter +Pater. + +"Not Walter Pater," murmured Philip. + +Lawson stared at him for a moment with his green eyes and then nodded. + +"You're quite right, Walter Pater is the only justification for Mona Lisa. +D'you know Cronshaw? He used to know Pater." + +"Who's Cronshaw?" asked Philip. + +"Cronshaw's a poet. He lives here. Let's go to the Lilas." + +La Closerie des Lilas was a cafe to which they often went in the evening +after dinner, and here Cronshaw was invariably to be found between the +hours of nine at night and two in the morning. But Flanagan had had enough +of intellectual conversation for one evening, and when Lawson made his +suggestion, turned to Philip. + +"Oh gee, let's go where there are girls," he said. "Come to the Gaite +Montparnasse, and we'll get ginny." + +"I'd rather go and see Cronshaw and keep sober," laughed Philip. + + + +XLII + + +There was a general disturbance. Flanagan and two or three more went on to +the music-hall, while Philip walked slowly with Clutton and Lawson to the +Closerie des Lilas. + +"You must go to the Gaite Montparnasse," said Lawson to him. "It's one of +the loveliest things in Paris. I'm going to paint it one of these days." + +Philip, influenced by Hayward, looked upon music-halls with scornful eyes, +but he had reached Paris at a time when their artistic possibilities were +just discovered. The peculiarities of lighting, the masses of dingy red +and tarnished gold, the heaviness of the shadows and the decorative lines, +offered a new theme; and half the studios in the Quarter contained +sketches made in one or other of the local theatres. Men of letters, +following in the painters' wake, conspired suddenly to find artistic value +in the turns; and red-nosed comedians were lauded to the skies for their +sense of character; fat female singers, who had bawled obscurely for +twenty years, were discovered to possess inimitable drollery; there were +those who found an aesthetic delight in performing dogs; while others +exhausted their vocabulary to extol the distinction of conjurers and +trick-cyclists. The crowd too, under another influence, was become an +object of sympathetic interest. With Hayward, Philip had disdained +humanity in the mass; he adopted the attitude of one who wraps himself in +solitariness and watches with disgust the antics of the vulgar; but +Clutton and Lawson talked of the multitude with enthusiasm. They described +the seething throng that filled the various fairs of Paris, the sea of +faces, half seen in the glare of acetylene, half hidden in the darkness, +and the blare of trumpets, the hooting of whistles, the hum of voices. +What they said was new and strange to Philip. They told him about +Cronshaw. + +"Have you ever read any of his work?" + +"No," said Philip. + +"It came out in The Yellow Book." + +They looked upon him, as painters often do writers, with contempt because +he was a layman, with tolerance because he practised an art, and with awe +because he used a medium in which themselves felt ill-at-ease. + +"He's an extraordinary fellow. You'll find him a bit disappointing at +first, he only comes out at his best when he's drunk." + +"And the nuisance is," added Clutton, "that it takes him a devil of a time +to get drunk." + +When they arrived at the cafe Lawson told Philip that they would have to +go in. There was hardly a bite in the autumn air, but Cronshaw had a +morbid fear of draughts and even in the warmest weather sat inside. + +"He knows everyone worth knowing," Lawson explained. "He knew Pater and +Oscar Wilde, and he knows Mallarme and all those fellows." + +The object of their search sat in the most sheltered corner of the cafe, +with his coat on and the collar turned up. He wore his hat pressed well +down on his forehead so that he should avoid cold air. He was a big man, +stout but not obese, with a round face, a small moustache, and little, +rather stupid eyes. His head did not seem quite big enough for his body. +It looked like a pea uneasily poised on an egg. He was playing dominoes +with a Frenchman, and greeted the new-comers with a quiet smile; he did +not speak, but as if to make room for them pushed away the little pile of +saucers on the table which indicated the number of drinks he had already +consumed. He nodded to Philip when he was introduced to him, and went on +with the game. Philip's knowledge of the language was small, but he knew +enough to tell that Cronshaw, although he had lived in Paris for several +years, spoke French execrably. + +At last he leaned back with a smile of triumph. + +"Je vous ai battu," he said, with an abominable accent. "Garcong!" + +He called the waiter and turned to Philip. + +"Just out from England? See any cricket?" + +Philip was a little confused at the unexpected question. + +"Cronshaw knows the averages of every first-class cricketer for the last +twenty years," said Lawson, smiling. + +The Frenchman left them for friends at another table, and Cronshaw, with +the lazy enunciation which was one of his peculiarities, began to +discourse on the relative merits of Kent and Lancashire. He told them of +the last test match he had seen and described the course of the game +wicket by wicket. + +"That's the only thing I miss in Paris," he said, as he finished the +bock which the waiter had brought. "You don't get any cricket." + +Philip was disappointed, and Lawson, pardonably anxious to show off one of +the celebrities of the Quarter, grew impatient. Cronshaw was taking his +time to wake up that evening, though the saucers at his side indicated +that he had at least made an honest attempt to get drunk. Clutton watched +the scene with amusement. He fancied there was something of affectation in +Cronshaw's minute knowledge of cricket; he liked to tantalise people by +talking to them of things that obviously bored them; Clutton threw in a +question. + +"Have you seen Mallarme lately?" + +Cronshaw looked at him slowly, as if he were turning the inquiry over in +his mind, and before he answered rapped on the marble table with one of +the saucers. + +"Bring my bottle of whiskey," he called out. He turned again to Philip. "I +keep my own bottle of whiskey. I can't afford to pay fifty centimes for +every thimbleful." + +The waiter brought the bottle, and Cronshaw held it up to the light. + +"They've been drinking it. Waiter, who's been helping himself to my +whiskey?" + +"Mais personne, Monsieur Cronshaw." + +"I made a mark on it last night, and look at it." + +"Monsieur made a mark, but he kept on drinking after that. At that rate +Monsieur wastes his time in making marks." + +The waiter was a jovial fellow and knew Cronshaw intimately. Cronshaw +gazed at him. + +"If you give me your word of honour as a nobleman and a gentleman that +nobody but I has been drinking my whiskey, I'll accept your statement." + +This remark, translated literally into the crudest French, sounded very +funny, and the lady at the comptoir could not help laughing. + +"Il est impayable," she murmured. + +Cronshaw, hearing her, turned a sheepish eye upon her; she was stout, +matronly, and middle-aged; and solemnly kissed his hand to her. She +shrugged her shoulders. + +"Fear not, madam," he said heavily. "I have passed the age when I am +tempted by forty-five and gratitude." + +He poured himself out some whiskey and water, and slowly drank it. He +wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. + +"He talked very well." + +Lawson and Clutton knew that Cronshaw's remark was an answer to the +question about Mallarme. Cronshaw often went to the gatherings on Tuesday +evenings when the poet received men of letters and painters, and +discoursed with subtle oratory on any subject that was suggested to him. +Cronshaw had evidently been there lately. + +"He talked very well, but he talked nonsense. He talked about art as +though it were the most important thing in the world." + +"If it isn't, what are we here for?" asked Philip. + +"What you're here for I don't know. It is no business of mine. But art is +a luxury. Men attach importance only to self-preservation and the +propagation of their species. It is only when these instincts are +satisfied that they consent to occupy themselves with the entertainment +which is provided for them by writers, painters, and poets." + +Cronshaw stopped for a moment to drink. He had pondered for twenty years +the problem whether he loved liquor because it made him talk or whether he +loved conversation because it made him thirsty. + +Then he said: "I wrote a poem yesterday." + +Without being asked he began to recite it, very slowly, marking the rhythm +with an extended forefinger. It was possibly a very fine poem, but at that +moment a young woman came in. She had scarlet lips, and it was plain that +the vivid colour of her cheeks was not due to the vulgarity of nature; she +had blackened her eyelashes and eyebrows, and painted both eyelids a bold +blue, which was continued to a triangle at the corner of the eyes. It was +fantastic and amusing. Her dark hair was done over her ears in the fashion +made popular by Mlle. Cleo de Merode. Philip's eyes wandered to her, and +Cronshaw, having finished the recitation of his verses, smiled upon him +indulgently. + +"You were not listening," he said. + +"Oh yes, I was." + +"I do not blame you, for you have given an apt illustration of the +statement I just made. What is art beside love? I respect and applaud your +indifference to fine poetry when you can contemplate the meretricious +charms of this young person." + +She passed by the table at which they were sitting, and he took her arm. + +"Come and sit by my side, dear child, and let us play the divine comedy of +love." + +"Fichez-moi la paix," she said, and pushing him on one side continued +her perambulation. + +"Art," he continued, with a wave of the hand, "is merely the refuge which +the ingenious have invented, when they were supplied with food and women, +to escape the tediousness of life." + +Cronshaw filled his glass again, and began to talk at length. He spoke +with rotund delivery. He chose his words carefully. He mingled wisdom and +nonsense in the most astounding manner, gravely making fun of his hearers +at one moment, and at the next playfully giving them sound advice. He +talked of art, and literature, and life. He was by turns devout and +obscene, merry and lachrymose. He grew remarkably drunk, and then he began +to recite poetry, his own and Milton's, his own and Shelley's, his own and +Kit Marlowe's. + +At last Lawson, exhausted, got up to go home. + +"I shall go too," said Philip. + +Clutton, the most silent of them all, remained behind listening, with a +sardonic smile on his lips, to Cronshaw's maunderings. Lawson accompanied +Philip to his hotel and then bade him good-night. But when Philip got to +bed he could not sleep. All these new ideas that had been flung before him +carelessly seethed in his brain. He was tremendously excited. He felt in +himself great powers. He had never before been so self-confident. + +"I know I shall be a great artist," he said to himself. "I feel it in me." + +A thrill passed through him as another thought came, but even to himself +he would not put it into words: + +"By George, I believe I've got genius." + +He was in fact very drunk, but as he had not taken more than one glass of +beer, it could have been due only to a more dangerous intoxicant than +alcohol. + + + +XLIII + +On Tuesdays and Fridays masters spent the morning at Amitrano's, +criticising the work done. In France the painter earns little unless he +paints portraits and is patronised by rich Americans; and men of +reputation are glad to increase their incomes by spending two or three +hours once a week at one of the numerous studios where art is taught. +Tuesday was the day upon which Michel Rollin came to Amitrano's. He was an +elderly man, with a white beard and a florid complexion, who had painted +a number of decorations for the State, but these were an object of +derision to the students he instructed: he was a disciple of Ingres, +impervious to the progress of art and angrily impatient with that tas de +farceurs whose names were Manet, Degas, Monet, and Sisley; but he was an +excellent teacher, helpful, polite, and encouraging. Foinet, on the other +hand, who visited the studio on Fridays, was a difficult man to get on +with. He was a small, shrivelled person, with bad teeth and a bilious air, +an untidy gray beard, and savage eyes; his voice was high and his tone +sarcastic. He had had pictures bought by the Luxembourg, and at +twenty-five looked forward to a great career; but his talent was due to +youth rather than to personality, and for twenty years he had done nothing +but repeat the landscape which had brought him his early success. When he +was reproached with monotony, he answered: + +"Corot only painted one thing. Why shouldn't I?" + +He was envious of everyone else's success, and had a peculiar, personal +loathing of the impressionists; for he looked upon his own failure as due +to the mad fashion which had attracted the public, sale bete, to their +works. The genial disdain of Michel Rollin, who called them impostors, was +answered by him with vituperation, of which crapule and canaille were +the least violent items; he amused himself with abuse of their private +lives, and with sardonic humour, with blasphemous and obscene detail, +attacked the legitimacy of their births and the purity of their conjugal +relations: he used an Oriental imagery and an Oriental emphasis to +accentuate his ribald scorn. Nor did he conceal his contempt for the +students whose work he examined. By them he was hated and feared; the +women by his brutal sarcasm he reduced often to tears, which again aroused +his ridicule; and he remained at the studio, notwithstanding the protests +of those who suffered too bitterly from his attacks, because there could +be no doubt that he was one of the best masters in Paris. Sometimes the +old model who kept the school ventured to remonstrate with him, but his +expostulations quickly gave way before the violent insolence of the +painter to abject apologies. + +It was Foinet with whom Philip first came in contact. He was already in +the studio when Philip arrived. He went round from easel to easel, with +Mrs. Otter, the massiere, by his side to interpret his remarks for the +benefit of those who could not understand French. Fanny Price, sitting +next to Philip, was working feverishly. Her face was sallow with +nervousness, and every now and then she stopped to wipe her hands on her +blouse; for they were hot with anxiety. Suddenly she turned to Philip with +an anxious look, which she tried to hide by a sullen frown. + +"D'you think it's good?" she asked, nodding at her drawing. + +Philip got up and looked at it. He was astounded; he felt she must have no +eye at all; the thing was hopelessly out of drawing. + +"I wish I could draw half as well myself," he answered. + +"You can't expect to, you've only just come. It's a bit too much to expect +that you should draw as well as I do. I've been here two years." + +Fanny Price puzzled Philip. Her conceit was stupendous. Philip had already +discovered that everyone in the studio cordially disliked her; and it was +no wonder, for she seemed to go out of her way to wound people. + +"I complained to Mrs. Otter about Foinet," she said now. "The last two +weeks he hasn't looked at my drawings. He spends about half an hour on +Mrs. Otter because she's the massiere. After all I pay as much as +anybody else, and I suppose my money's as good as theirs. I don't see why +I shouldn't get as much attention as anybody else." + +She took up her charcoal again, but in a moment put it down with a groan. + +"I can't do any more now. I'm so frightfully nervous." + +She looked at Foinet, who was coming towards them with Mrs. Otter. Mrs. +Otter, meek, mediocre, and self-satisfied, wore an air of importance. +Foinet sat down at the easel of an untidy little Englishwoman called Ruth +Chalice. She had the fine black eyes, languid but passionate, the thin +face, ascetic but sensual, the skin like old ivory, which under the +influence of Burne-Jones were cultivated at that time by young ladies in +Chelsea. Foinet seemed in a pleasant mood; he did not say much to her, but +with quick, determined strokes of her charcoal pointed out her errors. +Miss Chalice beamed with pleasure when he rose. He came to Clutton, and by +this time Philip was nervous too but Mrs. Otter had promised to make +things easy for him. Foinet stood for a moment in front of Clutton's work, +biting his thumb silently, then absent-mindedly spat out upon the canvas +the little piece of skin which he had bitten off. + +"That's a fine line," he said at last, indicating with his thumb what +pleased him. "You're beginning to learn to draw." + +Clutton did not answer, but looked at the master with his usual air of +sardonic indifference to the world's opinion. + +"I'm beginning to think you have at least a trace of talent." + +Mrs. Otter, who did not like Clutton, pursed her lips. She did not see +anything out of the way in his work. Foinet sat down and went into +technical details. Mrs. Otter grew rather tired of standing. Clutton did +not say anything, but nodded now and then, and Foinet felt with +satisfaction that he grasped what he said and the reasons of it; most of +them listened to him, but it was clear they never understood. Then Foinet +got up and came to Philip. + +"He only arrived two days ago," Mrs. Otter hurried to explain. "He's a +beginner. He's never studied before." + +"Ca se voit," the master said. "One sees that." + +He passed on, and Mrs. Otter murmured to him: + +"This is the young lady I told you about." + +He looked at her as though she were some repulsive animal, and his voice +grew more rasping. + +"It appears that you do not think I pay enough attention to you. You have +been complaining to the massiere. Well, show me this work to which you +wish me to give attention." + +Fanny Price coloured. The blood under her unhealthy skin seemed to be of +a strange purple. Without answering she pointed to the drawing on which +she had been at work since the beginning of the week. Foinet sat down. + +"Well, what do you wish me to say to you? Do you wish me to tell you it is +good? It isn't. Do you wish me to tell you it is well drawn? It isn't. Do +you wish me to say it has merit? It hasn't. Do you wish me to show you +what is wrong with it? It is all wrong. Do you wish me to tell you what to +do with it? Tear it up. Are you satisfied now?" + +Miss Price became very white. She was furious because he had said all this +before Mrs. Otter. Though she had been in France so long and could +understand French well enough, she could hardly speak two words. + +"He's got no right to treat me like that. My money's as good as anyone +else's. I pay him to teach me. That's not teaching me." + +"What does she say? What does she say?" asked Foinet. + +Mrs. Otter hesitated to translate, and Miss Price repeated in execrable +French. + +"Je vous paye pour m'apprendre." + +His eyes flashed with rage, he raised his voice and shook his fist. + +"Mais, nom de Dieu, I can't teach you. I could more easily teach a +camel." He turned to Mrs. Otter. "Ask her, does she do this for amusement, +or does she expect to earn money by it?" + +"I'm going to earn my living as an artist," Miss Price answered. + +"Then it is my duty to tell you that you are wasting your time. It would +not matter that you have no talent, talent does not run about the streets +in these days, but you have not the beginning of an aptitude. How long +have you been here? A child of five after two lessons would draw better +than you do. I only say one thing to you, give up this hopeless attempt. +You're more likely to earn your living as a bonne a tout faire than as +a painter. Look." + +He seized a piece of charcoal, and it broke as he applied it to the paper. +He cursed, and with the stump drew great firm lines. He drew rapidly and +spoke at the same time, spitting out the words with venom. + +"Look, those arms are not the same length. That knee, it's grotesque. I +tell you a child of five. You see, she's not standing on her legs. That +foot!" + +With each word the angry pencil made a mark, and in a moment the drawing +upon which Fanny Price had spent so much time and eager trouble was +unrecognisable, a confusion of lines and smudges. At last he flung down +the charcoal and stood up. + +"Take my advice, Mademoiselle, try dressmaking." He looked at his watch. +"It's twelve. A la semaine prochaine, messieurs." + +Miss Price gathered up her things slowly. Philip waited behind after the +others to say to her something consolatory. He could think of nothing but: + +"I say, I'm awfully sorry. What a beast that man is!" + +She turned on him savagely. + +"Is that what you're waiting about for? When I want your sympathy I'll ask +for it. Please get out of my way." + +She walked past him, out of the studio, and Philip, with a shrug of the +shoulders, limped along to Gravier's for luncheon. + +"It served her right," said Lawson, when Philip told him what had +happened. "Ill-tempered slut." + +Lawson was very sensitive to criticism and, in order to avoid it, never +went to the studio when Foinet was coming. + +"I don't want other people's opinion of my work," he said. "I know myself +if it's good or bad." + +"You mean you don't want other people's bad opinion of your work," +answered Clutton dryly. + +In the afternoon Philip thought he would go to the Luxembourg to see the +pictures, and walking through the garden he saw Fanny Price sitting in her +accustomed seat. He was sore at the rudeness with which she had met his +well-meant attempt to say something pleasant, and passed as though he had +not caught sight of her. But she got up at once and came towards him. + +"Are you trying to cut me?" she said. + +"No, of course not. I thought perhaps you didn't want to be spoken to." + +"Where are you going?" + +"I wanted to have a look at the Manet, I've heard so much about it." + +"Would you like me to come with you? I know the Luxembourg rather well. I +could show you one or two good things." + +He understood that, unable to bring herself to apologise directly, she +made this offer as amends. + +"It's awfully kind of you. I should like it very much." + +"You needn't say yes if you'd rather go alone," she said suspiciously. + +"I wouldn't." + +They walked towards the gallery. Caillebotte's collection had lately been +placed on view, and the student for the first time had the opportunity to +examine at his ease the works of the impressionists. Till then it had been +possible to see them only at Durand-Ruel's shop in the Rue Lafitte (and +the dealer, unlike his fellows in England, who adopt towards the painter +an attitude of superiority, was always pleased to show the shabbiest +student whatever he wanted to see), or at his private house, to which it +was not difficult to get a card of admission on Tuesdays, and where you +might see pictures of world-wide reputation. Miss Price led Philip +straight up to Manet's Olympia. He looked at it in astonished silence. + +"Do you like it?" asked Miss Price. + +"I don't know," he answered helplessly. + +"You can take it from me that it's the best thing in the gallery except +perhaps Whistler's portrait of his mother." + +She gave him a certain time to contemplate the masterpiece and then took +him to a picture representing a railway-station. + +"Look, here's a Monet," she said. "It's the Gare St. Lazare." + +"But the railway lines aren't parallel," said Philip. + +"What does that matter?" she asked, with a haughty air. + +Philip felt ashamed of himself. Fanny Price had picked up the glib chatter +of the studios and had no difficulty in impressing Philip with the extent +of her knowledge. She proceeded to explain the pictures to him, +superciliously but not without insight, and showed him what the painters +had attempted and what he must look for. She talked with much +gesticulation of the thumb, and Philip, to whom all she said was new, +listened with profound but bewildered interest. Till now he had worshipped +Watts and Burne-Jones. The pretty colour of the first, the affected +drawing of the second, had entirely satisfied his aesthetic sensibilities. +Their vague idealism, the suspicion of a philosophical idea which underlay +the titles they gave their pictures, accorded very well with the functions +of art as from his diligent perusal of Ruskin he understood it; but here +was something quite different: here was no moral appeal; and the +contemplation of these works could help no one to lead a purer and a +higher life. He was puzzled. + +At last he said: "You know, I'm simply dead. I don't think I can absorb +anything more profitably. Let's go and sit down on one of the benches." + +"It's better not to take too much art at a time," Miss Price answered. + +When they got outside he thanked her warmly for the trouble she had taken. + +"Oh, that's all right," she said, a little ungraciously. "I do it because +I enjoy it. We'll go to the Louvre tomorrow if you like, and then I'll +take you to Durand-Ruel's." + +"You're really awfully good to me." + +"You don't think me such a beast as the most of them do." + +"I don't," he smiled. + +"They think they'll drive me away from the studio; but they won't; I shall +stay there just exactly as long as it suits me. All that this morning, it +was Lucy Otter's doing, I know it was. She always has hated me. She +thought after that I'd take myself off. I daresay she'd like me to go. +She's afraid I know too much about her." + +Miss Price told him a long, involved story, which made out that Mrs. +Otter, a humdrum and respectable little person, had scabrous intrigues. +Then she talked of Ruth Chalice, the girl whom Foinet had praised that +morning. + +"She's been with every one of the fellows at the studio. She's nothing +better than a street-walker. And she's dirty. She hasn't had a bath for a +month. I know it for a fact." + +Philip listened uncomfortably. He had heard already that various rumours +were in circulation about Miss Chalice; but it was ridiculous to suppose +that Mrs. Otter, living with her mother, was anything but rigidly +virtuous. The woman walking by his side with her malignant lying +positively horrified him. + +"I don't care what they say. I shall go on just the same. I know I've got +it in me. I feel I'm an artist. I'd sooner kill myself than give it up. +Oh, I shan't be the first they've all laughed at in the schools and then +he's turned out the only genius of the lot. Art's the only thing I care +for, I'm willing to give my whole life to it. It's only a question of +sticking to it and pegging away" + +She found discreditable motives for everyone who would not take her at her +own estimate of herself. She detested Clutton. She told Philip that his +friend had no talent really; it was just flashy and superficial; he +couldn't compose a figure to save his life. And Lawson: + +"Little beast, with his red hair and his freckles. He's so afraid of +Foinet that he won't let him see his work. After all, I don't funk it, do +I? I don't care what Foinet says to me, I know I'm a real artist." + +They reached the street in which she lived, and with a sigh of relief +Philip left her. + + + +XLIV + + +But notwithstanding when Miss Price on the following Sunday offered to +take him to the Louvre Philip accepted. She showed him Mona Lisa. He +looked at it with a slight feeling of disappointment, but he had read till +he knew by heart the jewelled words with which Walter Pater has added +beauty to the most famous picture in the world; and these now he repeated +to Miss Price. + +"That's all literature," she said, a little contemptuously. "You must get +away from that." + +She showed him the Rembrandts, and she said many appropriate things about +them. She stood in front of the Disciples at Emmaus. + +"When you feel the beauty of that," she said, "you'll know something about +painting." + +She showed him the Odalisque and La Source of Ingres. Fanny Price was +a peremptory guide, she would not let him look at the things he wished, +and attempted to force his admiration for all she admired. She was +desperately in earnest with her study of art, and when Philip, passing in +the Long Gallery a window that looked out on the Tuileries, gay, sunny, +and urbane, like a picture by Raffaelli, exclaimed: + +"I say, how jolly! Do let's stop here a minute." + +She said, indifferently: "Yes, it's all right. But we've come here to look +at pictures." + +The autumn air, blithe and vivacious, elated Philip; and when towards +mid-day they stood in the great court-yard of the Louvre, he felt inclined +to cry like Flanagan: To hell with art. + +"I say, do let's go to one of those restaurants in the Boul' Mich' and +have a snack together, shall we?" he suggested. + +Miss Price gave him a suspicious look. + +"I've got my lunch waiting for me at home," she answered. + +"That doesn't matter. You can eat it tomorrow. Do let me stand you a +lunch." + +"I don't know why you want to." + +"It would give me pleasure," he replied, smiling. + +They crossed the river, and at the corner of the Boulevard St. Michel +there was a restaurant. + +"Let's go in there." + +"No, I won't go there, it looks too expensive." + +She walked on firmly, and Philip was obliged to follow. A few steps +brought them to a smaller restaurant, where a dozen people were already +lunching on the pavement under an awning; on the window was announced in +large white letters: Dejeuner 1.25, vin compris. + +"We couldn't have anything cheaper than this, and it looks quite all +right." + +They sat down at a vacant table and waited for the omelette which was the +first article on the bill of fare. Philip gazed with delight upon the +passers-by. His heart went out to them. He was tired but very happy. + +"I say, look at that man in the blouse. Isn't he ripping!" + +He glanced at Miss Price, and to his astonishment saw that she was looking +down at her plate, regardless of the passing spectacle, and two heavy +tears were rolling down her cheeks. + +"What on earth's the matter?" he exclaimed. + +"If you say anything to me I shall get up and go at once," she answered. + +He was entirely puzzled, but fortunately at that moment the omelette came. +He divided it in two and they began to eat. Philip did his best to talk of +indifferent things, and it seemed as though Miss Price were making an +effort on her side to be agreeable; but the luncheon was not altogether a +success. Philip was squeamish, and the way in which Miss Price ate took +his appetite away. She ate noisily, greedily, a little like a wild beast +in a menagerie, and after she had finished each course rubbed the plate +with pieces of bread till it was white and shining, as if she did not wish +to lose a single drop of gravy. They had Camembert cheese, and it +disgusted Philip to see that she ate rind and all of the portion that was +given her. She could not have eaten more ravenously if she were starving. + +Miss Price was unaccountable, and having parted from her on one day with +friendliness he could never tell whether on the next she would not be +sulky and uncivil; but he learned a good deal from her: though she could +not draw well herself, she knew all that could be taught, and her constant +suggestions helped his progress. Mrs. Otter was useful to him too, and +sometimes Miss Chalice criticised his work; he learned from the glib +loquacity of Lawson and from the example of Clutton. But Fanny Price hated +him to take suggestions from anyone but herself, and when he asked her +help after someone else had been talking to him she would refuse with +brutal rudeness. The other fellows, Lawson, Clutton, Flanagan, chaffed him +about her. + +"You be careful, my lad," they said, "she's in love with you." + +"Oh, what nonsense," he laughed. + +The thought that Miss Price could be in love with anyone was preposterous. +It made him shudder when he thought of her uncomeliness, the bedraggled +hair and the dirty hands, the brown dress she always wore, stained and +ragged at the hem: he supposed she was hard up, they were all hard up, but +she might at least be clean; and it was surely possible with a needle and +thread to make her skirt tidy. + +Philip began to sort his impressions of the people he was thrown in +contact with. He was not so ingenuous as in those days which now seemed so +long ago at Heidelberg, and, beginning to take a more deliberate interest +in humanity, he was inclined to examine and to criticise. He found it +difficult to know Clutton any better after seeing him every day for three +months than on the first day of their acquaintance. The general impression +at the studio was that he was able; it was supposed that he would do great +things, and he shared the general opinion; but what exactly he was going +to do neither he nor anybody else quite knew. He had worked at several +studios before Amitrano's, at Julian's, the Beaux Arts, and MacPherson's, +and was remaining longer at Amitrano's than anywhere because he found +himself more left alone. He was not fond of showing his work, and unlike +most of the young men who were studying art neither sought nor gave +advice. It was said that in the little studio in the Rue Campagne +Premiere, which served him for work-room and bed-room, he had wonderful +pictures which would make his reputation if only he could be induced to +exhibit them. He could not afford a model but painted still life, and +Lawson constantly talked of a plate of apples which he declared was a +masterpiece. He was fastidious, and, aiming at something he did not quite +fully grasp, was constantly dissatisfied with his work as a whole: perhaps +a part would please him, the forearm or the leg and foot of a figure, a +glass or a cup in a still-life; and he would cut this out and keep it, +destroying the rest of the canvas; so that when people invited themselves +to see his work he could truthfully answer that he had not a single +picture to show. In Brittany he had come across a painter whom nobody else +had heard of, a queer fellow who had been a stockbroker and taken up +painting at middle-age, and he was greatly influenced by his work. He was +turning his back on the impressionists and working out for himself +painfully an individual way not only of painting but of seeing. Philip +felt in him something strangely original. + +At Gravier's where they ate, and in the evening at the Versailles or at +the Closerie des Lilas Clutton was inclined to taciturnity. He sat +quietly, with a sardonic expression on his gaunt face, and spoke only when +the opportunity occurred to throw in a witticism. He liked a butt and was +most cheerful when someone was there on whom he could exercise his +sarcasm. He seldom talked of anything but painting, and then only with the +one or two persons whom he thought worth while. Philip wondered whether +there was in him really anything: his reticence, the haggard look of him, +the pungent humour, seemed to suggest personality, but might be no more +than an effective mask which covered nothing. + +With Lawson on the other hand Philip soon grew intimate. He had a variety +of interests which made him an agreeable companion. He read more than most +of the students and though his income was small, loved to buy books. He +lent them willingly; and Philip became acquainted with Flaubert and +Balzac, with Verlaine, Heredia, and Villiers de l'Isle Adam. They went to +plays together and sometimes to the gallery of the Opera Comique. There +was the Odeon quite near them, and Philip soon shared his friend's passion +for the tragedians of Louis XIV and the sonorous Alexandrine. In the Rue +Taitbout were the Concerts Rouge, where for seventy-five centimes they +could hear excellent music and get into the bargain something which it was +quite possible to drink: the seats were uncomfortable, the place was +crowded, the air thick with caporal horrible to breathe, but in their +young enthusiasm they were indifferent. Sometimes they went to the Bal +Bullier. On these occasions Flanagan accompanied them. His excitability +and his roisterous enthusiasm made them laugh. He was an excellent dancer, +and before they had been ten minutes in the room he was prancing round +with some little shop-girl whose acquaintance he had just made. + +The desire of all of them was to have a mistress. It was part of the +paraphernalia of the art-student in Paris. It gave consideration in the +eyes of one's fellows. It was something to boast about. But the difficulty +was that they had scarcely enough money to keep themselves, and though +they argued that French-women were so clever it cost no more to keep two +then one, they found it difficult to meet young women who were willing to +take that view of the circumstances. They had to content themselves for +the most part with envying and abusing the ladies who received protection +from painters of more settled respectability than their own. It was +extraordinary how difficult these things were in Paris. Lawson would +become acquainted with some young thing and make an appointment; for +twenty-four hours he would be all in a flutter and describe the charmer at +length to everyone he met; but she never by any chance turned up at the +time fixed. He would come to Gravier's very late, ill-tempered, and +exclaim: + +"Confound it, another rabbit! I don't know why it is they don't like me. +I suppose it's because I don't speak French well, or my red hair. It's too +sickening to have spent over a year in Paris without getting hold of +anyone." + +"You don't go the right way to work," said Flanagan. + +He had a long and enviable list of triumphs to narrate, and though they +took leave not to believe all he said, evidence forced them to acknowledge +that he did not altogether lie. But he sought no permanent arrangement. He +only had two years in Paris: he had persuaded his people to let him come +and study art instead of going to college; but at the end of that period +he was to return to Seattle and go into his father's business. He had made +up his mind to get as much fun as possible into the time, and demanded +variety rather than duration in his love affairs. + +"I don't know how you get hold of them," said Lawson furiously. + +"There's no difficulty about that, sonny," answered Flanagan. "You just go +right in. The difficulty is to get rid of them. That's where you want +tact." + +Philip was too much occupied with his work, the books he was reading, the +plays he saw, the conversation he listened to, to trouble himself with the +desire for female society. He thought there would be plenty of time for +that when he could speak French more glibly. + +It was more than a year now since he had seen Miss Wilkinson, and during +his first weeks in Paris he had been too busy to answer a letter she had +written to him just before he left Blackstable. When another came, knowing +it would be full of reproaches and not being just then in the mood for +them, he put it aside, intending to open it later; but he forgot and did +not run across it till a month afterwards, when he was turning out a +drawer to find some socks that had no holes in them. He looked at the +unopened letter with dismay. He was afraid that Miss Wilkinson had +suffered a good deal, and it made him feel a brute; but she had probably +got over the suffering by now, at all events the worst of it. It suggested +itself to him that women were often very emphatic in their expressions. +These did not mean so much as when men used them. He had quite made up his +mind that nothing would induce him ever to see her again. He had not +written for so long that it seemed hardly worth while to write now. He +made up his mind not to read the letter. + +"I daresay she won't write again," he said to himself. "She can't help +seeing the thing's over. After all, she was old enough to be my mother; +she ought to have known better." + +For an hour or two he felt a little uncomfortable. His attitude was +obviously the right one, but he could not help a feeling of +dissatisfaction with the whole business. Miss Wilkinson, however, did not +write again; nor did she, as he absurdly feared, suddenly appear in Paris +to make him ridiculous before his friends. In a little while he clean +forgot her. + +Meanwhile he definitely forsook his old gods. The amazement with which at +first he had looked upon the works of the impressionists, changed to +admiration; and presently he found himself talking as emphatically as the +rest on the merits of Manet, Monet, and Degas. He bought a photograph of +a drawing by Ingres of the Odalisque and a photograph of the Olympia. +They were pinned side by side over his washing-stand so that he could +contemplate their beauty while he shaved. He knew now quite positively +that there had been no painting of landscape before Monet; and he felt a +real thrill when he stood in front of Rembrandt's Disciples at Emmaus or +Velasquez' Lady with the Flea-bitten Nose. That was not her real name, +but by that she was distinguished at Gravier's to emphasise the picture's +beauty notwithstanding the somewhat revolting peculiarity of the sitter's +appearance. With Ruskin, Burne-Jones, and Watts, he had put aside his +bowler hat and the neat blue tie with white spots which he had worn on +coming to Paris; and now disported himself in a soft, broad-brimmed hat, +a flowing black cravat, and a cape of romantic cut. He walked along the +Boulevard du Montparnasse as though he had known it all his life, and by +virtuous perseverance he had learnt to drink absinthe without distaste. He +was letting his hair grow, and it was only because Nature is unkind and +has no regard for the immortal longings of youth that he did not attempt +a beard. + + + +XLV + + +Philip soon realised that the spirit which informed his friends was +Cronshaw's. It was from him that Lawson got his paradoxes; and even +Clutton, who strained after individuality, expressed himself in the terms +he had insensibly acquired from the older man. It was his ideas that they +bandied about at table, and on his authority they formed their judgments. +They made up for the respect with which unconsciously they treated him by +laughing at his foibles and lamenting his vices. + +"Of course, poor old Cronshaw will never do any good," they said. "He's +quite hopeless." + +They prided themselves on being alone in appreciating his genius; and +though, with the contempt of youth for the follies of middle-age, they +patronised him among themselves, they did not fail to look upon it as a +feather in their caps if he had chosen a time when only one was there to +be particularly wonderful. Cronshaw never came to Gravier's. For the last +four years he had lived in squalid conditions with a woman whom only +Lawson had once seen, in a tiny apartment on the sixth floor of one of the +most dilapidated houses on the Quai des Grands Augustins: Lawson described +with gusto the filth, the untidiness, the litter. + +"And the stink nearly blew your head off." + +"Not at dinner, Lawson," expostulated one of the others. + +But he would not deny himself the pleasure of giving picturesque details +of the odours which met his nostril. With a fierce delight in his own +realism he described the woman who had opened the door for him. She was +dark, small, and fat, quite young, with black hair that seemed always on +the point of coming down. She wore a slatternly blouse and no corsets. +With her red cheeks, large sensual mouth, and shining, lewd eyes, she +reminded you of the Bohemienne in the Louvre by Franz Hals. She had a +flaunting vulgarity which amused and yet horrified. A scrubby, unwashed +baby was playing on the floor. It was known that the slut deceived +Cronshaw with the most worthless ragamuffins of the Quarter, and it was a +mystery to the ingenuous youths who absorbed his wisdom over a cafe table +that Cronshaw with his keen intellect and his passion for beauty could +ally himself to such a creature. But he seemed to revel in the coarseness +of her language and would often report some phrase which reeked of the +gutter. He referred to her ironically as la fille de mon concierge. +Cronshaw was very poor. He earned a bare subsistence by writing on the +exhibitions of pictures for one or two English papers, and he did a +certain amount of translating. He had been on the staff of an English +paper in Paris, but had been dismissed for drunkenness; he still however +did odd jobs for it, describing sales at the Hotel Drouot or the revues at +music-halls. The life of Paris had got into his bones, and he would not +change it, notwithstanding its squalor, drudgery, and hardship, for any +other in the world. He remained there all through the year, even in summer +when everyone he knew was away, and felt himself only at ease within a +mile of the Boulevard St. Michel. But the curious thing was that he had +never learnt to speak French passably, and he kept in his shabby clothes +bought at La Belle Jardiniere an ineradicably English appearance. + +He was a man who would have made a success of life a century and a half +ago when conversation was a passport to good company and inebriety no bar. + +"I ought to have lived in the eighteen hundreds," he said himself. "What +I want is a patron. I should have published my poems by subscription and +dedicated them to a nobleman. I long to compose rhymed couplets upon the +poodle of a countess. My soul yearns for the love of chamber-maids and the +conversation of bishops." + +He quoted the romantic Rolla, + +"Je suis venu trop tard dans un monde trop vieux." + +He liked new faces, and he took a fancy to Philip, who seemed to achieve +the difficult feat of talking just enough to suggest conversation and not +too much to prevent monologue. Philip was captivated. He did not realise +that little that Cronshaw said was new. His personality in conversation +had a curious power. He had a beautiful and a sonorous voice, and a manner +of putting things which was irresistible to youth. All he said seemed to +excite thought, and often on the way home Lawson and Philip would walk to +and from one another's hotels, discussing some point which a chance word +of Cronshaw had suggested. It was disconcerting to Philip, who had a +youthful eagerness for results, that Cronshaw's poetry hardly came up to +expectation. It had never been published in a volume, but most of it had +appeared in periodicals; and after a good deal of persuasion Cronshaw +brought down a bundle of pages torn out of The Yellow Book, The +Saturday Review, and other journals, on each of which was a poem. Philip +was taken aback to find that most of them reminded him either of Henley or +of Swinburne. It needed the splendour of Cronshaw's delivery to make them +personal. He expressed his disappointment to Lawson, who carelessly +repeated his words; and next time Philip went to the Closerie des Lilas +the poet turned to him with his sleek smile: + +"I hear you don't think much of my verses." + +Philip was embarrassed. + +"I don't know about that," he answered. "I enjoyed reading them very +much." + +"Do not attempt to spare my feelings," returned Cronshaw, with a wave of +his fat hand. "I do not attach any exaggerated importance to my poetical +works. Life is there to be lived rather than to be written about. My aim +is to search out the manifold experience that it offers, wringing from +each moment what of emotion it presents. I look upon my writing as a +graceful accomplishment which does not absorb but rather adds pleasure to +existence. And as for posterity--damn posterity." + +Philip smiled, for it leaped to one's eyes that the artist in life had +produced no more than a wretched daub. Cronshaw looked at him meditatively +and filled his glass. He sent the waiter for a packet of cigarettes. + +"You are amused because I talk in this fashion and you know that I am poor +and live in an attic with a vulgar trollop who deceives me with +hair-dressers and garcons de cafe; I translate wretched books for the +British public, and write articles upon contemptible pictures which +deserve not even to be abused. But pray tell me what is the meaning of +life?" + +"I say, that's rather a difficult question. Won't you give the answer +yourself?" + +"No, because it's worthless unless you yourself discover it. But what do +you suppose you are in the world for?" + +Philip had never asked himself, and he thought for a moment before +replying. + +"Oh, I don't know: I suppose to do one's duty, and make the best possible +use of one's faculties, and avoid hurting other people." + +"In short, to do unto others as you would they should do unto you?" + +"I suppose so." + +"Christianity." + +"No, it isn't," said Philip indignantly. "It has nothing to do with +Christianity. It's just abstract morality." + +"But there's no such thing as abstract morality." + +"In that case, supposing under the influence of liquor you left your purse +behind when you leave here and I picked it up, why do you imagine that I +should return it to you? It's not the fear of the police." + +"It's the dread of hell if you sin and the hope of Heaven if you are +virtuous." + +"But I believe in neither." + +"That may be. Neither did Kant when he devised the Categorical Imperative. +You have thrown aside a creed, but you have preserved the ethic which was +based upon it. To all intents you are a Christian still, and if there is +a God in Heaven you will undoubtedly receive your reward. The Almighty can +hardly be such a fool as the churches make out. If you keep His laws I +don't think He can care a packet of pins whether you believe in Him or +not." + +"But if I left my purse behind you would certainly return it to me," said +Philip. + +"Not from motives of abstract morality, but only from fear of the police." + +"It's a thousand to one that the police would never find out." + +"My ancestors have lived in a civilised state so long that the fear of the +police has eaten into my bones. The daughter of my concierge would not +hesitate for a moment. You answer that she belongs to the criminal +classes; not at all, she is merely devoid of vulgar prejudice." + +"But then that does away with honour and virtue and goodness and decency +and everything," said Philip. + +"Have you ever committed a sin?" + +"I don't know, I suppose so," answered Philip. + +"You speak with the lips of a dissenting minister. I have never committed +a sin." + +Cronshaw in his shabby great-coat, with the collar turned up, and his hat +well down on his head, with his red fat face and his little gleaming eyes, +looked extraordinarily comic; but Philip was too much in earnest to laugh. + +"Have you never done anything you regret?" + +"How can I regret when what I did was inevitable?" asked Cronshaw in +return. + +"But that's fatalism." + +"The illusion which man has that his will is free is so deeply rooted that +I am ready to accept it. I act as though I were a free agent. But when an +action is performed it is clear that all the forces of the universe from +all eternity conspired to cause it, and nothing I could do could have +prevented it. It was inevitable. If it was good I can claim no merit; if +it was bad I can accept no censure." + +"My brain reels," said Philip. + +"Have some whiskey," returned Cronshaw, passing over the bottle. "There's +nothing like it for clearing the head. You must expect to be thick-witted +if you insist upon drinking beer." + +Philip shook his head, and Cronshaw proceeded: + +"You're not a bad fellow, but you won't drink. Sobriety disturbs +conversation. But when I speak of good and bad..." Philip saw he was +taking up the thread of his discourse, "I speak conventionally. I attach +no meaning to those words. I refuse to make a hierarchy of human actions +and ascribe worthiness to some and ill-repute to others. The terms vice +and virtue have no signification for me. I do not confer praise or blame: +I accept. I am the measure of all things. I am the centre of the world." + +"But there are one or two other people in the world," objected Philip. + +"I speak only for myself. I know them only as they limit my activities. +Round each of them too the world turns, and each one for himself is the +centre of the universe. My right over them extends only as far as my +power. What I can do is the only limit of what I may do. Because we are +gregarious we live in society, and society holds together by means of +force, force of arms (that is the policeman) and force of public opinion +(that is Mrs. Grundy). You have society on one hand and the individual on +the other: each is an organism striving for self-preservation. It is might +against might. I stand alone, bound to accept society and not unwilling, +since in return for the taxes I pay it protects me, a weakling, against +the tyranny of another stronger than I am; but I submit to its laws +because I must; I do not acknowledge their justice: I do not know justice, +I only know power. And when I have paid for the policeman who protects me +and, if I live in a country where conscription is in force, served in the +army which guards my house and land from the invader, I am quits with +society: for the rest I counter its might with my wiliness. It makes laws +for its self-preservation, and if I break them it imprisons or kills me: +it has the might to do so and therefore the right. If I break the laws I +will accept the vengeance of the state, but I will not regard it as +punishment nor shall I feel myself convicted of wrong-doing. Society +tempts me to its service by honours and riches and the good opinion of my +fellows; but I am indifferent to their good opinion, I despise honours and +I can do very well without riches." + +"But if everyone thought like you things would go to pieces at once." + +"I have nothing to do with others, I am only concerned with myself. I take +advantage of the fact that the majority of mankind are led by certain +rewards to do things which directly or indirectly tend to my convenience." + +"It seems to me an awfully selfish way of looking at things," said Philip. + +"But are you under the impression that men ever do anything except for +selfish reasons?" + +"Yes." + +"It is impossible that they should. You will find as you grow older that +the first thing needful to make the world a tolerable place to live in is +to recognise the inevitable selfishness of humanity. You demand +unselfishness from others, which is a preposterous claim that they should +sacrifice their desires to yours. Why should they? When you are reconciled +to the fact that each is for himself in the world you will ask less from +your fellows. They will not disappoint you, and you will look upon them +more charitably. Men seek but one thing in life--their pleasure." + +"No, no, no!" cried Philip. + +Cronshaw chuckled. + +"You rear like a frightened colt, because I use a word to which your +Christianity ascribes a deprecatory meaning. You have a hierarchy of +values; pleasure is at the bottom of the ladder, and you speak with a +little thrill of self-satisfaction, of duty, charity, and truthfulness. +You think pleasure is only of the senses; the wretched slaves who +manufactured your morality despised a satisfaction which they had small +means of enjoying. You would not be so frightened if I had spoken of +happiness instead of pleasure: it sounds less shocking, and your mind +wanders from the sty of Epicurus to his garden. But I will speak of +pleasure, for I see that men aim at that, and I do not know that they aim +at happiness. It is pleasure that lurks in the practice of every one of +your virtues. Man performs actions because they are good for him, and when +they are good for other people as well they are thought virtuous: if he +finds pleasure in giving alms he is charitable; if he finds pleasure in +helping others he is benevolent; if he finds pleasure in working for +society he is public-spirited; but it is for your private pleasure that +you give twopence to a beggar as much as it is for my private pleasure +that I drink another whiskey and soda. I, less of a humbug than you, +neither applaud myself for my pleasure nor demand your admiration." + +"But have you never known people do things they didn't want to instead of +things they did?" + +"No. You put your question foolishly. What you mean is that people accept +an immediate pain rather than an immediate pleasure. The objection is as +foolish as your manner of putting it. It is clear that men accept an +immediate pain rather than an immediate pleasure, but only because they +expect a greater pleasure in the future. Often the pleasure is illusory, +but their error in calculation is no refutation of the rule. You are +puzzled because you cannot get over the idea that pleasures are only of +the senses; but, child, a man who dies for his country dies because he +likes it as surely as a man eats pickled cabbage because he likes it. It +is a law of creation. If it were possible for men to prefer pain to +pleasure the human race would have long since become extinct." + +"But if all that is true," cried Philip, "what is the use of anything? If +you take away duty and goodness and beauty why are we brought into the +world?" + +"Here comes the gorgeous East to suggest an answer," smiled Cronshaw. + +He pointed to two persons who at that moment opened the door of the cafe, +and, with a blast of cold air, entered. They were Levantines, itinerant +vendors of cheap rugs, and each bore on his arm a bundle. It was Sunday +evening, and the cafe was very full. They passed among the tables, and in +that atmosphere heavy and discoloured with tobacco smoke, rank with +humanity, they seemed to bring an air of mystery. They were clad in +European, shabby clothes, their thin great-coats were threadbare, but each +wore a tarbouch. Their faces were gray with cold. One was of middle age, +with a black beard, but the other was a youth of eighteen, with a face +deeply scarred by smallpox and with one eye only. They passed by Cronshaw +and Philip. + +"Allah is great, and Mahomet is his prophet," said Cronshaw impressively. + +The elder advanced with a cringing smile, like a mongrel used to blows. +With a sidelong glance at the door and a quick surreptitious movement he +showed a pornographic picture. + +"Are you Masr-ed-Deen, the merchant of Alexandria, or is it from far +Bagdad that you bring your goods, O, my uncle; and yonder one-eyed youth, +do I see in him one of the three kings of whom Scheherazade told stories +to her lord?" + +The pedlar's smile grew more ingratiating, though he understood no word of +what Cronshaw said, and like a conjurer he produced a sandalwood box. + +"Nay, show us the priceless web of Eastern looms," quoth Cronshaw. "For I +would point a moral and adorn a tale." + +The Levantine unfolded a table-cloth, red and yellow, vulgar, hideous, and +grotesque. + +"Thirty-five francs," he said. + +"O, my uncle, this cloth knew not the weavers of Samarkand, and those +colours were never made in the vats of Bokhara." + +"Twenty-five francs," smiled the pedlar obsequiously. + +"Ultima Thule was the place of its manufacture, even Birmingham the place +of my birth." + +"Fifteen francs," cringed the bearded man. + +"Get thee gone, fellow," said Cronshaw. "May wild asses defile the grave +of thy maternal grandmother." + +Imperturbably, but smiling no more, the Levantine passed with his wares to +another table. Cronshaw turned to Philip. + +"Have you ever been to the Cluny, the museum? There you will see Persian +carpets of the most exquisite hue and of a pattern the beautiful intricacy +of which delights and amazes the eye. In them you will see the mystery and +the sensual beauty of the East, the roses of Hafiz and the wine-cup of +Omar; but presently you will see more. You were asking just now what was +the meaning of life. Go and look at those Persian carpets, and one of +these days the answer will come to you." + +"You are cryptic," said Philip. + +"I am drunk," answered Cronshaw. + + + +XLVI + + +Philip did not find living in Paris as cheap as he had been led to believe +and by February had spent most of the money with which he started. He was +too proud to appeal to his guardian, nor did he wish Aunt Louisa to know +that his circumstances were straitened, since he was certain she would +make an effort to send him something from her own pocket, and he knew how +little she could afford to. In three months he would attain his majority +and come into possession of his small fortune. He tided over the interval +by selling the few trinkets which he had inherited from his father. + +At about this time Lawson suggested that they should take a small studio +which was vacant in one of the streets that led out of the Boulevard +Raspail. It was very cheap. It had a room attached, which they could use +as a bed-room; and since Philip was at the school every morning Lawson +could have the undisturbed use of the studio then; Lawson, after wandering +from school to school, had come to the conclusion that he could work best +alone, and proposed to get a model in three or four days a week. At first +Philip hesitated on account of the expense, but they reckoned it out; and +it seemed (they were so anxious to have a studio of their own that they +calculated pragmatically) that the cost would not be much greater than +that of living in a hotel. Though the rent and the cleaning by the +concierge would come to a little more, they would save on the petit +dejeuner, which they could make themselves. A year or two earlier Philip +would have refused to share a room with anyone, since he was so sensitive +about his deformed foot, but his morbid way of looking at it was growing +less marked: in Paris it did not seem to matter so much, and, though he +never by any chance forgot it himself, he ceased to feel that other people +were constantly noticing it. + +They moved in, bought a couple of beds, a washing-stand, a few chairs, and +felt for the first time the thrill of possession. They were so excited +that the first night they went to bed in what they could call a home they +lay awake talking till three in the morning; and next day found lighting +the fire and making their own coffee, which they had in pyjamas, such a +jolly business that Philip did not get to Amitrano's till nearly eleven. +He was in excellent spirits. He nodded to Fanny Price. + +"How are you getting on?" he asked cheerily. + +"What does that matter to you?" she asked in reply. + +Philip could not help laughing. + +"Don't jump down my throat. I was only trying to make myself polite." + +"I don't want your politeness." + +"D'you think it's worth while quarrelling with me too?" asked Philip +mildly. "There are so few people you're on speaking terms with, as it is." + +"That's my business, isn't it?" + +"Quite." + +He began to work, vaguely wondering why Fanny Price made herself so +disagreeable. He had come to the conclusion that he thoroughly disliked +her. Everyone did. People were only civil to her at all from fear of the +malice of her tongue; for to their faces and behind their backs she said +abominable things. But Philip was feeling so happy that he did not want +even Miss Price to bear ill-feeling towards him. He used the artifice +which had often before succeeded in banishing her ill-humour. + +"I say, I wish you'd come and look at my drawing. I've got in an awful +mess." + +"Thank you very much, but I've got something better to do with my time." + +Philip stared at her in surprise, for the one thing she could be counted +upon to do with alacrity was to give advice. She went on quickly in a low +voice, savage with fury. + +"Now that Lawson's gone you think you'll put up with me. Thank you very +much. Go and find somebody else to help you. I don't want anybody else's +leavings." + +Lawson had the pedagogic instinct; whenever he found anything out he was +eager to impart it; and because he taught with delight he talked with +profit. Philip, without thinking anything about it, had got into the habit +of sitting by his side; it never occurred to him that Fanny Price was +consumed with jealousy, and watched his acceptance of someone else's +tuition with ever-increasing anger. + +"You were very glad to put up with me when you knew nobody here," she said +bitterly, "and as soon as you made friends with other people you threw me +aside, like an old glove"--she repeated the stale metaphor with +satisfaction--"like an old glove. All right, I don't care, but I'm not +going to be made a fool of another time." + +There was a suspicion of truth in what she said, and it made Philip angry +enough to answer what first came into his head. + +"Hang it all, I only asked your advice because I saw it pleased you." + +She gave a gasp and threw him a sudden look of anguish. Then two tears +rolled down her cheeks. She looked frowsy and grotesque. Philip, not +knowing what on earth this new attitude implied, went back to his work. He +was uneasy and conscience-stricken; but he would not go to her and say he +was sorry if he had caused her pain, because he was afraid she would take +the opportunity to snub him. For two or three weeks she did not speak to +him, and, after Philip had got over the discomfort of being cut by her, he +was somewhat relieved to be free from so difficult a friendship. He had +been a little disconcerted by the air of proprietorship she assumed over +him. She was an extraordinary woman. She came every day to the studio at +eight o'clock, and was ready to start working when the model was in +position; she worked steadily, talking to no one, struggling hour after +hour with difficulties she could not overcome, and remained till the clock +struck twelve. Her work was hopeless. There was not in it the smallest +approach even to the mediocre achievement at which most of the young +persons were able after some months to arrive. She wore every day the same +ugly brown dress, with the mud of the last wet day still caked on the hem +and with the raggedness, which Philip had noticed the first time he saw +her, still unmended. + +But one day she came up to him, and with a scarlet face asked whether she +might speak to him afterwards. + +"Of course, as much as you like," smiled Philip. "I'll wait behind at +twelve." + +He went to her when the day's work was over. + +"Will you walk a little bit with me?" she said, looking away from him with +embarrassment. + +"Certainly." + +They walked for two or three minutes in silence. + +"D'you remember what you said to me the other day?" she asked then on a +sudden. + +"Oh, I say, don't let's quarrel," said Philip. "It really isn't worth +while." + +She gave a quick, painful inspiration. + +"I don't want to quarrel with you. You're the only friend I had in Paris. +I thought you rather liked me. I felt there was something between us. I +was drawn towards you--you know what I mean, your club-foot." + +Philip reddened and instinctively tried to walk without a limp. He did not +like anyone to mention the deformity. He knew what Fanny Price meant. She +was ugly and uncouth, and because he was deformed there was between them +a certain sympathy. He was very angry with her, but he forced himself not +to speak. + +"You said you only asked my advice to please me. Don't you think my work's +any good?" + +"I've only seen your drawing at Amitrano's. It's awfully hard to judge +from that." + +"I was wondering if you'd come and look at my other work. I've never asked +anyone else to look at it. I should like to show it to you." + +"It's awfully kind of you. I'd like to see it very much." + +"I live quite near here," she said apologetically. "It'll only take you +ten minutes." + +"Oh, that's all right," he said. + +They were walking along the boulevard, and she turned down a side street, +then led him into another, poorer still, with cheap shops on the ground +floor, and at last stopped. They climbed flight after flight of stairs. +She unlocked a door, and they went into a tiny attic with a sloping roof +and a small window. This was closed and the room had a musty smell. Though +it was very cold there was no fire and no sign that there had been one. +The bed was unmade. A chair, a chest of drawers which served also as a +wash-stand, and a cheap easel, were all the furniture. The place would +have been squalid enough in any case, but the litter, the untidiness, made +the impression revolting. On the chimney-piece, scattered over with paints +and brushes, were a cup, a dirty plate, and a tea-pot. + +"If you'll stand over there I'll put them on the chair so that you can see +them better." + +She showed him twenty small canvases, about eighteen by twelve. She placed +them on the chair, one after the other, watching his face; he nodded as he +looked at each one. + +"You do like them, don't you?" she said anxiously, after a bit. + +"I just want to look at them all first," he answered. "I'll talk +afterwards." + +He was collecting himself. He was panic-stricken. He did not know what to +say. It was not only that they were ill-drawn, or that the colour was put +on amateurishly by someone who had no eye for it; but there was no attempt +at getting the values, and the perspective was grotesque. It looked like +the work of a child of five, but a child would have had some naivete and +might at least have made an attempt to put down what he saw; but here was +the work of a vulgar mind chock full of recollections of vulgar pictures. +Philip remembered that she had talked enthusiastically about Monet and the +Impressionists, but here were only the worst traditions of the Royal +Academy. + +"There," she said at last, "that's the lot." + +Philip was no more truthful than anybody else, but he had a great +difficulty in telling a thundering, deliberate lie, and he blushed +furiously when he answered: + +"I think they're most awfully good." + +A faint colour came into her unhealthy cheeks, and she smiled a little. + +"You needn't say so if you don't think so, you know. I want the truth." + +"But I do think so." + +"Haven't you got any criticism to offer? There must be some you don't like +as well as others." + +Philip looked round helplessly. He saw a landscape, the typical +picturesque `bit' of the amateur, an old bridge, a creeper-clad cottage, +and a leafy bank. + +"Of course I don't pretend to know anything about it," he said. "But I +wasn't quite sure about the values of that." + +She flushed darkly and taking up the picture quickly turned its back to +him. + +"I don't know why you should have chosen that one to sneer at. It's the +best thing I've ever done. I'm sure my values are all right. That's a +thing you can't teach anyone, you either understand values or you don't." + +"I think they're all most awfully good," repeated Philip. + +She looked at them with an air of self-satisfaction. + +"I don't think they're anything to be ashamed of." + +Philip looked at his watch. + +"I say, it's getting late. Won't you let me give you a little lunch?" + +"I've got my lunch waiting for me here." + +Philip saw no sign of it, but supposed perhaps the concierge would bring +it up when he was gone. He was in a hurry to get away. The mustiness of +the room made his head ache. + + + +XLVII + + +In March there was all the excitement of sending in to the Salon. Clutton, +characteristically, had nothing ready, and he was very scornful of the two +heads that Lawson sent; they were obviously the work of a student, +straight-forward portraits of models, but they had a certain force; +Clutton, aiming at perfection, had no patience with efforts which betrayed +hesitancy, and with a shrug of the shoulders told Lawson it was an +impertinence to exhibit stuff which should never have been allowed out of +his studio; he was not less contemptuous when the two heads were accepted. +Flanagan tried his luck too, but his picture was refused. Mrs. Otter sent +a blameless Portrait de ma Mere, accomplished and second-rate; and was +hung in a very good place. + +Hayward, whom Philip had not seen since he left Heidelberg, arrived in +Paris to spend a few days in time to come to the party which Lawson and +Philip were giving in their studio to celebrate the hanging of Lawson's +pictures. Philip had been eager to see Hayward again, but when at last +they met, he experienced some disappointment. Hayward had altered a little +in appearance: his fine hair was thinner, and with the rapid wilting of +the very fair, he was becoming wizened and colourless; his blue eyes were +paler than they had been, and there was a muzziness about his features. On +the other hand, in mind he did not seem to have changed at all, and the +culture which had impressed Philip at eighteen aroused somewhat the +contempt of Philip at twenty-one. He had altered a good deal himself, and +regarding with scorn all his old opinions of art, life, and letters, had +no patience with anyone who still held them. He was scarcely conscious of +the fact that he wanted to show off before Hayward, but when he took him +round the galleries he poured out to him all the revolutionary opinions +which himself had so recently adopted. He took him to Manet's Olympia +and said dramatically: + +"I would give all the old masters except Velasquez, Rembrandt, and Vermeer +for that one picture." + +"Who was Vermeer?" asked Hayward. + +"Oh, my dear fellow, don't you know Vermeer? You're not civilised. You +mustn't live a moment longer without making his acquaintance. He's the one +old master who painted like a modern." + +He dragged Hayward out of the Luxembourg and hurried him off to the +Louvre. + +"But aren't there any more pictures here?" asked Hayward, with the +tourist's passion for thoroughness. + +"Nothing of the least consequence. You can come and look at them by +yourself with your Baedeker." + +When they arrived at the Louvre Philip led his friend down the Long +Gallery. + +"I should like to see The Gioconda," said Hayward. + +"Oh, my dear fellow, it's only literature," answered Philip. + +At last, in a small room, Philip stopped before The Lacemaker of Vermeer +van Delft. + +"There, that's the best picture in the Louvre. It's exactly like a Manet." + +With an expressive, eloquent thumb Philip expatiated on the charming work. +He used the jargon of the studios with overpowering effect. + +"I don't know that I see anything so wonderful as all that in it," said +Hayward. + +"Of course it's a painter's picture," said Philip. "I can quite believe +the layman would see nothing much in it." + +"The what?" said Hayward. + +"The layman." + +Like most people who cultivate an interest in the arts, Hayward was +extremely anxious to be right. He was dogmatic with those who did not +venture to assert themselves, but with the self-assertive he was very +modest. He was impressed by Philip's assurance, and accepted meekly +Philip's implied suggestion that the painter's arrogant claim to be the +sole possible judge of painting has anything but its impertinence to +recommend it. + +A day or two later Philip and Lawson gave their party. Cronshaw, making an +exception in their favour, agreed to eat their food; and Miss Chalice +offered to come and cook for them. She took no interest in her own sex and +declined the suggestion that other girls should be asked for her sake. +Clutton, Flanagan, Potter, and two others made up the party. Furniture was +scarce, so the model stand was used as a table, and the guests were to sit +on portmanteaux if they liked, and if they didn't on the floor. The feast +consisted of a pot-au-feu, which Miss Chalice had made, of a leg of +mutton roasted round the corner and brought round hot and savoury (Miss +Chalice had cooked the potatoes, and the studio was redolent of the +carrots she had fried; fried carrots were her specialty); and this was to +be followed by poires flambees, pears with burning brandy, which +Cronshaw had volunteered to make. The meal was to finish with an enormous +fromage de Brie, which stood near the window and added fragrant odours +to all the others which filled the studio. Cronshaw sat in the place of +honour on a Gladstone bag, with his legs curled under him like a Turkish +bashaw, beaming good-naturedly on the young people who surrounded him. +From force of habit, though the small studio with the stove lit was very +hot, he kept on his great-coat, with the collar turned up, and his bowler +hat: he looked with satisfaction on the four large fiaschi of Chianti +which stood in front of him in a row, two on each side of a bottle of +whiskey; he said it reminded him of a slim fair Circassian guarded by four +corpulent eunuchs. Hayward in order to put the rest of them at their ease +had clothed himself in a tweed suit and a Trinity Hall tie. He looked +grotesquely British. The others were elaborately polite to him, and during +the soup they talked of the weather and the political situation. There was +a pause while they waited for the leg of mutton, and Miss Chalice lit a +cigarette. + +"Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair," she said suddenly. + +With an elegant gesture she untied a ribbon so that her tresses fell over +her shoulders. She shook her head. + +"I always feel more comfortable with my hair down." + +With her large brown eyes, thin, ascetic face, her pale skin, and broad +forehead, she might have stepped out of a picture by Burne-Jones. She had +long, beautiful hands, with fingers deeply stained by nicotine. She wore +sweeping draperies, mauve and green. There was about her the romantic air +of High Street, Kensington. She was wantonly aesthetic; but she was an +excellent creature, kind and good natured; and her affectations were but +skin-deep. There was a knock at the door, and they all gave a shout of +exultation. Miss Chalice rose and opened. She took the leg of mutton and +held it high above her, as though it were the head of John the Baptist on +a platter; and, the cigarette still in her mouth, advanced with solemn, +hieratic steps. + +"Hail, daughter of Herodias," cried Cronshaw. + +The mutton was eaten with gusto, and it did one good to see what a hearty +appetite the pale-faced lady had. Clutton and Potter sat on each side of +her, and everyone knew that neither had found her unduly coy. She grew +tired of most people in six weeks, but she knew exactly how to treat +afterwards the gentlemen who had laid their young hearts at her feet. She +bore them no ill-will, though having loved them she had ceased to do so, +and treated them with friendliness but without familiarity. Now and then +she looked at Lawson with melancholy eyes. The poires flambees were a +great success, partly because of the brandy, and partly because Miss +Chalice insisted that they should be eaten with the cheese. + +"I don't know whether it's perfectly delicious, or whether I'm just going +to vomit," she said, after she had thoroughly tried the mixture. + +Coffee and cognac followed with sufficient speed to prevent any untoward +consequence, and they settled down to smoke in comfort. Ruth Chalice, who +could do nothing that was not deliberately artistic, arranged herself in +a graceful attitude by Cronshaw and just rested her exquisite head on his +shoulder. She looked into the dark abyss of time with brooding eyes, and +now and then with a long meditative glance at Lawson she sighed deeply. + + +Then came the summer, and restlessness seized these young people. The blue +skies lured them to the sea, and the pleasant breeze sighing through the +leaves of the plane-trees on the boulevard drew them towards the country. +Everyone made plans for leaving Paris; they discussed what was the most +suitable size for the canvases they meant to take; they laid in stores of +panels for sketching; they argued about the merits of various places in +Brittany. Flanagan and Potter went to Concarneau; Mrs. Otter and her +mother, with a natural instinct for the obvious, went to Pont-Aven; Philip +and Lawson made up their minds to go to the forest of Fontainebleau, and +Miss Chalice knew of a very good hotel at Moret where there was lots of +stuff to paint; it was near Paris, and neither Philip nor Lawson was +indifferent to the railway fare. Ruth Chalice would be there, and Lawson +had an idea for a portrait of her in the open air. Just then the Salon was +full of portraits of people in gardens, in sunlight, with blinking eyes +and green reflections of sunlit leaves on their faces. They asked Clutton +to go with them, but he preferred spending the summer by himself. He had +just discovered Cezanne, and was uger to go to Provence; he wanted heavy +skies from which the hot blue seemed to drip like beads of sweat, and +broad white dusty roads, and pale roofs out of which the sun had burnt the +colour, and olive trees gray with heat. + +The day before they were to start, after the morning class, Philip, +putting his things together, spoke to Fanny Price. + +"I'm off tomorrow," he said cheerfully. + +"Off where?" she said quickly. "You're not going away?" Her face fell. + +"I'm going away for the summer. Aren't you?" + +"No, I'm staying in Paris. I thought you were going to stay too. I was +looking forward...." + +She stopped and shrugged her shoulders. + +"But won't it be frightfully hot here? It's awfully bad for you." + +"Much you care if it's bad for me. Where are you going?" + +"Moret." + +"Chalice is going there. You're not going with her?" + +"Lawson and I are going. And she's going there too. I don't know that +we're actually going together." + +She gave a low guttural sound, and her large face grew dark and red. + +"How filthy! I thought you were a decent fellow. You were about the only +one here. She's been with Clutton and Potter and Flanagan, even with old +Foinet--that's why he takes so much trouble about her--and now two of you, +you and Lawson. It makes me sick." + +"Oh, what nonsense! She's a very decent sort. One treats her just as if +she were a man." + +"Oh, don't speak to me, don't speak to me." + +"But what can it matter to you?" asked Philip. "It's really no business of +yours where I spend my summer." + +"I was looking forward to it so much," she gasped, speaking it seemed +almost to herself. "I didn't think you had the money to go away, and there +wouldn't have been anyone else here, and we could have worked together, +and we'd have gone to see things." Then her thoughts flung back to Ruth +Chalice. "The filthy beast," she cried. "She isn't fit to speak to." + +Philip looked at her with a sinking heart. He was not a man to think girls +were in love with him; he was too conscious of his deformity, and he felt +awkward and clumsy with women; but he did not know what else this outburst +could mean. Fanny Price, in the dirty brown dress, with her hair falling +over her face, sloppy, untidy, stood before him; and tears of anger rolled +down her cheeks. She was repellent. Philip glanced at the door, +instinctively hoping that someone would come in and put an end to the +scene. + +"I'm awfully sorry," he said. + +"You're just the same as all of them. You take all you can get, and you +don't even say thank you. I've taught you everything you know. No one else +would take any trouble with you. Has Foinet ever bothered about you? And +I can tell you this--you can work here for a thousand years and you'll +never do any good. You haven't got any talent. You haven't got any +originality. And it's not only me--they all say it. You'll never be a +painter as long as you live." + +"That is no business of yours either, is it?" said Philip, flushing. + +"Oh, you think it's only my temper. Ask Clutton, ask Lawson, ask Chalice. +Never, never, never. You haven't got it in you." + +Philip shrugged his shoulders and walked out. She shouted after him. + +"Never, never, never." + + +Moret was in those days an old-fashioned town of one street at the edge of +the forest of Fontainebleau, and the Ecu d'Or was a hotel which still +had about it the decrepit air of the Ancien Regime. It faced the winding +river, the Loing; and Miss Chalice had a room with a little terrace +overlooking it, with a charming view of the old bridge and its fortified +gateway. They sat here in the evenings after dinner, drinking coffee, +smoking, and discussing art. There ran into the river, a little way off, +a narrow canal bordered by poplars, and along the banks of this after +their day's work they often wandered. They spent all day painting. Like +most of their generation they were obsessed by the fear of the +picturesque, and they turned their backs on the obvious beauty of the town +to seek subjects which were devoid of a prettiness they despised. Sisley +and Monet had painted the canal with its poplars, and they felt a desire +to try their hands at what was so typical of France; but they were +frightened of its formal beauty, and set themselves deliberately to avoid +it. Miss Chalice, who had a clever dexterity which impressed Lawson +notwithstanding his contempt for feminine art, started a picture in which +she tried to circumvent the commonplace by leaving out the tops of the +trees; and Lawson had the brilliant idea of putting in his foreground a +large blue advertisement of chocolat Menier in order to emphasise his +abhorrence of the chocolate box. + +Philip began now to paint in oils. He experienced a thrill of delight when +first he used that grateful medium. He went out with Lawson in the morning +with his little box and sat by him painting a panel; it gave him so much +satisfaction that he did not realise he was doing no more than copy; he +was so much under his friend's influence that he saw only with his eyes. +Lawson painted very low in tone, and they both saw the emerald of the +grass like dark velvet, while the brilliance of the sky turned in their +hands to a brooding ultramarine. Through July they had one fine day after +another; it was very hot; and the heat, searing Philip's heart, filled him +with languor; he could not work; his mind was eager with a thousand +thoughts. Often he spent the mornings by the side of the canal in the +shade of the poplars, reading a few lines and then dreaming for half an +hour. Sometimes he hired a rickety bicycle and rode along the dusty road +that led to the forest, and then lay down in a clearing. His head was full +of romantic fancies. The ladies of Watteau, gay and insouciant, seemed to +wander with their cavaliers among the great trees, whispering to one +another careless, charming things, and yet somehow oppressed by a nameless +fear. + +They were alone in the hotel but for a fat Frenchwoman of middle age, a +Rabelaisian figure with a broad, obscene laugh. She spent the day by the +river patiently fishing for fish she never caught, and Philip sometimes +went down and talked to her. He found out that she had belonged to a +profession whose most notorious member for our generation was Mrs. Warren, +and having made a competence she now lived the quiet life of the +bourgeoise. She told Philip lewd stories. + +"You must go to Seville," she said--she spoke a little broken English. +"The most beautiful women in the world." + +She leered and nodded her head. Her triple chin, her large belly, shook +with inward laughter. + +It grew so hot that it was almost impossible to sleep at night. The heat +seemed to linger under the trees as though it were a material thing. They +did not wish to leave the starlit night, and the three of them would sit +on the terrace of Ruth Chalice's room, silent, hour after hour, too tired +to talk any more, but in voluptuous enjoyment of the stillness. They +listened to the murmur of the river. The church clock struck one and two +and sometimes three before they could drag themselves to bed. Suddenly +Philip became aware that Ruth Chalice and Lawson were lovers. He divined +it in the way the girl looked at the young painter, and in his air of +possession; and as Philip sat with them he felt a kind of effluence +surrounding them, as though the air were heavy with something strange. The +revelation was a shock. He had looked upon Miss Chalice as a very good +fellow and he liked to talk to her, but it had never seemed to him +possible to enter into a closer relationship. One Sunday they had all gone +with a tea-basket into the forest, and when they came to a glade which was +suitably sylvan, Miss Chalice, because it was idyllic, insisted on taking +off her shoes and stockings. It would have been very charming only her +feet were rather large and she had on both a large corn on the third toe. +Philip felt it made her proceeding a little ridiculous. But now he looked +upon her quite differently; there was something softly feminine in her +large eyes and her olive skin; he felt himself a fool not to have seen +that she was attractive. He thought he detected in her a touch of contempt +for him, because he had not had the sense to see that she was there, in +his way, and in Lawson a suspicion of superiority. He was envious of +Lawson, and he was jealous, not of the individual concerned, but of his +love. He wished that he was standing in his shoes and feeling with his +heart. He was troubled, and the fear seized him that love would pass him +by. He wanted a passion to seize him, he wanted to be swept off his feet +and borne powerless in a mighty rush he cared not whither. Miss Chalice +and Lawson seemed to him now somehow different, and the constant +companionship with them made him restless. He was dissatisfied with +himself. Life was not giving him what he wanted, and he had an uneasy +feeling that he was losing his time. + +The stout Frenchwoman soon guessed what the relations were between the +couple, and talked of the matter to Philip with the utmost frankness. + +"And you," she said, with the tolerant smile of one who had fattened on +the lust of her fellows, "have you got a petite amie?" + +"No," said Philip, blushing. + +"And why not? C'est de votre age." + +He shrugged his shoulders. He had a volume of Verlaine in his hands, and +he wandered off. He tried to read, but his passion was too strong. He +thought of the stray amours to which he had been introduced by Flanagan, +the sly visits to houses in a cul-de-sac, with the drawing-room in +Utrecht velvet, and the mercenary graces of painted women. He shuddered. +He threw himself on the grass, stretching his limbs like a young animal +freshly awaked from sleep; and the rippling water, the poplars gently +tremulous in the faint breeze, the blue sky, were almost more than he +could bear. He was in love with love. In his fancy he felt the kiss of +warm lips on his, and around his neck the touch of soft hands. He imagined +himself in the arms of Ruth Chalice, he thought of her dark eyes and the +wonderful texture of her skin; he was mad to have let such a wonderful +adventure slip through his fingers. And if Lawson had done it why should +not he? But this was only when he did not see her, when he lay awake at +night or dreamed idly by the side of the canal; when he saw her he felt +suddenly quite different; he had no desire to take her in his arms, and he +could not imagine himself kissing her. It was very curious. Away from her +he thought her beautiful, remembering only her magnificent eyes and the +creamy pallor of her face; but when he was with her he saw only that she +was flat-chested and that her teeth were slightly decayed; he could not +forget the corns on her toes. He could not understand himself. Would he +always love only in absence and be prevented from enjoying anything when +he had the chance by that deformity of vision which seemed to exaggerate +the revolting? + +He was not sorry when a change in the weather, announcing the definite end +of the long summer, drove them all back to Paris. + + + +XLVIII + + +When Philip returned to Amitrano's he found that Fanny Price was no longer +working there. She had given up the key of her locker. He asked Mrs. Otter +whether she knew what had become of her; and Mrs. Otter, with a shrug of +the shoulders, answered that she had probably gone back to England. Philip +was relieved. He was profoundly bored by her ill-temper. Moreover she +insisted on advising him about his work, looked upon it as a slight when +he did not follow her precepts, and would not understand that he felt +himself no longer the duffer he had been at first. Soon he forgot all +about her. He was working in oils now and he was full of enthusiasm. He +hoped to have something done of sufficient importance to send to the +following year's Salon. Lawson was painting a portrait of Miss Chalice. +She was very paintable, and all the young men who had fallen victims to +her charm had made portraits of her. A natural indolence, joined with a +passion for picturesque attitude, made her an excellent sitter; and she +had enough technical knowledge to offer useful criticisms. Since her +passion for art was chiefly a passion to live the life of artists, she was +quite content to neglect her own work. She liked the warmth of the studio, +and the opportunity to smoke innumerable cigarettes; and she spoke in a +low, pleasant voice of the love of art and the art of love. She made no +clear distinction between the two. + +Lawson was painting with infinite labour, working till he could hardly +stand for days and then scraping out all he had done. He would have +exhausted the patience of anyone but Ruth Chalice. At last he got into a +hopeless muddle. + +"The only thing is to take a new canvas and start fresh," he said. "I know +exactly what I want now, and it won't take me long." + +Philip was present at the time, and Miss Chalice said to him: + +"Why don't you paint me too? You'll be able to learn a lot by watching Mr. +Lawson." + +It was one of Miss Chalice's delicacies that she always addressed her +lovers by their surnames. + +"I should like it awfully if Lawson wouldn't mind." + +"I don't care a damn," said Lawson. + +It was the first time that Philip set about a portrait, and he began with +trepidation but also with pride. He sat by Lawson and painted as he saw +him paint. He profited by the example and by the advice which both Lawson +and Miss Chalice freely gave him. At last Lawson finished and invited +Clutton in to criticise. Clutton had only just come back to Paris. From +Provence he had drifted down to Spain, eager to see Velasquez at Madrid, +and thence he had gone to Toledo. He stayed there three months, and he was +returned with a name new to the young men: he had wonderful things to say +of a painter called El Greco, who it appeared could only be studied in +Toledo. + +"Oh yes, I know about him," said Lawson, "he's the old master whose +distinction it is that he painted as badly as the moderns." + +Clutton, more taciturn than ever, did not answer, but he looked at Lawson +with a sardonic air. + +"Are you going to show us the stuff you've brought back from Spain?" asked +Philip. + +"I didn't paint in Spain, I was too busy." + +"What did you do then?" + +"I thought things out. I believe I'm through with the Impressionists; I've +got an idea they'll seem very thin and superficial in a few years. I want +to make a clean sweep of everything I've learnt and start fresh. When I +came back I destroyed everything I'd painted. I've got nothing in my +studio now but an easel, my paints, and some clean canvases." + +"What are you going to do?" + +"I don't know yet. I've only got an inkling of what I want." + +He spoke slowly, in a curious manner, as though he were straining to hear +something which was only just audible. There seemed to be a mysterious +force in him which he himself did not understand, but which was struggling +obscurely to find an outlet. His strength impressed you. Lawson dreaded +the criticism he asked for and had discounted the blame he thought he +might get by affecting a contempt for any opinion of Clutton's; but Philip +knew there was nothing which would give him more pleasure than Clutton's +praise. Clutton looked at the portrait for some time in silence, then +glanced at Philip's picture, which was standing on an easel. + +"What's that?" he asked. + +"Oh, I had a shot at a portrait too." + +"The sedulous ape," he murmured. + +He turned away again to Lawson's canvas. Philip reddened but did not +speak. + +"Well, what d'you think of it?" asked Lawson at length. + +"The modelling's jolly good," said Clutton. "And I think it's very well +drawn." + +"D'you think the values are all right?" + +"Quite." + +Lawson smiled with delight. He shook himself in his clothes like a wet +dog. + +"I say, I'm jolly glad you like it." + +"I don't. I don't think it's of the smallest importance." + +Lawson's face fell, and he stared at Clutton with astonishment: he had no +notion what he meant, Clutton had no gift of expression in words, and he +spoke as though it were an effort. What he had to say was confused, +halting, and verbose; but Philip knew the words which served as the text +of his rambling discourse. Clutton, who never read, had heard them first +from Cronshaw; and though they had made small impression, they had +remained in his memory; and lately, emerging on a sudden, had acquired the +character of a revelation: a good painter had two chief objects to paint, +namely, man and the intention of his soul. The Impressionists had been +occupied with other problems, they had painted man admirably, but they had +troubled themselves as little as the English portrait painters of the +eighteenth century with the intention of his soul. + +"But when you try to get that you become literary," said Lawson, +interrupting. "Let me paint the man like Manet, and the intention of his +soul can go to the devil." + +"That would be all very well if you could beat Manet at his own game, but +you can't get anywhere near him. You can't feed yourself on the day before +yesterday, it's ground which has been swept dry. You must go back. It's +when I saw the Grecos that I felt one could get something more out of +portraits than we knew before." + +"It's just going back to Ruskin," cried Lawson. + +"No--you see, he went for morality: I don't care a damn for morality: +teaching doesn't come in, ethics and all that, but passion and emotion. +The greatest portrait painters have painted both, man and the intention of +his soul; Rembrandt and El Greco; it's only the second-raters who've only +painted man. A lily of the valley would be lovely even if it didn't smell, +but it's more lovely because it has perfume. That picture"--he pointed to +Lawson's portrait--"well, the drawing's all right and so's the modelling +all right, but just conventional; it ought to be drawn and modelled so +that you know the girl's a lousy slut. Correctness is all very well: El +Greco made his people eight feet high because he wanted to express +something he couldn't get any other way." + +"Damn El Greco," said Lawson, "what's the good of jawing about a man when +we haven't a chance of seeing any of his work?" + +Clutton shrugged his shoulders, smoked a cigarette in silence, and went +away. Philip and Lawson looked at one another. + +"There's something in what he says," said Philip. + +Lawson stared ill-temperedly at his picture. + +"How the devil is one to get the intention of the soul except by painting +exactly what one sees?" + + +About this time Philip made a new friend. On Monday morning models +assembled at the school in order that one might be chosen for the week, +and one day a young man was taken who was plainly not a model by +profession. Philip's attention was attracted by the manner in which he +held himself: when he got on to the stand he stood firmly on both feet, +square, with clenched hands, and with his head defiantly thrown forward; +the attitude emphasised his fine figure; there was no fat on him, and his +muscles stood out as though they were of iron. His head, close-cropped, +was well-shaped, and he wore a short beard; he had large, dark eyes and +heavy eyebrows. He held the pose hour after hour without appearance of +fatigue. There was in his mien a mixture of shame and of determination. +His air of passionate energy excited Philip's romantic imagination, and +when, the sitting ended, he saw him in his clothes, it seemed to him that +he wore them as though he were a king in rags. He was uncommunicative, but +in a day or two Mrs. Otter told Philip that the model was a Spaniard and +that he had never sat before. + +"I suppose he was starving," said Philip. + +"Have you noticed his clothes? They're quite neat and decent, aren't +they?" + +It chanced that Potter, one of the Americans who worked at Amitrano's, was +going to Italy for a couple of months, and offered his studio to Philip. +Philip was pleased. He was growing a little impatient of Lawson's +peremptory advice and wanted to be by himself. At the end of the week he +went up to the model and on the pretence that his drawing was not finished +asked whether he would come and sit to him one day. + +"I'm not a model," the Spaniard answered. "I have other things to do next +week." + +"Come and have luncheon with me now, and we'll talk about it," said +Philip, and as the other hesitated, he added with a smile: "It won't hurt +you to lunch with me." + +With a shrug of the shoulders the model consented, and they went off to a +cremerie. The Spaniard spoke broken French, fluent but difficult to +follow, and Philip managed to get on well enough with him. He found out +that he was a writer. He had come to Paris to write novels and kept +himself meanwhile by all the expedients possible to a penniless man; he +gave lessons, he did any translations he could get hold of, chiefly +business documents, and at last had been driven to make money by his fine +figure. Sitting was well paid, and what he had earned during the last week +was enough to keep him for two more; he told Philip, amazed, that he could +live easily on two francs a day; but it filled him with shame that he was +obliged to show his body for money, and he looked upon sitting as a +degradation which only hunger could excuse. Philip explained that he did +not want him to sit for the figure, but only for the head; he wished to do +a portrait of him which he might send to the next Salon. + +"But why should you want to paint me?" asked the Spaniard. + +Philip answered that the head interested him, he thought he could do a +good portrait. + +"I can't afford the time. I grudge every minute that I have to rob from my +writing." + +"But it would only be in the afternoon. I work at the school in the +morning. After all, it's better to sit to me than to do translations of +legal documents." + +There were legends in the Latin quarter of a time when students of +different countries lived together intimately, but this was long since +passed, and now the various nations were almost as much separated as in an +Oriental city. At Julian's and at the Beaux Arts a French student was +looked upon with disfavour by his fellow-countrymen when he consorted with +foreigners, and it was difficult for an Englishman to know more than quite +superficially any native inhabitants of the city in which he dwelt. +Indeed, many of the students after living in Paris for five years knew no +more French than served them in shops and lived as English a life as +though they were working in South Kensington. + +Philip, with his passion for the romantic, welcomed the opportunity to get +in touch with a Spaniard; he used all his persuasiveness to overcome the +man's reluctance. + +"I'll tell you what I'll do," said the Spaniard at last. "I'll sit to you, +but not for money, for my own pleasure." + +Philip expostulated, but the other was firm, and at length they arranged +that he should come on the following Monday at one o'clock. He gave Philip +a card on which was printed his name: Miguel Ajuria. + +Miguel sat regularly, and though he refused to accept payment he borrowed +fifty francs from Philip every now and then: it was a little more +expensive than if Philip had paid for the sittings in the usual way; but +gave the Spaniard a satisfactory feeling that he was not earning his +living in a degrading manner. His nationality made Philip regard him as a +representative of romance, and he asked him about Seville and Granada, +Velasquez and Calderon. But Miguel bad no patience with the grandeur of +his country. For him, as for so many of his compatriots, France was the +only country for a man of intelligence and Paris the centre of the world. + +"Spain is dead," he cried. "It has no writers, it has no art, it has +nothing." + +Little by little, with the exuberant rhetoric of his race, he revealed his +ambitions. He was writing a novel which he hoped would make his name. He +was under the influence of Zola, and he had set his scene in Paris. He +told Philip the story at length. To Philip it seemed crude and stupid; the +naive obscenity--c'est la vie, mon cher, c'est la vie, he cried--the +naive obscenity served only to emphasise the conventionality of the +anecdote. He had written for two years, amid incredible hardships, denying +himself all the pleasures of life which had attracted him to Paris, +fighting with starvation for art's sake, determined that nothing should +hinder his great achievement. The effort was heroic. + +"But why don't you write about Spain?" cried Philip. "It would be so much +more interesting. You know the life." + +"But Paris is the only place worth writing about. Paris is life." + +One day he brought part of the manuscript, and in his bad French, +translating excitedly as he went along so that Philip could scarcely +understand, he read passages. It was lamentable. Philip, puzzled, looked +at the picture he was painting: the mind behind that broad brow was +trivial; and the flashing, passionate eyes saw nothing in life but the +obvious. Philip was not satisfied with his portrait, and at the end of a +sitting he nearly always scraped out what he had done. It was all very +well to aim at the intention of the soul: who could tell what that was +when people seemed a mass of contradictions? He liked Miguel, and it +distressed him to realise that his magnificent struggle was futile: he had +everything to make a good writer but talent. Philip looked at his own +work. How could you tell whether there was anything in it or whether you +were wasting your time? It was clear that the will to achieve could not +help you and confidence in yourself meant nothing. Philip thought of Fanny +Price; she had a vehement belief in her talent; her strength of will was +extraordinary. + +"If I thought I wasn't going to be really good, I'd rather give up +painting," said Philip. "I don't see any use in being a second-rate +painter." + +Then one morning when he was going out, the concierge called out to him +that there was a letter. Nobody wrote to him but his Aunt Louisa and +sometimes Hayward, and this was a handwriting he did not know. The letter +was as follows: + + +Please come at once when you get this. I couldn't put up with it any more. +Please come yourself. I can't bear the thought that anyone else should +touch me. I want you to have everything. + F. Price + +I have not had anything to eat for three days. + + +Philip felt on a sudden sick with fear. He hurried to the house in which +she lived. He was astonished that she was in Paris at all. He had not seen +her for months and imagined she had long since returned to England. When +he arrived he asked the concierge whether she was in. + +"Yes, I've not seen her go out for two days." + +Philip ran upstairs and knocked at the door. There was no reply. He called +her name. The door was locked, and on bending down he found the key was in +the lock. + +"Oh, my God, I hope she hasn't done something awful," he cried aloud. + +He ran down and told the porter that she was certainly in the room. +He had had a letter from her and feared a terrible accident. He suggested +breaking open the door. The porter, who had been sullen and disinclined to +listen, became alarmed; he could not take the responsibility of breaking +into the room; they must go for the commissaire de police. They walked +together to the bureau, and then they fetched a locksmith. Philip found +that Miss Price had not paid the last quarter's rent: on New Year's Day +she had not given the concierge the present which old-established custom +led him to regard as a right. The four of them went upstairs, and they +knocked again at the door. There was no reply. The locksmith set to work, +and at last they entered the room. Philip gave a cry and instinctively +covered his eyes with his hands. The wretched woman was hanging with a +rope round her neck, which she had tied to a hook in the ceiling fixed by +some previous tenant to hold up the curtains of the bed. She had moved her +own little bed out of the way and had stood on a chair, which had been +kicked away. It was lying on its side on the floor. They cut her down. +The body was quite cold. + + + +XLIX + + +The story which Philip made out in one way and another was terrible. One +of the grievances of the women-students was that Fanny Price would never +share their gay meals in restaurants, and the reason was obvious: she had +been oppressed by dire poverty. He remembered the luncheon they had eaten +together when first he came to Paris and the ghoulish appetite which had +disgusted him: he realised now that she ate in that manner because she was +ravenous. The concierge told him what her food had consisted of. A +bottle of milk was left for her every day and she brought in her own loaf +of bread; she ate half the loaf and drank half the milk at mid-day when +she came back from the school, and consumed the rest in the evening. It +was the same day after day. Philip thought with anguish of what she must +have endured. She had never given anyone to understand that she was poorer +than the rest, but it was clear that her money had been coming to an end, +and at last she could not afford to come any more to the studio. The +little room was almost bare of furniture, and there were no other clothes +than the shabby brown dress she had always worn. Philip searched among her +things for the address of some friend with whom he could communicate. He +found a piece of paper on which his own name was written a score of times. +It gave him a peculiar shock. He supposed it was true that she had loved +him; he thought of the emaciated body, in the brown dress, hanging from +the nail in the ceiling; and he shuddered. But if she had cared for him +why did she not let him help her? He would so gladly have done all he +could. He felt remorseful because he had refused to see that she looked +upon him with any particular feeling, and now these words in her letter +were infinitely pathetic: I can't bear the thought that anyone else should +touch me. She had died of starvation. + +Philip found at length a letter signed: your loving brother, Albert. it +was two or three weeks old, dated from some road in Surbiton, and refused +a loan of five pounds. The writer had his wife and family to think of, he +didn't feel justified in lending money, and his advice was that Fanny +should come back to London and try to get a situation. Philip telegraphed +to Albert Price, and in a little while an answer came: + +"Deeply distressed. Very awkward to leave my business. Is presence +essential. Price." + +Philip wired a succinct affirmative, and next morning a stranger presented +himself at the studio. + +"My name's Price," he said, when Philip opened the door. + +He was a commonish man in black with a band round his bowler hat; he had +something of Fanny's clumsy look; he wore a stubbly moustache, and had a +cockney accent. Philip asked him to come in. He cast sidelong glances +round the studio while Philip gave him details of the accident and told +him what he had done. + +"I needn't see her, need I?" asked Albert Price. "My nerves aren't very +strong, and it takes very little to upset me." + +He began to talk freely. He was a rubber-merchant, and he had a wife and +three children. Fanny was a governess, and he couldn't make out why she +hadn't stuck to that instead of coming to Paris. + +"Me and Mrs. Price told her Paris was no place for a girl. And there's no +money in art--never 'as been." + +It was plain enough that he had not been on friendly terms with his +sister, and he resented her suicide as a last injury that she had done +him. He did not like the idea that she had been forced to it by poverty; +that seemed to reflect on the family. The idea struck him that possibly +there was a more respectable reason for her act. + +"I suppose she 'adn't any trouble with a man, 'ad she? You know what I +mean, Paris and all that. She might 'ave done it so as not to disgrace +herself." + +Philip felt himself reddening and cursed his weakness. Price's keen little +eyes seemed to suspect him of an intrigue. + +"I believe your sister to have been perfectly virtuous," he answered +acidly. "She killed herself because she was starving." + +"Well, it's very 'ard on her family, Mr. Carey. She only 'ad to write to +me. I wouldn't have let my sister want." + +Philip had found the brother's address only by reading the letter in which +he refused a loan; but he shrugged his shoulders: there was no use in +recrimination. He hated the little man and wanted to have done with him as +soon as possible. Albert Price also wished to get through the necessary +business quickly so that he could get back to London. They went to the +tiny room in which poor Fanny had lived. Albert Price looked at the +pictures and the furniture. + +"I don't pretend to know much about art," he said. "I suppose these +pictures would fetch something, would they?" + +"Nothing," said Philip. + +"The furniture's not worth ten shillings." + +Albert Price knew no French and Philip had to do everything. It seemed +that it was an interminable process to get the poor body safely hidden +away under ground: papers had to be obtained in one place and signed in +another; officials had to be seen. For three days Philip was occupied from +morning till night. At last he and Albert Price followed the hearse to the +cemetery at Montparnasse. + +"I want to do the thing decent," said Albert Price, "but there's no use +wasting money." + +The short ceremony was infinitely dreadful in the cold gray morning. Half +a dozen people who had worked with Fanny Price at the studio came to the +funeral, Mrs. Otter because she was massiere and thought it her duty, +Ruth Chalice because she had a kind heart, Lawson, Clutton, and Flanagan. +They had all disliked her during her life. Philip, looking across the +cemetery crowded on all sides with monuments, some poor and simple, others +vulgar, pretentious, and ugly, shuddered. It was horribly sordid. When +they came out Albert Price asked Philip to lunch with him. Philip loathed +him now and he was tired; he had not been sleeping well, for he dreamed +constantly of Fanny Price in the torn brown dress, hanging from the nail +in the ceiling; but he could not think of an excuse. + +"You take me somewhere where we can get a regular slap-up lunch. All this +is the very worst thing for my nerves." + +"Lavenue's is about the best place round here," answered Philip. + +Albert Price settled himself on a velvet seat with a sigh of relief. He +ordered a substantial luncheon and a bottle of wine. + +"Well, I'm glad that's over," he said. + +He threw out a few artful questions, and Philip discovered that he was +eager to hear about the painter's life in Paris. He represented it to +himself as deplorable, but he was anxious for details of the orgies which +his fancy suggested to him. With sly winks and discreet sniggering he +conveyed that he knew very well that there was a great deal more than +Philip confessed. He was a man of the world, and he knew a thing or two. +He asked Philip whether he had ever been to any of those places in +Montmartre which are celebrated from Temple Bar to the Royal Exchange. He +would like to say he had been to the Moulin Rouge. The luncheon was very +good and the wine excellent. Albert Price expanded as the processes of +digestion went satisfactorily forwards. + +"Let's 'ave a little brandy," he said when the coffee was brought, "and +blow the expense." + +He rubbed his hands. + +"You know, I've got 'alf a mind to stay over tonight and go back tomorrow. +What d'you say to spending the evening together?" + +"If you mean you want me to take you round Montmartre tonight, I'll see +you damned," said Philip. + +"I suppose it wouldn't be quite the thing." + +The answer was made so seriously that Philip was tickled. + +"Besides it would be rotten for your nerves," he said gravely. + +Albert Price concluded that he had better go back to London by the four +o'clock train, and presently he took leave of Philip. + +"Well, good-bye, old man," he said. "I tell you what, I'll try and come +over to Paris again one of these days and I'll look you up. And then we +won't 'alf go on the razzle." + +Philip was too restless to work that afternoon, so he jumped on a bus and +crossed the river to see whether there were any pictures on view at +Durand-Ruel's. After that he strolled along the boulevard. It was cold and +wind-swept. People hurried by wrapped up in their coats, shrunk together +in an effort to keep out of the cold, and their faces were pinched and +careworn. It was icy underground in the cemetery at Montparnasse among all +those white tombstones. Philip felt lonely in the world and strangely +homesick. He wanted company. At that hour Cronshaw would be working, and +Clutton never welcomed visitors; Lawson was painting another portrait of +Ruth Chalice and would not care to be disturbed. He made up his mind to go +and see Flanagan. He found him painting, but delighted to throw up his +work and talk. The studio was comfortable, for the American had more money +than most of them, and warm; Flanagan set about making tea. Philip looked +at the two heads that he was sending to the Salon. + +"It's awful cheek my sending anything," said Flanagan, "but I don't care, +I'm going to send. D'you think they're rotten?" + +"Not so rotten as I should have expected," said Philip. + +They showed in fact an astounding cleverness. The difficulties had been +avoided with skill, and there was a dash about the way in which the paint +was put on which was surprising and even attractive. Flanagan, without +knowledge or technique, painted with the loose brush of a man who has +spent a lifetime in the practice of the art. + +"If one were forbidden to look at any picture for more than thirty seconds +you'd be a great master, Flanagan," smiled Philip. + +These young people were not in the habit of spoiling one another with +excessive flattery. + +"We haven't got time in America to spend more than thirty seconds in +looking at any picture," laughed the other. + +Flanagan, though he was the most scatter-brained person in the world, had +a tenderness of heart which was unexpected and charming. Whenever anyone +was ill he installed himself as sick-nurse. His gaiety was better than any +medicine. Like many of his countrymen he had not the English dread of +sentimentality which keeps so tight a hold on emotion; and, finding +nothing absurd in the show of feeling, could offer an exuberant sympathy +which was often grateful to his friends in distress. He saw that Philip +was depressed by what he had gone through and with unaffected kindliness +set himself boisterously to cheer him up. He exaggerated the Americanisms +which he knew always made the Englishmen laugh and poured out a breathless +stream of conversation, whimsical, high-spirited, and jolly. In due course +they went out to dinner and afterwards to the Gaite Montparnasse, which +was Flanagan's favourite place of amusement. By the end of the evening he +was in his most extravagant humour. He had drunk a good deal, but any +inebriety from which he suffered was due much more to his own vivacity +than to alcohol. He proposed that they should go to the Bal Bullier, and +Philip, feeling too tired to go to bed, willingly enough consented. They +sat down at a table on the platform at the side, raised a little from the +level of the floor so that they could watch the dancing, and drank a bock. +Presently Flanagan saw a friend and with a wild shout leaped over the +barrier on to the space where they were dancing. Philip watched the +people. Bullier was not the resort of fashion. It was Thursday night and +the place was crowded. There were a number of students of the various +faculties, but most of the men were clerks or assistants in shops; they +wore their everyday clothes, ready-made tweeds or queer tail-coats, and +their hats, for they had brought them in with them, and when they danced +there was no place to put them but their heads. Some of the women looked +like servant-girls, and some were painted hussies, but for the most part +they were shop-girls. They were poorly-dressed in cheap imitation of the +fashions on the other side of the river. The hussies were got up to +resemble the music-hall artiste or the dancer who enjoyed notoriety at the +moment; their eyes were heavy with black and their cheeks impudently +scarlet. The hall was lit by great white lights, low down, which +emphasised the shadows on the faces; all the lines seemed to harden under +it, and the colours were most crude. It was a sordid scene. Philip leaned +over the rail, staring down, and he ceased to hear the music. They danced +furiously. They danced round the room, slowly, talking very little, with +all their attention given to the dance. The room was hot, and their faces +shone with sweat. It seemed to Philip that they had thrown off the guard +which people wear on their expression, the homage to convention, and he +saw them now as they really were. In that moment of abandon they were +strangely animal: some were foxy and some were wolf-like; and others had +the long, foolish face of sheep. Their skins were sallow from the +unhealthy life they led and the poor food they ate. Their features were +blunted by mean interests, and their little eyes were shifty and cunning. +There was nothing of nobility in their bearing, and you felt that for all +of them life was a long succession of petty concerns and sordid thoughts. +The air was heavy with the musty smell of humanity. But they danced +furiously as though impelled by some strange power within them, and it +seemed to Philip that they were driven forward by a rage for enjoyment. +They were seeking desperately to escape from a world of horror. The desire +for pleasure which Cronshaw said was the only motive of human action urged +them blindly on, and the very vehemence of the desire seemed to rob it of +all pleasure. They were hurried on by a great wind, helplessly, they knew +not why and they knew not whither. Fate seemed to tower above them, and +they danced as though everlasting darkness were beneath their feet. Their +silence was vaguely alarming. It was as if life terrified them and robbed +them of power of speech so that the shriek which was in their hearts died +at their throats. Their eyes were haggard and grim; and notwithstanding +the beastly lust that disfigured them, and the meanness of their faces, +and the cruelty, notwithstanding the stupidness which was worst of all, +the anguish of those fixed eyes made all that crowd terrible and pathetic. +Philip loathed them, and yet his heart ached with the infinite pity which +filled him. + +He took his coat from the cloak-room and went out into the bitter coldness +of the night. + + + +L + + +Philip could not get the unhappy event out of his head. What troubled him +most was the uselessness of Fanny's effort. No one could have worked +harder than she, nor with more sincerity; she believed in herself with all +her heart; but it was plain that self-confidence meant very little, all +his friends had it, Miguel Ajuria among the rest; and Philip was shocked +by the contrast between the Spaniard's heroic endeavour and the triviality +of the thing he attempted. The unhappiness of Philip's life at school had +called up in him the power of self-analysis; and this vice, as subtle as +drug-taking, had taken possession of him so that he had now a peculiar +keenness in the dissection of his feelings. He could not help seeing that +art affected him differently from others. A fine picture gave Lawson an +immediate thrill. His appreciation was instinctive. Even Flanagan felt +certain things which Philip was obliged to think out. His own appreciation +was intellectual. He could not help thinking that if he had in him the +artistic temperament (he hated the phrase, but could discover no other) he +would feel beauty in the emotional, unreasoning way in which they did. He +began to wonder whether he had anything more than a superficial cleverness +of the hand which enabled him to copy objects with accuracy. That was +nothing. He had learned to despise technical dexterity. The important +thing was to feel in terms of paint. Lawson painted in a certain way +because it was his nature to, and through the imitativeness of a student +sensitive to every influence, there pierced individuality. Philip looked +at his own portrait of Ruth Chalice, and now that three months had passed +he realised that it was no more than a servile copy of Lawson. He felt +himself barren. He painted with the brain, and he could not help knowing +that the only painting worth anything was done with the heart. + +He had very little money, barely sixteen hundred pounds, and it would be +necessary for him to practise the severest economy. He could not count on +earning anything for ten years. The history of painting was full of +artists who had earned nothing at all. He must resign himself to penury; +and it was worth while if he produced work which was immortal; but he had +a terrible fear that he would never be more than second-rate. Was it worth +while for that to give up one's youth, and the gaiety of life, and the +manifold chances of being? He knew the existence of foreign painters in +Paris enough to see that the lives they led were narrowly provincial. He +knew some who had dragged along for twenty years in the pursuit of a fame +which always escaped them till they sunk into sordidness and alcoholism. +Fanny's suicide had aroused memories, and Philip heard ghastly stories of +the way in which one person or another had escaped from despair. He +remembered the scornful advice which the master had given poor Fanny: it +would have been well for her if she had taken it and given up an attempt +which was hopeless. + +Philip finished his portrait of Miguel Ajuria and made up his mind to send +it to the Salon. Flanagan was sending two pictures, and he thought he +could paint as well as Flanagan. He had worked so hard on the portrait +that he could not help feeling it must have merit. It was true that when +he looked at it he felt that there was something wrong, though he could +not tell what; but when he was away from it his spirits went up and he was +not dissatisfied. He sent it to the Salon and it was refused. He did not +mind much, since he had done all he could to persuade himself that there +was little chance that it would be taken, till Flanagan a few days later +rushed in to tell Lawson and Philip that one of his pictures was accepted. +With a blank face Philip offered his congratulations, and Flanagan was so +busy congratulating himself that he did not catch the note of irony which +Philip could not prevent from coming into his voice. Lawson, +quicker-witted, observed it and looked at Philip curiously. His own +picture was all right, he knew that a day or two before, and he was +vaguely resentful of Philip's attitude. But he was surprised at the sudden +question which Philip put him as soon as the American was gone. + +"If you were in my place would you chuck the whole thing?" + +"What do you mean?" + +"I wonder if it's worth while being a second-rate painter. You see, in +other things, if you're a doctor or if you're in business, it doesn't +matter so much if you're mediocre. You make a living and you get along. +But what is the good of turning out second-rate pictures?" + +Lawson was fond of Philip and, as soon as he thought he was seriously +distressed by the refusal of his picture, he set himself to console him. +It was notorious that the Salon had refused pictures which were afterwards +famous; it was the first time Philip had sent, and he must expect a +rebuff; Flanagan's success was explicable, his picture was showy and +superficial: it was just the sort of thing a languid jury would see merit +in. Philip grew impatient; it was humiliating that Lawson should think him +capable of being seriously disturbed by so trivial a calamity and would +not realise that his dejection was due to a deep-seated distrust of his +powers. + +Of late Clutton had withdrawn himself somewhat from the group who took +their meals at Gravier's, and lived very much by himself. Flanagan said he +was in love with a girl, but Clutton's austere countenance did not suggest +passion; and Philip thought it more probable that he separated himself +from his friends so that he might grow clear with the new ideas which were +in him. But that evening, when the others had left the restaurant to go to +a play and Philip was sitting alone, Clutton came in and ordered dinner. +They began to talk, and finding Clutton more loquacious and less sardonic +than usual, Philip determined to take advantage of his good humour. + +"I say I wish you'd come and look at my picture," he said. "I'd like to +know what you think of it." + +"No, I won't do that." + +"Why not?" asked Philip, reddening. + +The request was one which they all made of one another, and no one ever +thought of refusing. Clutton shrugged his shoulders. + +"People ask you for criticism, but they only want praise. Besides, what's +the good of criticism? What does it matter if your picture is good or +bad?" + +"It matters to me." + +"No. The only reason that one paints is that one can't help it. It's a +function like any of the other functions of the body, only comparatively +few people have got it. One paints for oneself: otherwise one would commit +suicide. Just think of it, you spend God knows how long trying to get +something on to canvas, putting the sweat of your soul into it, and what +is the result? Ten to one it will be refused at the Salon; if it's +accepted, people glance at it for ten seconds as they pass; if you're +lucky some ignorant fool will buy it and put it on his walls and look at +it as little as he looks at his dining-room table. Criticism has nothing +to do with the artist. It judges objectively, but the objective doesn't +concern the artist." + +Clutton put his hands over his eyes so that he might concentrate his mind +on what he wanted to say. + +"The artist gets a peculiar sensation from something he sees, and is +impelled to express it and, he doesn't know why, he can only express his +feeling by lines and colours. It's like a musician; he'll read a line or +two, and a certain combination of notes presents itself to him: he doesn't +know why such and such words call forth in him such and such notes; they +just do. And I'll tell you another reason why criticism is meaningless: a +great painter forces the world to see nature as he sees it; but in the +next generation another painter sees the world in another way, and then +the public judges him not by himself but by his predecessor. So the +Barbizon people taught our fathers to look at trees in a certain manner, +and when Monet came along and painted differently, people said: But trees +aren't like that. It never struck them that trees are exactly how a +painter chooses to see them. We paint from within outwards--if we force +our vision on the world it calls us great painters; if we don't it ignores +us; but we are the same. We don't attach any meaning to greatness or to +smallness. What happens to our work afterwards is unimportant; we have got +all we could out of it while we were doing it." + +There was a pause while Clutton with voracious appetite devoured the food +that was set before him. Philip, smoking a cheap cigar, observed him +closely. The ruggedness of the head, which looked as though it were carved +from a stone refractory to the sculptor's chisel, the rough mane of dark +hair, the great nose, and the massive bones of the jaw, suggested a man of +strength; and yet Philip wondered whether perhaps the mask concealed a +strange weakness. Clutton's refusal to show his work might be sheer +vanity: he could not bear the thought of anyone's criticism, and he would +not expose himself to the chance of a refusal from the Salon; he wanted to +be received as a master and would not risk comparisons with other work +which might force him to diminish his own opinion of himself. During the +eighteen months Philip had known him Clutton had grown more harsh and +bitter; though he would not come out into the open and compete with his +fellows, he was indignant with the facile success of those who did. He had +no patience with Lawson, and the pair were no longer on the intimate terms +upon which they had been when Philip first knew them. + +"Lawson's all right," he said contemptuously, "he'll go back to England, +become a fashionable portrait painter, earn ten thousand a year and be an +A. R. A. before he's forty. Portraits done by hand for the nobility and +gentry!" + +Philip, too, looked into the future, and he saw Clutton in twenty years, +bitter, lonely, savage, and unknown; still in Paris, for the life there +had got into his bones, ruling a small cenacle with a savage tongue, at +war with himself and the world, producing little in his increasing passion +for a perfection he could not reach; and perhaps sinking at last into +drunkenness. Of late Philip had been captivated by an idea that since one +had only one life it was important to make a success of it, but he did not +count success by the acquiring of money or the achieving of fame; he did +not quite know yet what he meant by it, perhaps variety of experience and +the making the most of his abilities. It was plain anyway that the life +which Clutton seemed destined to was failure. Its only justification would +be the painting of imperishable masterpieces. He recollected Cronshaw's +whimsical metaphor of the Persian carpet; he had thought of it often; but +Cronshaw with his faun-like humour had refused to make his meaning clear: +he repeated that it had none unless one discovered it for oneself. It was +this desire to make a success of life which was at the bottom of Philip's +uncertainty about continuing his artistic career. But Clutton began to +talk again. + +"D'you remember my telling you about that chap I met in Brittany? I saw +him the other day here. He's just off to Tahiti. He was broke to the +world. He was a brasseur d'affaires, a stockbroker I suppose you call it +in English; and he had a wife and family, and he was earning a large +income. He chucked it all to become a painter. He just went off and +settled down in Brittany and began to paint. He hadn't got any money and +did the next best thing to starving." + +"And what about his wife and family?" asked Philip. + +"Oh, he dropped them. He left them to starve on their own account." + +"It sounds a pretty low-down thing to do." + +"Oh, my dear fellow, if you want to be a gentleman you must give up being +an artist. They've got nothing to do with one another. You hear of men +painting pot-boilers to keep an aged mother--well, it shows they're +excellent sons, but it's no excuse for bad work. They're only tradesmen. +An artist would let his mother go to the workhouse. There's a writer I +know over here who told me that his wife died in childbirth. He was in +love with her and he was mad with grief, but as he sat at the bedside +watching her die he found himself making mental notes of how she looked +and what she said and the things he was feeling. Gentlemanly, wasn't it?" + +"But is your friend a good painter?" asked Philip. + +"No, not yet, he paints just like Pissarro. He hasn't found himself, but +he's got a sense of colour and a sense of decoration. But that isn't the +question. It's the feeling, and that he's got. He's behaved like a perfect +cad to his wife and children, he's always behaving like a perfect cad; the +way he treats the people who've helped him--and sometimes he's been saved +from starvation merely by the kindness of his friends--is simply beastly. +He just happens to be a great artist." + +Philip pondered over the man who was willing to sacrifice everything, +comfort, home, money, love, honour, duty, for the sake of getting on to +canvas with paint the emotion which the world gave him. It was +magnificent, and yet his courage failed him. + +Thinking of Cronshaw recalled to him the fact that he had not seen him for +a week, and so, when Clutton left him, he wandered along to the cafe in +which he was certain to find the writer. During the first few months of +his stay in Paris Philip had accepted as gospel all that Cronshaw said, +but Philip had a practical outlook and he grew impatient with the theories +which resulted in no action. Cronshaw's slim bundle of poetry did not seem +a substantial result for a life which was sordid. Philip could not wrench +out of his nature the instincts of the middle-class from which he came; +and the penury, the hack work which Cronshaw did to keep body and soul +together, the monotony of existence between the slovenly attic and the +cafe table, jarred with his respectability. Cronshaw was astute enough to +know that the young man disapproved of him, and he attacked his +philistinism with an irony which was sometimes playful but often very +keen. + +"You're a tradesman," he told Philip, "you want to invest life in consols +so that it shall bring you in a safe three per cent. I'm a spendthrift, I +run through my capital. I shall spend my last penny with my last +heartbeat." + +The metaphor irritated Philip, because it assumed for the speaker a +romantic attitude and cast a slur upon the position which Philip +instinctively felt had more to say for it than he could think of at the +moment. + +But this evening Philip, undecided, wanted to talk about himself. +Fortunately it was late already and Cronshaw's pile of saucers on the +table, each indicating a drink, suggested that he was prepared to take an +independent view of things in general. + +"I wonder if you'd give me some advice," said Philip suddenly. + +"You won't take it, will you?" + +Philip shrugged his shoulders impatiently. + +"I don't believe I shall ever do much good as a painter. I don't see any +use in being second-rate. I'm thinking of chucking it." + +"Why shouldn't you?" + +Philip hesitated for an instant. + +"I suppose I like the life." + +A change came over Cronshaw's placid, round face. The corners of the mouth +were suddenly depressed, the eyes sunk dully in their orbits; he seemed to +become strangely bowed and old. + +"This?" he cried, looking round the cafe in which they sat. His voice +really trembled a little. + +"If you can get out of it, do while there's time." + +Philip stared at him with astonishment, but the sight of emotion always +made him feel shy, and he dropped his eyes. He knew that he was looking +upon the tragedy of failure. There was silence. Philip thought that +Cronshaw was looking upon his own life; and perhaps he considered his +youth with its bright hopes and the disappointments which wore out the +radiancy; the wretched monotony of pleasure, and the black future. +Philip's eyes rested on the little pile of saucers, and he knew that +Cronshaw's were on them too. + + + +LI + + +Two months passed. + +It seemed to Philip, brooding over these matters, that in the true +painters, writers, musicians, there was a power which drove them to such +complete absorption in their work as to make it inevitable for them to +subordinate life to art. Succumbing to an influence they never realised, +they were merely dupes of the instinct that possessed them, and life +slipped through their fingers unlived. But he had a feeling that life was +to be lived rather than portrayed, and he wanted to search out the various +experiences of it and wring from each moment all the emotion that it +offered. He made up his mind at length to take a certain step and abide by +the result, and, having made up his mind, he determined to take the step +at once. Luckily enough the next morning was one of Foinet's days, and he +resolved to ask him point-blank whether it was worth his while to go on +with the study of art. He had never forgotten the master's brutal advice +to Fanny Price. It had been sound. Philip could never get Fanny entirely +out of his head. The studio seemed strange without her, and now and then +the gesture of one of the women working there or the tone of a voice would +give him a sudden start, reminding him of her: her presence was more +noticuble?? now she was dead than it had ever been during her life; and he +often dreamed of her at night, waking with a cry of terror. It was +horrible to think of all the suffering she must have endured. + +Philip knew that on the days Foinet came to the studio he lunched at a +little restaurant in the Rue d'Odessa, and he hurried his own meal so that +he could go and wait outside till the painter came out. Philip walked up +and down the crowded street and at last saw Monsieur Foinet walking, with +bent head, towards him; Philip was very nervous, but he forced himself to +go up to him. + +"Pardon, monsieur, I should like to speak to you for one moment." + +Foinet gave him a rapid glance, recognised him, but did not smile a +greeting. + +"Speak," he said. + +"I've been working here nearly two years now under you. I wanted to ask +you to tell me frankly if you think it worth while for me to continue." + +Philip's voice was trembling a little. Foinet walked on without looking +up. Philip, watching his face, saw no trace of expression upon it. + +"I don't understand." + +"I'm very poor. If I have no talent I would sooner do something else." + +"Don't you know if you have talent?" + +"All my friends know they have talent, but I am aware some of them are +mistaken." + +Foinet's bitter mouth outlined the shadow of a smile, and he asked: + +"Do you live near here?" + +Philip told him where his studio was. Foinet turned round. + +"Let us go there? You shall show me your work." + +"Now?" cried Philip. + +"Why not?" + +Philip had nothing to say. He walked silently by the master's side. He +felt horribly sick. It had never struck him that Foinet would wish to see +his things there and then; he meant, so that he might have time to prepare +himself, to ask him if he would mind coming at some future date or whether +he might bring them to Foinet's studio. He was trembling with anxiety. In +his heart he hoped that Foinet would look at his picture, and that rare +smile would come into his face, and he would shake Philip's hand and say: +"Pas mal. Go on, my lad. You have talent, real talent." Philip's heart +swelled at the thought. It was such a relief, such a joy! Now he could go +on with courage; and what did hardship matter, privation, and +disappointment, if he arrived at last? He had worked very hard, it would +be too cruel if all that industry were futile. And then with a start he +remembered that he had heard Fanny Price say just that. They arrived at +the house, and Philip was seized with fear. If he had dared he would have +asked Foinet to go away. He did not want to know the truth. They went in +and the concierge handed him a letter as they passed. He glanced at the +envelope and recognised his uncle's handwriting. Foinet followed him up +the stairs. Philip could think of nothing to say; Foinet was mute, and the +silence got on his nerves. The professor sat down; and Philip without a +word placed before him the picture which the Salon had rejected; Foinet +nodded but did not speak; then Philip showed him the two portraits he had +made of Ruth Chalice, two or three landscapes which he had painted at +Moret, and a number of sketches. + +"That's all," he said presently, with a nervous laugh. + +Monsieur Foinet rolled himself a cigarette and lit it. + +"You have very little private means?" he asked at last. + +"Very little," answered Philip, with a sudden feeling of cold at his +heart. "Not enough to live on." + +"There is nothing so degrading as the constant anxiety about one's means +of livelihood. I have nothing but contempt for the people who despise +money. They are hypocrites or fools. Money is like a sixth sense without +which you cannot make a complete use of the other five. Without an +adequate income half the possibilities of life are shut off. The only +thing to be careful about is that you do not pay more than a shilling for +the shilling you earn. You will hear people say that poverty is the best +spur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in their flesh. +They do not know how mean it makes you. It exposes you to endless +humiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into your soul like a cancer. It +is not wealth one asks for, but just enough to preserve one's dignity, to +work unhampered, to be generous, frank, and independent. I pity with all +my heart the artist, whether he writes or paints, who is entirely +dependent for subsistence upon his art." + +Philip quietly put away the various things which he had shown. + +"I'm afraid that sounds as if you didn't think I had much chance." + +Monsieur Foinet slightly shrugged his shoulders. + +"You have a certain manual dexterity. With hard work and perseverance +there is no reason why you should not become a careful, not incompetent +painter. You would find hundreds who painted worse than you, hundreds who +painted as well. I see no talent in anything you have shown me. I see +industry and intelligence. You will never be anything but mediocre." + +Philip obliged himself to answer quite steadily. + +"I'm very grateful to you for having taken so much trouble. I can't thank +you enough." + +Monsieur Foinet got up and made as if to go, but he changed his mind and, +stopping, put his hand on Philip's shoulder. + +"But if you were to ask me my advice, I should say: take your courage in +both hands and try your luck at something else. It sounds very hard, but +let me tell you this: I would give all I have in the world if someone had +given me that advice when I was your age and I had taken it." + +Philip looked up at him with surprise. The master forced his lips into a +smile, but his eyes remained grave and sad. + +"It is cruel to discover one's mediocrity only when it is too late. It +does not improve the temper." + +He gave a little laugh as he said the last words and quickly walked out of +the room. + +Philip mechanically took up the letter from his uncle. The sight of his +handwriting made him anxious, for it was his aunt who always wrote to him. +She had been ill for the last three months, and he had offered to go over +to England and see her; but she, fearing it would interfere with his work, +had refused. She did not want him to put himself to inconvenience; she +said she would wait till August and then she hoped he would come and stay +at the vicarage for two or three weeks. If by any chance she grew worse +she would let him know, since she did not wish to die without seeing him +again. If his uncle wrote to him it must be because she was too ill to +hold a pen. Philip opened the letter. It ran as follows: + +My dear Philip, + +I regret to inform you that your dear Aunt departed this life early this +morning. She died very suddenly, but quite peacefully. The change for the +worse was so rapid that we had no time to send for you. She was fully +prepared for the end and entered into rest with the complete assurance of +a blessed resurrection and with resignation to the divine will of our +blessed Lord Jesus Christ. Your Aunt would have liked you to be present at +the funeral so I trust you will come as soon as you can. There is +naturally a great deal of work thrown upon my shoulders and I am very much +upset. I trust that you will be able to do everything for me. + Your affectionate uncle, + William Carey. + + + +LII + + +Next day Philip arrived at Blackstable. Since the death of his mother he +had never lost anyone closely connected with him; his aunt's death shocked +him and filled him also with a curious fear; he felt for the first time +his own mortality. He could not realise what life would be for his uncle +without the constant companionship of the woman who had loved and tended +him for forty years. He expected to find him broken down with hopeless +grief. He dreaded the first meeting; he knew that he could say nothing +which would be of use. He rehearsed to himself a number of apposite +speeches. + +He entered the vicarage by the side-door and went into the dining-room. +Uncle William was reading the paper. + +"Your train was late," he said, looking up. + +Philip was prepared to give way to his emotion, but the matter-of-fact +reception startled him. His uncle, subdued but calm, handed him the paper. + +"There's a very nice little paragraph about her in The Blackstable +Times," he said. + +Philip read it mechanically. + +"Would you like to come up and see her?" + +Philip nodded and together they walked upstairs. Aunt Louisa was lying in +the middle of the large bed, with flowers all round her. + +"Would you like to say a short prayer?" said the Vicar. + +He sank on his knees, and because it was expected of him Philip followed +his example. He looked at the little shrivelled face. He was only +conscious of one emotion: what a wasted life! In a minute Mr. Carey gave +a cough, and stood up. He pointed to a wreath at the foot of the bed. + +"That's from the Squire," he said. He spoke in a low voice as though he +were in church, but one felt that, as a clergyman, he found himself quite +at home. "I expect tea is ready." + +They went down again to the dining-room. The drawn blinds gave a +lugubrious aspect. The Vicar sat at the end of the table at which his wife +had always sat and poured out the tea with ceremony. Philip could not help +feeling that neither of them should have been able to eat anything, but +when he saw that his uncle's appetite was unimpaired he fell to with his +usual heartiness. They did not speak for a while. Philip set himself to +eat an excellent cake with the air of grief which he felt was decent. + +"Things have changed a great deal since I was a curate," said the Vicar +presently. "In my young days the mourners used always to be given a pair +of black gloves and a piece of black silk for their hats. Poor Louisa used +to make the silk into dresses. She always said that twelve funerals gave +her a new dress." + +Then he told Philip who had sent wreaths; there were twenty-four of them +already; when Mrs. Rawlingson, wife of the Vicar at Ferne, had died she +had had thirty-two; but probably a good many more would come the next day; +the funeral would start at eleven o'clock from the vicarage, and they +should beat Mrs. Rawlingson easily. Louisa never liked Mrs. Rawlingson. + +"I shall take the funeral myself. I promised Louisa I would never let +anyone else bury her." + +Philip looked at his uncle with disapproval when he took a second piece of +cake. Under the circumstances he could not help thinking it greedy. + +"Mary Ann certainly makes capital cakes. I'm afraid no one else will make +such good ones." + +"She's not going?" cried Philip, with astonishment. + +Mary Ann had been at the vicarage ever since he could remember. She never +forgot his birthday, but made a point always of sending him a trifle, +absurd but touching. He had a real affection for her. + +"Yes," answered Mr. Carey. "I didn't think it would do to have a single +woman in the house." + +"But, good heavens, she must be over forty." + +"Yes, I think she is. But she's been rather troublesome lately, she's been +inclined to take too much on herself, and I thought this was a very good +opportunity to give her notice." + +"It's certainly one which isn't likely to recur," said Philip. + +He took out a cigarette, but his uncle prevented him from lighting it. + +"Not till after the funeral, Philip," he said gently. + +"All right," said Philip. + +"It wouldn't be quite respectful to smoke in the house so long as your +poor Aunt Louisa is upstairs." + + +Josiah Graves, churchwarden and manager of the bank, came back to dinner +at the vicarage after the funeral. The blinds had been drawn up, and +Philip, against his will, felt a curious sensation of relief. The body in +the house had made him uncomfortable: in life the poor woman had been all +that was kind and gentle; and yet, when she lay upstairs in her bed-room, +cold and stark, it seemed as though she cast upon the survivors a baleful +influence. The thought horrified Philip. + +He found himself alone for a minute or two in the dining-room with the +churchwarden. + +"I hope you'll be able to stay with your uncle a while," he said. "I don't +think he ought to be left alone just yet." + +"I haven't made any plans," answered Philip. "if he wants me I shall be +very pleased to stay." + +By way of cheering the bereaved husband the churchwarden during dinner +talked of a recent fire at Blackstable which had partly destroyed the +Wesleyan chapel. + +"I hear they weren't insured," he said, with a little smile. + +"That won't make any difference," said the Vicar. "They'll get as much +money as they want to rebuild. Chapel people are always ready to give +money." + +"I see that Holden sent a wreath." + +Holden was the dissenting minister, and, though for Christ's sake who died +for 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 cafes, 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 +uncle had repeated it often during the arguments which had preceded his +departure from business. Apparently it recalled that occasion to his +guardian. + +"You're no longer a boy, you know; you must begin to think of settling +down. First you insist on becoming a chartered accountant, and then you +get tired of that and you want to become a painter. And now if you please +you change your mind again. It points to..." + +He hesitated for a moment to consider what defects of character exactly it +indicated, and Philip finished the sentence. + +"Irresolution, incompetence, want of foresight, and lack of +determination." + +The Vicar looked up at his nephew quickly to see whether he was laughing +at him. Philip's face was serious, but there was a twinkle in his eyes +which irritated him. Philip should really be getting more serious. He felt +it right to give him a rap over the knuckles. + +"Your money matters have nothing to do with me now. You're your own +master; but I think you should remember that your money won't last for +ever, and the unlucky deformity you have doesn't exactly make it easier +for you to earn your living." + +Philip knew by now that whenever anyone was angry with him his first +thought was to say something about his club-foot. His estimate of the +human race was determined by the fact that scarcely anyone failed to +resist the temptation. But he had trained himself not to show any sign +that the reminder wounded him. He had even acquired control over the +blushing which in his boyhood had been one of his torments. + +"As you justly remark," he answered, "my money matters have nothing to do +with you and I am my own master." + +"At all events you will do me the justice to acknowledge that I was +justified in my opposition when you made up your mind to become an +art-student." + +"I don't know so much about that. I daresay one profits more by the +mistakes one makes off one's own bat than by doing the right thing on +somebody's else advice. I've had my fling, and I don't mind settling down +now." + +"What at?" + +Philip was not prepared for the question, since in fact he had not made up +his mind. He had thought of a dozen callings. + +"The most suitable thing you could do is to enter your father's profession +and become a doctor." + +"Oddly enough that is precisely what I intend." + +He had thought of doctoring among other things, chiefly because it was an +occupation which seemed to give a good deal of personal freedom, and his +experience of life in an office had made him determine never to have +anything more to do with one; his answer to the Vicar slipped out almost +unawares, because it was in the nature of a repartee. It amused him to +make up his mind in that accidental way, and he resolved then and there to +enter his father's old hospital in the autumn. + +"Then your two years in Paris may be regarded as so much wasted time?" + +"I don't know about that. I had a very jolly two years, and I learned one +or two useful things." + +"What?" + +Philip reflected for an instant, and his answer was not devoid of a gentle +desire to annoy. + +"I learned to look at hands, which I'd never looked at before. And instead +of just looking at houses and trees I learned to look at houses and trees +against the sky. And I learned also that shadows are not black but +coloured." + +"I suppose you think you're very clever. I think your flippancy is quite +inane." + + + +LIII + + +Taking the paper with him Mr. Carey retired to his study. Philip changed +his chair for that in which his uncle had been sitting (it was the only +comfortable one in the room), and looked out of the window at the pouring +rain. Even in that sad weather there was something restful about the green +fields that stretched to the horizon. There was an intimate charm in the +landscape which he did not remember ever to have noticed before. Two years +in France had opened his eyes to the beauty of his own countryside. + +He thought with a smile of his uncle's remark. It was lucky that the turn +of his mind tended to flippancy. He had begun to realise what a great loss +he had sustained in the death of his father and mother. That was one of +the differences in his life which prevented him from seeing things in the +same way as other people. The love of parents for their children is the +only emotion which is quite disinterested. Among strangers he had grown up +as best he could, but he had seldom been used with patience or +forbearance. He prided himself on his self-control. It had been whipped +into him by the mockery of his fellows. Then they called him cynical and +callous. He had acquired calmness of demeanour and under most +circumstances an unruffled exterior, so that now he could not show his +feelings. People told him he was unemotional; but he knew that he was at +the mercy of his emotions: an accidental kindness touched him so much that +sometimes he did not venture to speak in order not to betray the +unsteadiness of his voice. He remembered the bitterness of his life at +school, the humiliation which he had endured, the banter which had made +him morbidly afraid of making himself ridiculous; and he remembered the +loneliness he had felt since, faced with the world, the disillusion and +the disappointment caused by the difference between what it promised to +his active imagination and what it gave. But notwithstanding he was able +to look at himself from the outside and smile with amusement. + +"By Jove, if I weren't flippant, I should hang myself," he thought +cheerfully. + +His mind went back to the answer he had given his uncle when he asked him +what he had learnt in Paris. He had learnt a good deal more than he told +him. A conversation with Cronshaw had stuck in his memory, and one phrase +he had used, a commonplace one enough, had set his brain working. + +"My dear fellow," Cronshaw said, "there's no such thing as abstract +morality." + +When Philip ceased to believe in Christianity he felt that a great weight +was taken from his shoulders; casting off the responsibility which weighed +down every action, when every action was infinitely important for the +welfare of his immortal soul, he experienced a vivid sense of liberty. But +he knew now that this was an illusion. When he put away the religion in +which he had been brought up, he had kept unimpaired the morality which +was part and parcel of it. He made up his mind therefore to think things +out for himself. He determined to be swayed by no prejudices. He swept +away the virtues and the vices, the established laws of good and evil, +with the idea of finding out the rules of life for himself. He did not +know whether rules were necessary at all. That was one of the things he +wanted to discover. Clearly much that seemed valid seemed so only because +he had been taught it from his earliest youth. He had read a number of +books, but they did not help him much, for they were based on the morality +of Christianity; and even the writers who emphasised the fact that they +did not believe in it were never satisfied till they had framed a system +of ethics in accordance with that of the Sermon on the Mount. It seemed +hardly worth while to read a long volume in order to learn that you ought +to behave exactly like everybody else. Philip wanted to find out how he +ought to behave, and he thought he could prevent himself from being +influenced by the opinions that surrounded him. But meanwhile he had to go +on living, and, until he formed a theory of conduct, he made himself a +provisional rule. + +"Follow your inclinations with due regard to the policeman round the +corner." + +He thought the best thing he had gained in Paris was a complete liberty of +spirit, and he felt himself at last absolutely free. In a desultory way he +had read a good deal of philosophy, and he looked forward with delight to +the leisure of the next few months. He began to read at haphazard. He +entered upon each system with a little thrill of excitement, expecting to +find in each some guide by which he could rule his conduct; he felt +himself like a traveller in unknown countries and as he pushed forward the +enterprise fascinated him; he read emotionally, as other men read pure +literature, and his heart leaped as he discovered in noble words what +himself had obscurely felt. His mind was concrete and moved with +difficulty in regions of the abstract; but, even when he could not follow +the reasoning, it gave him a curious pleasure to follow the tortuosities +of thoughts that threaded their nimble way on the edge of the +incomprehensible. Sometimes great philosophers seemed to have nothing to +say to him, but at others he recognised a mind with which he felt himself +at home. He was like the explorer in Central Africa who comes suddenly +upon wide uplands, with great trees in them and stretches of meadow, so +that he might fancy himself in an English park. He delighted in the robust +common sense of Thomas Hobbes; Spinoza filled him with awe, he had never +before come in contact with a mind so noble, so unapproachable and +austere; it reminded him of that statue by Rodin, L'Age d'Airain, which +he passionately admired; and then there was Hume: the scepticism of that +charming philosopher touched a kindred note in Philip; and, revelling in +the lucid style which seemed able to put complicated thought into simple +words, musical and measured, he read as he might have read a novel, a +smile of pleasure on his lips. But in none could he find exactly what he +wanted. He had read somewhere that every man was born a Platonist, an +Aristotelian, a Stoic, or an Epicurean; and the history of George Henry +Lewes (besides telling you that philosophy was all moonshine) was there to +show that the thought of each philospher was inseparably connected with +the man he was. When you knew that you could guess to a great extent the +philosophy he wrote. It looked as though you did not act in a certain way +because you thought in a certain way, but rather that you thought in a +certain way because you were made in a certain way. Truth had nothing to +do with it. There was no such thing as truth. Each man was his own +philosopher, and the elaborate systems which the great men of the past had +composed were only valid for the writers. + +The thing then was to discover what one was and one's system of philosophy +would devise itself. It seemed to Philip that there were three things to +find out: man's relation to the world he lives in, man's relation with the +men among whom he lives, and finally man's relation to himself. He made an +elaborate plan of study. + +The advantage of living abroad is that, coming in contact with the manners +and customs of the people among whom you live, you observe them from the +outside and see that they have not the necessity which those who practise +them believe. You cannot fail to discover that the beliefs which to you +are self-evident to the foreigner are absurd. The year in Germany, the +long stay in Paris, had prepared Philip to receive the sceptical teaching +which came to him now with such a feeling of relief. He saw that nothing +was good and nothing was evil; things were merely adapted to an end. He +read The Origin of Species. It seemed to offer an explanation of much +that troubled him. He was like an explorer now who has reasoned that +certain natural features must present themselves, and, beating up a broad +river, finds here the tributary that he expected, there the fertile, +populated plains, and further on the mountains. When some great discovery +is made the world is surprised afterwards that it was not accepted at +once, and even on those who acknowledge its truth the effect is +unimportant. The first readers of The Origin of Species accepted it with +their reason; but their emotions, which are the ground of conduct, were +untouched. Philip was born a generation after this great book was +published, and much that horrified its contemporaries had passed into the +feeling of the time, so that he was able to accept it with a joyful heart. +He was intensely moved by the grandeur of the struggle for life, and the +ethical rule which it suggested seemed to fit in with his predispositions. +He said to himself that might was right. Society stood on one side, an +organism with its own laws of growth and self-preservation, while the +individual stood on the other. The actions which were to the advantage of +society it termed virtuous and those which were not it called vicious. +Good and evil meant nothing more than that. Sin was a prejudice from which +the free man should rid himself. Society had three arms in its contest +with the individual, laws, public opinion, and conscience: the first two +could be met by guile, guile is the only weapon of the weak against the +strong: common opinion put the matter well when it stated that sin +consisted in being found out; but conscience was the traitor within the +gates; it fought in each heart the battle of society, and caused the +individual to throw himself, a wanton sacrifice, to the prosperity of his +enemy. For it was clear that the two were irreconcilable, the state and +the individual conscious of himself. THAT uses the individual for its +own ends, trampling upon him if he thwarts it, rewarding him with medals, +pensions, honours, when he serves it faithfully; THIS, strong only in +his independence, threads his way through the state, for convenience' +sake, paying in money or service for certain benefits, but with no sense +of obligation; and, indifferent to the rewards, asks only to be left +alone. He is the independent traveller, who uses Cook's tickets because +they save trouble, but looks with good-humoured contempt on the personally +conducted parties. The free man can do no wrong. He does everything he +likes--if he can. His power is the only measure of his morality. He +recognises the laws of the state and he can break them without sense of +sin, but if he is punished he accepts the punishment without rancour. +Society has the power. + +But if for the individual there was no right and no wrong, then it seemed +to Philip that conscience lost its power. It was with a cry of triumph +that he seized the knave and flung him from his breast. But he was no +nearer to the meaning of life than he had been before. Why the world was +there and what men had come into existence for at all was as inexplicable +as ever. Surely there must be some reason. He thought of Cronshaw's +parable of the Persian carpet. He offered it as a solution of the riddle, +and mysteriously he stated that it was no answer at all unless you found +it out for yourself. + +"I wonder what the devil he meant," Philip smiled. + +And so, on the last day of September, eager to put into practice all these +new theories of life, Philip, with sixteen hundred pounds and his +club-foot, set out for the second time to London to make his third start +in life. + + + +LIV + + +The examination Philip had passed before he was articled to a chartered +accountant was sufficient qualification for him to enter a medical school. +He chose St. Luke's because his father had been a student there, and +before the end of the summer session had gone up to London for a day in +order to see the secretary. He got a list of rooms from him, and took +lodgings in a dingy house which had the advantage of being within two +minutes' walk of the hospital. + +"You'll have to arrange about a part to dissect," the secretary told him. +"You'd better start on a leg; they generally do; they seem to think it +easier." + +Philip found that his first lecture was in anatomy, at eleven, and about +half past ten he limped across the road, and a little nervously made his +way to the Medical School. Just inside the door a number of notices were +pinned up, lists of lectures, football fixtures, and the like; and these +he looked at idly, trying to seem at his ease. Young men and boys dribbled +in and looked for letters in the rack, chatted with one another, and +passed downstairs to the basement, in which was the student's +reading-room. Philip saw several fellows with a desultory, timid look +dawdling around, and surmised that, like himself, they were there for the +first time. When he had exhausted the notices he saw a glass door which +led into what was apparently a museum, and having still twenty minutes to +spare he walked in. It was a collection of pathological specimens. +Presently a boy of about eighteen came up to him. + +"I say, are you first year?" he said. + +"Yes," answered Philip. + +"Where's the lecture room, d'you know? It's getting on for eleven." + +"We'd better try to find it." + +They walked out of the museum into a long, dark corridor, with the walls +painted in two shades of red, and other youths walking along suggested the +way to them. They came to a door marked Anatomy Theatre. Philip found that +there were a good many people already there. The seats were arranged in +tiers, and just as Philip entered an attendant came in, put a glass of +water on the table in the well of the lecture-room and then brought in a +pelvis and two thigh-bones, right and left. More men entered and took +their seats and by eleven the theatre was fairly full. There were about +sixty students. For the most part they were a good deal younger than +Philip, smooth-faced boys of eighteen, but there were a few who were older +than he: he noticed one tall man, with a fierce red moustache, who might +have been thirty; another little fellow with black hair, only a year or +two younger; and there was one man with spectacles and a beard which was +quite gray. + +The lecturer came in, Mr. Cameron, a handsome man with white hair and +clean-cut features. He called out the long list of names. Then he made a +little speech. He spoke in a pleasant voice, with well-chosen words, and +he seemed to take a discreet pleasure in their careful arrangement. He +suggested one or two books which they might buy and advised the purchase +of a skeleton. He spoke of anatomy with enthusiasm: it was essential to +the study of surgery; a knowledge of it added to the appreciation of art. +Philip pricked up his ears. He heard later that Mr. Cameron lectured also +to the students at the Royal Academy. He had lived many years in Japan, +with a post at the University of Tokyo, and he flattered himself on his +appreciation of the beautiful. + +"You will have to learn many tedious things," he finished, with an +indulgent smile, "which you will forget the moment you have passed your +final examination, but in anatomy it is better to have learned and lost +than never to have learned at all." + +He took up the pelvis which was lying on the table and began to describe +it. He spoke well and clearly. + +At the end of the lecture the boy who had spoken to Philip in the +pathological museum and sat next to him in the theatre suggested that they +should go to the dissecting-room. Philip and he walked along the corridor +again, and an attendant told them where it was. As soon as they entered +Philip understood what the acrid smell was which he had noticed in the +passage. He lit a pipe. The attendant gave a short laugh. + +"You'll soon get used to the smell. I don't notice it myself." + +He asked Philip's name and looked at a list on the board. + +"You've got a leg--number four." + +Philip saw that another name was bracketed with his own. + +"What's the meaning of that?" he asked. + +"We're very short of bodies just now. We've had to put two on each part." + +The dissecting-room was a large apartment painted like the corridors, the +upper part a rich salmon and the dado a dark terra-cotta. At regular +intervals down the long sides of the room, at right angles with the wall, +were iron slabs, grooved like meat-dishes; and on each lay a body. Most of +them were men. They were very dark from the preservative in which they had +been kept, and the skin had almost the look of leather. They were +extremely emaciated. The attendant took Philip up to one of the slabs. A +youth was standing by it. + +"Is your name Carey?" he asked. + +"Yes." + +"Oh, then we've got this leg together. It's lucky it's a man, isn't it?" + +"Why?" asked Philip. + +"They generally always like a male better," said the attendant. "A +female's liable to have a lot of fat about her." + +Philip looked at the body. The arms and legs were so thin that there was +no shape in them, and the ribs stood out so that the skin over them was +tense. A man of about forty-five with a thin, gray beard, and on his skull +scanty, colourless hair: the eyes were closed and the lower jaw sunken. +Philip could not feel that this had ever been a man, and yet in the row of +them there was something terrible and ghastly. + +"I thought I'd start at two," said the young man who was dissecting with +Philip. + +"All right, I'll be here then." + +He had bought the day before the case of instruments which was needful, +and now he was given a locker. He looked at the boy who had accompanied +him into the dissecting-room and saw that he was white. + +"Make you feel rotten?" Philip asked him. + +"I've never seen anyone dead before." + +They walked along the corridor till they came to the entrance of the +school. Philip remembered Fanny Price. She was the first dead person he +had ever seen, and he remembered how strangely it had affected him. There +was an immeasurable distance between the quick and the dead: they did not +seem to belong to the same species; and it was strange to think that but +a little while before they had spoken and moved and eaten and laughed. +There was something horrible about the dead, and you could imagine that +they might cast an evil influence on the living. + +"What d'you say to having something to eat?" said his new friend to +Philip. + +They went down into the basement, where there was a dark room fitted up as +a restaurant, and here the students were able to get the same sort of fare +as they might have at an aerated bread shop. While they ate (Philip had a +scone and butter and a cup of chocolate), he discovered that his companion +was called Dunsford. He was a fresh-complexioned lad, with pleasant blue +eyes and curly, dark hair, large-limbed, slow of speech and movement. He +had just come from Clifton. + +"Are you taking the Conjoint?" he asked Philip. + +"Yes, I want to get qualified as soon as I can." + +"I'm taking it too, but I shall take the F. R. C. S. afterwards. I'm going +in for surgery." + +Most of the students took the curriculum of the Conjoint Board of the +College of Surgeons and the College of Physicians; but the more ambitious +or the more industrious added to this the longer studies which led to a +degree from the University of London. When Philip went to St. Luke's +changes had recently been made in the regulations, and the course took +five years instead of four as it had done for those who registered before +the autumn of 1892. Dunsford was well up in his plans and told Philip the +usual course of events. The "first conjoint" examination consisted of +biology, anatomy, and chemistry; but it could be taken in sections, and +most fellows took their biology three months after entering the school. +This science had been recently added to the list of subjects upon which +the student was obliged to inform himself, but the amount of knowledge +required was very small. + +When Philip went back to the dissecting-room, he was a few minutes late, +since he had forgotten to buy the loose sleeves which they wore to protect +their shirts, and he found a number of men already working. His partner +had started on the minute and was busy dissecting out cutaneous nerves. +Two others were engaged on the second leg, and more were occupied with the +arms. + +"You don't mind my having started?" + +"That's all right, fire away," said Philip. + +He took the book, open at a diagram of the dissected part, and looked at +what they had to find. + +"You're rather a dab at this," said Philip. + +"Oh, I've done a good deal of dissecting before, animals, you know, for +the Pre Sci." + +There was a certain amount of conversation over the dissecting-table, +partly about the work, partly about the prospects of the football season, +the demonstrators, and the lectures. Philip felt himself a great deal +older than the others. They were raw schoolboys. But age is a matter of +knowledge rather than of years; and Newson, the active young man who was +dissecting with him, was very much at home with his subject. He was +perhaps not sorry to show off, and he explained very fully to Philip what +he was about. Philip, notwithstanding his hidden stores of wisdom, +listened meekly. Then Philip took up the scalpel and the tweezers and +began working while the other looked on. + +"Ripping to have him so thin," said Newson, wiping his hands. "The +blighter can't have had anything to eat for a month." + +"I wonder what he died of," murmured Philip. + +"Oh, I don't know, any old thing, starvation chiefly, I suppose.... I say, +look out, don't cut that artery." + +"It's all very fine to say, don't cut that artery," remarked one of the +men working on the opposite leg. "Silly old fool's got an artery in the +wrong place." + +"Arteries always are in the wrong place," said Newson. "The normal's the +one thing you practically never get. That's why it's called the normal." + +"Don't say things like that," said Philip, "or I shall cut myself." + +"If you cut yourself," answered Newson, full of information, "wash it at +once with antiseptic. It's the one thing you've got to be careful about. +There was a chap here last year who gave himself only a prick, and he +didn't bother about it, and he got septicaemia." + +"Did he get all right?" + +"Oh, no, he died in a week. I went and had a look at him in the P. M. +room." + +Philip's back ached by the time it was proper to have tea, and his +luncheon had been so light that he was quite ready for it. His hands smelt +of that peculiar odour which he had first noticed that morning in the +corridor. He thought his muffin tasted of it too. + +"Oh, you'll get used to that," said Newson. "When you don't have the good +old dissecting-room stink about, you feel quite lonely." + +"I'm not going to let it spoil my appetite," said Philip, as he followed +up the muffin with a piece of cake. + + + +LV + + +Philip's ideas of the life of medical students, like those of the public +at large, were founded on the pictures which Charles Dickens drew in the +middle of the nineteenth century. He soon discovered that Bob Sawyer, if +he ever existed, was no longer at all like the medical student of the +present. + +It is a mixed lot which enters upon the medical profession, and naturally +there are some who are lazy and reckless. They think it is an easy life, +idle away a couple of years; and then, because their funds come to an end +or because angry parents refuse any longer to support them, drift away +from the hospital. Others find the examinations too hard for them; one +failure after another robs them of their nerve; and, panic-stricken, they +forget as soon as they come into the forbidding buildings of the Conjoint +Board the knowledge which before they had so pat. They remain year after +year, objects of good-humoured scorn to younger men: some of them crawl +through the examination of the Apothecaries Hall; others become +non-qualified assistants, a precarious position in which they are at the +mercy of their employer; their lot is poverty, drunkenness, and Heaven +only knows their end. But for the most part medical students are +industrious young men of the middle-class with a sufficient allowance to +live in the respectable fashion they have been used to; many are the sons +of doctors who have already something of the professional manner; their +career is mapped out: as soon as they are qualified they propose to apply +for a hospital appointment, after holding which (and perhaps a trip to the +Far East as a ship's doctor), they will join their father and spend the +rest of their days in a country practice. One or two are marked out as +exceptionally brilliant: they will take the various prizes and +scholarships which are open each year to the deserving, get one +appointment after another at the hospital, go on the staff, take a +consulting-room in Harley Street, and, specialising in one subject or +another, become prosperous, eminent, and titled. + +The medical profession is the only one which a man may enter at any age +with some chance of making a living. Among the men of Philip's year were +three or four who were past their first youth: one had been in the Navy, +from which according to report he had been dismissed for drunkenness; he +was a man of thirty, with a red face, a brusque manner, and a loud voice. +Another was a married man with two children, who had lost money through a +defaulting solicitor; he had a bowed look as if the world were too much +for him; he went about his work silently, and it was plain that he found +it difficult at his age to commit facts to memory. His mind worked slowly. +His effort at application was painful to see. + +Philip made himself at home in his tiny rooms. He arranged his books and +hung on the walls such pictures and sketches as he possessed. Above him, +on the drawing-room floor, lived a fifth-year man called Griffiths; but +Philip saw little of him, partly because he was occupied chiefly in the +wards and partly because he had been to Oxford. Such of the students as +had been to a university kept a good deal together: they used a variety of +means natural to the young in order to impress upon the less fortunate a +proper sense of their inferiority; the rest of the students found their +Olympian serenity rather hard to bear. Griffiths was a tall fellow, with +a quantity of curly red hair and blue eyes, a white skin and a very red +mouth; he was one of those fortunate people whom everybody liked, for he +had high spirits and a constant gaiety. He strummed a little on the piano +and sang comic songs with gusto; and evening after evening, while Philip +was reading in his solitary room, he heard the shouts and the uproarious +laughter of Griffiths' friends above him. He thought of those delightful +evenings in Paris when they would sit in the studio, Lawson and he, +Flanagan and Clutton, and talk of art and morals, the love-affairs of the +present, and the fame of the future. He felt sick at heart. He found that +it was easy to make a heroic gesture, but hard to abide by its results. +The worst of it was that the work seemed to him very tedious. He had got +out of the habit of being asked questions by demonstrators. His attention +wandered at lectures. Anatomy was a dreary science, a mere matter of +learning by heart an enormous number of facts; dissection bored him; he +did not see the use of dissecting out laboriously nerves and arteries when +with much less trouble you could see in the diagrams of a book or in the +specimens of the pathological museum exactly where they were. + +He made friends by chance, but not intimate friends, for he seemed to have +nothing in particular to say to his companions. When he tried to interest +himself in their concerns, he felt that they found him patronising. He was +not of those who can talk of what moves them without caring whether it +bores or not the people they talk to. One man, hearing that he had studied +art in Paris, and fancying himself on his taste, tried to discuss art with +him; but Philip was impatient of views which did not agree with his own; +and, finding quickly that the other's ideas were conventional, grew +monosyllabic. Philip desired popularity but could bring himself to make no +advances to others. A fear of rebuff prevented him from affability, and he +concealed his shyness, which was still intense, under a frigid +taciturnity. He was going through the same experience as he had done at +school, but here the freedom of the medical students' life made it +possible for him to live a good deal by himself. + +It was through no effort of his that he became friendly with Dunsford, the +fresh-complexioned, heavy lad whose acquaintance he had made at the +beginning of the session. Dunsford attached himself to Philip merely +because he was the first person he had known at St. Luke's. He had no +friends in London, and on Saturday nights he and Philip got into the habit +of going together to the pit of a music-hall or the gallery of a theatre. +He was stupid, but he was good-humoured and never took offence; he always +said the obvious thing, but when Philip laughed at him merely smiled. He +had a very sweet smile. Though Philip made him his butt, he liked him; he +was amused by his candour and delighted with his agreeable nature: +Dunsford had the charm which himself was acutely conscious of not +possessing. + +They often went to have tea at a shop in Parliament Street, because +Dunsford admired one of the young women who waited. Philip did not find +anything attractive in her. She was tall and thin, with narrow hips and +the chest of a boy. + +"No one would look at her in Paris," said Philip scornfully. + +"She's got a ripping face," said Dunsford. + +"What DOES the face matter?" + +She had the small regular features, the blue eyes, and the broad low brow, +which the Victorian painters, Lord Leighton, Alma Tadema, and a hundred +others, induced the world they lived in to accept as a type of Greek +beauty. She seemed to have a great deal of hair: it was arranged with +peculiar elaboration and done over the forehead in what she called an +Alexandra fringe. She was very anaemic. Her thin lips were pale, and her +skin was delicate, of a faint green colour, without a touch of red even in +the cheeks. She had very good teeth. She took great pains to prevent her +work from spoiling her hands, and they were small, thin, and white. She +went about her duties with a bored look. + +Dunsford, very shy with women, had never succeeded in getting into +conversation with her; and he urged Philip to help him. + +"All I want is a lead," he said, "and then I can manage for myself." + +Philip, to please him, made one or two remarks, but she answered with +monosyllables. She had taken their measure. They were boys, and she +surmised they were students. She had no use for them. Dunsford noticed +that a man with sandy hair and a bristly moustache, who looked like a +German, was favoured with her attention whenever he came into the shop; +and then it was only by calling her two or three times that they could +induce her to take their order. She used the clients whom she did not know +with frigid insolence, and when she was talking to a friend was perfectly +indifferent to the calls of the hurried. She had the art of treating women +who desired refreshment with just that degree of impertinence which +irritated them without affording them an opportunity of complaining to the +management. One day Dunsford told him her name was Mildred. He had heard +one of the other girls in the shop address her. + +"What an odious name," said Philip. + +"Why?" asked Dunsford. + +"I like it." + +"It's so pretentious." + +It chanced that on this day the German was not there, and, when she +brought the tea, Philip, smiling, remarked: + +"Your friend's not here today." + +"I don't know what you mean," she said coldly. + +"I was referring to the nobleman with the sandy moustache. Has he left you +for another?" + +"Some people would do better to mind their own business," she retorted. + +She left them, and, since for a minute or two there was no one to attend +to, sat down and looked at the evening paper which a customer had left +behind him. + +"You are a fool to put her back up," said Dunsford. + +"I'm really quite indifferent to the attitude of her vertebrae," replied +Philip. + +But he was piqued. It irritated him that when he tried to be agreeable +with a woman she should take offence. When he asked for the bill, he +hazarded a remark which he meant to lead further. + +"Are we no longer on speaking terms?" he smiled. + +"I'm here to take orders and to wait on customers. I've got nothing to say +to them, and I don't want them to say anything to me." + +She put down the slip of paper on which she had marked the sum they had to +pay, and walked back to the table at which she had been sitting. Philip +flushed with anger. + +"That's one in the eye for you, Carey," said Dunsford, when they got +outside. + +"Ill-mannered slut," said Philip. "I shan't go there again." + +His influence with Dunsford was strong enough to get him to take their tea +elsewhere, and Dunsford soon found another young woman to flirt with. But +the snub which the waitress had inflicted on him rankled. If she had +treated him with civility he would have been perfectly indifferent to her; +but it was obvious that she disliked him rather than otherwise, and his +pride was wounded. He could not suppress a desire to be even with her. He +was impatient with himself because he had so petty a feeling, but three or +four days' firmness, during which he would not go to the shop, did not +help him to surmount it; and he came to the conclusion that it would be +least trouble to see her. Having done so he would certainly cease to think +of her. Pretexting an appointment one afternoon, for he was not a little +ashamed of his weakness, he left Dunsford and went straight to the shop +which he had vowed never again to enter. He saw the waitress the moment he +came in and sat down at one of her tables. He expected her to make some +reference to the fact that he had not been there for a week, but when she +came up for his order she said nothing. He had heard her say to other +customers: + +"You're quite a stranger." + +She gave no sign that she had ever seen him before. In order to see +whether she had really forgotten him, when she brought his tea, he asked: + +"Have you seen my friend tonight?" + +"No, he's not been in here for some days." + +He wanted to use this as the beginning of a conversation, but he was +strangely nervous and could think of nothing to say. She gave him no +opportunity, but at once went away. He had no chance of saying anything +till he asked for his bill. + +"Filthy weather, isn't it?" he said. + +It was mortifying that he had been forced to prepare such a phrase as +that. He could not make out why she filled him with such embarrassment. + +"It don't make much difference to me what the weather is, having to be in +here all day." + +There was an insolence in her tone that peculiarly irritated him. A +sarcasm rose to his lips, but he forced himself to be silent. + +"I wish to God she'd say something really cheeky," he raged to himself, +"so that I could report her and get her sacked. It would serve her damned +well right." + + + +LVI + + +He could not get her out of his mind. He laughed angrily at his own +foolishness: it was absurd to care what an anaemic little waitress said to +him; but he was strangely humiliated. Though no one knew of the +humiliation but Dunsford, and he had certainly forgotten, Philip felt that +he could have no peace till he had wiped it out. He thought over what he +had better do. He made up his mind that he would go to the shop every day; +it was obvious that he had made a disagreeable impression on her, but he +thought he had the wits to eradicate it; he would take care not to say +anything at which the most susceptible person could be offended. All this +he did, but it had no effect. When he went in and said good-evening she +answered with the same words, but when once he omitted to say it in order +to see whether she would say it first, she said nothing at all. He +murmured in his heart an expression which though frequently applicable to +members of the female sex is not often used of them in polite society; but +with an unmoved face he ordered his tea. He made up his mind not to speak +a word, and left the shop without his usual good-night. He promised +himself that he would not go any more, but the next day at tea-time he +grew restless. He tried to think of other things, but he had no command +over his thoughts. At last he said desperately: + +"After all there's no reason why I shouldn't go if I want to." + +The struggle with himself had taken a long time, and it was getting on for +seven when he entered the shop. + +"I thought you weren't coming," the girl said to him, when he sat down. + +His heart leaped in his bosom and he felt himself reddening. "I was +detained. I couldn't come before." + +"Cutting up people, I suppose?" + +"Not so bad as that." + +"You are a stoodent, aren't you?" + +"Yes." + +But that seemed to satisfy her curiosity. She went away and, since at that +late hour there was nobody else at her tables, she immersed herself in a +novelette. This was before the time of the sixpenny reprints. There was a +regular supply of inexpensive fiction written to order by poor hacks for +the consumption of the illiterate. Philip was elated; she had addressed +him of her own accord; he saw the time approaching when his turn would +come and he would tell her exactly what he thought of her. It would be a +great comfort to express the immensity of his contempt. He looked at her. +It was true that her profile was beautiful; it was extraordinary how +English girls of that class had so often a perfection of outline which +took your breath away, but it was as cold as marble; and the faint green +of her delicate skin gave an impression of unhealthiness. All the +waitresses were dressed alike, in plain black dresses, with a white apron, +cuffs, and a small cap. On a half sheet of paper that he had in his pocket +Philip made a sketch of her as she sat leaning over her book (she outlined +the words with her lips as she read), and left it on the table when he +went away. It was an inspiration, for next day, when he came in, she +smiled at him. + +"I didn't know you could draw," she said. + +"I was an art-student in Paris for two years." + +"I showed that drawing you left be'ind you last night to the manageress +and she WAS struck with it. Was it meant to be me?" + +"It was," said Philip. + +When she went for his tea, one of the other girls came up to him. + +"I saw that picture you done of Miss Rogers. It was the very image of +her," she said. + +That was the first time he had heard her name, and when he wanted his bill +he called her by it. + +"I see you know my name," she said, when she came. + +"Your friend mentioned it when she said something to me about that +drawing." + +"She wants you to do one of her. Don't you do it. If you once begin you'll +have to go on, and they'll all be wanting you to do them." Then without a +pause, with peculiar inconsequence, she said: "Where's that young fellow +that used to come with you? Has he gone away?" + +"Fancy your remembering him," said Philip. + +"He was a nice-looking young fellow." + +Philip felt quite a peculiar sensation in his heart. He did not know what +it was. Dunsford had jolly curling hair, a fresh complexion, and a +beautiful smile. Philip thought of these advantages with envy. + +"Oh, he's in love," said he, with a little laugh. + +Philip repeated every word of the conversation to himself as he limped +home. She was quite friendly with him now. When opportunity arose he would +offer to make a more finished sketch of her, he was sure she would like +that; her face was interesting, the profile was lovely, and there was +something curiously fascinating about the chlorotic colour. He tried to +think what it was like; at first he thought of pea soup; but, driving away +that idea angrily, he thought of the petals of a yellow rosebud when you +tore it to pieces before it had burst. He had no ill-feeling towards her +now. + +"She's not a bad sort," he murmured. + +It was silly of him to take offence at what she had said; it was doubtless +his own fault; she had not meant to make herself disagreeable: he ought to +be accustomed by now to making at first sight a bad impression on people. +He was flattered at the success of his drawing; she looked upon him with +more interest now that she was aware of this small talent. He was restless +next day. He thought of going to lunch at the tea-shop, but he was certain +there would be many people there then, and Mildred would not be able to +talk to him. He had managed before this to get out of having tea with +Dunsford, and, punctually at half past four (he had looked at his watch a +dozen times), he went into the shop. + +Mildred had her back turned to him. She was sitting down, talking to the +German whom Philip had seen there every day till a fortnight ago and since +then had not seen at all. She was laughing at what he said. Philip thought +she had a common laugh, and it made him shudder. He called her, but she +took no notice; he called her again; then, growing angry, for he was +impatient, he rapped the table loudly with his stick. She approached +sulkily. + +"How d'you do?" he said. + +"You seem to be in a great hurry." + +She looked down at him with the insolent manner which he knew so well. + +"I say, what's the matter with you?" he asked. + +"If you'll kindly give your order I'll get what you want. I can't stand +talking all night." + +"Tea and toasted bun, please," Philip answered briefly. + +He was furious with her. He had The Star with him and read it +elaborately when she brought the tea. + +"If you'll give me my bill now I needn't trouble you again," he said +icily. + +She wrote out the slip, placed it on the table, and went back to the +German. Soon she was talking to him with animation. He was a man of middle +height, with the round head of his nation and a sallow face; his moustache +was large and bristling; he had on a tail-coat and gray trousers, and he +wore a massive gold watch-chain. Philip thought the other girls looked +from him to the pair at the table and exchanged significant glances. He +felt certain they were laughing at him, and his blood boiled. He detested +Mildred now with all his heart. He knew that the best thing he could do +was to cease coming to the tea-shop, but he could not bear to think that +he had been worsted in the affair, and he devised a plan to show her that +he despised her. Next day he sat down at another table and ordered his tea +from another waitress. Mildred's friend was there again and she was +talking to him. She paid no attention to Philip, and so when he went out +he chose a moment when she had to cross his path: as he passed he looked +at her as though he had never seen her before. He repeated this for three +or four days. He expected that presently she would take the opportunity to +say something to him; he thought she would ask why he never came to one of +her tables now, and he had prepared an answer charged with all the +loathing he felt for her. He knew it was absurd to trouble, but he could +not help himself. She had beaten him again. The German suddenly +disappeared, but Philip still sat at other tables. She paid no attention +to him. Suddenly he realised that what he did was a matter of complete +indifference to her; he could go on in that way till doomsday, and it +would have no effect. + +"I've not finished yet," he said to himself. + +The day after he sat down in his old seat, and when she came up said +good-evening as though he had not ignored her for a week. His face was +placid, but he could not prevent the mad beating of his heart. At that +time the musical comedy had lately leaped into public favour, and he was +sure that Mildred would be delighted to go to one. + +"I say," he said suddenly, "I wonder if you'd dine with me one night and +come to The Belle of New York. I'll get a couple of stalls." + +He added the last sentence in order to tempt her. He knew that when the +girls went to the play it was either in the pit, or, if some man took +them, seldom to more expensive seats than the upper circle. Mildred's pale +face showed no change of expression. + +"I don't mind," she said. + +"When will you come?" + +"I get off early on Thursdays." + +They made arrangements. Mildred lived with an aunt at Herne Hill. The play +began at eight so they must dine at seven. She proposed that he should +meet her in the second-class waiting-room at Victoria Station. She showed +no pleasure, but accepted the invitation as though she conferred a favour. +Philip was vaguely irritated. + + + +LVII + + +Philip arrived at Victoria Station nearly half an hour before the time +which Mildred had appointed, and sat down in the second-class +waiting-room. He waited and she did not come. He began to grow anxious, +and walked into the station watching the incoming suburban trains; the +hour which she had fixed passed, and still there was no sign of her. +Philip was impatient. He went into the other waiting-rooms and looked at +the people sitting in them. Suddenly his heart gave a great thud. + +"There you are. I thought you were never coming." + +"I like that after keeping me waiting all this time. I had half a mind to +go back home again." + +"But you said you'd come to the second-class waiting-room." + +"I didn't say any such thing. It isn't exactly likely I'd sit in the +second-class room when I could sit in the first is it?" + +Though Philip was sure he had not made a mistake, he said nothing, and +they got into a cab. + +"Where are we dining?" she asked. + +"I thought of the Adelphi Restaurant. Will that suit you?" + +"I don't mind where we dine." + +She spoke ungraciously. She was put out by being kept waiting and answered +Philip's attempt at conversation with monosyllables. She wore a long cloak +of some rough, dark material and a crochet shawl over her head. They +reached the restaurant and sat down at a table. She looked round with +satisfaction. The red shades to the candles on the tables, the gold of the +decorations, the looking-glasses, lent the room a sumptuous air. + +"I've never been here before." + +She gave Philip a smile. She had taken off her cloak; and he saw that she +wore a pale blue dress, cut square at the neck; and her hair was more +elaborately arranged than ever. He had ordered champagne and when it came +her eyes sparkled. + +"You are going it," she said. + +"Because I've ordered fiz?" he asked carelessly, as though he never drank +anything else. + +"I WAS surprised when you asked me to do a theatre with you." +Conversation did not go very easily, for she did not seem to have much to +say; and Philip was nervously conscious that he was not amusing her. She +listened carelessly to his remarks, with her eyes on other diners, and +made no pretence that she was interested in him. He made one or two little +jokes, but she took them quite seriously. The only sign of vivacity he got +was when he spoke of the other girls in the shop; she could not bear the +manageress and told him all her misdeeds at length. + +"I can't stick her at any price and all the air she gives herself. +Sometimes I've got more than half a mind to tell her something she doesn't +think I know anything about." + +"What is that?" asked Philip. + +"Well, I happen to know that she's not above going to Eastbourne with a +man for the week-end now and again. One of the girls has a married sister +who goes there with her husband, and she's seen her. She was staying at +the same boarding-house, and she 'ad a wedding-ring on, and I know for one +she's not married." + +Philip filled her glass, hoping that champagne would make her more +affable; he was anxious that his little jaunt should be a success. He +noticed that she held her knife as though it were a pen-holder, and when +she drank protruded her little finger. He started several topics of +conversation, but he could get little out of her, and he remembered with +irritation that he had seen her talking nineteen to the dozen and laughing +with the German. They finished dinner and went to the play. Philip was a +very cultured young man, and he looked upon musical comedy with scorn. He +thought the jokes vulgar and the melodies obvious; it seemed to him that +they did these things much better in France; but Mildred enjoyed herself +thoroughly; she laughed till her sides ached, looking at Philip now and +then when something tickled her to exchange a glance of pleasure; and she +applauded rapturously. + +"This is the seventh time I've been," she said, after the first act, "and +I don't mind if I come seven times more." + +She was much interested in the women who surrounded them in the stalls. +She pointed out to Philip those who were painted and those who wore false +hair. + +"It is horrible, these West-end people," she said. "I don't know how they +can do it." She put her hand to her hair. "Mine's all my own, every bit of +it." + +She found no one to admire, and whenever she spoke of anyone it was to say +something disagreeable. It made Philip uneasy. He supposed that next day +she would tell the girls in the shop that he had taken her out and that he +had bored her to death. He disliked her, and yet, he knew not why, he +wanted to be with her. On the way home he asked: + +"I hope you've enjoyed yourself?" + +"Rather." + +"Will you come out with me again one evening?" + +"I don't mind." + +He could never get beyond such expressions as that. Her indifference +maddened him. + +"That sounds as if you didn't much care if you came or not." + +"Oh, if you don't take me out some other fellow will. I need never want +for men who'll take me to the theatre." + +Philip was silent. They came to the station, and he went to the +booking-office. + +"I've got my season," she said. + +"I thought I'd take you home as it's rather late, if you don't mind." + +"Oh, I don't mind if it gives you any pleasure." + +He took a single first for her and a return for himself. + +"Well, you're not mean, I will say that for you," she said, when he opened +the carriage-door. + +Philip did not know whether he was pleased or sorry when other people +entered and it was impossible to speak. They got out at Herne Hill, and he +accompanied her to the corner of the road in which she lived. + +"I'll say good-night to you here," she said, holding out her hand. "You'd +better not come up to the door. I know what people are, and I don't want +to have anybody talking." + +She said good-night and walked quickly away. He could see the white shawl +in the darkness. He thought she might turn round, but she did not. Philip +saw which house she went into, and in a moment he walked along to look at +it. It was a trim, common little house of yellow brick, exactly like all +the other little houses in the street. He stood outside for a few minutes, +and presently the window on the top floor was darkened. Philip strolled +slowly back to the station. The evening had been unsatisfactory. He felt +irritated, restless, and miserable. + +When he lay in bed he seemed still to see her sitting in the corner of the +railway carriage, with the white crochet shawl over her head. He did not +know how he was to get through the hours that must pass before his eyes +rested on her again. He thought drowsily of her thin face, with its +delicate features, and the greenish pallor of her skin. He was not happy +with her, but he was unhappy away from her. He wanted to sit by her side +and look at her, he wanted to touch her, he wanted... the thought came to +him and he did not finish it, suddenly he grew wide awake... he wanted to +kiss the thin, pale mouth with its narrow lips. The truth came to him at +last. He was in love with her. It was incredible. + +He had often thought of falling in love, and there was one scene which he +had pictured to himself over and over again. He saw himself coming into a +ball-room; his eyes fell on a little group of men and women talking; and +one of the women turned round. Her eyes fell upon him, and he knew that +the gasp in his throat was in her throat too. He stood quite still. She +was tall and dark and beautiful with eyes like the night; she was dressed +in white, and in her black hair shone diamonds; they stared at one +another, forgetting that people surrounded them. He went straight up to +her, and she moved a little towards him. Both felt that the formality of +introduction was out of place. He spoke to her. + +"I've been looking for you all my life," he said. + +"You've come at last," she murmured. + +"Will you dance with me?" + +She surrendered herself to his outstretched hands and they danced. (Philip +always pretended that he was not lame.) She danced divinely. + +"I've never danced with anyone who danced like you," she said. + +She tore up her programme, and they danced together the whole evening. + +"I'm so thankful that I waited for you," he said to her. "I knew that in +the end I must meet you." + +People in the ball-room stared. They did not care. They did not wish to +hide their passion. At last they went into the garden. He flung a light +cloak over her shoulders and put her in a waiting cab. They caught the +midnight train to Paris; and they sped through the silent, star-lit night +into the unknown. + +He thought of this old fancy of his, and it seemed impossible that he +should be in love with Mildred Rogers. Her name was grotesque. He did not +think her pretty; he hated the thinness of her, only that evening he had +noticed how the bones of her chest stood out in evening-dress; he went +over her features one by one; he did not like her mouth, and the +unhealthiness of her colour vaguely repelled him. She was common. Her +phrases, so bald and few, constantly repeated, showed the emptiness of her +mind; he recalled her vulgar little laugh at the jokes of the musical +comedy; and he remembered the little finger carefully extended when she +held her glass to her mouth; her manners like her conversation, were +odiously genteel. He remembered her insolence; sometimes he had felt +inclined to box her ears; and suddenly, he knew not why, perhaps it was +the thought of hitting her or the recollection of her tiny, beautiful +ears, he was seized by an uprush of emotion. He yearned for her. He +thought of taking her in his arms, the thin, fragile body, and kissing her +pale mouth: he wanted to pass his fingers down the slightly greenish +cheeks. He wanted her. + +He had thought of love as a rapture which seized one so that all the world +seemed spring-like, he had looked forward to an ecstatic happiness; but +this was not happiness; it was a hunger of the soul, it was a painful +yearning, it was a bitter anguish, he had never known before. He tried to +think when it had first come to him. He did not know. He only remembered +that each time he had gone into the shop, after the first two or three +times, it had been with a little feeling in the heart that was pain; and +he remembered that when she spoke to him he felt curiously breathless. +When she left him it was wretchedness, and when she came to him again it +was despair. + +He stretched himself in his bed as a dog stretches himself. He wondered +how he was going to endure that ceaseless aching of his soul. + + + +LVIII + + +Philip woke early next morning, and his first thought was of Mildred. It +struck him that he might meet her at Victoria Station and walk with her to +the shop. He shaved quickly, scrambled into his clothes, and took a bus to +the station. He was there by twenty to eight and watched the incoming +trains. Crowds poured out of them, clerks and shop-people at that early +hour, and thronged up the platform: they hurried along, sometimes in +pairs, here and there a group of girls, but more often alone. They were +white, most of them, ugly in the early morning, and they had an abstracted +look; the younger ones walked lightly, as though the cement of the +platform were pleasant to tread, but the others went as though impelled by +a machine: their faces were set in an anxious frown. + +At last Philip saw Mildred, and he went up to her eagerly. + +"Good-morning," he said. "I thought I'd come and see how you were after +last night." + +She wore an old brown ulster and a sailor hat. It was very clear that she +was not pleased to see him. + +"Oh, I'm all right. I haven't got much time to waste." + +"D'you mind if I walk down Victoria Street with you?" + +"I'm none too early. I shall have to walk fast," she answered, looking +down at Philip's club-foot. + +He turned scarlet. + +"I beg your pardon. I won't detain you." + +"You can please yourself." + +She went on, and he with a sinking heart made his way home to breakfast. +He hated her. He knew he was a fool to bother about her; she was not the +sort of woman who would ever care two straws for him, and she must look +upon his deformity with distaste. He made up his mind that he would not go +in to tea that afternoon, but, hating himself, he went. She nodded to him +as he came in and smiled. + +"I expect I was rather short with you this morning," she said. "You see, +I didn't expect you, and it came like a surprise." + +"Oh, it doesn't matter at all." + +He felt that a great weight had suddenly been lifted from him. He was +infinitely grateful for one word of kindness. + +"Why don't you sit down?" he asked. "Nobody's wanting you just now." + +"I don't mind if I do." + +He looked at her, but could think of nothing to say; he racked his brains +anxiously, seeking for a remark which should keep her by him; he wanted to +tell her how much she meant to him; but he did not know how to make love +now that he loved in earnest. + +"Where's your friend with the fair moustache? I haven't seen him lately" + +"Oh, he's gone back to Birmingham. He's in business there. He only comes +up to London every now and again." + +"Is he in love with you?" + +"You'd better ask him," she said, with a laugh. "I don't know what it's +got to do with you if he is." + +A bitter answer leaped to his tongue, but he was learning self-restraint. + +"I wonder why you say things like that," was all he permitted himself to +say. + +She looked at him with those indifferent eyes of hers. + +"It looks as if you didn't set much store on me," he added. + +"Why should I?" + +"No reason at all." + +He reached over for his paper. + +"You are quick-tempered," she said, when she saw the gesture. "You do take +offence easily." + +He smiled and looked at her appealingly. + +"Will you do something for me?" he asked. + +"That depends what it is." + +"Let me walk back to the station with you tonight." + +"I don't mind." + +He went out after tea and went back to his rooms, but at eight o'clock, +when the shop closed, he was waiting outside. + +"You are a caution," she said, when she came out. "I don't understand +you." + +"I shouldn't have thought it was very difficult," he answered bitterly. + +"Did any of the girls see you waiting for me?" + +"I don't know and I don't care." + +"They all laugh at you, you know. They say you're spoony on me." + +"Much you care," he muttered. + +"Now then, quarrelsome." + +At the station he took a ticket and said he was going to accompany her +home. + +"You don't seem to have much to do with your time," she said. + +"I suppose I can waste it in my own way." + +They seemed to be always on the verge of a quarrel. The fact was that he +hated himself for loving her. She seemed to be constantly humiliating him, +and for each snub that he endured he owed her a grudge. But she was in a +friendly mood that evening, and talkative: she told him that her parents +were dead; she gave him to understand that she did not have to earn her +living, but worked for amusement. + +"My aunt doesn't like my going to business. I can have the best of +everything at home. I don't want you to think I work because I need to." +Philip knew that she was not speaking the truth. The gentility of her +class made her use this pretence to avoid the stigma attached to earning +her living. + +"My family's very well-connected," she said. + +Philip smiled faintly, and she noticed it. + +"What are you laughing at?" she said quickly. "Don't you believe I'm +telling you the truth?" + +"Of course I do," he answered. + +She looked at him suspiciously, but in a moment could not resist the +temptation to impress him with the splendour of her early days. + +"My father always kept a dog-cart, and we had three servants. We had a +cook and a housemaid and an odd man. We used to grow beautiful roses. +People used to stop at the gate and ask who the house belonged to, the +roses were so beautiful. Of course it isn't very nice for me having to mix +with them girls in the shop, it's not the class of person I've been used +to, and sometimes I really think I'll give up business on that account. +It's not the work I mind, don't think that; but it's the class of people +I have to mix with." + +They were sitting opposite one another in the train, and Philip, listening +sympathetically to what she said, was quite happy. He was amused at her +naivete and slightly touched. There was a very faint colour in her cheeks. +He was thinking that it would be delightful to kiss the tip of her chin. + +"The moment you come into the shop I saw you was a gentleman in every +sense of the word. Was your father a professional man?" + +"He was a doctor." + +"You can always tell a professional man. There's something about them, I +don't know what it is, but I know at once." + +They walked along from the station together. + +"I say, I want you to come and see another play with me," he said. + +"I don't mind," she said. + +"You might go so far as to say you'd like to." + +"Why?" + +"It doesn't matter. Let's fix a day. Would Saturday night suit you?" + +"Yes, that'll do." + +They made further arrangements, and then found themselves at the corner of +the road in which she lived. She gave him her hand, and he held it. + +"I say, I do so awfully want to call you Mildred." + +"You may if you like, I don't care." + +"And you'll call me Philip, won't you?" + +"I will if I can think of it. It seems more natural to call you Mr. +Carey." + +He drew her slightly towards him, but she leaned back. + +"What are you doing?" + +"Won't you kiss me good-night?" he whispered. + +"Impudence!" she said. + +She snatched away her hand and hurried towards her house. + + +Philip bought tickets for Saturday night. It was not one of the days on +which she got off early and therefore she would have no time to go home +and change; but she meant to bring a frock up with her in the morning and +hurry into her clothes at the shop. If the manageress was in a good temper +she would let her go at seven. Philip had agreed to wait outside from a +quarter past seven onwards. He looked forward to the occasion with painful +eagerness, for in the cab on the way from the theatre to the station he +thought she would let him kiss her. The vehicle gave every facility for a +man to put his arm round a girl's waist (an advantage which the hansom had +over the taxi of the present day), and the delight of that was worth the +cost of the evening's entertainment. + +But on Saturday afternoon when he went in to have tea, in order to confirm +the arrangements, he met the man with the fair moustache coming out of the +shop. He knew by now that he was called Miller. He was a naturalized +German, who had anglicised his name, and he had lived many years in +England. Philip had heard him speak, and, though his English was fluent +and natural, it had not quite the intonation of the native. Philip knew +that he was flirting with Mildred, and he was horribly jealous of him; but +he took comfort in the coldness of her temperament, which otherwise +distressed him; and, thinking her incapable of passion, he looked upon his +rival as no better off than himself. But his heart sank now, for his first +thought was that Miller's sudden appearance might interfere with the jaunt +which he had so looked forward to. He entered, sick with apprehension. The +waitress came up to him, took his order for tea, and presently brought it. + +"I'm awfully, sorry" she said, with an expression on her face of real +distress. "I shan't be able to come tonight after all." + +"Why?" said Philip. + +"Don't look so stern about it," she laughed. "It's not my fault. My aunt +was taken ill last night, and it's the girl's night out so I must go and +sit with her. She can't be left alone, can she?" + +"It doesn't matter. I'll see you home instead." + +"But you've got the tickets. It would be a pity to waste them." + +He took them out of his pocket and deliberately tore them up. + +"What are you doing that for?" + +"You don't suppose I want to go and see a rotten musical comedy by myself, +do you? I only took seats there for your sake." + +"You can't see me home if that's what you mean?" + +"You've made other arrangements." + +"I don't know what you mean by that. You're just as selfish as all the +rest of them. You only think of yourself. It's not my fault if my aunt's +queer." + +She quickly wrote out his bill and left him. Philip knew very little about +women, or he would have been aware that one should accept their most +transparent lies. He made up his mind that he would watch the shop and see +for certain whether Mildred went out with the German. He had an unhappy +passion for certainty. At seven he stationed himself on the opposite +pavement. He looked about for Miller, but did not see him. In ten minutes +she came out, she had on the cloak and shawl which she had worn when he +took her to the Shaftesbury Theatre. It was obvious that she was not going +home. She saw him before he had time to move away, started a little, and +then came straight up to him. + +"What are you doing here?" she said. + +"Taking the air," he answered. + +"You're spying on me, you dirty little cad. I thought you was a +gentleman." + +"Did you think a gentleman would be likely to take any interest in you?" +he murmured. + +There was a devil within him which forced him to make matters worse. He +wanted to hurt her as much as she was hurting him. + +"I suppose I can change my mind if I like. I'm not obliged to come out +with you. I tell you I'm going home, and I won't be followed or spied +upon." + +"Have you seen Miller today?" + +"That's no business of yours. In point of fact I haven't, so you're wrong +again." + +"I saw him this afternoon. He'd just come out of the shop when I went in." + +"Well, what if he did? I can go out with him if I want to, can't I? I +don't know what you've got to say to it." + +"He's keeping you waiting, isn't he?" + +"Well, I'd rather wait for him than have you wait for me. Put that in your +pipe and smoke it. And now p'raps you'll go off home and mind your own +business in future." + +His mood changed suddenly from anger to despair, and his voice trembled +when he spoke. + +"I say, don't be beastly with me, Mildred. You know I'm awfully fond of +you. I think I love you with all my heart. Won't you change your mind? I +was looking forward to this evening so awfully. You see, he hasn't come, +and he can't care twopence about you really. Won't you dine with me? I'll +get some more tickets, and we'll go anywhere you like." + +"I tell you I won't. It's no good you talking. I've made up my mind, and +when I make up my mind I keep to it." + +He looked at her for a moment. His heart was torn with anguish. People +were hurrying past them on the pavement, and cabs and omnibuses rolled by +noisily. He saw that Mildred's eyes were wandering. She was afraid of +missing Miller in the crowd. + +"I can't go on like this," groaned Philip. "it's too degrading. If I go +now I go for good. Unless you'll come with me tonight you'll never see me +again." + +"You seem to think that'll be an awful thing for me. All I say is, good +riddance to bad rubbish." + +"Then good-bye." + +He nodded and limped away slowly, for he hoped with all his heart that she +would call him back. At the next lamp-post he stopped and looked over his +shoulder. He thought she might beckon to him--he was willing to forget +everything, he was ready for any humiliation--but she had turned away, and +apparently had ceased to trouble about him. He realised that she was glad +to be quit of him. + + + +LIX + + +Philip passed the evening wretchedly. He had told his landlady that he +would not be in, so there was nothing for him to eat, and he had to go to +Gatti's for dinner. Afterwards he went back to his rooms, but Griffiths on +the floor above him was having a party, and the noisy merriment made his +own misery more hard to bear. He went to a music-hall, but it was Saturday +night and there was standing-room only: after half an hour of boredom his +legs grew tired and he went home. He tried to read, but he could not fix +his attention; and yet it was necessary that he should work hard. His +examination in biology was in little more than a fortnight, and, though it +was easy, he had neglected his lectures of late and was conscious that he +knew nothing. It was only a viva, however, and he felt sure that in a +fortnight he could find out enough about the subject to scrape through. He +had confidence in his intelligence. He threw aside his book and gave +himself up to thinking deliberately of the matter which was in his mind +all the time. + +He reproached himself bitterly for his behaviour that evening. Why had he +given her the alternative that she must dine with him or else never see +him again? Of course she refused. He should have allowed for her pride. He +had burnt his ships behind him. It would not be so hard to bear if he +thought that she was suffering now, but he knew her too well: she was +perfectly indifferent to him. If he hadn't been a fool he would have +pretended to believe her story; he ought to have had the strength to +conceal his disappointment and the self-control to master his temper. He +could not tell why he loved her. He had read of the idealisation that +takes place in love, but he saw her exactly as she was. She was not +amusing or clever, her mind was common; she had a vulgar shrewdness which +revolted him, she had no gentleness nor softness. As she would have put it +herself, she was on the make. What aroused her admiration was a clever +trick played on an unsuspecting person; to `do' somebody always gave her +satisfaction. Philip laughed savagely as he thought of her gentility and +the refinement with which she ate her food; she could not bear a coarse +word, so far as her limited vocabulary reached she had a passion for +euphemisms, and she scented indecency everywhere; she never spoke of +trousers but referred to them as nether garments; she thought it slightly +indelicate to blow her nose and did it in a deprecating way. She was +dreadfully anaemic and suffered from the dyspepsia which accompanies that +ailing. Philip was repelled by her flat breast and narrow hips, and he +hated the vulgar way in which she did her hair. He loathed and despised +himself for loving her. + +The fact remained that he was helpless. He felt just as he had felt +sometimes in the hands of a bigger boy at school. He had struggled against +the superior strength till his own strength was gone, and he was rendered +quite powerless--he remembered the peculiar languor he had felt in his +limbs, almost as though he were paralysed--so that he could not help +himself at all. He might have been dead. He felt just that same weakness +now. He loved the woman so that he knew he had never loved before. He did +not mind her faults of person or of character, he thought he loved them +too: at all events they meant nothing to him. It did not seem himself that +was concerned; he felt that he had been seized by some strange force that +moved him against his will, contrary to his interests; and because he had +a passion for freedom he hated the chains which bound him. He laughed at +himself when he thought how often he had longed to experience the +overwhelming passion. He cursed himself because he had given way to it. He +thought of the beginnings; nothing of all this would have happened if he +had not gone into the shop with Dunsford. The whole thing was his own +fault. Except for his ridiculous vanity he would never have troubled +himself with the ill-mannered slut. + +At all events the occurrences of that evening had finished the whole +affair. Unless he was lost to all sense of shame he could not go back. He +wanted passionately to get rid of the love that obsessed him; it was +degrading and hateful. He must prevent himself from thinking of her. In a +little while the anguish he suffered must grow less. His mind went back to +the past. He wondered whether Emily Wilkinson and Fanny Price had endured +on his account anything like the torment that he suffered now. He felt a +pang of remorse. + +"I didn't know then what it was like," he said to himself. + +He slept very badly. The next day was Sunday, and he worked at his +biology. He sat with the book in front of him, forming the words with his +lips in order to fix his attention, but he could remember nothing. He +found his thoughts going back to Mildred every minute, and he repeated to +himself the exact words of the quarrel they had had. He had to force +himself back to his book. He went out for a walk. The streets on the South +side of the river were dingy enough on week-days, but there was an energy, +a coming and going, which gave them a sordid vivacity; but on Sundays, +with no shops open, no carts in the roadway, silent and depressed, they +were indescribably dreary. Philip thought that day would never end. But he +was so tired that he slept heavily, and when Monday came he entered upon +life with determination. Christmas was approaching, and a good many of the +students had gone into the country for the short holiday between the two +parts of the winter session; but Philip had refused his uncle's invitation +to go down to Blackstable. He had given the approaching examination as his +excuse, but in point of fact he had been unwilling to leave London and +Mildred. He had neglected his work so much that now he had only a +fortnight to learn what the curriculum allowed three months for. He set to +work seriously. He found it easier each day not to think of Mildred. He +congratulated himself on his force of character. The pain he suffered was +no longer anguish, but a sort of soreness, like what one might be expected +to feel if one had been thrown off a horse and, though no bones were +broken, were bruised all over and shaken. Philip found that he was able to +observe with curiosity the condition he had been in during the last few +weeks. He analysed his feelings with interest. He was a little amused at +himself. One thing that struck him was how little under those +circumstances it mattered what one thought; the system of personal +philosophy, which had given him great satisfaction to devise, had not +served him. He was puzzled by this. + +But sometimes in the street he would see a girl who looked so like Mildred +that his heart seemed to stop beating. Then he could not help himself, he +hurried on to catch her up, eager and anxious, only to find that it was a +total stranger. Men came back from the country, and he went with Dunsford +to have tea at an A. B. C. shop. The well-known uniform made him so +miserable that he could not speak. The thought came to him that perhaps +she had been transferred to another establishment of the firm for which +she worked, and he might suddenly find himself face to face with her. The +idea filled him with panic, so that he feared Dunsford would see that +something was the matter with him: he could not think of anything to say; +he pretended to listen to what Dunsford was talking about; the +conversation maddened him; and it was all he could do to prevent himself +from crying out to Dunsford for Heaven's sake to hold his tongue. + +Then came the day of his examination. Philip, when his turn arrived, went +forward to the examiner's table with the utmost confidence. He answered +three or four questions. Then they showed him various specimens; he had +been to very few lectures and, as soon as he was asked about things which +he could not learn from books, he was floored. He did what he could to +hide his ignorance, the examiner did not insist, and soon his ten minutes +were over. He felt certain he had passed; but next day, when he went up to +the examination buildings to see the result posted on the door, he was +astounded not to find his number among those who had satisfied the +examiners. In amazement he read the list three times. Dunsford was with +him. + +"I say, I'm awfully sorry you're ploughed," he said. + +He had just inquired Philip's number. Philip turned and saw by his radiant +face that Dunsford had passed. + +"Oh, it doesn't matter a bit," said Philip. "I'm jolly glad you're all +right. I shall go up again in July." + +He was very anxious to pretend he did not mind, and on their way back +along The Embankment insisted on talking of indifferent things. Dunsford +good-naturedly wanted to discuss the causes of Philip's failure, but +Philip was obstinately casual. He was horribly mortified; and the fact +that Dunsford, whom he looked upon as a very pleasant but quite stupid +fellow, had passed made his own rebuff harder to bear. He had always been +proud of his intelligence, and now he asked himself desperately whether he +was not mistaken in the opinion he held of himself. In the three months of +the winter session the students who had joined in October had already +shaken down into groups, and it was clear which were brilliant, which were +clever or industrious, and which were `rotters.' Philip was conscious that +his failure was a surprise to no one but himself. It was tea-time, and he +knew that a lot of men would be having tea in the basement of the Medical +School: those who had passed the examination would be exultant, those who +disliked him would look at him with satisfaction, and the poor devils who +had failed would sympathise with him in order to receive sympathy. His +instinct was not to go near the hospital for a week, when the affair would +be no more thought of, but, because he hated so much to go just then, he +went: he wanted to inflict suffering upon himself. He forgot for the +moment his maxim of life to follow his inclinations with due regard for +the policeman round the corner; or, if he acted in accordance with it, +there must have been some strange morbidity in his nature which made him +take a grim pleasure in self-torture. + +But later on, when he had endured the ordeal to which he forced himself, +going out into the night after the noisy conversation in the smoking-room, +he was seized with a feeling of utter loneliness. He seemed to himself +absurd and futile. He had an urgent need of consolation, and the +temptation to see Mildred was irresistible. He thought bitterly that there +was small chance of consolation from her; but he wanted to see her even if +he did not speak to her; after all, she was a waitress and would be +obliged to serve him. She was the only person in the world he cared for. +There was no use in hiding that fact from himself. Of course it would be +humiliating to go back to the shop as though nothing had happened, but he +had not much self-respect left. Though he would not confess it to himself, +he had hoped each day that she would write to him; she knew that a letter +addressed to the hospital would find him; but she had not written: it was +evident that she cared nothing if she saw him again or not. And he kept on +repeating to himself: + +"I must see her. I must see her." + +The desire was so great that he could not give the time necessary to walk, +but jumped in a cab. He was too thrifty to use one when it could possibly +be avoided. He stood outside the shop for a minute or two. The thought +came to him that perhaps she had left, and in terror he walked in quickly. +He saw her at once. He sat down and she came up to him. + +"A cup of tea and a muffin, please," he ordered. + +He could hardly speak. He was afraid for a moment that he was going to +cry. + +"I almost thought you was dead," she said. + +She was smiling. Smiling! She seemed to have forgotten completely that +last scene which Philip had repeated to himself a hundred times. + +"I thought if you'd wanted to see me you'd write," he answered. + +"I've got too much to do to think about writing letters." + +It seemed impossible for her to say a gracious thing. Philip cursed the +fate which chained him to such a woman. She went away to fetch his tea. + +"Would you like me to sit down for a minute or two?" she said, when she +brought it. + +"Yes." + +"Where have you been all this time?" + +"I've been in London." + +"I thought you'd gone away for the holidays. Why haven't you been in +then?" + +Philip looked at her with haggard, passionate eyes. + +"Don't you remember that I said I'd never see you again?" + +"What are you doing now then?" + +She seemed anxious to make him drink up the cup of his humiliation; but he +knew her well enough to know that she spoke at random; she hurt him +frightfully, and never even tried to. He did not answer. + +"It was a nasty trick you played on me, spying on me like that. I always +thought you was a gentleman in every sense of the word." + +"Don't be beastly to me, Mildred. I can't bear it." + +"You are a funny feller. I can't make you out." + +"It's very simple. I'm such a blasted fool as to love you with all my +heart and soul, and I know that you don't care twopence for me." + +"If you had been a gentleman I think you'd have come next day and begged +my pardon." + +She had no mercy. He looked at her neck and thought how he would like to +jab it with the knife he had for his muffin. He knew enough anatomy to +make pretty certain of getting the carotid artery. And at the same time he +wanted to cover her pale, thin face with kisses. + +"If I could only make you understand how frightfully I'm in love with +you." + +"You haven't begged my pardon yet." + +He grew very white. She felt that she had done nothing wrong on that +occasion. She wanted him now to humble himself. He was very proud. For one +instant he felt inclined to tell her to go to hell, but he dared not. His +passion made him abject. He was willing to submit to anything rather than +not see her. + +"I'm very sorry, Mildred. I beg your pardon." + +He had to force the words out. It was a horrible effort. + +"Now you've said that I don't mind telling you that I wish I had come out +with you that evening. I thought Miller was a gentleman, but I've +discovered my mistake now. I soon sent him about his business." + +Philip gave a little gasp. + +"Mildred, won't you come out with me tonight? Let's go and dine +somewhere." + +"Oh, I can't. My aunt'll be expecting me home." + +"I'll send her a wire. You can say you've been detained in the shop; she +won't know any better. Oh, do come, for God's sake. I haven't seen you for +so long, and I want to talk to you." + +She looked down at her clothes. + +"Never mind about that. We'll go somewhere where it doesn't matter how +you're dressed. And we'll go to a music-hall afterwards. Please say yes. +It would give me so much pleasure." + +She hesitated a moment; he looked at her with pitifully appealing eyes. + +"Well, I don't mind if I do. I haven't been out anywhere since I don't +know how long." + +It was with the greatest difficulty he could prevent himself from seizing +her hand there and then to cover it with kisses. + + + +LX + + +They dined in Soho. Philip was tremulous with joy. It was not one of the +more crowded of those cheap restaurants where the respectable and needy +dine in the belief that it is bohemian and the assurance that it is +economical. It was a humble establishment, kept by a good man from Rouen +and his wife, that Philip had discovered by accident. He had been +attracted by the Gallic look of the window, in which was generally an +uncooked steak on one plate and on each side two dishes of raw vegetables. +There was one seedy French waiter, who was attempting to learn English in +a house where he never heard anything but French; and the customers were +a few ladies of easy virtue, a menage or two, who had their own napkins +reserved for them, and a few queer men who came in for hurried, scanty +meals. + +Here Mildred and Philip were able to get a table to themselves. Philip +sent the waiter for a bottle of Burgundy from the neighbouring tavern, and +they had a potage aux herbes, a steak from the window aux pommes, and +an omelette au kirsch. There was really an air of romance in the meal +and in the place. Mildred, at first a little reserved in her +appreciation--"I never quite trust these foreign places, you never know +what there is in these messed up dishes"--was insensibly moved by it. + +"I like this place, Philip," she said. "You feel you can put your elbows +on the table, don't you?" + +A tall fellow came in, with a mane of gray hair and a ragged thin beard. +He wore a dilapidated cloak and a wide-awake hat. He nodded to Philip, who +had met him there before. + +"He looks like an anarchist," said Mildred. + +"He is, one of the most dangerous in Europe. He's been in every prison on +the Continent and has assassinated more persons than any gentleman unhung. +He always goes about with a bomb in his pocket, and of course it makes +conversation a little difficult because if you don't agree with him he +lays it on the table in a marked manner." + +She looked at the man with horror and surprise, and then glanced +suspiciously at Philip. She saw that his eyes were laughing. She frowned +a little. + +"You're getting at me." + +He gave a little shout of joy. He was so happy. But Mildred didn't like +being laughed at. + +"I don't see anything funny in telling lies." + +"Don't be cross." + +He took her hand, which was lying on the table, and pressed it gently. + +"You are lovely, and I could kiss the ground you walk on," he said. + +The greenish pallor of her skin intoxicated him, and her thin white lips +had an extraordinary fascination. Her anaemia made her rather short of +breath, and she held her mouth slightly open. It seemed to add somehow to +the attractiveness of her face. + +"You do like me a bit, don't you?" he asked. + +"Well, if I didn't I suppose I shouldn't be here, should I? You're a +gentleman in every sense of the word, I will say that for you." + +They had finished their dinner and were drinking coffee. Philip, throwing +economy to the winds, smoked a three-penny cigar. + +"You can't imagine what a pleasure it is to me just to sit opposite and +look at you. I've yearned for you. I was sick for a sight of you." + +Mildred smiled a little and faintly flushed. She was not then suffering +from the dyspepsia which generally attacked her immediately after a meal. +She felt more kindly disposed to Philip than ever before, and the +unaccustomed tenderness in her eyes filled him with joy. He knew +instinctively that it was madness to give himself into her hands; his only +chance was to treat her casually and never allow her to see the untamed +passions that seethed in his breast; she would only take advantage of his +weakness; but he could not be prudent now: he told her all the agony he +had endured during the separation from her; he told her of his struggles +with himself, how he had tried to get over his passion, thought he had +succeeded, and how he found out that it was as strong as ever. He knew +that he had never really wanted to get over it. He loved her so much that +he did not mind suffering. He bared his heart to her. He showed her +proudly all his weakness. + +Nothing would have pleased him more than to sit on in the cosy, shabby +restaurant, but he knew that Mildred wanted entertainment. She was +restless and, wherever she was, wanted after a while to go somewhere else. +He dared not bore her. + +"I say, how about going to a music-hall?" he said. + +He thought rapidly that if she cared for him at all she would say she +preferred to stay there. + +"I was just thinking we ought to be going if we are going," she answered. + +"Come on then." + +Philip waited impatiently for the end of the performance. He had made up +his mind exactly what to do, and when they got into the cab he passed his +arm, as though almost by accident, round her waist. But he drew it back +quickly with a little cry. He had pricked himself. She laughed. + +"There, that comes of putting your arm where it's got no business to be," +she said. "I always know when men try and put their arm round my waist. +That pin always catches them." + +"I'll be more careful." + +He put his arm round again. She made no objection. + +"I'm so comfortable," he sighed blissfully. + +"So long as you're happy," she retorted. + +They drove down St. James' Street into the Park, and Philip quickly kissed +her. He was strangely afraid of her, and it required all his courage. She +turned her lips to him without speaking. She neither seemed to mind nor to +like it. + +"If you only knew how long I've wanted to do that," he murmured. + +He tried to kiss her again, but she turned her head away. + +"Once is enough," she said. + +On the chance of kissing her a second time he travelled down to Herne Hill +with her, and at the end of the road in which she lived he asked her: + +"Won't you give me another kiss?" + +She looked at him indifferently and then glanced up the road to see that +no one was in sight. + +"I don't mind." + +He seized her in his arms and kissed her passionately, but she pushed him +away. + +"Mind my hat, silly. You are clumsy," she said. + + + +LXI + + +He saw her then every day. He began going to lunch at the shop, but +Mildred stopped him: she said it made the girls talk; so he had to content +himself with tea; but he always waited about to walk with her to the +station; and once or twice a week they dined together. He gave her little +presents, a gold bangle, gloves, handkerchiefs, and the like. He was +spending more than he could afford, but he could not help it: it was only +when he gave her anything that she showed any affection. She knew the +price of everything, and her gratitude was in exact proportion with the +value of his gift. He did not care. He was too happy when she volunteered +to kiss him to mind by what means he got her demonstrativeness. He +discovered that she found Sundays at home tedious, so he went down to +Herne Hill in the morning, met her at the end of the road, and went to +church with her. + +"I always like to go to church once," she said. "It looks well, doesn't +it?" + +Then she went back to dinner, he got a scrappy meal at a hotel, and in the +afternoon they took a walk in Brockwell Park. They had nothing much to say +to one another, and Philip, desperately afraid she was bored (she was very +easily bored), racked his brain for topics of conversation. He realised +that these walks amused neither of them, but he could not bear to leave +her, and did all he could to lengthen them till she became tired and out +of temper. He knew that she did not care for him, and he tried to force a +love which his reason told him was not in her nature: she was cold. He had +no claim on her, but he could not help being exacting. Now that they were +more intimate he found it less easy to control his temper; he was often +irritable and could not help saying bitter things. Often they quarrelled, +and she would not speak to him for a while; but this always reduced him to +subjection, and he crawled before her. He was angry with himself for +showing so little dignity. He grew furiously jealous if he saw her +speaking to any other man in the shop, and when he was jealous he seemed +to be beside himself. He would deliberately insult her, leave the shop and +spend afterwards a sleepless night tossing on his bed, by turns angry and +remorseful. Next day he would go to the shop and appeal for forgiveness. + +"Don't be angry with me," he said. "I'm so awfully fond of you that I +can't help myself." + +"One of these days you'll go too far," she answered. + +He was anxious to come to her home in order that the greater intimacy +should give him an advantage over the stray acquaintances she made during +her working-hours; but she would not let him. + +"My aunt would think it so funny," she said. + +He suspected that her refusal was due only to a disinclination to let him +see her aunt. Mildred had represented her as the widow of a professional +man (that was her formula of distinction), and was uneasily conscious that +the good woman could hardly be called distinguished. Philip imagined that +she was in point of fact the widow of a small tradesman. He knew that +Mildred was a snob. But he found no means by which he could indicate to +her that he did not mind how common the aunt was. + +Their worst quarrel took place one evening at dinner when she told him +that a man had asked her to go to a play with him. Philip turned pale, and +his face grew hard and stern. + +"You're not going?" he said. + +"Why shouldn't I? He's a very nice gentlemanly fellow." + +"I'll take you anywhere you like." + +"But that isn't the same thing. I can't always go about with you. Besides +he's asked me to fix my own day, and I'll just go one evening when I'm not +going out with you. It won't make any difference to you." + +"If you had any sense of decency, if you had any gratitude, you wouldn't +dream of going." + +"I don't know what you mean by gratitude. If you're referring to the +things you've given me you can have them back. I don't want them." + +Her voice had the shrewish tone it sometimes got. + +"It's not very lively, always going about with you. It's always do you +love me, do you love me, till I just get about sick of it." + +(He knew it was madness to go on asking her that, but he could not help +himself. + +"Oh, I like you all right," she would answer. + +"Is that all? I love you with all my heart." + +"I'm not that sort, I'm not one to say much." + +"If you knew how happy just one word would make me!" + +"Well, what I always say is, people must take me as they find me, and if +they don't like it they can lump it." + +But sometimes she expressed herself more plainly still, and, when he asked +the question, answered: + +"Oh, don't go on at that again." + +Then he became sulky and silent. He hated her.) + +And now he said: + +"Oh, well, if you feel like that about it I wonder you condescend to come +out with me at all." + +"It's not my seeking, you can be very sure of that, you just force me to." + +His pride was bitterly hurt, and he answered madly. + +"You think I'm just good enough to stand you dinners and theatres when +there's no one else to do it, and when someone else turns up I can go to +hell. Thank you, I'm about sick of being made a convenience." + +"I'm not going to be talked to like that by anyone. I'll just show you how +much I want your dirty dinner." + +She got up, put on her jacket, and walked quickly out of the restaurant. +Philip sat on. He determined he would not move, but ten minutes afterwards +he jumped in a cab and followed her. He guessed that she would take a 'bus +to Victoria, so that they would arrive about the same time. He saw her on +the platform, escaped her notice, and went down to Herne Hill in the same +train. He did not want to speak to her till she was on the way home and +could not escape him. + +As soon as she had turned out of the main street, brightly lit and noisy +with traffic, he caught her up. + +"Mildred," he called. + +She walked on and would neither look at him nor answer. He repeated her +name. Then she stopped and faced him. + +"What d'you want? I saw you hanging about Victoria. Why don't you leave me +alone?" + +"I'm awfully sorry. Won't you make it up?" + +"No, I'm sick of your temper and your jealousy. I don't care for you, I +never have cared for you, and I never shall care for you. I don't want to +have anything more to do with you." + +She walked on quickly, and he had to hurry to keep up with her. + +"You never make allowances for me," he said. "It's all very well to be +jolly and amiable when you're indifferent to anyone. It's very hard when +you're as much in love as I am. Have mercy on me. I don't mind that you +don't care for me. After all you can't help it. I only want you to let me +love you." + +She walked on, refusing to speak, and Philip saw with agony that they had +only a few hundred yards to go before they reached her house. He abased +himself. He poured out an incoherent story of love and penitence. + +"If you'll only forgive me this time I promise you you'll never have to +complain of me in future. You can go out with whoever you choose. I'll be +only too glad if you'll come with me when you've got nothing better to +do." + +She stopped again, for they had reached the corner at which he always left +her. + +"Now you can take yourself off. I won't have you coming up to the door." + +"I won't go till you say you'll forgive me." + +"I'm sick and tired of the whole thing." + +He hesitated a moment, for he had an instinct that he could say something +that would move her. It made him feel almost sick to utter the words. + +"It is cruel, I have so much to put up with. You don't know what it is to +be a cripple. Of course you don't like me. I can't expect you to." + +"Philip, I didn't mean that," she answered quickly, with a sudden break of +pity in her voice. "You know it's not true." + +He was beginning to act now, and his voice was husky and low. + +"Oh, I've felt it," he said. + +She took his hand and looked at him, and her own eyes were filled with +tears. + +"I promise you it never made any difference to me. I never thought about +it after the first day or two." + +He kept a gloomy, tragic silence. He wanted her to think he was overcome +with emotion. + +"You know I like you awfully, Philip. Only you are so trying sometimes. +Let's make it up." + +She put up her lips to his, and with a sigh of relief he kissed her. + +"Now are you happy again?" she asked. + +"Madly" + +She bade him good-night and hurried down the road. Next day he took her in +a little watch with a brooch to pin on her dress. She had been hankering +for it. + +But three or four days later, when she brought him his tea, Mildred said +to him: + +"You remember what you promised the other night? You mean to keep that, +don't you?" + +"Yes." + +He knew exactly what she meant and was prepared for her next words. + +"Because I'm going out with that gentleman I told you about tonight." + +"All right. I hope you'll enjoy yourself." + +"You don't mind, do you?" + +He had himself now under excellent control. + +"I don't like it," he smiled, "but I'm not going to make myself more +disagreeable than I can help." + +She was excited over the outing and talked about it willingly. Philip +wondered whether she did so in order to pain him or merely because she was +callous. He was in the habit of condoning her cruelty by the thought of +her stupidity. She had not the brains to see when she was wounding him. + +"It's not much fun to be in love with a girl who has no imagination and no +sense of humour," he thought, as he listened. + +But the want of these things excused her. He felt that if he had not +realised this he could never forgive her for the pain she caused him. + +"He's got seats for the Tivoli," she said. "He gave me my choice and I +chose that. And we're going to dine at the Cafe Royal. He says it's the +most expensive place in London." + +"He's a gentleman in every sense of the word," thought Philip, but he +clenched his teeth to prevent himself from uttering a syllable. + +Philip went to the Tivoli and saw Mildred with her companion, a +smooth-faced young man with sleek hair and the spruce look of a commercial +traveller, sitting in the second row of the stalls. Mildred wore a black +picture hat with ostrich feathers in it, which became her well. She was +listening to her host with that quiet smile which Philip knew; she had no +vivacity of expression, and it required broad farce to excite her +laughter; but Philip could see that she was interested and amused. He +thought to himself bitterly that her companion, flashy and jovial, exactly +suited her. Her sluggish temperament made her appreciate noisy people. +Philip had a passion for discussion, but no talent for small-talk. He +admired the easy drollery of which some of his friends were masters, +Lawson for instance, and his sense of inferiority made him shy and +awkward. The things which interested him bored Mildred. She expected men +to talk about football and racing, and he knew nothing of either. He did +not know the catchwords which only need be said to excite a laugh. + +Printed matter had always been a fetish to Philip, and now, in order to +make himself more interesting, he read industriously The Sporting Times. + + + +LXII + + +Philip did not surrender himself willingly to the passion that consumed +him. He knew that all things human are transitory and therefore that it +must cease one day or another. He looked forward to that day with eager +longing. Love was like a parasite in his heart, nourishing a hateful +existence on his life's blood; it absorbed his existence so intensely that +he could take pleasure in nothing else. He had been used to delight in the +grace of St. James' Park, and often he sat and looked at the branches of +a tree silhouetted against the sky, it was like a Japanese print; and he +found a continual magic in the beautiful Thames with its barges and its +wharfs; the changing sky of London had filled his soul with pleasant +fancies. But now beauty meant nothing to him. He was bored and restless +when he was not with Mildred. Sometimes he thought he would console his +sorrow by looking at pictures, but he walked through the National Gallery +like a sight-seer; and no picture called up in him a thrill of emotion. He +wondered if he could ever care again for all the things he had loved. He +had been devoted to reading, but now books were meaningless; and he spent +his spare hours in the smoking-room of the hospital club, turning over +innumerable periodicals. This love was a torment, and he resented bitterly +the subjugation in which it held him; he was a prisoner and he longed for +freedom. + +Sometimes he awoke in the morning and felt nothing; his soul leaped, for +he thought he was free; he loved no longer; but in a little while, as he +grew wide awake, the pain settled in his heart, and he knew that he was +not cured yet. Though he yearned for Mildred so madly he despised her. He +thought to himself that there could be no greater torture in the world +than at the same time to love and to contemn. + +Philip, burrowing as was his habit into the state of his feelings, +discussing with himself continually his condition, came to the conclusion +that he could only cure himself of his degrading passion by making Mildred +his mistress. It was sexual hunger that he suffered from, and if he could +satisfy this he might free himself from the intolerable chains that bound +him. He knew that Mildred did not care for him at all in that way. When he +kissed her passionately she withdrew herself from him with instinctive +distaste. She had no sensuality. Sometimes he had tried to make her +jealous by talking of adventures in Paris, but they did not interest her; +once or twice he had sat at other tables in the tea-shop and affected to +flirt with the waitress who attended them, but she was entirely +indifferent. He could see that it was no pretence on her part. + +"You didn't mind my not sitting at one of your tables this afternoon?" he +asked once, when he was walking to the station with her. "Yours seemed to +be all full." + +This was not a fact, but she did not contradict him. Even if his desertion +meant nothing to her he would have been grateful if she had pretended it +did. A reproach would have been balm to his soul. + +"I think it's silly of you to sit at the same table every day. You ought +to give the other girls a turn now and again." + +But the more he thought of it the more he was convinced that complete +surrender on her part was his only way to freedom. He was like a knight of +old, metamorphosed by magic spells, who sought the potions which should +restore him to his fair and proper form. Philip had only one hope. Mildred +greatly desired to go to Paris. To her, as to most English people, it was +the centre of gaiety and fashion: she had heard of the Magasin du Louvre, +where you could get the very latest thing for about half the price you had +to pay in London; a friend of hers had passed her honeymoon in Paris and +had spent all day at the Louvre; and she and her husband, my dear, they +never went to bed till six in the morning all the time they were there; +the Moulin Rouge and I don't know what all. Philip did not care that if +she yielded to his desires it would only be the unwilling price she paid +for the gratification of her wish. He did not care upon what terms he +satisfied his passion. He had even had a mad, melodramatic idea to drug +her. He had plied her with liquor in the hope of exciting her, but she had +no taste for wine; and though she liked him to order champagne because it +looked well, she never drank more than half a glass. She liked to leave +untouched a large glass filled to the brim. + +"It shows the waiters who you are," she said. + +Philip chose an opportunity when she seemed more than usually friendly. He +had an examination in anatomy at the end of March. Easter, which came a +week later, would give Mildred three whole days holiday. + +"I say, why don't you come over to Paris then?" he suggested. "We'd have +such a ripping time." + +"How could you? It would cost no end of money." + +Philip had thought of that. It would cost at least five-and-twenty pounds. +It was a large sum to him. He was willing to spend his last penny on her. + +"What does that matter? Say you'll come, darling." + +"What next, I should like to know. I can't see myself going away with a +man that I wasn't married to. You oughtn't to suggest such a thing." + +"What does it matter?" + +He enlarged on the glories of the Rue de la Paix and the garish splendour +of the Folies Bergeres. He described the Louvre and the Bon Marche. He +told her about the Cabaret du Neant, the Abbaye, and the various haunts to +which foreigners go. He painted in glowing colours the side of Paris which +he despised. He pressed her to come with him. + +"You know, you say you love me, but if you really loved me you'd want to +marry me. You've never asked me to marry you." + +"You know I can't afford it. After all, I'm in my first year, I shan't +earn a penny for six years." + +"Oh, I'm not blaming you. I wouldn't marry you if you went down on your +bended knees to me." + +He had thought of marriage more than once, but it was a step from which he +shrank. In Paris he had come by the opinion that marriage was a ridiculous +institution of the philistines. He knew also that a permanent tie would +ruin him. He had middle-class instincts, and it seemed a dreadful thing to +him to marry a waitress. A common wife would prevent him from getting a +decent practice. Besides, he had only just enough money to last him till +he was qualified; he could not keep a wife even if they arranged not to +have children. He thought of Cronshaw bound to a vulgar slattern, and he +shuddered with dismay. He foresaw what Mildred, with her genteel ideas +and her mean mind, would become: it was impossible for him to marry her. +But he decided only with his reason; he felt that he must have her +whatever happened; and if he could not get her without marrying her he +would do that; the future could look after itself. It might end in +disaster; he did not care. When he got hold of an idea it obsessed him, he +could think of nothing else, and he had a more than common power to +persuade himself of the reasonableness of what he wished to do. He found +himself overthrowing all the sensible arguments which had occurred to him +against marriage. Each day he found that he was more passionately devoted +to her; and his unsatisfied love became angry and resentful. + +"By George, if I marry her I'll make her pay for all the suffering I've +endured," he said to himself. + +At last he could bear the agony no longer. After dinner one evening in the +little restaurant in Soho, to which now they often went, he spoke to her. + +"I say, did you mean it the other day that you wouldn't marry me if I +asked you?" + +"Yes, why not?" + +"Because I can't live without you. I want you with me always. I've tried +to get over it and I can't. I never shall now. I want you to marry me." + +She had read too many novelettes not to know how to take such an offer. + +"I'm sure I'm very grateful to you, Philip. I'm very much flattered at +your proposal." + +"Oh, don't talk rot. You will marry me, won't you?" + +"D'you think we should be happy?" + +"No. But what does that matter?" + +The words were wrung out of him almost against his will. They surprised +her. + +"Well, you are a funny chap. Why d'you want to marry me then? The other +day you said you couldn't afford it." + +"I think I've got about fourteen hundred pounds left. Two can live just as +cheaply as one. That'll keep us till I'm qualified and have got through +with my hospital appointments, and then I can get an assistantship." + +"It means you wouldn't be able to earn anything for six years. We should +have about four pounds a week to live on till then, shouldn't we?" + +"Not much more than three. There are all my fees to pay." + +"And what would you get as an assistant?" + +"Three pounds a week." + +"D'you mean to say you have to work all that time and spend a small +fortune just to earn three pounds a week at the end of it? I don't see +that I should be any better off than I am now." + +He was silent for a moment. + +"D'you mean to say you won't marry me?" he asked hoarsely. "Does my great +love mean nothing to you at all?" + +"One has to think of oneself in those things, don't one? I shouldn't mind +marrying, but I don't want to marry if I'm going to be no better off than +what I am now. I don't see the use of it." + +"If you cared for me you wouldn't think of all that." + +"P'raps not." + +He was silent. He drank a glass of wine in order to get rid of the choking +in his throat. + +"Look at that girl who's just going out," said Mildred. "She got them furs +at the Bon Marche at Brixton. I saw them in the window last time I went +down there." + +Philip smiled grimly. + +"What are you laughing at?" she asked. "It's true. And I said to my aunt +at the time, I wouldn't buy anything that had been in the window like +that, for everyone to know how much you paid for it." + +"I can't understand you. You make me frightfully unhappy, and in the next +breath you talk rot that has nothing to do with what we're speaking +about." + +"You are nasty to me," she answered, aggrieved. "I can't help noticing +those furs, because I said to my aunt..." + +"I don't care a damn what you said to your aunt," he interrupted +impatiently. + +"I wish you wouldn't use bad language when you speak to me Philip. You +know I don't like it." + +Philip smiled a little, but his eyes were wild. He was silent for a while. +He looked at her sullenly. He hated, despised, and loved her. + +"If I had an ounce of sense I'd never see you again," he said at last. "If +you only knew how heartily I despise myself for loving you!" + +"That's not a very nice thing to say to me," she replied sulkily. + +"It isn't," he laughed. "Let's go to the Pavilion." + +"That's what's so funny in you, you start laughing just when one doesn't +expect you to. And if I make you that unhappy why d'you want to take me to +the Pavilion? I'm quite ready to go home." + +"Merely because I'm less unhappy with you than away from you." + +"I should like to know what you really think of me." + +He laughed outright. + +"My dear, if you did you'd never speak to me again." + + + +LXIII + + +Philip did not pass the examination in anatomy at the end of March. He and +Dunsford had worked at the subject together on Philip's skeleton, asking +each other questions till both knew by heart every attachment and the +meaning of every nodule and groove on the human bones; but in the +examination room Philip was seized with panic, and failed to give right +answers to questions from a sudden fear that they might be wrong. He knew +he was ploughed and did not even trouble to go up to the building next day +to see whether his number was up. The second failure put him definitely +among the incompetent and idle men of his year. + +He did not care much. He had other things to think of. He told himself +that Mildred must have senses like anybody else, it was only a question of +awakening them; he had theories about woman, the rip at heart, and thought +that there must come a time with everyone when she would yield to +persistence. It was a question of watching for the opportunity, keeping +his temper, wearing her down with small attentions, taking advantage of +the physical exhaustion which opened the heart to tenderness, making +himself a refuge from the petty vexations of her work. He talked to her of +the relations between his friends in Paris and the fair ladies they +admired. The life he described had a charm, an easy gaiety, in which was +no grossness. Weaving into his own recollections the adventures of Mimi +and Rodolphe, of Musette and the rest of them, he poured into Mildred's +ears a story of poverty made picturesque by song and laughter, of lawless +love made romantic by beauty and youth. He never attacked her prejudices +directly, but sought to combat them by the suggestion that they were +suburban. He never let himself be disturbed by her inattention, nor +irritated by her indifference. He thought he had bored her. By an effort +he made himself affable and entertaining; he never let himself be angry, +he never asked for anything, he never complained, he never scolded. When +she made engagements and broke them, he met her next day with a smiling +face; when she excused herself, he said it did not matter. He never let +her see that she pained him. He understood that his passionate grief had +wearied her, and he took care to hide every sentiment which could be in +the least degree troublesome. He was heroic. + +Though she never mentioned the change, for she did not take any conscious +notice of it, it affected her nevertheless: she became more confidential +with him; she took her little grievances to him, and she always had some +grievance against the manageress of the shop, one of her fellow +waitresses, or her aunt; she was talkative enough now, and though she +never said anything that was not trivial Philip was never tired of +listening to her. + +"I like you when you don't want to make love to me," she told him once. + +"That's flattering for me," he laughed. + +She did not realise how her words made his heart sink nor what an effort +it needed for him to answer so lightly. + +"Oh, I don't mind your kissing me now and then. It doesn't hurt me and it +gives you pleasure." + +Occasionally she went so far as to ask him to take her out to dinner, and +the offer, coming from her, filled him with rapture. + +"I wouldn't do it to anyone else," she said, by way of apology. "But I +know I can with you." + +"You couldn't give me greater pleasure," he smiled. + +She asked him to give her something to eat one evening towards the end of +April. + +"All right," he said. "Where would you like to go afterwards?" + +"Oh, don't let's go anywhere. Let's just sit and talk. You don't mind, do +you?" + +"Rather not." + +He thought she must be beginning to care for him. Three months before the +thought of an evening spent in conversation would have bored her to death. +It was a fine day, and the spring added to Philip's high spirits. He was +content with very little now. + +"I say, won't it be ripping when the summer comes along," he said, as they +drove along on the top of a 'bus to Soho--she had herself suggested that +they should not be so extravagant as to go by cab. "We shall be able to +spend every Sunday on the river. We'll take our luncheon in a basket." + +She smiled slightly, and he was encouraged to take her hand. She did not +withdraw it. + +"I really think you're beginning to like me a bit," he smiled. + +"You ARE silly, you know I like you, or else I shouldn't be here, +should I?" + +They were old customers at the little restaurant in Soho by now, and the +patronne gave them a smile as they came in. The waiter was obsequious. + +"Let me order the dinner tonight," said Mildred. + +Philip, thinking her more enchanting than ever, gave her the menu, and she +chose her favourite dishes. The range was small, and they had eaten many +times all that the restaurant could provide. Philip was gay. He looked +into her eyes, and he dwelt on every perfection of her pale cheek. When +they had finished Mildred by way of exception took a cigarette. She smoked +very seldom. + +"I don't like to see a lady smoking," she said. + +She hesitated a moment and then spoke. + +"Were you surprised, my asking you to take me out and give me a bit of +dinner tonight?" + +"I was delighted." + +"I've got something to say to you, Philip." + +He looked at her quickly, his heart sank, but he had trained himself well. + +"Well, fire away," he said, smiling. + +"You're not going to be silly about it, are you? The fact is I'm going to +get married." + +"Are you?" said Philip. + +He could think of nothing else to say. He had considered the possibility +often and had imagined to himself what he would do and say. He had +suffered agonies when he thought of the despair he would suffer, he had +thought of suicide, of the mad passion of anger that would seize him; but +perhaps he had too completely anticipated the emotion he would experience, +so that now he felt merely exhausted. He felt as one does in a serious +illness when the vitality is so low that one is indifferent to the issue +and wants only to be left alone. + +"You see, I'm getting on," she said. "I'm twenty-four and it's time I +settled down." + +He was silent. He looked at the patronne sitting behind the counter, and +his eye dwelt on a red feather one of the diners wore in her hat. Mildred +was nettled. + +"You might congratulate me," she said. + +"I might, mightn't I? I can hardly believe it's true. I've dreamt it so +often. It rather tickles me that I should have been so jolly glad that you +asked me to take you out to dinner. Whom are you going to marry?" + +"Miller," she answered, with a slight blush. + +"Miller?" cried Philip, astounded. "But you've not seen him for months." + +"He came in to lunch one day last week and asked me then. He's earning +very good money. He makes seven pounds a week now and he's got prospects." + +Philip was silent again. He remembered that she had always liked Miller; +he amused her; there was in his foreign birth an exotic charm which she +felt unconsciously. + +"I suppose it was inevitable," he said at last. "You were bound to accept +the highest bidder. When are you going to marry?" + +"On Saturday next. I have given notice." + +Philip felt a sudden pang. + +"As soon as that?" + +"We're going to be married at a registry office. Emil prefers it." + +Philip felt dreadfully tired. He wanted to get away from her. He thought +he would go straight to bed. He called for the bill. + +"I'll put you in a cab and send you down to Victoria. I daresay you won't +have to wait long for a train." + +"Won't you come with me?" + +"I think I'd rather not if you don't mind." + +"It's just as you please," she answered haughtily. "I suppose I shall see +you at tea-time tomorrow?" + +"No, I think we'd better make a full stop now. I don't see why I should go +on making myself unhappy. I've paid the cab." + +He nodded to her and forced a smile on his lips, then jumped on a 'bus and +made his way home. He smoked a pipe before he went to bed, but he could +hardly keep his eyes open. He suffered no pain. He fell into a heavy sleep +almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. + + + +LXIV + + +But about three in the morning Philip awoke and could not sleep again. He +began to think of Mildred. He tried not to, but could not help himself. He +repeated to himself the same thing time after time till his brain reeled. +It was inevitable that she should marry: life was hard for a girl who had +to earn her own living; and if she found someone who could give her a +comfortable home she should not be blamed if she accepted. Philip +acknowledged that from her point of view it would have been madness to +marry him: only love could have made such poverty bearable, and she did +not love him. It was no fault of hers; it was a fact that must be accepted +like any other. Philip tried to reason with himself. He told himself that +deep down in his heart was mortified pride; his passion had begun in +wounded vanity, and it was this at bottom which caused now a great part of +his wretchedness. He despised himself as much as he despised her. Then he +made plans for the future, the same plans over and over again, interrupted +by recollections of kisses on her soft pale cheek and by the sound of her +voice with its trailing accent; he had a great deal of work to do, since +in the summer he was taking chemistry as well as the two examinations he +had failed in. He had separated himself from his friends at the hospital, +but now he wanted companionship. There was one happy occurrence: Hayward +a fortnight before had written to say that he was passing through London +and had asked him to dinner; but Philip, unwilling to be bothered, had +refused. He was coming back for the season, and Philip made up his mind to +write to him. + +He was thankful when eight o'clock struck and he could get up. He was pale +and weary. But when he had bathed, dressed, and had breakfast, he felt +himself joined up again with the world at large; and his pain was a little +easier to bear. He did not feel like going to lectures that morning, but +went instead to the Army and Navy Stores to buy Mildred a wedding-present. +After much wavering he settled on a dressing-bag. It cost twenty pounds, +which was much more than he could afford, but it was showy and vulgar: he +knew she would be aware exactly how much it cost; he got a melancholy +satisfaction in choosing a gift which would give her pleasure and at the +same time indicate for himself the contempt he had for her. + +Philip had looked forward with apprehension to the day on which Mildred +was to be married; he was expecting an intolerable anguish; and it was +with relief that he got a letter from Hayward on Saturday morning to say +that he was coming up early on that very day and would fetch Philip to +help him to find rooms. Philip, anxious to be distracted, looked up a +time-table and discovered the only train Hayward was likely to come by; he +went to meet him, and the reunion of the friends was enthusiastic. They +left the luggage at the station, and set off gaily. Hayward +characteristically proposed that first of all they should go for an hour +to the National Gallery; he had not seen pictures for some time, and he +stated that it needed a glimpse to set him in tune with life. Philip for +months had had no one with whom he could talk of art and books. Since the +Paris days Hayward had immersed himself in the modern French versifiers, +and, such a plethora of poets is there in France, he had several new +geniuses to tell Philip about. They walked through the gallery pointing +out to one another their favourite pictures; one subject led to another; +they talked excitedly. The sun was shining and the air was warm. + +"Let's go and sit in the Park," said Hayward. "We'll look for rooms after +luncheon." + +The spring was pleasant there. It was a day upon which one felt it good +merely to live. The young green of the trees was exquisite against the +sky; and the sky, pale and blue, was dappled with little white clouds. At +the end of the ornamental water was the gray mass of the Horse Guards. The +ordered elegance of the scene had the charm of an eighteenth-century +picture. It reminded you not of Watteau, whose landscapes are so idyllic +that they recall only the woodland glens seen in dreams, but of the more +prosaic Jean-Baptiste Pater. Philip's heart was filled with lightness. He +realised, what he had only read before, that art (for there was art in the +manner in which he looked upon nature) might liberate the soul from pain. + +They went to an Italian restaurant for luncheon and ordered themselves a +fiaschetto of Chianti. Lingering over the meal they talked on. They +reminded one another of the people they had known at Heidelberg, they +spoke of Philip's friends in Paris, they talked of books, pictures, +morals, life; and suddenly Philip heard a clock strike three. He +remembered that by this time Mildred was married. He felt a sort of stitch +in his heart, and for a minute or two he could not hear what Hayward was +saying. But he filled his glass with Chianti. He was unaccustomed to +alcohol and it had gone to his head. For the time at all events he was +free from care. His quick brain had lain idle for so many months that he +was intoxicated now with conversation. He was thankful to have someone to +talk to who would interest himself in the things that interested him. + +"I say don't let's waste this beautiful day in looking for rooms. I'll put +you up tonight. You can look for rooms tomorrow or Monday." + +"All right. What shall we do?" answered Hayward. + +"Let's get on a penny steamboat and go down to Greenwich." + +The idea appealed to Hayward, and they jumped into a cab which took them +to Westminster Bridge. They got on the steamboat just as she was starting. +Presently Philip, a smile on his lips, spoke. + +"I remember when first I went to Paris, Clutton, I think it was, gave a +long discourse on the subject that beauty is put into things by painters +and poets. They create beauty. In themselves there is nothing to choose +between the Campanile of Giotto and a factory chimney. And then beautiful +things grow rich with the emotion that they have aroused in succeeding +generations. That is why old things are more beautiful than modern. The +Ode on a Grecian Urn is more lovely now than when it was written, +because for a hundred years lovers have read it and the sick at heart +taken comfort in its lines." + +Philip left Hayward to infer what in the passing scene had suggested these +words to him, and it was a delight to know that he could safely leave the +inference. It was in sudden reaction from the life he had been leading for +so long that he was now deeply affected. The delicate iridescence of the +London air gave the softness of a pastel to the gray stone of the +buildings; and in the wharfs and storehouses there was the severity of +grace of a Japanese print. They went further down; and the splendid +channel, a symbol of the great empire, broadened, and it was crowded with +traffic; Philip thought of the painters and the poets who had made all +these things so beautiful, and his heart was filled with gratitude. They +came to the Pool of London, and who can describe its majesty? The +imagination thrills, and Heaven knows what figures people still its broad +stream, Doctor Johnson with Boswell by his side, an old Pepys going on +board a man-o'-war: the pageant of English history, and romance, and high +adventure. Philip turned to Hayward with shining eyes. + +"Dear Charles Dickens," he murmured, smiling a little at his own emotion. + +"Aren't you rather sorry you chucked painting?" asked Hayward. + +"No." + +"I suppose you like doctoring?" + +"No, I hate it, but there was nothing else to do. The drudgery of the +first two years is awful, and unfortunately I haven't got the scientific +temperament." + +"Well, you can't go on changing professions." + +"Oh, no. I'm going to stick to this. I think I shall like it better when +I get into the wards. I have an idea that I'm more interested in people +than in anything else in the world. And as far as I can see, it's the only +profession in which you have your freedom. You carry your knowledge in +your head; with a box of instruments and a few drugs you can make your +living anywhere." + +"Aren't you going to take a practice then?" + +"Not for a good long time at any rate," Philip answered. "As soon as I've +got through my hospital appointments I shall get a ship; I want to go to +the East--the Malay Archipelago, Siam, China, and all that sort of +thing--and then I shall take odd jobs. Something always comes along, +cholera duty in India and things like that. I want to go from place to +place. I want to see the world. The only way a poor man can do that is by +going in for the medical." + +They came to Greenwich then. The noble building of Inigo Jones faced the +river grandly. + +"I say, look, that must be the place where Poor Jack dived into the mud +for pennies," said Philip. + +They wandered in the park. Ragged children were playing in it, and it was +noisy with their cries: here and there old seamen were basking in the sun. +There was an air of a hundred years ago. + +"It seems a pity you wasted two years in Paris," said Hayward. + +"Waste? Look at the movement of that child, look at the pattern which the +sun makes on the ground, shining through the trees, look at that sky--why, +I should never have seen that sky if I hadn't been to Paris." + +Hayward thought that Philip choked a sob, and he looked at him with +astonishment. + +"What's the matter with you?" + +"Nothing. I'm sorry to be so damned emotional, but for six months I've +been starved for beauty." + +"You used to be so matter of fact. It's very interesting to hear you say +that." + +"Damn it all, I don't want to be interesting," laughed Philip. "Let's go +and have a stodgy tea." + + + +LXV + + +Hayward's visit did Philip a great deal of good. Each day his thoughts +dwelt less on Mildred. He looked back upon the past with disgust. He could +not understand how he had submitted to the dishonour of such a love; and +when he thought of Mildred it was with angry hatred, because she had +submitted him to so much humiliation. His imagination presented her to him +now with her defects of person and manner exaggerated, so that he +shuddered at the thought of having been connected with her. + +"It just shows how damned weak I am," he said to himself. The adventure +was like a blunder that one had committed at a party so horrible that one +felt nothing could be done to excuse it: the only remedy was to forget. +His horror at the degradation he had suffered helped him. He was like a +snake casting its skin and he looked upon the old covering with nausea. He +exulted in the possession of himself once more; he realised how much of +the delight of the world he had lost when he was absorbed in that madness +which they called love; he had had enough of it; he did not want to be in +love any more if love was that. Philip told Hayward something of what he +had gone through. + +"Wasn't it Sophocles," he asked, "who prayed for the time when he would be +delivered from the wild beast of passion that devoured his heart-strings?" + +Philip seemed really to be born again. He breathed the circumambient air +as though he had never breathed it before, and he took a child's pleasure +in all the facts of the world. He called his period of insanity six +months' hard labour. + +Hayward had only been settled in London a few days when Philip received +from Blackstable, where it had been sent, a card for a private view at +some picture gallery. He took Hayward, and, on looking at the catalogue, +saw that Lawson had a picture in it. + +"I suppose he sent the card," said Philip. "Let's go and find him, he's +sure to be in front of his picture." + +This, a profile of Ruth Chalice, was tucked away in a corner, and Lawson +was not far from it. He looked a little lost, in his large soft hat and +loose, pale clothes, amongst the fashionable throng that had gathered for +the private view. He greeted Philip with enthusiasm, and with his usual +volubility told him that he had come to live in London, Ruth Chalice was +a hussy, he had taken a studio, Paris was played out, he had a commission +for a portrait, and they'd better dine together and have a good old talk. +Philip reminded him of his acquaintance with Hayward, and was entertained +to see that Lawson was slightly awed by Hayward's elegant clothes and +grand manner. They sat upon him better than they had done in the shabby +little studio which Lawson and Philip had shared. + +At dinner Lawson went on with his news. Flanagan had gone back to America. +Clutton had disappeared. He had come to the conclusion that a man had no +chance of doing anything so long as he was in contact with art and +artists: the only thing was to get right away. To make the step easier he +had quarrelled with all his friends in Paris. He developed a talent for +telling them home truths, which made them bear with fortitude his +declaration that he had done with that city and was settling in Gerona, a +little town in the north of Spain which had attracted him when he saw it +from the train on his way to Barcelona. He was living there now alone. + +"I wonder if he'll ever do any good," said Philip. + +He was interested in the human side of that struggle to express something +which was so obscure in the man's mind that he was become morbid and +querulous. Philip felt vaguely that he was himself in the same case, but +with him it was the conduct of his life as a whole that perplexed him. +That was his means of self-expression, and what he must do with it was not +clear. But he had no time to continue with this train of thought, for +Lawson poured out a frank recital of his affair with Ruth Chalice. She had +left him for a young student who had just come from England, and was +behaving in a scandalous fashion. Lawson really thought someone ought to +step in and save the young man. She would ruin him. Philip gathered that +Lawson's chief grievance was that the rupture had come in the middle of a +portrait he was painting. + +"Women have no real feeling for art," he said. "They only pretend they +have." But he finished philosophically enough: "However, I got four +portraits out of her, and I'm not sure if the last I was working on would +ever have been a success." + +Philip envied the easy way in which the painter managed his love affairs. +He had passed eighteen months pleasantly enough, had got an excellent +model for nothing, and had parted from her at the end with no great pang. + +"And what about Cronshaw?" asked Philip. + +"Oh, he's done for," answered Lawson, with the cheerful callousness of his +youth. "He'll be dead in six months. He got pneumonia last winter. He was +in the English hospital for seven weeks, and when he came out they told +him his only chance was to give up liquor." + +"Poor devil," smiled the abstemious Philip. + +"He kept off for a bit. He used to go to the Lilas all the same, he +couldn't keep away from that, but he used to drink hot milk, avec de la +fleur d'oranger, and he was damned dull." + +"I take it you did not conceal the fact from him." + +"Oh, he knew it himself. A little while ago he started on whiskey again. +He said he was too old to turn over any new leaves. He would rather be +happy for six months and die at the end of it than linger on for five +years. And then I think he's been awfully hard up lately. You see, he +didn't earn anything while he was ill, and the slut he lives with has been +giving him a rotten time." + +"I remember, the first time I saw him I admired him awfully," said Philip. +"I thought he was wonderful. It is sickening that vulgar, middle-class +virtue should pay." + +"Of course he was a rotter. He was bound to end in the gutter sooner or +later," said Lawson. + +Philip was hurt because Lawson would not see the pity of it. Of course it +was cause and effect, but in the necessity with which one follows the +other lay all tragedy of life. + +"Oh, I'd forgotten," said Lawson. "Just after you left he sent round a +present for you. I thought you'd be coming back and I didn't bother about +it, and then I didn't think it worth sending on; but it'll come over to +London with the rest of my things, and you can come to my studio one day +and fetch it away if you want it." + +"You haven't told me what it is yet." + +"Oh, it's only a ragged little bit of carpet. I shouldn't think it's worth +anything. I asked him one day what the devil he'd sent the filthy thing +for. He told me he'd seen it in a shop in the Rue de Rennes and bought it +for fifteen francs. It appears to be a Persian rug. He said you'd asked +him the meaning of life and that was the answer. But he was very drunk." + +Philip laughed. + +"Oh yes, I know. I'll take it. It was a favourite wheeze of his. He said +I must find out for myself, or else the answer meant nothing." + + + +LXVI + + +Philip worked well and easily; he had a good deal to do, since he was +taking in July the three parts of the First Conjoint examination, two of +which he had failed in before; but he found life pleasant. He made a new +friend. Lawson, on the lookout for models, had discovered a girl who was +understudying at one of the theatres, and in order to induce her to sit to +him arranged a little luncheon-party one Sunday. She brought a chaperon +with her; and to her Philip, asked to make a fourth, was instructed to +confine his attentions. He found this easy, since she turned out to be an +agreeable chatterbox with an amusing tongue. She asked Philip to go and +see her; she had rooms in Vincent Square, and was always in to tea at five +o'clock; he went, was delighted with his welcome, and went again. Mrs. +Nesbit was not more than twenty-five, very small, with a pleasant, ugly +face; she had very bright eyes, high cheekbones, and a large mouth: the +excessive contrasts of her colouring reminded one of a portrait by one of +the modern French painters; her skin was very white, her cheeks were very +red, her thick eyebrows, her hair, were very black. The effect was odd, a +little unnatural, but far from unpleasing. She was separated from her +husband and earned her living and her child's by writing penny novelettes. +There were one or two publishers who made a specialty of that sort of +thing, and she had as much work as she could do. It was ill-paid, she +received fifteen pounds for a story of thirty thousand words; but she was +satisfied. + +"After all, it only costs the reader twopence," she said, "and they like +the same thing over and over again. I just change the names and that's +all. When I'm bored I think of the washing and the rent and clothes for +baby, and I go on again." + +Besides, she walked on at various theatres where they wanted supers and +earned by this when in work from sixteen shillings to a guinea a week. At +the end of her day she was so tired that she slept like a top. She made +the best of her difficult lot. Her keen sense of humour enabled her to get +amusement out of every vexatious circumstance. Sometimes things went +wrong, and she found herself with no money at all; then her trifling +possessions found their way to a pawnshop in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, and +she ate bread and butter till things grew brighter. She never lost her +cheerfulness. + +Philip was interested in her shiftless life, and she made him laugh with +the fantastic narration of her struggles. He asked her why she did not try +her hand at literary work of a better sort, but she knew that she had no +talent, and the abominable stuff she turned out by the thousand words was +not only tolerably paid, but was the best she could do. She had nothing to +look forward to but a continuation of the life she led. She seemed to have +no relations, and her friends were as poor as herself. + +"I don't think of the future," she said. "As long as I have enough money +for three weeks' rent and a pound or two over for food I never bother. +Life wouldn't be worth living if I worried over the future as well as the +present. When things are at their worst I find something always happens." + +Soon Philip grew in the habit of going in to tea with her every day, and +so that his visits might not embarrass her he took in a cake or a pound of +butter or some tea. They started to call one another by their Christian +names. Feminine sympathy was new to him, and he delighted in someone who +gave a willing ear to all his troubles. The hours went quickly. He did not +hide his admiration for her. She was a delightful companion. He could not +help comparing her with Mildred; and he contrasted with the one's +obstinate stupidity, which refused interest to everything she did not +know, the other's quick appreciation and ready intelligence. His heart +sank when he thought that he might have been tied for life to such a woman +as Mildred. One evening he told Norah the whole story of his love. It was +not one to give him much reason for self-esteem, and it was very pleasant +to receive such charming sympathy. + +"I think you're well out of it," she said, when he had finished. + +She had a funny way at times of holding her head on one side like an +Aberdeen puppy. She was sitting in an upright chair, sewing, for she had +no time to do nothing, and Philip had made himself comfortable at her +feet. + +"I can't tell you how heartily thankful I am it's all over," he sighed. + +"Poor thing, you must have had a rotten time," she murmured, and by way of +showing her sympathy put her hand on his shoulder. + +He took it and kissed it, but she withdrew it quickly. + +"Why did you do that?" she asked, with a blush. + +"Have you any objection?" + +She looked at him for a moment with twinkling eyes, and she smiled. + +"No," she said. + +He got up on his knees and faced her. She looked into his eyes steadily, +and her large mouth trembled with a smile. + +"Well?" she said. + +"You know, you are a ripper. I'm so grateful to you for being nice to me. +I like you so much." + +"Don't be idiotic," she said. + +Philip took hold of her elbows and drew her towards him. She made no +resistance, but bent forward a little, and he kissed her red lips. + +"Why did you do that?" she asked again. + +"Because it's comfortable." + +She did not answer, but a tender look came into her eyes, and she passed +her hand softly over his hair. + +"You know, it's awfully silly of you to behave like this. We were such +good friends. It would be so jolly to leave it at that." + +"If you really want to appeal to my better nature," replied Philip, +"you'll do well not to stroke my cheek while you're doing it." + +She gave a little chuckle, but she did not stop. + +"It's very wrong of me, isn't it?" she said. + +Philip, surprised and a little amused, looked into her eyes, and as he +looked he saw them soften and grow liquid, and there was an expression in +them that enchanted him. His heart was suddenly stirred, and tears came to +his eyes. + +"Norah, you're not fond of me, are you?" he asked, incredulously. + +"You clever boy, you ask such stupid questions." + +"Oh, my dear, it never struck me that you could be." + +He flung his arms round her and kissed her, while she, laughing, blushing, +and crying, surrendered herself willingly to his embrace. + +Presently he released her and sitting back on his heels looked at her +curiously. + +"Well, I'm blowed!" he said. + +"Why?" + +"I'm so surprised." + +"And pleased?" + +"Delighted," he cried with all his heart, "and so proud and so happy and +so grateful." + +He took her hands and covered them with kisses. This was the beginning for +Philip of a happiness which seemed both solid and durable. They became +lovers but remained friends. There was in Norah a maternal instinct which +received satisfaction in her love for Philip; she wanted someone to pet, +and scold, and make a fuss of; she had a domestic temperament and found +pleasure in looking after his health and his linen. She pitied his +deformity, over which he was so sensitive, and her pity expressed itself +instinctively in tenderness. She was young, strong, and healthy, and it +seemed quite natural to her to give her love. She had high spirits and a +merry soul. She liked Philip because he laughed with her at all the +amusing things in life that caught her fancy, and above all she liked him +because he was he. + +When she told him this he answered gaily: + +"Nonsense. You like me because I'm a silent person and never want to get +a word in." + +Philip did not love her at all. He was extremely fond of her, glad to be +with her, amused and interested by her conversation. She restored his +belief in himself and put healing ointments, as it were, on all the +bruises of his soul. He was immensely flattered that she cared for him. He +admired her courage, her optimism, her impudent defiance of fate; she had +a little philosophy of her own, ingenuous and practical. + +"You know, I don't believe in churches and parsons and all that," she +said, "but I believe in God, and I don't believe He minds much about what +you do as long as you keep your end up and help a lame dog over a stile +when you can. And I think people on the whole are very nice, and I'm sorry +for those who aren't." + +"And what about afterwards?" asked Philip. + +"Oh, well, I don't know for certain, you know," she smiled, "but I hope +for the best. And anyhow there'll be no rent to pay and no novelettes to +write." + +She had a feminine gift for delicate flattery. She thought that Philip did +a brave thing when he left Paris because he was conscious he could not be +a great artist; and he was enchanted when she expressed enthusiastic +admiration for him. He had never been quite certain whether this action +indicated courage or infirmity of purpose. It was delightful to realise +that she considered it heroic. She ventured to tackle him on a subject +which his friends instinctively avoided. + +"It's very silly of you to be so sensitive about your club-foot," she +said. She saw him bush darkly, but went on. "You know, people don't think +about it nearly as much as you do. They notice it the first time they see +you, and then they forget about it." + +He would not answer. + +"You're not angry with me, are you?" + +"No." + +She put her arm round his neck. + +"You know, I only speak about it because I love you. I don't want it to +make you unhappy." + +"I think you can say anything you choose to me," he answered, smiling. "I +wish I could do something to show you how grateful I am to you." + +She took him in hand in other ways. She would not let him be bearish and +laughed at him when he was out of temper. She made him more urbane. + +"You can make me do anything you like," he said to her once. + +"D'you mind?" + +"No, I want to do what you like." + +He had the sense to realise his happiness. It seemed to him that she gave +him all that a wife could, and he preserved his freedom; she was the most +charming friend he had ever had, with a sympathy that he had never found +in a man. The sexual relationship was no more than the strongest link in +their friendship. It completed it, but was not essential. And because +Philip's appetites were satisfied, he became more equable and easier to +live with. He felt in complete possession of himself. He thought sometimes +of the winter, during which he had been obsessed by a hideous passion, and +he was filled with loathing for Mildred and with horror of himself. + +His examinations were approaching, and Norah was as interested in them as +he. He was flattered and touched by her eagerness. She made him promise to +come at once and tell her the results. He passed the three parts this time +without mishap, and when he went to tell her she burst into tears. + +"Oh, I'm so glad, I was so anxious." + +"You silly little thing," he laughed, but he was choking. + +No one could help being pleased with the way she took it. + +"And what are you going to do now?" she asked. + +"I can take a holiday with a clear conscience. I have no work to do till +the winter session begins in October." + +"I suppose you'll go down to your uncle's at Blackstable?" + +"You suppose quite wrong. I'm going to stay in London and play with you." + +"I'd rather you went away." + +"Why? Are you tired of me?" + +She laughed and put her hands on his shoulders. + +"Because you've been working hard, and you look utterly washed out. You +want some fresh air and a rest. Please go." + +He did not answer for a moment. He looked at her with loving eyes. + +"You know, I'd never believe it of anyone but you. You're only thinking of +my good. I wonder what you see in me." + +"Will you give me a good character with my month's notice?" she laughed +gaily. + +"I'll say that you're thoughtful and kind, and you're not exacting; you +never worry, you're not troublesome, and you're easy to please." + +"All that's nonsense," she said, "but I'll tell you one thing: I'm one of +the few persons I ever met who are able to learn from experience." + + + +LXVII + + +Philip looked forward to his return to London with impatience. During the +two months he spent at Blackstable Norah wrote to him frequently, long +letters in a bold, large hand, in which with cheerful humour she described +the little events of the daily round, the domestic troubles of her +landlady, rich food for laughter, the comic vexations of her +rehearsals--she was walking on in an important spectacle at one of the +London theatres--and her odd adventures with the publishers of novelettes. +Philip read a great deal, bathed, played tennis, and sailed. At the +beginning of October he settled down in London to work for the Second +Conjoint examination. He was eager to pass it, since that ended the +drudgery of the curriculum; after it was done with the student became an +out-patients' clerk, and was brought in contact with men and women as well +as with text-books. Philip saw Norah every day. + +Lawson had been spending the summer at Poole, and had a number of sketches +to show of the harbour and of the beach. He had a couple of commissions +for portraits and proposed to stay in London till the bad light drove him +away. Hayward, in London too, intended to spend the winter abroad, but +remained week after week from sheer inability to make up his mind to go. +Hayward had run to fat during the last two or three years--it was five +years since Philip first met him in Heidelberg--and he was prematurely +bald. He was very sensitive about it and wore his hair long to conceal the +unsightly patch on the crown of his head. His only consolation was that +his brow was now very noble. His blue eyes had lost their colour; they had +a listless droop; and his mouth, losing the fulness of youth, was weak and +pale. He still talked vaguely of the things he was going to do in the +future, but with less conviction; and he was conscious that his friends no +longer believed in him: when he had drank two or three glasses of whiskey +he was inclined to be elegiac. + +"I'm a failure," he murmured, "I'm unfit for the brutality of the struggle +of life. All I can do is to stand aside and let the vulgar throng hustle +by in their pursuit of the good things." + +He gave you the impression that to fail was a more delicate, a more +exquisite thing, than to succeed. He insinuated that his aloofness was due +to distaste for all that was common and low. He talked beautifully of +Plato. + +"I should have thought you'd got through with Plato by now," said Philip +impatiently. + +"Would you?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. + +He was not inclined to pursue the subject. He had discovered of late the +effective dignity of silence. + +"I don't see the use of reading the same thing over and over again," said +Philip. "That's only a laborious form of idleness." + +"But are you under the impression that you have so great a mind that you +can understand the most profound writer at a first reading?" + +"I don't want to understand him, I'm not a critic. I'm not interested in +him for his sake but for mine." + +"Why d'you read then?" + +"Partly for pleasure, because it's a habit and I'm just as uncomfortable +if I don't read as if I don't smoke, and partly to know myself. When I +read a book I seem to read it with my eyes only, but now and then I come +across a passage, perhaps only a phrase, which has a meaning for ME, +and it becomes part of me; I've got out of the book all that's any use to +me, and I can't get anything more if I read it a dozen times. You see, it +seems to me, one's like a closed bud, and most of what one reads and does +has no effect at all; but there are certain things that have a peculiar +significance for one, and they open a petal; and the petals open one by +one; and at last the flower is there." + +Philip was not satisfied with his metaphor, but he did not know how else +to explain a thing which he felt and yet was not clear about. + +"You want to do things, you want to become things," said Hayward, with a +shrug of the shoulders. "It's so vulgar." + +Philip knew Hayward very well by now. He was weak and vain, so vain that +you had to be on the watch constantly not to hurt his feelings; he mingled +idleness and idealism so that he could not separate them. At Lawson's +studio one day he met a journalist, who was charmed by his conversation, +and a week later the editor of a paper wrote to suggest that he should do +some criticism for him. For forty-eight hours Hayward lived in an agony of +indecision. He had talked of getting occupation of this sort so long that +he had not the face to refuse outright, but the thought of doing anything +filled him with panic. At last he declined the offer and breathed freely. + +"It would have interfered with my work," he told Philip. + +"What work?" asked Philip brutally. + +"My inner life," he answered. + +Then he went on to say beautiful things about Amiel, the professor of +Geneva, whose brilliancy promised achievement which was never fulfilled; +till at his death the reason of his failure and the excuse were at once +manifest in the minute, wonderful journal which was found among his +papers. Hayward smiled enigmatically. + +But Hayward could still talk delightfully about books; his taste was +exquisite and his discrimination elegant; and he had a constant interest +in ideas, which made him an entertaining companion. They meant nothing to +him really, since they never had any effect on him; but he treated them as +he might have pieces of china in an auction-room, handling them with +pleasure in their shape and their glaze, pricing them in his mind; and +then, putting them back into their case, thought of them no more. + +And it was Hayward who made a momentous discovery. One evening, after due +preparation, he took Philip and Lawson to a tavern situated in Beak +Street, remarkable not only in itself and for its history--it had memories +of eighteenth-century glories which excited the romantic imagination--but +for its snuff, which was the best in London, and above all for its punch. +Hayward led them into a large, long room, dingily magnificent, with huge +pictures on the walls of nude women: they were vast allegories of the +school of Haydon; but smoke, gas, and the London atmosphere had given them +a richness which made them look like old masters. The dark panelling, the +massive, tarnished gold of the cornice, the mahogany tables, gave the room +an air of sumptuous comfort, and the leather-covered seats along the wall +were soft and easy. There was a ram's head on a table opposite the door, +and this contained the celebrated snuff. They ordered punch. They drank +it. It was hot rum punch. The pen falters when it attempts to treat of the +excellence thereof; the sober vocabulary, the sparse epithet of this +narrative, are inadequate to the task; and pompous terms, jewelled, exotic +phrases rise to the excited fancy. It warmed the blood and cleared the +head; it filled the soul with well-being; it disposed the mind at once to +utter wit and to appreciate the wit of others; it had the vagueness of +music and the precision of mathematics. Only one of its qualities was +comparable to anything else: it had the warmth of a good heart; but its +taste, its smell, its feel, were not to be described in words. Charles +Lamb, with his infinite tact, attempting to, might have drawn charming +pictures of the life of his day; Lord Byron in a stanza of Don Juan, +aiming at the impossible, might have achieved the sublime; Oscar Wilde, +heaping jewels of Ispahan upon brocades of Byzantium, might have created +a troubling beauty. Considering it, the mind reeled under visions of the +feasts of Elagabalus; and the subtle harmonies of Debussy mingled with the +musty, fragrant romance of chests in which have been kept old clothes, +ruffs, hose, doublets, of a forgotten generation, and the wan odour of +lilies of the valley and the savour of Cheddar cheese. + +Hayward discovered the tavern at which this priceless beverage was to be +obtained by meeting in the street a man called Macalister who had been at +Cambridge with him. He was a stockbroker and a philosopher. He was +accustomed to go to the tavern once a week; and soon Philip, Lawson, and +Hayward got into the habit of meeting there every Tuesday evening: change +of manners made it now little frequented, which was an advantage to +persons who took pleasure in conversation. Macalister was a big-boned +fellow, much too short for his width, with a large, fleshy face and a soft +voice. He was a student of Kant and judged everything from the standpoint +of pure reason. He was fond of expounding his doctrines. Philip listened +with excited interest. He had long come to the conclusion that nothing +amused him more than metaphysics, but he was not so sure of their efficacy +in the affairs of life. The neat little system which he had formed as the +result of his meditations at Blackstable had not been of conspicuous use +during his infatuation for Mildred. He could not be positive that reason +was much help in the conduct of life. It seemed to him that life lived +itself. He remembered very vividly the violence of the emotion which had +possessed him and his inability, as if he were tied down to the ground +with ropes, to react against it. He read many wise things in books, but he +could only judge from his own experience (he did not know whether he was +different from other people); he did not calculate the pros and cons of an +action, the benefits which must befall him if he did it, the harm which +might result from the omission; but his whole being was urged on +irresistibly. He did not act with a part of himself but altogether. The +power that possessed him seemed to have nothing to do with reason: all +that reason did was to point out the methods of obtaining what his whole +soul was striving for. + +Macalister reminded him of the Categorical Imperative. + +"Act so that every action of yours should be capable of becoming a +universal rule of action for all men." + +"That seems to me perfect nonsense," said Philip. + +"You're a bold man to say that of anything stated by Immanuel Kant," +retorted Macalister. + +"Why? Reverence for what somebody said is a stultifying quality: there's +a damned sight too much reverence in the world. Kant thought things not +because they were true, but because he was Kant." + +"Well, what is your objection to the Categorical Imperative?" (They talked +as though the fate of empires were in the balance.) + +"It suggests that one can choose one's course by an effort of will. And it +suggests that reason is the surest guide. Why should its dictates be any +better than those of passion? They're different. That's all." + +"You seem to be a contented slave of your passions." + +"A slave because I can't help myself, but not a contented one," laughed +Philip. + +While he spoke he thought of that hot madness which had driven him in +pursuit of Mildred. He remembered how he had chafed against it and how he +had felt the degradation of it. + +"Thank God, I'm free from all that now," he thought. + +And yet even as he said it he was not quite sure whether he spoke +sincerely. When he was under the influence of passion he had felt a +singular vigour, and his mind had worked with unwonted force. He was more +alive, there was an excitement in sheer being, an eager vehemence of soul, +which made life now a trifle dull. For all the misery he had endured there +was a compensation in that sense of rushing, overwhelming existence. + +But Philip's unlucky words engaged him in a discussion on the freedom of +the will, and Macalister, with his well-stored memory, brought out +argument after argument. He had a mind that delighted in dialectics, and +he forced Philip to contradict himself; he pushed him into corners from +which he could only escape by damaging concessions; he tripped him up with +logic and battered him with authorities. + +At last Philip said: + +"Well, I can't say anything about other people. I can only speak for +myself. The illusion of free will is so strong in my mind that I can't get +away from it, but I believe it is only an illusion. But it is an illusion +which is one of the strongest motives of my actions. Before I do anything +I feel that I have choice, and that influences what I do; but afterwards, +when the thing is done, I believe that it was inevitable from all +eternity." + +"What do you deduce from that?" asked Hayward. + +"Why, merely the futility of regret. It's no good crying over spilt milk, +because all the forces of the universe were bent on spilling it." + + + +LXVIII + + +One morning Philip on getting up felt his head swim, and going back to bed +suddenly discovered he was ill. All his limbs ached and he shivered with +cold. When the landlady brought in his breakfast he called to her through +the open door that he was not well, and asked for a cup of tea and a piece +of toast. A few minutes later there was a knock at his door, and Griffiths +came in. They had lived in the same house for over a year, but had never +done more than nod to one another in the passage. + +"I say, I hear you're seedy," said Griffiths. "I thought I'd come in and +see what was the matter with you." + +Philip, blushing he knew not why, made light of the whole thing. He would +be all right in an hour or two. + +"Well, you'd better let me take your temperature," said Griffiths. + +"It's quite unnecessary," answered Philip irritably. + +"Come on." + +Philip put the thermometer in his mouth. Griffiths sat on the side of the +bed and chatted brightly for a moment, then he took it out and looked at +it. + +"Now, look here, old man, you must stay in bed, and I'll bring old Deacon +in to have a look at you." + +"Nonsense," said Philip. "There's nothing the matter. I wish you wouldn't +bother about me." + +"But it isn't any bother. You've got a temperature and you must stay in +bed. You will, won't you?" + +There was a peculiar charm in his manner, a mingling of gravity and +kindliness, which was infinitely attractive. + +"You've got a wonderful bed-side manner," Philip murmured, closing his +eyes with a smile. + +Griffiths shook out his pillow for him, deftly smoothed down the +bedclothes, and tucked him up. He went into Philip's sitting-room to look +for a siphon, could not find one, and fetched it from his own room. He +drew down the blind. + +"Now, go to sleep and I'll bring the old man round as soon as he's done +the wards." + +It seemed hours before anyone came to Philip. His head felt as if it would +split, anguish rent his limbs, and he was afraid he was going to cry. Then +there was a knock at the door and Griffiths, healthy, strong, and +cheerful, came in. + +"Here's Doctor Deacon," he said. + +The physician stepped forward, an elderly man with a bland manner, whom +Philip knew only by sight. A few questions, a brief examination, and the +diagnosis. + +"What d'you make it?" he asked Griffiths, smiling. + +"Influenza." + +"Quite right." + +Doctor Deacon looked round the dingy lodging-house room. + +"Wouldn't you like to go to the hospital? They'll put you in a private +ward, and you can be better looked after than you can here." + +"I'd rather stay where I am," said Philip. + +He did not want to be disturbed, and he was always shy of new +surroundings. He did not fancy nurses fussing about him, and the dreary +cleanliness of the hospital. + +"I can look after him, sir," said Griffiths at once. + +"Oh, very well." + +He wrote a prescription, gave instructions, and left. + +"Now you've got to do exactly as I tell you," said Griffiths. "I'm +day-nurse and night-nurse all in one." + +"It's very kind of you, but I shan't want anything," said Philip. + +Griffiths put his hand on Philip's forehead, a large cool, dry hand, and +the touch seemed to him good. + +"I'm just going to take this round to the dispensary to have it made up, +and then I'll come back." + +In a little while he brought the medicine and gave Philip a dose. Then he +went upstairs to fetch his books. + +"You won't mind my working in your room this afternoon, will you?" he +said, when he came down. "I'll leave the door open so that you can give me +a shout if you want anything." + +Later in the day Philip, awaking from an uneasy doze, heard voices in his +sitting-room. A friend had come in to see Griffiths. + +"I say, you'd better not come in tonight," he heard Griffiths saying. + +And then a minute or two afterwards someone else entered the room and +expressed his surprise at finding Griffiths there. Philip heard him +explain. + +"I'm looking after a second year's man who's got these rooms. The wretched +blighter's down with influenza. No whist tonight, old man." + +Presently Griffiths was left alone and Philip called him. + +"I say, you're not putting off a party tonight, are you?" he asked. + +"Not on your account. I must work at my surgery." + +"Don't put it off. I shall be all right. You needn't bother about me." + +"That's all right." + +Philip grew worse. As the night came on he became slightly delirious, but +towards morning he awoke from a restless sleep. He saw Griffiths get out +of an arm-chair, go down on his knees, and with his fingers put piece +after piece of coal on the fire. He was in pyjamas and a dressing-gown. + +"What are you doing here?" he asked. + +"Did I wake you up? I tried to make up the fire without making a row." + +"Why aren't you in bed? What's the time?" + +"About five. I thought I'd better sit up with you tonight. I brought an +arm-chair in as I thought if I put a mattress down I should sleep so +soundly that I shouldn't hear you if you wanted anything." + +"I wish you wouldn't be so good to me," groaned Philip. "Suppose you catch +it?" + +"Then you shall nurse me, old man," said Griffiths, with a laugh. + +In the morning Griffiths drew up the blind. He looked pale and tired after +his night's watch, but was full of spirits. + +"Now, I'm going to wash you," he said to Philip cheerfully. + +"I can wash myself," said Philip, ashamed. + +"Nonsense. If you were in the small ward a nurse would wash you, and I can +do it just as well as a nurse." + +Philip, too weak and wretched to resist, allowed Griffiths to wash his +hands and face, his feet, his chest and back. He did it with charming +tenderness, carrying on meanwhile a stream of friendly chatter; then he +changed the sheet just as they did at the hospital, shook out the pillow, +and arranged the bed-clothes. + +"I should like Sister Arthur to see me. It would make her sit up. Deacon's +coming in to see you early." + +"I can't imagine why you should be so good to me," said Philip. + +"It's good practice for me. It's rather a lark having a patient." + +Griffiths gave him his breakfast and went off to get dressed and have +something to eat. A few minutes before ten he came back with a bunch of +grapes and a few flowers. + +"You are awfully kind," said Philip. + +He was in bed for five days. + +Norah and Griffiths nursed him between them. Though Griffiths was the same +age as Philip he adopted towards him a humorous, motherly attitude. He was +a thoughtful fellow, gentle and encouraging; but his greatest quality was +a vitality which seemed to give health to everyone with whom he came in +contact. Philip was unused to the petting which most people enjoy from +mothers or sisters and he was deeply touched by the feminine tenderness of +this strong young man. Philip grew better. Then Griffiths, sitting idly in +Philip's room, amused him with gay stories of amorous adventure. He was a +flirtatious creature, capable of carrying on three or four affairs at a +time; and his account of the devices he was forced to in order to keep out +of difficulties made excellent hearing. He had a gift for throwing a +romantic glamour over everything that happened to him. He was crippled +with debts, everything he had of any value was pawned, but he managed +always to be cheerful, extravagant, and generous. He was the adventurer by +nature. He loved people of doubtful occupations and shifty purposes; and +his acquaintance among the riff-raff that frequents the bars of London was +enormous. Loose women, treating him as a friend, told him the troubles, +difficulties, and successes of their lives; and card-sharpers, respecting +his impecuniosity, stood him dinners and lent him five-pound notes. He was +ploughed in his examinations time after time; but he bore this cheerfully, +and submitted with such a charming grace to the parental expostulations +that his father, a doctor in practice at Leeds, had not the heart to be +seriously angry with him. + +"I'm an awful fool at books," he said cheerfully, "but I CAN'T work." + +Life was much too jolly. But it was clear that when he had got through the +exuberance of his youth, and was at last qualified, he would be a +tremendous success in practice. He would cure people by the sheer charm of +his manner. + +Philip worshipped him as at school he had worshipped boys who were tall +and straight and high of spirits. By the time he was well they were fast +friends, and it was a peculiar satisfaction to Philip that Griffiths +seemed to enjoy sitting in his little parlour, wasting Philip's time with +his amusing chatter and smoking innumerable cigarettes. Philip took him +sometimes to the tavern off Regent Street. Hayward found him stupid, but +Lawson recognised his charm and was eager to paint him; he was a +picturesque figure with his blue eyes, white skin, and curly hair. Often +they discussed things he knew nothing about, and then he sat quietly, with +a good-natured smile on his handsome face, feeling quite rightly that his +presence was sufficient contribution to the entertainment of the company. +When he discovered that Macalister was a stockbroker he was eager for +tips; and Macalister, with his grave smile, told him what fortunes he +could have made if he had bought certain stock at certain times. It made +Philip's mouth water, for in one way and another he was spending more than +he had expected, and it would have suited him very well to make a little +money by the easy method Macalister suggested. + +"Next time I hear of a really good thing I'll let you know," said the +stockbroker. "They do come along sometimes. It's only a matter of biding +one's time." + +Philip could not help thinking how delightful it would be to make fifty +pounds, so that he could give Norah the furs she so badly needed for the +winter. He looked at the shops in Regent Street and picked out the +articles he could buy for the money. She deserved everything. She made +his life very happy. + + + +LXIX + + +One afternoon, when he went back to his rooms from the hospital to wash +and tidy himself before going to tea as usual with Norah, as he let +himself in with his latch-key, his landlady opened the door for him. + +"There's a lady waiting to see you," she said. + +"Me?" exclaimed Philip. + +He was surprised. It would only be Norah, and he had no idea what had +brought her. + +"I shouldn't 'ave let her in, only she's been three times, and she seemed +that upset at not finding you, so I told her she could wait." + +He pushed past the explaining landlady and burst into the room. His heart +turned sick. It was Mildred. She was sitting down, but got up hurriedly as +he came in. She did not move towards him nor speak. He was so surprised +that he did not know what he was saying. + +"What the hell d'you want?" he asked. + +She did not answer, but began to cry. She did not put her hands to her +eyes, but kept them hanging by the side of her body. She looked like a +housemaid applying for a situation. There was a dreadful humility in her +bearing. Philip did not know what feelings came over him. He had a sudden +impulse to turn round and escape from the room. + +"I didn't think I'd ever see you again," he said at last. + +"I wish I was dead," she moaned. + +Philip left her standing where she was. He could only think at the moment +of steadying himself. His knees were shaking. He looked at her, and he +groaned in despair. + +"What's the matter?" he said. + +"He's left me--Emil." + +Philip's heart bounded. He knew then that he loved her as passionately as +ever. He had never ceased to love her. She was standing before him humble +and unresisting. He wished to take her in his arms and cover her +tear-stained face with kisses. Oh, how long the separation had been! He +did not know how he could have endured it. + +"You'd better sit down. Let me give you a drink." + +He drew the chair near the fire and she sat in it. He mixed her whiskey +and soda, and, sobbing still, she drank it. She looked at him with great, +mournful eyes. There were large black lines under them. She was thinner +and whiter than when last he had seen her. + +"I wish I'd married you when you asked me," she said. + +Philip did not know why the remark seemed to swell his heart. He could not +keep the distance from her which he had forced upon himself. He put his +hand on her shoulder. + +"I'm awfully sorry you're in trouble." + +She leaned her head against his bosom and burst into hysterical crying. +Her hat was in the way and she took it off. He had never dreamt that she +was capable of crying like that. He kissed her again and again. It seemed +to ease her a little. + +"You were always good to me, Philip," she said. "That's why I knew I could +come to you." + +"Tell me what's happened." + +"Oh, I can't, I can't," she cried out, breaking away from him. + +He sank down on his knees beside her and put his cheek against hers. + +"Don't you know that there's nothing you can't tell me? I can never blame +you for anything." + +She told him the story little by little, and sometimes she sobbed so much +that he could hardly understand. + +"Last Monday week he went up to Birmingham, and he promised to be back on +Thursday, and he never came, and he didn't come on the Friday, so I wrote +to ask what was the matter, and he never answered the letter. And I wrote +and said that if I didn't hear from him by return I'd go up to Birmingham, +and this morning I got a solicitor's letter to say I had no claim on him, +and if I molested him he'd seek the protection of the law." + +"But it's absurd," cried Philip. "A man can't treat his wife like that. +Had you had a row?" + +"Oh, yes, we'd had a quarrel on the Sunday, and he said he was sick of me, +but he'd said it before, and he'd come back all right. I didn't think he +meant it. He was frightened, because I told him a baby was coming. I kept +it from him as long as I could. Then I had to tell him. He said it was my +fault, and I ought to have known better. If you'd only heard the things he +said to me! But I found out precious quick that he wasn't a gentleman. He +left me without a penny. He hadn't paid the rent, and I hadn't got the +money to pay it, and the woman who kept the house said such things to +me--well, I might have been a thief the way she talked." + +"I thought you were going to take a flat." + +"That's what he said, but we just took furnished apartments in Highbury. +He was that mean. He said I was extravagant, he didn't give me anything to +be extravagant with." + +She had an extraordinary way of mixing the trivial with the important. +Philip was puzzled. The whole thing was incomprehensible. + +"No man could be such a blackguard." + +"You don't know him. I wouldn't go back to him now not if he was to come +and ask me on his bended knees. I was a fool ever to think of him. And he +wasn't earning the money he said he was. The lies he told me!" + +Philip thought for a minute or two. He was so deeply moved by her distress +that he could not think of himself. + +"Would you like me to go to Birmingham? I could see him and try to make +things up." + +"Oh, there's no chance of that. He'll never come back now, I know him." + +"But he must provide for you. He can't get out of that. I don't know +anything about these things, you'd better go and see a solicitor." + +"How can I? I haven't got the money." + +"I'll pay all that. I'll write a note to my own solicitor, the sportsman +who was my father's executor. Would you like me to come with you now? I +expect he'll still be at his office." + +"No, give me a letter to him. I'll go alone." + +She was a little calmer now. He sat down and wrote a note. Then he +remembered that she had no money. He had fortunately changed a cheque the +day before and was able to give her five pounds. + +"You are good to me, Philip," she said. + +"I'm so happy to be able to do something for you." + +"Are you fond of me still?" + +"Just as fond as ever." + +She put up her lips and he kissed her. There was a surrender in the action +which he had never seen in her before. It was worth all the agony he had +suffered. + +She went away and he found that she had been there for two hours. He was +extraordinarily happy. + +"Poor thing, poor thing," he murmured to himself, his heart glowing with +a greater love than he had ever felt before. + +He never thought of Norah at all till about eight o'clock a telegram came. +He knew before opening it that it was from her. + + +Is anything the matter? Norah. + + +He did not know what to do nor what to answer. He could fetch her after +the play, in which she was walking on, was over and stroll home with her +as he sometimes did; but his whole soul revolted against the idea of +seeing her that evening. He thought of writing to her, but he could not +bring himself to address her as usual, dearest Norah. He made up his +mind to telegraph. + + +Sorry. Could not get away, Philip. + + +He visualised her. He was slightly repelled by the ugly little face, with +its high cheekbones and the crude colour. There was a coarseness in her +skin which gave him goose-flesh. He knew that his telegram must be +followed by some action on his part, but at all events it postponed it. + +Next day he wired again. + + +Regret, unable to come. Will write. + + +Mildred had suggested coming at four in the afternoon, and he would not +tell her that the hour was inconvenient. After all she came first. He +waited for her impatiently. He watched for her at the window and opened +the front-door himself. + +"Well? Did you see Nixon?" + +"Yes," she answered. "He said it wasn't any good. Nothing's to be done. I +must just grin and bear it." + +"But that's impossible," cried Philip. + +She sat down wearily. + +"Did he give any reasons?" he asked. + +She gave him a crumpled letter. + +"There's your letter, Philip. I never took it. I couldn't tell you +yesterday, I really couldn't. Emil didn't marry me. He couldn't. He had a +wife already and three children." + +Philip felt a sudden pang of jealousy and anguish. It was almost more than +he could bear. + +"That's why I couldn't go back to my aunt. There's no one I can go to but +you." + +"What made you go away with him?" Philip asked, in a low voice which he +struggled to make firm. + +"I don't know. I didn't know he was a married man at first, and when he +told me I gave him a piece of my mind. And then I didn't see him for +months, and when he came to the shop again and asked me I don't know what +came over me. I felt as if I couldn't help it. I had to go with him." + +"Were you in love with him?" + +"I don't know. I couldn't hardly help laughing at the things he said. And +there was something about him--he said I'd never regret it, he promised to +give me seven pounds a week--he said he was earning fifteen, and it was +all a lie, he wasn't. And then I was sick of going to the shop every +morning, and I wasn't getting on very well with my aunt; she wanted to +treat me as a servant instead of a relation, said I ought to do my own +room, and if I didn't do it nobody was going to do it for me. Oh, I wish +I hadn't. But when he came to the shop and asked me I felt I couldn't help +it." + +Philip moved away from her. He sat down at the table and buried his face +in his hands. He felt dreadfully humiliated. + +"You're not angry with me, Philip?" she asked piteously. + +"No," he answered, looking up but away from her, "only I'm awfully hurt." + +"Why?" + +"You see, I was so dreadfully in love with you. I did everything I could +to make you care for me. I thought you were incapable of loving anyone. +It's so horrible to know that you were willing to sacrifice everything for +that bounder. I wonder what you saw in him." + +"I'm awfully sorry, Philip. I regretted it bitterly afterwards, I promise +you that." + +He thought of Emil Miller, with his pasty, unhealthy look, his shifty blue +eyes, and the vulgar smartness of his appearance; he always wore bright +red knitted waistcoats. Philip sighed. She got up and went to him. She put +her arm round his neck. + +"I shall never forget that you offered to marry me, Philip." + +He took her hand and looked up at her. She bent down and kissed him. + +"Philip, if you want me still I'll do anything you like now. I know you're +a gentleman in every sense of the word." + +His heart stood still. Her words made him feel slightly sick. + +"It's awfully good of you, but I couldn't." + +"Don't you care for me any more?" + +"Yes, I love you with all my heart." + +"Then why shouldn't we have a good time while we've got the chance? You +see, it can't matter now" + +He released himself from her. + +"You don't understand. I've been sick with love for you ever since I saw +you, but now--that man. I've unfortunately got a vivid imagination. The +thought of it simply disgusts me." + +"You are funny," she said. + +He took her hand again and smiled at her. + +"You mustn't think I'm not grateful. I can never thank you enough, but you +see, it's just stronger than I am." + +"You are a good friend, Philip." + +They went on talking, and soon they had returned to the familiar +companionship of old days. It grew late. Philip suggested that they should +dine together and go to a music-hall. She wanted some persuasion, for she +had an idea of acting up to her situation, and felt instinctively that it +did not accord with her distressed condition to go to a place of +entertainment. At last Philip asked her to go simply to please him, and +when she could look upon it as an act of self-sacrifice she accepted. She +had a new thoughtfulness which delighted Philip. She asked him to take her +to the little restaurant in Soho to which they had so often been; he was +infinitely grateful to her, because her suggestion showed that happy +memories were attached to it. She grew much more cheerful as dinner +proceeded. The Burgundy from the public house at the corner warmed her +heart, and she forgot that she ought to preserve a dolorous countenance. +Philip thought it safe to speak to her of the future. + +"I suppose you haven't got a brass farthing, have you?" he asked, when an +opportunity presented itself. + +"Only what you gave me yesterday, and I had to give the landlady three +pounds of that." + +"Well, I'd better give you a tenner to go on with. I'll go and see my +solicitor and get him to write to Miller. We can make him pay up +something, I'm sure. If we can get a hundred pounds out of him it'll carry +you on till after the baby comes." + +"I wouldn't take a penny from him. I'd rather starve." + +"But it's monstrous that he should leave you in the lurch like this." + +"I've got my pride to consider." + +It was a little awkward for Philip. He needed rigid economy to make his +own money last till he was qualified, and he must have something over to +keep him during the year he intended to spend as house physician and house +surgeon either at his own or at some other hospital. But Mildred had told +him various stories of Emil's meanness, and he was afraid to remonstrate +with her in case she accused him too of want of generosity. + +"I wouldn't take a penny piece from him. I'd sooner beg my bread. I'd have +seen about getting some work to do long before now, only it wouldn't be +good for me in the state I'm in. You have to think of your health, don't +you?" + +"You needn't bother about the present," said Philip. "I can let you have +all you want till you're fit to work again." + +"I knew I could depend on you. I told Emil he needn't think I hadn't got +somebody to go to. I told him you was a gentleman in every sense of the +word." + +By degrees Philip learned how the separation had come about. It appeared +that the fellow's wife had discovered the adventure he was engaged in +during his periodical visits to London, and had gone to the head of the +firm that employed him. She threatened to divorce him, and they announced +that they would dismiss him if she did. He was passionately devoted to his +children and could not bear the thought of being separated from them. When +he had to choose between his wife and his mistress he chose his wife. He +had been always anxious that there should be no child to make the +entanglement more complicated; and when Mildred, unable longer to conceal +its approach, informed him of the fact, he was seized with panic. He +picked a quarrel and left her without more ado. + +"When d'you expect to be confined?" asked Philip. + +"At the beginning of March." + +"Three months." + +It was necessary to discuss plans. Mildred declared she would not remain +in the rooms at Highbury, and Philip thought it more convenient too that +she should be nearer to him. He promised to look for something next day. +She suggested the Vauxhall Bridge Road as a likely neighbourhood. + +"And it would be near for afterwards," she said. + +"What do you mean?" + +"Well, I should only be able to stay there about two months or a little +more, and then I should have to go into a house. I know a very respectable +place, where they have a most superior class of people, and they take you +for four guineas a week and no extras. Of course the doctor's extra, but +that's all. A friend of mine went there, and the lady who keeps it is a +thorough lady. I mean to tell her that my husband's an officer in India +and I've come to London for my baby, because it's better for my health." + +It seemed extraordinary to Philip to hear her talking in this way. With +her delicate little features and her pale face she looked cold and +maidenly. When he thought of the passions that burnt within her, so +unexpected, his heart was strangely troubled. His pulse beat quickly. + + + +LXX + + +Philip expected to find a letter from Norah when he got back to his rooms, +but there was nothing; nor did he receive one the following morning. The +silence irritated and at the same time alarmed him. They had seen one +another every day he had been in London since the previous June; and it +must seem odd to her that he should let two days go by without visiting +her or offering a reason for his absence; he wondered whether by an +unlucky chance she had seen him with Mildred. He could not bear to think +that she was hurt or unhappy, and he made up his mind to call on her that +afternoon. He was almost inclined to reproach her because he had allowed +himself to get on such intimate terms with her. The thought of continuing +them filled him with disgust. + +He found two rooms for Mildred on the second floor of a house in the +Vauxhall Bridge Road. They were noisy, but he knew that she liked the +rattle of traffic under her windows. + +"I don't like a dead and alive street where you don't see a soul pass all +day," she said. "Give me a bit of life." + +Then he forced himself to go to Vincent Square. He was sick with +apprehension when he rang the bell. He had an uneasy sense that he was +treating Norah badly; he dreaded reproaches; he knew she had a quick +temper, and he hated scenes: perhaps the best way would be to tell her +frankly that Mildred had come back to him and his love for her was as +violent as it had ever been; he was very sorry, but he had nothing to +offer Norah any more. Then he thought of her anguish, for he knew she +loved him; it had flattered him before, and he was immensely grateful; but +now it was horrible. She had not deserved that he should inflict pain upon +her. He asked himself how she would greet him now, and as he walked up the +stairs all possible forms of her behaviour flashed across his mind. He +knocked at the door. He felt that he was pale, and wondered how to conceal +his nervousness. + +She was writing away industriously, but she sprang to her feet as he +entered. + +"I recognised your step," she cried. "Where have you been hiding yourself, +you naughty boy?" + +She came towards him joyfully and put her arms round his neck. She was +delighted to see him. He kissed her, and then, to give himself +countenance, said he was dying for tea. She bustled the fire to make the +kettle boil. + +"I've been awfully busy," he said lamely. + +She began to chatter in her bright way, telling him of a new commission +she had to provide a novelette for a firm which had not hitherto employed +her. She was to get fifteen guineas for it. + +"It's money from the clouds. I'll tell you what we'll do, we'll stand +ourselves a little jaunt. Let's go and spend a day at Oxford, shall we? +I'd love to see the colleges." + +He looked at her to see whether there was any shadow of reproach in her +eyes; but they were as frank and merry as ever: she was overjoyed to see +him. His heart sank. He could not tell her the brutal truth. She made some +toast for him, and cut it into little pieces, and gave it him as though he +were a child. + +"Is the brute fed?" she asked. + +He nodded, smiling; and she lit a cigarette for him. Then, as she loved to +do, she came and sat on his knees. She was very light. She leaned back in +his arms with a sigh of delicious happiness. + +"Say something nice to me," she murmured. + +"What shall I say?" + +"You might by an effort of imagination say that you rather liked me." + +"You know I do that." + +He had not the heart to tell her then. He would give her peace at all +events for that day, and perhaps he might write to her. That would be +easier. He could not bear to think of her crying. She made him kiss her, +and as he kissed her he thought of Mildred and Mildred's pale, thin lips. +The recollection of Mildred remained with him all the time, like an +incorporated form, but more substantial than a shadow; and the sight +continually distracted his attention. + +"You're very quiet today," Norah said. + +Her loquacity was a standing joke between them, and he answered: + +"You never let me get a word in, and I've got out of the habit of +talking." + +"But you're not listening, and that's bad manners." + +He reddened a little, wondering whether she had some inkling of his +secret; he turned away his eyes uneasily. The weight of her irked him this +afternoon, and he did not want her to touch him. + +"My foot's gone to sleep," he said. + +"I'm so sorry," she cried, jumping up. "I shall have to bant if I can't +break myself of this habit of sitting on gentlemen's knees." + +He went through an elaborate form of stamping his foot and walking about. +Then he stood in front of the fire so that she should not resume her +position. While she talked he thought that she was worth ten of Mildred; +she amused him much more and was jollier to talk to; she was cleverer, and +she had a much nicer nature. She was a good, brave, honest little woman; +and Mildred, he thought bitterly, deserved none of these epithets. If he +had any sense he would stick to Norah, she would make him much happier +than he would ever be with Mildred: after all she loved him, and Mildred +was only grateful for his help. But when all was said the important thing +was to love rather than to be loved; and he yearned for Mildred with his +whole soul. He would sooner have ten minutes with her than a whole +afternoon with Norah, he prized one kiss of her cold lips more than all +Norah could give him. + +"I can't help myself," he thought. "I've just got her in my bones." + +He did not care if she was heartless, vicious and vulgar, stupid and +grasping, he loved her. He would rather have misery with the one than +happiness with the other. + +When he got up to go Norah said casually: + +"Well, I shall see you tomorrow, shan't I?" + +"Yes," he answered. + +He knew that he would not be able to come, since he was going to help +Mildred with her moving, but he had not the courage to say so. He made up +his mind that he would send a wire. Mildred saw the rooms in the morning, +was satisfied with them, and after luncheon Philip went up with her to +Highbury. She had a trunk for her clothes and another for the various odds +and ends, cushions, lampshades, photograph frames, with which she had +tried to give the apartments a home-like air; she had two or three large +cardboard boxes besides, but in all there was no more than could be put on +the roof of a four-wheeler. As they drove through Victoria Street Philip +sat well back in the cab in case Norah should happen to be passing. He had +not had an opportunity to telegraph and could not do so from the post +office in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, since she would wonder what he was +doing in that neighbourhood; and if he was there he could have no excuse +for not going into the neighbouring square where she lived. He made up his +mind that he had better go in and see her for half an hour; but the +necessity irritated him: he was angry with Norah, because she forced him +to vulgar and degrading shifts. But he was happy to be with Mildred. It +amused him to help her with the unpacking; and he experienced a charming +sense of possession in installing her in these lodgings which he had found +and was paying for. He would not let her exert herself. It was a pleasure +to do things for her, and she had no desire to do what somebody else +seemed desirous to do for her. He unpacked her clothes and put them away. +She was not proposing to go out again, so he got her slippers and took off +her boots. It delighted him to perform menial offices. + +"You do spoil me," she said, running her fingers affectionately through +his hair, while he was on his knees unbuttoning her boots. + +He took her hands and kissed them. + +"It is nipping to have you here." + +He arranged the cushions and the photograph frames. She had several jars +of green earthenware. + +"I'll get you some flowers for them," he said. + +He looked round at his work proudly. + +"As I'm not going out any more I think I'll get into a tea-gown," she +said. "Undo me behind, will you?" + +She turned round as unconcernedly as though he were a woman. His sex meant +nothing to her. But his heart was filled with gratitude for the intimacy +her request showed. He undid the hooks and eyes with clumsy fingers. + +"That first day I came into the shop I never thought I'd be doing this for +you now," he said, with a laugh which he forced. + +"Somebody must do it," she answered. + +She went into the bed-room and slipped into a pale blue tea-gown decorated +with a great deal of cheap lace. Then Philip settled her on a sofa and +made tea for her. + +"I'm afraid I can't stay and have it with you," he said regretfully. "I've +got a beastly appointment. But I shall be back in half an hour." + +He wondered what he should say if she asked him what the appointment was, +but she showed no curiosity. He had ordered dinner for the two of them +when he took the rooms, and proposed to spend the evening with her +quietly. He was in such a hurry to get back that he took a tram along the +Vauxhall Bridge Road. He thought he had better break the fact to Norah at +once that he could not stay more than a few minutes. + +"I say, I've got only just time to say how d'you do," he said, as soon as +he got into her rooms. "I'm frightfully busy." + +Her face fell. + +"Why, what's the matter?" + +It exasperated him that she should force him to tell lies, and he knew +that he reddened when he answered that there was a demonstration at the +hospital which he was bound to go to. He fancied that she looked as though +she did not believe him, and this irritated him all the more. + +"Oh, well, it doesn't matter," she said. "I shall have you all tomorrow." + +He looked at her blankly. It was Sunday, and he had been looking forward +to spending the day with Mildred. He told himself that he must do that in +common decency; he could not leave her by herself in a strange house. + +"I'm awfully sorry, I'm engaged tomorrow." + +He knew this was the beginning of a scene which he would have given +anything to avoid. The colour on Norah's cheeks grew brighter. + +"But I've asked the Gordons to lunch"--they were an actor and his wife who +were touring the provinces and in London for Sunday--"I told you about it +a week ago." + +"I'm awfully sorry, I forgot." He hesitated. "I'm afraid I can't possibly +come. Isn't there somebody else you can get?" + +"What are you doing tomorrow then?" + +"I wish you wouldn't cross-examine me." + +"Don't you want to tell me?" + +"I don't in the least mind telling you, but it's rather annoying to be +forced to account for all one's movements." + +Norah suddenly changed. With an effort of self-control she got the better +of her temper, and going up to him took his hands. + +"Don't disappoint me tomorrow, Philip, I've been looking forward so much +to spending the day with you. The Gordons want to see you, and we'll have +such a jolly time." + +"I'd love to if I could." + +"I'm not very exacting, am I? I don't often ask you to do anything that's +a bother. Won't you get out of your horrid engagement--just this once?" + +"I'm awfully sorry, I don't see how I can," he replied sullenly. + +"Tell me what it is," she said coaxingly. + +He had had time to invent something. "Griffiths' two sisters are up for +the week-end and we're taking them out." + +"Is that all?" she said joyfully. "Griffiths can so easily get another +man." + +He wished he had thought of something more urgent than that. It was a +clumsy lie. + +"No, I'm awfully sorry, I can't--I've promised and I mean to keep my +promise." + +"But you promised me too. Surely I come first." + +"I wish you wouldn't persist," he said. + +She flared up. + +"You won't come because you don't want to. I don't know what you've been +doing the last few days, you've been quite different." + +He looked at his watch. + +"I'm afraid I'll have to be going," he said. + +"You won't come tomorrow?" + +"No." + +"In that case you needn't trouble to come again," she cried, losing her +temper for good. + +"That's just as you like," he answered. + +"Don't let me detain you any longer," she added ironically. + +He shrugged his shoulders and walked out. He was relieved that it had gone +no worse. There had been no tears. As he walked along he congratulated +himself on getting out of the affair so easily. He went into Victoria +Street and bought a few flowers to take in to Mildred. + +The little dinner was a great success. Philip had sent in a small pot of +caviare, which he knew she was very fond of, and the landlady brought them +up some cutlets with vegetables and a sweet. Philip had ordered Burgundy, +which was her favourite wine. With the curtains drawn, a bright fire, and +one of Mildred's shades on the lamp, the room was cosy. + +"It's really just like home," smiled Philip. + +"I might be worse off, mightn't I?" she answered. + +When they finished, Philip drew two arm-chairs in front of the fire, and +they sat down. He smoked his pipe comfortably. He felt happy and generous. + +"What would you like to do tomorrow?" he asked. + +"Oh, I'm going to Tulse Hill. You remember the manageress at the shop, +well, she's married now, and she's asked me to go and spend the day with +her. Of course she thinks I'm married too." + +Philip's heart sank. + +"But I refused an invitation so that I might spend Sunday with you." + +He thought that if she loved him she would say that in that case she would +stay with him. He knew very well that Norah would not have hesitated. + +"Well, you were a silly to do that. I've promised to go for three weeks +and more." + +"But how can you go alone?" + +"Oh, I shall say that Emil's away on business. Her husband's in the glove +trade, and he's a very superior fellow." + +Philip was silent, and bitter feelings passed through his heart. She gave +him a sidelong glance. + +"You don't grudge me a little pleasure, Philip? You see, it's the last +time I shall be able to go anywhere for I don't know how long, and I had +promised." + +He took her hand and smiled. + +"No, darling, I want you to have the best time you can. I only want you to +be happy." + +There was a little book bound in blue paper lying open, face downwards, on +the sofa, and Philip idly took it up. It was a twopenny novelette, and the +author was Courtenay Paget. That was the name under which Norah wrote. + +"I do like his books," said Mildred. "I read them all. They're so +refined." + +He remembered what Norah had said of herself. + +"I have an immense popularity among kitchen-maids. They think me so +genteel." + + + +LXXI + + +Philip, in return for Griffiths' confidences, had told him the details of +his own complicated amours, and on Sunday morning, after breakfast when +they sat by the fire in their dressing-gowns and smoked, he recounted the +scene of the previous day. Griffiths congratulated him because he had got +out of his difficulties so easily. + +"It's the simplest thing in the world to have an affair with a woman," he +remarked sententiously, "but it's a devil of a nuisance to get out of it." + +Philip felt a little inclined to pat himself on the back for his skill in +managing the business. At all events he was immensely relieved. He thought +of Mildred enjoying herself in Tulse Hill, and he found in himself a real +satisfaction because she was happy. It was an act of self-sacrifice on his +part that he did not grudge her pleasure even though paid for by his own +disappointment, and it filled his heart with a comfortable glow. + +But on Monday morning he found on his table a letter from Norah. She +wrote: + + +Dearest, + +I'm sorry I was cross on Saturday. Forgive me and come to tea in the +afternoon as usual. I love you. + Your Norah. + + +His heart sank, and he did not know what to do. He took the note to +Griffiths and showed it to him. + +"You'd better leave it unanswered," said he. + +"Oh, I can't," cried Philip. "I should be miserable if I thought of her +waiting and waiting. You don't know what it is to be sick for the +postman's knock. I do, and I can't expose anybody else to that torture." + +"My dear fellow, one can't break that sort of affair off without somebody +suffering. You must just set your teeth to that. One thing is, it doesn't +last very long." + +Philip felt that Norah had not deserved that he should make her suffer; +and what did Griffiths know about the degrees of anguish she was capable +of? He remembered his own pain when Mildred had told him she was going to +be married. He did not want anyone to experience what he had experienced +then. + +"If you're so anxious not to give her pain, go back to her," said +Griffiths. + +"I can't do that." + +He got up and walked up and down the room nervously. He was angry with +Norah because she had not let the matter rest. She must have seen that he +had no more love to give her. They said women were so quick at seeing +those things. + +"You might help me," he said to Griffiths. + +"My dear fellow, don't make such a fuss about it. People do get over these +things, you know. She probably isn't so wrapped up in you as you think, +either. One's always rather apt to exaggerate the passion one's inspired +other people with." + +He paused and looked at Philip with amusement. + +"Look here, there's only one thing you can do. Write to her, and tell her +the thing's over. Put it so that there can be no mistake about it. It'll +hurt her, but it'll hurt her less if you do the thing brutally than if you +try half-hearted ways." + +Philip sat down and wrote the following letter: + + +My dear Norah, + +I am sorry to make you unhappy, but I think we had better let things +remain where we left them on Saturday. I don't think there's any use in +letting these things drag on when they've ceased to be amusing. You told +me to go and I went. I do not propose to come back. Good-bye. + Philip Carey. + + +He showed the letter to Griffiths and asked him what he thought of it. +Griffiths read it and looked at Philip with twinkling eyes. He did not say +what he felt. + +"I think that'll do the trick," he said. + +Philip went out and posted it. He passed an uncomfortable morning, for he +imagined with great detail what Norah would feel when she received his +letter. He tortured himself with the thought of her tears. But at the same +time he was relieved. Imagined grief was more easy to bear than grief +seen, and he was free now to love Mildred with all his soul. His heart +leaped at the thought of going to see her that afternoon, when his day's +work at the hospital was over. + +When as usual he went back to his rooms to tidy himself, he had no sooner +put the latch-key in his door than he heard a voice behind him. + +"May I come in? I've been waiting for you for half an hour." + +It was Norah. He felt himself blush to the roots of his hair. She spoke +gaily. There was no trace of resentment in her voice and nothing to +indicate that there was a rupture between them. He felt himself cornered. +He was sick with fear, but he did his best to smile. + +"Yes, do," he said. + +He opened the door, and she preceded him into his sitting-room. He was +nervous and, to give himself countenance, offered her a cigarette and lit +one for himself. She looked at him brightly. + +"Why did you write me such a horrid letter, you naughty boy? If I'd taken +it seriously it would have made me perfectly wretched." + +"It was meant seriously," he answered gravely. + +"Don't be so silly. I lost my temper the other day, and I wrote and +apologised. You weren't satisfied, so I've come here to apologise again. +After all, you're your own master and I have no claims upon you. I don't +want you to do anything you don't want to." + +She got up from the chair in which she was sitting and went towards him +impulsively, with outstretched hands. + +"Let's make friends again, Philip. I'm so sorry if I offended you." + +He could not prevent her from taking his hands, but he could not look at +her. + +"I'm afraid it's too late," he said. + +She let herself down on the floor by his side and clasped his knees. + +"Philip, don't be silly. I'm quick-tempered too and I can understand that +I hurt you, but it's so stupid to sulk over it. What's the good of making +us both unhappy? It's been so jolly, our friendship." She passed her +fingers slowly over his hand. "I love you, Philip." + +He got up, disengaging himself from her, and went to the other side of the +room. + +"I'm awfully sorry, I can't do anything. The whole thing's over." + +"D'you mean to say you don't love me any more?" + +"I'm afraid so." + +"You were just looking for an opportunity to throw me over and you took +that one?" + +He did not answer. She looked at him steadily for a time which seemed +intolerable. She was sitting on the floor where he had left her, leaning +against the arm-chair. She began to cry quite silently, without trying to +hide her face, and the large tears rolled down her cheeks one after the +other. She did not sob. It was horribly painful to see her. Philip turned +away. + +"I'm awfully sorry to hurt you. It's not my fault if I don't love you." + +She did not answer. She merely sat there, as though she were overwhelmed, +and the tears flowed down her cheeks. It would have been easier to bear if +she had reproached him. He had thought her temper would get the better of +her, and he was prepared for that. At the back of his mind was a feeling +that a real quarrel, in which each said to the other cruel things, would +in some way be a justification of his behaviour. The time passed. At last +he grew frightened by her silent crying; he went into his bed-room and got +a glass of water; he leaned over her. + +"Won't you drink a little? It'll relieve you." + +She put her lips listlessly to the glass and drank two or three mouthfuls. +Then in an exhausted whisper she asked him for a handkerchief. She dried +her eyes. + +"Of course I knew you never loved me as much as I loved you," she moaned. + +"I'm afraid that's always the case," he said. "There's always one who +loves and one who lets himself be loved." + +He thought of Mildred, and a bitter pain traversed his heart. Norah did +not answer for a long time. + +"I'd been so miserably unhappy, and my life was so hateful," she said at +last. + +She did not speak to him, but to herself. He had never heard her before +complain of the life she had led with her husband or of her poverty. He +had always admired the bold front she displayed to the world. + +"And then you came along and you were so good to me. And I admired you +because you were clever and it was so heavenly to have someone I could put +my trust in. I loved you. I never thought it could come to an end. And +without any fault of mine at all." + +Her tears began to flow again, but now she was more mistress of herself, +and she hid her face in Philip's handkerchief. She tried hard to control +herself. + +"Give me some more water," she said. + +She wiped her eyes. + +"I'm sorry to make such a fool of myself. I was so unprepared." + +"I'm awfully sorry, Norah. I want you to know that I'm very grateful for +all you've done for me." + +He wondered what it was she saw in him. + +"Oh, it's always the same," she sighed, "if you want men to behave well to +you, you must be beastly to them; if you treat them decently they make you +suffer for it." + +She got up from the floor and said she must go. She gave Philip a long, +steady look. Then she sighed. + +"It's so inexplicable. What does it all mean?" + +Philip took a sudden determination. + +"I think I'd better tell you, I don't want you to think too badly of me, +I want you to see that I can't help myself. Mildred's come back." + +The colour came to her face. + +"Why didn't you tell me at once? I deserved that surely." + +"I was afraid to." + +She looked at herself in the glass and set her hat straight. + +"Will you call me a cab," she said. "I don't feel I can walk." + +He went to the door and stopped a passing hansom; but when she followed +him into the street he was startled to see how white she was. There was a +heaviness in her movements as though she had suddenly grown older. She +looked so ill that he had not the heart to let her go alone. + +"I'll drive back with you if you don't mind." + +She did not answer, and he got into the cab. They drove along in silence +over the bridge, through shabby streets in which children, with shrill +cries, played in the road. When they arrived at her door she did not +immediately get out. It seemed as though she could not summon enough +strength to her legs to move. + +"I hope you'll forgive me, Norah," he said. + +She turned her eyes towards him, and he saw that they were bright again +with tears, but she forced a smile to her lips. + +"Poor fellow, you're quite worried about me. You mustn't bother. I don't +blame you. I shall get over it all right." + +Lightly and quickly she stroked his face to show him that she bore no +ill-feeling, the gesture was scarcely more than suggested; then she jumped +out of the cab and let herself into her house. + +Philip paid the hansom and walked to Mildred's lodgings. There was a +curious heaviness in his heart. He was inclined to reproach himself. But +why? He did not know what else he could have done. Passing a fruiterer's, +he remembered that Mildred was fond of grapes. He was so grateful that he +could show his love for her by recollecting every whim she had. + + + +LXXII + + +For the next three months Philip went every day to see Mildred. He took +his books with him and after tea worked, while Mildred lay on the sofa +reading novels. Sometimes he would look up and watch her for a minute. A +happy smile crossed his lips. She would feel his eyes upon her. + +"Don't waste your time looking at me, silly. Go on with your work," she +said. + +"Tyrant," he answered gaily. + +He put aside his book when the landlady came in to lay the cloth for +dinner, and in his high spirits he exchanged chaff with her. She was a +little cockney, of middle age, with an amusing humour and a quick tongue. +Mildred had become great friends with her and had given her an elaborate +but mendacious account of the circumstances which had brought her to the +pass she was in. The good-hearted little woman was touched and found no +trouble too great to make Mildred comfortable. Mildred's sense of +propriety had suggested that Philip should pass himself off as her +brother. They dined together, and Philip was delighted when he had ordered +something which tempted Mildred's capricious appetite. It enchanted him to +see her sitting opposite him, and every now and then from sheer joy he +took her hand and pressed it. After dinner she sat in the arm-chair by the +fire, and he settled himself down on the floor beside her, leaning against +her knees, and smoked. Often they did not talk at all, and sometimes +Philip noticed that she had fallen into a doze. He dared not move then in +case he woke her, and he sat very quietly, looking lazily into the fire +and enjoying his happiness. + +"Had a nice little nap?" he smiled, when she woke. + +"I've not been sleeping," she answered. "I only just closed my eyes." + +She would never acknowledge that she had been asleep. She had a phlegmatic +temperament, and her condition did not seriously inconvenience her. She +took a lot of trouble about her health and accepted the advice of anyone +who chose to offer it. She went for a `constitutional' every morning that +it was fine and remained out a definite time. When it was not too cold she +sat in St. James' Park. But the rest of the day she spent quite happily on +her sofa, reading one novel after another or chatting with the landlady; +she had an inexhaustible interest in gossip, and told Philip with abundant +detail the history of the landlady, of the lodgers on the drawing-room +floor, and of the people who lived in the next house on either side. Now +and then she was seized with panic; she poured out her fears to Philip +about the pain of the confinement and was in terror lest she should die; +she gave him a full account of the confinements of the landlady and of the +lady on the drawing-room floor (Mildred did not know her; "I'm one to keep +myself to myself," she said, "I'm not one to go about with anybody.") and +she narrated details with a queer mixture of horror and gusto; but for the +most part she looked forward to the occurrence with equanimity. + +"After all, I'm not the first one to have a baby, am I? And the doctor +says I shan't have any trouble. You see, it isn't as if I wasn't well +made." + +Mrs. Owen, the owner of the house she was going to when her time came, had +recommended a doctor, and Mildred saw him once a week. He was to charge +fifteen guineas. + +"Of course I could have got it done cheaper, but Mrs. Owen strongly +recommended him, and I thought it wasn't worth while to spoil the ship for +a coat of tar." + +"If you feel happy and comfortable I don't mind a bit about the expense," +said Philip. + +She accepted all that Philip did for her as if it were the most natural +thing in the world, and on his side he loved to spend money on her: each +five-pound note he gave her caused him a little thrill of happiness and +pride; he gave her a good many, for she was not economical. + +"I don't know where the money goes to," she said herself, "it seems to +slip through my fingers like water." + +"It doesn't matter," said Philip. "I'm so glad to be able to do anything +I can for you." + +She could not sew well and so did not make the necessary things for the +baby; she told Philip it was much cheaper in the end to buy them. Philip +had lately sold one of the mortgages in which his money had been put; and +now, with five hundred pounds in the bank waiting to be invested in +something that could be more easily realised, he felt himself uncommonly +well-to-do. They talked often of the future. Philip was anxious that +Mildred should keep the child with her, but she refused: she had her +living to earn, and it would be more easy to do this if she had not also +to look after a baby. Her plan was to get back into one of the shops of +the company for which she had worked before, and the child could be put +with some decent woman in the country. + +"I can find someone who'll look after it well for seven and sixpence a +week. It'll be better for the baby and better for me." + +It seemed callous to Philip, but when he tried to reason with her she +pretended to think he was concerned with the expense. + +"You needn't worry about that," she said. "I shan't ask YOU to pay for +it." + +"You know I don't care how much I pay." + +At the bottom of her heart was the hope that the child would be +still-born. She did no more than hint it, but Philip saw that the thought +was there. He was shocked at first; and then, reasoning with himself, he +was obliged to confess that for all concerned such an event was to be +desired. + +"It's all very fine to say this and that," Mildred remarked querulously, +"but it's jolly difficult for a girl to earn her living by herself; it +doesn't make it any easier when she's got a baby." + +"Fortunately you've got me to fall back on," smiled Philip, taking her +hand. + +"You've been good to me, Philip." + +"Oh, what rot!" + +"You can't say I didn't offer anything in return for what you've done." + +"Good heavens, I don't want a return. If I've done anything for you, I've +done it because I love you. You owe me nothing. I don't want you to do +anything unless you love me." + +He was a little horrified by her feeling that her body was a commodity +which she could deliver indifferently as an acknowledgment for services +rendered. + +"But I do want to, Philip. You've been so good to me." + +"Well, it won't hurt for waiting. When you're all right again we'll go for +our little honeymoon." + +"You are naughty," she said, smiling. + +Mildred expected to be confined early in March, and as soon as she was +well enough she was to go to the seaside for a fortnight: that would give +Philip a chance to work without interruption for his examination; after +that came the Easter holidays, and they had arranged to go to Paris +together. Philip talked endlessly of the things they would do. Paris was +delightful then. They would take a room in a little hotel he knew in the +Latin Quarter, and they would eat in all sorts of charming little +restaurants; they would go to the play, and he would take her to music +halls. It would amuse her to meet his friends. He had talked to her about +Cronshaw, she would see him; and there was Lawson, he had gone to Paris +for a couple of months; and they would go to the Bal Bullier; there were +excursions; they would make trips to Versailles, Chartres, Fontainebleau. + +"It'll cost a lot of money," she said. + +"Oh, damn the expense. Think how I've been looking forward to it. Don't +you know what it means to me? I've never loved anyone but you. I never +shall." + +She listened to his enthusiasm with smiling eyes. He thought he saw in +them a new tenderness, and he was grateful to her. She was much gentler +than she used to be. There was in her no longer the superciliousness which +had irritated him. She was so accustomed to him now that she took no pains +to keep up before him any pretences. She no longer troubled to do her hair +with the old elaboration, but just tied it in a knot; and she left off the +vast fringe which she generally wore: the more careless style suited her. +Her face was so thin that it made her eyes seem very large; there were +heavy lines under them, and the pallor of her cheeks made their colour +more profound. She had a wistful look which was infinitely pathetic. There +seemed to Philip to be in her something of the Madonna. He wished they +could continue in that same way always. He was happier than he had ever +been in his life. + +He used to leave her at ten o'clock every night, for she liked to go to +bed early, and he was obliged to put in another couple of hours' work to +make up for the lost evening. He generally brushed her hair for her before +he went. He had made a ritual of the kisses he gave her when he bade her +good-night; first he kissed the palms of her hands (how thin the fingers +were, the nails were beautiful, for she spent much time in manicuring +them,) then he kissed her closed eyes, first the right one and then the +left, and at last he kissed her lips. He went home with a heart +overflowing with love. He longed for an opportunity to gratify the desire +for self-sacrifice which consumed him. + +Presently the time came for her to move to the nursing-home where she was +to be confined. Philip was then able to visit her only in the afternoons. +Mildred changed her story and represented herself as the wife of a soldier +who had gone to India to join his regiment, and Philip was introduced to +the mistress of the establishment as her brother-in-law. + +"I have to be rather careful what I say," she told him, "as there's +another lady here whose husband's in the Indian Civil." + +"I wouldn't let that disturb me if I were you," said Philip. "I'm +convinced that her husband and yours went out on the same boat." + +"What boat?" she asked innocently. + +"The Flying Dutchman." + +Mildred was safely delivered of a daughter, and when Philip was allowed to +see her the child was lying by her side. Mildred was very weak, but +relieved that everything was over. She showed him the baby, and herself +looked at it curiously. + +"It's a funny-looking little thing, isn't it? I can't believe it's mine." + +It was red and wrinkled and odd. Philip smiled when he looked at it. He +did not quite know what to say; and it embarrassed him because the nurse +who owned the house was standing by his side; and he felt by the way she +was looking at him that, disbelieving Mildred's complicated story, she +thought he was the father. + +"What are you going to call her?" asked Philip. + +"I can't make up my mind if I shall call her Madeleine or Cecilia." + +The nurse left them alone for a few minutes, and Philip bent down and +kissed Mildred on the mouth. + +"I'm so glad it's all over happily, darling." + +She put her thin arms round his neck. + +"You have been a brick to me, Phil dear." + +"Now I feel that you're mine at last. I've waited so long for you, my +dear." + +They heard the nurse at the door, and Philip hurriedly got up. The nurse +entered. There was a slight smile on her lips. + + + +LXXIII + + +Three weeks later Philip saw Mildred and her baby off to Brighton. She had +made a quick recovery and looked better than he had ever seen her. She was +going to a boarding-house where she had spent a couple of weekends with +Emil Miller, and had written to say that her husband was obliged to go to +Germany on business and she was coming down with her baby. She got +pleasure out of the stories she invented, and she showed a certain +fertility of invention in the working out of the details. Mildred proposed +to find in Brighton some woman who would be willing to take charge of the +baby. Philip was startled at the callousness with which she insisted on +getting rid of it so soon, but she argued with common sense that the poor +child had much better be put somewhere before it grew used to her. Philip +had expected the maternal instinct to make itself felt when she had had +the baby two or three weeks and had counted on this to help him persuade +her to keep it; but nothing of the sort occurred. Mildred was not unkind +to her baby; she did all that was necessary; it amused her sometimes, and +she talked about it a good deal; but at heart she was indifferent to it. +She could not look upon it as part of herself. She fancied it resembled +its father already. She was continually wondering how she would manage +when it grew older; and she was exasperated with herself for being such a +fool as to have it at all. + +"If I'd only known then all I do now," she said. + +She laughed at Philip, because he was anxious about its welfare. + +"You couldn't make more fuss if you was the father," she said. "I'd like +to see Emil getting into such a stew about it." + +Philip's mind was full of the stories he had heard of baby-farming and the +ghouls who ill-treat the wretched children that selfish, cruel parents +have put in their charge. + +"Don't be so silly," said Mildred. "That's when you give a woman a sum +down to look after a baby. But when you're going to pay so much a week +it's to their interest to look after it well." + +Philip insisted that Mildred should place the child with people who had no +children of their own and would promise to take no other. + +"Don't haggle about the price," he said. "I'd rather pay half a guinea a +week than run any risk of the kid being starved or beaten." + +"You're a funny old thing, Philip," she laughed. + +To him there was something very touching in the child's helplessness. It +was small, ugly, and querulous. Its birth had been looked forward to with +shame and anguish. Nobody wanted it. It was dependent on him, a stranger, +for food, shelter, and clothes to cover its nakedness. + +As the train started he kissed Mildred. He would have kissed the baby too, +but he was afraid she would laugh at him. + +"You will write to me, darling, won't you? And I shall look forward to +your coming back with oh! such impatience." + +"Mind you get through your exam." + +He had been working for it industriously, and now with only ten days +before him he made a final effort. He was very anxious to pass, first to +save himself time and expense, for money had been slipping through his +fingers during the last four months with incredible speed; and then +because this examination marked the end of the drudgery: after that the +student had to do with medicine, midwifery, and surgery, the interest of +which was more vivid than the anatomy and physiology with which he had +been hitherto concerned. Philip looked forward with interest to the rest +of the curriculum. Nor did he want to have to confess to Mildred that he +had failed: though the examination was difficult and the majority of +candidates were ploughed at the first attempt, he knew that she would +think less well of him if he did not succeed; she had a peculiarly +humiliating way of showing what she thought. + +Mildred sent him a postcard to announce her safe arrival, and he snatched +half an hour every day to write a long letter to her. He had always a +certain shyness in expressing himself by word of mouth, but he found he +could tell her, pen in hand, all sorts of things which it would have made +him feel ridiculous to say. Profiting by the discovery he poured out to +her his whole heart. He had never been able to tell her before how his +adoration filled every part of him so that all his actions, all his +thoughts, were touched with it. He wrote to her of the future, the +happiness that lay before him, and the gratitude which he owed her. He +asked himself (he had often asked himself before but had never put it into +words) what it was in her that filled him with such extravagant delight; +he did not know; he knew only that when she was with him he was happy, and +when she was away from him the world was on a sudden cold and gray; he +knew only that when he thought of her his heart seemed to grow big in his +body so that it was difficult to breathe (as if it pressed against his +lungs) and it throbbed, so that the delight of her presence was almost +pain; his knees shook, and he felt strangely weak as though, not having +eaten, he were tremulous from want of food. He looked forward eagerly to +her answers. He did not expect her to write often, for he knew that +letter-writing came difficultly to her; and he was quite content with the +clumsy little note that arrived in reply to four of his. She spoke of the +boarding-house in which she had taken a room, of the weather and the baby, +told him she had been for a walk on the front with a lady-friend whom she +had met in the boarding-house and who had taken such a fancy to baby, she +was going to the theatre on Saturday night, and Brighton was filling up. +It touched Philip because it was so matter-of-fact. The crabbed style, the +formality of the matter, gave him a queer desire to laugh and to take her +in his arms and kiss her. + +He went into the examination with happy confidence. There was nothing in +either of the papers that gave him trouble. He knew that he had done well, +and though the second part of the examination was viva voce and he was +more nervous, he managed to answer the questions adequately. He sent a +triumphant telegram to Mildred when the result was announced. + +When he got back to his rooms Philip found a letter from her, saying that +she thought it would be better for her to stay another week in Brighton. +She had found a woman who would be glad to take the baby for seven +shillings a week, but she wanted to make inquiries about her, and she was +herself benefiting so much by the sea-air that she was sure a few days +more would do her no end of good. She hated asking Philip for money, but +would he send some by return, as she had had to buy herself a new hat, she +couldn't go about with her lady-friend always in the same hat, and her +lady-friend was so dressy. Philip had a moment of bitter disappointment. +It took away all his pleasure at getting through his examination. + +"If she loved me one quarter as much as I love her she couldn't bear to +stay away a day longer than necessary." + +He put the thought away from him quickly; it was pure selfishness; of +course her health was more important than anything else. But he had +nothing to do now; he might spend the week with her in Brighton, and they +could be together all day. His heart leaped at the thought. It would be +amusing to appear before Mildred suddenly with the information that he had +taken a room in the boarding-house. He looked out trains. But he paused. +He was not certain that she would be pleased to see him; she had made +friends in Brighton; he was quiet, and she liked boisterous joviality; he +realised that she amused herself more with other people than with him. It +would torture him if he felt for an instant that he was in the way. He was +afraid to risk it. He dared not even write and suggest that, with nothing +to keep him in town, he would like to spend the week where he could see +her every day. She knew he had nothing to do; if she wanted him to come +she would have asked him to. He dared not risk the anguish he would suffer +if he proposed to come and she made excuses to prevent him. + +He wrote to her next day, sent her a five-pound note, and at the end of +his letter said that if she were very nice and cared to see him for the +week-end he would be glad to run down; but she was by no means to alter +any plans she had made. He awaited her answer with impatience. In it she +said that if she had only known before she could have arranged it, but she +had promised to go to a music-hall on the Saturday night; besides, it +would make the people at the boarding-house talk if he stayed there. Why +did he not come on Sunday morning and spend the day? They could lunch at +the Metropole, and she would take him afterwards to see the very superior +lady-like person who was going to take the baby. + +Sunday. He blessed the day because it was fine. As the train approached +Brighton the sun poured through the carriage window. Mildred was waiting +for him on the platform. + +"How jolly of you to come and meet me!" he cried, as he seized her hands. + +"You expected me, didn't you?" + +"I hoped you would. I say, how well you're looking." + +"It's done me a rare lot of good, but I think I'm wise to stay here as +long as I can. And there are a very nice class of people at the +boarding-house. I wanted cheering up after seeing nobody all these months. +It was dull sometimes." + +She looked very smart in her new hat, a large black straw with a great +many inexpensive flowers on it; and round her neck floated a long boa of +imitation swansdown. She was still very thin, and she stooped a little +when she walked (she had always done that,) but her eyes did not seem so +large; and though she never had any colour, her skin had lost the earthy +look it had. They walked down to the sea. Philip, remembering he had not +walked with her for months, grew suddenly conscious of his limp and walked +stiffly in the attempt to conceal it. + +"Are you glad to see me?" he asked, love dancing madly in his heart. + +"Of course I am. You needn't ask that." + +"By the way, Griffiths sends you his love." + +"What cheek!" + +He had talked to her a great deal of Griffiths. He had told her how +flirtatious he was and had amused her often with the narration of some +adventure which Griffiths under the seal of secrecy had imparted to him. +Mildred had listened, with some pretence of disgust sometimes, but +generally with curiosity; and Philip, admiringly, had enlarged upon his +friend's good looks and charm. + +"I'm sure you'll like him just as much as I do. He's so jolly and amusing, +and he's such an awfully good sort." + +Philip told her how, when they were perfect strangers, Griffiths had +nursed him through an illness; and in the telling Griffiths' +self-sacrifice lost nothing. + +"You can't help liking him," said Philip. + +"I don't like good-looking men," said Mildred. "They're too conceited for +me." + +"He wants to know you. I've talked to him about you an awful lot." + +"What have you said?" asked Mildred. + +Philip had no one but Griffiths to talk to of his love for Mildred, and +little by little had told him the whole story of his connection with her. +He described her to him fifty times. He dwelt amorously on every detail of +her appearance, and Griffiths knew exactly how her thin hands were shaped +and how white her face was, and he laughed at Philip when he talked of the +charm of her pale, thin lips. + +"By Jove, I'm glad I don't take things so badly as that," he said. "Life +wouldn't be worth living." + +Philip smiled. Griffiths did not know the delight of being so madly in +love that it was like meat and wine and the air one breathed and whatever +else was essential to existence. Griffiths knew that Philip had looked +after the girl while she was having her baby and was now going away with +her. + +"Well, I must say you've deserved to get something," he remarked. "It must +have cost you a pretty penny. It's lucky you can afford it." + +"I can't," said Philip. "But what do I care!" + +Since it was early for luncheon, Philip and Mildred sat in one of the +shelters on the parade, sunning themselves, and watched the people pass. +There were the Brighton shop-boys who walked in twos and threes, swinging +their canes, and there were the Brighton shop-girls who tripped along in +giggling bunches. They could tell the people who had come down from London +for the day; the keen air gave a fillip to their weariness. There were +many Jews, stout ladies in tight satin dresses and diamonds, little +corpulent men with a gesticulative manner. There were middle-aged +gentlemen spending a week-end in one of the large hotels, carefully +dressed; and they walked industriously after too substantial a breakfast +to give themselves an appetite for too substantial a luncheon: they +exchanged the time of day with friends and talked of Dr. Brighton or +London-by-the-Sea. Here and there a well-known actor passed, elaborately +unconscious of the attention he excited: sometimes he wore patent leather +boots, a coat with an astrakhan collar, and carried a silver-knobbed +stick; and sometimes, looking as though he had come from a day's shooting, +he strolled in knickerbockers, and ulster of Harris tweed, and a tweed hat +on the back of his head. The sun shone on the blue sea, and the blue sea +was trim and neat. + +After luncheon they went to Hove to see the woman who was to take charge +of the baby. She lived in a small house in a back street, but it was clean +and tidy. Her name was Mrs. Harding. She was an elderly, stout person, +with gray hair and a red, fleshy face. She looked motherly in her cap, and +Philip thought she seemed kind. + +"Won't you find it an awful nuisance to look after a baby?" he asked her. + +She explained that her husband was a curate, a good deal older than +herself, who had difficulty in getting permanent work since vicars wanted +young men to assist them; he earned a little now and then by doing locums +when someone took a holiday or fell ill, and a charitable institution gave +them a small pension; but her life was lonely, it would be something to do +to look after a child, and the few shillings a week paid for it would help +her to keep things going. She promised that it should be well fed. + +"Quite the lady, isn't she?" said Mildred, when they went away. + +They went back to have tea at the Metropole. Mildred liked the crowd and +the band. Philip was tired of talking, and he watched her face as she +looked with keen eyes at the dresses of the women who came in. She had a +peculiar sharpness for reckoning up what things cost, and now and then she +leaned over to him and whispered the result of her meditations. + +"D'you see that aigrette there? That cost every bit of seven guineas." + +Or: "Look at that ermine, Philip. That's rabbit, that is--that's not +ermine." She laughed triumphantly. "I'd know it a mile off." + +Philip smiled happily. He was glad to see her pleasure, and the +ingenuousness of her conversation amused and touched him. The band played +sentimental music. + +After dinner they walked down to the station, and Philip took her arm. He +told her what arrangements he had made for their journey to France. She +was to come up to London at the end of the week, but she told him that she +could not go away till the Saturday of the week after that. He had already +engaged a room in a hotel in Paris. He was looking forward eagerly to +taking the tickets. + +"You won't mind going second-class, will you? We mustn't be extravagant, +and it'll be all the better if we can do ourselves pretty well when we get +there." + +He had talked to her a hundred times of the Quarter. They would wander +through its pleasant old streets, and they would sit idly in the charming +gardens of the Luxembourg. If the weather was fine perhaps, when they had +had enough of Paris, they might go to Fontainebleau. The trees would be +just bursting into leaf. The green of the forest in spring was more +beautiful than anything he knew; it was like a song, and it was like the +happy pain of love. Mildred listened quietly. He turned to her and tried +to look deep into her eyes. + +"You do want to come, don't you?" he said. + +"Of course I do," she smiled. + +"You don't know how I'm looking forward to it. I don't know how I shall +get through the next days. I'm so afraid something will happen to prevent +it. It maddens me sometimes that I can't tell you how much I love you. And +at last, at last..." + +He broke off. They reached the station, but they had dawdled on the way, +and Philip had barely time to say good-night. He kissed her quickly and +ran towards the wicket as fast as he could. She stood where he left her. +He was strangely grotesque when he ran. + + + +LXXIV + + +The following Saturday Mildred returned, and that evening Philip kept her +to himself. He took seats for the play, and they drank champagne at +dinner. It was her first gaiety in London for so long that she enjoyed +everything ingenuously. She cuddled up to Philip when they drove from the +theatre to the room he had taken for her in Pimlico. + +"I really believe you're quite glad to see me," he said. + +She did not answer, but gently pressed his hand. Demonstrations of +affection were so rare with her that Philip was enchanted. + +"I've asked Griffiths to dine with us tomorrow," he told her. + +"Oh, I'm glad you've done that. I wanted to meet him." + +There was no place of entertainment to take her to on Sunday night, and +Philip was afraid she would be bored if she were alone with him all day. +Griffiths was amusing; he would help them to get through the evening; and +Philip was so fond of them both that he wanted them to know and to like +one another. He left Mildred with the words: + +"Only six days more." + +They had arranged to dine in the gallery at Romano's on Sunday, because +the dinner was excellent and looked as though it cost a good deal more +than it did. Philip and Mildred arrived first and had to wait some time +for Griffiths. + +"He's an unpunctual devil," said Philip. "He's probably making love to one +of his numerous flames." + +But presently he appeared. He was a handsome creature, tall and thin; his +head was placed well on the body, it gave him a conquering air which was +attractive; and his curly hair, his bold, friendly blue eyes, his red +mouth, were charming. Philip saw Mildred look at him with appreciation, +and he felt a curious satisfaction. Griffiths greeted them with a smile. + +"I've heard a great deal about you," he said to Mildred, as he took her +hand. + +"Not so much as I've heard about you," she answered. + +"Nor so bad," said Philip. + +"Has he been blackening my character?" + +Griffiths laughed, and Philip saw that Mildred noticed how white and +regular his teeth were and how pleasant his smile. + +"You ought to feel like old friends," said Philip. "I've talked so much +about you to one another." + +Griffiths was in the best possible humour, for, having at length passed +his final examination, he was qualified, and he had just been appointed +house-surgeon at a hospital in the North of London. He was taking up his +duties at the beginning of May and meanwhile was going home for a holiday; +this was his last week in town, and he was determined to get as much +enjoyment into it as he could. He began to talk the gay nonsense which +Philip admired because he could not copy it. There was nothing much in +what he said, but his vivacity gave it point. There flowed from him a +force of life which affected everyone who knew him; it was almost as +sensible as bodily warmth. Mildred was more lively than Philip had ever +known her, and he was delighted to see that his little party was a +success. She was amusing herself enormously. She laughed louder and +louder. She quite forgot the genteel reserve which had become second +nature to her. + +Presently Griffiths said: + +"I say, it's dreadfully difficult for me to call you Mrs. Miller. Philip +never calls you anything but Mildred." + +"I daresay she won't scratch your eyes out if you call her that too," +laughed Philip. + +"Then she must call me Harry." + +Philip sat silent while they chattered away and thought how good it was to +see people happy. Now and then Griffiths teased him a little, kindly, +because he was always so serious. + +"I believe he's quite fond of you, Philip," smiled Mildred. + +"He isn't a bad old thing," answered Griffiths, and taking Philip's hand +he shook it gaily. + +It seemed an added charm in Griffiths that he liked Philip. They were all +sober people, and the wine they had drunk went to their heads. Griffiths +became more talkative and so boisterous that Philip, amused, had to beg +him to be quiet. He had a gift for story-telling, and his adventures lost +nothing of their romance and their laughter in his narration. He played in +all of them a gallant, humorous part. Mildred, her eyes shining with +excitement, urged him on. He poured out anecdote after anecdote. When the +lights began to be turned out she was astonished. + +"My word, the evening has gone quickly. I thought it wasn't more than half +past nine." + +They got up to go and when she said good-bye, she added: + +"I'm coming to have tea at Philip's room tomorrow. You might look in if +you can." + +"All right," he smiled. + +On the way back to Pimlico Mildred talked of nothing but Griffiths. She +was taken with his good looks, his well-cut clothes, his voice, his +gaiety. + +"I am glad you like him," said Philip. "D'you remember you were rather +sniffy about meeting him?" + +"I think it's so nice of him to be so fond of you, Philip. He is a nice +friend for you to have." + +She put up her face to Philip for him to kiss her. It was a thing she did +rarely. + +"I have enjoyed myself this evening, Philip. Thank you so much." + +"Don't be so absurd," he laughed, touched by her appreciation so that he +felt the moisture come to his eyes. + +She opened her door and just before she went in, turned again to Philip. + +"Tell Harry I'm madly in love with him," she said. + +"All right," he laughed. "Good-night." + +Next day, when they were having tea, Griffiths came in. He sank lazily +into an arm-chair. There was something strangely sensual in the slow +movements of his large limbs. Philip remained silent, while the others +chattered away, but he was enjoying himself. He admired them both so much +that it seemed natural enough for them to admire one another. He did not +care if Griffiths absorbed Mildred's attention, he would have her to +himself during the evening: he had something of the attitude of a loving +husband, confident in his wife's affection, who looks on with amusement +while she flirts harmlessly with a stranger. But at half past seven he +looked at his watch and said: + +"It's about time we went out to dinner, Mildred." + +There was a moment's pause, and Griffiths seemed to be considering. + +"Well, I'll be getting along," he said at last. "I didn't know it was so +late." + +"Are you doing anything tonight?" asked Mildred. + +"No." + +There was another silence. Philip felt slightly irritated. + +"I'll just go and have a wash," he said, and to Mildred he added: "Would +you like to wash your hands?" + +She did not answer him. + +"Why don't you come and dine with us?" she said to Griffiths. + +He looked at Philip and saw him staring at him sombrely. + +"I dined with you last night," he laughed. "I should be in the way." + +"Oh, that doesn't matter," insisted Mildred. "Make him come, Philip. He +won't be in the way, will he?" + +"Let him come by all means if he'd like to." + +"All right, then," said Griffiths promptly. "I'll just go upstairs and +tidy myself." + +The moment he left the room Philip turned to Mildred angrily. + +"Why on earth did you ask him to dine with us?" + +"I couldn't help myself. It would have looked so funny to say nothing when +he said he wasn't doing anything." + +"Oh, what rot! And why the hell did you ask him if he was doing anything?" + +Mildred's pale lips tightened a little. + +"I want a little amusement sometimes. I get tired always being alone with +you." + +They heard Griffiths coming heavily down the stairs, and Philip went into +his bed-room to wash. They dined in the neighbourhood in an Italian +restaurant. Philip was cross and silent, but he quickly realised that he +was showing to disadvantage in comparison with Griffiths, and he forced +himself to hide his annoyance. He drank a good deal of wine to destroy the +pain that was gnawing at his heart, and he set himself to talk. Mildred, +as though remorseful for what she had said, did all she could to make +herself pleasant to him. She was kindly and affectionate. Presently Philip +began to think he had been a fool to surrender to a feeling of jealousy. +After dinner when they got into a hansom to drive to a music-hall Mildred, +sitting between the two men, of her own accord gave him her hand. His +anger vanished. Suddenly, he knew not how, he grew conscious that +Griffiths was holding her other hand. The pain seized him again violently, +it was a real physical pain, and he asked himself, panic-stricken, what he +might have asked himself before, whether Mildred and Griffiths were in +love with one another. He could not see anything of the performance on +account of the mist of suspicion, anger, dismay, and wretchedness which +seemed to be before his eyes; but he forced himself to conceal the fact +that anything was the matter; he went on talking and laughing. Then a +strange desire to torture himself seized him, and he got up, saying he +wanted to go and drink something. Mildred and Griffiths had never been +alone together for a moment. He wanted to leave them by themselves. + +"I'll come too," said Griffiths. "I've got rather a thirst on." + +"Oh, nonsense, you stay and talk to Mildred." + +Philip did not know why he said that. He was throwing them together now to +make the pain he suffered more intolerable. He did not go to the bar, but +up into the balcony, from where he could watch them and not be seen. They +had ceased to look at the stage and were smiling into one another's eyes. +Griffiths was talking with his usual happy fluency and Mildred seemed to +hang on his lips. Philip's head began to ache frightfully. He stood there +motionless. He knew he would be in the way if he went back. They were +enjoying themselves without him, and he was suffering, suffering. Time +passed, and now he had an extraordinary shyness about rejoining them. He +knew they had not thought of him at all, and he reflected bitterly that he +had paid for the dinner and their seats in the music-hall. What a fool +they were making of him! He was hot with shame. He could see how happy +they were without him. His instinct was to leave them to themselves and go +home, but he had not his hat and coat, and it would necessitate endless +explanations. He went back. He felt a shadow of annoyance in Mildred's +eyes when she saw him, and his heart sank. + +"You've been a devil of a time," said Griffiths, with a smile of welcome. + +"I met some men I knew. I've been talking to them, and I couldn't get +away. I thought you'd be all right together." + +"I've been enjoying myself thoroughly," said Griffiths. "I don't know +about Mildred." + +She gave a little laugh of happy complacency. There was a vulgar sound in +the ring of it that horrified Philip. He suggested that they should go. + +"Come on," said Griffiths, "we'll both drive you home." + +Philip suspected that she had suggested that arrangement so that she might +not be left alone with him. In the cab he did not take her hand nor did +she offer it, and he knew all the time that she was holding Griffiths'. +His chief thought was that it was all so horribly vulgar. As they drove +along he asked himself what plans they had made to meet without his +knowledge, he cursed himself for having left them alone, he had actually +gone out of his way to enable them to arrange things. + +"Let's keep the cab," said Philip, when they reached the house in which +Mildred was lodging. "I'm too tired to walk home." + +On the way back Griffiths talked gaily and seemed indifferent to the fact +that Philip answered in monosyllables. Philip felt he must notice that +something was the matter. Philip's silence at last grew too significant to +struggle against, and Griffiths, suddenly nervous, ceased talking. Philip +wanted to say something, but he was so shy he could hardly bring himself +to, and yet the time was passing and the opportunity would be lost. It was +best to get at the truth at once. He forced himself to speak. + +"Are you in love with Mildred?" he asked suddenly. + +"I?" Griffiths laughed. "Is that what you've been so funny about this +evening? Of course not, my dear old man." + +He tried to slip his hand through Philip's arm, but Philip drew himself +away. He knew Griffiths was lying. He could not bring himself to force +Griffiths to tell him that he had not been holding the girl's hand. He +suddenly felt very weak and broken. + +"It doesn't matter to you, Harry," he said. "You've got so many +women--don't take her away from me. It means my whole life. I've been so +awfully wretched." + +His voice broke, and he could not prevent the sob that was torn from him. +He was horribly ashamed of himself. + +"My dear old boy, you know I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. I'm far too +fond of you for that. I was only playing the fool. If I'd known you were +going to take it like that I'd have been more careful." + +"Is that true?" asked Philip. + +"I don't care a twopenny damn for her. I give you my word of honour." + +Philip gave a sigh of relief. The cab stopped at their door. + + + +LXXV + + +Next day Philip was in a good temper. He was very anxious not to bore +Mildred with too much of his society, and so had arranged that he should +not see her till dinner-time. She was ready when he fetched her, and he +chaffed her for her unwonted punctuality. She was wearing a new dress he +had given her. He remarked on its smartness. + +"It'll have to go back and be altered," she said. "The skirt hangs all +wrong." + +"You'll have to make the dressmaker hurry up if you want to take it to +Paris with you." + +"It'll be ready in time for that." + +"Only three more whole days. We'll go over by the eleven o'clock, shall +we?" + +"If you like." + +He would have her for nearly a month entirely to himself. His eyes rested +on her with hungry adoration. He was able to laugh a little at his own +passion. + +"I wonder what it is I see in you," he smiled. + +"That's a nice thing to say," she answered. + +Her body was so thin that one could almost see her skeleton. Her chest was +as flat as a boy's. Her mouth, with its narrow pale lips, was ugly, and +her skin was faintly green. + +"I shall give you Blaud's Pills in quantities when we're away," said +Philip, laughing. "I'm going to bring you back fat and rosy." + +"I don't want to get fat," she said. + +She did not speak of Griffiths, and presently while they were dining +Philip half in malice, for he felt sure of himself and his power over her, +said: + +"It seems to me you were having a great flirtation with Harry last night?" + +"I told you I was in love with him," she laughed. + +"I'm glad to know that he's not in love with you." + +"How d'you know?" + +"I asked him." + +She hesitated a moment, looking at Philip, and a curious gleam came into +her eyes. + +"Would you like to read a letter I had from him this morning?" + +She handed him an envelope and Philip recognised Griffiths' bold, legible +writing. There were eight pages. It was well written, frank and charming; +it was the letter of a man who was used to making love to women. He told +Mildred that he loved her passionately, he had fallen in love with her the +first moment he saw her; he did not want to love her, for he knew how fond +Philip was of her, but he could not help himself. Philip was such a dear, +and he was very much ashamed of himself, but it was not his fault, he was +just carried away. He paid her delightful compliments. Finally he thanked +her for consenting to lunch with him next day and said he was dreadfully +impatient to see her. Philip noticed that the letter was dated the night +before; Griffiths must have written it after leaving Philip, and had taken +the trouble to go out and post it when Philip thought he was in bed. + +He read it with a sickening palpitation of his heart, but gave no outward +sign of surprise. He handed it back to Mildred with a smile, calmly. + +"Did you enjoy your lunch?" + +"Rather," she said emphatically. + +He felt that his hands were trembling, so he put them under the table. + +"You mustn't take Griffiths too seriously. He's just a butterfly, you +know." + +She took the letter and looked at it again. + +"I can't help it either," she said, in a voice which she tried to make +nonchalant. "I don't know what's come over me." + +"It's a little awkward for me, isn't it?" said Philip. + +She gave him a quick look. + +"You're taking it pretty calmly, I must say." + +"What do you expect me to do? Do you want me to tear out my hair in +handfuls?" + +"I knew you'd be angry with me." + +"The funny thing is, I'm not at all. I ought to have known this would +happen. I was a fool to bring you together. I know perfectly well that +he's got every advantage over me; he's much jollier, and he's very +handsome, he's more amusing, he can talk to you about the things that +interest you." + +"I don't know what you mean by that. If I'm not clever I can't help it, +but I'm not the fool you think I am, not by a long way, I can tell you. +You're a bit too superior for me, my young friend." + +"D'you want to quarrel with me?" he asked mildly. + +"No, but I don't see why you should treat me as if I was I don't know +what." + +"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I just wanted to talk things over +quietly. We don't want to make a mess of them if we can help it. I saw you +were attracted by him and it seemed to me very natural. The only thing +that really hurts me is that he should have encouraged you. He knew how +awfully keen I was on you. I think it's rather shabby of him to have +written that letter to you five minutes after he told me he didn't care +twopence about you." + +"If you think you're going to make me like him any the less by saying +nasty things about him, you're mistaken." + +Philip was silent for a moment. He did not know what words he could use to +make her see his point of view. He wanted to speak coolly and +deliberately, but he was in such a turmoil of emotion that he could not +clear his thoughts. + +"It's not worth while sacrificing everything for an infatuation that you +know can't last. After all, he doesn't care for anyone more than ten days, +and you're rather cold; that sort of thing doesn't mean very much to you." + +"That's what you think." + +She made it more difficult for him by adopting a cantankerous tone. + +"If you're in love with him you can't help it. I'll just bear it as best +I can. We get on very well together, you and I, and I've not behaved badly +to you, have I? I've always known that you're not in love with me, but you +like me all right, and when we get over to Paris you'll forget about +Griffiths. If you make up your mind to put him out of your thoughts you +won't find it so hard as all that, and I've deserved that you should do +something for me." + +She did not answer, and they went on eating their dinner. When the silence +grew oppressive Philip began to talk of indifferent things. He pretended +not to notice that Mildred was inattentive. Her answers were perfunctory, +and she volunteered no remarks of her own. At last she interrupted +abruptly what he was saying: + +"Philip, I'm afraid I shan't be able to go away on Saturday. The doctor +says I oughtn't to." + +He knew this was not true, but he answered: + +"When will you be able to come away?" + +She glanced at him, saw that his face was white and rigid, and looked +nervously away. She was at that moment a little afraid of him. + +"I may as well tell you and have done with it, I can't come away with you +at all." + +"I thought you were driving at that. It's too late to change your mind +now. I've got the tickets and everything." + +"You said you didn't wish me to go unless I wanted it too, and I don't." + +"I've changed my mind. I'm not going to have any more tricks played with +me. You must come." + +"I like you very much, Philip, as a friend. But I can't bear to think of +anything else. I don't like you that way. I couldn't, Philip." + +"You were quite willing to a week ago." + +"It was different then." + +"You hadn't met Griffiths?" + +"You said yourself I couldn't help it if I'm in love with him." + +Her face was set into a sulky look, and she kept her eyes fixed on her +plate. Philip was white with rage. He would have liked to hit her in the +face with his clenched fist, and in fancy he saw how she would look with +a black eye. There were two lads of eighteen dining at a table near them, +and now and then they looked at Mildred; he wondered if they envied him +dining with a pretty girl; perhaps they were wishing they stood in his +shoes. It was Mildred who broke the silence. + +"What's the good of our going away together? I'd be thinking of him all +the time. It wouldn't be much fun for you." + +"That's my business," he answered. + +She thought over all his reply implicated, and she reddened. + +"But that's just beastly." + +"What of it?" + +"I thought you were a gentleman in every sense of the word." + +"You were mistaken." + +His reply entertained him, and he laughed as he said it. + +"For God's sake don't laugh," she cried. "I can't come away with you, +Philip. I'm awfully sorry. I know I haven't behaved well to you, but one +can't force themselves." + +"Have you forgotten that when you were in trouble I did everything for +you? I planked out the money to keep you till your baby was born, I paid +for your doctor and everything, I paid for you to go to Brighton, and I'm +paying for the keep of your baby, I'm paying for your clothes, I'm paying +for every stitch you've got on now." + +"If you was a gentleman you wouldn't throw what you've done for me in my +face." + +"Oh, for goodness' sake, shut up. What d'you suppose I care if I'm a +gentleman or not? If I were a gentleman I shouldn't waste my time with a +vulgar slut like you. I don't care a damn if you like me or not. I'm sick +of being made a blasted fool of. You're jolly well coming to Paris with me +on Saturday or you can take the consequences." + +Her cheeks were red with anger, and when she answered her voice had the +hard commonness which she concealed generally by a genteel enunciation. + +"I never liked you, not from the beginning, but you forced yourself on me, +I always hated it when you kissed me. I wouldn't let you touch me now not +if I was starving." + +Philip tried to swallow the food on his plate, but the muscles of his +throat refused to act. He gulped down something to drink and lit a +cigarette. He was trembling in every part. He did not speak. He waited for +her to move, but she sat in silence, staring at the white tablecloth. If +they had been alone he would have flung his arms round her and kissed her +passionately; he fancied the throwing back of her long white throat as he +pressed upon her mouth with his lips. They passed an hour without +speaking, and at last Philip thought the waiter began to stare at them +curiously. He called for the bill. + +"Shall we go?" he said then, in an even tone. + +She did not reply, but gathered together her bag and her gloves. She put +on her coat. + +"When are you seeing Griffiths again?" + +"Tomorrow," she answered indifferently. + +"You'd better talk it over with him." + +She opened her bag mechanically and saw a piece of paper in it. She took +it out. + +"Here's the bill for this dress," she said hesitatingly. + +"What of it?" + +"I promised I'd give her the money tomorrow." + +"Did you?" + +"Does that mean you won't pay for it after having told me I could get it?" + +"It does." + +"I'll ask Harry," she said, flushing quickly. + +"He'll be glad to help you. He owes me seven pounds at the moment, and he +pawned his microscope last week, because he was so broke." + +"You needn't think you can frighten me by that. I'm quite capable of +earning my own living." + +"It's the best thing you can do. I don't propose to give you a farthing +more." + +She thought of her rent due on Saturday and the baby's keep, but did not +say anything. They left the restaurant, and in the street Philip asked +her: + +"Shall I call a cab for you? I'm going to take a little stroll." + +"I haven't got any money. I had to pay a bill this afternoon." + +"It won't hurt you to walk. If you want to see me tomorrow I shall be in +about tea-time." + +He took off his hat and sauntered away. He looked round in a moment and +saw that she was standing helplessly where he had left her, looking at the +traffic. He went back and with a laugh pressed a coin into her hand. + +"Here's two bob for you to get home with." + +Before she could speak he hurried away. + + + +LXXVI + + +Next day, in the afternoon, Philip sat in his room and wondered whether +Mildred would come. He had slept badly. He had spent the morning in the +club of the Medical School, reading one newspaper after another. It was +the vacation and few students he knew were in London, but he found one or +two people to talk to, he played a game of chess, and so wore out the +tedious hours. After luncheon he felt so tired, his head was aching so, +that he went back to his lodgings and lay down; he tried to read a novel. +He had not seen Griffiths. He was not in when Philip returned the night +before; he heard him come back, but he did not as usual look into Philip's +room to see if he was asleep; and in the morning Philip heard him go out +early. It was clear that he wanted to avoid him. Suddenly there was a +light tap at his door. Philip sprang to his feet and opened it. Mildred +stood on the threshold. She did not move. + +"Come in," said Philip. + +He closed the door after her. She sat down. She hesitated to begin. + +"Thank you for giving me that two shillings last night," she said. + +"Oh, that's all right." + +She gave him a faint smile. It reminded Philip of the timid, ingratiating +look of a puppy that has been beaten for naughtiness and wants to +reconcile himself with his master. + +"I've been lunching with Harry," she said. + +"Have you?" + +"If you still want me to go away with you on Saturday, Philip, I'll come." + +A quick thrill of triumph shot through his heart, but it was a sensation +that only lasted an instant; it was followed by a suspicion. + +"Because of the money?" he asked. + +"Partly," she answered simply. "Harry can't do anything. He owes five +weeks here, and he owes you seven pounds, and his tailor's pressing him +for money. He'd pawn anything he could, but he's pawned everything +already. I had a job to put the woman off about my new dress, and on +Saturday there's the book at my lodgings, and I can't get work in five +minutes. It always means waiting some little time till there's a vacancy." + +She said all this in an even, querulous tone, as though she were +recounting the injustices of fate, which had to be borne as part of the +natural order of things. Philip did not answer. He knew what she told him +well enough. + +"You said partly," he observed at last. + +"Well, Harry says you've been a brick to both of us. You've been a real +good friend to him, he says, and you've done for me what p'raps no other +man would have done. We must do the straight thing, he says. And he said +what you said about him, that he's fickle by nature, he's not like you, +and I should be a fool to throw you away for him. He won't last and you +will, he says so himself." + +"D'you WANT to come away with me?" asked Philip. + +"I don't mind." + +He looked at her, and the corners of his mouth turned down in an +expression of misery. He had triumphed indeed, and he was going to have +his way. He gave a little laugh of derision at his own humiliation. She +looked at him quickly, but did not speak. + +"I've looked forward with all my soul to going away with you, and I +thought at last, after all that wretchedness, I was going to be happy..." + +He did not finish what he was going to say. And then on a sudden, without +warning, Mildred broke into a storm of tears. She was sitting in the chair +in which Norah had sat and wept, and like her she hid her face on the back +of it, towards the side where there was a little bump formed by the +sagging in the middle, where the head had rested. + +"I'm not lucky with women," thought Philip. + +Her thin body was shaken with sobs. Philip had never seen a woman cry with +such an utter abandonment. It was horribly painful, and his heart was +torn. Without realising what he did, he went up to her and put his arms +round her; she did not resist, but in her wretchedness surrendered herself +to his comforting. He whispered to her little words of solace. He scarcely +knew what he was saying, he bent over her and kissed her repeatedly. + +"Are you awfully unhappy?" he said at last. + +"I wish I was dead," she moaned. "I wish I'd died when the baby come." + +Her hat was in her way, and Philip took it off for her. He placed her head +more comfortably in the chair, and then he went and sat down at the table +and looked at her. + +"It is awful, love, isn't it?" he said. "Fancy anyone wanting to be in +love." + +Presently the violence of her sobbing diminished and she sat in the chair, +exhausted, with her head thrown back and her arms hanging by her side. She +had the grotesque look of one of those painters' dummies used to hang +draperies on. + +"I didn't know you loved him so much as all that," said Philip. + +He understood Griffiths' love well enough, for he put himself in +Griffiths' place and saw with his eyes, touched with his hands; he was +able to think himself in Griffiths' body, and he kissed her with his lips, +smiled at her with his smiling blue eyes. It was her emotion that +surprised him. He had never thought her capable of passion, and this was +passion: there was no mistaking it. Something seemed to give way in his +heart; it really felt to him as though something were breaking, and he +felt strangely weak. + +"I don't want to make you unhappy. You needn't come away with me if you +don't want to. I'll give you the money all the same." + +She shook her head. + +"No, I said I'd come, and I'll come." + +"What's the good, if you're sick with love for him?" + +"Yes, that's the word. I'm sick with love. I know it won't last, just as +well as he does, but just now..." + +She paused and shut her eyes as though she were going to faint. A strange +idea came to Philip, and he spoke it as it came, without stopping to think +it out. + +"Why don't you go away with him?" + +"How can I? You know we haven't got the money." + +"I'll give you the money" + +"You?" + +She sat up and looked at him. Her eyes began to shine, and the colour came +into her cheeks. + +"Perhaps the best thing would be to get it over, and then you'd come back +to me." + +Now that he had made the suggestion he was sick with anguish, and yet the +torture of it gave him a strange, subtle sensation. She stared at him with +open eyes. + +"Oh, how could we, on your money? Harry wouldn't think of it." + +"Oh yes, he would, if you persuaded him." + +Her objections made him insist, and yet he wanted her with all his heart +to refuse vehemently. + +"I'll give you a fiver, and you can go away from Saturday to Monday. You +could easily do that. On Monday he's going home till he takes up his +appointment at the North London." + +"Oh, Philip, do you mean that?" she cried, clasping her hands. "If you +could only let us go--I would love you so much afterwards, I'd do anything +for you. I'm sure I shall get over it if you'll only do that. Would you +really give us the money?" + +"Yes," he said. + +She was entirely changed now. She began to laugh. He could see that she +was insanely happy. She got up and knelt down by Philip's side, taking his +hands. + +"You are a brick, Philip. You're the best fellow I've ever known. Won't +you be angry with me afterwards?" + +He shook his head, smiling, but with what agony in his heart! + +"May I go and tell Harry now? And can I say to him that you don't mind? He +won't consent unless you promise it doesn't matter. Oh, you don't know how +I love him! And afterwards I'll do anything you like. I'll come over to +Paris with you or anywhere on Monday." + +She got up and put on her hat. + +"Where are you going?" + +"I'm going to ask him if he'll take me." + +"Already?" + +"D'you want me to stay? I'll stay if you like." + +She sat down, but he gave a little laugh. + +"No, it doesn't matter, you'd better go at once. There's only one thing: +I can't bear to see Griffiths just now, it would hurt me too awfully. Say +I have no ill-feeling towards him or anything like that, but ask him to +keep out of my way." + +"All right." She sprang up and put on her gloves. "I'll let you know what +he says." + +"You'd better dine with me tonight." + +"Very well." + +She put up her face for him to kiss her, and when he pressed his lips to +hers she threw her arms round his neck. + +"You are a darling, Philip." + +She sent him a note a couple of hours later to say that she had a headache +and could not dine with him. Philip had almost expected it. He knew that +she was dining with Griffiths. He was horribly jealous, but the sudden +passion which had seized the pair of them seemed like something that had +come from the outside, as though a god had visited them with it, and he +felt himself helpless. It seemed so natural that they should love one +another. He saw all the advantages that Griffiths had over himself and +confessed that in Mildred's place he would have done as Mildred did. What +hurt him most was Griffiths' treachery; they had been such good friends, +and Griffiths knew how passionately devoted he was to Mildred: he might +have spared him. + +He did not see Mildred again till Friday; he was sick for a sight of her +by then; but when she came and he realised that he had gone out of her +thoughts entirely, for they were engrossed in Griffiths, he suddenly hated +her. He saw now why she and Griffiths loved one another, Griffiths was +stupid, oh so stupid! he had known that all along, but had shut his eyes +to it, stupid and empty-headed: that charm of his concealed an utter +selfishness; he was willing to sacrifice anyone to his appetites. And how +inane was the life he led, lounging about bars and drinking in music +halls, wandering from one light amour to another! He never read a book, he +was blind to everything that was not frivolous and vulgar; he had never a +thought that was fine: the word most common on his lips was smart; that +was his highest praise for man or woman. Smart! It was no wonder he +pleased Mildred. They suited one another. + +Philip talked to Mildred of things that mattered to neither of them. He +knew she wanted to speak of Griffiths, but he gave her no opportunity. He +did not refer to the fact that two evenings before she had put off dining +with him on a trivial excuse. He was casual with her, trying to make her +think he was suddenly grown indifferent; and he exercised peculiar skill +in saying little things which he knew would wound her; but which were so +indefinite, so delicately cruel, that she could not take exception to +them. At last she got up. + +"I think I must be going off now," she said. + +"I daresay you've got a lot to do," he answered. + +She held out her hand, he took it, said good-bye, and opened the door for +her. He knew what she wanted to speak about, and he knew also that his +cold, ironical air intimidated her. Often his shyness made him seem so +frigid that unintentionally he frightened people, and, having discovered +this, he was able when occasion arose to assume the same manner. + +"You haven't forgotten what you promised?" she said at last, as he held +open the door. + +"What is that?" + +"About the money" + +"How much d'you want?" + +He spoke with an icy deliberation which made his words peculiarly +offensive. Mildred flushed. He knew she hated him at that moment, and he +wondered at the self-control by which she prevented herself from flying +out at him. He wanted to make her suffer. + +"There's the dress and the book tomorrow. That's all. Harry won't come, so +we shan't want money for that." + +Philip's heart gave a great thud against his ribs, and he let the door +handle go. The door swung to. + +"Why not?" + +"He says we couldn't, not on your money." + +A devil seized Philip, a devil of self-torture which was always lurking +within him, and, though with all his soul he wished that Griffiths and +Mildred should not go away together, he could not help himself; he set +himself to persuade Griffiths through her. + +"I don't see why not, if I'm willing," he said. + +"That's what I told him." + +"I should have thought if he really wanted to go he wouldn't hesitate." + +"Oh, it's not that, he wants to all right. He'd go at once if he had the +money." + +"If he's squeamish about it I'll give YOU the money." + +"I said you'd lend it if he liked, and we'd pay it back as soon as we +could." + +"It's rather a change for you going on your knees to get a man to take you +away for a week-end." + +"It is rather, isn't it?" she said, with a shameless little laugh. It sent +a cold shudder down Philip's spine. + +"What are you going to do then?" he asked. + +"Nothing. He's going home tomorrow. He must." + +That would be Philip's salvation. With Griffiths out of the way he could +get Mildred back. She knew no one in London, she would be thrown on to his +society, and when they were alone together he could soon make her forget +this infatuation. If he said nothing more he was safe. But he had a +fiendish desire to break down their scruples, he wanted to know how +abominably they could behave towards him; if he tempted them a little more +they would yield, and he took a fierce joy at the thought of their +dishonour. Though every word he spoke tortured him, he found in the +torture a horrible delight. + +"It looks as if it were now or never." + +"That's what I told him," she said. + +There was a passionate note in her voice which struck Philip. He was +biting his nails in his nervousness. + +"Where were you thinking of going?" + +"Oh, to Oxford. He was at the 'Varsity there, you know. He said he'd show +me the colleges." + +Philip remembered that once he had suggested going to Oxford for the day, +and she had expressed firmly the boredom she felt at the thought of +sights. + +"And it looks as if you'd have fine weather. It ought to be very jolly +there just now." + +"I've done all I could to persuade him." + +"Why don't you have another try?" + +"Shall I say you want us to go?" + +"I don't think you must go as far as that," said Philip. + +She paused for a minute or two, looking at him. Philip forced himself to +look at her in a friendly way. He hated her, he despised her, he loved her +with all his heart. + +"I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll go and see if he can't arrange it. And +then, if he says yes, I'll come and fetch the money tomorrow. When shall +you be in?" + +"I'll come back here after luncheon and wait." + +"All right." + +"I'll give you the money for your dress and your room now." + +He went to his desk and took out what money he had. The dress was six +guineas; there was besides her rent and her food, and the baby's keep for +a week. He gave her eight pounds ten. + +"Thanks very much," she said. + +She left him. + + + +LXXVII + + +After lunching in the basement of the Medical School Philip went back to +his rooms. It was Saturday afternoon, and the landlady was cleaning the +stairs. + +"Is Mr. Griffiths in?" he asked. + +"No, sir. He went away this morning, soon after you went out." + +"Isn't he coming back?" + +"I don't think so, sir. He's taken his luggage." + +Philip wondered what this could mean. He took a book and began to read. It +was Burton's Journey to Meccah, which he had just got out of the +Westminster Public Library; and he read the first page, but could make no +sense of it, for his mind was elsewhere; he was listening all the time for +a ring at the bell. He dared not hope that Griffiths had gone away +already, without Mildred, to his home in Cumberland. Mildred would be +coming presently for the money. He set his teeth and read on; he tried +desperately to concentrate his attention; the sentences etched themselves +in his brain by the force of his effort, but they were distorted by the +agony he was enduring. He wished with all his heart that he had not made +the horrible proposition to give them money; but now that he had made it +he lacked the strength to go back on it, not on Mildred's account, but on +his own. There was a morbid obstinacy in him which forced him to do the +thing he had determined. He discovered that the three pages he had read +had made no impression on him at all; and he went back and started from +the beginning: he found himself reading one sentence over and over again; +and now it weaved itself in with his thoughts, horribly, like some formula +in a nightmare. One thing he could do was to go out and keep away till +midnight; they could not go then; and he saw them calling at the house +every hour to ask if he was in. He enjoyed the thought of their +disappointment. He repeated that sentence to himself mechanically. But he +could not do that. Let them come and take the money, and he would know +then to what depths of infamy it was possible for men to descend. He could +not read any more now. He simply could not see the words. He leaned back +in his chair, closing his eyes, and, numb with misery, waited for Mildred. + +The landlady came in. + +"Will you see Mrs. Miller, sir?" + +"Show her in." + +Philip pulled himself together to receive her without any sign of what he +was feeling. He had an impulse to throw himself on his knees and seize her +hands and beg her not to go; but he knew there was no way of moving her; +she would tell Griffiths what he had said and how he acted. He was +ashamed. + +"Well, how about the little jaunt?" he said gaily. + +"We're going. Harry's outside. I told him you didn't want to see him, so +he's kept out of your way. But he wants to know if he can come in just for +a minute to say good-bye to you." + +"No, I won't see him," said Philip. + +He could see she did not care if he saw Griffiths or not. Now that she was +there he wanted her to go quickly. + +"Look here, here's the fiver. I'd like you to go now." + +She took it and thanked him. She turned to leave the room. + +"When are you coming back?" he asked. + +"Oh, on Monday. Harry must go home then." + +He knew what he was going to say was humiliating, but he was broken down +with jealousy and desire. + +"Then I shall see you, shan't I?" + +He could not help the note of appeal in his voice. + +"Of course. I'll let you know the moment I'm back." + +He shook hands with her. Through the curtains he watched her jump into a +four-wheeler that stood at the door. It rolled away. Then he threw himself +on his bed and hid his face in his hands. He felt tears coming to his +eyes, and he was angry with himself; he clenched his hands and screwed up +his body to prevent them; but he could not; and great painful sobs were +forced from him. + +He got up at last, exhausted and ashamed, and washed his face. He mixed +himself a strong whiskey and soda. It made him feel a little better. Then +he caught sight of the tickets to Paris, which were on the chimney-piece, +and, seizing them, with an impulse of rage he flung them in the fire. He +knew he could have got the money back on them, but it relieved him to +destroy them. Then he went out in search of someone to be with. The club +was empty. He felt he would go mad unless he found someone to talk to; but +Lawson was abroad; he went on to Hayward's rooms: the maid who opened the +door told him that he had gone down to Brighton for the week-end. Then +Philip went to a gallery and found it was just closing. He did not know +what to do. He was distracted. And he thought of Griffiths and Mildred +going to Oxford, sitting opposite one another in the train, happy. He went +back to his rooms, but they filled him with horror, he had been so +wretched in them; he tried once more to read Burton's book, but, as he +read, he told himself again and again what a fool he had been; it was he +who had made the suggestion that they should go away, he had offered the +money, he had forced it upon them; he might have known what would happen +when he introduced Griffiths to Mildred; his own vehement passion was +enough to arouse the other's desire. By this time they had reached Oxford. +They would put up in one of the lodging-houses in John Street; Philip had +never been to Oxford, but Griffiths had talked to him about it so much +that he knew exactly where they would go; and they would dine at the +Clarendon: Griffiths had been in the habit of dining there when he went on +the spree. Philip got himself something to eat in a restaurant near +Charing Cross; he had made up his mind to go to a play, and afterwards he +fought his way into the pit of a theatre at which one of Oscar Wilde's +pieces was being performed. He wondered if Mildred and Griffiths would go +to a play that evening: they must kill the evening somehow; they were too +stupid, both of them to content themselves with conversation: he got a +fierce delight in reminding himself of the vulgarity of their minds which +suited them so exactly to one another. He watched the play with an +abstracted mind, trying to give himself gaiety by drinking whiskey in each +interval; he was unused to alcohol, and it affected him quickly, but his +drunkenness was savage and morose. When the play was over he had another +drink. He could not go to bed, he knew he would not sleep, and he dreaded +the pictures which his vivid imagination would place before him. He tried +not to think of them. He knew he had drunk too much. Now he was seized +with a desire to do horrible, sordid things; he wanted to roll himself in +gutters; his whole being yearned for beastliness; he wanted to grovel. + +He walked up Piccadilly, dragging his club-foot, sombrely drunk, with rage +and misery clawing at his heart. He was stopped by a painted harlot, who +put her hand on his arm; he pushed her violently away with brutal words. +He walked on a few steps and then stopped. She would do as well as +another. He was sorry he had spoken so roughly to her. He went up to her. + +"I say," he began. + +"Go to hell," she said. + +Philip laughed. + +"I merely wanted to ask if you'd do me the honour of supping with me +tonight." + +She looked at him with amazement, and hesitated for a while. She saw he +was drunk. + +"I don't mind." + +He was amused that she should use a phrase he had heard so often on +Mildred's lips. He took her to one of the restaurants he had been in the +habit of going to with Mildred. He noticed as they walked along that she +looked down at his limb. + +"I've got a club-foot," he said. "Have you any objection?" + +"You are a cure," she laughed. + +When he got home his bones were aching, and in his head there was a +hammering that made him nearly scream. He took another whiskey and soda to +steady himself, and going to bed sank into a dreamless sleep till mid-day. + + + +LXXVIII + + +At last Monday came, and Philip thought his long torture was over. Looking +out the trains he found that the latest by which Griffiths could reach +home that night left Oxford soon after one, and he supposed that Mildred +would take one which started a few minutes later to bring her to London. +His desire was to go and meet it, but he thought Mildred would like to be +left alone for a day; perhaps she would drop him a line in the evening to +say she was back, and if not he would call at her lodgings next morning: +his spirit was cowed. He felt a bitter hatred for Griffiths, but for +Mildred, notwithstanding all that had passed, only a heart-rending desire. +He was glad now that Hayward was not in London on Saturday afternoon when, +distraught, he went in search of human comfort: he could not have +prevented himself from telling him everything, and Hayward would have been +astonished at his weakness. He would despise him, and perhaps be shocked +or disgusted that he could envisage the possibility of making Mildred his +mistress after she had given herself to another man. What did he care if +it was shocking or disgusting? He was ready for any compromise, prepared +for more degrading humiliations still, if he could only gratify his +desire. + +Towards the evening his steps took him against his will to the house in +which she lived, and he looked up at her window. It was dark. He did not +venture to ask if she was back. He was confident in her promise. But there +was no letter from her in the morning, and, when about mid-day he called, +the maid told him she had not arrived. He could not understand it. He knew +that Griffiths would have been obliged to go home the day before, for he +was to be best man at a wedding, and Mildred had no money. He turned over +in his mind every possible thing that might have happened. He went again +in the afternoon and left a note, asking her to dine with him that evening +as calmly as though the events of the last fortnight had not happened. He +mentioned the place and time at which they were to meet, and hoping +against hope kept the appointment: though he waited for an hour she did +not come. On Wednesday morning he was ashamed to ask at the house and sent +a messenger-boy with a letter and instructions to bring back a reply; but +in an hour the boy came back with Philip's letter unopened and the answer +that the lady had not returned from the country. Philip was beside +himself. The last deception was more than he could bear. He repeated to +himself over and over again that he loathed Mildred, and, ascribing to +Griffiths this new disappointment, he hated him so much that he knew what +was the delight of murder: he walked about considering what a joy it would +be to come upon him on a dark night and stick a knife into his throat, +just about the carotid artery, and leave him to die in the street like a +dog. Philip was out of his senses with grief and rage. He did not like +whiskey, but he drank to stupefy himself. He went to bed drunk on the +Tuesday and on the Wednesday night. + +On Thursday morning he got up very late and dragged himself, blear-eyed +and sallow, into his sitting-room to see if there were any letters. A +curious feeling shot through his heart when he recognised the handwriting +of Griffiths. + + +Dear old man: + +I hardly know how to write to you and yet I feel I must write. I hope +you're not awfully angry with me. I know I oughtn't to have gone away with +Milly, but I simply couldn't help myself. She simply carried me off my +feet and I would have done anything to get her. When she told me you had +offered us the money to go I simply couldn't resist. And now it's all over +I'm awfully ashamed of myself and I wish I hadn't been such a fool. I wish +you'd write and say you're not angry with me, and I want you to let me +come and see you. I was awfully hurt at your telling Milly you didn't want +to see me. Do write me a line, there's a good chap, and tell me you +forgive me. It'll ease my conscience. I thought you wouldn't mind or you +wouldn't have offered the money. But I know I oughtn't to have taken it. +I came home on Monday and Milly wanted to stay a couple of days at Oxford +by herself. She's going back to London on Wednesday, so by the time you +receive this letter you will have seen her and I hope everything will go +off all right. Do write and say you forgive me. Please write at once. + Yours ever, + Harry. + + +Philip tore up the letter furiously. He did not mean to answer it. He +despised Griffiths for his apologies, he had no patience with his +prickings of conscience: one could do a dastardly thing if one chose, but +it was contemptible to regret it afterwards. He thought the letter +cowardly and hypocritical. He was disgusted at its sentimentality. + +"It would be very easy if you could do a beastly thing," he muttered to +himself, "and then say you were sorry, and that put it all right again." + +He hoped with all his heart he would have the chance one day to do +Griffiths a bad turn. + +But at all events he knew that Mildred was in town. He dressed hurriedly, +not waiting to shave, drank a cup of tea, and took a cab to her rooms. The +cab seemed to crawl. He was painfully anxious to see her, and +unconsciously he uttered a prayer to the God he did not believe in to make +her receive him kindly. He only wanted to forget. With beating heart he +rang the bell. He forgot all his suffering in the passionate desire to +enfold her once more in his arms. + +"Is Mrs. Miller in?" he asked joyously. + +"She's gone," the maid answered. + +He looked at her blankly. + +"She came about an hour ago and took away her things." + +For a moment he did not know what to say. + +"Did you give her my letter? Did she say where she was going?" + +Then he understood that Mildred had deceived him again. She was not coming +back to him. He made an effort to save his face. + +"Oh, well, I daresay I shall hear from her. She may have sent a letter to +another address." + +He turned away and went back hopeless to his rooms. He might have known +that she would do this; she had never cared for him, she had made a fool +of him from the beginning; she had no pity, she had no kindness, she had +no charity. The only thing was to accept the inevitable. The pain he was +suffering was horrible, he would sooner be dead than endure it; and the +thought came to him that it would be better to finish with the whole +thing: he might throw himself in the river or put his neck on a railway +line; but he had no sooner set the thought into words than he rebelled +against it. His reason told him that he would get over his unhappiness in +time; if he tried with all his might he could forget her; and it would be +grotesque to kill himself on account of a vulgar slut. He had only one +life, and it was madness to fling it away. He FELT that he would never +overcome his passion, but he KNEW that after all it was only a matter +of time. + +He would not stay in London. There everything reminded him of his +unhappiness. He telegraphed to his uncle that he was coming to +Blackstable, and, hurrying to pack, took the first train he could. He +wanted to get away from the sordid rooms in which he had endured so much +suffering. He wanted to breathe clean air. He was disgusted with himself. +He felt that he was a little mad. + + +Since he was grown up Philip had been given the best spare room at the +vicarage. It was a corner-room and in front of one window was an old tree +which blocked the view, but from the other you saw, beyond the garden and +the vicarage field, broad meadows. Philip remembered the wall-paper from +his earliest years. On the walls were quaint water colours of the early +Victorian period by a friend of the Vicar's youth. They had a faded charm. +The dressing-table was surrounded by stiff muslin. There was an old +tall-boy to put your clothes in. Philip gave a sigh of pleasure; he had +never realised that all those things meant anything to him at all. At the +vicarage life went on as it had always done. No piece of furniture had +been moved from one place to another; the Vicar ate the same things, said +the same things, went for the same walk every day; he had grown a little +fatter, a little more silent, a little more narrow. He had become +accustomed to living without his wife and missed her very little. He +bickered still with Josiah Graves. Philip went to see the churchwarden. He +was a little thinner, a little whiter, a little more austere; he was +autocratic still and still disapproved of candles on the altar. The shops +had still a pleasant quaintness; and Philip stood in front of that in +which things useful to seamen were sold, sea-boots and tarpaulins and +tackle, and remembered that he had felt there in his childhood the thrill +of the sea and the adventurous magic of the unknown. + +He could not help his heart beating at each double knock of the postman in +case there might be a letter from Mildred sent on by his landlady in +London; but he knew that there would be none. Now that he could think it +out more calmly he understood that in trying to force Mildred to love him +he had been attempting the impossible. He did not know what it was that +passed from a man to a woman, from a woman to a man, and made one of them +a slave: it was convenient to call it the sexual instinct; but if it was +no more than that, he did not understand why it should occasion so +vehement an attraction to one person rather than another. It was +irresistible: the mind could not battle with it; friendship, gratitude, +interest, had no power beside it. Because he had not attracted Mildred +sexually, nothing that he did had any effect upon her. The idea revolted +him; it made human nature beastly; and he felt suddenly that the hearts of +men were full of dark places. Because Mildred was indifferent to him he +had thought her sexless; her anaemic appearance and thin lips, the body +with its narrow hips and flat chest, the languor of her manner, carried +out his supposition; and yet she was capable of sudden passions which made +her willing to risk everything to gratify them. He had never understood +her adventure with Emil Miller: it had seemed so unlike her, and she had +never been able to explain it; but now that he had seen her with Griffiths +he knew that just the same thing had happened then: she had been carried +off her feet by an ungovernable desire. He tried to think out what those +two men had which so strangely attracted her. They both had a vulgar +facetiousness which tickled her simple sense of humour, and a certain +coarseness of nature; but what took her perhaps was the blatant sexuality +which was their most marked characteristic. She had a genteel refinement +which shuddered at the facts of life, she looked upon the bodily functions +as indecent, she had all sorts of euphemisms for common objects, she +always chose an elaborate word as more becoming than a simple one: the +brutality of these men was like a whip on her thin white shoulders, and +she shuddered with voluptuous pain. + +One thing Philip had made up his mind about. He would not go back to the +lodgings in which he had suffered. He wrote to his landlady and gave her +notice. He wanted to have his own things about him. He determined to take +unfurnished rooms: it would be pleasant and cheaper; and this was an +urgent consideration, for during the last year and a half he had spent +nearly seven hundred pounds. He must make up for it now by the most rigid +economy. Now and then he thought of the future with panic; he had been a +fool to spend so much money on Mildred; but he knew that if it were to +come again he would act in the same way. It amused him sometimes to +consider that his friends, because he had a face which did not express his +feelings very vividly and a rather slow way of moving, looked upon him as +strong-minded, deliberate, and cool. They thought him reasonable and +praised his common sense; but he knew that his placid expression was no +more than a mask, assumed unconsciously, which acted like the protective +colouring of butterflies; and himself was astonished at the weakness of +his will. It seemed to him that he was swayed by every light emotion, as +though he were a leaf in the wind, and when passion seized him he was +powerless. He had no self-control. He merely seemed to possess it because +he was indifferent to many of the things which moved other people. + +He considered with some irony the philosophy which he had developed for +himself, for it had not been of much use to him in the conjuncture he had +passed through; and he wondered whether thought really helped a man in any +of the critical affairs of life: it seemed to him rather that he was +swayed by some power alien to and yet within himself, which urged him like +that great wind of Hell which drove Paolo and Francesca ceaselessly on. He +thought of what he was going to do and, when the time came to act, he was +powerless in the grasp of instincts, emotions, he knew not what. He acted +as though he were a machine driven by the two forces of his environment +and his personality; his reason was someone looking on, observing the +facts but powerless to interfere: it was like those gods of Epicurus, who +saw the doings of men from their empyrean heights and had no might to +alter one smallest particle of what occurred. + + + +LXXIX + + +Philip went up to London a couple of days before the session began in +order to find himself rooms. He hunted about the streets that led out of +the Westminster Bridge Road, but their dinginess was distasteful to him; +and at last he found one in Kennington which had a quiet and old-world +air. It reminded one a little of the London which Thackeray knew on that +side of the river, and in the Kennington Road, through which the great +barouche of the Newcomes must have passed as it drove the family to the +West of London, the plane-trees were bursting into leaf. The houses in the +street which Philip fixed upon were two-storied, and in most of the +windows was a notice to state that lodgings were to let. He knocked at one +which announced that the lodgings were unfurnished, and was shown by an +austere, silent woman four very small rooms, in one of which there was a +kitchen range and a sink. The rent was nine shillings a week. Philip did +not want so many rooms, but the rent was low and he wished to settle down +at once. He asked the landlady if she could keep the place clean for him +and cook his breakfast, but she replied that she had enough work to do +without that; and he was pleased rather than otherwise because she +intimated that she wished to have nothing more to do with him than to +receive his rent. She told him that, if he inquired at the grocer's round +the corner, which was also a post office, he might hear of a woman who +would `do' for him. + +Philip had a little furniture which he had gathered as he went along, an +arm-chair that he had bought in Paris, and a table, a few drawings, and +the small Persian rug which Cronshaw had given him. His uncle had offered +a fold-up bed for which, now that he no longer let his house in August, he +had no further use; and by spending another ten pounds Philip bought +himself whatever else was essential. He spent ten shillings on putting a +corn-coloured paper in the room he was making his parlour; and he hung on +the walls a sketch which Lawson had given him of the Quai des Grands +Augustins, and the photograph of the Odalisque by Ingres and Manet's +Olympia which in Paris had been the objects of his contemplation while +he shaved. To remind himself that he too had once been engaged in the +practice of art, he put up a charcoal drawing of the young Spaniard Miguel +Ajuria: it was the best thing he had ever done, a nude standing with +clenched hands, his feet gripping the floor with a peculiar force, and on +his face that air of determination which had been so impressive; and +though Philip after the long interval saw very well the defects of his +work its associations made him look upon it with tolerance. He wondered +what had happened to Miguel. There is nothing so terrible as the pursuit +of art by those who have no talent. Perhaps, worn out by exposure, +starvation, disease, he had found an end in some hospital, or in an access +of despair had sought death in the turbid Seine; but perhaps with his +Southern instability he had given up the struggle of his own accord, and +now, a clerk in some office in Madrid, turned his fervent rhetoric to +politics and bull-fighting. + +Philip asked Lawson and Hayward to come and see his new rooms, and they +came, one with a bottle of whiskey, the other with a pate de foie gras; +and he was delighted when they praised his taste. He would have invited +the Scotch stockbroker too, but he had only three chairs, and thus could +entertain only a definite number of guests. Lawson was aware that through +him Philip had become very friendly with Norah Nesbit and now remarked +that he had run across her a few days before. + +"She was asking how you were." + +Philip flushed at the mention of her name (he could not get himself out of +the awkward habit of reddening when he was embarrassed), and Lawson looked +at him quizzically. Lawson, who now spent most of the year in London, had +so far surrendered to his environment as to wear his hair short and to +dress himself in a neat serge suit and a bowler hat. + +"I gather that all is over between you," he said. + +"I've not seen her for months." + +"She was looking rather nice. She had a very smart hat on with a lot of +white ostrich feathers on it. She must be doing pretty well." + +Philip changed the conversation, but he kept thinking of her, and after an +interval, when the three of them were talking of something else, he asked +suddenly: + +"Did you gather that Norah was angry with me?" + +"Not a bit. She talked very nicely of you." + +"I've got half a mind to go and see her." + +"She won't eat you." + +Philip had thought of Norah often. When Mildred left him his first thought +was of her, and he told himself bitterly that she would never have treated +him so. His impulse was to go to her; he could depend on her pity; but he +was ashamed: she had been good to him always, and he had treated her +abominably. + +"If I'd only had the sense to stick to her!" he said to himself, +afterwards, when Lawson and Hayward had gone and he was smoking a last +pipe before going to bed. + +He remembered the pleasant hours they had spent together in the cosy +sitting-room in Vincent Square, their visits to galleries and to the play, +and the charming evenings of intimate conversation. He recollected her +solicitude for his welfare and her interest in all that concerned him. She +had loved him with a love that was kind and lasting, there was more than +sensuality in it, it was almost maternal; he had always known that it was +a precious thing for which with all his soul he should thank the gods. He +made up his mind to throw himself on her mercy. She must have suffered +horribly, but he felt she had the greatness of heart to forgive him: she +was incapable of malice. Should he write to her? No. He would break in on +her suddenly and cast himself at her feet--he knew that when the time came +he would feel too shy to perform such a dramatic gesture, but that was how +he liked to think of it--and tell her that if she would take him back she +might rely on him for ever. He was cured of the hateful disease from which +he had suffered, he knew her worth, and now she might trust him. His +imagination leaped forward to the future. He pictured himself rowing with +her on the river on Sundays; he would take her to Greenwich, he had never +forgotten that delightful excursion with Hayward, and the beauty of the +Port of London remained a permanent treasure in his recollection; and on +the warm summer afternoons they would sit in the Park together and talk: +he laughed to himself as he remembered her gay chatter, which poured out +like a brook bubbling over little stones, amusing, flippant, and full of +character. The agony he had suffered would pass from his mind like a bad +dream. + +But when next day, about tea-time, an hour at which he was pretty certain +to find Norah at home, he knocked at her door his courage suddenly failed +him. Was it possible for her to forgive him? It would be abominable of him +to force himself on her presence. The door was opened by a maid new since +he had been in the habit of calling every day, and he inquired if Mrs. +Nesbit was in. + +"Will you ask her if she could see Mr. Carey?" he said. "I'll wait here." + +The maid ran upstairs and in a moment clattered down again. + +"Will you step up, please, sir. Second floor front." + +"I know," said Philip, with a slight smile. + +He went with a fluttering heart. He knocked at the door. + +"Come in," said the well-known, cheerful voice. + +It seemed to say come in to a new life of peace and happiness. When he +entered Norah stepped forward to greet him. She shook hands with him as if +they had parted the day before. A man stood up. + +"Mr. Carey--Mr. Kingsford." + +Philip, bitterly disappointed at not finding her alone, sat down and took +stock of the stranger. He had never heard her mention his name, but he +seemed to Philip to occupy his chair as though he were very much at home. +He was a man of forty, clean-shaven, with long fair hair very neatly +plastered down, and the reddish skin and pale, tired eyes which fair men +get when their youth is passed. He had a large nose, a large mouth; the +bones of his face were prominent, and he was heavily made; he was a man of +more than average height, and broad-shouldered. + +"I was wondering what had become of you," said Norah, in her sprightly +manner. "I met Mr. Lawson the other day--did he tell you?--and I informed +him that it was really high time you came to see me again." + +Philip could see no shadow of embarrassment in her countenance, and he +admired the use with which she carried off an encounter of which himself +felt the intense awkwardness. She gave him tea. She was about to put sugar +in it when he stopped her. + +"How stupid of me!" she cried. "I forgot." + +He did not believe that. She must remember quite well that he never took +sugar in his tea. He accepted the incident as a sign that her nonchalance +was affected. + +The conversation which Philip had interrupted went on, and presently he +began to feel a little in the way. Kingsford took no particular notice of +him. He talked fluently and well, not without humour, but with a slightly +dogmatic manner: he was a journalist, it appeared, and had something +amusing to say on every topic that was touched upon; but it exasperated +Philip to find himself edged out of the conversation. He was determined to +stay the visitor out. He wondered if he admired Norah. In the old days +they had often talked of the men who wanted to flirt with her and had +laughed at them together. Philip tried to bring back the conversation to +matters which only he and Norah knew about, but each time the journalist +broke in and succeeded in drawing it away to a subject upon which Philip +was forced to be silent. He grew faintly angry with Norah, for she must +see he was being made ridiculous; but perhaps she was inflicting this upon +him as a punishment, and with this thought he regained his good humour. At +last, however, the clock struck six, and Kingsford got up. + +"I must go," he said. + +Norah shook hands with him, and accompanied him to the landing. She shut +the door behind her and stood outside for a couple of minutes. Philip +wondered what they were talking about. + +"Who is Mr. Kingsford?" he asked cheerfully, when she returned. + +"Oh, he's the editor of one of Harmsworth's Magazines. He's been taking a +good deal of my work lately." + +"I thought he was never going." + +"I'm glad you stayed. I wanted to have a talk with you." She curled +herself into the large arm-chair, feet and all, in a way her small size +made possible, and lit a cigarette. He smiled when he saw her assume the +attitude which had always amused him. + +"You look just like a cat." + +She gave him a flash of her dark, fine eyes. + +"I really ought to break myself of the habit. It's absurd to behave like +a child when you're my age, but I'm comfortable with my legs under me." + +"It's awfully jolly to be sitting in this room again," said Philip +happily. "You don't know how I've missed it." + +"Why on earth didn't you come before?" she asked gaily. + +"I was afraid to," he said, reddening. + +She gave him a look full of kindness. Her lips outlined a charming smile. + +"You needn't have been." + +He hesitated for a moment. His heart beat quickly. + +"D'you remember the last time we met? I treated you awfully badly--I'm +dreadfully ashamed of myself." + +She looked at him steadily. She did not answer. He was losing his head; he +seemed to have come on an errand of which he was only now realising the +outrageousness. She did not help him, and he could only blurt out bluntly. + +"Can you ever forgive me?" + +Then impetuously he told her that Mildred had left him and that his +unhappiness had been so great that he almost killed himself. He told her +of all that had happened between them, of the birth of the child, and of +the meeting with Griffiths, of his folly and his trust and his immense +deception. He told her how often he had thought of her kindness and of her +love, and how bitterly he had regretted throwing it away: he had only been +happy when he was with her, and he knew now how great was her worth. His +voice was hoarse with emotion. Sometimes he was so ashamed of what he was +saying that he spoke with his eyes fixed on the ground. His face was +distorted with pain, and yet he felt it a strange relief to speak. At last +he finished. He flung himself back in his chair, exhausted, and waited. He +had concealed nothing, and even, in his self-abasement, he had striven to +make himself more despicable than he had really been. He was surprised +that she did not speak, and at last he raised his eyes. She was not +looking at him. Her face was quite white, and she seemed to be lost in +thought. + +"Haven't you got anything to say to me?" + +She started and reddened. + +"I'm afraid you've had a rotten time," she said. "I'm dreadfully sorry." + +She seemed about to go on, but she stopped, and again he waited. At length +she seemed to force herself to speak. + +"I'm engaged to be married to Mr. Kingsford." + +"Why didn't you tell me at once?" he cried. "You needn't have allowed me +to humiliate myself before you." + +"I'm sorry, I couldn't stop you.... I met him soon after you"--she seemed +to search for an expression that should not wound him--"told me your +friend had come back. I was very wretched for a bit, he was extremely kind +to me. He knew someone had made me suffer, of course he doesn't know it +was you, and I don't know what I should have done without him. And +suddenly I felt I couldn't go on working, working, working; I was so +tired, I felt so ill. I told him about my husband. He offered to give me +the money to get my divorce if I would marry him as soon as I could. He +had a very good job, and it wouldn't be necessary for me to do anything +unless I wanted to. He was so fond of me and so anxious to take care of +me. I was awfully touched. And now I'm very, very fond of him." + +"Have you got your divorce then?" asked Philip. + +"I've got the decree nisi. It'll be made absolute in July, and then we are +going to be married at once." + +For some time Philip did not say anything. + +"I wish I hadn't made such a fool of myself," he muttered at length. + +He was thinking of his long, humiliating confession. She looked at him +curiously. + +"You were never really in love with me," she said. + +"It's not very pleasant being in love." + +But he was always able to recover himself quickly, and, getting up now and +holding out his hand, he said: + +"I hope you'll be very happy. After all, it's the best thing that could +have happened to you." + +She looked a little wistfully at him as she took his hand and held it. + +"You'll come and see me again, won't you?" she asked. + +"No," he said, shaking his head. "It would make me too envious to see you +happy." + +He walked slowly away from her house. After all she was right when she +said he had never loved her. He was disappointed, irritated even, but his +vanity was more affected than his heart. He knew that himself. And +presently he grew conscious that the gods had played a very good practical +joke on him, and he laughed at himself mirthlessly. It is not very +comfortable to have the gift of being amused at one's own absurdity. + + + +LXXX + + +For the next three months Philip worked on subjects which were new to him. +The unwieldy crowd which had entered the Medical School nearly two years +before had thinned out: some had left the hospital, finding the +examinations more difficult to pass than they expected, some had been +taken away by parents who had not foreseen the expense of life in London, +and some had drifted away to other callings. One youth whom Philip knew +had devised an ingenious plan to make money; he had bought things at sales +and pawned them, but presently found it more profitable to pawn goods +bought on credit; and it had caused a little excitement at the hospital +when someone pointed out his name in police-court proceedings. There had +been a remand, then assurances on the part of a harassed father, and the +young man had gone out to bear the White Man's Burden overseas. The +imagination of another, a lad who had never before been in a town at all, +fell to the glamour of music-halls and bar parlours; he spent his time +among racing-men, tipsters, and trainers, and now was become a +book-maker's clerk. Philip had seen him once in a bar near Piccadilly +Circus in a tight-waisted coat and a brown hat with a broad, flat brim. A +third, with a gift for singing and mimicry, who had achieved success at +the smoking concerts of the Medical School by his imitation of notorious +comedians, had abandoned the hospital for the chorus of a musical comedy. +Still another, and he interested Philip because his uncouth manner and +interjectional speech did not suggest that he was capable of any deep +emotion, had felt himself stifle among the houses of London. He grew +haggard in shut-in spaces, and the soul he knew not he possessed struggled +like a sparrow held in the hand, with little frightened gasps and a quick +palpitation of the heart: he yearned for the broad skies and the open, +desolate places among which his childhood had been spent; and he walked +off one day, without a word to anybody, between one lecture and another; +and the next thing his friends heard was that he had thrown up medicine +and was working on a farm. + +Philip attended now lectures on medicine and on surgery. On certain +mornings in the week he practised bandaging on out-patients glad to earn +a little money, and he was taught auscultation and how to use the +stethoscope. He learned dispensing. He was taking the examination in +Materia Medica in July, and it amused him to play with various drugs, +concocting mixtures, rolling pills, and making ointments. He seized avidly +upon anything from which he could extract a suggestion of human interest. + +He saw Griffiths once in the distance, but, not to have the pain of +cutting him dead, avoided him. Philip had felt a certain +self-consciousness with Griffiths' friends, some of whom were now friends +of his, when he realised they knew of his quarrel with Griffiths and +surmised they were aware of the reason. One of them, a very tall fellow, +with a small head and a languid air, a youth called Ramsden, who was one +of Griffiths' most faithful admirers, copied his ties, his boots, his +manner of talking and his gestures, told Philip that Griffiths was very +much hurt because Philip had not answered his letter. He wanted to be +reconciled with him. + +"Has he asked you to give me the message?" asked Philip. + +"Oh, no. I'm saying this entirely on my own," said Ramsden. "He's awfully +sorry for what he did, and he says you always behaved like a perfect brick +to him. I know he'd be glad to make it up. He doesn't come to the hospital +because he's afraid of meeting you, and he thinks you'd cut him." + +"I should." + +"It makes him feel rather wretched, you know." + +"I can bear the trifling inconvenience that he feels with a good deal of +fortitude," said Philip. + +"He'll do anything he can to make it up." + +"How childish and hysterical! Why should he care? I'm a very insignificant +person, and he can do very well without my company. I'm not interested in +him any more." + +Ramsden thought Philip hard and cold. He paused for a moment or two, +looking about him in a perplexed way. + +"Harry wishes to God he'd never had anything to do with the woman." + +"Does he?" asked Philip. + +He spoke with an indifference which he was satisfied with. No one could +have guessed how violently his heart was beating. He waited impatiently +for Ramsden to go on. + +"I suppose you've quite got over it now, haven't you?" + +"I?" said Philip. "Quite." + +Little by little he discovered the history of Mildred's relations with +Griffiths. He listened with a smile on his lips, feigning an equanimity +which quite deceived the dull-witted boy who talked to him. The week-end +she spent with Griffiths at Oxford inflamed rather than extinguished her +sudden passion; and when Griffiths went home, with a feeling that was +unexpected in her she determined to stay in Oxford by herself for a couple +of days, because she had been so happy in it. She felt that nothing could +induce her to go back to Philip. He revolted her. Griffiths was taken +aback at the fire he had aroused, for he had found his two days with her +in the country somewhat tedious; and he had no desire to turn an amusing +episode into a tiresome affair. She made him promise to write to her, and, +being an honest, decent fellow, with natural politeness and a desire to +make himself pleasant to everybody, when he got home he wrote her a long +and charming letter. She answered it with reams of passion, clumsy, for +she had no gift of expression, ill-written, and vulgar; the letter bored +him, and when it was followed next day by another, and the day after by a +third, he began to think her love no longer flattering but alarming. He +did not answer; and she bombarded him with telegrams, asking him if he +were ill and had received her letters; she said his silence made her +dreadfully anxious. He was forced to write, but he sought to make his +reply as casual as was possible without being offensive: he begged her not +to wire, since it was difficult to explain telegrams to his mother, an +old-fashioned person for whom a telegram was still an event to excite +tremor. She answered by return of post that she must see him and announced +her intention to pawn things (she had the dressing-case which Philip had +given her as a wedding-present and could raise eight pounds on that) in +order to come up and stay at the market town four miles from which was the +village in which his father practised. This frightened Griffiths; and he, +this time, made use of the telegraph wires to tell her that she must do +nothing of the kind. He promised to let her know the moment he came up to +London, and, when he did, found that she had already been asking for him +at the hospital at which he had an appointment. He did not like this, and, +on seeing her, told Mildred that she was not to come there on any pretext; +and now, after an absence of three weeks, he found that she bored him +quite decidedly; he wondered why he had ever troubled about her, and made +up his mind to break with her as soon as he could. He was a person who +dreaded quarrels, nor did he want to give pain; but at the same time he +had other things to do, and he was quite determined not to let Mildred +bother him. When he met her he was pleasant, cheerful, amusing, +affectionate; he invented convincing excuses for the interval since last +he had seen her; but he did everything he could to avoid her. When she +forced him to make appointments he sent telegrams to her at the last +moment to put himself off; and his landlady (the first three months of his +appointment he was spending in rooms) had orders to say he was out when +Mildred called. She would waylay him in the street and, knowing she had +been waiting about for him to come out of the hospital for a couple of +hours, he would give her a few charming, friendly words and bolt off with +the excuse that he had a business engagement. He grew very skilful in +slipping out of the hospital unseen. Once, when he went back to his +lodgings at midnight, he saw a woman standing at the area railings and +suspecting who it was went to beg a shake-down in Ramsden's rooms; next +day the landlady told him that Mildred had sat crying on the doorsteps for +hours, and she had been obliged to tell her at last that if she did not go +away she would send for a policeman. + +"I tell you, my boy," said Ramsden, "you're jolly well out of it. Harry +says that if he'd suspected for half a second she was going to make such +a blooming nuisance of herself he'd have seen himself damned before he had +anything to do with her." + +Philip thought of her sitting on that doorstep through the long hours of +the night. He saw her face as she looked up dully at the landlady who sent +her away. + +"I wonder what she's doing now." + +"Oh, she's got a job somewhere, thank God. That keeps her busy all day." + +The last thing he heard, just before the end of the summer session, was +that Griffiths, urbanity had given way at length under the exasperation of +the constant persecution. He had told Mildred that he was sick of being +pestered, and she had better take herself off and not bother him again. + +"It was the only thing he could do," said Ramsden. "It was getting a bit +too thick." + +"Is it all over then?" asked Philip. + +"Oh, he hasn't seen her for ten days. You know, Harry's wonderful at +dropping people. This is about the toughest nut he's ever had to crack, +but he's cracked it all right." + +Then Philip heard nothing more of her at all. She vanished into the vast +anonymous mass of the population of London. + + + +LXXXI + + +At the beginning of the winter session Philip became an out-patients' +clerk. There were three assistant-physicians who took out-patients, two +days a week each, and Philip put his name down for Dr. Tyrell. He was +popular with the students, and there was some competition to be his clerk. +Dr. Tyrell was a tall, thin man of thirty-five, with a very small head, +red hair cut short, and prominent blue eyes: his face was bright scarlet. +He talked well in a pleasant voice, was fond of a little joke, and treated +the world lightly. He was a successful man, with a large consulting +practice and a knighthood in prospect. From commerce with students and +poor people he had the patronising air, and from dealing always with the +sick he had the healthy man's jovial condescension, which some consultants +achieve as the professional manner. He made the patient feel like a boy +confronted by a jolly schoolmaster; his illness was an absurd piece of +naughtiness which amused rather than irritated. + +The student was supposed to attend in the out-patients' room every day, +see cases, and pick up what information he could; but on the days on which +he clerked his duties were a little more definite. At that time the +out-patients' department at St. Luke's consisted of three rooms, leading +into one another, and a large, dark waiting-room with massive pillars of +masonry and long benches. Here the patients waited after having been given +their `letters' at mid-day; and the long rows of them, bottles and +gallipots in hand, some tattered and dirty, others decent enough, sitting +in the dimness, men and women of all ages, children, gave one an +impression which was weird and horrible. They suggested the grim drawings +of Daumier. All the rooms were painted alike, in salmon-colour with a high +dado of maroon; and there was in them an odour of disinfectants, mingling +as the afternoon wore on with the crude stench of humanity. The first room +was the largest and in the middle of it were a table and an office chair +for the physician; on each side of this were two smaller tables, a little +lower: at one of these sat the house-physician and at the other the clerk +who took the `book' for the day. This was a large volume in which were +written down the name, age, sex, profession, of the patient and the +diagnosis of his disease. + +At half past one the house-physician came in, rang the bell, and told the +porter to send in the old patients. There were always a good many of +these, and it was necessary to get through as many of them as possible +before Dr. Tyrell came at two. The H.P. with whom Philip came in contact +was a dapper little man, excessively conscious of his importance: he +treated the clerks with condescension and patently resented the +familiarity of older students who had been his contemporaries and did not +use him with the respect he felt his present position demanded. He set +about the cases. A clerk helped him. The patients streamed in. The men +came first. Chronic bronchitis, "a nasty 'acking cough," was what they +chiefly suffered from; one went to the H.P. and the other to the clerk, +handing in their letters: if they were going on well the words Rep 14 +were written on them, and they went to the dispensary with their bottles +or gallipots in order to have medicine given them for fourteen days more. +Some old stagers held back so that they might be seen by the physician +himself, but they seldom succeeded in this; and only three or four, whose +condition seemed to demand his attention, were kept. + +Dr. Tyrell came in with quick movements and a breezy manner. He reminded +one slightly of a clown leaping into the arena of a circus with the cry: +Here we are again. His air seemed to indicate: What's all this nonsense +about being ill? I'll soon put that right. He took his seat, asked if +there were any old patients for him to see, rapidly passed them in review, +looking at them with shrewd eyes as he discussed their symptoms, cracked +a joke (at which all the clerks laughed heartily) with the H.P., who +laughed heartily too but with an air as if he thought it was rather +impudent for the clerks to laugh, remarked that it was a fine day or a hot +one, and rang the bell for the porter to show in the new patients. + +They came in one by one and walked up to the table at which sat Dr. +Tyrell. They were old men and young men and middle-aged men, mostly of the +labouring class, dock labourers, draymen, factory hands, barmen; but some, +neatly dressed, were of a station which was obviously superior, +shop-assistants, clerks, and the like. Dr. Tyrell looked at these with +suspicion. Sometimes they put on shabby clothes in order to pretend they +were poor; but he had a keen eye to prevent what he regarded as fraud and +sometimes refused to see people who, he thought, could well pay for +medical attendance. Women were the worst offenders and they managed the +thing more clumsily. They would wear a cloak and a skirt which were almost +in rags, and neglect to take the rings off their fingers. + +"If you can afford to wear jewellery you can afford a doctor. A hospital +is a charitable institution," said Dr. Tyrell. + +He handed back the letter and called for the next case. + +"But I've got my letter." + +"I don't care a hang about your letter; you get out. You've got no +business to come and steal the time which is wanted by the really poor." + +The patient retired sulkily, with an angry scowl. + +"She'll probably write a letter to the papers on the gross mismanagement +of the London hospitals," said Dr. Tyrell, with a smile, as he took the +next paper and gave the patient one of his shrewd glances. + +Most of them were under the impression that the hospital was an +institution of the state, for which they paid out of the rates, and took +the attendance they received as a right they could claim. They imagined +the physician who gave them his time was heavily paid. + +Dr. Tyrell gave each of his clerks a case to examine. The clerk took the +patient into one of the inner rooms; they were smaller, and each had a +couch in it covered with black horse-hair: he asked his patient a variety +of questions, examined his lungs, his heart, and his liver, made notes of +fact on the hospital letter, formed in his own mind some idea of the +diagnosis, and then waited for Dr. Tyrell to come in. This he did, +followed by a small crowd of students, when he had finished the men, and +the clerk read out what he had learned. The physician asked him one or two +questions, and examined the patient himself. If there was anything +interesting to hear students applied their stethoscope: you would see a +man with two or three to the chest, and two perhaps to his back, while +others waited impatiently to listen. The patient stood among them a little +embarrassed, but not altogether displeased to find himself the centre of +attention: he listened confusedly while Dr. Tyrell discoursed glibly on +the case. Two or three students listened again to recognise the murmur or +the crepitation which the physician described, and then the man was told +to put on his clothes. + +When the various cases had been examined Dr. Tyrell went back into the +large room and sat down again at his desk. He asked any student who +happened to be standing near him what he would prescribe for a patient he +had just seen. The student mentioned one or two drugs. + +"Would you?" said Dr. Tyrell. "Well, that's original at all events. I +don't think we'll be rash." + +This always made the students laugh, and with a twinkle of amusement at +his own bright humour the physician prescribed some other drug than that +which the student had suggested. When there were two cases of exactly the +same sort and the student proposed the treatment which the physician had +ordered for the first, Dr. Tyrell exercised considerable ingenuity in +thinking of something else. Sometimes, knowing that in the dispensary they +were worked off their legs and preferred to give the medicines which they +had all ready, the good hospital mixtures which had been found by the +experience of years to answer their purpose so well, he amused himself by +writing an elaborate prescription. + +"We'll give the dispenser something to do. If we go on prescribing mist: +alb: he'll lose his cunning." + +The students laughed, and the doctor gave them a circular glance of +enjoyment in his joke. Then he touched the bell and, when the porter poked +his head in, said: + +"Old women, please." + +He leaned back in his chair, chatting with the H.P. while the porter +herded along the old patients. They came in, strings of anaemic girls, +with large fringes and pallid lips, who could not digest their bad, +insufficient food; old ladies, fat and thin, aged prematurely by frequent +confinements, with winter coughs; women with this, that, and the other, +the matter with them. Dr. Tyrell and his house-physician got through them +quickly. Time was getting on, and the air in the small room was growing +more sickly. The physician looked at his watch. + +"Are there many new women today?" he asked. + +"A good few, I think," said the H.P. + +"We'd better have them in. You can go on with the old ones." + +They entered. With the men the most common ailments were due to the +excessive use of alcohol, but with the women they were due to defective +nourishment. By about six o'clock they were finished. Philip, exhausted by +standing all the time, by the bad air, and by the attention he had given, +strolled over with his fellow-clerks to the Medical School to have tea. He +found the work of absorbing interest. There was humanity there in the +rough, the materials the artist worked on; and Philip felt a curious +thrill when it occurred to him that he was in the position of the artist +and the patients were like clay in his hands. He remembered with an amused +shrug of the shoulders his life in Paris, absorbed in colour, tone, +values, Heaven knows what, with the aim of producing beautiful things: the +directness of contact with men and women gave a thrill of power which he +had never known. He found an endless excitement in looking at their faces +and hearing them speak; they came in each with his peculiarity, some +shuffling uncouthly, some with a little trip, others with heavy, slow +tread, some shyly. Often you could guess their trades by the look of them. +You learnt in what way to put your questions so that they should be +understood, you discovered on what subjects nearly all lied, and by what +inquiries you could extort the truth notwithstanding. You saw the +different way people took the same things. The diagnosis of dangerous +illness would be accepted by one with a laugh and a joke, by another with +dumb despair. Philip found that he was less shy with these people than he +had ever been with others; he felt not exactly sympathy, for sympathy +suggests condescension; but he felt at home with them. He found that he +was able to put them at their ease, and, when he had been given a case to +find out what he could about it, it seemed to him that the patient +delivered himself into his hands with a peculiar confidence. + +"Perhaps," he thought to himself, with a smile, "perhaps I'm cut out to be +a doctor. It would be rather a lark if I'd hit upon the one thing I'm fit +for." + +It seemed to Philip that he alone of the clerks saw the dramatic interest +of those afternoons. To the others men and women were only cases, good if +they were complicated, tiresome if obvious; they heard murmurs and were +astonished at abnormal livers; an unexpected sound in the lungs gave them +something to talk about. But to Philip there was much more. He found an +interest in just looking at them, in the shape of their heads and their +hands, in the look of their eyes and the length of their noses. You saw in +that room human nature taken by surprise, and often the mask of custom was +torn off rudely, showing you the soul all raw. Sometimes you saw an +untaught stoicism which was profoundly moving. Once Philip saw a man, +rough and illiterate, told his case was hopeless; and, self-controlled +himself, he wondered at the splendid instinct which forced the fellow to +keep a stiff upper-lip before strangers. But was it possible for him to be +brave when he was by himself, face to face with his soul, or would he then +surrender to despair? Sometimes there was tragedy. Once a young woman +brought her sister to be examined, a girl of eighteen, with delicate +features and large blue eyes, fair hair that sparkled with gold when a ray +of autumn sunshine touched it for a moment, and a skin of amazing beauty. +The students' eyes went to her with little smiles. They did not often see +a pretty girl in these dingy rooms. The elder woman gave the family +history, father and mother had died of phthisis, a brother and a sister, +these two were the only ones left. The girl had been coughing lately and +losing weight. She took off her blouse and the skin of her neck was like +milk. Dr. Tyrell examined her quietly, with his usual rapid method; he +told two or three of his clerks to apply their stethoscopes to a place he +indicated with his finger; and then she was allowed to dress. The sister +was standing a little apart and she spoke to him in a low voice, so that +the girl should not hear. Her voice trembled with fear. + +"She hasn't got it, doctor, has she?" + +"I'm afraid there's no doubt about it." + +"She was the last one. When she goes I shan't have anybody." + +She began to cry, while the doctor looked at her gravely; he thought she +too had the type; she would not make old bones either. The girl turned +round and saw her sister's tears. She understood what they meant. The +colour fled from her lovely face and tears fell down her cheeks. The two +stood for a minute or two, crying silently, and then the older, forgetting +the indifferent crowd that watched them, went up to her, took her in her +arms, and rocked her gently to and fro as if she were a baby. + +When they were gone a student asked: + +"How long d'you think she'll last, sir?" + +Dr. Tyrell shrugged his shoulders. + +"Her brother and sister died within three months of the first symptoms. +She'll do the same. If they were rich one might do something. You can't +tell these people to go to St. Moritz. Nothing can be done for them." + +Once a man who was strong and in all the power of his manhood came because +a persistent aching troubled him and his club-doctor did not seem to do +him any good; and the verdict for him too was death, not the inevitable +death that horrified and yet was tolerable because science was helpless +before it, but the death which was inevitable because the man was a little +wheel in the great machine of a complex civilisation, and had as little +power of changing the circumstances as an automaton. Complete rest was his +only chance. The physician did not ask impossibilities. + +"You ought to get some very much lighter job." + +"There ain't no light jobs in my business." + +"Well, if you go on like this you'll kill yourself. You're very ill." + +"D'you mean to say I'm going to die?" + +"I shouldn't like to say that, but you're certainly unfit for hard work." + +"If I don't work who's to keep the wife and the kids?" + +Dr. Tyrell shrugged his shoulders. The dilemma had been presented to him +a hundred times. Time was pressing and there were many patients to be +seen. + +"Well, I'll give you some medicine and you can come back in a week and +tell me how you're getting on." + +The man took his letter with the useless prescription written upon it and +walked out. The doctor might say what he liked. He did not feel so bad +that he could not go on working. He had a good job and he could not afford +to throw it away. + +"I give him a year," said Dr. Tyrell. + +Sometimes there was comedy. Now and then came a flash of cockney humour, +now and then some old lady, a character such as Charles Dickens might have +drawn, would amuse them by her garrulous oddities. Once a woman came who +was a member of the ballet at a famous music-hall. She looked fifty, but +gave her age as twenty-eight. She was outrageously painted and ogled the +students impudently with large black eyes; her smiles were grossly +alluring. She had abundant self-confidence and treated Dr. Tyrell, vastly +amused, with the easy familiarity with which she might have used an +intoxicated admirer. She had chronic bronchitis, and told him it hindered +her in the exercise of her profession. + +"I don't know why I should 'ave such a thing, upon my word I don't. I've +never 'ad a day's illness in my life. You've only got to look at me to +know that." + +She rolled her eyes round the young men, with a long sweep of her painted +eyelashes, and flashed her yellow teeth at them. She spoke with a cockney +accent, but with an affectation of refinement which made every word a +feast of fun. + +"It's what they call a winter cough," answered Dr. Tyrell gravely. "A +great many middle-aged women have it." + +"Well, I never! That is a nice thing to say to a lady. No one ever called +me middle-aged before." + +She opened her eyes very wide and cocked her head on one side, looking at +him with indescribable archness. + +"That is the disadvantage of our profession," said he. "It forces us +sometimes to be ungallant." + +She took the prescription and gave him one last, luscious smile. + +"You will come and see me dance, dearie, won't you?" + +"I will indeed." + +He rang the bell for the next case. + +"I am glad you gentlemen were here to protect me." + +But on the whole the impression was neither of tragedy nor of comedy. +There was no describing it. It was manifold and various; there were tears +and laughter, happiness and woe; it was tedious and interesting and +indifferent; it was as you saw it: it was tumultuous and passionate; it +was grave; it was sad and comic; it was trivial; it was simple and +complex; joy was there and despair; the love of mothers for their +children, and of men for women; lust trailed itself through the rooms with +leaden feet, punishing the guilty and the innocent, helpless wives and +wretched children; drink seized men and women and cost its inevitable +price; death sighed in these rooms; and the beginning of life, filling +some poor girl with terror and shame, was diagnosed there. There was +neither good nor bad there. There were just facts. It was life. + + + +LXXXII + + +Towards the end of the year, when Philip was bringing to a close his three +months as clerk in the out-patients' department, he received a letter from +Lawson, who was in Paris. + +Dear Philip, + +Cronshaw is in London and would be glad to see you. He is living at 43 +Hyde Street, Soho. I don't know where it is, but I daresay you will be +able to find out. Be a brick and look after him a bit. He is very down on +his luck. He will tell you what he is doing. Things are going on here very +much as usual. Nothing seems to have changed since you were here. Clutton +is back, but he has become quite impossible. He has quarrelled with +everybody. As far as I can make out he hasn't got a cent, he lives in a +little studio right away beyond the Jardin des Plantes, but he won't let +anybody see his work. He doesn't show anywhere, so one doesn't know what +he is doing. He may be a genius, but on the other hand he may be off his +head. By the way, I ran against Flanagan the other day. He was showing +Mrs. Flanagan round the Quarter. He has chucked art and is now in popper's +business. He seems to be rolling. Mrs. Flanagan is very pretty and I'm +trying to work a portrait. How much would you ask if you were me? I don't +want to frighten them, and then on the other hand I don't want to be such +an ass as to ask L150 if they're quite willing to give L300. + + Yours ever, + Frederick Lawson. + + +Philip wrote to Cronshaw and received in reply the following letter. It +was written on a half-sheet of common note-paper, and the flimsy envelope +was dirtier than was justified by its passage through the post. + +Dear Carey, + +Of course I remember you very well. I have an idea that I had some part in +rescuing you from the Slough of Despond in which myself am hopelessly +immersed. I shall be glad to see you. I am a stranger in a strange city +and I am buffeted by the philistines. It will be pleasant to talk of +Paris. I do not ask you to come and see me, since my lodging is not of a +magnificence fit for the reception of an eminent member of Monsieur +Purgon's profession, but you will find me eating modestly any evening +between seven and eight at a restaurant yclept Au Bon Plaisir in Dean +Street. + + Your sincere + J. Cronshaw. + + +Philip went the day he received this letter. The restaurant, consisting of +one small room, was of the poorest class, and Cronshaw seemed to be its +only customer. He was sitting in the corner, well away from draughts, +wearing the same shabby great-coat which Philip had never seen him +without, with his old bowler on his head. + +"I eat here because I can be alone," he said. "They are not doing well; +the only people who come are a few trollops and one or two waiters out of +a job; they are giving up business, and the food is execrable. But the +ruin of their fortunes is my advantage." + +Cronshaw had before him a glass of absinthe. It was nearly three years +since they had met, and Philip was shocked by the change in his +appearance. He had been rather corpulent, but now he had a dried-up, +yellow look: the skin of his neck was loose and winkled; his clothes hung +about him as though they had been bought for someone else; and his collar, +three or four sizes too large, added to the slatternliness of his +appearance. His hands trembled continually. Philip remembered the +handwriting which scrawled over the page with shapeless, haphazard +letters. Cronshaw was evidently very ill. + +"I eat little these days," he said. "I'm very sick in the morning. I'm +just having some soup for my dinner, and then I shall have a bit of +cheese." + +Philip's glance unconsciously went to the absinthe, and Cronshaw, seeing +it, gave him the quizzical look with which he reproved the admonitions of +common sense. + +"You have diagnosed my case, and you think it's very wrong of me to drink +absinthe." + +"You've evidently got cirrhosis of the liver," said Philip. + +"Evidently." + +He looked at Philip in the way which had formerly had the power of making +him feel incredibly narrow. It seemed to point out that what he was +thinking was distressingly obvious; and when you have agreed with the +obvious what more is there to say? Philip changed the topic. + +"When are you going back to Paris?" + +"I'm not going back to Paris. I'm going to die." + +The very naturalness with which he said this startled Philip. He thought +of half a dozen things to say, but they seemed futile. He knew that +Cronshaw was a dying man. + +"Are you going to settle in London then?" he asked lamely. + +"What is London to me? I am a fish out of water. I walk through the +crowded streets, men jostle me, and I seem to walk in a dead city. I felt +that I couldn't die in Paris. I wanted to die among my own people. I don't +know what hidden instinct drew me back at the last." + +Philip knew of the woman Cronshaw had lived with and the two +draggle-tailed children, but Cronshaw had never mentioned them to him, and +he did not like to speak of them. He wondered what had happened to them. + +"I don't know why you talk of dying," he said. + +"I had pneumonia a couple of winters ago, and they told me then it was a +miracle that I came through. It appears I'm extremely liable to it, and +another bout will kill me." + +"Oh, what nonsense! You're not so bad as all that. You've only got to take +precautions. Why don't you give up drinking?" + +"Because I don't choose. It doesn't matter what a man does if he's ready +to take the consequences. Well, I'm ready to take the consequences. You +talk glibly of giving up drinking, but it's the only thing I've got left +now. What do you think life would be to me without it? Can you understand +the happiness I get out of my absinthe? I yearn for it; and when I drink +it I savour every drop, and afterwards I feel my soul swimming in +ineffable happiness. It disgusts you. You are a puritan and in your heart +you despise sensual pleasures. Sensual pleasures are the most violent and +the most exquisite. I am a man blessed with vivid senses, and I have +indulged them with all my soul. I have to pay the penalty now, and I am +ready to pay." + +Philip looked at him for a while steadily. + +"Aren't you afraid?" + +For a moment Cronshaw did not answer. He seemed to consider his reply. + +"Sometimes, when I'm alone." He looked at Philip. "You think that's a +condemnation? You're wrong. I'm not afraid of my fear. It's folly, the +Christian argument that you should live always in view of your death. The +only way to live is to forget that you're going to die. Death is +unimportant. The fear of it should never influence a single action of the +wise man. I know that I shall die struggling for breath, and I know that +I shall be horribly afraid. I know that I shall not be able to keep myself +from regretting bitterly the life that has brought me to such a pass; but +I disown that regret. I now, weak, old, diseased, poor, dying, hold still +my soul in my hands, and I regret nothing." + +"D'you remember that Persian carpet you gave me?" asked Philip. + +Cronshaw smiled his old, slow smile of past days. + +"I told you that it would give you an answer to your question when you +asked me what was the meaning of life. Well, have you discovered the +answer?" + +"No," smiled Philip. "Won't you tell it me?" + +"No, no, I can't do that. The answer is meaningless unless you discover it +for yourself." + + + +LXXXIII + + +Cronshaw was publishing his poems. His friends had been urging him to do +this for years, but his laziness made it impossible for him to take the +necessary steps. He had always answered their exhortations by telling them +that the love of poetry was dead in England. You brought out a book which +had cost you years of thought and labour; it was given two or three +contemptuous lines among a batch of similar volumes, twenty or thirty +copies were sold, and the rest of the edition was pulped. He had long +since worn out the desire for fame. That was an illusion like all else. +But one of his friends had taken the matter into his own hands. This was +a man of letters, named Leonard Upjohn, whom Philip had met once or twice +with Cronshaw in the cafes of the Quarter. He had a considerable +reputation in England as a critic and was the accredited exponent in this +country of modern French literature. He had lived a good deal in France +among the men who made the Mercure de France the liveliest review of the +day, and by the simple process of expressing in English their point of +view he had acquired in England a reputation for originality. Philip had +read some of his articles. He had formed a style for himself by a close +imitation of Sir Thomas Browne; he used elaborate sentences, carefully +balanced, and obsolete, resplendent words: it gave his writing an +appearance of individuality. Leonard Upjohn had induced Cronshaw to give +him all his poems and found that there were enough to make a volume of +reasonable size. He promised to use his influence with publishers. +Cronshaw was in want of money. Since his illness he had found it more +difficult than ever to work steadily; he made barely enough to keep +himself in liquor; and when Upjohn wrote to him that this publisher and +the other, though admiring the poems, thought it not worth while to +publish them, Cronshaw began to grow interested. He wrote impressing upon +Upjohn his great need and urging him to make more strenuous efforts. Now +that he was going to die he wanted to leave behind him a published book, +and at the back of his mind was the feeling that he had produced great +poetry. He expected to burst upon the world like a new star. There was +something fine in keeping to himself these treasures of beauty all his +life and giving them to the world disdainfully when, he and the world +parting company, he had no further use for them. + +His decision to come to England was caused directly by an announcement +from Leonard Upjohn that a publisher had consented to print the poems. By +a miracle of persuasion Upjohn had persuaded him to give ten pounds in +advance of royalties. + +"In advance of royalties, mind you," said Cronshaw to Philip. "Milton only +got ten pounds down." + +Upjohn had promised to write a signed article about them, and he would ask +his friends who reviewed to do their best. Cronshaw pretended to treat the +matter with detachment, but it was easy to see that he was delighted with +the thought of the stir he would make. + +One day Philip went to dine by arrangement at the wretched eating-house at +which Cronshaw insisted on taking his meals, but Cronshaw did not appear. +Philip learned that he had not been there for three days. He got himself +something to eat and went round to the address from which Cronshaw had +first written to him. He had some difficulty in finding Hyde Street. It +was a street of dingy houses huddled together; many of the windows had +been broken and were clumsily repaired with strips of French newspaper; +the doors had not been painted for years; there were shabby little shops +on the ground floor, laundries, cobblers, stationers. Ragged children +played in the road, and an old barrel-organ was grinding out a vulgar +tune. Philip knocked at the door of Cronshaw's house (there was a shop of +cheap sweetstuffs at the bottom), and it was opened by an elderly +Frenchwoman in a dirty apron. Philip asked her if Cronshaw was in. + +"Ah, yes, there is an Englishman who lives at the top, at the back. I +don't know if he's in. If you want him you had better go up and see." + +The staircase was lit by one jet of gas. There was a revolting odour in +the house. When Philip was passing up a woman came out of a room on the +first floor, looked at him suspiciously, but made no remark. There were +three doors on the top landing. Philip knocked at one, and knocked again; +there was no reply; he tried the handle, but the door was locked. He +knocked at another door, got no answer, and tried the door again. It +opened. The room was dark. + +"Who's that?" + +He recognised Cronshaw's voice. + +"Carey. Can I come in?" + +He received no answer. He walked in. The window was closed and the stink +was overpowering. There was a certain amount of light from the arc-lamp in +the street, and he saw that it was a small room with two beds in it, end +to end; there was a washing-stand and one chair, but they left little +space for anyone to move in. Cronshaw was in the bed nearest the window. +He made no movement, but gave a low chuckle. + +"Why don't you light the candle?" he said then. + +Philip struck a match and discovered that there was a candlestick on the +floor beside the bed. He lit it and put it on the washing-stand. Cronshaw +was lying on his back immobile; he looked very odd in his nightshirt; and +his baldness was disconcerting. His face was earthy and death-like. + +"I say, old man, you look awfully ill. Is there anyone to look after you +here?" + +"George brings me in a bottle of milk in the morning before he goes to his +work." + +"Who's George?" + +"I call him George because his name is Adolphe. He shares this palatial +apartment with me." + +Philip noticed then that the second bed had not been made since it was +slept in. The pillow was black where the head had rested. + +"You don't mean to say you're sharing this room with somebody else?" he +cried. + +"Why not? Lodging costs money in Soho. George is a waiter, he goes out at +eight in the morning and does not come in till closing time, so he isn't +in my way at all. We neither of us sleep well, and he helps to pass away +the hours of the night by telling me stories of his life. He's a Swiss, +and I've always had a taste for waiters. They see life from an +entertaining angle." + +"How long have you been in bed?" + +"Three days." + +"D'you mean to say you've had nothing but a bottle of milk for the last +three days? Why on earth didn't you send me a line? I can't bear to think +of you lying here all day long without a soul to attend to you." + +Cronshaw gave a little laugh. + +"Look at your face. Why, dear boy, I really believe you're distressed. You +nice fellow." + +Philip blushed. He had not suspected that his face showed the dismay he +felt at the sight of that horrible room and the wretched circumstances of +the poor poet. Cronshaw, watching Philip, went on with a gentle smile. + +"I've been quite happy. Look, here are my proofs. Remember that I am +indifferent to discomforts which would harass other folk. What do the +circumstances of life matter if your dreams make you lord paramount of +time and space?" + +The proofs were lying on his bed, and as he lay in the darkness he had +been able to place his hands on them. He showed them to Philip and his +eyes glowed. He turned over the pages, rejoicing in the clear type; he +read out a stanza. + +"They don't look bad, do they?" + +Philip had an idea. It would involve him in a little expense and he could +not afford even the smallest increase of expenditure; but on the other +hand this was a case where it revolted him to think of economy. + +"I say, I can't bear the thought of your remaining here. I've got an extra +room, it's empty at present, but I can easily get someone to lend me a +bed. Won't you come and live with me for a while? It'll save you the rent +of this." + +"Oh, my dear boy, you'd insist on my keeping my window open." + +"You shall have every window in the place sealed if you like." + +"I shall be all right tomorrow. I could have got up today, only I felt +lazy." + +"Then you can very easily make the move. And then if you don't feel well +at any time you can just go to bed, and I shall be there to look after +you." + +"If it'll please you I'll come," said Cronshaw, with his torpid not +unpleasant smile. + +"That'll be ripping." + +They settled that Philip should fetch Cronshaw next day, and Philip +snatched an hour from his busy morning to arrange the change. He found +Cronshaw dressed, sitting in his hat and great-coat on the bed, with a +small, shabby portmanteau, containing his clothes and books, already +packed: it was on the floor by his feet, and he looked as if he were +sitting in the waiting-room of a station. Philip laughed at the sight of +him. They went over to Kennington in a four-wheeler, of which the windows +were carefully closed, and Philip installed his guest in his own room. He +had gone out early in the morning and bought for himself a second-hand +bedstead, a cheap chest of drawers, and a looking-glass. Cronshaw settled +down at once to correct his proofs. He was much better. + +Philip found him, except for the irritability which was a symptom of his +disease, an easy guest. He had a lecture at nine in the morning, so did +not see Cronshaw till the night. Once or twice Philip persuaded him to +share the scrappy meal he prepared for himself in the evening, but +Cronshaw was too restless to stay in, and preferred generally to get +himself something to eat in one or other of the cheapest restaurants in +Soho. Philip asked him to see Dr. Tyrell, but he stoutly refused; he knew +a doctor would tell him to stop drinking, and this he was resolved not to +do. He always felt horribly ill in the morning, but his absinthe at +mid-day put him on his feet again, and by the time he came home, at +midnight, he was able to talk with the brilliancy which had astonished +Philip when first he made his acquaintance. His proofs were corrected; and +the volume was to come out among the publications of the early spring, +when the public might be supposed to have recovered from the avalanche of +Christmas books. + + + +LXXXIV + + +At the new year Philip became dresser in the surgical out-patients' +department. The work was of the same character as that which he had just +been engaged on, but with the greater directness which surgery has than +medicine; and a larger proportion of the patients suffered from those two +diseases which a supine public allows, in its prudishness, to be spread +broadcast. The assistant-surgeon for whom Philip dressed was called +Jacobs. He was a short, fat man, with an exuberant joviality, a bald head, +and a loud voice; he had a cockney accent, and was generally described by +the students as an `awful bounder'; but his cleverness, both as a surgeon +and as a teacher, caused some of them to overlook this. He had also a +considerable facetiousness, which he exercised impartially on the patients +and on the students. He took a great pleasure in making his dressers look +foolish. Since they were ignorant, nervous, and could not answer as if he +were their equal, this was not very difficult. He enjoyed his afternoons, +with the home truths he permitted himself, much more than the students who +had to put up with them with a smile. One day a case came up of a boy with +a club-foot. His parents wanted to know whether anything could be done. +Mr. Jacobs turned to Philip. + +"You'd better take this case, Carey. It's a subject you ought to know +something about." + +Philip flushed, all the more because the surgeon spoke obviously with a +humorous intention, and his brow-beaten dressers laughed obsequiously. It +was in point of fact a subject which Philip, since coming to the hospital, +had studied with anxious attention. He had read everything in the library +which treated of talipes in its various forms. He made the boy take off +his boot and stocking. He was fourteen, with a snub nose, blue eyes, and +a freckled face. His father explained that they wanted something done if +possible, it was such a hindrance to the kid in earning his living. Philip +looked at him curiously. He was a jolly boy, not at all shy, but talkative +and with a cheekiness which his father reproved. He was much interested in +his foot. + +"It's only for the looks of the thing, you know," he said to Philip. "I +don't find it no trouble." + +"Be quiet, Ernie," said his father. "There's too much gas about you." + +Philip examined the foot and passed his hand slowly over the shapelessness +of it. He could not understand why the boy felt none of the humiliation +which always oppressed himself. He wondered why he could not take his +deformity with that philosophic indifference. Presently Mr. Jacobs came up +to him. The boy was sitting on the edge of a couch, the surgeon and Philip +stood on each side of him; and in a semi-circle, crowding round, were +students. With accustomed brilliancy Jacobs gave a graphic little +discourse upon the club-foot: he spoke of its varieties and of the forms +which followed upon different anatomical conditions. + +"I suppose you've got talipes equinus?" he said, turning suddenly to +Philip. + +"Yes." + +Philip felt the eyes of his fellow-students rest on him, and he cursed +himself because he could not help blushing. He felt the sweat start up in +the palms of his hands. The surgeon spoke with the fluency due to long +practice and with the admirable perspicacity which distinguished him. He +was tremendously interested in his profession. But Philip did not listen. +He was only wishing that the fellow would get done quickly. Suddenly he +realised that Jacobs was addressing him. + +"You don't mind taking off your sock for a moment, Carey?" + +Philip felt a shudder pass through him. He had an impulse to tell the +surgeon to go to hell, but he had not the courage to make a scene. He +feared his brutal ridicule. He forced himself to appear indifferent. + +"Not a bit," he said. + +He sat down and unlaced his boot. His fingers were trembling and he +thought he should never untie the knot. He remembered how they had forced +him at school to show his foot, and the misery which had eaten into his +soul. + +"He keeps his feet nice and clean, doesn't he?" said Jacobs, in his +rasping, cockney voice. + +The attendant students giggled. Philip noticed that the boy whom they were +examining looked down at his foot with eager curiosity. Jacobs took the +foot in his hands and said: + +"Yes, that's what I thought. I see you've had an operation. When you were +a child, I suppose?" + +He went on with his fluent explanations. The students leaned over and +looked at the foot. Two or three examined it minutely when Jacobs let it +go. + +"When you've quite done," said Philip, with a smile, ironically. + +He could have killed them all. He thought how jolly it would be to jab a +chisel (he didn't know why that particular instrument came into his mind) +into their necks. What beasts men were! He wished he could believe in hell +so as to comfort himself with the thought of the horrible tortures which +would be theirs. Mr. Jacobs turned his attention to treatment. He talked +partly to the boy's father and partly to the students. Philip put on his +sock and laced his boot. At last the surgeon finished. But he seemed to +have an afterthought and turned to Philip. + +"You know, I think it might be worth your while to have an operation. Of +course I couldn't give you a normal foot, but I think I can do something. +You might think about it, and when you want a holiday you can just come +into the hospital for a bit." + +Philip had often asked himself whether anything could be done, but his +distaste for any reference to the subject had prevented him from +consulting any of the surgeons at the hospital. His reading told him that +whatever might have been done when he was a small boy, and then treatment +of talipes was not as skilful as in the present day, there was small +chance now of any great benefit. Still it would be worth while if an +operation made it possible for him to wear a more ordinary boot and to +limp less. He remembered how passionately he had prayed for the miracle +which his uncle had assured him was possible to omnipotence. He smiled +ruefully. + +"I was rather a simple soul in those days," he thought. + + +Towards the end of February it was clear that Cronshaw was growing much +worse. He was no longer able to get up. He lay in bed, insisting that the +window should be closed always, and refused to see a doctor; he would take +little nourishment, but demanded whiskey and cigarettes: Philip knew that +he should have neither, but Cronshaw's argument was unanswerable. + +"I daresay they are killing me. I don't care. You've warned me, you've +done all that was necessary: I ignore your warning. Give me something to +drink and be damned to you." + +Leonard Upjohn blew in two or three times a week, and there was something +of the dead leaf in his appearance which made the word exactly descriptive +of the manner of his appearance. He was a weedy-looking fellow of +five-and-thirty, with long pale hair and a white face; he had the look of +a man who lived too little in the open air. He wore a hat like a +dissenting minister's. Philip disliked him for his patronising manner and +was bored by his fluent conversation. Leonard Upjohn liked to hear himself +talk. He was not sensitive to the interest of his listeners, which is the +first requisite of the good talker; and he never realised that he was +telling people what they knew already. With measured words he told Philip +what to think of Rodin, Albert Samain, and Caesar Franck. Philip's +charwoman only came in for an hour in the morning, and since Philip was +obliged to be at the hospital all day Cronshaw was left much alone. Upjohn +told Philip that he thought someone should remain with him, but did not +offer to make it possible. + +"It's dreadful to think of that great poet alone. Why, he might die +without a soul at hand." + +"I think he very probably will," said Philip. + +"How can you be so callous!" + +"Why don't you come and do your work here every day, and then you'd be +near if he wanted anything?" asked Philip drily. + +"I? My dear fellow, I can only work in the surroundings I'm used to, and +besides I go out so much." + +Upjohn was also a little put out because Philip had brought Cronshaw to +his own rooms. + +"I wish you had left him in Soho," he said, with a wave of his long, thin +hands. "There was a touch of romance in that sordid attic. I could even +bear it if it were Wapping or Shoreditch, but the respectability of +Kennington! What a place for a poet to die!" + +Cronshaw was often so ill-humoured that Philip could only keep his temper +by remembering all the time that this irritability was a symptom of the +disease. Upjohn came sometimes before Philip was in, and then Cronshaw +would complain of him bitterly. Upjohn listened with complacency. + +"The fact is that Carey has no sense of beauty," he smiled. "He has a +middle-class mind." + +He was very sarcastic to Philip, and Philip exercised a good deal of +self-control in his dealings with him. But one evening he could not +contain himself. He had had a hard day at the hospital and was tired out. +Leonard Upjohn came to him, while he was making himself a cup of tea in +the kitchen, and said that Cronshaw was complaining of Philip's insistence +that he should have a doctor. + +"Don't you realise that you're enjoying a very rare, a very exquisite +privilege? You ought to do everything in your power, surely, to show your +sense of the greatness of your trust." + +"It's a rare and exquisite privilege which I can ill afford," said Philip. + +Whenever there was any question of money, Leonard Upjohn assumed a +slightly disdainful expression. His sensitive temperament was offended by +the reference. + +"There's something fine in Cronshaw's attitude, and you disturb it by your +importunity. You should make allowances for the delicate imaginings which +you cannot feel." + +Philip's face darkened. + +"Let us go in to Cronshaw," he said frigidly. + +The poet was lying on his back, reading a book, with a pipe in his mouth. +The air was musty; and the room, notwithstanding Philip's tidying up, had +the bedraggled look which seemed to accompany Cronshaw wherever he went. +He took off his spectacles as they came in. Philip was in a towering rage. + +"Upjohn tells me you've been complaining to him because I've urged you to +have a doctor," he said. "I want you to have a doctor, because you may die +any day, and if you hadn't been seen by anyone I shouldn't be able to get +a certificate. There'd have to be an inquest and I should be blamed for +not calling a doctor in." + +"I hadn't thought of that. I thought you wanted me to see a doctor for my +sake and not for your own. I'll see a doctor whenever you like." + +Philip did not answer, but gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the +shoulders. Cronshaw, watching him, gave a little chuckle. + +"Don't look so angry, my dear. I know very well you want to do everything +you can for me. Let's see your doctor, perhaps he can do something for me, +and at any rate it'll comfort you." He turned his eyes to Upjohn. "You're +a damned fool, Leonard. Why d'you want to worry the boy? He has quite +enough to do to put up with me. You'll do nothing more for me than write +a pretty article about me after my death. I know you." + +Next day Philip went to Dr. Tyrell. He felt that he was the sort of man to +be interested by the story, and as soon as Tyrell was free of his day's +work he accompanied Philip to Kennington. He could only agree with what +Philip had told him. The case was hopeless. + +"I'll take him into the hospital if you like," he said. "He can have a +small ward." + +"Nothing would induce him to come." + +"You know, he may die any minute, or else he may get another attack of +pneumonia." + +Philip nodded. Dr. Tyrell made one or two suggestions, and promised to +come again whenever Philip wanted him to. He left his address. When Philip +went back to Cronshaw he found him quietly reading. He did not trouble to +inquire what the doctor had said. + +"Are you satisfied now, dear boy?" he asked. + +"I suppose nothing will induce you to do any of the things Tyrell +advised?" + +"Nothing," smiled Cronshaw. + + + +LXXXV + + +About a fortnight after this Philip, going home one evening after his +day's work at the hospital, knocked at the door of Cronshaw's room. He got +no answer and walked in. Cronshaw was lying huddled up on one side, and +Philip went up to the bed. He did not know whether Cronshaw was asleep or +merely lay there in one of his uncontrollable fits of irritability. He was +surprised to see that his mouth was open. He touched his shoulder. Philip +gave a cry of dismay. He slipped his hand under Cronshaw's shirt and felt +his heart; he did not know what to do; helplessly, because he had heard of +this being done, he held a looking-glass in front of his mouth. It +startled him to be alone with Cronshaw. He had his hat and coat still on, +and he ran down the stairs into the street; he hailed a cab and drove to +Harley Street. Dr. Tyrell was in. + +"I say, would you mind coming at once? I think Cronshaw's dead." + +"If he is it's not much good my coming, is it?" + +"I should be awfully grateful if you would. I've got a cab at the door. +It'll only take half an hour." + +Tyrell put on his hat. In the cab he asked him one or two questions. + +"He seemed no worse than usual when I left this morning," said Philip. "It +gave me an awful shock when I went in just now. And the thought of his +dying all alone.... D'you think he knew he was going to die?" + +Philip remembered what Cronshaw had said. He wondered whether at that last +moment he had been seized with the terror of death. Philip imagined +himself in such a plight, knowing it was inevitable and with no one, not +a soul, to give an encouraging word when the fear seized him. + +"You're rather upset," said Dr. Tyrell. + +He looked at him with his bright blue eyes. They were not unsympathetic. +When he saw Cronshaw, he said: + +"He must have been dead for some hours. I should think he died in his +sleep. They do sometimes." + +The body looked shrunk and ignoble. It was not like anything human. Dr. +Tyrell looked at it dispassionately. With a mechanical gesture he took out +his watch. + +"Well, I must be getting along. I'll send the certificate round. I suppose +you'll communicate with the relatives." + +"I don't think there are any," said Philip. + +"How about the funeral?" + +"Oh, I'll see to that." + +Dr. Tyrell gave Philip a glance. He wondered whether he ought to offer a +couple of sovereigns towards it. He knew nothing of Philip's +circumstances; perhaps he could well afford the expense; Philip might +think it impertinent if he made any suggestion. + +"Well, let me know if there's anything I can do," he said. + +Philip and he went out together, parting on the doorstep, and Philip went +to a telegraph office in order to send a message to Leonard Upjohn. Then +he went to an undertaker whose shop he passed every day on his way to the +hospital. His attention had been drawn to it often by the three words in +silver lettering on a black cloth, which, with two model coffins, adorned +the window: Economy, Celerity, Propriety. They had always diverted him. +The undertaker was a little fat Jew with curly black hair, long and +greasy, in black, with a large diamond ring on a podgy finger. He received +Philip with a peculiar manner formed by the mingling of his natural +blatancy with the subdued air proper to his calling. He quickly saw that +Philip was very helpless and promised to send round a woman at once to +perform the needful offices. His suggestions for the funeral were very +magnificent; and Philip felt ashamed of himself when the undertaker seemed +to think his objections mean. It was horrible to haggle on such a matter, +and finally Philip consented to an expensiveness which he could ill +afford. + +"I quite understand, sir," said the undertaker, "you don't want any show +and that--I'm not a believer in ostentation myself, mind you--but you want +it done gentlemanly-like. You leave it to me, I'll do it as cheap as it +can be done, 'aving regard to what's right and proper. I can't say more +than that, can I?" + +Philip went home to eat his supper, and while he ate the woman came along +to lay out the corpse. Presently a telegram arrived from Leonard Upjohn. + + +Shocked and grieved beyond measure. Regret cannot come tonight. Dining +out. With you early tomorrow. Deepest sympathy. Upjohn. + + +In a little while the woman knocked at the door of the sitting-room. + +"I've done now, sir. Will you come and look at 'im and see it's all +right?" + +Philip followed her. Cronshaw was lying on his back, with his eyes closed +and his hands folded piously across his chest. + +"You ought by rights to 'ave a few flowers, sir." + +"I'll get some tomorrow." + +She gave the body a glance of satisfaction. She had performed her job, and +now she rolled down her sleeves, took off her apron, and put on her +bonnet. Philip asked her how much he owed her. + +"Well, sir, some give me two and sixpence and some give me five +shillings." + +Philip was ashamed to give her less than the larger sum. She thanked him +with just so much effusiveness as was seemly in presence of the grief he +might be supposed to feel, and left him. Philip went back into his +sitting-room, cleared away the remains of his supper, and sat down to read +Walsham's Surgery. He found it difficult. He felt singularly nervous. +When there was a sound on the stairs he jumped, and his heart beat +violently. That thing in the adjoining room, which had been a man and now +was nothing, frightened him. The silence seemed alive, as if some +mysterious movement were taking place within it; the presence of death +weighed upon these rooms, unearthly and terrifying: Philip felt a sudden +horror for what had once been his friend. He tried to force himself to +read, but presently pushed away his book in despair. What troubled him was +the absolute futility of the life which had just ended. It did not matter +if Cronshaw was alive or dead. It would have been just as well if he had +never lived. Philip thought of Cronshaw young; and it needed an effort of +imagination to picture him slender, with a springing step, and with hair +on his head, buoyant and hopeful. Philip's rule of life, to follow one's +instincts with due regard to the policeman round the corner, had not acted +very well there: it was because Cronshaw had done this that he had made +such a lamentable failure of existence. It seemed that the instincts could +not be trusted. Philip was puzzled, and he asked himself what rule of life +was there, if that one was useless, and why people acted in one way rather +than in another. They acted according to their emotions, but their +emotions might be good or bad; it seemed just a chance whether they led to +triumph or disaster. Life seemed an inextricable confusion. Men hurried +hither and thither, urged by forces they knew not; and the purpose of it +all escaped them; they seemed to hurry just for hurrying's sake. + +Next morning Leonard Upjohn appeared with a small wreath of laurel. He was +pleased with his idea of crowning the dead poet with this; and attempted, +notwithstanding Philip's disapproving silence, to fix it on the bald head; +but the wreath fitted grotesquely. It looked like the brim of a hat worn +by a low comedian in a music-hall. + +"I'll put it over his heart instead," said Upjohn. + +"You've put it on his stomach," remarked Philip. + +Upjohn gave a thin smile. + +"Only a poet knows where lies a poet's heart," he answered. + +They went back into the sitting-room, and Philip told him what +arrangements he had made for the funeral. + +"I hoped you've spared no expense. I should like the hearse to be followed +by a long string of empty coaches, and I should like the horses to wear +tall nodding plumes, and there should be a vast number of mutes with long +streamers on their hats. I like the thought of all those empty coaches." + +"As the cost of the funeral will apparently fall on me and I'm not over +flush just now, I've tried to make it as moderate as possible." + +"But, my dear fellow, in that case, why didn't you get him a pauper's +funeral? There would have been something poetic in that. You have an +unerring instinct for mediocrity." + +Philip flushed a little, but did not answer; and next day he and Upjohn +followed the hearse in the one carriage which Philip had ordered. Lawson, +unable to come, had sent a wreath; and Philip, so that the coffin should +not seem too neglected, had bought a couple. On the way back the coachman +whipped up his horses. Philip was dog-tired and presently went to sleep. +He was awakened by Upjohn's voice. + +"It's rather lucky the poems haven't come out yet. I think we'd better +hold them back a bit and I'll write a preface. I began thinking of it +during the drive to the cemetery. I believe I can do something rather +good. Anyhow I'll start with an article in The Saturday." + +Philip did not reply, and there was silence between them. At last Upjohn +said: + +"I daresay I'd be wiser not to whittle away my copy. I think I'll do an +article for one of the reviews, and then I can just print it afterwards as +a preface." + +Philip kept his eye on the monthlies, and a few weeks later it appeared. +The article made something of a stir, and extracts from it were printed in +many of the papers. It was a very good article, vaguely biographical, for +no one knew much of Cronshaw's early life, but delicate, tender, and +picturesque. Leonard Upjohn in his intricate style drew graceful little +pictures of Cronshaw in the Latin Quarter, talking, writing poetry: +Cronshaw became a picturesque figure, an English Verlaine; and Leonard +Upjohn's coloured phrases took on a tremulous dignity, a more pathetic +grandiloquence, as he described the sordid end, the shabby little room in +Soho; and, with a reticence which was wholly charming and suggested a much +greater generosity than modesty allowed him to state, the efforts he made +to transport the Poet to some cottage embowered with honeysuckle amid a +flowering orchard. And the lack of sympathy, well-meaning but so tactless, +which had taken the poet instead to the vulgar respectability of +Kennington! Leonard Upjohn described Kennington with that restrained +humour which a strict adherence to the vocabulary of Sir Thomas Browne +necessitated. With delicate sarcasm he narrated the last weeks, the +patience with which Cronshaw bore the well-meaning clumsiness of the young +student who had appointed himself his nurse, and the pitifulness of that +divine vagabond in those hopelessly middle-class surroundings. Beauty from +ashes, he quoted from Isaiah. It was a triumph of irony for that outcast +poet to die amid the trappings of vulgar respectability; it reminded +Leonard Upjohn of Christ among the Pharisees, and the analogy gave him +opportunity for an exquisite passage. And then he told how a friend--his +good taste did not suffer him more than to hint subtly who the friend was +with such gracious fancies--had laid a laurel wreath on the dead poet's +heart; and the beautiful dead hands had seemed to rest with a voluptuous +passion upon Apollo's leaves, fragrant with the fragrance of art, and more +green than jade brought by swart mariners from the manifold, inexplicable +China. And, an admirable contrast, the article ended with a description of +the middle-class, ordinary, prosaic funeral of him who should have been +buried like a prince or like a pauper. It was the crowning buffet, the +final victory of Philistia over art, beauty, and immaterial things. + +Leonard Upjohn had never written anything better. It was a miracle of +charm, grace, and pity. He printed all Cronshaw's best poems in the course +of the article, so that when the volume appeared much of its point was +gone; but he advanced his own position a good deal. He was thenceforth a +critic to be reckoned with. He had seemed before a little aloof; but there +was a warm humanity about this article which was infinitely attractive. + + + +LXXXVI + + +In the spring Philip, having finished his dressing in the out-patients' +department, became an in-patients' clerk. This appointment lasted six +months. The clerk spent every morning in the wards, first in the men's, +then in the women's, with the house-physician; he wrote up cases, made +tests, and passed the time of day with the nurses. On two afternoons a +week the physician in charge went round with a little knot of students, +examined the cases, and dispensed information. The work had not the +excitement, the constant change, the intimate contact with reality, of the +work in the out-patients' department; but Philip picked up a good deal of +knowledge. He got on very well with the patients, and he was a little +flattered at the pleasure they showed in his attendance on them. He was +not conscious of any deep sympathy in their sufferings, but he liked them; +and because he put on no airs he was more popular with them than others of +the clerks. He was pleasant, encouraging, and friendly. Like everyone +connected with hospitals he found that male patients were more easy to get +on with than female. The women were often querulous and ill-tempered. They +complained bitterly of the hard-worked nurses, who did not show them the +attention they thought their right; and they were troublesome, ungrateful, +and rude. + +Presently Philip was fortunate enough to make a friend. One morning the +house-physician gave him a new case, a man; and, seating himself at the +bedside, Philip proceeded to write down particulars on the `letter.' He +noticed on looking at this that the patient was described as a journalist: +his name was Thorpe Athelny, an unusual one for a hospital patient, and +his age was forty-eight. He was suffering from a sharp attack of jaundice, +and had been taken into the ward on account of obscure symptoms which it +seemed necessary to watch. He answered the various questions which it was +Philip's duty to ask him in a pleasant, educated voice. Since he was lying +in bed it was difficult to tell if he was short or tall, but his small +head and small hands suggested that he was a man of less than average +height. Philip had the habit of looking at people's hands, and Athelny's +astonished him: they were very small, with long, tapering fingers and +beautiful, rosy finger-nails; they were very smooth and except for the +jaundice would have been of a surprising whiteness. The patient kept them +outside the bed-clothes, one of them slightly spread out, the second and +third fingers together, and, while he spoke to Philip, seemed to +contemplate them with satisfaction. With a twinkle in his eyes Philip +glanced at the man's face. Notwithstanding the yellowness it was +distinguished; he had blue eyes, a nose of an imposing boldness, hooked, +aggressive but not clumsy, and a small beard, pointed and gray: he was +rather bald, but his hair had evidently been quite fine, curling prettily, +and he still wore it long. + +"I see you're a journalist," said Philip. "What papers d'you write for?" + +"I write for all the papers. You cannot open a paper without seeing some +of my writing." There was one by the side of the bed and reaching for it +he pointed out an advertisement. In large letters was the name of a firm +well-known to Philip, Lynn and Sedley, Regent Street, London; and below, +in type smaller but still of some magnitude, was the dogmatic statement: +Procrastination is the Thief of Time. Then a question, startling because +of its reasonableness: Why not order today? There was a repetition, in +large letters, like the hammering of conscience on a murderer's heart: Why +not? Then, boldly: Thousands of pairs of gloves from the leading markets +of the world at astounding prices. Thousands of pairs of stockings from +the most reliable manufacturers of the universe at sensational reductions. +Finally the question recurred, but flung now like a challenging gauntlet +in the lists: Why not order today? + +"I'm the press representative of Lynn and Sedley." He gave a little wave +of his beautiful hand. "To what base uses..." + +Philip went on asking the regulation questions, some a mere matter of +routine, others artfully devised to lead the patient to discover things +which he might be expected to desire to conceal. + +"Have you ever lived abroad?" asked Philip. + +"I was in Spain for eleven years." + +"What were you doing there?" + +"I was secretary of the English water company at Toledo." + +Philip remembered that Clutton had spent some months in Toledo, and the +journalist's answer made him look at him with more interest; but he felt +it would be improper to show this: it was necessary to preserve the +distance between the hospital patient and the staff. When he had finished +his examination he went on to other beds. + +Thorpe Athelny's illness was not grave, and, though remaining very yellow, +he soon felt much better: he stayed in bed only because the physician +thought he should be kept under observation till certain reactions became +normal. One day, on entering the ward, Philip noticed that Athelny, pencil +in hand, was reading a book. He put it down when Philip came to his bed. + +"May I see what you're reading?" asked Philip, who could never pass a book +without looking at it. + +Philip took it up and saw that it was a volume of Spanish verse, the poems +of San Juan de la Cruz, and as he opened it a sheet of paper fell out. +Philip picked it up and noticed that verse was written upon it. + +"You're not going to tell me you've been occupying your leisure in writing +poetry? That's a most improper proceeding in a hospital patient." + +"I was trying to do some translations. D'you know Spanish?" + +"No." + +"Well, you know all about San Juan de la Cruz, don't you?" + +"I don't indeed." + +"He was one of the Spanish mystics. He's one of the best poets they've +ever had. I thought it would be worth while translating him into English." + +"May I look at your translation?" + +"It's very rough," said Athelny, but he gave it to Philip with an alacrity +which suggested that he was eager for him to read it. + +It was written in pencil, in a fine but very peculiar handwriting, which +was hard to read: it was just like black letter. + +"Doesn't it take you an awful time to write like that? It's wonderful." + +"I don't know why handwriting shouldn't be beautiful." Philip read the +first verse: + + In an obscure night + With anxious love inflamed + O happy lot! + Forth unobserved I went, + My house being now at rest... + + +Philip looked curiously at Thorpe Athelny. He did not know whether he felt +a little shy with him or was attracted by him. He was conscious that his +manner had been slightly patronising, and he flushed as it struck him that +Athelny might have thought him ridiculous. + +"What an unusual name you've got," he remarked, for something to say. + +"It's a very old Yorkshire name. Once it took the head of my family a +day's hard riding to make the circuit of his estates, but the mighty are +fallen. Fast women and slow horses." + +He was short-sighted and when he spoke looked at you with a peculiar +intensity. He took up his volume of poetry. + +"You should read Spanish," he said. "It is a noble tongue. It has not the +mellifluousness of Italian, Italian is the language of tenors and +organ-grinders, but it has grandeur: it does not ripple like a brook in a +garden, but it surges tumultuous like a mighty river in flood." + +His grandiloquence amused Philip, but he was sensitive to rhetoric; and he +listened with pleasure while Athelny, with picturesque expressions and the +fire of a real enthusiasm, described to him the rich delight of reading +Don Quixote in the original and the music, romantic, limpid, passionate, +of the enchanting Calderon. + +"I must get on with my work," said Philip presently. + +"Oh, forgive me, I forgot. I will tell my wife to bring me a photograph of +Toledo, and I will show it you. Come and talk to me when you have the +chance. You don't know what a pleasure it gives me." + +During the next few days, in moments snatched whenever there was +opportunity, Philip's acquaintance with the journalist increased. Thorpe +Athelny was a good talker. He did not say brilliant things, but he talked +inspiringly, with an eager vividness which fired the imagination; Philip, +living so much in a world of make-believe, found his fancy teeming with +new pictures. Athelny had very good manners. He knew much more than +Philip, both of the world and of books; he was a much older man; and the +readiness of his conversation gave him a certain superiority; but he was +in the hospital a recipient of charity, subject to strict rules; and he +held himself between the two positions with ease and humour. Once Philip +asked him why he had come to the hospital. + +"Oh, my principle is to profit by all the benefits that society provides. +I take advantage of the age I live in. When I'm ill I get myself patched +up in a hospital and I have no false shame, and I send my children to be +educated at the board-school." + +"Do you really?" said Philip. + +"And a capital education they get too, much better than I got at +Winchester. How else do you think I could educate them at all? I've got +nine. You must come and see them all when I get home again. Will you?" + +"I'd like to very much," said Philip. + + + +LXXXVII + + +Ten days later Thorpe Athelny was well enough to leave the hospital. He +gave Philip his address, and Philip promised to dine with him at one +o'clock on the following Sunday. Athelny had told him that he lived in a +house built by Inigo Jones; he had raved, as he raved over everything, +over the balustrade of old oak; and when he came down to open the door for +Philip he made him at once admire the elegant carving of the lintel. It +was a shabby house, badly needing a coat of paint, but with the dignity of +its period, in a little street between Chancery Lane and Holborn, which +had once been fashionable but was now little better than a slum: there was +a plan to pull it down in order to put up handsome offices; meanwhile the +rents were small, and Athelny was able to get the two upper floors at a +price which suited his income. Philip had not seen him up before and was +surprised at his small size; he was not more than five feet and five +inches high. He was dressed fantastically in blue linen trousers of the +sort worn by working men in France, and a very old brown velvet coat; he +wore a bright red sash round his waist, a low collar, and for tie a +flowing bow of the kind used by the comic Frenchman in the pages of +Punch. He greeted Philip with enthusiasm. He began talking at once of +the house and passed his hand lovingly over the balusters. + +"Look at it, feel it, it's like silk. What a miracle of grace! And in five +years the house-breaker will sell it for firewood." + +He insisted on taking Philip into a room on the first floor, where a man +in shirt sleeves, a blousy woman, and three children were having their +Sunday dinner. + +"I've just brought this gentleman in to show him your ceiling. Did you +ever see anything so wonderful? How are you, Mrs. Hodgson? This is Mr. +Carey, who looked after me when I was in the hospital." + +"Come in, sir," said the man. "Any friend of Mr. Athelny's is welcome. Mr. +Athelny shows the ceiling to all his friends. And it don't matter what +we're doing, if we're in bed or if I'm 'aving a wash, in 'e comes." + +Philip could see that they looked upon Athelny as a little queer; but they +liked him none the less and they listened open-mouthed while he discoursed +with his impetuous fluency on the beauty of the seventeenth-century +ceiling. + +"What a crime to pull this down, eh, Hodgson? You're an influential +citizen, why don't you write to the papers and protest?" + +The man in shirt sleeves gave a laugh and said to Philip: + +"Mr. Athelny will 'ave his little joke. They do say these 'ouses are that +insanitory, it's not safe to live in them." + +"Sanitation be damned, give me art," cried Athelny. "I've got nine +children and they thrive on bad drains. No, no, I'm not going to take any +risk. None of your new-fangled notions for me! When I move from here I'm +going to make sure the drains are bad before I take anything." + +There was a knock at the door, and a little fair-haired girl opened it. + +"Daddy, mummy says, do stop talking and come and eat your dinner." + +"This is my third daughter," said Athelny, pointing to her with a dramatic +forefinger. "She is called Maria del Pilar, but she answers more willingly +to the name of Jane. Jane, your nose wants blowing." + +"I haven't got a hanky, daddy." + +"Tut, tut, child," he answered, as he produced a vast, brilliant bandanna, +"what do you suppose the Almighty gave you fingers for?" + +They went upstairs, and Philip was taken into a room with walls panelled +in dark oak. In the middle was a narrow table of teak on trestle legs, +with two supporting bars of iron, of the kind called in Spain mesa de +hieraje. They were to dine there, for two places were laid, and there +were two large arm-chairs, with broad flat arms of oak and leathern backs, +and leathern seats. They were severe, elegant, and uncomfortable. The only +other piece of furniture was a bargueno, elaborately ornamented with +gilt iron-work, on a stand of ecclesiastical design roughly but very +finely carved. There stood on this two or three lustre plates, much broken +but rich in colour; and on the walls were old masters of the Spanish +school in beautiful though dilapidated frames: though gruesome in subject, +ruined by age and bad treatment, and second-rate in their conception, they +had a glow of passion. There was nothing in the room of any value, but the +effect was lovely. It was magnificent and yet austere. Philip felt that it +offered the very spirit of old Spain. Athelny was in the middle of showing +him the inside of the bargueno, with its beautiful ornamentation and +secret drawers, when a tall girl, with two plaits of bright brown hair +hanging down her back, came in. + +"Mother says dinner's ready and waiting and I'm to bring it in as soon as +you sit down." + +"Come and shake hands with Mr. Carey, Sally." He turned to Philip. "Isn't +she enormous? She's my eldest. How old are you, Sally?" + +"Fifteen, father, come next June." + +"I christened her Maria del Sol, because she was my first child and I +dedicated her to the glorious sun of Castile; but her mother calls her +Sally and her brother Pudding-Face." + +The girl smiled shyly, she had even, white teeth, and blushed. She was +well set-up, tall for her age, with pleasant gray eyes and a broad +forehead. She had red cheeks. + +"Go and tell your mother to come in and shake hands with Mr. Carey before +he sits down." + +"Mother says she'll come in after dinner. She hasn't washed herself yet." + +"Then we'll go in and see her ourselves. He mustn't eat the Yorkshire +pudding till he's shaken the hand that made it." + +Philip followed his host into the kitchen. It was small and much +overcrowded. There had been a lot of noise, but it stopped as soon as the +stranger entered. There was a large table in the middle and round it, +eager for dinner, were seated Athelny's children. A woman was standing at +the oven, taking out baked potatoes one by one. + +"Here's Mr. Carey, Betty," said Athelny. + +"Fancy bringing him in here. What will he think?" + +She wore a dirty apron, and the sleeves of her cotton dress were turned up +above her elbows; she had curling pins in her hair. Mrs. Athelny was a +large woman, a good three inches taller than her husband, fair, with blue +eyes and a kindly expression; she had been a handsome creature, but +advancing years and the bearing of many children had made her fat and +blousy; her blue eyes had become pale, her skin was coarse and red, the +colour had gone out of her hair. She straightened herself, wiped her hand +on her apron, and held it out. + +"You're welcome, sir," she said, in a slow voice, with an accent that +seemed oddly familiar to Philip. "Athelny said you was very kind to him in +the 'orspital." + +"Now you must be introduced to the live stock," said Athelny. "That is +Thorpe," he pointed to a chubby boy with curly hair, "he is my eldest son, +heir to the title, estates, and responsibilities of the family. There is +Athelstan, Harold, Edward." He pointed with his forefinger to three +smaller boys, all rosy, healthy, and smiling, though when they felt +Philip's smiling eyes upon them they looked shyly down at their plates. +"Now the girls in order: Maria del Sol..." + +"Pudding-Face," said one of the small boys. + +"Your sense of humour is rudimentary, my son. Maria de los Mercedes, Maria +del Pilar, Maria de la Concepcion, Maria del Rosario." + +"I call them Sally, Molly, Connie, Rosie, and Jane," said Mrs. Athelny. +"Now, Athelny, you go into your own room and I'll send you your dinner. +I'll let the children come in afterwards for a bit when I've washed them." + +"My dear, if I'd had the naming of you I should have called you Maria of +the Soapsuds. You're always torturing these wretched brats with soap." + +"You go first, Mr. Carey, or I shall never get him to sit down and eat his +dinner." + +Athelny and Philip installed themselves in the great monkish chairs, and +Sally brought them in two plates of beef, Yorkshire pudding, baked +potatoes, and cabbage. Athelny took sixpence out of his pocket and sent +her for a jug of beer. + +"I hope you didn't have the table laid here on my account," said Philip. +"I should have been quite happy to eat with the children." + +"Oh no, I always have my meals by myself. I like these antique customs. I +don't think that women ought to sit down at table with men. It ruins +conversation and I'm sure it's very bad for them. It puts ideas in their +heads, and women are never at ease with themselves when they have ideas." + +Both host and guest ate with a hearty appetite. + +"Did you ever taste such Yorkshire pudding? No one can make it like my +wife. That's the advantage of not marrying a lady. You noticed she wasn't +a lady, didn't you?" + +It was an awkward question, and Philip did not know how to answer it. + +"I never thought about it," he said lamely. + +Athelny laughed. He had a peculiarly joyous laugh. + +"No, she's not a lady, nor anything like it. Her father was a farmer, and +she's never bothered about aitches in her life. We've had twelve children +and nine of them are alive. I tell her it's about time she stopped, but +she's an obstinate woman, she's got into the habit of it now, and I don't +believe she'll be satisfied till she's had twenty." + +At that moment Sally came in with the beer, and, having poured out a glass +for Philip, went to the other side of the table to pour some out for her +father. He put his hand round her waist. + +"Did you ever see such a handsome, strapping girl? Only fifteen and she +might be twenty. Look at her cheeks. She's never had a day's illness in +her life. It'll be a lucky man who marries her, won't it, Sally?" + +Sally listened to all this with a slight, slow smile, not much +embarrassed, for she was accustomed to her father's outbursts, but with an +easy modesty which was very attractive. + +"Don't let your dinner get cold, father," she said, drawing herself away +from his arm. "You'll call when you're ready for your pudding, won't you?" + +They were left alone, and Athelny lifted the pewter tankard to his lips. +He drank long and deep. + +"My word, is there anything better than English beer?" he said. "Let us +thank God for simple pleasures, roast beef and rice pudding, a good +appetite and beer. I was married to a lady once. My God! Don't marry a +lady, my boy." + +Philip laughed. He was exhilarated by the scene, the funny little man in +his odd clothes, the panelled room and the Spanish furniture, the English +fare: the whole thing had an exquisite incongruity. + +"You laugh, my boy, you can't imagine marrying beneath you. You want a +wife who's an intellectual equal. Your head is crammed full of ideas of +comradeship. Stuff and nonsense, my boy! A man doesn't want to talk +politics to his wife, and what do you think I care for Betty's views upon +the Differential Calculus? A man wants a wife who can cook his dinner and +look after his children. I've tried both and I know. Let's have the +pudding in." + +He clapped his hands and presently Sally came. When she took away the +plates, Philip wanted to get up and help her, but Athelny stopped him. + +"Let her alone, my boy. She doesn't want you to fuss about, do you, Sally? +And she won't think it rude of you to sit still while she waits upon you. +She don't care a damn for chivalry, do you, Sally?" + +"No, father," answered Sally demurely. + +"Do you know what I'm talking about, Sally?" + +"No, father. But you know mother doesn't like you to swear." + +Athelny laughed boisterously. Sally brought them plates of rice pudding, +rich, creamy, and luscious. Athelny attacked his with gusto. + +"One of the rules of this house is that Sunday dinner should never alter. +It is a ritual. Roast beef and rice pudding for fifty Sundays in the year. +On Easter Sunday lamb and green peas, and at Michaelmas roast goose and +apple sauce. Thus we preserve the traditions of our people. When Sally +marries she will forget many of the wise things I have taught her, but she +will never forget that if you want to be good and happy you must eat on +Sundays roast beef and rice pudding." + +"You'll call when you're ready for cheese," said Sally impassively. + +"D'you know the legend of the halcyon?" said Athelny: Philip was growing +used to his rapid leaping from one subject to another. "When the +kingfisher, flying over the sea, is exhausted, his mate places herself +beneath him and bears him along upon her stronger wings. That is what a +man wants in a wife, the halcyon. I lived with my first wife for three +years. She was a lady, she had fifteen hundred a year, and we used to give +nice little dinner parties in our little red brick house in Kensington. +She was a charming woman; they all said so, the barristers and their wives +who dined with us, and the literary stockbrokers, and the budding +politicians; oh, she was a charming woman. She made me go to church in a +silk hat and a frock coat, she took me to classical concerts, and she was +very fond of lectures on Sunday afternoon; and she sat down to breakfast +every morning at eight-thirty, and if I was late breakfast was cold; and +she read the right books, admired the right pictures, and adored the right +music. My God, how that woman bored me! She is charming still, and she +lives in the little red brick house in Kensington, with Morris papers and +Whistler's etchings on the walls, and gives the same nice little dinner +parties, with veal creams and ices from Gunter's, as she did twenty years +ago." + +Philip did not ask by what means the ill-matched couple had separated, but +Athelny told him. + +"Betty's not my wife, you know; my wife wouldn't divorce me. The children +are bastards, every jack one of them, and are they any the worse for that? +Betty was one of the maids in the little red brick house in Kensington. +Four or five years ago I was on my uppers, and I had seven children, and +I went to my wife and asked her to help me. She said she'd make me an +allowance if I'd give Betty up and go abroad. Can you see me giving Betty +up? We starved for a while instead. My wife said I loved the gutter. I've +degenerated; I've come down in the world; I earn three pounds a week as +press agent to a linendraper, and every day I thank God that I'm not in +the little red brick house in Kensington." + +Sally brought in Cheddar cheese, and Athelny went on with his fluent +conversation. + +"It's the greatest mistake in the world to think that one needs money to +bring up a family. You need money to make them gentlemen and ladies, but +I don't want my children to be ladies and gentlemen. Sally's going to earn +her living in another year. She's to be apprenticed to a dressmaker, +aren't you, Sally? And the boys are going to serve their country. I want +them all to go into the Navy; it's a jolly life and a healthy life, good +food, good pay, and a pension to end their days on." + +Philip lit his pipe. Athelny smoked cigarettes of Havana tobacco, which he +rolled himself. Sally cleared away. Philip was reserved, and it +embarrassed him to be the recipient of so many confidences. Athelny, with +his powerful voice in the diminutive body, with his bombast, with his +foreign look, with his emphasis, was an astonishing creature. He reminded +Philip a good deal of Cronshaw. He appeared to have the same independence +of thought, the same bohemianism, but he had an infinitely more vivacious +temperament; his mind was coarser, and he had not that interest in the +abstract which made Cronshaw's conversation so captivating. Athelny was +very proud of the county family to which he belonged; he showed Philip +photographs of an Elizabethan mansion, and told him: + +"The Athelnys have lived there for seven centuries, my boy. Ah, if you saw +the chimney-pieces and the ceilings!" + +There was a cupboard in the wainscoting and from this he took a family +tree. He showed it to Philip with child-like satisfaction. It was indeed +imposing. + +"You see how the family names recur, Thorpe, Athelstan, Harold, Edward; +I've used the family names for my sons. And the girls, you see, I've given +Spanish names to." + +An uneasy feeling came to Philip that possibly the whole story was an +elaborate imposture, not told with any base motive, but merely from a wish +to impress, startle, and amaze. Athelny had told him that he was at +Winchester; but Philip, sensitive to differences of manner, did not feel +that his host had the characteristics of a man educated at a great public +school. While he pointed out the great alliances which his ancestors had +formed, Philip amused himself by wondering whether Athelny was not the son +of some tradesman in Winchester, auctioneer or coal-merchant, and whether +a similarity of surname was not his only connection with the ancient +family whose tree he was displaying. + + + +LXXXVIII + + +There was a knock at the door and a troop of children came in. They were +clean and tidy, now. Their faces shone with soap, and their hair was +plastered down; they were going to Sunday school under Sally's charge. +Athelny joked with them in his dramatic, exuberant fashion, and you could +see that he was devoted to them all. His pride in their good health and +their good looks was touching. Philip felt that they were a little shy in +his presence, and when their father sent them off they fled from the room +in evident relief. In a few minutes Mrs. Athelny appeared. She had taken +her hair out of the curling pins and now wore an elaborate fringe. She had +on a plain black dress, a hat with cheap flowers, and was forcing her +hands, red and coarse from much work, into black kid gloves. + +"I'm going to church, Athelny," she said. "There's nothing you'll be +wanting, is there?" + +"Only your prayers, my Betty." + +"They won't do you much good, you're too far gone for that," she smiled. +Then, turning to Philip, she drawled: "I can't get him to go to church. +He's no better than an atheist." + +"Doesn't she look like Rubens' second wife?" cried Athelny. "Wouldn't she +look splendid in a seventeenth-century costume? That's the sort of wife to +marry, my boy. Look at her." + +"I believe you'd talk the hind leg off a donkey, Athelny," she answered +calmly. + +She succeeded in buttoning her gloves, but before she went she turned to +Philip with a kindly, slightly embarrassed smile. + +"You'll stay to tea, won't you? Athelny likes someone to talk to, and it's +not often he gets anybody who's clever enough." + +"Of course he'll stay to tea," said Athelny. Then when his wife had gone: +"I make a point of the children going to Sunday school, and I like Betty +to go to church. I think women ought to be religious. I don't believe +myself, but I like women and children to." + +Philip, strait-laced in matters of truth, was a little shocked by this +airy attitude. + +"But how can you look on while your children are being taught things which +you don't think are true?" + +"If they're beautiful I don't much mind if they're not true. It's asking +a great deal that things should appeal to your reason as well as to your +sense of the aesthetic. I wanted Betty to become a Roman Catholic, I +should have liked to see her converted in a crown of paper flowers, but +she's hopelessly Protestant. Besides, religion is a matter of temperament; +you will believe anything if you have the religious turn of mind, and if +you haven't it doesn't matter what beliefs were instilled into you, you +will grow out of them. Perhaps religion is the best school of morality. It +is like one of those drugs you gentlemen use in medicine which carries +another in solution: it is of no efficacy in itself, but enables the other +to be absorbed. You take your morality because it is combined with +religion; you lose the religion and the morality stays behind. A man is +more likely to be a good man if he has learned goodness through the love +of God than through a perusal of Herbert Spencer." + +This was contrary to all Philip's ideas. He still looked upon Christianity +as a degrading bondage that must be cast away at any cost; it was +connected subconsciously in his mind with the dreary services in the +cathedral at Tercanbury, and the long hours of boredom in the cold church +at Blackstable; and the morality of which Athelny spoke was to him no more +than a part of the religion which a halting intelligence preserved, when +it had laid aside the beliefs which alone made it reasonable. But while he +was meditating a reply Athelny, more interested in hearing himself speak +than in discussion, broke into a tirade upon Roman Catholicism. For him it +was an essential part of Spain; and Spain meant much to him, because he +had escaped to it from the conventionality which during his married life +he had found so irksome. With large gestures and in the emphatic tone +which made what he said so striking, Athelny described to Philip the +Spanish cathedrals with their vast dark spaces, the massive gold of the +altar-pieces, and the sumptuous iron-work, gilt and faded, the air laden +with incense, the silence: Philip almost saw the Canons in their short +surplices of lawn, the acolytes in red, passing from the sacristy to the +choir; he almost heard the monotonous chanting of vespers. The names which +Athelny mentioned, Avila, Tarragona, Saragossa, Segovia, Cordova, were +like trumpets in his heart. He seemed to see the great gray piles of +granite set in old Spanish towns amid a landscape tawny, wild, and +windswept. + +"I've always thought I should love to go to Seville," he said casually, +when Athelny, with one hand dramatically uplifted, paused for a moment. + +"Seville!" cried Athelny. "No, no, don't go there. Seville: it brings to +the mind girls dancing with castanets, singing in gardens by the +Guadalquivir, bull-fights, orange-blossom, mantillas, mantones de +Manila. It is the Spain of comic opera and Montmartre. Its facile charm +can offer permanent entertainment only to an intelligence which is +superficial. Theophile Gautier got out of Seville all that it has to +offer. We who come after him can only repeat his sensations. He put large +fat hands on the obvious and there is nothing but the obvious there; and +it is all finger-marked and frayed. Murillo is its painter." + +Athelny got up from his chair, walked over to the Spanish cabinet, let +down the front with its great gilt hinges and gorgeous lock, and displayed +a series of little drawers. He took out a bundle of photographs. + +"Do you know El Greco?" he asked. + +"Oh, I remember one of the men in Paris was awfully impressed by him." + +"El Greco was the painter of Toledo. Betty couldn't find the photograph I +wanted to show you. It's a picture that El Greco painted of the city he +loved, and it's truer than any photograph. Come and sit at the table." + +Philip dragged his chair forward, and Athelny set the photograph before +him. He looked at it curiously, for a long time, in silence. He stretched +out his hand for other photographs, and Athelny passed them to him. He had +never before seen the work of that enigmatic master; and at the first +glance he was bothered by the arbitrary drawing: the figures were +extraordinarily elongated; the heads were very small; the attitudes were +extravagant. This was not realism, and yet, and yet even in the +photographs you had the impression of a troubling reality. Athelny was +describing eagerly, with vivid phrases, but Philip only heard vaguely what +he said. He was puzzled. He was curiously moved. These pictures seemed to +offer some meaning to him, but he did not know what the meaning was. There +were portraits of men with large, melancholy eyes which seemed to say you +knew not what; there were long monks in the Franciscan habit or in the +Dominican, with distraught faces, making gestures whose sense escaped you; +there was an Assumption of the Virgin; there was a Crucifixion in which +the painter by some magic of feeling had been able to suggest that the +flesh of Christ's dead body was not human flesh only but divine; and there +was an Ascension in which the Saviour seemed to surge up towards the +empyrean and yet to stand upon the air as steadily as though it were solid +ground: the uplifted arms of the Apostles, the sweep of their draperies, +their ecstatic gestures, gave an impression of exultation and of holy joy. +The background of nearly all was the sky by night, the dark night of the +soul, with wild clouds swept by strange winds of hell and lit luridly by +an uneasy moon. + +"I've seen that sky in Toledo over and over again," said Athelny. "I have +an idea that when first El Greco came to the city it was by such a night, +and it made so vehement an impression upon him that he could never get +away from it." + +Philip remembered how Clutton had been affected by this strange master, +whose work he now saw for the first time. He thought that Clutton was the +most interesting of all the people he had known in Paris. His sardonic +manner, his hostile aloofness, had made it difficult to know him; but it +seemed to Philip, looking back, that there had been in him a tragic force, +which sought vainly to express itself in painting. He was a man of unusual +character, mystical after the fashion of a time that had no leaning to +mysticism, who was impatient with life because he found himself unable to +say the things which the obscure impulses of his heart suggested. His +intellect was not fashioned to the uses of the spirit. It was not +surprising that he felt a deep sympathy with the Greek who had devised a +new technique to express the yearnings of his soul. Philip looked again at +the series of portraits of Spanish gentlemen, with ruffles and pointed +beards, their faces pale against the sober black of their clothes and the +darkness of the background. El Greco was the painter of the soul; and +these gentlemen, wan and wasted, not by exhaustion but by restraint, with +their tortured minds, seem to walk unaware of the beauty of the world; for +their eyes look only in their hearts, and they are dazzled by the glory of +the unseen. No painter has shown more pitilessly that the world is but a +place of passage. The souls of the men he painted speak their strange +longings through their eyes: their senses are miraculously acute, not for +sounds and odours and colour, but for the very subtle sensations of the +soul. The noble walks with the monkish heart within him, and his eyes see +things which saints in their cells see too, and he is unastounded. His +lips are not lips that smile. + +Philip, silent still, returned to the photograph of Toledo, which seemed +to him the most arresting picture of them all. He could not take his eyes +off it. He felt strangely that he was on the threshold of some new +discovery in life. He was tremulous with a sense of adventure. He thought +for an instant of the love that had consumed him: love seemed very trivial +beside the excitement which now leaped in his heart. The picture he looked +at was a long one, with houses crowded upon a hill; in one corner a boy +was holding a large map of the town; in another was a classical figure +representing the river Tagus; and in the sky was the Virgin surrounded by +angels. It was a landscape alien to all Philip's notion, for he had lived +in circles that worshipped exact realism; and yet here again, strangely to +himself, he felt a reality greater than any achieved by the masters in +whose steps humbly he had sought to walk. He heard Athelny say that the +representation was so precise that when the citizens of Toledo came to +look at the picture they recognised their houses. The painter had painted +exactly what he saw but he had seen with the eyes of the spirit. There was +something unearthly in that city of pale gray. It was a city of the soul +seen by a wan light that was neither that of night nor day. It stood on a +green hill, but of a green not of this world, and it was surrounded by +massive walls and bastions to be stormed by no machines or engines of +man's invention, but by prayer and fasting, by contrite sighs and by +mortifications of the flesh. It was a stronghold of God. Those gray houses +were made of no stone known to masons, there was something terrifying in +their aspect, and you did not know what men might live in them. You might +walk through the streets and be unamazed to find them all deserted, and +yet not empty; for you felt a presence invisible and yet manifest to every +inner sense. It was a mystical city in which the imagination faltered like +one who steps out of the light into darkness; the soul walked naked to and +fro, knowing the unknowable, and conscious strangely of experience, +intimate but inexpressible, of the absolute. And without surprise, in that +blue sky, real with a reality that not the eye but the soul confesses, +with its rack of light clouds driven by strange breezes, like the cries +and the sighs of lost souls, you saw the Blessed Virgin with a gown of red +and a cloak of blue, surrounded by winged angels. Philip felt that the +inhabitants of that city would have seen the apparition without +astonishment, reverent and thankful, and have gone their ways. + +Athelny spoke of the mystical writers of Spain, of Teresa de Avila, San +Juan de la Cruz, Fray Luis de Leon; in all of them was that passion for +the unseen which Philip felt in the pictures of El Greco: they seemed to +have the power to touch the incorporeal and see the invisible. They were +Spaniards of their age, in whom were tremulous all the mighty exploits of +a great nation: their fancies were rich with the glories of America and +the green islands of the Caribbean Sea; in their veins was the power that +had come from age-long battling with the Moor; they were proud, for they +were masters of the world; and they felt in themselves the wide distances, +the tawny wastes, the snow-capped mountains of Castile, the sunshine and +the blue sky, and the flowering plains of Andalusia. Life was passionate +and manifold, and because it offered so much they felt a restless yearning +for something more; because they were human they were unsatisfied; and +they threw this eager vitality of theirs into a vehement striving after +the ineffable. Athelny was not displeased to find someone to whom he could +read the translations with which for some time he had amused his leisure; +and in his fine, vibrating voice he recited the canticle of the Soul and +Christ her lover, the lovely poem which begins with the words en una +noche oscura, and the noche serena of Fray Luis de Leon. He had +translated them quite simply, not without skill, and he had found words +which at all events suggested the rough-hewn grandeur of the original. The +pictures of El Greco explained them, and they explained the pictures. + +Philip had cultivated a certain disdain for idealism. He had always had a +passion for life, and the idealism he had come across seemed to him for +the most part a cowardly shrinking from it. The idealist withdrew himself, +because he could not suffer the jostling of the human crowd; he had not +the strength to fight and so called the battle vulgar; he was vain, and +since his fellows would not take him at his own estimate, consoled himself +with despising his fellows. For Philip his type was Hayward, fair, +languid, too fat now and rather bald, still cherishing the remains of his +good looks and still delicately proposing to do exquisite things in the +uncertain future; and at the back of this were whiskey and vulgar amours +of the street. It was in reaction from what Hayward represented that +Philip clamoured for life as it stood; sordidness, vice, deformity, did +not offend him; he declared that he wanted man in his nakedness; and he +rubbed his hands when an instance came before him of meanness, cruelty, +selfishness, or lust: that was the real thing. In Paris he had learned +that there was neither ugliness nor beauty, but only truth: the search +after beauty was sentimental. Had he not painted an advertisement of +chocolat Menier in a landscape in order to escape from the tyranny of +prettiness? + +But here he seemed to divine something new. He had been coming to it, all +hesitating, for some time, but only now was conscious of the fact; he felt +himself on the brink of a discovery. He felt vaguely that here was +something better than the realism which he had adored; but certainly it +was not the bloodless idealism which stepped aside from life in weakness; +it was too strong; it was virile; it accepted life in all its vivacity, +ugliness and beauty, squalor and heroism; it was realism still; but it was +realism carried to some higher pitch, in which facts were transformed by +the more vivid light in which they were seen. He seemed to see things more +profoundly through the grave eyes of those dead noblemen of Castile; and +the gestures of the saints, which at first had seemed wild and distorted, +appeared to have some mysterious significance. But he could not tell what +that significance was. It was like a message which it was very important +for him to receive, but it was given him in an unknown tongue, and he +could not understand. He was always seeking for a meaning in life, and +here it seemed to him that a meaning was offered; but it was obscure and +vague. He was profoundly troubled. He saw what looked like the truth as by +flashes of lightning on a dark, stormy night you might see a mountain +range. He seemed to see that a man need not leave his life to chance, but +that his will was powerful; he seemed to see that self-control might be as +passionate and as active as the surrender to passion; he seemed to see +that the inward life might be as manifold, as varied, as rich with +experience, as the life of one who conquered realms and explored unknown +lands. + + + +LXXXIX + + +The conversation between Philip and Athelny was broken into by a clatter +up the stairs. Athelny opened the door for the children coming back from +Sunday school, and with laughter and shouting they came in. Gaily he asked +them what they had learned. Sally appeared for a moment, with instructions +from her mother that father was to amuse the children while she got tea +ready; and Athelny began to tell them one of Hans Andersen's stories. They +were not shy children, and they quickly came to the conclusion that Philip +was not formidable. Jane came and stood by him and presently settled +herself on his knees. It was the first time that Philip in his lonely life +had been present in a family circle: his eyes smiled as they rested on the +fair children engrossed in the fairy tale. The life of his new friend, +eccentric as it appeared at first glance, seemed now to have the beauty of +perfect naturalness. Sally came in once more. + +"Now then, children, tea's ready," she said. + +Jane slipped off Philip's knees, and they all went back to the kitchen. +Sally began to lay the cloth on the long Spanish table. + +"Mother says, shall she come and have tea with you?" she asked. "I can +give the children their tea." + +"Tell your mother that we shall be proud and honoured if she will favour +us with her company," said Athelny. + +It seemed to Philip that he could never say anything without an oratorical +flourish. + +"Then I'll lay for her," said Sally. + +She came back again in a moment with a tray on which were a cottage loaf, +a slab of butter, and a jar of strawberry jam. While she placed the things +on the table her father chaffed her. He said it was quite time she was +walking out; he told Philip that she was very proud, and would have +nothing to do with aspirants to that honour who lined up at the door, two +by two, outside the Sunday school and craved the honour of escorting her +home. + +"You do talk, father," said Sally, with her slow, good-natured smile. + +"You wouldn't think to look at her that a tailor's assistant has enlisted +in the army because she would not say how d'you do to him and an +electrical engineer, an electrical engineer, mind you, has taken to drink +because she refused to share her hymn-book with him in church. I shudder +to think what will happen when she puts her hair up." + +"Mother'll bring the tea along herself," said Sally. + +"Sally never pays any attention to me," laughed Athelny, looking at her +with fond, proud eyes. "She goes about her business indifferent to wars, +revolutions, and cataclysms. What a wife she'll make to an honest man!" + +Mrs. Athelny brought in the tea. She sat down and proceeded to cut bread +and butter. It amused Philip to see that she treated her husband as though +he were a child. She spread jam for him and cut up the bread and butter +into convenient slices for him to eat. She had taken off her hat; and in +her Sunday dress, which seemed a little tight for her, she looked like one +of the farmers' wives whom Philip used to call on sometimes with his uncle +when he was a small boy. Then he knew why the sound of her voice was +familiar to him. She spoke just like the people round Blackstable. + +"What part of the country d'you come from?" he asked her. + +"I'm a Kentish woman. I come from Ferne." + +"I thought as much. My uncle's Vicar of Blackstable." + +"That's a funny thing now," she said. "I was wondering in Church just now +whether you was any connection of Mr. Carey. Many's the time I've seen +'im. A cousin of mine married Mr. Barker of Roxley Farm, over by +Blackstable Church, and I used to go and stay there often when I was a +girl. Isn't that a funny thing now?" + +She looked at him with a new interest, and a brightness came into her +faded eyes. She asked him whether he knew Ferne. It was a pretty village +about ten miles across country from Blackstable, and the Vicar had come +over sometimes to Blackstable for the harvest thanksgiving. She mentioned +names of various farmers in the neighbourhood. She was delighted to talk +again of the country in which her youth was spent, and it was a pleasure +to her to recall scenes and people that had remained in her memory with +the tenacity peculiar to her class. It gave Philip a queer sensation too. +A breath of the country-side seemed to be wafted into that panelled room +in the middle of London. He seemed to see the fat Kentish fields with +their stately elms; and his nostrils dilated with the scent of the air; it +is laden with the salt of the North Sea, and that makes it keen and sharp. + +Philip did not leave the Athelnys' till ten o'clock. The children came in +to say good-night at eight and quite naturally put up their faces for +Philip to kiss. His heart went out to them. Sally only held out her hand. + +"Sally never kisses gentlemen till she's seen them twice," said her +father. + +"You must ask me again then," said Philip. + +"You mustn't take any notice of what father says," remarked Sally, with a +smile. + +"She's a most self-possessed young woman," added her parent. + +They had supper of bread and cheese and beer, while Mrs. Athelny was +putting the children to bed; and when Philip went into the kitchen to bid +her good-night (she had been sitting there, resting herself and reading +The Weekly Despatch) she invited him cordially to come again. + +"There's always a good dinner on Sundays so long as Athelny's in work," +she said, "and it's a charity to come and talk to him." + +On the following Saturday Philip received a postcard from Athelny saying +that they were expecting him to dinner next day; but fearing their means +were not such that Mr. Athelny would desire him to accept, Philip wrote +back that he would only come to tea. He bought a large plum cake so that +his entertainment should cost nothing. He found the whole family glad to +see him, and the cake completed his conquest of the children. He insisted +that they should all have tea together in the kitchen, and the meal was +noisy and hilarious. + +Soon Philip got into the habit of going to Athelny's every Sunday. He +became a great favourite with the children, because he was simple and +unaffected and because it was so plain that he was fond of them. As soon +as they heard his ring at the door one of them popped a head out of window +to make sure it was he, and then they all rushed downstairs tumultuously +to let him in. They flung themselves into his arms. At tea they fought for +the privilege of sitting next to him. Soon they began to call him Uncle +Philip. + +Athelny was very communicative, and little by little Philip learned the +various stages of his life. He had followed many occupations, and it +occurred to Philip that he managed to make a mess of everything he +attempted. He had been on a tea plantation in Ceylon and a traveller in +America for Italian wines; his secretaryship of the water company in +Toledo had lasted longer than any of his employments; he had been a +journalist and for some time had worked as police-court reporter for an +evening paper; he had been sub-editor of a paper in the Midlands and +editor of another on the Riviera. From all his occupations he had gathered +amusing anecdotes, which he told with a keen pleasure in his own powers of +entertainment. He had read a great deal, chiefly delighting in books which +were unusual; and he poured forth his stores of abstruse knowledge with +child-like enjoyment of the amazement of his hearers. Three or four years +before abject poverty had driven him to take the job of +press-representative to a large firm of drapers; and though he felt the +work unworthy his abilities, which he rated highly, the firmness of his +wife and the needs of his family had made him stick to it. + + + +XC + + +When he left the Athelnys' Philip walked down Chancery Lane and along the +Strand to get a 'bus at the top of Parliament Street. One Sunday, when he +had known them about six weeks, he did this as usual, but he found the +Kennington 'bus full. It was June, but it had rained during the day and +the night was raw and cold. He walked up to Piccadilly Circus in order to +get a seat; the 'bus waited at the fountain, and when it arrived there +seldom had more than two or three people in it. This service ran every +quarter of an hour, and he had some time to wait. He looked idly at the +crowd. The public-houses were closing, and there were many people about. +His mind was busy with the ideas Athelny had the charming gift of +suggesting. + +Suddenly his heart stood still. He saw Mildred. He had not thought of her +for weeks. She was crossing over from the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and +stopped at the shelter till a string of cabs passed by. She was watching +her opportunity and had no eyes for anything else. She wore a large black +straw hat with a mass of feathers on it and a black silk dress; at that +time it was fashionable for women to wear trains; the road was clear, and +Mildred crossed, her skirt trailing on the ground, and walked down +Piccadilly. Philip, his heart beating excitedly, followed her. He did not +wish to speak to her, but he wondered where she was going at that hour; he +wanted to get a look at her face. She walked slowly along and turned down +Air Street and so got through into Regent Street. She walked up again +towards the Circus. Philip was puzzled. He could not make out what she was +doing. Perhaps she was waiting for somebody, and he felt a great curiosity +to know who it was. She overtook a short man in a bowler hat, who was +strolling very slowly in the same direction as herself; she gave him a +sidelong glance as she passed. She walked a few steps more till she came +to Swan and Edgar's, then stopped and waited, facing the road. When the +man came up she smiled. The man stared at her for a moment, turned away +his head, and sauntered on. Then Philip understood. + +He was overwhelmed with horror. For a moment he felt such a weakness in +his legs that he could hardly stand; then he walked after her quickly; he +touched her on the arm. + +"Mildred." + +She turned round with a violent start. He thought that she reddened, but +in the obscurity he could not see very well. For a while they stood and +looked at one another without speaking. At last she said: + +"Fancy seeing you!" + +He did not know what to answer; he was horribly shaken; and the phrases +that chased one another through his brain seemed incredibly melodramatic. + +"It's awful," he gasped, almost to himself. + +She did not say anything more, she turned away from him, and looked down +at the pavement. He felt that his face was distorted with misery. + +"Isn't there anywhere we can go and talk?" + +"I don't want to talk," she said sullenly. "Leave me alone, can't you?" + +The thought struck him that perhaps she was in urgent need of money and +could not afford to go away at that hour. + +"I've got a couple of sovereigns on me if you're hard up," he blurted out. + +"I don't know what you mean. I was just walking along here on my way back +to my lodgings. I expected to meet one of the girls from where I work." + +"For God's sake don't lie now," he said. + +Then he saw that she was crying, and he repeated his question. + +"Can't we go and talk somewhere? Can't I come back to your rooms?" + +"No, you can't do that," she sobbed. "I'm not allowed to take gentlemen in +there. If you like I'll met you tomorrow." + +He felt certain that she would not keep an appointment. He was not going +to let her go. + +"No. You must take me somewhere now." + +"Well, there is a room I know, but they'll charge six shillings for it." + +"I don't mind that. Where is it?" + +She gave him the address, and he called a cab. They drove to a shabby +street beyond the British Museum in the neighbourhood of the Gray's Inn +Road, and she stopped the cab at the corner. + +"They don't like you to drive up to the door," she said. + +They were the first words either of them had spoken since getting into the +cab. They walked a few yards and Mildred knocked three times, sharply, at +a door. Philip noticed in the fanlight a cardboard on which was an +announcement that apartments were to let. The door was opened quietly, and +an elderly, tall woman let them in. She gave Philip a stare and then spoke +to Mildred in an undertone. Mildred led Philip along a passage to a room +at the back. It was quite dark; she asked him for a match, and lit the +gas; there was no globe, and the gas flared shrilly. Philip saw that he +was in a dingy little bed-room with a suite of furniture, painted to look +like pine much too large for it; the lace curtains were very dirty; the +grate was hidden by a large paper fan. Mildred sank on the chair which +stood by the side of the chimney-piece. Philip sat on the edge of the bed. +He felt ashamed. He saw now that Mildred's cheeks were thick with rouge, +her eyebrows were blackened; but she looked thin and ill, and the red on +her cheeks exaggerated the greenish pallor of her skin. She stared at the +paper fan in a listless fashion. Philip could not think what to say, and +he had a choking in his throat as if he were going to cry. He covered his +eyes with his hands. + +"My God, it is awful," he groaned. + +"I don't know what you've got to fuss about. I should have thought you'd +have been rather pleased." + +Philip did not answer, and in a moment she broke into a sob. + +"You don't think I do it because I like it, do you?" + +"Oh, my dear," he cried. "I'm so sorry, I'm so awfully sorry." + +"That'll do me a fat lot of good." + +Again Philip found nothing to say. He was desperately afraid of saying +anything which she might take for a reproach or a sneer. + +"Where's the baby?" he asked at last. + +"I've got her with me in London. I hadn't got the money to keep her on at +Brighton, so I had to take her. I've got a room up Highbury way. I told +them I was on the stage. It's a long way to have to come down to the West +End every day, but it's a rare job to find anyone who'll let to ladies at +all." + +"Wouldn't they take you back at the shop?" + +"I couldn't get any work to do anywhere. I walked my legs off looking for +work. I did get a job once, but I was off for a week because I was queer, +and when I went back they said they didn't want me any more. You can't +blame them either, can you? Them places, they can't afford to have girls +that aren't strong." + +"You don't look very well now," said Philip. + +"I wasn't fit to come out tonight, but I couldn't help myself, I wanted +the money. I wrote to Emil and told him I was broke, but he never even +answered the letter." + +"You might have written to me." + +"I didn't like to, not after what happened, and I didn't want you to know +I was in difficulties. I shouldn't have been surprised if you'd just told +me I'd only got what I deserved." + +"You don't know me very well, do you, even now?" + +For a moment he remembered all the anguish he had suffered on her account, +and he was sick with the recollection of his pain. But it was no more than +recollection. When he looked at her he knew that he no longer loved her. +He was very sorry for her, but he was glad to be free. Watching her +gravely, he asked himself why he had been so besotted with passion for +her. + +"You're a gentleman in every sense of the word," she said. "You're the +only one I've ever met." She paused for a minute and then flushed. "I hate +asking you, Philip, but can you spare me anything?" + +"It's lucky I've got some money on me. I'm afraid I've only got two +pounds." + +He gave her the sovereigns. + +"I'll pay you back, Philip." + +"Oh, that's all right," he smiled. "You needn't worry." + +He had said nothing that he wanted to say. They had talked as if the whole +thing were natural; and it looked as though she would go now, back to the +horror of her life, and he would be able to do nothing to prevent it. She +had got up to take the money, and they were both standing. + +"Am I keeping you?" she asked. "I suppose you want to be getting home." + +"No, I'm in no hurry," he answered. + +"I'm glad to have a chance of sitting down." + +Those words, with all they implied, tore his heart, and it was dreadfully +painful to see the weary way in which she sank back into the chair. The +silence lasted so long that Philip in his embarrassment lit a cigarette. + +"It's very good of you not to have said anything disagreeable to me, +Philip. I thought you might say I didn't know what all." + +He saw that she was crying again. He remembered how she had come to him +when Emil Miller had deserted her and how she had wept. The recollection +of her suffering and of his own humiliation seemed to render more +overwhelming the compassion he felt now. + +"If I could only get out of it!" she moaned. "I hate it so. I'm unfit for +the life, I'm not the sort of girl for that. I'd do anything to get away +from it, I'd be a servant if I could. Oh, I wish I was dead." + +And in pity for herself she broke down now completely. She sobbed +hysterically, and her thin body was shaken. + +"Oh, you don't know what it is. Nobody knows till they've done it." + +Philip could not bear to see her cry. He was tortured by the horror of her +position. + +"Poor child," he whispered. "Poor child." + +He was deeply moved. Suddenly he had an inspiration. It filled him with a +perfect ecstasy of happiness. + +"Look here, if you want to get away from it, I've got an idea. I'm +frightfully hard up just now, I've got to be as economical as I can; but +I've got a sort of little flat now in Kennington and I've got a spare +room. If you like you and the baby can come and live there. I pay a woman +three and sixpence a week to keep the place clean and to do a little +cooking for me. You could do that and your food wouldn't come to much more +than the money I should save on her. It doesn't cost any more to feed two +than one, and I don't suppose the baby eats much." + +She stopped crying and looked at him. + +"D'you mean to say that you could take me back after all that's happened?" + +Philip flushed a little in embarrassment at what he had to say. + +"I don't want you to mistake me. I'm just giving you a room which doesn't +cost me anything and your food. I don't expect anything more from you than +that you should do exactly the same as the woman I have in does. Except +for that I don't want anything from you at all. I daresay you can cook +well enough for that." + +She sprang to her feet and was about to come towards him. + +"You are good to me, Philip." + +"No, please stop where you are," he said hurriedly, putting out his hand +as though to push her away. + +He did not know why it was, but he could not bear the thought that she +should touch him. + +"I don't want to be anything more than a friend to you." + +"You are good to me," she repeated. "You are good to me." + +"Does that mean you'll come?" + +"Oh, yes, I'd do anything to get away from this. You'll never regret what +you've done, Philip, never. When can I come, Philip?" + +"You'd better come tomorrow." + +Suddenly she burst into tears again. + +"What on earth are you crying for now?" he smiled. + +"I'm so grateful to you. I don't know how I can ever make it up to you?" + +"Oh, that's all right. You'd better go home now." + +He wrote out the address and told her that if she came at half past five +he would be ready for her. It was so late that he had to walk home, but it +did not seem a long way, for he was intoxicated with delight; he seemed to +walk on air. + + + +XCI + + +Next day he got up early to make the room ready for Mildred. He told the +woman who had looked after him that he would not want her any more. +Mildred came about six, and Philip, who was watching from the window, went +down to let her in and help her to bring up the luggage: it consisted now +of no more than three large parcels wrapped in brown paper, for she had +been obliged to sell everything that was not absolutely needful. She wore +the same black silk dress she had worn the night before, and, though she +had now no rouge on her cheeks, there was still about her eyes the black +which remained after a perfunctory wash in the morning: it made her look +very ill. She was a pathetic figure as she stepped out of the cab with the +baby in her arms. She seemed a little shy, and they found nothing but +commonplace things to say to one another. + +"So you've got here all right." + +"I've never lived in this part of London before." + +Philip showed her the room. It was that in which Cronshaw had died. +Philip, though he thought it absurd, had never liked the idea of going +back to it; and since Cronshaw's death he had remained in the little room, +sleeping on a fold-up bed, into which he had first moved in order to make +his friend comfortable. The baby was sleeping placidly. + +"You don't recognise her, I expect," said Mildred. + +"I've not seen her since we took her down to Brighton." + +"Where shall I put her? She's so heavy I can't carry her very long." + +"I'm afraid I haven't got a cradle," said Philip, with a nervous laugh. + +"Oh, she'll sleep with me. She always does." + +Mildred put the baby in an arm-chair and looked round the room. She +recognised most of the things which she had known in his old diggings. +Only one thing was new, a head and shoulders of Philip which Lawson had +painted at the end of the preceding summer; it hung over the +chimney-piece; Mildred looked at it critically. + +"In some ways I like it and in some ways I don't. I think you're better +looking than that." + +"Things are looking up," laughed Philip. "You've never told me I was +good-looking before." + +"I'm not one to worry myself about a man's looks. I don't like +good-looking men. They're too conceited for me." + +Her eyes travelled round the room in an instinctive search for a +looking-glass, but there was none; she put up her hand and patted her +large fringe. + +"What'll the other people in the house say to my being here?" she asked +suddenly. + +"Oh, there's only a man and his wife living here. He's out all day, and I +never see her except on Saturday to pay my rent. They keep entirely to +themselves. I've not spoken two words to either of them since I came." + +Mildred went into the bedroom to undo her things and put them away. Philip +tried to read, but his spirits were too high: he leaned back in his chair, +smoking a cigarette, and with smiling eyes looked at the sleeping child. +He felt very happy. He was quite sure that he was not at all in love with +Mildred. He was surprised that the old feeling had left him so completely; +he discerned in himself a faint physical repulsion from her; and he +thought that if he touched her it would give him goose-flesh. He could not +understand himself. Presently, knocking at the door, she came in again. + +"I say, you needn't knock," he said. "Have you made the tour of the +mansion?" + +"It's the smallest kitchen I've ever seen." + +"You'll find it large enough to cook our sumptuous repasts," he retorted +lightly. + +"I see there's nothing in. I'd better go out and get something." + +"Yes, but I venture to remind you that we must be devilish economical." + +"What shall I get for supper?" + +"You'd better get what you think you can cook," laughed Philip. + +He gave her some money and she went out. She came in half an hour later +and put her purchases on the table. She was out of breath from climbing +the stairs. + +"I say, you are anaemic," said Philip. "I'll have to dose you with Blaud's +Pills." + +"It took me some time to find the shops. I bought some liver. That's +tasty, isn't it? And you can't eat much of it, so it's more economical +than butcher's meat." + +There was a gas stove in the kitchen, and when she had put the liver on, +Mildred came into the sitting-room to lay the cloth. + +"Why are you only laying one place?" asked Philip. "Aren't you going to +eat anything?" + +Mildred flushed. + +"I thought you mightn't like me to have my meals with you." + +"Why on earth not?" + +"Well, I'm only a servant, aren't I?" + +"Don't be an ass. How can you be so silly?" + +He smiled, but her humility gave him a curious twist in his heart. Poor +thing! He remembered what she had been when first he knew her. He +hesitated for an instant. + +"Don't think I'm conferring any benefit on you," he said. "It's simply a +business arrangement, I'm giving you board and lodging in return for your +work. You don't owe me anything. And there's nothing humiliating to you in +it." + +She did not answer, but tears rolled heavily down her cheeks. Philip knew +from his experience at the hospital that women of her class looked upon +service as degrading: he could not help feeling a little impatient with +her; but he blamed himself, for it was clear that she was tired and ill. +He got up and helped her to lay another place at the table. The baby was +awake now, and Mildred had prepared some Mellin's Food for it. The liver +and bacon were ready and they sat down. For economy's sake Philip had +given up drinking anything but water, but he had in the house a half a +bottle of whiskey, and he thought a little would do Mildred good. He did +his best to make the supper pass cheerfully, but Mildred was subdued and +exhausted. When they had finished she got up to put the baby to bed. + +"I think you'll do well to turn in early yourself," said Philip. "You look +absolute done up." + +"I think I will after I've washed up." + +Philip lit his pipe and began to read. It was pleasant to hear somebody +moving about in the next room. Sometimes his loneliness had oppressed him. +Mildred came in to clear the table, and he heard the clatter of plates as +she washed up. Philip smiled as he thought how characteristic it was of +her that she should do all that in a black silk dress. But he had work to +do, and he brought his book up to the table. He was reading Osler's +Medicine, which had recently taken the place in the students' favour of +Taylor's work, for many years the text-book most in use. Presently Mildred +came in, rolling down her sleeves. Philip gave her a casual glance, but +did not move; the occasion was curious, and he felt a little nervous. He +feared that Mildred might imagine he was going to make a nuisance of +himself, and he did not quite know how without brutality to reassure her. + +"By the way, I've got a lecture at nine, so I should want breakfast at a +quarter past eight. Can you manage that?" + +"Oh, yes. Why, when I was in Parliament Street I used to catch the +eight-twelve from Herne Hill every morning." + +"I hope you'll find your room comfortable. You'll be a different woman +tomorrow after a long night in bed." + +"I suppose you work till late?" + +"I generally work till about eleven or half-past." + +"I'll say good-night then." + +"Good-night." + +The table was between them. He did not offer to shake hands with her. She +shut the door quietly. He heard her moving about in the bed-room, and in +a little while he heard the creaking of the bed as she got in. + + + +XCII + + +The following day was Tuesday. Philip as usual hurried through his +breakfast and dashed off to get to his lecture at nine. He had only time +to exchange a few words with Mildred. When he came back in the evening he +found her seated at the window, darning his socks. + +"I say, you are industrious," he smiled. "What have you been doing with +yourself all day?" + +"Oh, I gave the place a good cleaning and then I took baby out for a +little." + +She was wearing an old black dress, the same as she had worn as uniform +when she served in the tea-shop; it was shabby, but she looked better in +it than in the silk of the day before. The baby was sitting on the floor. +She looked up at Philip with large, mysterious eyes and broke into a laugh +when he sat down beside her and began playing with her bare toes. The +afternoon sun came into the room and shed a mellow light. + +"It's rather jolly to come back and find someone about the place. A woman +and a baby make very good decoration in a room." + +He had gone to the hospital dispensary and got a bottle of Blaud's Pills, +He gave them to Mildred and told her she must take them after each meal. +It was a remedy she was used to, for she had taken it off and on ever +since she was sixteen. + +"I'm sure Lawson would love that green skin of yours," said Philip. "He'd +say it was so paintable, but I'm terribly matter of fact nowadays, and I +shan't be happy till you're as pink and white as a milkmaid." + +"I feel better already." + +After a frugal supper Philip filled his pouch with tobacco and put on his +hat. It was on Tuesdays that he generally went to the tavern in Beak +Street, and he was glad that this day came so soon after Mildred's +arrival, for he wanted to make his relations with her perfectly clear. + +"Are you going out?" she said. + +"Yes, on Tuesdays I give myself a night off. I shall see you tomorrow. +Good-night." + +Philip always went to the tavern with a sense of pleasure. Macalister, the +philosophic stockbroker, was generally there and glad to argue upon any +subject under the sun; Hayward came regularly when he was in London; and +though he and Macalister disliked one another they continued out of habit +to meet on that one evening in the week. Macalister thought Hayward a poor +creature, and sneered at his delicacies of sentiment: he asked satirically +about Hayward's literary work and received with scornful smiles his vague +suggestions of future masterpieces; their arguments were often heated; but +the punch was good, and they were both fond of it; towards the end of the +evening they generally composed their differences and thought each other +capital fellows. This evening Philip found them both there, and Lawson +also; Lawson came more seldom now that he was beginning to know people in +London and went out to dinner a good deal. They were all on excellent +terms with themselves, for Macalister had given them a good thing on the +Stock Exchange, and Hayward and Lawson had made fifty pounds apiece. It +was a great thing for Lawson, who was extravagant and earned little money: +he had arrived at that stage of the portrait-painter's career when he was +noticed a good deal by the critics and found a number of aristocratic +ladies who were willing to allow him to paint them for nothing (it +advertised them both, and gave the great ladies quite an air of +patronesses of the arts); but he very seldom got hold of the solid +philistine who was ready to pay good money for a portrait of his wife. +Lawson was brimming over with satisfaction. + +"It's the most ripping way of making money that I've ever struck," he +cried. "I didn't have to put my hand in my pocket for sixpence." + +"You lost something by not being here last Tuesday, young man," said +Macalister to Philip. + +"My God, why didn't you write to me?" said Philip. "If you only knew how +useful a hundred pounds would be to me." + +"Oh, there wasn't time for that. One has to be on the spot. I heard of a +good thing last Tuesday, and I asked these fellows if they'd like to have +a flutter, I bought them a thousand shares on Wednesday morning, and there +was a rise in the afternoon so I sold them at once. I made fifty pounds +for each of them and a couple of hundred for myself." + +Philip was sick with envy. He had recently sold the last mortgage in which +his small fortune had been invested and now had only six hundred pounds +left. He was panic-stricken sometimes when he thought of the future. He +had still to keep himself for two years before he could be qualified, and +then he meant to try for hospital appointments, so that he could not +expect to earn anything for three years at least. With the most rigid +economy he would not have more than a hundred pounds left then. It was +very little to have as a stand-by in case he was ill and could not earn +money or found himself at any time without work. A lucky gamble would make +all the difference to him. + +"Oh, well, it doesn't matter," said Macalister. "Something is sure to turn +up soon. There'll be a boom in South Africans again one of these days, and +then I'll see what I can do for you." + +Macalister was in the Kaffir market and often told them stories of the +sudden fortunes that had been made in the great boom of a year or two +back. + +"Well, don't forget next time." + +They sat on talking till nearly midnight, and Philip, who lived furthest +off, was the first to go. If he did not catch the last tram he had to +walk, and that made him very late. As it was he did not reach home till +nearly half past twelve. When he got upstairs he was surprised to find +Mildred still sitting in his arm-chair. + +"Why on earth aren't you in bed?" he cried. + +"I wasn't sleepy." + +"You ought to go to bed all the same. It would rest you." + +She did not move. He noticed that since supper she had changed into her +black silk dress. + +"I thought I'd rather wait up for you in case you wanted anything." + + She looked at him, and the shadow of a smile played upon her thin pale +lips. Philip was not sure whether he understood or not. He was slightly +embarrassed, but assumed a cheerful, matter-of-fact air. + +"It's very nice of you, but it's very naughty also. Run off to bed as fast +as you can, or you won't be able to get up tomorrow morning." + +"I don't feel like going to bed." + +"Nonsense," he said coldly. + +She got up, a little sulkily, and went into her room. He smiled when he +heard her lock the door loudly. + +The next few days passed without incident. Mildred settled down in her new +surroundings. When Philip hurried off after breakfast she had the whole +morning to do the housework. They ate very simply, but she liked to take +a long time to buy the few things they needed; she could not be bothered +to cook anything for her dinner, but made herself some cocoa and ate bread +and butter; then she took the baby out in the gocart, and when she came in +spent the rest of the afternoon in idleness. She was tired out, and it +suited her to do so little. She made friends with Philip's forbidding +landlady over the rent, which he left with Mildred to pay, and within a +week was able to tell him more about his neighbours than he had learned in +a year. + +"She's a very nice woman," said Mildred. "Quite the lady. I told her we +was married." + +"D'you think that was necessary?" + +"Well, I had to tell her something. It looks so funny me being here and +not married to you. I didn't know what she'd think of me." + +"I don't suppose she believed you for a moment." + +"That she did, I lay. I told her we'd been married two years--I had to say +that, you know, because of baby--only your people wouldn't hear of it, +because you was only a student"--she pronounced it stoodent--"and so we +had to keep it a secret, but they'd given way now and we were all going +down to stay with them in the summer." + +"You're a past mistress of the cock-and-bull story," said Philip. + +He was vaguely irritated that Mildred still had this passion for telling +fibs. In the last two years she had learnt nothing. But he shrugged his +shoulders. + +"When all's said and done," he reflected, "she hasn't had much chance." + +It was a beautiful evening, warm and cloudless, and the people of South +London seemed to have poured out into the streets. There was that +restlessness in the air which seizes the cockney sometimes when a turn in +the weather calls him into the open. After Mildred had cleared away the +supper she went and stood at the window. The street noises came up to +them, noises of people calling to one another, of the passing traffic, of +a barrel-organ in the distance. + +"I suppose you must work tonight, Philip?" she asked him, with a wistful +expression. + +"I ought, but I don't know that I must. Why, d'you want me to do anything +else?" + +"I'd like to go out for a bit. Couldn't we take a ride on the top of a +tram?" + +"If you like." + +"I'll just go and put on my hat," she said joyfully. + +The night made it almost impossible to stay indoors. The baby was asleep +and could be safely left; Mildred said she had always left it alone at +night when she went out; it never woke. She was in high spirits when she +came back with her hat on. She had taken the opportunity to put on a +little rouge. Philip thought it was excitement which had brought a faint +colour to her pale cheeks; he was touched by her child-like delight, and +reproached himself for the austerity with which he had treated her. She +laughed when she got out into the air. The first tram they saw was going +towards Westminster Bridge and they got on it. Philip smoked his pipe, and +they looked at the crowded street. The shops were open, gaily lit, and +people were doing their shopping for the next day. They passed a +music-hall called the Canterbury and Mildred cried out: + +"Oh, Philip, do let's go there. I haven't been to a music-hall for +months." + +"We can't afford stalls, you know." + +"Oh, I don't mind, I shall be quite happy in the gallery." + +They got down and walked back a hundred yards till they came to the doors. +They got capital seats for sixpence each, high up but not in the gallery, +and the night was so fine that there was plenty of room. Mildred's eyes +glistened. She enjoyed herself thoroughly. There was a simple-mindedness +in her which touched Philip. She was a puzzle to him. Certain things in +her still pleased him, and he thought that there was a lot in her which +was very good: she had been badly brought up, and her life was hard; he +had blamed her for much that she could not help; and it was his own fault +if he had asked virtues from her which it was not in her power to give. +Under different circumstances she might have been a charming girl. She was +extraordinarily unfit for the battle of life. As he watched her now in +profile, her mouth slightly open and that delicate flush on her cheeks, he +thought she looked strangely virginal. He felt an overwhelming compassion +for her, and with all his heart he forgave her for the misery she had +caused him. The smoky atmosphere made Philip's eyes ache, but when he +suggested going she turned to him with beseeching face and asked him to +stay till the end. He smiled and consented. She took his hand and held it +for the rest of the performance. When they streamed out with the audience +into the crowded street she did not want to go home; they wandered up the +Westminster Bridge Road, looking at the people. + +"I've not had such a good time as this for months," she said. + +Philip's heart was full, and he was thankful to the fates because he had +carried out his sudden impulse to take Mildred and her baby into his flat. +It was very pleasant to see her happy gratitude. At last she grew tired +and they jumped on a tram to go home; it was late now, and when they got +down and turned into their own street there was no one about. Mildred +slipped her arm through his. + +"It's just like old times, Phil," she said. + +She had never called him Phil before, that was what Griffiths called him; +and even now it gave him a curious pang. He remembered how much he had +wanted to die then; his pain had been so great that he had thought quite +seriously of committing suicide. It all seemed very long ago. He smiled at +his past self. Now he felt nothing for Mildred but infinite pity. They +reached the house, and when they got into the sitting-room Philip lit the +gas. + +"Is the baby all right?" he asked. + +"I'll just go in and see." + +When she came back it was to say that it had not stirred since she left +it. It was a wonderful child. Philip held out his hand. + +"Well, good-night." + +"D'you want to go to bed already?" + +"It's nearly one. I'm not used to late hours these days," said Philip. + +She took his hand and holding it looked into his eyes with a little smile. + +"Phil, the other night in that room, when you asked me to come and stay +here, I didn't mean what you thought I meant, when you said you didn't +want me to be anything to you except just to cook and that sort of thing." + +"Didn't you?" answered Philip, withdrawing his hand. "I did." + +"Don't be such an old silly," she laughed. + +He shook his head. + +"I meant it quite seriously. I shouldn't have asked you to stay here on +any other condition." + +"Why not?" + +"I feel I couldn't. I can't explain it, but it would spoil it all." + +She shrugged her shoulders. + +"Oh, very well, it's just as you choose. I'm not one to go down on my +hands and knees for that, and chance it." + +She went out, slamming the door behind her. + + + +XCIII + + +Next morning Mildred was sulky and taciturn. She remained in her room till +it was time to get the dinner ready. She was a bad cook and could do +little more than chops and steaks; and she did not know how to use up odds +and ends, so that Philip was obliged to spend more money than he had +expected. When she served up she sat down opposite Philip, but would eat +nothing; he remarked on it; she said she had a bad headache and was not +hungry. He was glad that he had somewhere to spend the rest of the day; +the Athelnys were cheerful and friendly. It was a delightful and an +unexpected thing to realise that everyone in that household looked forward +with pleasure to his visit. Mildred had gone to bed when he came back, but +next day she was still silent. At supper she sat with a haughty expression +on her face and a little frown between her eyes. It made Philip impatient, +but he told himself that he must be considerate to her; he was bound to +make allowance. + +"You're very silent," he said, with a pleasant smile. + +"I'm paid to cook and clean, I didn't know I was expected to talk as +well." + +He thought it an ungracious answer, but if they were going to live +together he must do all he could to make things go easily. + +"I'm afraid you're cross with me about the other night," he said. + +It was an awkward thing to speak about, but apparently it was necessary to +discuss it. + +"I don't know what you mean," she answered. + +"Please don't be angry with me. I should never have asked you to come and +live here if I'd not meant our relations to be merely friendly. I +suggested it because I thought you wanted a home and you would have a +chance of looking about for something to do." + +"Oh, don't think I care." + +"I don't for a moment," he hastened to say. "You mustn't think I'm +ungrateful. I realise that you only proposed it for my sake. It's just a +feeling I have, and I can't help it, it would make the whole thing ugly +and horrid." + +"You are funny" she said, looking at him curiously. "I can't make you +out." + +She was not angry with him now, but puzzled; she had no idea what he +meant: she accepted the situation, she had indeed a vague feeling that he +was behaving in a very noble fashion and that she ought to admire it; but +also she felt inclined to laugh at him and perhaps even to despise him a +little. + +"He's a rum customer," she thought. + +Life went smoothly enough with them. Philip spent all day at the hospital +and worked at home in the evening except when he went to the Athelnys' or +to the tavern in Beak Street. Once the physician for whom he clerked asked +him to a solemn dinner, and two or three times he went to parties given by +fellow-students. Mildred accepted the monotony of her life. If she minded +that Philip left her sometimes by herself in the evening she never +mentioned it. Occasionally he took her to a music hall. He carried out his +intention that the only tie between them should be the domestic service +she did in return for board and lodging. She had made up her mind that it +was no use trying to get work that summer, and with Philip's approval +determined to stay where she was till the autumn. She thought it would be +easy to get something to do then. + +"As far as I'm concerned you can stay on here when you've got a job if +it's convenient. The room's there, and the woman who did for me before can +come in to look after the baby." + +He grew very much attached to Mildred's child. He had a naturally +affectionate disposition, which had had little opportunity to display +itself. Mildred was not unkind to the little girl. She looked after her +very well and once when she had a bad cold proved herself a devoted nurse; +but the child bored her, and she spoke to her sharply when she bothered; +she was fond of her, but had not the maternal passion which might have +induced her to forget herself. Mildred had no demonstrativeness, and she +found the manifestations of affection ridiculous. When Philip sat with the +baby on his knees, playing with it and kissing it, she laughed at him. + +"You couldn't make more fuss of her if you was her father," she said. +"You're perfectly silly with the child." + +Philip flushed, for he hated to be laughed at. It was absurd to be so +devoted to another man's baby, and he was a little ashamed of the +overflowing of his heart. But the child, feeling Philip's attachment, +would put her face against his or nestle in his arms. + +"It's all very fine for you," said Mildred. "You don't have any of the +disagreeable part of it. How would you like being kept awake for an hour +in the middle of the night because her ladyship wouldn't go to sleep?" + +Philip remembered all sorts of things of his childhood which he thought he +had long forgotten. He took hold of the baby's toes. + +"This little pig went to market, this little pig stayed at home." + +When he came home in the evening and entered the sitting-room his first +glance was for the baby sprawling on the floor, and it gave him a little +thrill of delight to hear the child's crow of pleasure at seeing him. +Mildred taught her to call him daddy, and when the child did this for the +first time of her own accord, laughed immoderately. + +"I wonder if you're that stuck on baby because she's mine," asked Mildred, +"or if you'd be the same with anybody's baby." + +"I've never known anybody else's baby, so I can't say," said Philip. + +Towards the end of his second term as in-patients' clerk a piece of good +fortune befell Philip. It was the middle of July. He went one Tuesday +evening to the tavern in Beak Street and found nobody there but +Macalister. They sat together, chatting about their absent friends, and +after a while Macalister said to him: + +"Oh, by the way, I heard of a rather good thing today, New Kleinfonteins; +it's a gold mine in Rhodesia. If you'd like to have a flutter you might +make a bit." + +Philip had been waiting anxiously for such an opportunity, but now that it +came he hesitated. He was desperately afraid of losing money. He had +little of the gambler's spirit. + +"I'd love to, but I don't know if I dare risk it. How much could I lose if +things went wrong?" + +"I shouldn't have spoken of it, only you seemed so keen about it," +Macalister answered coldly. + +Philip felt that Macalister looked upon him as rather a donkey. + +"I'm awfully keen on making a bit," he laughed. + +"You can't make money unless you're prepared to risk money." + +Macalister began to talk of other things and Philip, while he was +answering him, kept thinking that if the venture turned out well the +stockbroker would be very facetious at his expense next time they met. +Macalister had a sarcastic tongue. + +"I think I will have a flutter if you don't mind," said Philip anxiously. + +"All right. I'll buy you two hundred and fifty shares and if I see a +half-crown rise I'll sell them at once." + +Philip quickly reckoned out how much that would amount to, and his mouth +watered; thirty pounds would be a godsend just then, and he thought the +fates owed him something. He told Mildred what he had done when he saw her +at breakfast next morning. She thought him very silly. + +"I never knew anyone who made money on the Stock Exchange," she said. +"That's what Emil always said, you can't expect to make money on the Stock +Exchange, he said." + +Philip bought an evening paper on his way home and turned at once to the +money columns. He knew nothing about these things and had difficulty in +finding the stock which Macalister had spoken of. He saw they had advanced +a quarter. His heart leaped, and then he felt sick with apprehension in +case Macalister had forgotten or for some reason had not bought. +Macalister had promised to telegraph. Philip could not wait to take a tram +home. He jumped into a cab. It was an unwonted extravagance. + +"Is there a telegram for me?" he said, as he burst in. + +"No," said Mildred. + +His face fell, and in bitter disappointment he sank heavily into a chair. + +"Then he didn't buy them for me after all. Curse him," he added violently. +"What cruel luck! And I've been thinking all day of what I'd do with the +money." + +"Why, what were you going to do?" she asked. + +"What's the good of thinking about that now? Oh, I wanted the money so +badly." + +She gave a laugh and handed him a telegram. + +"I was only having a joke with you. I opened it." + +He tore it out of her hands. Macalister had bought him two hundred and +fifty shares and sold them at the half-crown profit he had suggested. The +commission note was to follow next day. For one moment Philip was furious +with Mildred for her cruel jest, but then he could only think of his joy. + +"It makes such a difference to me," he cried. "I'll stand you a new dress +if you like." + +"I want it badly enough," she answered. + +"I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to be operated upon at the +end of July." + +"Why, have you got something the matter with you?" she interrupted. + +It struck her that an illness she did not know might explain what had so +much puzzled her. He flushed, for he hated to refer to his deformity. + +"No, but they think they can do something to my foot. I couldn't spare the +time before, but now it doesn't matter so much. I shall start my dressing +in October instead of next month. I shall only be in hospital a few weeks +and then we can go away to the seaside for the rest of the summer. It'll +do us all good, you and the baby and me." + +"Oh, let's go to Brighton, Philip, I like Brighton, you get such a nice +class of people there." Philip had vaguely thought of some little fishing +village in Cornwall, but as she spoke it occurred to him that Mildred +would be bored to death there. + +"I don't mind where we go as long as I get the sea." + +He did not know why, but he had suddenly an irresistible longing for the +sea. He wanted to bathe, and he thought with delight of splashing about in +the salt water. He was a good swimmer, and nothing exhilarated him like a +rough sea. + +"I say, it will be jolly," he cried. + +"It'll be like a honeymoon, won't it?" she said. "How much can I have for +my new dress, Phil?" + + + +XCIV + + +Philip asked Mr. Jacobs, the assistant-surgeon for whom he had dressed, to +do the operation. Jacobs accepted with pleasure, since he was interested +just then in neglected talipes and was getting together materials for a +paper. He warned Philip that he could not make his foot like the other, +but he thought he could do a good deal; and though he would always limp he +would be able to wear a boot less unsightly than that which he had been +accustomed to. Philip remembered how he had prayed to a God who was able +to remove mountains for him who had faith, and he smiled bitterly. + +"I don't expect a miracle," he answered. + +"I think you're wise to let me try what I can do. You'll find a club-foot +rather a handicap in practice. The layman is full of fads, and he doesn't +like his doctor to have anything the matter with him." + +Philip went into a `small ward', which was a room on the landing, outside +each ward, reserved for special cases. He remained there a month, for the +surgeon would not let him go till he could walk; and, bearing the +operation very well, he had a pleasant enough time. Lawson and Athelny +came to see him, and one day Mrs. Athelny brought two of her children; +students whom he knew looked in now and again to have a chat; Mildred came +twice a week. Everyone was very kind to him, and Philip, always surprised +when anyone took trouble with him, was touched and grateful. He enjoyed +the relief from care; he need not worry there about the future, neither +whether his money would last out nor whether he would pass his final +examinations; and he could read to his heart's content. He had not been +able to read much of late, since Mildred disturbed him: she would make an +aimless remark when he was trying to concentrate his attention, and would +not be satisfied unless he answered; whenever he was comfortably settled +down with a book she would want something done and would come to him with +a cork she could not draw or a hammer to drive in a nail. + +They settled to go to Brighton in August. Philip wanted to take lodgings, +but Mildred said that she would have to do housekeeping, and it would only +be a holiday for her if they went to a boarding-house. + +"I have to see about the food every day at home, I get that sick of it I +want a thorough change." + +Philip agreed, and it happened that Mildred knew of a boarding-house at +Kemp Town where they would not be charged more than twenty-five shillings +a week each. She arranged with Philip to write about rooms, but when he +got back to Kennington he found that she had done nothing. He was +irritated. + +"I shouldn't have thought you had so much to do as all that," he said. + +"Well, I can't think of everything. It's not my fault if I forget, is it?" + +Philip was so anxious to get to the sea that he would not wait to +communicate with the mistress of the boarding-house. + +"We'll leave the luggage at the station and go to the house and see if +they've got rooms, and if they have we can just send an outside porter for +our traps." + +"You can please yourself," said Mildred stiffly. + +She did not like being reproached, and, retiring huffily into a haughty +silence, she sat by listlessly while Philip made the preparations for +their departure. The little flat was hot and stuffy under the August sun, +and from the road beat up a malodorous sultriness. As he lay in his bed in +the small ward with its red, distempered walls he had longed for fresh air +and the splashing of the sea against his breast. He felt he would go mad +if he had to spend another night in London. Mildred recovered her good +temper when she saw the streets of Brighton crowded with people making +holiday, and they were both in high spirits as they drove out to Kemp +Town. Philip stroked the baby's cheek. + +"We shall get a very different colour into them when we've been down here +a few days," he said, smiling. + +They arrived at the boarding-house and dismissed the cab. An untidy maid +opened the door and, when Philip asked if they had rooms, said she would +inquire. She fetched her mistress. A middle-aged woman, stout and +business-like, came downstairs, gave them the scrutinising glance of her +profession, and asked what accommodation they required. + +"Two single rooms, and if you've got such a thing we'd rather like a cot +in one of them." + +"I'm afraid I haven't got that. I've got one nice large double room, and +I could let you have a cot." + +"I don't think that would do," said Philip. + +"I could give you another room next week. Brighton's very full just now, +and people have to take what they can get." + +"If it were only for a few days, Philip, I think we might be able to +manage," said Mildred. + +"I think two rooms would be more convenient. Can you recommend any other +place where they take boarders?" + +"I can, but I don't suppose they'd have room any more than I have." + +"Perhaps you wouldn't mind giving me the address." + +The house the stout woman suggested was in the next street, and they +walked towards it. Philip could walk quite well, though he had to lean on +a stick, and he was rather weak. Mildred carried the baby. They went for +a little in silence, and then he saw she was crying. It annoyed him, and +he took no notice, but she forced his attention. + +"Lend me a hanky, will you? I can't get at mine with baby," she said in a +voice strangled with sobs, turning her head away from him. + +He gave her his handkerchief, but said nothing. She dried her eyes, and as +he did not speak, went on. + +"I might be poisonous." + +"Please don't make a scene in the street," he said. + +"It'll look so funny insisting on separate rooms like that. What'll they +think of us?" + +"If they knew the circumstances I imagine they'd think us surprisingly +moral," said Philip. + +She gave him a sidelong glance. + +"You're not going to give it away that we're not married?" she asked +quickly. + +"No." + +"Why won't you live with me as if we were married then?" + +"My dear, I can't explain. I don't want to humiliate you, but I simply +can't. I daresay it's very silly and unreasonable, but it's stronger than +I am. I loved you so much that now..." he broke off. "After all, there's +no accounting for that sort of thing." + +"A fat lot you must have loved me!" she exclaimed. + +The boarding-house to which they had been directed was kept by a bustling +maiden lady, with shrewd eyes and voluble speech. They could have one +double room for twenty-five shillings a week each, and five shillings +extra for the baby, or they could have two single rooms for a pound a week +more. + +"I have to charge that much more," the woman explained apologetically, +"because if I'm pushed to it I can put two beds even in the single rooms." + +"I daresay that won't ruin us. What do you think, Mildred?" + +"Oh, I don't mind. Anything's good enough for me," she answered. + +Philip passed off her sulky reply with a laugh, and, the landlady having +arranged to send for their luggage, they sat down to rest themselves. +Philip's foot was hurting him a little, and he was glad to put it up on a +chair. + +"I suppose you don't mind my sitting in the same room with you," said +Mildred aggressively. + +"Don't let's quarrel, Mildred," he said gently. + +"I didn't know you was so well off you could afford to throw away a pound +a week." + +"Don't be angry with me. I assure you it's the only way we can live +together at all." + +"I suppose you despise me, that's it." + +"Of course I don't. Why should I?" + +"It's so unnatural." + +"Is it? You're not in love with me, are you?" + +"Me? Who d'you take me for?" + +"It's not as if you were a very passionate woman, you're not that." + +"It's so humiliating," she said sulkily. + +"Oh, I wouldn't fuss about that if I were you." + +There were about a dozen people in the boarding-house. They ate in a +narrow, dark room at a long table, at the head of which the landlady sat +and carved. The food was bad. The landlady called it French cooking, by +which she meant that the poor quality of the materials was disguised by +ill-made sauces: plaice masqueraded as sole and New Zealand mutton as +lamb. The kitchen was small and inconvenient, so that everything was +served up lukewarm. The people were dull and pretentious; old ladies with +elderly maiden daughters; funny old bachelors with mincing ways; +pale-faced, middle-aged clerks with wives, who talked of their married +daughters and their sons who were in a very good position in the Colonies. +At table they discussed Miss Corelli's latest novel; some of them liked +Lord Leighton better than Mr. Alma-Tadema, and some of them liked Mr. +Alma-Tadema better than Lord Leighton. Mildred soon told the ladies of her +romantic marriage with Philip; and he found himself an object of interest +because his family, county people in a very good position, had cut him off +with a shilling because he married while he was only a stoodent; and +Mildred's father, who had a large place down Devonshire way, wouldn't do +anything for them because she had married Philip. That was why they had +come to a boarding-house and had not a nurse for the baby; but they had to +have two rooms because they were both used to a good deal of accommodation +and they didn't care to be cramped. The other visitors also had +explanations of their presence: one of the single gentlemen generally went +to the Metropole for his holiday, but he liked cheerful company and you +couldn't get that at one of those expensive hotels; and the old lady with +the middle-aged daughter was having her beautiful house in London done up +and she said to her daughter: "Gwennie, my dear, we must have a cheap +holiday this year," and so they had come there, though of course it wasn't +at all the kind of thing they were used to. Mildred found them all very +superior, and she hated a lot of common, rough people. She liked gentlemen +to be gentlemen in every sense of the word. + +"When people are gentlemen and ladies," she said, "I like them to be +gentlemen and ladies." + +The remark seemed cryptic to Philip, but when he heard her say it two or +three times to different persons, and found that it aroused hearty +agreement, he came to the conclusion that it was only obscure to his own +intelligence. It was the first time that Philip and Mildred had been +thrown entirely together. In London he did not see her all day, and when +he came home the household affairs, the baby, the neighbours, gave them +something to talk about till he settled down to work. Now he spent the +whole day with her. After breakfast they went down to the beach; the +morning went easily enough with a bathe and a stroll along the front; the +evening, which they spent on the pier, having put the baby to bed, was +tolerable, for there was music to listen to and a constant stream of +people to look at; (Philip amused himself by imagining who they were and +weaving little stories about them; he had got into the habit of answering +Mildred's remarks with his mouth only so that his thoughts remained +undisturbed;) but the afternoons were long and dreary. They sat on the +beach. Mildred said they must get all the benefit they could out of Doctor +Brighton, and he could not read because Mildred made observations +frequently about things in general. If he paid no attention she +complained. + +"Oh, leave that silly old book alone. It can't be good for you always +reading. You'll addle your brain, that's what you'll do, Philip." + +"Oh, rot!" he answered. + +"Besides, it's so unsociable." + +He discovered that it was difficult to talk to her. She had not even the +power of attending to what she was herself saying, so that a dog running +in front of her or the passing of a man in a loud blazer would call forth +a remark and then she would forget what she had been speaking of. She had +a bad memory for names, and it irritated her not to be able to think of +them, so that she would pause in the middle of some story to rack her +brains. Sometimes she had to give it up, but it often occurred to her +afterwards, and when Philip was talking of something she would interrupt +him. + +"Collins, that was it. I knew it would come back to me some time. Collins, +that's the name I couldn't remember." + +It exasperated him because it showed that she was not listening to +anything he said, and yet, if he was silent, she reproached him for +sulkiness. Her mind was of an order that could not deal for five minutes +with the abstract, and when Philip gave way to his taste for generalising +she very quickly showed that she was bored. Mildred dreamt a great deal, +and she had an accurate memory for her dreams, which she would relate +every day with prolixity. + +One morning he received a long letter from Thorpe Athelny. He was taking +his holiday in the theatrical way, in which there was much sound sense, +which characterised him. He had done the same thing for ten years. He took +his whole family to a hop-field in Kent, not far from Mrs. Athelny's home, +and they spent three weeks hopping. It kept them in the open air, earned +them money, much to Mrs. Athelny's satisfaction, and renewed their contact +with mother earth. It was upon this that Athelny laid stress. The sojourn +in the fields gave them a new strength; it was like a magic ceremony, by +which they renewed their youth and the power of their limbs and the +sweetness of the spirit: Philip had heard him say many fantastic, +rhetorical, and picturesque things on the subject. Now Athelny invited him +to come over for a day, he had certain meditations on Shakespeare and the +musical glasses which he desired to impart, and the children were +clamouring for a sight of Uncle Philip. Philip read the letter again in +the afternoon when he was sitting with Mildred on the beach. He thought of +Mrs. Athelny, cheerful mother of many children, with her kindly +hospitality and her good humour; of Sally, grave for her years, with funny +little maternal ways and an air of authority, with her long plait of fair +hair and her broad forehead; and then in a bunch of all the others, merry, +boisterous, healthy, and handsome. His heart went out to them. There was +one quality which they had that he did not remember to have noticed in +people before, and that was goodness. It had not occurred to him till now, +but it was evidently the beauty of their goodness which attracted him. In +theory he did not believe in it: if morality were no more than a matter of +convenience good and evil had no meaning. He did not like to be illogical, +but here was simple goodness, natural and without effort, and he thought +it beautiful. Meditating, he slowly tore the letter into little pieces; he +did not see how he could go without Mildred, and he did not want to go +with her. + +It was very hot, the sky was cloudless, and they had been driven to a +shady corner. The baby was gravely playing with stones on the beach, and +now and then she crawled up to Philip and gave him one to hold, then took +it away again and placed it carefully down. She was playing a mysterious +and complicated game known only to herself. Mildred was asleep. She lay +with her head thrown back and her mouth slightly open; her legs were +stretched out, and her boots protruded from her petticoats in a grotesque +fashion. His eyes had been resting on her vaguely, but now he looked at +her with peculiar attention. He remembered how passionately he had loved +her, and he wondered why now he was entirely indifferent to her. The +change in him filled him with dull pain. It seemed to him that all he had +suffered had been sheer waste. The touch of her hand had filled him with +ecstasy; he had desired to enter into her soul so that he could share +every thought with her and every feeling; he had suffered acutely because, +when silence had fallen between them, a remark of hers showed how far +their thoughts had travelled apart, and he had rebelled against the +unsurmountable wall which seemed to divide every personality from every +other. He found it strangely tragic that he had loved her so madly and now +loved her not at all. Sometimes he hated her. She was incapable of +learning, and the experience of life had taught her nothing. She was as +unmannerly as she had always been. It revolted Philip to hear the +insolence with which she treated the hard-worked servant at the +boarding-house. + +Presently he considered his own plans. At the end of his fourth year he +would be able to take his examination in midwifery, and a year more would +see him qualified. Then he might manage a journey to Spain. He wanted to +see the pictures which he knew only from photographs; he felt deeply that +El Greco held a secret of peculiar moment to him; and he fancied that in +Toledo he would surely find it out. He did not wish to do things grandly, +and on a hundred pounds he might live for six months in Spain: if +Macalister put him on to another good thing he could make that easily. His +heart warmed at the thought of those old beautiful cities, and the tawny +plains of Castile. He was convinced that more might be got out of life +than offered itself at present, and he thought that in Spain he could live +with greater intensity: it might be possible to practise in one of those +old cities, there were a good many foreigners, passing or resident, and he +should be able to pick up a living. But that would be much later; first he +must get one or two hospital appointments; they gave experience and made +it easy to get jobs afterwards. He wished to get a berth as ship's doctor +on one of the large tramps that took things leisurely enough for a man to +see something of the places at which they stopped. He wanted to go to the +East; and his fancy was rich with pictures of Bangkok and Shanghai, and +the ports of Japan: he pictured to himself palm-trees and skies blue and +hot, dark-skinned people, pagodas; the scents of the Orient intoxicated +his nostrils. His heart but with passionate desire for the beauty and the +strangeness of the world. + +Mildred awoke. + +"I do believe I've been asleep," she said. "Now then, you naughty girl, +what have you been doing to yourself? Her dress was clean yesterday and +just look at it now, Philip." + + + +XCV + + +When they returned to London Philip began his dressing in the surgical +wards. He was not so much interested in surgery as in medicine, which, a +more empirical science, offered greater scope to the imagination. The work +was a little harder than the corresponding work on the medical side. There +was a lecture from nine till ten, when he went into the wards; there +wounds had to be dressed, stitches taken out, bandages renewed: Philip +prided himself a little on his skill in bandaging, and it amused him to +wring a word of approval from a nurse. On certain afternoons in the week +there were operations; and he stood in the well of the theatre, in a white +jacket, ready to hand the operating surgeon any instrument he wanted or to +sponge the blood away so that he could see what he was about. When some +rare operation was to be performed the theatre would fill up, but +generally there were not more than half a dozen students present, and then +the proceedings had a cosiness which Philip enjoyed. At that time the +world at large seemed to have a passion for appendicitis, and a good many +cases came to the operating theatre for this complaint: the surgeon for +whom Philip dressed was in friendly rivalry with a colleague as to which +could remove an appendix in the shortest time and with the smallest +incision. + +In due course Philip was put on accident duty. The dressers took this in +turn; it lasted three days, during which they lived in hospital and ate +their meals in the common-room; they had a room on the ground floor near +the casualty ward, with a bed that shut up during the day into a cupboard. +The dresser on duty had to be at hand day and night to see to any casualty +that came in. You were on the move all the time, and not more than an hour +or two passed during the night without the clanging of the bell just above +your head which made you leap out of bed instinctively. Saturday night was +of course the busiest time and the closing of the public-houses the +busiest hour. Men would be brought in by the police dead drunk and it +would be necessary to administer a stomach-pump; women, rather the worse +for liquor themselves, would come in with a wound on the head or a +bleeding nose which their husbands had given them: some would vow to have +the law on him, and others, ashamed, would declare that it had been an +accident. What the dresser could manage himself he did, but if there was +anything important he sent for the house-surgeon: he did this with care, +since the house-surgeon was not vastly pleased to be dragged down five +flights of stairs for nothing. The cases ranged from a cut finger to a cut +throat. Boys came in with hands mangled by some machine, men were brought +who had been knocked down by a cab, and children who had broken a limb +while playing: now and then attempted suicides were carried in by the +police: Philip saw a ghastly, wild-eyed man with a great gash from ear to +ear, and he was in the ward for weeks afterwards in charge of a constable, +silent, angry because he was alive, and sullen; he made no secret of the +fact that he would try again to kill himself as soon as he was released. +The wards were crowded, and the house-surgeon was faced with a dilemma +when patients were brought in by the police: if they were sent on to the +station and died there disagreeable things were said in the papers; and it +was very difficult sometimes to tell if a man was dying or drunk. Philip +did not go to bed till he was tired out, so that he should not have the +bother of getting up again in an hour; and he sat in the casualty ward +talking in the intervals of work with the night-nurse. She was a +gray-haired woman of masculine appearance, who had been night-nurse in the +casualty department for twenty years. She liked the work because she was +her own mistress and had no sister to bother her. Her movements were slow, +but she was immensely capable and she never failed in an emergency. The +dressers, often inexperienced or nervous, found her a tower of strength. +She had seen thousands of them, and they made no impression upon her: she +always called them Mr. Brown; and when they expostulated and told her +their real names, she merely nodded and went on calling them Mr. Brown. It +interested Philip to sit with her in the bare room, with its two +horse-hair couches and the flaring gas, and listen to her. She had long +ceased to look upon the people who came in as human beings; they were +drunks, or broken arms, or cut throats. She took the vice and misery and +cruelty of the world as a matter of course; she found nothing to praise or +blame in human actions: she accepted. She had a certain grim humour. + +"I remember one suicide," she said to Philip, "who threw himself into the +Thames. They fished him out and brought him here, and ten days later he +developed typhoid fever from swallowing Thames water." + +"Did he die?" + +"Yes, he did all right. I could never make up my mind if it was suicide or +not.... They're a funny lot, suicides. I remember one man who couldn't get +any work to do and his wife died, so he pawned his clothes and bought a +revolver; but he made a mess of it, he only shot out an eye and he got all +right. And then, if you please, with an eye gone and a piece of his face +blow away, he came to the conclusion that the world wasn't such a bad +place after all, and he lived happily ever afterwards. Thing I've always +noticed, people don't commit suicide for love, as you'd expect, that's +just a fancy of novelists; they commit suicide because they haven't got +any money. I wonder why that is." + +"I suppose money's more important than love," suggested Philip. + +Money was in any case occupying Philip's thoughts a good deal just then. +He discovered the little truth there was in the airy saying which himself +had repeated, that two could live as cheaply as one, and his expenses were +beginning to worry him. Mildred was not a good manager, and it cost them +as much to live as if they had eaten in restaurants; the child needed +clothes, and Mildred boots, an umbrella, and other small things which it +was impossible for her to do without. When they returned from Brighton she +had announced her intention of getting a job, but she took no definite +steps, and presently a bad cold laid her up for a fortnight. When she was +well she answered one or two advertisements, but nothing came of it: +either she arrived too late and the vacant place was filled, or the work +was more than she felt strong enough to do. Once she got an offer, but the +wages were only fourteen shillings a week, and she thought she was worth +more than that. + +"It's no good letting oneself be put upon," she remarked. "People don't +respect you if you let yourself go too cheap." + +"I don't think fourteen shillings is so bad," answered Philip, drily. + +He could not help thinking how useful it would be towards the expenses of +the household, and Mildred was already beginning to hint that she did not +get a place because she had not got a decent dress to interview employers +in. He gave her the dress, and she made one or two more attempts, but +Philip came to the conclusion that they were not serious. She did not want +to work. The only way he knew to make money was on the Stock Exchange, and +he was very anxious to repeat the lucky experiment of the summer; but war +had broken out with the Transvaal and nothing was doing in South Africans. +Macalister told him that Redvers Buller would march into Pretoria in a +month and then everything would boom. The only thing was to wait +patiently. What they wanted was a British reverse to knock things down a +bit, and then it might be worth while buying. Philip began reading +assiduously the `city chat' of his favourite newspaper. He was worried and +irritable. Once or twice he spoke sharply to Mildred, and since she was +neither tactful nor patient she answered with temper, and they quarrelled. +Philip always expressed his regret for what he had said, but Mildred had +not a forgiving nature, and she would sulk for a couple of days. She got +on his nerves in all sorts of ways; by the manner in which she ate, and by +the untidiness which made her leave articles of clothing about their +sitting-room: Philip was excited by the war and devoured the papers, +morning and evening; but she took no interest in anything that happened. +She had made the acquaintance of two or three people who lived in the +street, and one of them had asked if she would like the curate to call on +her. She wore a wedding-ring and called herself Mrs. Carey. On Philip's +walls were two or three of the drawings which he had made in Paris, nudes, +two of women and one of Miguel Ajuria, standing very square on his feet, +with clenched fists. Philip kept them because they were the best things he +had done, and they reminded him of happy days. Mildred had long looked at +them with disfavour. + +"I wish you'd take those drawings down, Philip," she said to him at last. +"Mrs. Foreman, of number thirteen, came in yesterday afternoon, and I +didn't know which way to look. I saw her staring at them." + +"What's the matter with them?" + +"They're indecent. Disgusting, that's what I call it, to have drawings of +naked people about. And it isn't nice for baby either. She's beginning to +notice things now." + +"How can you be so vulgar?" + +"Vulgar? Modest, I call it. I've never said anything, but d'you think I +like having to look at those naked people all day long." + +"Have you no sense of humour at all, Mildred?" he asked frigidly. + +"I don't know what sense of humour's got to do with it. I've got a good +mind to take them down myself. If you want to know what I think about +them, I think they're disgusting." + +"I don't want to know what you think about them, and I forbid you to touch +them." + +When Mildred was cross with him she punished him through the baby. The +little girl was as fond of Philip as he was of her, and it was her great +pleasure every morning to crawl into his room (she was getting on for two +now and could walk pretty well), and be taken up into his bed. When +Mildred stopped this the poor child would cry bitterly. To Philip's +remonstrances she replied: + +"I don't want her to get into habits." + +And if then he said anything more she said: + +"It's nothing to do with you what I do with my child. To hear you talk one +would think you was her father. I'm her mother, and I ought to know what's +good for her, oughtn't I?" + +Philip was exasperated by Mildred's stupidity; but he was so indifferent +to her now that it was only at times she made him angry. He grew used to +having her about. Christmas came, and with it a couple of days holiday for +Philip. He brought some holly in and decorated the flat, and on Christmas +Day he gave small presents to Mildred and the baby. There were only two of +them so they could not have a turkey, but Mildred roasted a chicken and +boiled a Christmas pudding which she had bought at a local grocer's. They +stood themselves a bottle of wine. When they had dined Philip sat in his +arm-chair by the fire, smoking his pipe; and the unaccustomed wine had +made him forget for a while the anxiety about money which was so +constantly with him. He felt happy and comfortable. Presently Mildred came +in to tell him that the baby wanted him to kiss her good-night, and with +a smile he went into Mildred's bed-room. Then, telling the child to go to +sleep, he turned down the gas and, leaving the door open in case she +cried, went back into the sitting-room. + +"Where are you going to sit?" he asked Mildred. + +"You sit in your chair. I'm going to sit on the floor." + +When he sat down she settled herself in front of the fire and leaned +against his knees. He could not help remembering that this was how they +had sat together in her rooms in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, but the +positions had been reversed; it was he who had sat on the floor and leaned +his head against her knee. How passionately he had loved her then! Now he +felt for her a tenderness he had not known for a long time. He seemed +still to feel twined round his neck the baby's soft little arms. + +"Are you comfy?" he asked. + +She looked up at him, gave a slight smile, and nodded. They gazed into the +fire dreamily, without speaking to one another. At last she turned round +and stared at him curiously. + +"D'you know that you haven't kissed me once since I came here?" she said +suddenly. + +"D'you want me to?" he smiled. + +"I suppose you don't care for me in that way any more?" + +"I'm very fond of you." + +"You're much fonder of baby." + +He did not answer, and she laid her cheek against his hand. + +"You're not angry with me any more?" she asked presently, with her eyes +cast down. + +"Why on earth should I be?" + +"I've never cared for you as I do now. It's only since I passed through +the fire that I've learnt to love you." It chilled Philip to hear her make +use of the sort of phrase she read in the penny novelettes which she +devoured. Then he wondered whether what she said had any meaning for her: +perhaps she knew no other way to express her genuine feelings than the +stilted language of The Family Herald. + +"It seems so funny our living together like this." + +He did not reply for quite a long time, and silence fell upon them again; +but at last he spoke and seemed conscious of no interval. + +"You mustn't be angry with me. One can't help these things. I remember +that I thought you wicked and cruel because you did this, that, and the +other; but it was very silly of me. You didn't love me, and it was absurd +to blame you for that. I thought I could make you love me, but I know now +that was impossible. I don't know what it is that makes someone love you, +but whatever it is, it's the only thing that matters, and if it isn't +there you won't create it by kindness, or generosity, or anything of that +sort." + +"I should have thought if you'd loved me really you'd have loved me +still." + +"I should have thought so too. I remember how I used to think that it +would last for ever, I felt I would rather die than be without you, and I +used to long for the time when you would be faded and wrinkled so that +nobody cared for you any more and I should have you all to myself." + +She did not answer, and presently she got up and said she was going to +bed. She gave a timid little smile. + +"It's Christmas Day, Philip, won't you kiss me good-night?" + +He gave a laugh, blushed slightly, and kissed her. She went to her +bed-room and he began to read. + + + +XCVI + + +The climax came two or three weeks later. Mildred was driven by Philip's +behaviour to a pitch of strange exasperation. There were many different +emotions in her soul, and she passed from mood to mood with facility. She +spent a great deal of time alone and brooded over her position. She did +not put all her feelings into words, she did not even know what they were, +but certain things stood out in her mind, and she thought of them over and +over again. She had never understood Philip, nor had very much liked him; +but she was pleased to have him about her because she thought he was a +gentleman. She was impressed because his father had been a doctor and his +uncle was a clergyman. She despised him a little because she had made such +a fool of him, and at the same time was never quite comfortable in his +presence; she could not let herself go, and she felt that he was +criticising her manners. + +When she first came to live in the little rooms in Kennington she was +tired out and ashamed. She was glad to be left alone. It was a comfort to +think that there was no rent to pay; she need not go out in all weathers, +and she could lie quietly in bed if she did not feel well. She had hated +the life she led. It was horrible to have to be affable and subservient; +and even now when it crossed her mind she cried with pity for herself as +she thought of the roughness of men and their brutal language. But it +crossed her mind very seldom. She was grateful to Philip for coming to her +rescue, and when she remembered how honestly he had loved her and how +badly she had treated him, she felt a pang of remorse. It was easy to make +it up to him. It meant very little to her. She was surprised when he +refused her suggestion, but she shrugged her shoulders: let him put on +airs if he liked, she did not care, he would be anxious enough in a little +while, and then it would be her turn to refuse; if he thought it was any +deprivation to her he was very much mistaken. She had no doubt of her +power over him. He was peculiar, but she knew him through and through. He +had so often quarrelled with her and sworn he would never see her again, +and then in a little while he had come on his knees begging to be +forgiven. It gave her a thrill to think how he had cringed before her. He +would have been glad to lie down on the ground for her to walk on him. She +had seen him cry. She knew exactly how to treat him, pay no attention to +him, just pretend you didn't notice his tempers, leave him severely alone, +and in a little while he was sure to grovel. She laughed a little to +herself, good-humouredly, when she thought how he had come and eaten dirt +before her. She had had her fling now. She knew what men were and did not +want to have anything more to do with them. She was quite ready to settle +down with Philip. When all was said, he was a gentleman in every sense of +the word, and that was something not to be sneezed at, wasn't it? Anyhow +she was in no hurry, and she was not going to take the first step. She was +glad to see how fond he was growing of the baby, though it tickled her a +good deal; it was comic that he should set so much store on another man's +child. He was peculiar and no mistake. + +But one or two things surprised her. She had been used to his +subservience: he was only too glad to do anything for her in the old days, +she was accustomed to see him cast down by a cross word and in ecstasy at +a kind one; he was different now, and she said to herself that he had not +improved in the last year. It never struck her for a moment that there +could be any change in his feelings, and she thought it was only acting +when he paid no heed to her bad temper. He wanted to read sometimes and +told her to stop talking: she did not know whether to flare up or to sulk, +and was so puzzled that she did neither. Then came the conversation in +which he told her that he intended their relations to be platonic, and, +remembering an incident of their common past, it occurred to her that he +dreaded the possibility of her being pregnant. She took pains to reassure +him. It made no difference. She was the sort of woman who was unable to +realise that a man might not have her own obsession with sex; her +relations with men had been purely on those lines; and she could not +understand that they ever had other interests. The thought struck her that +Philip was in love with somebody else, and she watched him, suspecting +nurses at the hospital or people he met out; but artful questions led her +to the conclusion that there was no one dangerous in the Athelny +household; and it forced itself upon her also that Philip, like most +medical students, was unconscious of the sex of the nurses with whom his +work threw him in contact. They were associated in his mind with a faint +odour of iodoform. Philip received no letters, and there was no girl's +photograph among his belongings. If he was in love with someone, he was +very clever at hiding it; and he answered all Mildred's questions with +frankness and apparently without suspicion that there was any motive in +them. + +"I don't believe he's in love with anybody else," she said to herself at +last. + +It was a relief, for in that case he was certainly still in love with her; +but it made his behaviour very puzzling. If he was going to treat her like +that why did he ask her to come and live at the flat? It was unnatural. +Mildred was not a woman who conceived the possibility of compassion, +generosity, or kindness. Her only conclusion was that Philip was queer. +She took it into her head that the reasons for his conduct were +chivalrous; and, her imagination filled with the extravagances of cheap +fiction, she pictured to herself all sorts of romantic explanations for +his delicacy. Her fancy ran riot with bitter misunderstandings, +purifications by fire, snow-white souls, and death in the cruel cold of a +Christmas night. She made up her mind that when they went to Brighton she +would put an end to all his nonsense; they would be alone there, everyone +would think them husband and wife, and there would be the pier and the +band. When she found that nothing would induce Philip to share the same +room with her, when he spoke to her about it with a tone in his voice she +had never heard before, she suddenly realised that he did not want her. +She was astounded. She remembered all he had said in the past and how +desperately he had loved her. She felt humiliated and angry, but she had +a sort of native insolence which carried her through. He needn't think she +was in love with him, because she wasn't. She hated him sometimes, and she +longed to humble him; but she found herself singularly powerless; she did +not know which way to handle him. She began to be a little nervous with +him. Once or twice she cried. Once or twice she set herself to be +particularly nice to him; but when she took his arm while they walked +along the front at night he made some excuse in a while to release +himself, as though it were unpleasant for him to be touched by her. She +could not make it out. The only hold she had over him was through the +baby, of whom he seemed to grow fonder and fonder: she could make him +white with anger by giving the child a slap or a push; and the only time +the old, tender smile came back into his eyes was when she stood with the +baby in her arms. She noticed it when she was being photographed like that +by a man on the beach, and afterwards she often stood in the same way for +Philip to look at her. + +When they got back to London Mildred began looking for the work she had +asserted was so easy to find; she wanted now to be independent of Philip; +and she thought of the satisfaction with which she would announce to him +that she was going into rooms and would take the child with her. But her +heart failed her when she came into closer contact with the possibility. +She had grown unused to the long hours, she did not want to be at the beck +and call of a manageress, and her dignity revolted at the thought of +wearing once more a uniform. She had made out to such of the neighbours as +she knew that they were comfortably off: it would be a come-down if they +heard that she had to go out and work. Her natural indolence asserted +itself. She did not want to leave Philip, and so long as he was willing to +provide for her, she did not see why she should. There was no money to +throw away, but she got her board and lodging, and he might get better +off. His uncle was an old man and might die any day, he would come into a +little then, and even as things were, it was better than slaving from +morning till night for a few shillings a week. Her efforts relaxed; she +kept on reading the advertisement columns of the daily paper merely to +show that she wanted to do something if anything that was worth her while +presented itself. But panic seized her, and she was afraid that Philip +would grow tired of supporting her. She had no hold over him at all now, +and she fancied that he only allowed her to stay there because he was fond +of the baby. She brooded over it all, and she thought to herself angrily +that she would make him pay for all this some day. She could not reconcile +herself to the fact that he no longer cared for her. She would make him. +She suffered from pique, and sometimes in a curious fashion she desired +Philip. He was so cold now that it exasperated her. She thought of him in +that way incessantly. She thought that he was treating her very badly, and +she did not know what she had done to deserve it. She kept on saying to +herself that it was unnatural they should live like that. Then she thought +that if things were different and she were going to have a baby, he would +be sure to marry her. He was funny, but he was a gentleman in every sense +of the word, no one could deny that. At last it became an obsession with +her, and she made up her mind to force a change in their relations. He +never even kissed her now, and she wanted him to: she remembered how +ardently he had been used to press her lips. It gave her a curious feeling +to think of it. She often looked at his mouth. + +One evening, at the beginning of February, Philip told her that he was +dining with Lawson, who was giving a party in his studio to celebrate his +birthday; and he would not be in till late; Lawson had bought a couple of +bottles of the punch they favoured from the tavern in Beak Street, and +they proposed to have a merry evening. Mildred asked if there were going +to be women there, but Philip told her there were not; only men had been +invited; and they were just going to sit and talk and smoke: Mildred did +not think it sounded very amusing; if she were a painter she would have +half a dozen models about. She went to bed, but could not sleep, and +presently an idea struck her; she got up and fixed the catch on the wicket +at the landing, so that Philip could not get in. He came back about one, +and she heard him curse when he found that the wicket was closed. She got +out of bed and opened. + +"Why on earth did you shut yourself in? I'm sorry I've dragged you out of +bed." + +"I left it open on purpose, I can't think how it came to be shut." + +"Hurry up and get back to bed, or you'll catch cold." + +He walked into the sitting-room and turned up the gas. She followed him +in. She went up to the fire. + +"I want to warm my feet a bit. They're like ice." + +He sat down and began to take off his boots. His eyes were shining and his +cheeks were flushed. She thought he had been drinking. + +"Have you been enjoying yourself?" she asked, with a smile. + +"Yes, I've had a ripping time." + +Philip was quite sober, but he had been talking and laughing, and he was +excited still. An evening of that sort reminded him of the old days in +Paris. He was in high spirits. He took his pipe out of his pocket and +filled it. + +"Aren't you going to bed?" she asked. + +"Not yet, I'm not a bit sleepy. Lawson was in great form. He talked +sixteen to the dozen from the moment I got there till the moment I left." + +"What did you talk about?" + +"Heaven knows! Of every subject under the sun. You should have seen us all +shouting at the tops of our voices and nobody listening." + +Philip laughed with pleasure at the recollection, and Mildred laughed too. +She was pretty sure he had drunk more than was good for him. That was +exactly what she had expected. She knew men. + +"Can I sit down?" she said. + +Before he could answer she settled herself on his knees. + +"If you're not going to bed you'd better go and put on a dressing-gown." + +"Oh, I'm all right as I am." Then putting her arms round his neck, she +placed her face against his and said: "Why are you so horrid to me, Phil?" + +He tried to get up, but she would not let him. + +"I do love you, Philip," she said. + +"Don't talk damned rot." + +"It isn't, it's true. I can't live without you. I want you." + +He released himself from her arms. + +"Please get up. You're making a fool of yourself and you're making me feel +a perfect idiot." + +"I love you, Philip. I want to make up for all the harm I did you. I can't +go on like this, it's not in human nature." + +He slipped out of the chair and left her in it. + +"I'm very sorry, but it's too late." + +She gave a heart-rending sob. + +"But why? How can you be so cruel?" + +"I suppose it's because I loved you too much. I wore the passion out. The +thought of anything of that sort horrifies me. I can't look at you now +without thinking of Emil and Griffiths. One can't help those things, I +suppose it's just nerves." + +She seized his hand and covered it with kisses. + +"Don't," he cried. + +She sank back into the chair. + +"I can't go on like this. If you won't love me, I'd rather go away." + +"Don't be foolish, you haven't anywhere to go. You can stay here as long +as you like, but it must be on the definite understanding that we're +friends and nothing more." + +Then she dropped suddenly the vehemence of passion and gave a soft, +insinuating laugh. She sidled up to Philip and put her arms round him. She +made her voice low and wheedling. + +"Don't be such an old silly. I believe you're nervous. You don't know how +nice I can be." + +She put her face against his and rubbed his cheek with hers. To Philip her +smile was an abominable leer, and the suggestive glitter of her eyes +filled him with horror. He drew back instinctively. + +"I won't," he said. + +But she would not let him go. She sought his mouth with her lips. He took +her hands and tore them roughly apart and pushed her away. + +"You disgust me," he said. + +"Me?" + +She steadied herself with one hand on the chimney-piece. She looked at him +for an instant, and two red spots suddenly appeared on her cheeks. She +gave a shrill, angry laugh. + +"I disgust YOU." + +She paused and drew in her breath sharply. Then she burst into a furious +torrent of abuse. She shouted at the top of her voice. She called him +every foul name she could think of. She used language so obscene that +Philip was astounded; she was always so anxious to be refined, so shocked +by coarseness, that it had never occurred to him that she knew the words +she used now. She came up to him and thrust her face in his. It was +distorted with passion, and in her tumultuous speech the spittle dribbled +over her lips. + +"I never cared for you, not once, I was making a fool of you always, you +bored me, you bored me stiff, and I hated you, I would never have let you +touch me only for the money, and it used to make me sick when I had to let +you kiss me. We laughed at you, Griffiths and me, we laughed because you +was such a mug. A mug! A mug!" + +Then she burst again into abominable invective. She accused him of every +mean fault; she said he was stingy, she said he was dull, she said he was +vain, selfish; she cast virulent ridicule on everything upon which he was +most sensitive. And at last she turned to go. She kept on, with hysterical +violence, shouting at him an opprobrious, filthy epithet. She seized the +handle of the door and flung it open. Then she turned round and hurled at +him the injury which she knew was the only one that really touched him. +She threw into the word all the malice and all the venom of which she was +capable. She flung it at him as though it were a blow. + +"Cripple!" + + + +XCVII + + +Philip awoke with a start next morning, conscious that it was late, and +looking at his watch found it was nine o'clock. He jumped out of bed and +went into the kitchen to get himself some hot water to shave with. There +was no sign of Mildred, and the things which she had used for her supper +the night before still lay in the sink unwashed. He knocked at her door. + +"Wake up, Mildred. It's awfully late." + +She did not answer, even after a second louder knocking, and he concluded +that she was sulking. He was in too great a hurry to bother about that. He +put some water on to boil and jumped into his bath which was always poured +out the night before in order to take the chill off. He presumed that +Mildred would cook his breakfast while he was dressing and leave it in the +sitting-room. She had done that two or three times when she was out of +temper. But he heard no sound of her moving, and realised that if he +wanted anything to eat he would have to get it himself. He was irritated +that she should play him such a trick on a morning when he had over-slept +himself. There was still no sign of her when he was ready, but he heard +her moving about her room. She was evidently getting up. He made himself +some tea and cut himself a couple of pieces of bread and butter, which he +ate while he was putting on his boots, then bolted downstairs and along +the street into the main road to catch his tram. While his eyes sought out +the newspaper shops to see the war news on the placards, he thought of the +scene of the night before: now that it was over and he had slept on it, he +could not help thinking it grotesque; he supposed he had been ridiculous, +but he was not master of his feelings; at the time they had been +overwhelming. He was angry with Mildred because she had forced him into +that absurd position, and then with renewed astonishment he thought of her +outburst and the filthy language she had used. He could not help flushing +when he remembered her final jibe; but he shrugged his shoulders +contemptuously. He had long known that when his fellows were angry with +him they never failed to taunt him with his deformity. He had seen men at +the hospital imitate his walk, not before him as they used at school, but +when they thought he was not looking. He knew now that they did it from no +wilful unkindness, but because man is naturally an imitative animal, and +because it was an easy way to make people laugh: he knew it, but he could +never resign himself to it. + +He was glad to throw himself into his work. The ward seemed pleasant and +friendly when he entered it. The sister greeted him with a quick, +business-like smile. + +"You're very late, Mr. Carey." + +"I was out on the loose last night." + +"You look it." + +"Thank you." + +Laughing, he went to the first of his cases, a boy with tuberculous +ulcers, and removed his bandages. The boy was pleased to see him, and +Philip chaffed him as he put a clean dressing on the wound. Philip was a +favourite with the patients; he treated them good-humouredly; and he had +gentle, sensitive hands which did not hurt them: some of the dressers were +a little rough and happy-go-lucky in their methods. He lunched with his +friends in the club-room, a frugal meal consisting of a scone and butter, +with a cup of cocoa, and they talked of the war. Several men were going +out, but the authorities were particular and refused everyone who had not +had a hospital appointment. Someone suggested that, if the war went on, in +a while they would be glad to take anyone who was qualified; but the +general opinion was that it would be over in a month. Now that Roberts was +there things would get all right in no time. This was Macalister's opinion +too, and he had told Philip that they must watch their chance and buy just +before peace was declared. There would be a boom then, and they might all +make a bit of money. Philip had left with Macalister instructions to buy +him stock whenever the opportunity presented itself. His appetite had been +whetted by the thirty pounds he had made in the summer, and he wanted now +to make a couple of hundred. + +He finished his day's work and got on a tram to go back to Kennington. He +wondered how Mildred would behave that evening. It was a nuisance to think +that she would probably be surly and refuse to answer his questions. It +was a warm evening for the time of year, and even in those gray streets of +South London there was the languor of February; nature is restless then +after the long winter months, growing things awake from their sleep, and +there is a rustle in the earth, a forerunner of spring, as it resumes its +eternal activities. Philip would have liked to drive on further, it was +distasteful to him to go back to his rooms, and he wanted the air; but the +desire to see the child clutched suddenly at his heartstrings, and he +smiled to himself as he thought of her toddling towards him with a crow of +delight. He was surprised, when he reached the house and looked up +mechanically at the windows, to see that there was no light. He went +upstairs and knocked, but got no answer. When Mildred went out she left +the key under the mat and he found it there now. He let himself in and +going into the sitting-room struck a match. Something had happened, he did +not at once know what; he turned the gas on full and lit it; the room was +suddenly filled with the glare and he looked round. He gasped. The whole +place was wrecked. Everything in it had been wilfully destroyed. Anger +seized him, and he rushed into Mildred's room. It was dark and empty. When +he had got a light he saw that she had taken away all her things and the +baby's (he had noticed on entering that the go-cart was not in its usual +place on the landing, but thought Mildred had taken the baby out;) and all +the things on the washing-stand had been broken, a knife had been drawn +cross-ways through the seats of the two chairs, the pillow had been slit +open, there were large gashes in the sheets and the counterpane, the +looking-glass appeared to have been broken with a hammer. Philip was +bewildered. He went into his own room, and here too everything was in +confusion. The basin and the ewer had been smashed, the looking-glass was +in fragments, and the sheets were in ribands. Mildred had made a slit +large enough to put her hand into the pillow and had scattered the +feathers about the room. She had jabbed a knife into the blankets. On the +dressing-table were photographs of Philip's mother, the frames had been +smashed and the glass shivered. Philip went into the tiny kitchen. +Everything that was breakable was broken, glasses, pudding-basins, plates, +dishes. + +It took Philip's breath away. Mildred had left no letter, nothing but this +ruin to mark her anger, and he could imagine the set face with which she +had gone about her work. He went back into the sitting-room and looked +about him. He was so astonished that he no longer felt angry. He looked +curiously at the kitchen-knife and the coal-hammer, which were lying on +the table where she had left them. Then his eye caught a large +carving-knife in the fireplace which had been broken. It must have taken +her a long time to do so much damage. Lawson's portrait of him had been +cut cross-ways and gaped hideously. His own drawings had been ripped in +pieces; and the photographs, Manet's Olympia and the Odalisque of +Ingres, the portrait of Philip IV, had been smashed with great blows of +the coal-hammer. There were gashes in the table-cloth and in the curtains +and in the two arm-chairs. They were quite ruined. On one wall over the +table which Philip used as his desk was the little bit of Persian rug +which Cronshaw had given him. Mildred had always hated it. + +"If it's a rug it ought to go on the floor," she said, "and it's a dirty +stinking bit of stuff, that's all it is." + +It made her furious because Philip told her it contained the answer to a +great riddle. She thought he was making fun of her. She had drawn the +knife right through it three times, it must have required some strength, +and it hung now in tatters. Philip had two or three blue and white plates, +of no value, but he had bought them one by one for very small sums and +liked them for their associations. They littered the floor in fragments. +There were long gashes on the backs of his books, and she had taken the +trouble to tear pages out of the unbound French ones. The little ornaments +on the chimney-piece lay on the hearth in bits. Everything that it had +been possible to destroy with a knife or a hammer was destroyed. + +The whole of Philip's belongings would not have sold for thirty pounds, +but most of them were old friends, and he was a domestic creature, +attached to all those odds and ends because they were his; he had been +proud of his little home, and on so little money had made it pretty and +characteristic. He sank down now in despair. He asked himself how she +could have been so cruel. A sudden fear got him on his feet again and into +the passage, where stood a cupboard in which he kept his clothes. He +opened it and gave a sigh of relief. She had apparently forgotten it and +none of his things was touched. + +He went back into the sitting-room and, surveying the scene, wondered what +to do; he had not the heart to begin trying to set things straight; +besides there was no food in the house, and he was hungry. He went out and +got himself something to eat. When he came in he was cooler. A little pang +seized him as he thought of the child, and he wondered whether she would +miss him, at first perhaps, but in a week she would have forgotten him; +and he was thankful to be rid of Mildred. He did not think of her with +wrath, but with an overwhelming sense of boredom. + +"I hope to God I never see her again," he said aloud. + +The only thing now was to leave the rooms, and he made up his mind to give +notice the next morning. He could not afford to make good the damage done, +and he had so little money left that he must find cheaper lodgings still. +He would be glad to get out of them. The expense had worried him, and now +the recollection of Mildred would be in them always. Philip was impatient +and could never rest till he had put in action the plan which he had in +mind; so on the following afternoon he got in a dealer in second-hand +furniture who offered him three pounds for all his goods damaged and +undamaged; and two days later he moved into the house opposite the +hospital in which he had had rooms when first he became a medical student. +The landlady was a very decent woman. He took a bed-room at the top, which +she let him have for six shillings a week; it was small and shabby and +looked on the yard of the house that backed on to it, but he had nothing +now except his clothes and a box of books, and he was glad to lodge so +cheaply. + + + +XCVIII + + +And now it happened that the fortunes of Philip Carey, of no consequence +to any but himself, were affected by the events through which his country +was passing. History was being made, and the process was so significant +that it seemed absurd it should touch the life of an obscure medical +student. Battle after battle, Magersfontein, Colenso, Spion Kop, lost on +the playing fields of Eton, had humiliated the nation and dealt the +death-blow to the prestige of the aristocracy and gentry who till then had +found no one seriously to oppose their assertion that they possessed a +natural instinct of government. The old order was being swept away: +history was being made indeed. Then the colossus put forth his strength, +and, blundering again, at last blundered into the semblance of victory. +Cronje surrendered at Paardeberg, Ladysmith was relieved, and at the +beginning of March Lord Roberts marched into Bloemfontein. + +It was two or three days after the news of this reached London that +Macalister came into the tavern in Beak Street and announced joyfully that +things were looking brighter on the Stock Exchange. Peace was in sight, +Roberts would march into Pretoria within a few weeks, and shares were +going up already. There was bound to be a boom. + +"Now's the time to come in," he told Philip. "It's no good waiting till +the public gets on to it. It's now or never." + +He had inside information. The manager of a mine in South Africa had +cabled to the senior partner of his firm that the plant was uninjured. +They would start working again as soon as possible. It wasn't a +speculation, it was an investment. To show how good a thing the senior +partner thought it Macalister told Philip that he had bought five hundred +shares for both his sisters: he never put them into anything that wasn't +as safe as the Bank of England. + +"I'm going to put my shirt on it myself," he said. + +The shares were two and an eighth to a quarter. He advised Philip not to +be greedy, but to be satisfied with a ten-shilling rise. He was buying +three hundred for himself and suggested that Philip should do the same. He +would hold them and sell when he thought fit. Philip had great faith in +him, partly because he was a Scotsman and therefore by nature cautious, +and partly because he had been right before. He jumped at the suggestion. + +"I daresay we shall be able to sell before the account," said Macalister, +"but if not, I'll arrange to carry them over for you." + +It seemed a capital system to Philip. You held on till you got your +profit, and you never even had to put your hand in your pocket. He began +to watch the Stock Exchange columns of the paper with new interest. Next +day everything was up a little, and Macalister wrote to say that he had +had to pay two and a quarter for the shares. He said that the market was +firm. But in a day or two there was a set-back. The news that came from +South Africa was less reassuring, and Philip with anxiety saw that his +shares had fallen to two; but Macalister was optimistic, the Boers +couldn't hold out much longer, and he was willing to bet a top-hat that +Roberts would march into Johannesburg before the middle of April. At the +account Philip had to pay out nearly forty pounds. It worried him +considerably, but he felt that the only course was to hold on: in his +circumstances the loss was too great for him to pocket. For two or three +weeks nothing happened; the Boers would not understand that they were +beaten and nothing remained for them but to surrender: in fact they had +one or two small successes, and Philip's shares fell half a crown more. It +became evident that the war was not finished. There was a lot of selling. +When Macalister saw Philip he was pessimistic. + +"I'm not sure if the best thing wouldn't be to cut the loss. I've been +paying out about as much as I want to in differences." + +Philip was sick with anxiety. He could not sleep at night; he bolted his +breakfast, reduced now to tea and bread and butter, in order to get over +to the club reading-room and see the paper; sometimes the news was bad, +and sometimes there was no news at all, but when the shares moved it was +to go down. He did not know what to do. If he sold now he would lose +altogether hard on three hundred and fifty pounds; and that would leave +him only eighty pounds to go on with. He wished with all his heart that he +had never been such a fool as to dabble on the Stock Exchange, but the +only thing was to hold on; something decisive might happen any day and the +shares would go up; he did not hope now for a profit, but he wanted to +make good his loss. It was his only chance of finishing his course at the +hospital. The Summer session was beginning in May, and at the end of it he +meant to take the examination in midwifery. Then he would only have a year +more; he reckoned it out carefully and came to the conclusion that he +could manage it, fees and all, on a hundred and fifty pounds; but that was +the least it could possibly be done on. + +Early in April he went to the tavern in Beak Street anxious to see +Macalister. It eased him a little to discuss the situation with him; and +to realise that numerous people beside himself were suffering from loss of +money made his own trouble a little less intolerable. But when Philip +arrived no one was there but Hayward, and no sooner had Philip seated +himself than he said: + +"I'm sailing for the Cape on Sunday." + +"Are you!" exclaimed Philip. + +Hayward was the last person he would have expected to do anything of the +kind. At the hospital men were going out now in numbers; the Government +was glad to get anyone who was qualified; and others, going out as +troopers, wrote home that they had been put on hospital work as soon as it +was learned that they were medical students. A wave of patriotic feeling +had swept over the country, and volunteers were coming from all ranks of +society. + +"What are you going as?" asked Philip. + +"Oh, in the Dorset Yeomanry. I'm going as a trooper." + +Philip had known Hayward for eight years. The youthful intimacy which had +come from Philip's enthusiastic admiration for the man who could tell him +of art and literature had long since vanished; but habit had taken its +place; and when Hayward was in London they saw one another once or twice +a week. He still talked about books with a delicate appreciation. Philip +was not yet tolerant, and sometimes Hayward's conversation irritated him. +He no longer believed implicitly that nothing in the world was of +consequence but art. He resented Hayward's contempt for action and +success. Philip, stirring his punch, thought of his early friendship and +his ardent expectation that Hayward would do great things; it was long +since he had lost all such illusions, and he knew now that Hayward would +never do anything but talk. He found his three hundred a year more +difficult to live on now that he was thirty-five than he had when he was +a young man; and his clothes, though still made by a good tailor, were +worn a good deal longer than at one time he would have thought possible. +He was too stout and no artful arrangement of his fair hair could conceal +the fact that he was bald. His blue eyes were dull and pale. It was not +hard to guess that he drank too much. + +"What on earth made you think of going out to the Cape?" asked Philip. + +"Oh, I don't know, I thought I ought to." + +Philip was silent. He felt rather silly. He understood that Hayward was +being driven by an uneasiness in his soul which he could not account for. +Some power within him made it seem necessary to go and fight for his +country. It was strange, since he considered patriotism no more than a +prejudice, and, flattering himself on his cosmopolitanism, he had looked +upon England as a place of exile. His countrymen in the mass wounded his +susceptibilities. Philip wondered what it was that made people do things +which were so contrary to all their theories of life. It would have been +reasonable for Hayward to stand aside and watch with a smile while the +barbarians slaughtered one another. It looked as though men were puppets +in the hands of an unknown force, which drove them to do this and that; +and sometimes they used their reason to justify their actions; and when +this was impossible they did the actions in despite of reason. + +"People are very extraordinary," said Philip. "I should never have +expected you to go out as a trooper." + +Hayward smiled, slightly embarrassed, and said nothing. + +"I was examined yesterday," he remarked at last. "It was worth while +undergoing the gene of it to know that one was perfectly fit." + +Philip noticed that he still used a French word in an affected way when an +English one would have served. But just then Macalister came in. + +"I wanted to see you, Carey," he said. "My people don't feel inclined to +hold those shares any more, the market's in such an awful state, and they +want you to take them up." + +Philip's heart sank. He knew that was impossible. It meant that he must +accept the loss. His pride made him answer calmly. + +"I don't know that I think that's worth while. You'd better sell them." + +"It's all very fine to say that, I'm not sure if I can. The market's +stagnant, there are no buyers." + +"But they're marked down at one and an eighth." + +"Oh yes, but that doesn't mean anything. You can't get that for them." + +Philip did not say anything for a moment. He was trying to collect +himself. + +"D'you mean to say they're worth nothing at all?" + +"Oh, I don't say that. Of course they're worth something, but you see, +nobody's buying them now." + +"Then you must just sell them for what you can get." + +Macalister looked at Philip narrowly. He wondered whether he was very hard +hit. + +"I'm awfully sorry, old man, but we're all in the same boat. No one +thought the war was going to hang on this way. I put you into them, but I +was in myself too." + +"It doesn't matter at all," said Philip. "One has to take one's chance." + +He moved back to the table from which he had got up to talk to Macalister. +He was dumfounded; his head suddenly began to ache furiously; but he did +not want them to think him unmanly. He sat on for an hour. He laughed +feverishly at everything they said. At last he got up to go. + +"You take it pretty coolly," said Macalister, shaking hands with him. "I +don't suppose anyone likes losing between three and four hundred pounds." + +When Philip got back to his shabby little room he flung himself on his +bed, and gave himself over to his despair. He kept on regretting his folly +bitterly; and though he told himself that it was absurd to regret for what +had happened was inevitable just because it had happened, he could not +help himself. He was utterly miserable. He could not sleep. He remembered +all the ways he had wasted money during the last few years. His head ached +dreadfully. + +The following evening there came by the last post the statement of his +account. He examined his pass-book. He found that when he had paid +everything he would have seven pounds left. Seven pounds! He was thankful +he had been able to pay. It would have been horrible to be obliged to +confess to Macalister that he had not the money. He was dressing in the +eye-department during the summer session, and he had bought an +ophthalmoscope off a student who had one to sell. He had not paid for +this, but he lacked the courage to tell the student that he wanted to go +back on his bargain. Also he had to buy certain books. He had about five +pounds to go on with. It lasted him six weeks; then he wrote to his uncle +a letter which he thought very business-like; he said that owing to the +war he had had grave losses and could not go on with his studies unless +his uncle came to his help. He suggested that the Vicar should lend him a +hundred and fifty pounds paid over the next eighteen months in monthly +instalments; he would pay interest on this and promised to refund the +capital by degrees when he began to earn money. He would be qualified in +a year and a half at the latest, and he could be pretty sure then of +getting an assistantship at three pounds a week. His uncle wrote back that +he could do nothing. It was not fair to ask him to sell out when +everything was at its worst, and the little he had he felt that his duty +to himself made it necessary for him to keep in case of illness. He ended +the letter with a little homily. He had warned Philip time after time, and +Philip had never paid any attention to him; he could not honestly say he +was surprised; he had long expected that this would be the end of Philip's +extravagance and want of balance. Philip grew hot and cold when he read +this. It had never occurred to him that his uncle would refuse, and he +burst into furious anger; but this was succeeded by utter blankness: if +his uncle would not help him he could not go on at the hospital. Panic +seized him and, putting aside his pride, he wrote again to the Vicar of +Blackstable, placing the case before him more urgently; but perhaps he did +not explain himself properly and his uncle did not realise in what +desperate straits he was, for he answered that he could not change his +mind; Philip was twenty-five and really ought to be earning his living. +When he died Philip would come into a little, but till then he refused to +give him a penny. Philip felt in the letter the satisfaction of a man who +for many years had disapproved of his courses and now saw himself +justified. + + + +XCIX + + +Philip began to pawn his clothes. He reduced his expenses by eating only +one meal a day beside his breakfast; and he ate it, bread and butter and +cocoa, at four so that it should last him till next morning. He was so +hungry by nine o'clock that he had to go to bed. He thought of borrowing +money from Lawson, but the fear of a refusal held him back; at last he +asked him for five pounds. Lawson lent it with pleasure, but, as he did +so, said: + +"You'll let me have it back in a week or so, won't you? I've got to pay my +framer, and I'm awfully broke just now." + +Philip knew he would not be able to return it, and the thought of what +Lawson would think made him so ashamed that in a couple of days he took +the money back untouched. Lawson was just going out to luncheon and asked +Philip to come too. Philip could hardly eat, he was so glad to get some +solid food. On Sunday he was sure of a good dinner from Athelny. He +hesitated to tell the Athelnys what had happened to him: they had always +looked upon him as comparatively well-to-do, and he had a dread that they +would think less well of him if they knew he was penniless. + +Though he had always been poor, the possibility of not having enough to +eat had never occurred to him; it was not the sort of thing that happened +to the people among whom he lived; and he was as ashamed as if he had some +disgraceful disease. The situation in which he found himself was quite +outside the range of his experience. He was so taken aback that he did not +know what else to do than to go on at the hospital; he had a vague hope +that something would turn up; he could not quite believe that what was +happening to him was true; and he remembered how during his first term at +school he had often thought his life was a dream from which he would awake +to find himself once more at home. But very soon he foresaw that in a week +or so he would have no money at all. He must set about trying to earn +something at once. If he had been qualified, even with a club-foot, he +could have gone out to the Cape, since the demand for medical men was now +great. Except for his deformity he might have enlisted in one of the +yeomanry regiments which were constantly being sent out. He went to the +secretary of the Medical School and asked if he could give him the +coaching of some backward student; but the secretary held out no hope of +getting him anything of the sort. Philip read the advertisement columns of +the medical papers, and he applied for the post of unqualified assistant +to a man who had a dispensary in the Fulham Road. When he went to see him, +he saw the doctor glance at his club-foot; and on hearing that Philip was +only in his fourth year at the hospital he said at once that his +experience was insufficient: Philip understood that this was only an +excuse; the man would not have an assistant who might not be as active as +he wanted. Philip turned his attention to other means of earning money. He +knew French and German and thought there might be some chance of finding +a job as correspondence clerk; it made his heart sink, but he set his +teeth; there was nothing else to do. Though too shy to answer the +advertisements which demanded a personal application, he replied to those +which asked for letters; but he had no experience to state and no +recommendations: he was conscious that neither his German nor his French +was commercial; he was ignorant of the terms used in business; he knew +neither shorthand nor typewriting. He could not help recognising that his +case was hopeless. He thought of writing to the solicitor who had been his +father's executor, but he could not bring himself to, for it was contrary +to his express advice that he had sold the mortgages in which his money +had been invested. He knew from his uncle that Mr. Nixon thoroughly +disapproved of him. He had gathered from Philip's year in the accountant's +office that he was idle and incompetent. + +"I'd sooner starve," Philip muttered to himself. + +Once or twice the possibility of suicide presented itself to him; it would +be easy to get something from the hospital dispensary, and it was a +comfort to think that if the worst came to the worst he had at hand means +of making a painless end of himself; but it was not a course that he +considered seriously. When Mildred had left him to go with Griffiths his +anguish had been so great that he wanted to die in order to get rid of the +pain. He did not feel like that now. He remembered that the Casualty +Sister had told him how people oftener did away with themselves for want +of money than for want of love; and he chuckled when he thought that he +was an exception. He wished only that he could talk his worries over with +somebody, but he could not bring himself to confess them. He was ashamed. +He went on looking for work. He left his rent unpaid for three weeks, +explaining to his landlady that he would get money at the end of the +month; she did not say anything, but pursed her lips and looked grim. When +the end of the month came and she asked if it would be convenient for him +to pay something on account, it made him feel very sick to say that he +could not; he told her he would write to his uncle and was sure to be able +to settle his bill on the following Saturday. + +"Well, I 'ope you will, Mr. Carey, because I 'ave my rent to pay, and I +can't afford to let accounts run on." She did not speak with anger, but +with determination that was rather frightening. She paused for a moment +and then said: "If you don't pay next Saturday, I shall 'ave to complain +to the secretary of the 'ospital." + +"Oh yes, that'll be all right." + +She looked at him for a little and glanced round the bare room. When she +spoke it was without any emphasis, as though it were quite a natural thing +to say. + +"I've got a nice 'ot joint downstairs, and if you like to come down to the +kitchen you're welcome to a bit of dinner." + +Philip felt himself redden to the soles of his feet, and a sob caught at +his throat. + +"Thank you very much, Mrs. Higgins, but I'm not at all hungry." + +"Very good, sir." + +When she left the room Philip threw himself on his bed. He had to clench +his fists in order to prevent himself from crying. + + + +C + + +Saturday. It was the day on which he had promised to pay his landlady. He +had been expecting something to turn up all through the week. He had found +no work. He had never been driven to extremities before, and he was so +dazed that he did not know what to do. He had at the back of his mind a +feeling that the whole thing was a preposterous joke. He had no more than +a few coppers left, he had sold all the clothes he could do without; he +had some books and one or two odds and ends upon which he might have got +a shilling or two, but the landlady was keeping an eye on his comings and +goings: he was afraid she would stop him if he took anything more from his +room. The only thing was to tell her that he could not pay his bill. He +had not the courage. It was the middle of June. The night was fine and +warm. He made up his mind to stay out. He walked slowly along the Chelsea +Embankment, because the river was restful and quiet, till he was tired, +and then sat on a bench and dozed. He did not know how long he slept; he +awoke with a start, dreaming that he was being shaken by a policeman and +told to move on; but when he opened his eyes he found himself alone. He +walked on, he did not know why, and at last came to Chiswick, where he +slept again. Presently the hardness of the bench roused him. The night +seemed very long. He shivered. He was seized with a sense of his misery; +and he did not know what on earth to do: he was ashamed at having slept on +the Embankment; it seemed peculiarly humiliating, and he felt his cheeks +flush in the darkness. He remembered stories he had heard of those who did +and how among them were officers, clergymen, and men who had been to +universities: he wondered if he would become one of them, standing in a +line to get soup from a charitable institution. It would be much better to +commit suicide. He could not go on like that: Lawson would help him when +he knew what straits he was in; it was absurd to let his pride prevent him +from asking for assistance. He wondered why he had come such a cropper. He +had always tried to do what he thought best, and everything had gone +wrong. He had helped people when he could, he did not think he had been +more selfish than anyone else, it seemed horribly unjust that he should be +reduced to such a pass. + +But it was no good thinking about it. He walked on. It was now light: the +river was beautiful in the silence, and there was something mysterious in +the early day; it was going to be very fine, and the sky, pale in the +dawn, was cloudless. He felt very tired, and hunger was gnawing at his +entrails, but he could not sit still; he was constantly afraid of being +spoken to by a policeman. He dreaded the mortification of that. He felt +dirty and wished he could have a wash. At last he found himself at Hampton +Court. He felt that if he did not have something to eat he would cry. He +chose a cheap eating-house and went in; there was a smell of hot things, +and it made him feel slightly sick: he meant to eat something nourishing +enough to keep up for the rest of the day, but his stomach revolted at the +sight of food. He had a cup of tea and some bread and butter. He +remembered then that it was Sunday and he could go to the Athelnys; he +thought of the roast beef and the Yorkshire pudding they would eat; but he +was fearfully tired and could not face the happy, noisy family. He was +feeling morose and wretched. He wanted to be left alone. He made up his +mind that he would go into the gardens of the palace and lie down. His +bones ached. Perhaps he would find a pump so that he could wash his hands +and face and drink something; he was very thirsty; and now that he was no +longer hungry he thought with pleasure of the flowers and the lawns and +the great leafy trees. He felt that there he could think out better what +he must do. He lay on the grass, in the shade, and lit his pipe. For +economy's sake he had for a long time confined himself to two pipes a day; +he was thankful now that his pouch was full. He did not know what people +did when they had no money. Presently he fell asleep. When he awoke it was +nearly mid-day, and he thought that soon he must be setting out for London +so as to be there in the early morning and answer any advertisements which +seemed to promise. He thought of his uncle, who had told him that he would +leave him at his death the little he had; Philip did not in the least know +how much this was: it could not be more than a few hundred pounds. He +wondered whether he could raise money on the reversion. Not without the +old man's consent, and that he would never give. + +"The only thing I can do is to hang on somehow till he dies." + +Philip reckoned his age. The Vicar of Blackstable was well over seventy. +He had chronic bronchitis, but many old men had that and lived on +indefinitely. Meanwhile something must turn up; Philip could not get away +from the feeling that his position was altogether abnormal; people in his +particular station did not starve. It was because he could not bring +himself to believe in the reality of his experience that he did not give +way to utter despair. He made up his mind to borrow half a sovereign from +Lawson. He stayed in the garden all day and smoked when he felt very +hungry; he did not mean to eat anything until he was setting out again for +London: it was a long way and he must keep up his strength for that. He +started when the day began to grow cooler, and slept on benches when he +was tired. No one disturbed him. He had a wash and brush up, and a shave +at Victoria, some tea and bread and butter, and while he was eating this +read the advertisement columns of the morning paper. As he looked down +them his eye fell upon an announcement asking for a salesman in the +`furnishing drapery' department of some well-known stores. He had a +curious little sinking of the heart, for with his middle-class prejudices +it seemed dreadful to go into a shop; but he shrugged his shoulders, after +all what did it matter? and he made up his mind to have a shot at it. He +had a queer feeling that by accepting every humiliation, by going out to +meet it even, he was forcing the hand of fate. When he presented himself, +feeling horribly shy, in the department at nine o'clock he found that many +others were there before him. They were of all ages, from boys of sixteen +to men of forty; some were talking to one another in undertones, but most +were silent; and when he took up his place those around him gave him a +look of hostility. He heard one man say: + +"The only thing I look forward to is getting my refusal soon enough to +give me time to look elsewhere." + +The man, standing next him, glanced at Philip and asked: + +"Had any experience?" + +"No," said Philip. + +He paused a moment and then made a remark: "Even the smaller houses won't +see you without appointment after lunch." + +Philip looked at the assistants. Some were draping chintzes and cretonnes, +and others, his neighbour told him were preparing country orders that had +come in by post. At about a quarter past nine the buyer arrived. He heard +one of the men who were waiting say to another that it was Mr. Gibbons. He +was middle-aged, short and corpulent, with a black beard and dark, greasy +hair. He had brisk movements and a clever face. He wore a silk hat and a +frock coat, the lapel of which was adorned with a white geranium +surrounded by leaves. He went into his office, leaving the door open; it +was very small and contained only an American roll-desk in the corner, a +bookcase, and a cupboard. The men standing outside watched him +mechanically take the geranium out of his coat and put it in an ink-pot +filled with water. It was against the rules to wear flowers in business. + +[During the day the department men who wanted to keep in with the governor +admired the flower. + +"I've never seen better," they said, "you didn't grow it yourself?" + +"Yes I did," he smiled, and a gleam of pride filled his intelligent eyes.] + +He took off his hat and changed his coat, glanced at the letters and then +at the men who were waiting to see him. He made a slight sign with one +finger, and the first in the queue stepped into the office. They filed +past him one by one and answered his questions. He put them very briefly, +keeping his eyes fixed on the applicant's face. + +"Age? Experience? Why did you leave your job?" + +He listened to the replies without expression. When it came to Philip's +turn he fancied that Mr. Gibbons stared at him curiously. Philip's clothes +were neat and tolerably cut. He looked a little different from the others. + +"Experience?" + +"I'm afraid I haven't any," said Philip. + +"No good." + +Philip walked out of the office. The ordeal had been so much less painful +than he expected that he felt no particular disappointment. He could +hardly hope to succeed in getting a place the first time he tried. He had +kept the newspaper and now looked at the advertisements again: a shop in +Holborn needed a salesman too, and he went there; but when he arrived he +found that someone had already been engaged. If he wanted to get anything +to eat that day he must go to Lawson's studio before he went out to +luncheon, so he made his way along the Brompton Road to Yeoman's Row. + +"I say, I'm rather broke till the end of the month," he said as soon as he +found an opportunity. "I wish you'd lend me half a sovereign, will you?" + +It was incredible the difficulty he found in asking for money; and he +remembered the casual way, as though almost they were conferring a favour, +men at the hospital had extracted small sums out of him which they had no +intention of repaying. + +"Like a shot," said Lawson. + +But when he put his hand in his pocket he found that he had only eight +shillings. Philip's heart sank. + +"Oh well, lend me five bob, will you?" he said lightly. + +"Here you are." + +Philip went to the public baths in Westminster and spent sixpence on a +bath. Then he got himself something to eat. He did not know what to do +with himself in the afternoon. He would not go back to the hospital in +case anyone should ask him questions, and besides, he had nothing to do +there now; they would wonder in the two or three departments he had worked +in why he did not come, but they must think what they chose, it did not +matter: he would not be the first student who had dropped out without +warning. He went to the free library, and looked at the papers till they +wearied him, then he took out Stevenson's New Arabian Nights; but he +found he could not read: the words meant nothing to him, and he continued +to brood over his helplessness. He kept on thinking the same things all +the time, and the fixity of his thoughts made his head ache. At last, +craving for fresh air, he went into the Green Park and lay down on the +grass. He thought miserably of his deformity, which made it impossible for +him to go to the war. He went to sleep and dreamt that he was suddenly +sound of foot and out at the Cape in a regiment of Yeomanry; the pictures +he had looked at in the illustrated papers gave materials for his fancy; +and he saw himself on the Veldt, in khaki, sitting with other men round a +fire at night. When he awoke he found that it was still quite light, and +presently he heard Big Ben strike seven. He had twelve hours to get +through with nothing to do. He dreaded the interminable night. The sky was +overcast and he feared it would rain; he would have to go to a +lodging-house where he could get a bed; he had seen them advertised on +lamps outside houses in Lambeth: Good Beds sixpence; he had never been +inside one, and dreaded the foul smell and the vermin. He made up his mind +to stay in the open air if he possibly could. He remained in the park till +it was closed and then began to walk about. He was very tired. The thought +came to him that an accident would be a piece of luck, so that he could be +taken to a hospital and lie there, in a clean bed, for weeks. At midnight +he was so hungry that he could not go without food any more, so he went to +a coffee stall at Hyde Park Corner and ate a couple of potatoes and had a +cup of coffee. Then he walked again. He felt too restless to sleep, and he +had a horrible dread of being moved on by the police. He noted that he was +beginning to look upon the constable from quite a new angle. This was the +third night he had spent out. Now and then he sat on the benches in +Piccadilly and towards morning he strolled down to The Embankment. He +listened to the striking of Big Ben, marking every quarter of an hour, and +reckoned out how long it left till the city woke again. In the morning he +spent a few coppers on making himself neat and clean, bought a paper to +read the advertisements, and set out once more on the search for work. + +He went on in this way for several days. He had very little food and began +to feel weak and ill, so that he had hardly enough energy to go on looking +for the work which seemed so desperately hard to find. He was growing used +now to the long waiting at the back of a shop on the chance that he would +be taken on, and the curt dismissal. He walked to all parts of London in +answer to the advertisements, and he came to know by sight men who applied +as fruitlessly as himself. One or two tried to make friends with him, but +he was too tired and too wretched to accept their advances. He did not go +any more to Lawson, because he owed him five shillings. He began to be too +dazed to think clearly and ceased very much to care what would happen to +him. He cried a good deal. At first he was very angry with himself for +this and ashamed, but he found it relieved him, and somehow made him feel +less hungry. In the very early morning he suffered a good deal from cold. +One night he went into his room to change his linen; he slipped in about +three, when he was quite sure everyone would be asleep, and out again at +five; he lay on the bed and its softness was enchanting; all his bones +ached, and as he lay he revelled in the pleasure of it; it was so +delicious that he did not want to go to sleep. He was growing used to want +of food and did not feel very hungry, but only weak. Constantly now at the +back of his mind was the thought of doing away with himself, but he used +all the strength he had not to dwell on it, because he was afraid the +temptation would get hold of him so that he would not be able to help +himself. He kept on saying to himself that it would be absurd to commit +suicide, since something must happen soon; he could not get over the +impression that his situation was too preposterous to be taken quite +seriously; it was like an illness which must be endured but from which he +was bound to recover. Every night he swore that nothing would induce him +to put up with such another and determined next morning to write to his +uncle, or to Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, or to Lawson; but when the time +came he could not bring himself to make the humiliating confession of his +utter failure. He did not know how Lawson would take it. In their +friendship Lawson had been scatter-brained and he had prided himself on +his common sense. He would have to tell the whole history of his folly. He +had an uneasy feeling that Lawson, after helping him, would turn the cold +shoulder on him. His uncle and the solicitor would of course do something +for him, but he dreaded their reproaches. He did not want anyone to +reproach him: he clenched his teeth and repeated that what had happened +was inevitable just because it had happened. Regret was absurd. + +The days were unending, and the five shillings Lawson had lent him would +not last much longer. Philip longed for Sunday to come so that he could go +to Athelny's. He did not know what prevented him from going there sooner, +except perhaps that he wanted so badly to get through on his own; for +Athelny, who had been in straits as desperate, was the only person who +could do anything for him. Perhaps after dinner he could bring himself to +tell Athelny that he was in difficulties. Philip repeated to himself over +and over again what he should say to him. He was dreadfully afraid that +Athelny would put him off with airy phrases: that would be so horrible +that he wanted to delay as long as possible the putting of him to the +test. Philip had lost all confidence in his fellows. + +Saturday night was cold and raw. Philip suffered horribly. From midday on +Saturday till he dragged himself wearily to Athelny's house he ate +nothing. He spent his last twopence on Sunday morning on a wash and a +brush up in the lavatory at Charing Cross. + + + +CI + + +When Philip rang a head was put out of the window, and in a minute he +heard a noisy clatter on the stairs as the children ran down to let him +in. It was a pale, anxious, thin face that he bent down for them to kiss. +He was so moved by their exuberant affection that, to give himself time to +recover, he made excuses to linger on the stairs. He was in a hysterical +state and almost anything was enough to make him cry. They asked him why +he had not come on the previous Sunday, and he told them he had been ill; +they wanted to know what was the matter with him; and Philip, to amuse +them, suggested a mysterious ailment, the name of which, double-barrelled +and barbarous with its mixture of Greek and Latin (medical nomenclature +bristled with such), made them shriek with delight. They dragged Philip +into the parlour and made him repeat it for their father's edification. +Athelny got up and shook hands with him. He stared at Philip, but with his +round, bulging eyes he always seemed to stare, Philip did not know why on +this occasion it made him self-conscious. + +"We missed you last Sunday," he said. + +Philip could never tell lies without embarrassment, and he was scarlet +when he finished his explanation for not coming. Then Mrs. Athelny entered +and shook hands with him. + +"I hope you're better, Mr. Carey," she said. + +He did not know why she imagined that anything had been the matter with +him, for the kitchen door was closed when he came up with the children, +and they had not left him. + +"Dinner won't be ready for another ten minutes," she said, in her slow +drawl. "Won't you have an egg beaten up in a glass of milk while you're +waiting?" + +There was a look of concern on her face which made Philip uncomfortable. +He forced a laugh and answered that he was not at all hungry. Sally came +in to lay the table, and Philip began to chaff her. It was the family joke +that she would be as fat as an aunt of Mrs. Athelny, called Aunt +Elizabeth, whom the children had never seen but regarded as the type of +obscene corpulence. + +"I say, what HAS happened since I saw you last, Sally?" Philip began. + +"Nothing that I know of." + +"I believe you've been putting on weight." + +"I'm sure you haven't," she retorted. "You're a perfect skeleton." + +Philip reddened. + +"That's a tu quoque, Sally," cried her father. "You will be fined one +golden hair of your head. Jane, fetch the shears." + +"Well, he is thin, father," remonstrated Sally. "He's just skin and bone." + +"That's not the question, child. He is at perfect liberty to be thin, but +your obesity is contrary to decorum." + +As he spoke he put his arm proudly round her waist and looked at her with +admiring eyes. + +"Let me get on with the table, father. If I am comfortable there are some +who don't seem to mind it." + +"The hussy!" cried Athelny, with a dramatic wave of the hand. "She taunts +me with the notorious fact that Joseph, a son of Levi who sells jewels in +Holborn, has made her an offer of marriage." + +"Have you accepted him, Sally?" asked Philip. + +"Don't you know father better than that by this time? There's not a word +of truth in it." + +"Well, if he hasn't made you an offer of marriage," cried Athelny, "by +Saint George and Merry England, I will seize him by the nose and demand of +him immediately what are his intentions." + +"Sit down, father, dinner's ready. Now then, you children, get along with +you and wash your hands all of you, and don't shirk it, because I mean to +look at them before you have a scrap of dinner, so there." + +Philip thought he was ravenous till he began to eat, but then discovered +that his stomach turned against food, and he could eat hardly at all. His +brain was weary; and he did not notice that Athelny, contrary to his +habit, spoke very little. Philip was relieved to be sitting in a +comfortable house, but every now and then he could not prevent himself +from glancing out of the window. The day was tempestuous. The fine weather +had broken; and it was cold, and there was a bitter wind; now and again +gusts of rain drove against the window. Philip wondered what he should do +that night. The Athelnys went to bed early, and he could not stay where he +was after ten o'clock. His heart sank at the thought of going out into the +bleak darkness. It seemed more terrible now that he was with his friends +than when he was outside and alone. He kept on saying to himself that +there were plenty more who would be spending the night out of doors. He +strove to distract his mind by talking, but in the middle of his words a +spatter of rain against the window would make him start. + +"It's like March weather," said Athelny. "Not the sort of day one would +like to be crossing the Channel." + +Presently they finished, and Sally came in and cleared away. + +"Would you like a twopenny stinker?" said Athelny, handing him a cigar. + +Philip took it and inhaled the smoke with delight. It soothed him +extraordinarily. When Sally had finished Athelny told her to shut the door +after her. + +"Now we shan't be disturbed," he said, turning to Philip. "I've arranged +with Betty not to let the children come in till I call them." + +Philip gave him a startled look, but before he could take in the meaning +of his words, Athelny, fixing his glasses on his nose with the gesture +habitual to him, went on. + +"I wrote to you last Sunday to ask if anything was the matter with you, +and as you didn't answer I went to your rooms on Wednesday." + +Philip turned his head away and did not answer. His heart began to beat +violently. Athelny did not speak, and presently the silence seemed +intolerable to Philip. He could not think of a single word to say. + +"Your landlady told me you hadn't been in since Saturday night, and she +said you owed her for the last month. Where have you been sleeping all +this week?" + +It made Philip sick to answer. He stared out of the window. + +"Nowhere." + +"I tried to find you." + +"Why?" asked Philip. + +"Betty and I have been just as broke in our day, only we had babies to +look after. Why didn't you come here?" + +"I couldn't." + +Philip was afraid he was going to cry. He felt very weak. He shut his eyes +and frowned, trying to control himself. He felt a sudden flash of anger +with Athelny because he would not leave him alone; but he was broken; and +presently, his eyes still closed, slowly in order to keep his voice +steady, he told him the story of his adventures during the last few weeks. +As he spoke it seemed to him that he had behaved inanely, and it made it +still harder to tell. He felt that Athelny would think him an utter fool. + +"Now you're coming to live with us till you find something to do," said +Athelny, when he had finished. + +Philip flushed, he knew not why. + +"Oh, it's awfully kind of you, but I don't think I'll do that." + +"Why not?" + +Philip did not answer. He had refused instinctively from fear that he +would be a bother, and he had a natural bashfulness of accepting favours. +He knew besides that the Athelnys lived from hand to mouth, and with their +large family had neither space nor money to entertain a stranger. + +"Of course you must come here," said Athelny. "Thorpe will tuck in with +one of his brothers and you can sleep in his bed. You don't suppose your +food's going to make any difference to us." + +Philip was afraid to speak, and Athelny, going to the door, called his +wife. + +"Betty," he said, when she came in, "Mr. Carey's coming to live with us." + +"Oh, that is nice," she said. "I'll go and get the bed ready." + +She spoke in such a hearty, friendly tone, taking everything for granted, +that Philip was deeply touched. He never expected people to be kind to +him, and when they were it surprised and moved him. Now he could not +prevent two large tears from rolling down his cheeks. The Athelnys +discussed the arrangements and pretended not to notice to what a state his +weakness had brought him. When Mrs. Athelny left them Philip leaned back +in his chair, and looking out of the window laughed a little. + +"It's not a very nice night to be out, is it?" + + + +CII + + +Athelny told Philip that he could easily get him something to do in the +large firm of linendrapers in which himself worked. Several of the +assistants had gone to the war, and Lynn and Sedley with patriotic zeal +had promised to keep their places open for them. They put the work of the +heroes on those who remained, and since they did not increase the wages of +these were able at once to exhibit public spirit and effect an economy; +but the war continued and trade was less depressed; the holidays were +coming, when numbers of the staff went away for a fortnight at a time: +they were bound to engage more assistants. Philip's experience had made +him doubtful whether even then they would engage him; but Athelny, +representing himself as a person of consequence in the firm, insisted that +the manager could refuse him nothing. Philip, with his training in Paris, +would be very useful; it was only a matter of waiting a little and he was +bound to get a well-paid job to design costumes and draw posters. Philip +made a poster for the summer sale and Athelny took it away. Two days later +he brought it back, saying that the manager admired it very much and +regretted with all his heart that there was no vacancy just then in that +department. Philip asked whether there was nothing else he could do. + +"I'm afraid not." + +"Are you quite sure?" + +"Well, the fact is they're advertising for a shop-walker tomorrow," said +Athelny, looking at him doubtfully through his glasses. + +"D'you think I stand any chance of getting it?" + +Athelny was a little confused; he had led Philip to expect something much +more splendid; on the other hand he was too poor to go on providing him +indefinitely with board and lodging. + +"You might take it while you wait for something better. You always stand +a better chance if you're engaged by the firm already." + +"I'm not proud, you, know" smiled Philip. + +"If you decide on that you must be there at a quarter to nine tomorrow +morning." + +Notwithstanding the war there was evidently much difficulty in finding +work, for when Philip went to the shop many men were waiting already. He +recognised some whom he had seen in his own searching, and there was one +whom he had noticed lying about the park in the afternoon. To Philip now +that suggested that he was as homeless as himself and passed the night out +of doors. The men were of all sorts, old and young, tall and short; but +every one had tried to make himself smart for the interview with the +manager: they had carefully brushed hair and scrupulously clean hands. +They waited in a passage which Philip learnt afterwards led up to the +dining-hall and the work rooms; it was broken every few yards by five or +six steps. Though there was electric light in the shop here was only gas, +with wire cages over it for protection, and it flared noisily. Philip +arrived punctually, but it was nearly ten o'clock when he was admitted +into the office. It was three-cornered, like a cut of cheese lying on its +side: on the walls were pictures of women in corsets, and two +poster-proofs, one of a man in pyjamas, green and white in large stripes, +and the other of a ship in full sail ploughing an azure sea: on the sail +was printed in large letters `great white sale.' The widest side of the +office was the back of one of the shop-windows, which was being dressed at +the time, and an assistant went to and fro during the interview. The +manager was reading a letter. He was a florid man, with sandy hair and a +large sandy moustache; from the middle of his watch-chain hung a bunch of +football medals. He sat in his shirt sleeves at a large desk with a +telephone by his side; before him were the day's advertisements, Athelny's +work, and cuttings from newspapers pasted on a card. He gave Philip a +glance but did not speak to him; he dictated a letter to the typist, a +girl who sat at a small table in one corner; then he asked Philip his +name, age, and what experience he had had. He spoke with a cockney twang +in a high, metallic voice which he seemed not able always to control; +Philip noticed that his upper teeth were large and protruding; they gave +you the impression that they were loose and would come out if you gave +them a sharp tug. + +"I think Mr. Athelny has spoken to you about me," said Philip. + +"Oh, you are the young feller who did that poster?" + +"Yes, sir." + +"No good to us, you know, not a bit of good." + +He looked Philip up and down. He seemed to notice that Philip was in some +way different from the men who had preceded him. + +"You'd 'ave to get a frock coat, you know. I suppose you 'aven't got one. +You seem a respectable young feller. I suppose you found art didn't pay." + +Philip could not tell whether he meant to engage him or not. He threw +remarks at him in a hostile way. + +"Where's your home?" + +"My father and mother died when I was a child." + +"I like to give young fellers a chance. Many's the one I've given their +chance to and they're managers of departments now. And they're grateful to +me, I'll say that for them. They know what I done for them. Start at the +bottom of the ladder, that's the only way to learn the business, and then +if you stick to it there's no knowing what it can lead to. If you suit, +one of these days you may find yourself in a position like what mine is. +Bear that in mind, young feller." + +"I'm very anxious to do my best, sir," said Philip. + +He knew that he must put in the sir whenever he could, but it sounded odd +to him, and he was afraid of overdoing it. The manager liked talking. It +gave him a happy consciousness of his own importance, and he did not give +Philip his decision till he had used a great many words. + +"Well, I daresay you'll do," he said at last, in a pompous way. "Anyhow I +don't mind giving you a trial." + +"Thank you very much, sir." + +"You can start at once. I'll give you six shillings a week and your keep. +Everything found, you know; the six shillings is only pocket money, to do +what you like with, paid monthly. Start on Monday. I suppose you've got no +cause of complaint with that." + +"No, sir." + +"Harrington Street, d'you know where that is, Shaftesbury Avenue. That's +where you sleep. Number ten, it is. You can sleep there on Sunday night, +if you like; that's just as you please, or you can send your box there on +Monday." The manager nodded: "Good-morning." + + + +CIII + + +Mrs. Athelny lent Philip money to pay his landlady enough of her bill to +let him take his things away. For five shillings and the pawn-ticket on a +suit he was able to get from a pawnbroker a frock coat which fitted him +fairly well. He redeemed the rest of his clothes. He sent his box to +Harrington Street by Carter Patterson and on Monday morning went with +Athelny to the shop. Athelny introduced him to the buyer of the costumes +and left him. The buyer was a pleasant, fussy little man of thirty, named +Sampson; he shook hands with Philip, and, in order to show his own +accomplishment of which he was very proud, asked him if he spoke French. +He was surprised when Philip told him he did. + +"Any other language?" + +"I speak German." + +"Oh! I go over to Paris myself occasionally. Parlez-vous francais? Ever +been to Maxim's?" + +Philip was stationed at the top of the stairs in the `costumes.' His work +consisted in directing people to the various departments. There seemed a +great many of them as Mr. Sampson tripped them off his tongue. Suddenly he +noticed that Philip limped. + +"What's the matter with your leg?" he asked. + +"I've got a club-foot," said Philip. "But it doesn't prevent my walking or +anything like that." + +The buyer looked at it for a moment doubtfully, and Philip surmised that +he was wondering why the manager had engaged him. Philip knew that he had +not noticed there was anything the matter with him. + +"I don't expect you to get them all correct the first day. If you're in +any doubt all you've got to do is to ask one of the young ladies." + +Mr. Sampson turned away; and Philip, trying to remember where this or the +other department was, watched anxiously for the customer in search of +information. At one o'clock he went up to dinner. The dining-room, on the +top floor of the vast building, was large, long, and well lit; but all the +windows were shut to keep out the dust, and there was a horrid smell of +cooking. There were long tables covered with cloths, with big glass +bottles of water at intervals, and down the centre salt cellars and +bottles of vinegar. The assistants crowded in noisily, and sat down on +forms still warm from those who had dined at twelve-thirty. + +"No pickles," remarked the man next to Philip. + +He was a tall thin young man, with a hooked nose and a pasty face; he had +a long head, unevenly shaped as though the skull had been pushed in here +and there oddly, and on his forehead and neck were large acne spots red +and inflamed. His name was Harris. Philip discovered that on some days +there were large soup-plates down the table full of mixed pickles. They +were very popular. There were no knives and forks, but in a minute a large +fat boy in a white coat came in with a couple of handfuls of them and +threw them loudly on the middle of the table. Each man took what he +wanted; they were warm and greasy from recent washing in dirty water. +Plates of meat swimming in gravy were handed round by boys in white +jackets, and as they flung each plate down with the quick gesture of a +prestidigitator the gravy slopped over on to the table-cloth. Then they +brought large dishes of cabbages and potatoes; the sight of them turned +Philip's stomach; he noticed that everyone poured quantities of vinegar +over them. The noise was awful. They talked and laughed and shouted, and +there was the clatter of knives and forks, and strange sounds of eating. +Philip was glad to get back into the department. He was beginning to +remember where each one was, and had less often to ask one of the +assistants, when somebody wanted to know the way. + +"First to the right. Second on the left, madam." + +One or two of the girls spoke to him, just a word when things were slack, +and he felt they were taking his measure. At five he was sent up again to +the dining-room for tea. He was glad to sit down. There were large slices +of bread heavily spread with butter; and many had pots of jam, which were +kept in the `store' and had their names written on. + +Philip was exhausted when work stopped at half past six. Harris, the man +he had sat next to at dinner, offered to take him over to Harrington +Street to show him where he was to sleep. He told Philip there was a spare +bed in his room, and, as the other rooms were full, he expected Philip +would be put there. The house in Harrington Street had been a bootmaker's; +and the shop was used as a bed-room; but it was very dark, since the +window had been boarded three parts up, and as this did not open the only +ventilation came from a small skylight at the far end. There was a musty +smell, and Philip was thankful that he would not have to sleep there. +Harris took him up to the sitting-room, which was on the first floor; it +had an old piano in it with a keyboard that looked like a row of decayed +teeth; and on the table in a cigar-box without a lid was a set of +dominoes; old numbers of The Strand Magazine and of The Graphic were +lying about. The other rooms were used as bed-rooms. That in which Philip +was to sleep was at the top of the house. There were six beds in it, and +a trunk or a box stood by the side of each. The only furniture was a chest +of drawers: it had four large drawers and two small ones, and Philip as +the new-comer had one of these; there were keys to them, but as they were +all alike they were not of much use, and Harris advised him to keep his +valuables in his trunk. There was a looking-glass on the chimney-piece. +Harris showed Philip the lavatory, which was a fairly large room with +eight basins in a row, and here all the inmates did their washing. It led +into another room in which were two baths, discoloured, the woodwork +stained with soap; and in them were dark rings at various intervals which +indicated the water marks of different baths. + +When Harris and Philip went back to their bed-room they found a tall man +changing his clothes and a boy of sixteen whistling as loud as he could +while he brushed his hair. In a minute or two without saying a word to +anybody the tall man went out. Harris winked at the boy, and the boy, +whistling still, winked back. Harris told Philip that the man was called +Prior; he had been in the army and now served in the silks; he kept pretty +much to himself, and he went off every night, just like that, without so +much as a good-evening, to see his girl. Harris went out too, and only the +boy remained to watch Philip curiously while he unpacked his things. His +name was Bell and he was serving his time for nothing in the haberdashery. +He was much interested in Philip's evening clothes. He told him about the +other men in the room and asked him every sort of question about himself. +He was a cheerful youth, and in the intervals of conversation sang in a +half-broken voice snatches of music-hall songs. When Philip had finished +he went out to walk about the streets and look at the crowd; occasionally +he stopped outside the doors of restaurants and watched the people going +in; he felt hungry, so he bought a bath bun and ate it while he strolled +along. He had been given a latch-key by the prefect, the man who turned +out the gas at a quarter past eleven, but afraid of being locked out he +returned in good time; he had learned already the system of fines: you had +to pay a shilling if you came in after eleven, and half a crown after a +quarter past, and you were reported besides: if it happened three times +you were dismissed. + +All but the soldier were in when Philip arrived and two were already in +bed. Philip was greeted with cries. + +"Oh, Clarence! Naughty boy!" + +He discovered that Bell had dressed up the bolster in his evening clothes. +The boy was delighted with his joke. + +"You must wear them at the social evening, Clarence." + +"He'll catch the belle of Lynn's, if he's not careful." + +Philip had already heard of the social evenings, for the money stopped +from the wages to pay for them was one of the grievances of the staff. It +was only two shillings a month, and it covered medical attendance and the +use of a library of worn novels; but as four shillings a month besides was +stopped for washing, Philip discovered that a quarter of his six shillings +a week would never be paid to him. + +Most of the men were eating thick slices of fat bacon between a roll of +bread cut in two. These sandwiches, the assistants' usual supper, were +supplied by a small shop a few doors off at twopence each. The soldier +rolled in; silently, rapidly, took off his clothes and threw himself into +bed. At ten minutes past eleven the gas gave a big jump and five minutes +later went out. The soldier went to sleep, but the others crowded round +the big window in their pyjamas and night-shirts and, throwing remains of +their sandwiches at the women who passed in the street below, shouted to +them facetious remarks. The house opposite, six storeys high, was a +workshop for Jewish tailors who left off work at eleven; the rooms were +brightly lit and there were no blinds to the windows. The sweater's +daughter--the family consisted of father, mother, two small boys, and a +girl of twenty--went round the house to put out the lights when work was +over, and sometimes she allowed herself to be made love to by one of the +tailors. The shop assistants in Philip's room got a lot of amusement out +of watching the manoeuvres of one man or another to stay behind, and they +made small bets on which would succeed. At midnight the people were turned +out of the Harrington Arms at the end of the street, and soon after they +all went to bed: Bell, who slept nearest the door, made his way across the +room by jumping from bed to bed, and even when he got to his own would not +stop talking. At last everything was silent but for the steady snoring of +the soldier, and Philip went to sleep. + +He was awaked at seven by the loud ringing of a bell, and by a quarter to +eight they were all dressed and hurrying downstairs in their stockinged +feet to pick out their boots. They laced them as they ran along to the +shop in Oxford Street for breakfast. If they were a minute later than +eight they got none, nor, once in, were they allowed out to get themselves +anything to eat. Sometimes, if they knew they could not get into the +building in time, they stopped at the little shop near their quarters and +bought a couple of buns; but this cost money, and most went without food +till dinner. Philip ate some bread and butter, drank a cup of tea, and at +half past eight began his day's work again. + +"First to the right. Second on the left, madam." + +Soon he began to answer the questions quite mechanically. The work was +monotonous and very tiring. After a few days his feet hurt him so that he +could hardly stand: the thick soft carpets made them burn, and at night +his socks were painful to remove. It was a common complaint, and his +fellow `floormen' told him that socks and boots just rotted away from the +continual sweating. All the men in his room suffered in the same fashion, +and they relieved the pain by sleeping with their feet outside the +bed-clothes. At first Philip could not walk at all and was obliged to +spend a good many of his evenings in the sitting-room at Harrington Street +with his feet in a pail of cold water. His companion on these occasions +was Bell, the lad in the haberdashery, who stayed in often to arrange the +stamps he collected. As he fastened them with little pieces of stamp-paper +he whistled monotonously. + + + +CIV + + +The social evenings took place on alternate Mondays. There was one at the +beginning of Philip's second week at Lynn's. He arranged to go with one of +the women in his department. + +"Meet 'em 'alf-way," she said, "same as I do." + +This was Mrs. Hodges, a little woman of five-and-forty, with badly dyed +hair; she had a yellow face with a network of small red veins all over it, +and yellow whites to her pale blue eyes. She took a fancy to Philip and +called him by his Christian name before he had been in the shop a week. + +"We've both known what it is to come down," she said. + +She told Philip that her real name was not Hodges, but she always referred +to "me 'usband Misterodges;" he was a barrister and he treated her simply +shocking, so she left him as she preferred to be independent like; but she +had known what it was to drive in her own carriage, dear--she called +everyone dear--and they always had late dinner at home. She used to pick +her teeth with the pin of an enormous silver brooch. It was in the form of +a whip and a hunting-crop crossed, with two spurs in the middle. Philip +was ill at ease in his new surroundings, and the girls in the shop called +him `sidey.' One addressed him as Phil, and he did not answer because he +had not the least idea that she was speaking to him; so she tossed her +head, saying he was a `stuck-up thing,' and next time with ironical +emphasis called him Mister Carey. She was a Miss Jewell, and she was going +to marry a doctor. The other girls had never seen him, but they said he +must be a gentleman as he gave her such lovely presents. + +"Never you mind what they say, dear," said Mrs. Hodges. "I've 'ad to go +through it same as you 'ave. They don't know any better, poor things. You +take my word for it, they'll like you all right if you 'old your own same +as I 'ave." + +The social evening was held in the restaurant in the basement. The tables +were put on one side so that there might be room for dancing, and smaller +ones were set out for progressive whist. + +"The 'eads 'ave to get there early," said Mrs. Hodges. + +She introduced him to Miss Bennett, who was the belle of Lynn's. She was +the buyer in the `Petticoats,' and when Philip entered was engaged in +conversation with the buyer in the `Gentlemen's Hosiery;' Miss Bennett was +a woman of massive proportions, with a very large red face heavily +powdered and a bust of imposing dimensions; her flaxen hair was arranged +with elaboration. She was overdressed, but not badly dressed, in black +with a high collar, and she wore black glace gloves, in which she played +cards; she had several heavy gold chains round her neck, bangles on her +wrists, and circular photograph pendants, one being of Queen Alexandra; +she carried a black satin bag and chewed Sen-sens. + +"Please to meet you, Mr. Carey," she said. "This is your first visit to +our social evenings, ain't it? I expect you feel a bit shy, but there's no +cause to, I promise you that." + +She did her best to make people feel at home. She slapped them on the +shoulders and laughed a great deal. + +"Ain't I a pickle?" she cried, turning to Philip. "What must you think of +me? But I can't 'elp meself." + +Those who were going to take part in the social evening came in, the +younger members of the staff mostly, boys who had not girls of their own, +and girls who had not yet found anyone to walk with. Several of the young +gentlemen wore lounge suits with white evening ties and red silk +handkerchiefs; they were going to perform, and they had a busy, abstracted +air; some were self-confident, but others were nervous, and they watched +their public with an anxious eye. Presently a girl with a great deal of +hair sat at the piano and ran her hands noisily across the keyboard. When +the audience had settled itself she looked round and gave the name of her +piece. + +"A Drive in Russia." + +There was a round of clapping during which she deftly fixed bells to her +wrists. She smiled a little and immediately burst into energetic melody. +There was a great deal more clapping when she finished, and when this was +over, as an encore, she gave a piece which imitated the sea; there were +little trills to represent the lapping waves and thundering chords, with +the loud pedal down, to suggest a storm. After this a gentleman sang a +song called Bid me Good-bye, and as an encore obliged with Sing me to +Sleep. The audience measured their enthusiasm with a nice discrimination. +Everyone was applauded till he gave an encore, and so that there might be +no jealousy no one was applauded more than anyone else. Miss Bennett +sailed up to Philip. + +"I'm sure you play or sing, Mr. Carey," she said archly. "I can see it in +your face." + +"I'm afraid I don't." + +"Don't you even recite?" + +"I have no parlour tricks." + +The buyer in the `gentleman's hosiery' was a well-known reciter, and he +was called upon loudly to perform by all the assistants in his department. +Needing no pressing, he gave a long poem of tragic character, in which he +rolled his eyes, put his hand on his chest, and acted as though he were in +great agony. The point, that he had eaten cucumber for supper, was +divulged in the last line and was greeted with laughter, a little forced +because everyone knew the poem well, but loud and long. Miss Bennett did +not sing, play, or recite. + +"Oh no, she 'as a little game of her own," said Mrs. Hodges. + +"Now, don't you begin chaffing me. The fact is I know quite a lot about +palmistry and second sight." + +"Oh, do tell my 'and, Miss Bennett," cried the girls in her department, +eager to please her. + +"I don't like telling 'ands, I don't really. I've told people such +terrible things and they've all come true, it makes one superstitious +like." + +"Oh, Miss Bennett, just for once." + +A little crowd collected round her, and, amid screams of embarrassment, +giggles, blushings, and cries of dismay or admiration, she talked +mysteriously of fair and dark men, of money in a letter, and of journeys, +till the sweat stood in heavy beads on her painted face. + +"Look at me," she said. "I'm all of a perspiration." + +Supper was at nine. There were cakes, buns, sandwiches, tea and coffee, +all free; but if you wanted mineral water you had to pay for it. Gallantry +often led young men to offer the ladies ginger beer, but common decency +made them refuse. Miss Bennett was very fond of ginger beer, and she drank +two and sometimes three bottles during the evening; but she insisted on +paying for them herself. The men liked her for that. + +"She's a rum old bird," they said, "but mind you, she's not a bad sort, +she's not like what some are." + +After supper progressive whist was played. This was very noisy, and there +was a great deal of laughing and shouting, as people moved from table to +table. Miss Bennett grew hotter and hotter. + +"Look at me," she said. "I'm all of a perspiration." + +In due course one of the more dashing of the young men remarked that if +they wanted to dance they'd better begin. The girl who had played the +accompaniments sat at the piano and placed a decided foot on the loud +pedal. She played a dreamy waltz, marking the time with the bass, while +with the right hand she `tiddled' in alternate octaves. By way of a change +she crossed her hands and played the air in the bass. + +"She does play well, doesn't she?" Mrs. Hodges remarked to Philip. "And +what's more she's never 'ad a lesson in 'er life; it's all ear." + +Miss Bennett liked dancing and poetry better than anything in the world. +She danced well, but very, very slowly, and an expression came into her +eyes as though her thoughts were far, far away. She talked breathlessly of +the floor and the heat and the supper. She said that the Portman Rooms had +the best floor in London and she always liked the dances there; they were +very select, and she couldn't bear dancing with all sorts of men you +didn't know anything about; why, you might be exposing yourself to you +didn't know what all. Nearly all the people danced very well, and they +enjoyed themselves. Sweat poured down their faces, and the very high +collars of the young men grew limp. + +Philip looked on, and a greater depression seized him than he remembered +to have felt for a long time. He felt intolerably alone. He did not go, +because he was afraid to seem supercilious, and he talked with the girls +and laughed, but in his heart was unhappiness. Miss Bennett asked him if +he had a girl. + +"No," he smiled. + +"Oh, well, there's plenty to choose from here. And they're very nice +respectable girls, some of them. I expect you'll have a girl before you've +been here long." + +She looked at him very archly. + +"Meet 'em 'alf-way," said Mrs. Hodges. "That's what I tell him." + +It was nearly eleven o'clock, and the party broke up. Philip could not get +to sleep. Like the others he kept his aching feet outside the bed-clothes. +He tried with all his might not to think of the life he was leading. The +soldier was snoring quietly. + + + +CV + + +The wages were paid once a month by the secretary. On pay-day each batch +of assistants, coming down from tea, went into the passage and joined the +long line of people waiting orderly like the audience in a queue outside +a gallery door. One by one they entered the office. The secretary sat at +a desk with wooden bowls of money in front of him, and he asked the +employe's name; he referred to a book, quickly, after a suspicious +glance at the assistant, said aloud the sum due, and taking money out of +the bowl counted it into his hand. + +"Thank you," he said. "Next." + +"Thank you," was the reply. + +The assistant passed on to the second secretary and before leaving the +room paid him four shillings for washing money, two shillings for the +club, and any fines that he might have incurred. With what he had left he +went back into his department and there waited till it was time to go. +Most of the men in Philip's house were in debt with the woman who sold the +sandwiches they generally ate for supper. She was a funny old thing, very +fat, with a broad, red face, and black hair plastered neatly on each side +of the forehead in the fashion shown in early pictures of Queen Victoria. +She always wore a little black bonnet and a white apron; her sleeves were +tucked up to the elbow; she cut the sandwiches with large, dirty, greasy +hands; and there was grease on her bodice, grease on her apron, grease on +her skirt. She was called Mrs. Fletcher, but everyone addressed her as +`Ma'; she was really fond of the shop assistants, whom she called her +boys; she never minded giving credit towards the end of the month, and it +was known that now and then she had lent someone or other a few shillings +when he was in straits. She was a good woman. When they were leaving or +when they came back from the holidays, the boys kissed her fat red cheek; +and more than one, dismissed and unable to find another job, had got for +nothing food to keep body and soul together. The boys were sensible of her +large heart and repaid her with genuine affection. There was a story they +liked to tell of a man who had done well for himself at Bradford, and had +five shops of his own, and had come back after fifteen years and visited +Ma Fletcher and given her a gold watch. + +Philip found himself with eighteen shillings left out of his month's pay. +It was the first money he had ever earned in his life. It gave him none of +the pride which might have been expected, but merely a feeling of dismay. +The smallness of the sum emphasised the hopelessness of his position. He +took fifteen shillings to Mrs. Athelny to pay back part of what he owed +her, but she would not take more than half a sovereign. + +"D'you know, at that rate it'll take me eight months to settle up with +you." + +"As long as Athelny's in work I can afford to wait, and who knows, p'raps +they'll give you a rise." + +Athelny kept on saying that he would speak to the manager about Philip, it +was absurd that no use should be made of his talents; but he did nothing, +and Philip soon came to the conclusion that the press-agent was not a +person of so much importance in the manager's eyes as in his own. +Occasionally he saw Athelny in the shop. His flamboyance was extinguished; +and in neat, commonplace, shabby clothes he hurried, a subdued, unassuming +little man, through the departments as though anxious to escape notice. + +"When I think of how I'm wasted there," he said at home, "I'm almost +tempted to give in my notice. There's no scope for a man like me. I'm +stunted, I'm starved." + +Mrs. Athelny, quietly sewing, took no notice of his complaints. Her mouth +tightened a little. + +"It's very hard to get jobs in these times. It's regular and it's safe; I +expect you'll stay there as long as you give satisfaction." + +It was evident that Athelny would. It was interesting to see the +ascendency which the uneducated woman, bound to him by no legal tie, had +acquired over the brilliant, unstable man. Mrs. Athelny treated Philip +with motherly kindness now that he was in a different position, and he was +touched by her anxiety that he should make a good meal. It was the solace +of his life (and when he grew used to it, the monotony of it was what +chiefly appalled him) that he could go every Sunday to that friendly +house. It was a joy to sit in the stately Spanish chairs and discuss all +manner of things with Athelny. Though his condition seemed so desperate he +never left him to go back to Harrington Street without a feeling of +exultation. At first Philip, in order not to forget what he had learned, +tried to go on reading his medical books, but he found it useless; he +could not fix his attention on them after the exhausting work of the day; +and it seemed hopeless to continue working when he did not know in how +long he would be able to go back to the hospital. He dreamed constantly +that he was in the wards. The awakening was painful. The sensation of +other people sleeping in the room was inexpressibly irksome to him; he had +been used to solitude, and to be with others always, never to be by +himself for an instant was at these moments horrible to him. It was then +that he found it most difficult to combat his despair. He saw himself +going on with that life, first to the right, second on the left, madam, +indefinitely; and having to be thankful if he was not sent away: the men +who had gone to the war would be coming home soon, the firm had guaranteed +to take them back, and this must mean that others would be sacked; he +would have to stir himself even to keep the wretched post he had. + +There was only one thing to free him and that was the death of his uncle. +He would get a few hundred pounds then, and on this he could finish his +course at the hospital. Philip began to wish with all his might for the +old man's death. He reckoned out how long he could possibly live: he was +well over seventy, Philip did not know his exact age, but he must be at +least seventy-five; he suffered from chronic bronchitis and every winter +had a bad cough. Though he knew them by heart Philip read over and over +again the details in his text-book of medicine of chronic bronchitis in +the old. A severe winter might be too much for the old man. With all his +heart Philip longed for cold and rain. He thought of it constantly, so +that it became a monomania. Uncle William was affected by the great heat +too, and in August they had three weeks of sweltering weather. Philip +imagined to himself that one day perhaps a telegram would come saying that +the Vicar had died suddenly, and he pictured to himself his unutterable +relief. As he stood at the top of the stairs and directed people to the +departments they wanted, he occupied his mind with thinking incessantly +what he would do with the money. He did not know how much it would be, +perhaps no more than five hundred pounds, but even that would be enough. +He would leave the shop at once, he would not bother to give notice, he +would pack his box and go without saying a word to anybody; and then he +would return to the hospital. That was the first thing. Would he have +forgotten much? In six months he could get it all back, and then he would +take his three examinations as soon as he could, midwifery first, then +medicine and surgery. The awful fear seized him that his uncle, +notwithstanding his promises, might leave everything he had to the parish +or the church. The thought made Philip sick. He could not be so cruel. But +if that happened Philip was quite determined what to do, he would not go +on in that way indefinitely; his life was only tolerable because he could +look forward to something better. If he had no hope he would have no fear. +The only brave thing to do then would be to commit suicide, and, thinking +this over too, Philip decided minutely what painless drug he would take +and how he would get hold of it. It encouraged him to think that, if +things became unendurable, he had at all events a way out. + +"Second to the right, madam, and down the stairs. First on the left and +straight through. Mr. Philips, forward please." + +Once a month, for a week, Philip was `on duty.' He had to go to the +department at seven in the morning and keep an eye on the sweepers. When +they finished he had to take the sheets off the cases and the models. +Then, in the evening when the assistants left, he had to put back the +sheets on the models and the cases and `gang' the sweepers again. It was +a dusty, dirty job. He was not allowed to read or write or smoke, but just +had to walk about, and the time hung heavily on his hands. When he went +off at half past nine he had supper given him, and this was the only +consolation; for tea at five o'clock had left him with a healthy appetite, +and the bread and cheese, the abundant cocoa which the firm provided, were +welcome. + +One day when Philip had been at Lynn's for three months, Mr. Sampson, the +buyer, came into the department, fuming with anger. The manager, happening +to notice the costume window as he came in, had sent for the buyer and +made satirical remarks upon the colour scheme. Forced to submit in silence +to his superior's sarcasm, Mr. Sampson took it out of the assistants; and +he rated the wretched fellow whose duty it was to dress the window. + +"If you want a thing well done you must do it yourself," Mr. Sampson +stormed. "I've always said it and I always shall. One can't leave anything +to you chaps. Intelligent you call yourselves, do you? Intelligent!" + +He threw the word at the assistants as though it were the bitterest term +of reproach. + +"Don't you know that if you put an electric blue in the window it'll kill +all the other blues?" + +He looked round the department ferociously, and his eye fell upon Philip. + +"You'll dress the window next Friday, Carey. let's see what you can make +of it." + +He went into his office, muttering angrily. Philip's heart sank. When +Friday morning came he went into the window with a sickening sense of +shame. His cheeks were burning. It was horrible to display himself to the +passers-by, and though he told himself it was foolish to give way to such +a feeling he turned his back to the street. There was not much chance that +any of the students at the hospital would pass along Oxford Street at that +hour, and he knew hardly anyone else in London; but as Philip worked, with +a huge lump in his throat, he fancied that on turning round he would catch +the eye of some man he knew. He made all the haste he could. By the simple +observation that all reds went together, and by spacing the costumes more +than was usual, Philip got a very good effect; and when the buyer went +into the street to look at the result he was obviously pleased. + +"I knew I shouldn't go far wrong in putting you on the window. The fact +is, you and me are gentlemen, mind you I wouldn't say this in the +department, but you and me are gentlemen, and that always tells. It's no +good your telling me it doesn't tell, because I know it does tell." + +Philip was put on the job regularly, but he could not accustom himself to +the publicity; and he dreaded Friday morning, on which the window was +dressed, with a terror that made him awake at five o'clock and lie +sleepless with sickness in his heart. The girls in the department noticed +his shamefaced way, and they very soon discovered his trick of standing +with his back to the street. They laughed at him and called him `sidey.' + +"I suppose you're afraid your aunt'll come along and cut you out of her +will." + +On the whole he got on well enough with the girls. They thought him a +little queer; but his club-foot seemed to excuse his not being like the +rest, and they found in due course that he was good-natured. He never +minded helping anyone, and he was polite and even tempered. + +"You can see he's a gentleman," they said. + +"Very reserved, isn't he?" said one young woman, to whose passionate +enthusiasm for the theatre he had listened unmoved. + +Most of them had `fellers,' and those who hadn't said they had rather than +have it supposed that no one had an inclination for them. One or two +showed signs of being willing to start a flirtation with Philip, and he +watched their manoeuvres with grave amusement. He had had enough of +love-making for some time; and he was nearly always tired and often +hungry. + + + +CVI + + +Philip avoided the places he had known in happier times. The little +gatherings at the tavern in Beak Street were broken up: Macalister, having +let down his friends, no longer went there, and Hayward was at the Cape. +Only Lawson remained; and Philip, feeling that now the painter and he had +nothing in common, did not wish to see him; but one Saturday afternoon, +after dinner, having changed his clothes he walked down Regent Street to +go to the free library in St. Martin's Lane, meaning to spend the +afternoon there, and suddenly found himself face to face with him. His +first instinct was to pass on without a word, but Lawson did not give him +the opportunity. + +"Where on earth have you been all this time?" he cried. + +"I?" said Philip. + +"I wrote you and asked you to come to the studio for a beano and you never +even answered." + +"I didn't get your letter." + +"No, I know. I went to the hospital to ask for you, and I saw my letter in +the rack. Have you chucked the Medical?" + +Philip hesitated for a moment. He was ashamed to tell the truth, but the +shame he felt angered him, and he forced himself to speak. He could not +help reddening. + +"Yes, I lost the little money I had. I couldn't afford to go on with it." + +"I say, I'm awfully sorry. What are you doing?" + +"I'm a shop-walker." + +The words choked Philip, but he was determined not to shirk the truth. He +kept his eyes on Lawson and saw his embarrassment. Philip smiled savagely. + +"If you went into Lynn and Sedley, and made your way into the `made robes' +department, you would see me in a frock coat, walking about with a +degage air and directing ladies who want to buy petticoats or stockings. +First to the right, madam, and second on the left." + +Lawson, seeing that Philip was making a jest of it, laughed awkwardly. He +did not know what to say. The picture that Philip called up horrified him, +but he was afraid to show his sympathy. + +"That's a bit of a change for you," he said. + +His words seemed absurd to him, and immediately he wished he had not said +them. Philip flushed darkly. + +"A bit," he said. "By the way, I owe you five bob." + +He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some silver. + +"Oh, it doesn't matter. I'd forgotten all about it." + +"Go on, take it." + +Lawson received the money silently. They stood in the middle of the +pavement, and people jostled them as they passed. There was a sardonic +twinkle in Philip's eyes, which made the painter intensely uncomfortable, +and he could not tell that Philip's heart was heavy with despair. Lawson +wanted dreadfully to do something, but he did not know what to do. + +"I say, won't you come to the studio and have a talk?" + +"No," said Philip. + +"Why not?" + +"There's nothing to talk about." + +He saw the pain come into Lawson's eyes, he could not help it, he was +sorry, but he had to think of himself; he could not bear the thought of +discussing his situation, he could endure it only by determining +resolutely not to think about it. He was afraid of his weakness if once he +began to open his heart. Moreover, he took irresistible dislikes to the +places where he had been miserable: he remembered the humiliation he had +endured when he had waited in that studio, ravenous with hunger, for +Lawson to offer him a meal, and the last occasion when he had taken the +five shillings off him. He hated the sight of Lawson, because he recalled +those days of utter abasement. + +"Then look here, come and dine with me one night. Choose your own +evening." + +Philip was touched with the painter's kindness. All sorts of people were +strangely kind to him, he thought. + +"It's awfully good of you, old man, but I'd rather not." He held out his +hand. "Good-bye." + +Lawson, troubled by a behaviour which seemed inexplicable, took his hand, +and Philip quickly limped away. His heart was heavy; and, as was usual +with him, he began to reproach himself for what he had done: he did not +know what madness of pride had made him refuse the offered friendship. But +he heard someone running behind him and presently Lawson's voice calling +him; he stopped and suddenly the feeling of hostility got the better of +him; he presented to Lawson a cold, set face. + +"What is it?" + +"I suppose you heard about Hayward, didn't you?" + +"I know he went to the Cape." + +"He died, you know, soon after landing." + +For a moment Philip did not answer. He could hardly believe his ears. + +"How?" he asked. + +"Oh, enteric. Hard luck, wasn't it? I thought you mightn't know. Gave me +a bit of a turn when I heard it." + +Lawson nodded quickly and walked away. Philip felt a shiver pass through +his heart. He had never before lost a friend of his own age, for the death +of Cronshaw, a man so much older than himself, had seemed to come in the +normal course of things. The news gave him a peculiar shock. It reminded +him of his own mortality, for like everyone else Philip, knowing perfectly +that all men must die, had no intimate feeling that the same must apply to +himself; and Hayward's death, though he had long ceased to have any warm +feeling for him, affected him deeply. He remembered on a sudden all the +good talks they had had, and it pained him to think that they would never +talk with one another again; he remembered their first meeting and the +pleasant months they had spent together in Heidelberg. Philip's heart sank +as he thought of the lost years. He walked on mechanically, not noticing +where he went, and realised suddenly, with a movement of irritation, that +instead of turning down the Haymarket he had sauntered along Shaftesbury +Avenue. It bored him to retrace his steps; and besides, with that news, he +did not want to read, he wanted to sit alone and think. He made up his +mind to go to the British Museum. Solitude was now his only luxury. Since +he had been at Lynn's he had often gone there and sat in front of the +groups from the Parthenon; and, not deliberately thinking, had allowed +their divine masses to rest his troubled soul. But this afternoon they had +nothing to say to him, and after a few minutes, impatiently, he wandered +out of the room. There were too many people, provincials with foolish +faces, foreigners poring over guide-books; their hideousness besmirched +the everlasting masterpieces, their restlessness troubled the god's +immortal repose. He went into another room and here there was hardly +anyone. Philip sat down wearily. His nerves were on edge. He could not get +the people out of his mind. Sometimes at Lynn's they affected him in the +same way, and he looked at them file past him with horror; they were so +ugly and there was such meanness in their faces, it was terrifying; their +features were distorted with paltry desires, and you felt they were +strange to any ideas of beauty. They had furtive eyes and weak chins. +There was no wickedness in them, but only pettiness and vulgarity. Their +humour was a low facetiousness. Sometimes he found himself looking at them +to see what animal they resembled (he tried not to, for it quickly became +an obsession,) and he saw in them all the sheep or the horse or the fox or +the goat. Human beings filled him with disgust. + +But presently the influence of the place descended upon him. He felt +quieter. He began to look absently at the tombstones with which the room +was lined. They were the work of Athenian stone masons of the fourth and +fifth centuries before Christ, and they were very simple, work of no great +talent but with the exquisite spirit of Athens upon them; time had +mellowed the marble to the colour of honey, so that unconsciously one +thought of the bees of Hymettus, and softened their outlines. Some +represented a nude figure, seated on a bench, some the departure of the +dead from those who loved him, and some the dead clasping hands with one +who remained behind. On all was the tragic word farewell; that and nothing +more. Their simplicity was infinitely touching. Friend parted from friend, +the son from his mother, and the restraint made the survivor's grief more +poignant. It was so long, long ago, and century upon century had passed +over that unhappiness; for two thousand years those who wept had been dust +as those they wept for. Yet the woe was alive still, and it filled +Philip's heart so that he felt compassion spring up in it, and he said: + +"Poor things, poor things." + +And it came to him that the gaping sight-seers and the fat strangers with +their guide-books, and all those mean, common people who thronged the +shop, with their trivial desires and vulgar cares, were mortal and must +die. They too loved and must part from those they loved, the son from his +mother, the wife from her husband; and perhaps it was more tragic because +their lives were ugly and sordid, and they knew nothing that gave beauty +to the world. There was one stone which was very beautiful, a bas relief +of two young men holding each other's hand; and the reticence of line, the +simplicity, made one like to think that the sculptor here had been touched +with a genuine emotion. It was an exquisite memorial to that than which +the world offers but one thing more precious, to a friendship; and as +Philip looked at it, he felt the tears come to his eyes. He thought of +Hayward and his eager admiration for him when first they met, and how +disillusion had come and then indifference, till nothing held them +together but habit and old memories. It was one of the queer things of +life that you saw a person every day for months and were so intimate with +him that you could not imagine existence without him; then separation +came, and everything went on in the same way, and the companion who had +seemed essential proved unnecessary. Your life proceeded and you did not +even miss him. Philip thought of those early days in Heidelberg when +Hayward, capable of great things, had been full of enthusiasm for the +future, and how, little by little, achieving nothing, he had resigned +himself to failure. Now he was dead. His death had been as futile as his +life. He died ingloriously, of a stupid disease, failing once more, even +at the end, to accomplish anything. It was just the same now as if he had +never lived. + +Philip asked himself desperately what was the use of living at all. It all +seemed inane. It was the same with Cronshaw: it was quite unimportant that +he had lived; he was dead and forgotten, his book of poems sold in +remainder by second-hand booksellers; his life seemed to have served +nothing except to give a pushing journalist occasion to write an article +in a review. And Philip cried out in his soul: + +"What is the use of it?" + +The effort was so incommensurate with the result. The bright hopes of +youth had to be paid for at such a bitter price of disillusionment. Pain +and disease and unhappiness weighed down the scale so heavily. What did it +all mean? He thought of his own life, the high hopes with which he had +entered upon it, the limitations which his body forced upon him, his +friendlessness, and the lack of affection which had surrounded his youth. +He did not know that he had ever done anything but what seemed best to do, +and what a cropper he had come! Other men, with no more advantages than +he, succeeded, and others again, with many more, failed. It seemed pure +chance. The rain fell alike upon the just and upon the unjust, and for +nothing was there a why and a wherefore. + +Thinking of Cronshaw, Philip remembered the Persian rug which he had given +him, telling him that it offered an answer to his question upon the +meaning of life; and suddenly the answer occurred to him: he chuckled: now +that he had it, it was like one of the puzzles which you worry over till +you are shown the solution and then cannot imagine how it could ever have +escaped you. The answer was obvious. Life had no meaning. On the earth, +satellite of a star speeding through space, living things had arisen under +the influence of conditions which were part of the planet's history; and +as there had been a beginning of life upon it so, under the influence of +other conditions, there would be an end: man, no more significant than +other forms of life, had come not as the climax of creation but as a +physical reaction to the environment. Philip remembered the story of the +Eastern King who, desiring to know the history of man, was brought by a +sage five hundred volumes; busy with affairs of state, he bade him go and +condense it; in twenty years the sage returned and his history now was in +no more than fifty volumes, but the King, too old then to read so many +ponderous tomes, bade him go and shorten it once more; twenty years passed +again and the sage, old and gray, brought a single book in which was the +knowledge the King had sought; but the King lay on his death-bed, and he +had no time to read even that; and then the sage gave him the history of +man in a single line; it was this: he was born, he suffered, and he died. +There was no meaning in life, and man by living served no end. It was +immaterial whether he was born or not born, whether he lived or ceased to +live. Life was insignificant and death without consequence. Philip +exulted, as he had exulted in his boyhood when the weight of a belief in +God was lifted from his shoulders: it seemed to him that the last burden +of responsibility was taken from him; and for the first time he was +utterly free. His insignificance was turned to power, and he felt himself +suddenly equal with the cruel fate which had seemed to persecute him; for, +if life was meaningless, the world was robbed of its cruelty. What he did +or left undone did not matter. Failure was unimportant and success +amounted to nothing. He was the most inconsiderate creature in that +swarming mass of mankind which for a brief space occupied the surface of +the earth; and he was almighty because he had wrenched from chaos the +secret of its nothingness. Thoughts came tumbling over one another in +Philip's eager fancy, and he took long breaths of joyous satisfaction. He +felt inclined to leap and sing. He had not been so happy for months. + +"Oh, life," he cried in his heart, "Oh life, where is thy sting?" + +For the same uprush of fancy which had shown him with all the force of +mathematical demonstration that life had no meaning, brought with it +another idea; and that was why Cronshaw, he imagined, had given him the +Persian rug. As the weaver elaborated his pattern for no end but the +pleasure of his aesthetic sense, so might a man live his life, or if one +was forced to believe that his actions were outside his choosing, so might +a man look at his life, that it made a pattern. There was as little need +to do this as there was use. It was merely something he did for his own +pleasure. Out of the manifold events of his life, his deeds, his feelings, +his thoughts, he might make a design, regular, elaborate, complicated, or +beautiful; and though it might be no more than an illusion that he had the +power of selection, though it might be no more than a fantastic +legerdemain in which appearances were interwoven with moonbeams, that did +not matter: it seemed, and so to him it was. In the vast warp of life (a +river arising from no spring and flowing endlessly to no sea), with the +background to his fancies that there was no meaning and that nothing was +important, a man might get a personal satisfaction in selecting the +various strands that worked out the pattern. There was one pattern, the +most obvious, perfect, and beautiful, in which a man was born, grew to +manhood, married, produced children, toiled for his bread, and died; but +there were others, intricate and wonderful, in which happiness did not +enter and in which success was not attempted; and in them might be +discovered a more troubling grace. Some lives, and Hayward's was among +them, the blind indifference of chance cut off while the design was still +imperfect; and then the solace was comfortable that it did not matter; +other lives, such as Cronshaw's, offered a pattern which was difficult to +follow, the point of view had to be shifted and old standards had to be +altered before one could understand that such a life was its own +justification. Philip thought that in throwing over the desire for +happiness he was casting aside the last of his illusions. His life had +seemed horrible when it was measured by its happiness, but now he seemed +to gather strength as he realised that it might be measured by something +else. Happiness mattered as little as pain. They came in, both of them, as +all the other details of his life came in, to the elaboration of the +design. He seemed for an instant to stand above the accidents of his +existence, and he felt that they could not affect him again as they had +done before. Whatever happened to him now would be one more motive to add +to the complexity of the pattern, and when the end approached he would +rejoice in its completion. It would be a work of art, and it would be none +the less beautiful because he alone knew of its existence, and with his +death it would at once cease to be. + +Philip was happy. + + + +CVII + + +Mr. Sampson, the buyer, took a fancy to Philip. Mr. Sampson was very +dashing, and the girls in his department said they would not be surprised +if he married one of the rich customers. He lived out of town and often +impressed the assistants by putting on his evening clothes in the office. +Sometimes he would be seen by those on sweeping duty coming in next +morning still dressed, and they would wink gravely to one another while he +went into his office and changed into a frock coat. On these occasions, +having slipped out for a hurried breakfast, he also would wink at Philip +as he walked up the stairs on his way back and rub his hands. + +"What a night! What a night!" he said. "My word!" + +He told Philip that he was the only gentleman there, and he and Philip +were the only fellows who knew what life was. Having said this, he changed +his manner suddenly, called Philip Mr. Carey instead of old boy, assumed +the importance due to his position as buyer, and put Philip back into his +place of shop-walker. + +Lynn and Sedley received fashion papers from Paris once a week and adapted +the costumes illustrated in them to the needs of their customers. Their +clientele was peculiar. The most substantial part consisted of women from +the smaller manufacturing towns, who were too elegant to have their frocks +made locally and not sufficiently acquainted with London to discover good +dressmakers within their means. Beside these, incongruously, was a large +number of music-hall artistes. This was a connection that Mr. Sampson had +worked up for himself and took great pride in. They had begun by getting +their stage-costumes at Lynn's, and he had induced many of them to get +their other clothes there as well. + +"As good as Paquin and half the price," he said. + +He had a persuasive, hail-fellow well-met air with him which appealed to +customers of this sort, and they said to one another: + +"What's the good of throwing money away when you can get a coat and skirt +at Lynn's that nobody knows don't come from Paris?" + +Mr. Sampson was very proud of his friendship with the popular favourites +whose frocks he made, and when he went out to dinner at two o'clock on +Sunday with Miss Victoria Virgo--"she was wearing that powder blue we made +her and I lay she didn't let on it come from us, I 'ad to tell her meself +that if I 'adn't designed it with my own 'ands I'd have said it must come +from Paquin"--at her beautiful house in Tulse Hill, he regaled the +department next day with abundant details. Philip had never paid much +attention to women's clothes, but in course of time he began, a little +amused at himself, to take a technical interest in them. He had an eye for +colour which was more highly trained than that of anyone in the +department, and he had kept from his student days in Paris some knowledge +of line. Mr. Sampson, an ignorant man conscious of his incompetence, but +with a shrewdness that enabled him to combine other people's suggestions, +constantly asked the opinion of the assistants in his department in making +up new designs; and he had the quickness to see that Philip's criticisms +were valuable. But he was very jealous, and would never allow that he took +anyone's advice. When he had altered some drawing in accordance with +Philip's suggestion, he always finished up by saying: + +"Well, it comes round to my own idea in the end." + +One day, when Philip had been at the shop for five months, Miss Alice +Antonia, the well-known serio-comic, came in and asked to see Mr. Sampson. +She was a large woman, with flaxen hair, and a boldly painted face, a +metallic voice, and the breezy manner of a comedienne accustomed to be on +friendly terms with the gallery boys of provincial music-halls. She had a +new song and wished Mr. Sampson to design a costume for her. + +"I want something striking," she said. "I don't want any old thing you +know. I want something different from what anybody else has." + +Mr. Sampson, bland and familiar, said he was quite certain they could get +her the very thing she required. He showed her sketches. + +"I know there's nothing here that would do, but I just want to show you +the kind of thing I would suggest." + +"Oh no, that's not the sort of thing at all," she said, as she glanced at +them impatiently. "What I want is something that'll just hit 'em in the +jaw and make their front teeth rattle." + +"Yes, I quite understand, Miss Antonia," said the buyer, with a bland +smile, but his eyes grew blank and stupid. + +"I expect I shall 'ave to pop over to Paris for it in the end." + +"Oh, I think we can give you satisfaction, Miss Antonia. What you can get +in Paris you can get here." + +When she had swept out of the department Mr. Sampson, a little worried, +discussed the matter with Mrs. Hodges. + +"She's a caution and no mistake," said Mrs. Hodges. + +"Alice, where art thou?" remarked the buyer, irritably, and thought he had +scored a point against her. + +His ideas of music-hall costumes had never gone beyond short skirts, a +swirl of lace, and glittering sequins; but Miss Antonia had expressed +herself on that subject in no uncertain terms. + +"Oh, my aunt!" she said. + +And the invocation was uttered in such a tone as to indicate a rooted +antipathy to anything so commonplace, even if she had not added that +sequins gave her the sick. Mr. Sampson `got out' one or two ideas, but +Mrs. Hodges told him frankly she did not think they would do. It was she +who gave Philip the suggestion: + +"Can you draw, Phil? Why don't you try your 'and and see what you can do?" + +Philip bought a cheap box of water colours, and in the evening while Bell, +the noisy lad of sixteen, whistling three notes, busied himself with his +stamps, he made one or two sketches. He remembered some of the costumes he +had seen in Paris, and he adapted one of them, getting his effect from a +combination of violent, unusual colours. The result amused him and next +morning he showed it to Mrs. Hodges. She was somewhat astonished, but took +it at once to the buyer. + +"It's unusual," he said, "there's no denying that." + +It puzzled him, and at the same time his trained eye saw that it would +make up admirably. To save his face he began making suggestions for +altering it, but Mrs. Hodges, with more sense, advised him to show it to +Miss Antonia as it was. + +"It's neck or nothing with her, and she may take a fancy to it." + +"It's a good deal more nothing than neck," said Mr. Sampson, looking at +the decolletage. "He can draw, can't he? Fancy 'im keeping it dark all +this time." + +When Miss Antonia was announced, the buyer placed the design on the table +in such a position that it must catch her eye the moment she was shown +into his office. She pounced on it at once. + +"What's that?" she said. "Why can't I 'ave that?" + +"That's just an idea we got out for you," said Mr. Sampson casually. +"D'you like it?" + +"Do I like it!" she said. "Give me 'alf a pint with a little drop of gin +in it." + +"Ah, you see, you don't have to go to Paris. You've only got to say what +you want and there you are." + +The work was put in hand at once, and Philip felt quite a thrill of +satisfaction when he saw the costume completed. The buyer and Mrs. Hodges +took all the credit of it; but he did not care, and when he went with them +to the Tivoli to see Miss Antonia wear it for the first time he was filled +with elation. In answer to her questions he at last told Mrs. Hodges how +he had learnt to draw--fearing that the people he lived with would think +he wanted to put on airs, he had always taken the greatest care to say +nothing about his past occupations--and she repeated the information to +Mr. Sampson. The buyer said nothing to him on the subject, but began to +treat him a little more deferentially and presently gave him designs to do +for two of the country customers. They met with satisfaction. Then he +began to speak to his clients of a "clever young feller, Paris +art-student, you know," who worked for him; and soon Philip, ensconced +behind a screen, in his shirt sleeves, was drawing from morning till +night. Sometimes he was so busy that he had to dine at three with the +`stragglers.' He liked it, because there were few of them and they were +all too tired to talk; the food also was better, for it consisted of what +was left over from the buyers' table. Philip's rise from shop-walker to +designer of costumes had a great effect on the department. He realised +that he was an object of envy. Harris, the assistant with the queer-shaped +head, who was the first person he had known at the shop and had attached +himself to Philip, could not conceal his bitterness. + +"Some people 'ave all the luck," he said. "You'll be a buyer yourself one +of these days, and we shall all be calling you sir." + +He told Philip that he should demand higher wages, for notwithstanding the +difficult work he was now engaged in, he received no more than the six +shillings a week with which he started. But it was a ticklish matter to +ask for a rise. The manager had a sardonic way of dealing with such +applicants. + +"Think you're worth more, do you? How much d'you think you're worth, eh?" + +The assistant, with his heart in his mouth, would suggest that he thought +he ought to have another two shillings a week. + +"Oh, very well, if you think you're worth it. You can 'ave it." Then he +paused and sometimes, with a steely eye, added: "And you can 'ave your +notice too." + +It was no use then to withdraw your request, you had to go. The manager's +idea was that assistants who were dissatisfied did not work properly, and +if they were not worth a rise it was better to sack them at once. The +result was that they never asked for one unless they were prepared to +leave. Philip hesitated. He was a little suspicious of the men in his room +who told him that the buyer could not do without him. They were decent +fellows, but their sense of humour was primitive, and it would have seemed +funny to them if they had persuaded Philip to ask for more wages and he +were sacked. He could not forget the mortification he had suffered in +looking for work, he did not wish to expose himself to that again, and he +knew there was small chance of his getting elsewhere a post as designer: +there were hundreds of people about who could draw as well as he. But he +wanted money very badly; his clothes were worn out, and the heavy carpets +rotted his socks and boots; he had almost persuaded himself to take the +venturesome step when one morning, passing up from breakfast in the +basement through the passage that led to the manager's office, he saw a +queue of men waiting in answer to an advertisement. There were about a +hundred of them, and whichever was engaged would be offered his keep and +the same six shillings a week that Philip had. He saw some of them cast +envious glances at him because he had employment. It made him shudder. He +dared not risk it. + + + +CVIII + + +The winter passed. Now and then Philip went to the hospital, slinking in +when it was late and there was little chance of meeting anyone he knew, to +see whether there were letters for him. At Easter he received one from his +uncle. He was surprised to hear from him, for the Vicar of Blackstable had +never written him more than half a dozen letters in his whole life, and +they were on business matters. + + +Dear Philip, + +If you are thinking of taking a holiday soon and care to come down here I +shall be pleased to see you. I was very ill with my bronchitis in the +winter and Doctor Wigram never expected me to pull through. I have a +wonderful constitution and I made, thank God, a marvellous recovery. + Yours affectionately, + William Carey. + + +The letter made Philip angry. How did his uncle think he was living? He +did not even trouble to inquire. He might have starved for all the old man +cared. But as he walked home something struck him; he stopped under a +lamp-post and read the letter again; the handwriting had no longer the +business-like firmness which had characterised it; it was larger and +wavering: perhaps the illness had shaken him more than he was willing to +confess, and he sought in that formal note to express a yearning to see +the only relation he had in the world. Philip wrote back that he could +come down to Blackstable for a fortnight in July. The invitation was +convenient, for he had not known what to do, with his brief holiday. The +Athelnys went hopping in September, but he could not then be spared, since +during that month the autumn models were prepared. The rule of Lynn's was +that everyone must take a fortnight whether he wanted it or not; and +during that time, if he had nowhere to go, the assistant might sleep in +his room, but he was not allowed food. A number had no friends within +reasonable distance of London, and to these the holiday was an awkward +interval when they had to provide food out of their small wages and, with +the whole day on their hands, had nothing to spend. Philip had not been +out of London since his visit to Brighton with Mildred, now two years +before, and he longed for fresh air and the silence of the sea. He thought +of it with such a passionate desire, all through May and June, that, when +at length the time came for him to go, he was listless. + +On his last evening, when he talked with the buyer of one or two jobs he +had to leave over, Mr. Sampson suddenly said to him: + +"What wages have you been getting?" + +"Six shillings." + +"I don't think it's enough. I'll see that you're put up to twelve when you +come back." + +"Thank you very much," smiled Philip. "I'm beginning to want some new +clothes badly." + +"If you stick to your work and don't go larking about with the girls like +what some of them do, I'll look after you, Carey. Mind you, you've got a +lot to learn, but you're promising, I'll say that for you, you're +promising, and I'll see that you get a pound a week as soon as you deserve +it." + +Philip wondered how long he would have to wait for that. Two years? + +He was startled at the change in his uncle. When last he had seen him he +was a stout man, who held himself upright, clean-shaven, with a round, +sensual face; but he had fallen in strangely, his skin was yellow; there +were great bags under the eyes, and he was bent and old. He had grown a +beard during his last illness, and he walked very slowly. + +"I'm not at my best today," he said when Philip, having just arrived, was +sitting with him in the dining-room. "The heat upsets me." + +Philip, asking after the affairs of the parish, looked at him and wondered +how much longer he could last. A hot summer would finish him; Philip +noticed how thin his hands were; they trembled. It meant so much to +Philip. If he died that summer he could go back to the hospital at the +beginning of the winter session; his heart leaped at the thought of +returning no more to Lynn's. At dinner the Vicar sat humped up on his +chair, and the housekeeper who had been with him since his wife's death +said: + +"Shall Mr. Philip carve, sir?" + +The old man, who had been about to do so from disinclination to confess +his weakness, seemed glad at the first suggestion to relinquish the +attempt. + +"You've got a very good appetite," said Philip. + +"Oh yes, I always eat well. But I'm thinner than when you were here last. +I'm glad to be thinner, I didn't like being so fat. Dr. Wigram thinks I'm +all the better for being thinner than I was." + +When dinner was over the housekeeper brought him some medicine. + +"Show the prescription to Master Philip," he said. "He's a doctor too. I'd +like him to see that he thinks it's all right. I told Dr. Wigram that now +you're studying to be a doctor he ought to make a reduction in his +charges. It's dreadful the bills I've had to pay. He came every day for +two months, and he charges five shillings a visit. It's a lot of money, +isn't it? He comes twice a week still. I'm going to tell him he needn't +come any more. I'll send for him if I want him." + +He looked at Philip eagerly while he read the prescriptions. They were +narcotics. There were two of them, and one was a medicine which the Vicar +explained he was to use only if his neuritis grew unendurable. + +"I'm very careful," he said. "I don't want to get into the opium habit." + +He did not mention his nephew's affairs. Philip fancied that it was by way +of precaution, in case he asked for money, that his uncle kept dwelling on +the financial calls upon him. He had spent so much on the doctor and so +much more on the chemist, while he was ill they had had to have a fire +every day in his bed-room, and now on Sunday he needed a carriage to go to +church in the evening as well as in the morning. Philip felt angrily +inclined to say he need not be afraid, he was not going to borrow from +him, but he held his tongue. It seemed to him that everything had left the +old man now but two things, pleasure in his food and a grasping desire for +money. It was a hideous old age. + +In the afternoon Dr. Wigram came, and after the visit Philip walked with +him to the garden gate. + +"How d'you think he is?" said Philip. + +Dr. Wigram was more anxious not to do wrong than to do right, and he never +hazarded a definite opinion if he could help it. He had practised at +Blackstable for five-and-thirty years. He had the reputation of being very +safe, and many of his patients thought it much better that a doctor should +be safe than clever. There was a new man at Blackstable--he had been +settled there for ten years, but they still looked upon him as an +interloper--and he was said to be very clever; but he had not much +practice among the better people, because no one really knew anything +about him. + +"Oh, he's as well as can be expected," said Dr. Wigram in answer to +Philip's inquiry. + +"Has he got anything seriously the matter with him?" + +"Well, Philip, your uncle is no longer a young man," said the doctor with +a cautious little smile, which suggested that after all the Vicar of +Blackstable was not an old man either. + +"He seems to think his heart's in a bad way." + +"I'm not satisfied with his heart," hazarded the doctor, "I think he +should be careful, very careful." + +On the tip of Philip's tongue was the question: how much longer can he +live? He was afraid it would shock. In these matters a periphrase was +demanded by the decorum of life, but, as he asked another question +instead, it flashed through him that the doctor must be accustomed to the +impatience of a sick man's relatives. He must see through their +sympathetic expressions. Philip, with a faint smile at his own hypocrisy, +cast down his eyes. + +"I suppose he's in no immediate danger?" + +This was the kind of question the doctor hated. If you said a patient +couldn't live another month the family prepared itself for a bereavement, +and if then the patient lived on they visited the medical attendant with +the resentment they felt at having tormented themselves before it was +necessary. On the other hand, if you said the patient might live a year +and he died in a week the family said you did not know your business. They +thought of all the affection they would have lavished on the defunct if +they had known the end was so near. Dr. Wigram made the gesture of washing +his hands. + +"I don't think there's any grave risk so long as he--remains as he is," he +ventured at last. "But on the other hand, we mustn't forget that he's no +longer a young man, and well, the machine is wearing out. If he gets over +the hot weather I don't see why he shouldn't get on very comfortably till +the winter, and then if the winter does not bother him too much, well, I +don't see why anything should happen." + +Philip went back to the dining-room where his uncle was sitting. With his +skull-cap and a crochet shawl over his shoulders he looked grotesque. His +eyes had been fixed on the door, and they rested on Philip's face as he +entered. Philip saw that his uncle had been waiting anxiously for his +return. + +"Well, what did he say about me?" + +Philip understood suddenly that the old man was frightened of dying. It +made Philip a little ashamed, so that he looked away involuntarily. He was +always embarrassed by the weakness of human nature. + +"He says he thinks you're much better," said Philip. + +A gleam of delight came into his uncle's eyes. + +"I've got a wonderful constitution," he said. "What else did he say?" he +added suspiciously. + +Philip smiled. + +"He said that if you take care of yourself there's no reason why you +shouldn't live to be a hundred." + +"I don't know that I can expect to do that, but I don't see why I +shouldn't see eighty. My mother lived till she was eighty-four." + +There was a little table by the side of Mr. Carey's chair, and on it were +a Bible and the large volume of the Common Prayer from which for so many +years he had been accustomed to read to his household. He stretched out +now his shaking hand and took his Bible. + +"Those old patriarchs lived to a jolly good old age, didn't they?" he +said, with a queer little laugh in which Philip read a sort of timid +appeal. + +The old man clung to life. Yet he believed implicitly all that his +religion taught him. He had no doubt in the immortality of the soul, and +he felt that he had conducted himself well enough, according to his +capacities, to make it very likely that he would go to heaven. In his long +career to how many dying persons must he have administered the +consolations of religion! Perhaps he was like the doctor who could get no +benefit from his own prescriptions. Philip was puzzled and shocked by that +eager cleaving to the earth. He wondered what nameless horror was at the +back of the old man's mind. He would have liked to probe into his soul so +that he might see in its nakedness the dreadful dismay of the unknown +which he suspected. + +The fortnight passed quickly and Philip returned to London. He passed a +sweltering August behind his screen in the costumes department, drawing in +his shirt sleeves. The assistants in relays went for their holidays. In +the evening Philip generally went into Hyde Park and listened to the band. +Growing more accustomed to his work it tired him less, and his mind, +recovering from its long stagnation, sought for fresh activity. His whole +desire now was set on his uncle's death. He kept on dreaming the same +dream: a telegram was handed to him one morning, early, which announced +the Vicar's sudden demise, and freedom was in his grasp. When he awoke and +found it was nothing but a dream he was filled with sombre rage. He +occupied himself, now that the event seemed likely to happen at any time, +with elaborate plans for the future. In these he passed rapidly over the +year which he must spend before it was possible for him to be qualified +and dwelt on the journey to Spain on which his heart was set. He read +books about that country, which he borrowed from the free library, and +already he knew from photographs exactly what each city looked like. He +saw himself lingering in Cordova on the bridge that spanned the +Gaudalquivir; he wandered through tortuous streets in Toledo and sat in +churches where he wrung from El Greco the secret which he felt the +mysterious painter held for him. Athelny entered into his humour, and on +Sunday afternoons they made out elaborate itineraries so that Philip +should miss nothing that was noteworthy. To cheat his impatience Philip +began to teach himself Spanish, and in the deserted sitting-room in +Harrington Street he spent an hour every evening doing Spanish exercises +and puzzling out with an English translation by his side the magnificent +phrases of Don Quixote. Athelny gave him a lesson once a week, and Philip +learned a few sentences to help him on his journey. Mrs. Athelny laughed +at them. + +"You two and your Spanish!" she said. "Why don't you do something useful?" + +But Sally, who was growing up and was to put up her hair at Christmas, +stood by sometimes and listened in her grave way while her father and +Philip exchanged remarks in a language she did not understand. She thought +her father the most wonderful man who had ever existed, and she expressed +her opinion of Philip only through her father's commendations. + +"Father thinks a rare lot of your Uncle Philip," she remarked to her +brothers and sisters. + +Thorpe, the eldest boy, was old enough to go on the Arethusa, and Athelny +regaled his family with magnificent descriptions of the appearance the lad +would make when he came back in uniform for his holidays. As soon as Sally +was seventeen she was to be apprenticed to a dressmaker. Athelny in his +rhetorical way talked of the birds, strong enough to fly now, who were +leaving the parental nest, and with tears in his eyes told them that the +nest would be there still if ever they wished to return to it. A shakedown +and a dinner would always be theirs, and the heart of a father would never +be closed to the troubles of his children. + +"You do talk, Athelny," said his wife. "I don't know what trouble they're +likely to get into so long as they're steady. So long as you're honest and +not afraid of work you'll never be out of a job, that's what I think, and +I can tell you I shan't be sorry when I see the last of them earning their +own living." + +Child-bearing, hard work, and constant anxiety were beginning to tell on +Mrs. Athelny; and sometimes her back ached in the evening so that she had +to sit down and rest herself. Her ideal of happiness was to have a girl to +do the rough work so that she need not herself get up before seven. +Athelny waved his beautiful white hand. + +"Ah, my Betty, we've deserved well of the state, you and I. We've reared +nine healthy children, and the boys shall serve their king; the girls +shall cook and sew and in their turn breed healthy children." He turned to +Sally, and to comfort her for the anti-climax of the contrast added +grandiloquently: "They also serve who only stand and wait." + +Athelny had lately added socialism to the other contradictory theories he +vehemently believed in, and he stated now: + +"In a socialist state we should be richly pensioned, you and I, Betty." + +"Oh, don't talk to me about your socialists, I've got no patience with +them," she cried. "It only means that another lot of lazy loafers will +make a good thing out of the working classes. My motto is, leave me alone; +I don't want anyone interfering with me; I'll make the best of a bad job, +and the devil take the hindmost." + +"D'you call life a bad job?" said Athelny. "Never! We've had our ups and +downs, we've had our struggles, we've always been poor, but it's been +worth it, ay, worth it a hundred times I say when I look round at my +children." + +"You do talk, Athelny," she said, looking at him, not with anger but with +scornful calm. "You've had the pleasant part of the children, I've had the +bearing of them, and the bearing with them. I don't say that I'm not fond +of them, now they're there, but if I had my time over again I'd remain +single. Why, if I'd remained single I might have a little shop by now, and +four or five hundred pounds in the bank, and a girl to do the rough work. +Oh, I wouldn't go over my life again, not for something." + +Philip thought of the countless millions to whom life is no more than +unending labour, neither beautiful nor ugly, but just to be accepted in +the same spirit as one accepts the changes of the seasons. Fury seized him +because it all seemed useless. He could not reconcile himself to the +belief that life had no meaning and yet everything he saw, all his +thoughts, added to the force of his conviction. But though fury seized him +it was a joyful fury. Life was not so horrible if it was meaningless, and +he faced it with a strange sense of power. + + + +CIX + + +The autumn passed into winter. Philip had left his address with Mrs. +Foster, his uncle's housekeeper, so that she might communicate with him, +but still went once a week to the hospital on the chance of there being a +letter. One evening he saw his name on an envelope in a handwriting he had +hoped never to see again. It gave him a queer feeling. For a little while +he could not bring himself to take it. It brought back a host of hateful +memories. But at length, impatient with himself, he ripped open the +envelope. + + 7 William Street, + Fitzroy Square. + +Dear Phil, + +Can I see you for a minute or two as soon as possible. I am in awful +trouble and don't know what to do. It's not money. + + Yours truly, + Mildred. + + +He tore the letter into little bits and going out into the street +scattered them in the darkness. + +"I'll see her damned," he muttered. + +A feeling of disgust surged up in him at the thought of seeing her again. +He did not care if she was in distress, it served her right whatever it +was, he thought of her with hatred, and the love he had had for her +aroused his loathing. His recollections filled him with nausea, and as he +walked across the Thames he drew himself aside in an instinctive +withdrawal from his thought of her. He went to bed, but he could not +sleep; he wondered what was the matter with her, and he could not get out +of his head the fear that she was ill and hungry; she would not have +written to him unless she were desperate. He was angry with himself for +his weakness, but he knew that he would have no peace unless he saw her. +Next morning he wrote a letter-card and posted it on his way to the shop. +He made it as stiff as he could and said merely that he was sorry she was +in difficulties and would come to the address she had given at seven +o'clock that evening. + +It was that of a shabby lodging-house in a sordid street; and when, sick +at the thought of seeing her, he asked whether she was in, a wild hope +seized him that she had left. It looked the sort of place people moved in +and out of frequently. He had not thought of looking at the postmark on +her letter and did not know how many days it had lain in the rack. The +woman who answered the bell did not reply to his inquiry, but silently +preceded him along the passage and knocked on a door at the back. + +"Mrs. Miller, a gentleman to see you," she called. + +The door was slightly opened, and Mildred looked out suspiciously. + +"Oh, it's you," she said. "Come in." + +He walked in and she closed the door. It was a very small bed-room, untidy +as was every place she lived in; there was a pair of shoes on the floor, +lying apart from one another and uncleaned; a hat was on the chest of +drawers, with false curls beside it; and there was a blouse on the table. +Philip looked for somewhere to put his hat. The hooks behind the door were +laden with skirts, and he noticed that they were muddy at the hem. + +"Sit down, won't you?" she said. Then she gave a little awkward laugh. "I +suppose you were surprised to hear from me again." + +"You're awfully hoarse," he answered. "Have you got a sore throat?" + +"Yes, I have had for some time." + +He did not say anything. He waited for her to explain why she wanted to +see him. The look of the room told him clearly enough that she had gone +back to the life from which he had taken her. He wondered what had +happened to the baby; there was a photograph of it on the chimney-piece, +but no sign in the room that a child was ever there. Mildred was holding +her handkerchief. She made it into a little ball, and passed it from hand +to hand. He saw that she was very nervous. She was staring at the fire, +and he could look at her without meeting her eyes. She was much thinner +than when she had left him; and the skin, yellow and dryish, was drawn +more tightly over her cheekbones. She had dyed her hair and it was now +flaxen: it altered her a good deal, and made her look more vulgar. + +"I was relieved to get your letter, I can tell you," she said at last. "I +thought p'raps you weren't at the 'ospital any more." + +Philip did not speak. + +"I suppose you're qualified by now, aren't you?" + +"No." + +"How's that?" + +"I'm no longer at the hospital. I had to give it up eighteen months ago." + +"You are changeable. You don't seem as if you could stick to anything." + +Philip was silent for another moment, and when he went on it was with +coldness. + +"I lost the little money I had in an unlucky speculation and I couldn't +afford to go on with the medical. I had to earn my living as best I +could." + +"What are you doing then?" + +"I'm in a shop." + +"Oh!" + +She gave him a quick glance and turned her eyes away at once. He thought +that she reddened. She dabbed her palms nervously with the handkerchief. + +"You've not forgotten all your doctoring, have you?" She jerked the words +out quite oddly. + +"Not entirely." + +"Because that's why I wanted to see you." Her voice sank to a hoarse +whisper. "I don't know what's the matter with me." + +"Why don't you go to a hospital?" + +"I don't like to do that, and have all the stoodents staring at me, and +I'm afraid they'd want to keep me." + +"What are you complaining of?" asked Philip coldly, with the stereotyped +phrase used in the out-patients' room. + +"Well, I've come out in a rash, and I can't get rid of it." + +Philip felt a twinge of horror in his heart. Sweat broke out on his +forehead. + +"Let me look at your throat?" + +He took her over to the window and made such examination as he could. +Suddenly he caught sight of her eyes. There was deadly fear in them. It +was horrible to see. She was terrified. She wanted him to reassure her; +she looked at him pleadingly, not daring to ask for words of comfort but +with all her nerves astrung to receive them: he had none to offer her. + +"I'm afraid you're very ill indeed," he said. + +"What d'you think it is?" + +When he told her she grew deathly pale, and her lips even turned, yellow. +she began to cry, hopelessly, quietly at first and then with choking sobs. + +"I'm awfully sorry," he said at last. "But I had to tell you." + +"I may just as well kill myself and have done with it." + +He took no notice of the threat. + +"Have you got any money?" he asked. + +"Six or seven pounds." + +"You must give up this life, you know. Don't you think you could find some +work to do? I'm afraid I can't help you much. I only get twelve bob a +week." + +"What is there I can do now?" she cried impatiently. + +"Damn it all, you MUST try to get something." + +He spoke to her very gravely, telling her of her own danger and the danger +to which she exposed others, and she listened sullenly. He tried to +console her. At last he brought her to a sulky acquiescence in which she +promised to do all he advised. He wrote a prescription, which he said he +would leave at the nearest chemist's, and he impressed upon her the +necessity of taking her medicine with the utmost regularity. Getting up to +go, he held out his hand. + +"Don't be downhearted, you'll soon get over your throat." + +But as he went her face became suddenly distorted, and she caught hold of +his coat. + +"Oh, don't leave me," she cried hoarsely. "I'm so afraid, don't leave me +alone yet. Phil, please. There's no one else I can go to, you're the only +friend I've ever had." + +He felt the terror of her soul, and it was strangely like that terror he +had seen in his uncle's eyes when he feared that he might die. Philip +looked down. Twice that woman had come into his life and made him +wretched; she had no claim upon him; and yet, he knew not why, deep in his +heart was a strange aching; it was that which, when he received her +letter, had left him no peace till he obeyed her summons. + +"I suppose I shall never really quite get over it," he said to himself. + +What perplexed him was that he felt a curious physical distaste, which +made it uncomfortable for him to be near her. + +"What do you want me to do?" he asked. + +"Let's go out and dine together. I'll pay." + +He hesitated. He felt that she was creeping back again into his life when +he thought she was gone out of it for ever. She watched him with sickening +anxiety. + +"Oh, I know I've treated you shocking, but don't leave me alone now. +You've had your revenge. If you leave me by myself now I don't know what +I shall do." + +"All right, I don't mind," he said, "but we shall have to do it on the +cheap, I haven't got money to throw away these days." + +She sat down and put her shoes on, then changed her skirt and put on a +hat; and they walked out together till they found a restaurant in the +Tottenham Court Road. Philip had got out of the habit of eating at those +hours, and Mildred's throat was so sore that she could not swallow. They +had a little cold ham and Philip drank a glass of beer. They sat opposite +one another, as they had so often sat before; he wondered if she +remembered; they had nothing to say to one another and would have sat in +silence if Philip had not forced himself to talk. In the bright light of +the restaurant, with its vulgar looking-glasses that reflected in an +endless series, she looked old and haggard. Philip was anxious to know +about the child, but he had not the courage to ask. At last she said: + +"You know baby died last summer." + +"Oh!" he said. + +"You might say you're sorry." + +"I'm not," he answered, "I'm very glad." + +She glanced at him and, understanding what he meant, looked away + +"You were rare stuck on it at one time, weren't you? I always thought it +funny like how you could see so much in another man's child." + +When they had finished eating they called at the chemist's for the +medicine Philip had ordered, and going back to the shabby room he made her +take a dose. Then they sat together till it was time for Philip to go back +to Harrington Street. He was hideously bored. + +Philip went to see her every day. She took the medicine he had prescribed +and followed his directions, and soon the results were so apparent that +she gained the greatest confidence in Philip's skill. As she grew better +she grew less despondent. She talked more freely. + +"As soon as I can get a job I shall be all right," she said. "I've had my +lesson now and I mean to profit by it. No more racketing about for yours +truly." + +Each time he saw her, Philip asked whether she had found work. She told +him not to worry, she would find something to do as soon as she wanted it; +she had several strings to her bow; it was all the better not to do +anything for a week or two. He could not deny this, but at the end of that +time he became more insistent. She laughed at him, she was much more +cheerful now, and said he was a fussy old thing. She told him long stories +of the manageresses she interviewed, for her idea was to get work at some +eating-house; what they said and what she answered. Nothing definite was +fixed, but she was sure to settle something at the beginning of the +following week: there was no use hurrying, and it would be a mistake to +take something unsuitable. + +"It's absurd to talk like that," he said impatiently. "You must take +anything you can get. I can't help you, and your money won't last for +ever." + +"Oh, well, I've not come to the end of it yet and chance it." + +He looked at her sharply. It was three weeks since his first visit, and +she had then less than seven pounds. Suspicion seized him. He remembered +some of the things she had said. He put two and two together. He wondered +whether she had made any attempt to find work. Perhaps she had been lying +to him all the time. It was very strange that her money should have lasted +so long. + +"What is your rent here?" + +"Oh, the landlady's very nice, different from what some of them are; she's +quite willing to wait till it's convenient for me to pay." + +He was silent. What he suspected was so horrible that he hesitated. It was +no use to ask her, she would deny everything; if he wanted to know he must +find out for himself. He was in the habit of leaving her every evening at +eight, and when the clock struck he got up; but instead of going back to +Harrington Street he stationed himself at the corner of Fitzroy Square so +that he could see anyone who came along William Street. It seemed to him +that he waited an interminable time, and he was on the point of going +away, thinking his surmise had been mistaken, when the door of No. 7 +opened and Mildred came out. He fell back into the darkness and watched +her walk towards him. She had on the hat with a quantity of feathers on it +which he had seen in her room, and she wore a dress he recognized, too +showy for the street and unsuitable to the time of year. He followed her +slowly till she came into the Tottenham Court Road, where she slackened +her pace; at the corner of Oxford Street she stopped, looked round, and +crossed over to a music-hall. He went up to her and touched her on the +arm. He saw that she had rouged her cheeks and painted her lips. + +"Where are you going, Mildred?" + +She started at the sound of his voice and reddened as she always did when +she was caught in a lie; then the flash of anger which he knew so well +came into her eyes as she instinctively sought to defend herself by abuse. +But she did not say the words which were on the tip of her tongue. + +"Oh, I was only going to see the show. It gives me the hump sitting every +night by myself." + +He did not pretend to believe her. + +"You mustn't. Good heavens, I've told you fifty times how dangerous it is. +You must stop this sort of thing at once." + +"Oh, hold your jaw," she cried roughly. "How d'you suppose I'm going to +live?" + +He took hold of her arm and without thinking what he was doing tried to +drag her away. + +"For God's sake come along. Let me take you home. You don't know what +you're doing. It's criminal." + +"What do I care? Let them take their chance. Men haven't been so good to +me that I need bother my head about them." + +She pushed him away and walking up to the box-office put down her money. +Philip had threepence in his pocket. He could not follow. He turned away +and walked slowly down Oxford Street. + +"I can't do anything more," he said to himself. + +That was the end. He did not see her again. + + + +CX + + +Christmas that year falling on Thursday, the shop was to close for four +days: Philip wrote to his uncle asking whether it would be convenient for +him to spend the holidays at the vicarage. He received an answer from Mrs. +Foster, saying that Mr. Carey was not well enough to write himself, but +wished to see his nephew and would be glad if he came down. She met Philip +at the door, and when she shook hands with him, said: + +"You'll find him changed since you was here last, sir; but you'll pretend +you don't notice anything, won't you, sir? He's that nervous about +himself." + +Philip nodded, and she led him into the dining-room. + +"Here's Mr. Philip, sir." + +The Vicar of Blackstable was a dying man. There was no mistaking that when +you looked at the hollow cheeks and the shrunken body. He sat huddled in +the arm-chair, with his head strangely thrown back, and a shawl over his +shoulders. He could not walk now without the help of sticks, and his hands +trembled so that he could only feed himself with difficulty. + +"He can't last long now," thought Philip, as he looked at him. + +"How d'you think I'm looking?" asked the Vicar. "D'you think I've changed +since you were here last?" + +"I think you look stronger than you did last summer." + +"It was the heat. That always upsets me." + +Mr. Carey's history of the last few months consisted in the number of +weeks he had spent in his bed-room and the number of weeks he had spent +downstairs. He had a hand-bell by his side and while he talked he rang it +for Mrs. Foster, who sat in the next room ready to attend to his wants, to +ask on what day of the month he had first left his room. + +"On the seventh of November, sir." + +Mr. Carey looked at Philip to see how he took the information. + +"But I eat well still, don't I, Mrs. Foster?" + +"Yes, sir, you've got a wonderful appetite." + +"I don't seem to put on flesh though." + +Nothing interested him now but his health. He was set upon one thing +indomitably and that was living, just living, notwithstanding the monotony +of his life and the constant pain which allowed him to sleep only when he +was under the influence of morphia. + +"It's terrible, the amount of money I have to spend on doctor's bills." He +tinkled his bell again. "Mrs. Foster, show Master Philip the chemist's +bill." + +Patiently she took it off the chimney-piece and handed it to Philip. + +"That's only one month. I was wondering if as you're doctoring yourself +you couldn't get me the drugs cheaper. I thought of getting them down from +the stores, but then there's the postage." + +Though apparently taking so little interest in him that he did not trouble +to inquire what Phil was doing, he seemed glad to have him there. He asked +how long he could stay, and when Philip told him he must leave on Tuesday +morning, expressed a wish that the visit might have been longer. He told +him minutely all his symptoms and repeated what the doctor had said of +him. He broke off to ring his bell, and when Mrs. Foster came in, said: + +"Oh, I wasn't sure if you were there. I only rang to see if you were." + +When she had gone he explained to Philip that it made him uneasy if he was +not certain that Mrs. Foster was within earshot; she knew exactly what to +do with him if anything happened. Philip, seeing that she was tired and +that her eyes were heavy from want of sleep, suggested that he was working +her too hard. + +"Oh, nonsense," said the Vicar, "she's as strong as a horse." And when +next she came in to give him his medicine he said to her: + +"Master Philip says you've got too much to do, Mrs. Foster. You like +looking after me, don't you?" + +"Oh, I don't mind, sir. I want to do everything I can." + +Presently the medicine took effect and Mr. Carey fell asleep. Philip went +into the kitchen and asked Mrs. Foster whether she could stand the work. +He saw that for some months she had had little peace. + +"Well, sir, what can I do?" she answered. "The poor old gentleman's so +dependent on me, and, although he is troublesome sometimes, you can't help +liking him, can you? I've been here so many years now, I don't know what +I shall do when he comes to go." + +Philip saw that she was really fond of the old man. She washed and dressed +him, gave him his food, and was up half a dozen times in the night; for +she slept in the next room to his and whenever he awoke he tinkled his +little bell till she came in. He might die at any moment, but he might +live for months. It was wonderful that she should look after a stranger +with such patient tenderness, and it was tragic and pitiful that she +should be alone in the world to care for him. + +It seemed to Philip that the religion which his uncle had preached all his +life was now of no more than formal importance to him: every Sunday the +curate came and administered to him Holy Communion, and he often read his +Bible; but it was clear that he looked upon death with horror. He believed +that it was the gateway to life everlasting, but he did not want to enter +upon that life. In constant pain, chained to his chair and having given up +the hope of ever getting out into the open again, like a child in the +hands of a woman to whom he paid wages, he clung to the world he knew. + +In Philip's head was a question he could not ask, because he was aware +that his uncle would never give any but a conventional answer: he wondered +whether at the very end, now that the machine was painfully wearing itself +out, the clergyman still believed in immortality; perhaps at the bottom of +his soul, not allowed to shape itself into words in case it became urgent, +was the conviction that there was no God and after this life nothing. + +On the evening of Boxing Day Philip sat in the dining-room with his uncle. +He had to start very early next morning in order to get to the shop by +nine, and he was to say good-night to Mr. Carey then. The Vicar of +Blackstable was dozing and Philip, lying on the sofa by the window, let +his book fall on his knees and looked idly round the room. He asked +himself how much the furniture would fetch. He had walked round the house +and looked at the things he had known from his childhood; there were a few +pieces of china which might go for a decent price and Philip wondered if +it would be worth while to take them up to London; but the furniture was +of the Victorian order, of mahogany, solid and ugly; it would go for +nothing at an auction. There were three or four thousand books, but +everyone knew how badly they sold, and it was not probable that they would +fetch more than a hundred pounds. Philip did not know how much his uncle +would leave, and he reckoned out for the hundredth time what was the least +sum upon which he could finish the curriculum at the hospital, take his +degree, and live during the time he wished to spend on hospital +appointments. He looked at the old man, sleeping restlessly: there was no +humanity left in that shrivelled face; it was the face of some queer +animal. Philip thought how easy it would be to finish that useless life. +He had thought it each evening when Mrs. Foster prepared for his uncle the +medicine which was to give him an easy night. There were two bottles: one +contained a drug which he took regularly, and the other an opiate if the +pain grew unendurable. This was poured out for him and left by his +bed-side. He generally took it at three or four in the morning. It would +be a simple thing to double the dose; he would die in the night, and no +one would suspect anything; for that was how Doctor Wigram expected him to +die. The end would be painless. Philip clenched his hands as he thought of +the money he wanted so badly. A few more months of that wretched life +could matter nothing to the old man, but the few more months meant +everything to him: he was getting to the end of his endurance, and when he +thought of going back to work in the morning he shuddered with horror. His +heart beat quickly at the thought which obsessed him, and though he made +an effort to put it out of his mind he could not. It would be so easy, so +desperately easy. He had no feeling for the old man, he had never liked +him; he had been selfish all his life, selfish to his wife who adored him, +indifferent to the boy who had been put in his charge; he was not a cruel +man, but a stupid, hard man, eaten up with a small sensuality. It would be +easy, desperately easy. Philip did not dare. He was afraid of remorse; it +would be no good having the money if he regretted all his life what he had +done. Though he had told himself so often that regret was futile, there +were certain things that came back to him occasionally and worried him. He +wished they were not on his conscience. + +His uncle opened his eyes; Philip was glad, for he looked a little more +human then. He was frankly horrified at the idea that had come to him, it +was murder that he was meditating; and he wondered if other people had +such thoughts or whether he was abnormal and depraved. He supposed he +could not have done it when it came to the point, but there the thought +was, constantly recurring: if he held his hand it was from fear. His uncle +spoke. + +"You're not looking forward to my death, Philip?" Philip felt his heart +beat against his chest. + +"Good heavens, no." + +"That's a good boy. I shouldn't like you to do that. You'll get a little +bit of money when I pass away, but you mustn't look forward to it. It +wouldn't profit you if you did." + +He spoke in a low voice, and there was a curious anxiety in his tone. It +sent a pang into Philip's heart. He wondered what strange insight might +have led the old man to surmise what strange desires were in Philip's +mind. + +"I hope you'll live for another twenty years," he said. + +"Oh, well, I can't expect to do that, but if I take care of myself I don't +see why I shouldn't last another three or four." + +He was silent for a while, and Philip found nothing to say. Then, as if he +had been thinking it all over, the old man spoke again. + +"Everyone has the right to live as long as he can." + +Philip wanted to distract his mind. + +"By the way, I suppose you never hear from Miss Wilkinson now?" + +"Yes, I had a letter some time this year. She's married, you know." + +"Really?" + +"Yes, she married a widower. I believe they're quite comfortable." + + + +CXI + + +Next day Philip began work again, but the end which he expected within a +few weeks did not come. The weeks passed into months. The winter wore +away, and in the parks the trees burst into bud and into leaf. A terrible +lassitude settled upon Philip. Time was passing, though it went with such +heavy feet, and he thought that his youth was going and soon he would have +lost it and nothing would have been accomplished. His work seemed more +aimless now that there was the certainty of his leaving it. He became +skilful in the designing of costumes, and though he had no inventive +faculty acquired quickness in the adaptation of French fashions to the +English market. Sometimes he was not displeased with his drawings, but +they always bungled them in the execution. He was amused to notice that he +suffered from a lively irritation when his ideas were not adequately +carried out. He had to walk warily. Whenever he suggested something +original Mr. Sampson turned it down: their customers did not want anything +outre, it was a very respectable class of business, and when you had a +connection of that sort it wasn't worth while taking liberties with it. +Once or twice he spoke sharply to Philip; he thought the young man was +getting a bit above himself, because Philip's ideas did not always +coincide with his own. + +"You jolly well take care, my fine young fellow, or one of these days +you'll find yourself in the street." + +Philip longed to give him a punch on the nose, but he restrained himself. +After all it could not possibly last much longer, and then he would be +done with all these people for ever. Sometimes in comic desperation he +cried out that his uncle must be made of iron. What a constitution! The +ills he suffered from would have killed any decent person twelve months +before. When at last the news came that the Vicar was dying Philip, who +had been thinking of other things, was taken by surprise. It was in July, +and in another fortnight he was to have gone for his holiday. He received +a letter from Mrs. Foster to say the doctor did not give Mr. Carey many +days to live, and if Philip wished to see him again he must come at once. +Philip went to the buyer and told him he wanted to leave. Mr. Sampson was +a decent fellow, and when he knew the circumstances made no difficulties. +Philip said good-bye to the people in his department; the reason of his +leaving had spread among them in an exaggerated form, and they thought he +had come into a fortune. Mrs. Hodges had tears in her eyes when she shook +hands with him. + +"I suppose we shan't often see you again," she said. + +"I'm glad to get away from Lynn's," he answered. + +It was strange, but he was actually sorry to leave these people whom he +thought he had loathed, and when he drove away from the house in +Harrington Street it was with no exultation. He had so anticipated the +emotions he would experience on this occasion that now he felt nothing: he +was as unconcerned as though he were going for a few days' holiday. + +"I've got a rotten nature," he said to himself. "I look forward to things +awfully, and then when they come I'm always disappointed." + +He reached Blackstable early in the afternoon. Mrs. Foster met him at the +door, and her face told him that his uncle was not yet dead. + +"He's a little better today," she said. "He's got a wonderful +constitution." + +She led him into the bed-room where Mr. Carey lay on his back. He gave +Philip a slight smile, in which was a trace of satisfied cunning at having +circumvented his enemy once more. + +"I thought it was all up with me yesterday," he said, in an exhausted +voice. "They'd all given me up, hadn't you, Mrs. Foster?" + +"You've got a wonderful constitution, there's no denying that." + +"There's life in the old dog yet." + +Mrs. Foster said that the Vicar must not talk, it would tire him; she +treated him like a child, with kindly despotism; and there was something +childish in the old man's satisfaction at having cheated all their +expectations. It struck him at once that Philip had been sent for, and he +was amused that he had been brought on a fool's errand. If he could only +avoid another of his heart attacks he would get well enough in a week or +two; and he had had the attacks several times before; he always felt as if +he were going to die, but he never did. They all talked of his +constitution, but they none of them knew how strong it was. + +"Are you going to stay a day or two?" He asked Philip, pretending to +believe he had come down for a holiday. + +"I was thinking of it," Philip answered cheerfully. + +"A breath of sea-air will do you good." + +Presently Dr. Wigram came, and after he had seen the Vicar talked with +Philip. He adopted an appropriate manner. + +"I'm afraid it is the end this time, Philip," he said. "It'll be a great +loss to all of us. I've known him for five-and-thirty years." + +"He seems well enough now," said Philip. + +"I'm keeping him alive on drugs, but it can't last. It was dreadful these +last two days, I thought he was dead half a dozen times." + +The doctor was silent for a minute or two, but at the gate he said +suddenly to Philip: + +"Has Mrs. Foster said anything to you?" + +"What d'you mean?" + +"They're very superstitious, these people: she's got hold of an idea that +he's got something on his mind, and he can't die till he gets rid of it; +and he can't bring himself to confess it." + +Philip did not answer, and the doctor went on. + +"Of course it's nonsense. He's led a very good life, he's done his duty, +he's been a good parish priest, and I'm sure we shall all miss him; he +can't have anything to reproach himself with. I very much doubt whether +the next vicar will suit us half so well." + +For several days Mr. Carey continued without change. His appetite which +had been excellent left him, and he could eat little. Dr. Wigram did not +hesitate now to still the pain of the neuritis which tormented him; and +that, with the constant shaking of his palsied limbs, was gradually +exhausting him. His mind remained clear. Philip and Mrs. Foster nursed him +between them. She was so tired by the many months during which she had +been attentive to all his wants that Philip insisted on sitting up with +the patient so that she might have her night's rest. He passed the long +hours in an arm-chair so that he should not sleep soundly, and read by the +light of shaded candles The Thousand and One Nights. He had not read +them since he was a little boy, and they brought back his childhood to +him. Sometimes he sat and listened to the silence of the night. When the +effects of the opiate wore off Mr. Carey grew restless and kept him +constantly busy. + +At last, early one morning, when the birds were chattering noisily in the +trees, he heard his name called. He went up to the bed. Mr. Carey was +lying on his back, with his eyes looking at the ceiling; he did not turn +them on Philip. Philip saw that sweat was on his forehead, and he took a +towel and wiped it. + +"Is that you, Philip?" the old man asked. + +Philip was startled because the voice was suddenly changed. It was hoarse +and low. So would a man speak if he was cold with fear. + +"Yes, d'you want anything?" + +There was a pause, and still the unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling. Then +a twitch passed over the face. + +"I think I'm going to die," he said. + +"Oh, what nonsense!" cried Philip. "You're not going to die for years." + +Two tears were wrung from the old man's eyes. They moved Philip horribly. +His uncle had never betrayed any particular emotion in the affairs of +life; and it was dreadful to see them now, for they signified a terror +that was unspeakable. + +"Send for Mr. Simmonds," he said. "I want to take the Communion." + +Mr. Simmonds was the curate. + +"Now?" asked Philip. + +"Soon, or else it'll be too late." + +Philip went to awake Mrs. Foster, but it was later than he thought and she +was up already. He told her to send the gardener with a message, and he +went back to his uncle's room. + +"Have you sent for Mr. Simmonds?" + +"Yes." + +There was a silence. Philip sat by the bed-side, and occasionally wiped +the sweating forehead. + +"Let me hold your hand, Philip," the old man said at last. + +Philip gave him his hand and he clung to it as to life, for comfort in his +extremity. Perhaps he had never really loved anyone in all his days, but +now he turned instinctively to a human being. His hand was wet and cold. +It grasped Philip's with feeble, despairing energy. The old man was +fighting with the fear of death. And Philip thought that all must go +through that. Oh, how monstrous it was, and they could believe in a God +that allowed his creatures to suffer such a cruel torture! He had never +cared for his uncle, and for two years he had longed every day for his +death; but now he could not overcome the compassion that filled his heart. +What a price it was to pay for being other than the beasts! + +They remained in silence broken only once by a low inquiry from Mr. Carey. + +"Hasn't he come yet?" + +At last the housekeeper came in softly to say that Mr. Simmonds was there. +He carried a bag in which were his surplice and his hood. Mrs. Foster +brought the communion plate. Mr. Simmonds shook hands silently with +Philip, and then with professional gravity went to the sick man's side. +Philip and the maid went out of the room. + +Philip walked round the garden all fresh and dewy in the morning. The +birds were singing gaily. The sky was blue, but the air, salt-laden, was +sweet and cool. The roses were in full bloom. The green of the trees, the +green of the lawns, was eager and brilliant. Philip walked, and as he +walked he thought of the mystery which was proceeding in that bedroom. It +gave him a peculiar emotion. Presently Mrs. Foster came out to him and +said that his uncle wished to see him. The curate was putting his things +back into the black bag. The sick man turned his head a little and greeted +him with a smile. Philip was astonished, for there was a change in him, an +extraordinary change; his eyes had no longer the terror-stricken look, and +the pinching of his face had gone: he looked happy and serene. + +"I'm quite prepared now," he said, and his voice had a different tone in +it. "When the Lord sees fit to call me I am ready to give my soul into his +hands." + +Philip did not speak. He could see that his uncle was sincere. It was +almost a miracle. He had taken the body and blood of his Savior, and they +had given him strength so that he no longer feared the inevitable passage +into the night. He knew he was going to die: he was resigned. He only said +one thing more: + +"I shall rejoin my dear wife." + +It startled Philip. He remembered with what a callous selfishness his +uncle had treated her, how obtuse he had been to her humble, devoted love. +The curate, deeply moved, went away and Mrs. Foster, weeping, accompanied +him to the door. Mr. Carey, exhausted by his effort, fell into a light +doze, and Philip sat down by the bed and waited for the end. The morning +wore on, and the old man's breathing grew stertorous. The doctor came and +said he was dying. He was unconscious and he pecked feebly at the sheets; +he was restless and he cried out. Dr. Wigram gave him a hypodermic +injection. + +"It can't do any good now, he may die at any moment." + +The doctor looked at his watch and then at the patient. Philip saw that it +was one o'clock. Dr. Wigram was thinking of his dinner. + +"It's no use your waiting," he said. + +"There's nothing I can do," said the doctor. + +When he was gone Mrs. Foster asked Philip if he would go to the carpenter, +who was also the undertaker, and tell him to send up a woman to lay out +the body. + +"You want a little fresh air," she said, "it'll do you good." + +The undertaker lived half a mile away. When Philip gave him his message, +he said: + +"When did the poor old gentleman die?" + +Philip hesitated. It occurred to him that it would seem brutal to fetch a +woman to wash the body while his uncle still lived, and he wondered why +Mrs. Foster had asked him to come. They would think he was in a great +hurry to kill the old man off. He thought the undertaker looked at him +oddly. He repeated the question. It irritated Philip. It was no business +of his. + +"When did the Vicar pass away?" + +Philip's first impulse was to say that it had just happened, but then it +would seem inexplicable if the sick man lingered for several hours. He +reddened and answered awkwardly. + +"Oh, he isn't exactly dead yet." + +The undertaker looked at him in perplexity, and he hurried to explain. + +"Mrs. Foster is all alone and she wants a woman there. You understood, +don't you? He may be dead by now." + +The undertaker nodded. + +"Oh, yes, I see. I'll send someone up at once." + +When Philip got back to the vicarage he went up to the bed-room. Mrs. +Foster rose from her chair by the bed-side. + +"He's just as he was when you left," she said. + +She went down to get herself something to eat, and Philip watched +curiously the process of death. There was nothing human now in the +unconscious being that struggled feebly. Sometimes a muttered ejaculation +issued from the loose mouth. The sun beat down hotly from a cloudless sky, +but the trees in the garden were pleasant and cool. It was a lovely day. +A bluebottle buzzed against the windowpane. Suddenly there was a loud +rattle, it made Philip start, it was horribly frightening; a movement +passed through the limbs and the old man was dead. The machine had run +down. The bluebottle buzzed, buzzed noisily against the windowpane. + + + +CXII + + +Josiah Graves in his masterful way made arrangements, becoming but +economical, for the funeral; and when it was over came back to the +vicarage with Philip. The will was in his charge, and with a due sense of +the fitness of things he read it to Philip over an early cup of tea. It +was written on half a sheet of paper and left everything Mr. Carey had to +his nephew. There was the furniture, about eighty pounds at the bank, +twenty shares in the A. B. C. company, a few in Allsop's brewery, some in +the Oxford music-hall, and a few more in a London restaurant. They had +been bought under Mr. Graves' direction, and he told Philip with +satisfaction: + +"You see, people must eat, they will drink, and they want amusement. +You're always safe if you put your money in what the public thinks +necessities." + +His words showed a nice discrimination between the grossness of the +vulgar, which he deplored but accepted, and the finer taste of the elect. +Altogether in investments there was about five hundred pounds; and to that +must be added the balance at the bank and what the furniture would fetch. +It was riches to Philip. He was not happy but infinitely relieved. + +Mr. Graves left him, after they had discussed the auction which must be +held as soon as possible, and Philip sat himself down to go through the +papers of the deceased. The Rev. William Carey had prided himself on never +destroying anything, and there were piles of correspondence dating back +for fifty years and bundles upon bundles of neatly docketed bills. He had +kept not only letters addressed to him, but letters which himself had +written. There was a yellow packet of letters which he had written to his +father in the forties, when as an Oxford undergraduate he had gone to +Germany for the long vacation. Philip read them idly. It was a different +William Carey from the William Carey he had known, and yet there were +traces in the boy which might to an acute observer have suggested the man. +The letters were formal and a little stilted. He showed himself strenuous +to see all that was noteworthy, and he described with a fine enthusiasm +the castles of the Rhine. The falls of Schaffhausen made him `offer +reverent thanks to the all-powerful Creator of the universe, whose works +were wondrous and beautiful,' and he could not help thinking that they who +lived in sight of `this handiwork of their blessed Maker must be moved by +the contemplation to lead pure and holy lives.' Among some bills Philip +found a miniature which had been painted of William Carey soon after he +was ordained. It represented a thin young curate, with long hair that fell +over his head in natural curls, with dark eyes, large and dreamy, and a +pale ascetic face. Philip remembered the chuckle with which his uncle used +to tell of the dozens of slippers which were worked for him by adoring +ladies. + +The rest of the afternoon and all the evening Philip toiled through the +innumerable correspondence. He glanced at the address and at the +signature, then tore the letter in two and threw it into the +washing-basket by his side. Suddenly he came upon one signed Helen. He did +not know the writing. It was thin, angular, and old-fashioned. It began: +my dear William, and ended: your affectionate sister. Then it struck him +that it was from his own mother. He had never seen a letter of hers +before, and her handwriting was strange to him. It was about himself. + + +My dear William, + +Stephen wrote to you to thank you for your congratulations on the birth of +our son and your kind wishes to myself. Thank God we are both well and I +am deeply thankful for the great mercy which has been shown me. Now that +I can hold a pen I want to tell you and dear Louisa myself how truly +grateful I am to you both for all your kindness to me now and always since +my marriage. I am going to ask you to do me a great favour. Both Stephen +and I wish you to be the boy's godfather, and we hope that you will +consent. I know I am not asking a small thing, for I am sure you will take +the responsibilities of the position very seriously, but I am especially +anxious that you should undertake this office because you are a clergyman +as well as the boy's uncle. I am very anxious for the boy's welfare and I +pray God night and day that he may grow into a good, honest, and Christian +man. With you to guide him I hope that he will become a soldier in +Christ's Faith and be all the days of his life God-fearing, humble, and +pious. + + Your affectionate sister, + Helen. + + +Philip pushed the letter away and, leaning forward, rested his face on his +hands. It deeply touched and at the same time surprised him. He was +astonished at its religious tone, which seemed to him neither mawkish nor +sentimental. He knew nothing of his mother, dead now for nearly twenty +years, but that she was beautiful, and it was strange to learn that she +was simple and pious. He had never thought of that side of her. He read +again what she said about him, what she expected and thought about him; he +had turned out very differently; he looked at himself for a moment; +perhaps it was better that she was dead. Then a sudden impulse caused him +to tear up the letter; its tenderness and simplicity made it seem +peculiarly private; he had a queer feeling that there was something +indecent in his reading what exposed his mother's gentle soul. He went on +with the Vicar's dreary correspondence. + +A few days later he went up to London, and for the first time for two +years entered by day the hall of St. Luke's Hospital. He went to see the +secretary of the Medical School; he was surprised to see him and asked +Philip curiously what he had been doing. Philip's experiences had given +him a certain confidence in himself and a different outlook upon many +things: such a question would have embarrassed him before; but now he +answered coolly, with a deliberate vagueness which prevented further +inquiry, that private affairs had obliged him to make a break in the +curriculum; he was now anxious to qualify as soon as possible. The first +examination he could take was in midwifery and the diseases of women, and +he put his name down to be a clerk in the ward devoted to feminine +ailments; since it was holiday time there happened to be no difficulty in +getting a post as obstetric clerk; he arranged to undertake that duty +during the last week of August and the first two of September. After this +interview Philip walked through the Medical School, more or less deserted, +for the examinations at the end of the summer session were all over; and +he wandered along the terrace by the river-side. His heart was full. He +thought that now he could begin a new life, and he would put behind him +all the errors, follies, and miseries of the past. The flowing river +suggested that everything passed, was passing always, and nothing +mattered; the future was before him rich with possibilities. + +He went back to Blackstable and busied himself with the settling up of his +uncle's estate. The auction was fixed for the middle of August, when the +presence of visitors for the summer holidays would make it possible to get +better prices. Catalogues were made out and sent to the various dealers in +second-hand books at Tercanbury, Maidstone, and Ashford. + +One afternoon Philip took it into his head to go over to Tercanbury and +see his old school. He had not been there since the day when, with relief +in his heart, he had left it with the feeling that thenceforward he was +his own master. It was strange to wander through the narrow streets of +Tercanbury which he had known so well for so many years. He looked at the +old shops, still there, still selling the same things; the booksellers +with school-books, pious works, and the latest novels in one window and +photographs of the Cathedral and of the city in the other; the games shop, +with its cricket bats, fishing tackle, tennis rackets, and footballs; the +tailor from whom he had got clothes all through his boyhood; and the +fishmonger where his uncle whenever he came to Tercanbury bought fish. He +wandered along the sordid street in which, behind a high wall, lay the red +brick house which was the preparatory school. Further on was the gateway +that led into King's School, and he stood in the quadrangle round which +were the various buildings. It was just four and the boys were hurrying +out of school. He saw the masters in their gowns and mortar-boards, and +they were strange to him. It was more than ten years since he had left and +many changes had taken place. He saw the headmaster; he walked slowly down +from the schoolhouse to his own, talking to a big boy who Philip supposed +was in the sixth; he was little changed, tall, cadaverous, romantic as +Philip remembered him, with the same wild eyes; but the black beard was +streaked with gray now and the dark, sallow face was more deeply lined. +Philip had an impulse to go up and speak to him, but he was afraid he +would have forgotten him, and he hated the thought of explaining who he +was. + +Boys lingered talking to one another, and presently some who had hurried +to change came out to play fives; others straggled out in twos and threes +and went out of the gateway, Philip knew they were going up to the cricket +ground; others again went into the precincts to bat at the nets. Philip +stood among them a stranger; one or two gave him an indifferent glance; +but visitors, attracted by the Norman staircase, were not rare and excited +little attention. Philip looked at them curiously. He thought with +melancholy of the distance that separated him from them, and he thought +bitterly how much he had wanted to do and how little done. It seemed to +him that all those years, vanished beyond recall, had been utterly wasted. +The boys, fresh and buoyant, were doing the same things that he had done, +it seemed that not a day had passed since he left the school, and yet in +that place where at least by name he had known everybody now he knew not +a soul. In a few years these too, others taking their place, would stand +alien as he stood; but the reflection brought him no solace; it merely +impressed upon him the futility of human existence. Each generation +repeated the trivial round. He wondered what had become of the boys who +were his companions: they were nearly thirty now; some would be dead, but +others were married and had children; they were soldiers and parsons, +doctors, lawyers; they were staid men who were beginning to put youth +behind them. Had any of them made such a hash of life as he? He thought +of the boy he had been devoted to; it was funny, he could not recall his +name; he remembered exactly what he looked like, he had been his greatest +friend; but his name would not come back to him. He looked back with +amusement on the jealous emotions he had suffered on his account. It was +irritating not to recollect his name. He longed to be a boy again, like +those he saw sauntering through the quadrangle, so that, avoiding his +mistakes, he might start fresh and make something more out of life. He +felt an intolerable loneliness. He almost regretted the penury which he +had suffered during the last two years, since the desperate struggle +merely to keep body and soul together had deadened the pain of living. In +the sweat of thy brow shalt thou earn thy daily bread: it was not a curse +upon mankind, but the balm which reconciled it to existence. + +But Philip was impatient with himself; he called to mind his idea of the +pattern of life: the unhappiness he had suffered was no more than part of +a decoration which was elaborate and beautiful; he told himself +strenuously that he must accept with gaiety everything, dreariness and +excitement, pleasure and pain, because it added to the richness of the +design. He sought for beauty consciously, and he remembered how even as a +boy he had taken pleasure in the Gothic cathedral as one saw it from the +precincts; he went there and looked at the massive pile, gray under the +cloudy sky, with the central tower that rose like the praise of men to +their God; but the boys were batting at the nets, and they were lissom and +strong and active; he could not help hearing their shouts and laughter. +The cry of youth was insistent, and he saw the beautiful thing before him +only with his eyes. + + + +CXIII + + +At the beginning of the last week in August Philip entered upon his duties +in the `district.' They were arduous, for he had to attend on an average +three confinements a day. The patient had obtained a `card' from the +hospital some time before; and when her time came it was taken to the +porter by a messenger, generally a little girl, who was then sent across +the road to the house in which Philip lodged. At night the porter, who had +a latch-key, himself came over and awoke Philip. It was mysterious then to +get up in the darkness and walk through the deserted streets of the South +Side. At those hours it was generally the husband who brought the card. If +there had been a number of babies before he took it for the most part with +surly indifference, but if newly married he was nervous and then sometimes +strove to allay his anxiety by getting drunk. Often there was a mile or +more to walk, during which Philip and the messenger discussed the +conditions of labour and the cost of living; Philip learnt about the +various trades which were practised on that side of the river. He inspired +confidence in the people among whom he was thrown, and during the long +hours that he waited in a stuffy room, the woman in labour lying on a +large bed that took up half of it, her mother and the midwife talked to +him as naturally as they talked to one another. The circumstances in which +he had lived during the last two years had taught him several things about +the life of the very poor, which it amused them to find he knew; and they +were impressed because he was not deceived by their little subterfuges. He +was kind, and he had gentle hands, and he did not lose his temper. They +were pleased because he was not above drinking a cup of tea with them, and +when the dawn came and they were still waiting they offered him a slice of +bread and dripping; he was not squeamish and could eat most things now +with a good appetite. Some of the houses he went to, in filthy courts off +a dingy street, huddled against one another without light or air, were +merely squalid; but others, unexpectedly, though dilapidated, with +worm-eaten floors and leaking roofs, had the grand air: you found in them +oak balusters exquisitely carved, and the walls had still their panelling. +These were thickly inhabited. One family lived in each room, and in the +daytime there was the incessant noise of children playing in the court. +The old walls were the breeding-place of vermin; the air was so foul that +often, feeling sick, Philip had to light his pipe. The people who dwelt +here lived from hand to mouth. Babies were unwelcome, the man received +them with surly anger, the mother with despair; it was one more mouth to +feed, and there was little enough wherewith to feed those already there. +Philip often discerned the wish that the child might be born dead or might +die quickly. He delivered one woman of twins (a source of humour to the +facetious) and when she was told she burst into a long, shrill wail of +misery. Her mother said outright: + +"I don't know how they're going to feed 'em." + +"Maybe the Lord'll see fit to take 'em to 'imself," said the midwife. + +Philip caught sight of the husband's face as he looked at the tiny pair +lying side by side, and there was a ferocious sullenness in it which +startled him. He felt in the family assembled there a hideous resentment +against those poor atoms who had come into the world unwished for; and he +had a suspicion that if he did not speak firmly an `accident' would occur. +Accidents occurred often; mothers `overlay' their babies, and perhaps +errors of diet were not always the result of carelessness. + +"I shall come every day," he said. "I warn you that if anything happens to +them there'll have to be an inquest." + +The father made no reply, but he gave Philip a scowl. There was murder in +his soul. + +"Bless their little 'earts," said the grandmother, "what should 'appen to +them?" + +The great difficulty was to keep the mothers in bed for ten days, which +was the minimum upon which the hospital practice insisted. It was awkward +to look after the family, no one would see to the children without +payment, and the husband tumbled because his tea was not right when he +came home tired from his work and hungry. Philip had heard that the poor +helped one another, but woman after woman complained to him that she could +not get anyone in to clean up and see to the children's dinner without +paying for the service, and she could not afford to pay. By listening to +the women as they talked and by chance remarks from which he could deduce +much that was left unsaid, Philip learned how little there was in common +between the poor and the classes above them. They did not envy their +betters, for the life was too different, and they had an ideal of ease +which made the existence of the middle-classes seem formal and stiff; +moreover, they had a certain contempt for them because they were soft and +did not work with their hands. The proud merely wished to be left alone, +but the majority looked upon the well-to-do as people to be exploited; +they knew what to say in order to get such advantages as the charitable +put at their disposal, and they accepted benefits as a right which came to +them from the folly of their superiors and their own astuteness. They bore +the curate with contemptuous indifference, but the district visitor +excited their bitter hatred. She came in and opened your windows without +so much as a by your leave or with your leave, `and me with my bronchitis, +enough to give me my death of cold;' she poked her nose into corners, and +if she didn't say the place was dirty you saw what she thought right +enough, `an' it's all very well for them as 'as servants, but I'd like to +see what she'd make of 'er room if she 'ad four children, and 'ad to do +the cookin', and mend their clothes, and wash them.' + +Philip discovered that the greatest tragedy of life to these people was +not separation or death, that was natural and the grief of it could be +assuaged with tears, but loss of work. He saw a man come home one +afternoon, three days after his wife's confinement, and tell her he had +been dismissed; he was a builder and at that time work was slack; he +stated the fact, and sat down to his tea. + +"Oh, Jim," she said. + +The man ate stolidly some mess which had been stewing in a sauce-pan +against his coming; he stared at his plate; his wife looked at him two or +three times, with little startled glances, and then quite silently began +to cry. The builder was an uncouth little fellow with a rough, +weather-beaten face and a long white scar on his forehead; he had large, +stubbly hands. Presently he pushed aside his plate as if he must give up +the effort to force himself to eat, and turned a fixed gaze out of the +window. The room was at the top of the house, at the back, and one saw +nothing but sullen clouds. The silence seemed heavy with despair. Philip +felt that there was nothing to be said, he could only go; and as he walked +away wearily, for he had been up most of the night, his heart was filled +with rage against the cruelty of the world. He knew the hopelessness of +the search for work and the desolation which is harder to bear than +hunger. He was thankful not to have to believe in God, for then such a +condition of things would be intolerable; one could reconcile oneself to +existence only because it was meaningless. + +It seemed to Philip that the people who spent their time in helping the +poorer classes erred because they sought to remedy things which would +harass them if themselves had to endure them without thinking that they +did not in the least disturb those who were used to them. The poor did not +want large airy rooms; they suffered from cold, for their food was not +nourishing and their circulation bad; space gave them a feeling of +chilliness, and they wanted to burn as little coal as need be; there was +no hardship for several to sleep in one room, they preferred it; they were +never alone for a moment, from the time they were born to the time they +died, and loneliness oppressed them; they enjoyed the promiscuity in which +they dwelt, and the constant noise of their surroundings pressed upon +their ears unnoticed. They did not feel the need of taking a bath +constantly, and Philip often heard them speak with indignation of the +necessity to do so with which they were faced on entering the hospital: it +was both an affront and a discomfort. They wanted chiefly to be left +alone; then if the man was in regular work life went easily and was not +without its pleasures: there was plenty of time for gossip, after the +day's work a glass of beer was very good to drink, the streets were a +constant source of entertainment, if you wanted to read there was +Reynolds' or The News of the World; `but there, you couldn't make out +'ow the time did fly, the truth was and that's a fact, you was a rare one +for reading when you was a girl, but what with one thing and another you +didn't get no time now not even to read the paper.' + +The usual practice was to pay three visits after a confinement, and one +Sunday Philip went to see a patient at the dinner hour. She was up for the +first time. + +"I couldn't stay in bed no longer, I really couldn't. I'm not one for +idling, and it gives me the fidgets to be there and do nothing all day +long, so I said to 'Erb, I'm just going to get up and cook your dinner for +you." + +'Erb was sitting at table with his knife and fork already in his hands. He +was a young man, with an open face and blue eyes. He was earning good +money, and as things went the couple were in easy circumstances. They had +only been married a few months, and were both delighted with the rosy boy +who lay in the cradle at the foot of the bed. There was a savoury smell of +beefsteak in the room and Philip's eyes turned to the range. + +"I was just going to dish up this minute," said the woman. + +"Fire away," said Philip. "I'll just have a look at the son and heir and +then I'll take myself off." + +Husband and wife laughed at Philip's expression, and 'Erb getting up went +over with Philip to the cradle. He looked at his baby proudly. + +"There doesn't seem much wrong with him, does there?" said Philip. + +He took up his hat, and by this time 'Erb's wife had dished up the +beefsteak and put on the table a plate of green peas. + +"You're going to have a nice dinner," smiled Philip. + +"He's only in of a Sunday and I like to 'ave something special for him, so +as he shall miss his 'ome when he's out at work." + +"I suppose you'd be above sittin' down and 'avin' a bit of dinner with +us?" said 'Erb. + +"Oh, 'Erb," said his wife, in a shocked tone. + +"Not if you ask me," answered Philip, with his attractive smile. + +"Well, that's what I call friendly, I knew 'e wouldn't take offence, +Polly. Just get another plate, my girl." + +Polly was flustered, and she thought 'Erb a regular caution, you never +knew what ideas 'e'd get in 'is 'ead next; but she got a plate and wiped +it quickly with her apron, then took a new knife and fork from the chest +of drawers, where her best cutlery rested among her best clothes. There +was a jug of stout on the table, and 'Erb poured Philip out a glass. He +wanted to give him the lion's share of the beefsteak, but Philip insisted +that they should share alike. It was a sunny room with two windows that +reached to the floor; it had been the parlour of a house which at one time +was if not fashionable at least respectable: it might have been inhabited +fifty years before by a well-to-do tradesman or an officer on half pay. +'Erb had been a football player before he married, and there were +photographs on the wall of various teams in self-conscious attitudes, with +neatly plastered hair, the captain seated proudly in the middle holding a +cup. There were other signs of prosperity: photographs of the relations of +'Erb and his wife in Sunday clothes; on the chimney-piece an elaborate +arrangement of shells stuck on a miniature rock; and on each side mugs, `A +present from Southend' in Gothic letters, with pictures of a pier and a +parade on them. 'Erb was something of a character; he was a non-union man +and expressed himself with indignation at the efforts of the union to +force him to join. The union wasn't no good to him, he never found no +difficulty in getting work, and there was good wages for anyone as 'ad a +head on his shoulders and wasn't above puttin' 'is 'and to anything as +come 'is way. Polly was timorous. If she was 'im she'd join the union, the +last time there was a strike she was expectin' 'im to be brought back in +an ambulance every time he went out. She turned to Philip. + +"He's that obstinate, there's no doing anything with 'im." + +"Well, what I say is, it's a free country, and I won't be dictated to." + +"It's no good saying it's a free country," said Polly, "that won't prevent +'em bashin' your 'ead in if they get the chanst." + +When they had finished Philip passed his pouch over to 'Erb and they lit +their pipes; then he got up, for a `call' might be waiting for him at his +rooms, and shook hands. He saw that it had given them pleasure that he +shared their meal, and they saw that he had thoroughly enjoyed it. + +"Well, good-bye, sir," said 'Erb, "and I 'ope we shall 'ave as nice a +doctor next time the missus disgraces 'erself." + +"Go on with you, 'Erb," she retorted. "'Ow d'you know there's going to +be a next time?" + + + +CXIV + + +The three weeks which the appointment lasted drew to an end. Philip had +attended sixty-two cases, and he was tired out. When he came home about +ten o'clock on his last night he hoped with all his heart that he would +not be called out again. He had not had a whole night's rest for ten days. +The case which he had just come from was horrible. He had been fetched by +a huge, burly man, the worse for liquor, and taken to a room in an +evil-smelling court, which was filthier than any he had seen: it was a +tiny attic; most of the space was taken up by a wooden bed, with a canopy +of dirty red hangings, and the ceiling was so low that Philip could touch +it with the tips of his fingers; with the solitary candle that afforded +what light there was he went over it, frizzling up the bugs that crawled +upon it. The woman was a blowsy creature of middle age, who had had a long +succession of still-born children. It was a story that Philip was not +unaccustomed to: the husband had been a soldier in India; the legislation +forced upon that country by the prudery of the English public had given a +free run to the most distressing of all diseases; the innocent suffered. +Yawning, Philip undressed and took a bath, then shook his clothes over the +water and watched the animals that fell out wriggling. He was just going +to get into bed when there was a knock at the door, and the hospital +porter brought him a card. + +"Curse you," said Philip. "You're the last person I wanted to see tonight. +Who's brought it?" + +"I think it's the 'usband, sir. Shall I tell him to wait?" + +Philip looked at the address, saw that the street was familiar to him, and +told the porter that he would find his own way. He dressed himself and in +five minutes, with his black bag in his hand, stepped into the street. A +man, whom he could not see in the darkness, came up to him, and said he +was the husband. + +"I thought I'd better wait, sir," he said. "It's a pretty rough +neighbour'ood, and them not knowing who you was." + +Philip laughed. + +"Bless your heart, they all know the doctor, I've been in some damned +sight rougher places than Waver Street." + +It was quite true. The black bag was a passport through wretched alleys +and down foul-smelling courts into which a policeman was not ready to +venture by himself. Once or twice a little group of men had looked at +Philip curiously as he passed; he heard a mutter of observations and then +one say: + +"It's the 'orspital doctor." + +As he went by one or two of them said: "Good-night, sir." + +"We shall 'ave to step out if you don't mind, sir," said the man who +accompanied him now. "They told me there was no time to lose." + +"Why did you leave it so late?" asked Philip, as he quickened his pace. + +He glanced at the fellow as they passed a lamp-post. + +"You look awfully young," he said. + +"I'm turned eighteen, sir." + +He was fair, and he had not a hair on his face, he looked no more than a +boy; he was short, but thick set. + +"You're young to be married," said Philip. + +"We 'ad to." + +"How much d'you earn?" + +"Sixteen, sir." + +Sixteen shillings a week was not much to keep a wife and child on. The +room the couple lived in showed that their poverty was extreme. It was a +fair size, but it looked quite large, since there was hardly any furniture +in it; there was no carpet on the floor; there were no pictures on the +walls; and most rooms had something, photographs or supplements in cheap +frames from the Christmas numbers of the illustrated papers. The patient +lay on a little iron bed of the cheapest sort. It startled Philip to see +how young she was. + +"By Jove, she can't be more than sixteen," he said to the woman who had +come in to `see her through.' + +She had given her age as eighteen on the card, but when they were very +young they often put on a year or two. Also she was pretty, which was rare +in those classes in which the constitution has been undermined by bad +food, bad air, and unhealthy occupations; she had delicate features and +large blue eyes, and a mass of dark hair done in the elaborate fashion of +the coster girl. She and her husband were very nervous. + +"You'd better wait outside, so as to be at hand if I want you," Philip +said to him. + +Now that he saw him better Philip was surprised again at his boyish air: +you felt that he should be larking in the street with the other lads +instead of waiting anxiously for the birth of a child. The hours passed, +and it was not till nearly two that the baby was born. Everything seemed +to be going satisfactorily; the husband was called in, and it touched +Philip to see the awkward, shy way in which he kissed his wife; Philip +packed up his things. Before going he felt once more his patient's pulse. + +"Hulloa!" he said. + +He looked at her quickly: something had happened. In cases of emergency +the S. O. C.--senior obstetric clerk--had to be sent for; he was a +qualified man, and the `district' was in his charge. Philip scribbled a +note, and giving it to the husband, told him to run with it to the +hospital; he bade him hurry, for his wife was in a dangerous state. The +man set off. Philip waited anxiously; he knew the woman was bleeding to +death; he was afraid she would die before his chief arrived; he took what +steps he could. He hoped fervently that the S. O. C. would not have been +called elsewhere. The minutes were interminable. He came at last, and, +while he examined the patient, in a low voice asked Philip questions. +Philip saw by his face that he thought the case very grave. His name was +Chandler. He was a tall man of few words, with a long nose and a thin face +much lined for his age. He shook his head. + +"It was hopeless from the beginning. Where's the husband?" + +"I told him to wait on the stairs," said Philip. + +"You'd better bring him in." + +Philip opened the door and called him. He was sitting in the dark on the +first step of the flight that led to the next floor. He came up to the +bed. + +"What's the matter?" he asked. + +"Why, there's internal bleeding. It's impossible to stop it." The S. O. C. +hesitated a moment, and because it was a painful thing to say he forced +his voice to become brusque. "She's dying." + +The man did not say a word; he stopped quite still, looking at his wife, +who lay, pale and unconscious, on the bed. It was the midwife who spoke. + +"The gentlemen 'ave done all they could, 'Arry," she said. "I saw what was +comin' from the first." + +"Shut up," said Chandler. + +There were no curtains on the windows, and gradually the night seemed to +lighten; it was not yet the dawn, but the dawn was at hand. Chandler was +keeping the woman alive by all the means in his power, but life was +slipping away from her, and suddenly she died. The boy who was her husband +stood at the end of the cheap iron bed with his hands resting on the rail; +he did not speak; but he looked very pale and once or twice Chandler gave +him an uneasy glance, thinking he was going to faint: his lips were gray. +The midwife sobbed noisily, but he took no notice of her. His eyes were +fixed upon his wife, and in them was an utter bewilderment. He reminded +you of a dog whipped for something he did not know was wrong. When +Chandler and Philip had gathered together their things Chandler turned to +the husband. + +"You'd better lie down for a bit. I expect you're about done up." + +"There's nowhere for me to lie down, sir," he answered, and there was in +his voice a humbleness which was very distressing. + +"Don't you know anyone in the house who'll give you a shakedown?" + +"No, sir." + +"They only moved in last week," said the midwife. "They don't know nobody +yet." + +Chandler hesitated a moment awkwardly, then he went up to the man and +said: + +"I'm very sorry this has happened." + +He held out his hand and the man, with an instinctive glance at his own to +see if it was clean, shook it. + +"Thank you, sir." + +Philip shook hands with him too. Chandler told the midwife to come and +fetch the certificate in the morning. They left the house and walked along +together in silence. + +"It upsets one a bit at first, doesn't it?" said Chandler at last. + +"A bit," answered Philip. + +"If you like I'll tell the porter not to bring you any more calls +tonight." + +"I'm off duty at eight in the morning in any case." + +"How many cases have you had?" + +"Sixty-three." + +"Good. You'll get your certificate then." + +They arrived at the hospital, and the S. O. C. went in to see if anyone +wanted him. Philip walked on. It had been very hot all the day before, and +even now in the early morning there was a balminess in the air. The street +was very still. Philip did not feel inclined to go to bed. It was the end +of his work and he need not hurry. He strolled along, glad of the fresh +air and the silence; he thought that he would go on to the bridge and look +at day break on the river. A policeman at the corner bade him +good-morning. He knew who Philip was from his bag. + +"Out late tonight, sir," he said. + +Philip nodded and passed. He leaned against the parapet and looked towards +the morning. At that hour the great city was like a city of the dead. The +sky was cloudless, but the stars were dim at the approach of day; there +was a light mist on the river, and the great buildings on the north side +were like palaces in an enchanted island. A group of barges was moored in +midstream. It was all of an unearthly violet, troubling somehow and +awe-inspiring; but quickly everything grew pale, and cold, and gray. Then +the sun rose, a ray of yellow gold stole across the sky, and the sky was +iridescent. Philip could not get out of his eyes the dead girl lying on +the bed, wan and white, and the boy who stood at the end of it like a +stricken beast. The bareness of the squalid room made the pain of it more +poignant. It was cruel that a stupid chance should have cut off her life +when she was just entering upon it; but in the very moment of saying this +to himself, Philip thought of the life which had been in store for her, +the bearing of children, the dreary fight with poverty, the youth broken +by toil and deprivation into a slatternly middle age--he saw the pretty +face grow thin and white, the hair grow scanty, the pretty hands, worn +down brutally by work, become like the claws of an old animal--then, when +the man was past his prime, the difficulty of getting jobs, the small +wages he had to take; and the inevitable, abject penury of the end: she +might be energetic, thrifty, industrious, it would not have saved her; in +the end was the workhouse or subsistence on the charity of her children. +Who could pity her because she had died when life offered so little? + +But pity was inane. Philip felt it was not that which these people needed. +They did not pity themselves. They accepted their fate. It was the natural +order of things. Otherwise, good heavens! otherwise they would swarm over +the river in their multitude to the side where those great buildings were, +secure and stately, and they would pillage, burn, and sack. But the day, +tender and pale, had broken now, and the mist was tenuous; it bathed +everything in a soft radiance; and the Thames was gray, rosy, and green; +gray like mother-of-pearl and green like the heart of a yellow rose. The +wharfs and store-houses of the Surrey Side were massed in disorderly +loveliness. The scene was so exquisite that Philip's heart beat +passionately. He was overwhelmed by the beauty of the world. Beside that +nothing seemed to matter. + + + +CXV + + +Philip spent the few weeks that remained before the beginning of the +winter session in the out-patients' department, and in October settled +down to regular work. He had been away from the hospital for so long that +he found himself very largely among new people; the men of different years +had little to do with one another, and his contemporaries were now mostly +qualified: some had left to take up assistantships or posts in country +hospitals and infirmaries, and some held appointments at St. Luke's. The +two years during which his mind had lain fallow had refreshed him, he +fancied, and he was able now to work with energy. + +The Athelnys were delighted with his change of fortune. He had kept aside +a few things from the sale of his uncle's effects and gave them all +presents. He gave Sally a gold chain that had belonged to his aunt. She +was now grown up. She was apprenticed to a dressmaker and set out every +morning at eight to work all day in a shop in Regent Street. Sally had +frank blue eyes, a broad brow, and plentiful shining hair; she was buxom, +with broad hips and full breasts; and her father, who was fond of +discussing her appearance, warned her constantly that she must not grow +fat. She attracted because she was healthy, animal, and feminine. She had +many admirers, but they left her unmoved; she gave one the impression that +she looked upon love-making as nonsense; and it was easy to imagine that +young men found her unapproachable. Sally was old for her years: she had +been used to help her mother in the household work and in the care of the +children, so that she had acquired a managing air, which made her mother +say that Sally was a bit too fond of having things her own way. She did +not speak very much, but as she grew older she seemed to be acquiring a +quiet sense of humour, and sometimes uttered a remark which suggested that +beneath her impassive exterior she was quietly bubbling with amusement at +her fellow-creatures. Philip found that with her he never got on the terms +of affectionate intimacy upon which he was with the rest of Athelny's huge +family. Now and then her indifference slightly irritated him. There was +something enigmatic in her. + +When Philip gave her the necklace Athelny in his boisterous way insisted +that she must kiss him; but Sally reddened and drew back. + +"No, I'm not going to," she said. + +"Ungrateful hussy!" cried Athelny. "Why not?" + +"I don't like being kissed by men," she said. + +Philip saw her embarrassment, and, amused, turned Athelny's attention to +something else. That was never a very difficult thing to do. But evidently +her mother spoke of the matter later, for next time Philip came she took +the opportunity when they were alone for a couple of minutes to refer to +it. + +"You didn't think it disagreeable of me last week when I wouldn't kiss +you?" + +"Not a bit," he laughed. + +"It's not because I wasn't grateful." She blushed a little as she uttered +the formal phrase which she had prepared. "I shall always value the +necklace, and it was very kind of you to give it me." + +Philip found it always a little difficult to talk to her. She did all that +she had to do very competently, but seemed to feel no need of +conversation; yet there was nothing unsociable in her. One Sunday +afternoon when Athelny and his wife had gone out together, and Philip, +treated as one of the family, sat reading in the parlour, Sally came in +and sat by the window to sew. The girls' clothes were made at home and +Sally could not afford to spend Sundays in idleness. Philip thought she +wished to talk and put down his book. + +"Go on reading," she said. "I only thought as you were alone I'd come and +sit with you." + +"You're the most silent person I've ever struck," said Philip. + +"We don't want another one who's talkative in this house," she said. + +There was no irony in her tone: she was merely stating a fact. But it +suggested to Philip that she measured her father, alas, no longer the hero +he was to her childhood, and in her mind joined together his entertaining +conversation and the thriftlessness which often brought difficulties into +their life; she compared his rhetoric with her mother's practical common +sense; and though the liveliness of her father amused her she was perhaps +sometimes a little impatient with it. Philip looked at her as she bent +over her work; she was healthy, strong, and normal; it must be odd to see +her among the other girls in the shop with their flat chests and anaemic +faces. Mildred suffered from anaemia. + +After a time it appeared that Sally had a suitor. She went out +occasionally with friends she had made in the work-room, and had met a +young man, an electrical engineer in a very good way of business, who was +a most eligible person. One day she told her mother that he had asked her +to marry him. + +"What did you say?" said her mother. + +"Oh, I told him I wasn't over-anxious to marry anyone just yet awhile." +She paused a little as was her habit between observations. "He took on so +that I said he might come to tea on Sunday." + +It was an occasion that thoroughly appealed to Athelny. He rehearsed all +the afternoon how he should play the heavy father for the young man's +edification till he reduced his children to helpless giggling. Just before +he was due Athelny routed out an Egyptian tarboosh and insisted on putting +it on. + +"Go on with you, Athelny," said his wife, who was in her best, which was +of black velvet, and, since she was growing stouter every year, very tight +for her. "You'll spoil the girl's chances." + +She tried to pull it off, but the little man skipped nimbly out of her +way. + +"Unhand me, woman. Nothing will induce me to take it off. This young man +must be shown at once that it is no ordinary family he is preparing to +enter." + +"Let him keep it on, mother," said Sally, in her even, indifferent +fashion. "If Mr. Donaldson doesn't take it the way it's meant he can take +himself off, and good riddance." + +Philip thought it was a severe ordeal that the young man was being exposed +to, since Athelny, in his brown velvet jacket, flowing black tie, and red +tarboosh, was a startling spectacle for an innocent electrical engineer. +When he came he was greeted by his host with the proud courtesy of a +Spanish grandee and by Mrs. Athelny in an altogether homely and natural +fashion. They sat down at the old ironing-table in the high-backed monkish +chairs, and Mrs. Athelny poured tea out of a lustre teapot which gave a +note of England and the country-side to the festivity. She had made little +cakes with her own hand, and on the table was home-made jam. It was a +farm-house tea, and to Philip very quaint and charming in that Jacobean +house. Athelny for some fantastic reason took it into his head to +discourse upon Byzantine history; he had been reading the later volumes of +the Decline and Fall; and, his forefinger dramatically extended, he +poured into the astonished ears of the suitor scandalous stories about +Theodora and Irene. He addressed himself directly to his guest with a +torrent of rhodomontade; and the young man, reduced to helpless silence +and shy, nodded his head at intervals to show that he took an intelligent +interest. Mrs. Athelny paid no attention to Thorpe's conversation, but +interrupted now and then to offer the young man more tea or to press upon +him cake and jam. Philip watched Sally; she sat with downcast eyes, calm, +silent, and observant; and her long eye-lashes cast a pretty shadow on her +cheek. You could not tell whether she was amused at the scene or if she +cared for the young man. She was inscrutable. But one thing was certain: +the electrical engineer was good-looking, fair and clean-shaven, with +pleasant, regular features, and an honest face; he was tall and well-made. +Philip could not help thinking he would make an excellent mate for her, +and he felt a pang of envy for the happiness which he fancied was in store +for them. + +Presently the suitor said he thought it was about time he was getting +along. Sally rose to her feet without a word and accompanied him to the +door. When she came back her father burst out: + +"Well, Sally, we think your young man very nice. We are prepared to +welcome him into our family. Let the banns be called and I will compose a +nuptial song." + +Sally set about clearing away the tea-things. She did not answer. Suddenly +she shot a swift glance at Philip. + +"What did you think of him, Mr. Philip?" + +She had always refused to call him Uncle Phil as the other children did, +and would not call him Philip. + +"I think you'd make an awfully handsome pair." + +She looked at him quickly once more, and then with a slight blush went on +with her business. + +"I thought him a very nice civil-spoken young fellow," said Mrs. Athelny, +"and I think he's just the sort to make any girl happy." + +Sally did not reply for a minute or two, and Philip looked at her +curiously: it might be thought that she was meditating upon what her +mother had said, and on the other hand she might be thinking of the man in +the moon. + +"Why don't you answer when you're spoken to, Sally?" remarked her mother, +a little irritably. + +"I thought he was a silly." + +"Aren't you going to have him then?" + +"No, I'm not." + +"I don't know how much more you want," said Mrs. Athelny, and it was quite +clear now that she was put out. "He's a very decent young fellow and he +can afford to give you a thorough good home. We've got quite enough to +feed here without you. If you get a chance like that it's wicked not to +take it. And I daresay you'd be able to have a girl to do the rough work." + +Philip had never before heard Mrs. Athelny refer so directly to the +difficulties of her life. He saw how important it was that each child +should be provided for. + +"It's no good your carrying on, mother," said Sally in her quiet way. "I'm +not going to marry him." + +"I think you're a very hard-hearted, cruel, selfish girl." + +"If you want me to earn my own living, mother, I can always go into +service." + +"Don't be so silly, you know your father would never let you do that." + +Philip caught Sally's eye, and he thought there was in it a glimmer of +amusement. He wondered what there had been in the conversation to touch +her sense of humour. She was an odd girl. + + + +CXVI + + +During his last year at St. Luke's Philip had to work hard. He was +contented with life. He found it very comfortable to be heart-free and to +have enough money for his needs. He had heard people speak contemptuously +of money: he wondered if they had ever tried to do without it. He knew +that the lack made a man petty, mean, grasping; it distorted his character +and caused him to view the world from a vulgar angle; when you had to +consider every penny, money became of grotesque importance: you needed a +competency to rate it at its proper value. He lived a solitary life, +seeing no one except the Athelnys, but he was not lonely; he busied +himself with plans for the future, and sometimes he thought of the past. +His recollection dwelt now and then on old friends, but he made no effort +to see them. He would have liked to know what was become of Norah Nesbit; +she was Norah something else now, but he could not remember the name of +the man she was going to marry; he was glad to have known her: she was a +good and a brave soul. One evening about half past eleven he saw Lawson, +walking along Piccadilly; he was in evening clothes and might be supposed +to be coming back from a theatre. Philip gave way to a sudden impulse and +quickly turned down a side street. He had not seen him for two years and +felt that he could not now take up again the interrupted friendship. He +and Lawson had nothing more to say to one another. Philip was no longer +interested in art; it seemed to him that he was able to enjoy beauty with +greater force than when he was a boy; but art appeared to him unimportant. +He was occupied with the forming of a pattern out of the manifold chaos of +life, and the materials with which he worked seemed to make preoccupation +with pigments and words very trivial. Lawson had served his turn. Philip's +friendship with him had been a motive in the design he was elaborating: it +was merely sentimental to ignore the fact that the painter was of no +further interest to him. + +Sometimes Philip thought of Mildred. He avoided deliberately the streets +in which there was a chance of seeing her; but occasionally some feeling, +perhaps curiosity, perhaps something deeper which he would not +acknowledge, made him wander about Piccadilly and Regent Street during the +hours when she might be expected to be there. He did not know then whether +he wished to see her or dreaded it. Once he saw a back which reminded him +of hers, and for a moment he thought it was she; it gave him a curious +sensation: it was a strange sharp pain in his heart, there was fear in it +and a sickening dismay; and when he hurried on and found that he was +mistaken he did not know whether it was relief that he experienced or +disappointment. + + +At the beginning of August Philip passed his surgery, his last +examination, and received his diploma. It was seven years since he had +entered St. Luke's Hospital. He was nearly thirty. He walked down the +stairs of the Royal College of Surgeons with the roll in his hand which +qualified him to practice, and his heart beat with satisfaction. + +"Now I'm really going to begin life," he thought. + +Next day he went to the secretary's office to put his name down for one of +the hospital appointments. The secretary was a pleasant little man with a +black beard, whom Philip had always found very affable. He congratulated +him on his success, and then said: + +"I suppose you wouldn't like to do a locum for a month on the South coast? +Three guineas a week with board and lodging." + +"I wouldn't mind," said Philip. + +"It's at Farnley, in Dorsetshire. Doctor South. You'd have to go down at +once; his assistant has developed mumps. I believe it's a very pleasant +place." + +There was something in the secretary's manner that puzzled Philip. It was +a little doubtful. + +"What's the crab in it?" he asked. + +The secretary hesitated a moment and laughed in a conciliating fashion. + +"Well, the fact is, I understand he's rather a crusty, funny old fellow. +The agencies won't send him anyone any more. He speaks his mind very +openly, and men don't like it." + +"But d'you think he'll be satisfied with a man who's only just qualified? +After all I have no experience." + +"He ought to be glad to get you," said the secretary diplomatically. + +Philip thought for a moment. He had nothing to do for the next few weeks, +and he was glad of the chance to earn a bit of money. He could put it +aside for the holiday in Spain which he had promised himself when he had +finished his appointment at St. Luke's or, if they would not give him +anything there, at some other hospital. + +"All right. I'll go." + +"The only thing is, you must go this afternoon. Will that suit you? If so, +I'll send a wire at once." + +Philip would have liked a few days to himself; but he had seen the +Athelnys the night before (he had gone at once to take them his good news) +and there was really no reason why he should not start immediately. He had +little luggage to pack. Soon after seven that evening he got out of the +station at Farnley and took a cab to Doctor South's. It was a broad low +stucco house, with a Virginia creeper growing over it. He was shown into +the consulting-room. An old man was writing at a desk. He looked up as the +maid ushered Philip in. He did not get up, and he did not speak; he merely +stared at Philip. Philip was taken aback. + +"I think you're expecting me," he said. "The secretary of St. Luke's wired +to you this morning." + +"I kept dinner back for half an hour. D'you want to wash?" + +"I do," said Philip. + +Doctor South amused him by his odd manner. He got up now, and Philip saw +that he was a man of middle height, thin, with white hair cut very short +and a long mouth closed so tightly that he seemed to have no lips at all; +he was clean-shaven but for small white whiskers, and they increased the +squareness of face which his firm jaw gave him. He wore a brown tweed suit +and a white stock. His clothes hung loosely about him as though they had +been made for a much larger man. He looked like a respectable farmer of +the middle of the nineteenth century. He opened the door. + +"There is the dining-room," he said, pointing to the door opposite. "Your +bed-room is the first door you come to when you get on the landing. Come +downstairs when you're ready." + +During dinner Philip knew that Doctor South was examining him, but he +spoke little, and Philip felt that he did not want to hear his assistant +talk. + +"When were you qualified?" he asked suddenly. + +"Yesterday." + +"Were you at a university?" + +"No." + +"Last year when my assistant took a holiday they sent me a 'Varsity man. +I told 'em not to do it again. Too damned gentlemanly for me." + +There was another pause. The dinner was very simple and very good. Philip +preserved a sedate exterior, but in his heart he was bubbling over with +excitement. He was immensely elated at being engaged as a locum; it made +him feel extremely grown up; he had an insane desire to laugh at nothing +in particular; and the more he thought of his professional dignity the +more he was inclined to chuckle. + +But Doctor South broke suddenly into his thoughts. "How old are you?" + +"Getting on for thirty." + +"How is it you're only just qualified?" + +"I didn't go in for the medical till I was nearly twenty-three, and I had +to give it up for two years in the middle." + +"Why?" + +"Poverty." + +Doctor South gave him an odd look and relapsed into silence. At the end of +dinner he got up from the table. + +"D'you know what sort of a practice this is?" + +"No," answered Philip. + +"Mostly fishermen and their families. I have the Union and the Seamen's +Hospital. I used to be alone here, but since they tried to make this into +a fashionable sea-side resort a man has set up on the cliff, and the +well-to-do people go to him. I only have those who can't afford to pay for +a doctor at all." + +Philip saw that the rivalry was a sore point with the old man. + +"You know that I have no experience," said Philip. + +"You none of you know anything." + +He walked out of the room without another word and left Philip by himself. +When the maid came in to clear away she told Philip that Doctor South saw +patients from six till seven. Work for that night was over. Philip fetched +a book from his room, lit his pipe, and settled himself down to read. It +was a great comfort, since he had read nothing but medical books for the +last few months. At ten o'clock Doctor South came in and looked at him. +Philip hated not to have his feet up, and he had dragged up a chair for +them. + +"You seem able to make yourself pretty comfortable," said Doctor South, +with a grimness which would have disturbed Philip if he had not been in +such high spirits. + +Philip's eyes twinkled as he answered. + +"Have you any objection?" + +Doctor South gave him a look, but did not reply directly. + +"What's that you're reading?" + +"Peregrine Pickle. Smollett." + +"I happen to know that Smollett wrote Peregrine Pickle." + +"I beg your pardon. Medical men aren't much interested in literature, are +they?" + +Philip had put the book down on the table, and Doctor South took it up. It +was a volume of an edition which had belonged to the Vicar of Blackstable. +It was a thin book bound in faded morocco, with a copperplate engraving as +a frontispiece; the pages were musty with age and stained with mould. +Philip, without meaning to, started forward a little as Doctor South took +the volume in his hands, and a slight smile came into his eyes. Very +little escaped the old doctor. + +"Do I amuse you?" he asked icily. + +"I see you're fond of books. You can always tell by the way people handle +them." + + Doctor South put down the novel immediately. + +"Breakfast at eight-thirty," he said and left the room. + +"What a funny old fellow!" thought Philip. + +He soon discovered why Doctor South's assistants found it difficult to get +on with him. In the first place, he set his face firmly against all the +discoveries of the last thirty years: he had no patience with the drugs +which became modish, were thought to work marvellous cures, and in a few +years were discarded; he had stock mixtures which he had brought from St. +Luke's where he had been a student, and had used all his life; he found +them just as efficacious as anything that had come into fashion since. +Philip was startled at Doctor South's suspicion of asepsis; he had +accepted it in deference to universal opinion; but he used the precautions +which Philip had known insisted upon so scrupulously at the hospital with +the disdainful tolerance of a man playing at soldiers with children. + +"I've seen antiseptics come along and sweep everything before them, and +then I've seen asepsis take their place. Bunkum!" + +The young men who were sent down to him knew only hospital practice; and +they came with the unconcealed scorn for the General Practitioner which +they had absorbed in the air at the hospital; but they had seen only the +complicated cases which appeared in the wards; they knew how to treat an +obscure disease of the suprarenal bodies, but were helpless when consulted +for a cold in the head. Their knowledge was theoretical and their +self-assurance unbounded. Doctor South watched them with tightened lips; +he took a savage pleasure in showing them how great was their ignorance +and how unjustified their conceit. It was a poor practice, of fishing +folk, and the doctor made up his own prescriptions. Doctor South asked his +assistant how he expected to make both ends meet if he gave a fisherman +with a stomach-ache a mixture consisting of half a dozen expensive drugs. +He complained too that the young medical men were uneducated: their +reading consisted of The Sporting Times and The British Medical +Journal; they could neither write a legible hand nor spell correctly. For +two or three days Doctor South watched Philip closely, ready to fall on +him with acid sarcasm if he gave him the opportunity; and Philip, aware of +this, went about his work with a quiet sense of amusement. He was pleased +with the change of occupation. He liked the feeling of independence and of +responsibility. All sorts of people came to the consulting-room. He was +gratified because he seemed able to inspire his patients with confidence; +and it was entertaining to watch the process of cure which at a hospital +necessarily could be watched only at distant intervals. His rounds took +him into low-roofed cottages in which were fishing tackle and sails and +here and there mementoes of deep-sea travelling, a lacquer box from Japan, +spears and oars from Melanesia, or daggers from the bazaars of Stamboul; +there was an air of romance in the stuffy little rooms, and the salt of +the sea gave them a bitter freshness. Philip liked to talk to the +sailor-men, and when they found that he was not supercilious they told him +long yarns of the distant journeys of their youth. + +Once or twice he made a mistake in diagnosis: (he had never seen a case of +measles before, and when he was confronted with the rash took it for an +obscure disease of the skin;) and once or twice his ideas of treatment +differed from Doctor South's. The first time this happened Doctor South +attacked him with savage irony; but Philip took it with good humour; he +had some gift for repartee, and he made one or two answers which caused +Doctor South to stop and look at him curiously. Philip's face was grave, +but his eyes were twinkling. The old gentleman could not avoid the +impression that Philip was chaffing him. He was used to being disliked and +feared by his assistants, and this was a new experience. He had half a +mind to fly into a passion and pack Philip off by the next train, he had +done that before with his assistants; but he had an uneasy feeling that +Philip then would simply laugh at him outright; and suddenly he felt +amused. His mouth formed itself into a smile against his will, and he +turned away. In a little while he grew conscious that Philip was amusing +himself systematically at his expense. He was taken aback at first and +then diverted. + +"Damn his impudence," he chuckled to himself. "Damn his impudence." + + + +CXVII + + +Philip had written to Athelny to tell him that he was doing a locum in +Dorsetshire and in due course received an answer from him. It was written +in the formal manner he affected, studded with pompous epithets as a +Persian diadem was studded with precious stones; and in the beautiful +hand, like black letter and as difficult to read, upon which he prided +himself. He suggested that Philip should join him and his family in the +Kentish hop-field to which he went every year; and to persuade him said +various beautiful and complicated things about Philip's soul and the +winding tendrils of the hops. Philip replied at once that he would come on +the first day he was free. Though not born there, he had a peculiar +affection for the Isle of Thanet, and he was fired with enthusiasm at the +thought of spending a fortnight so close to the earth and amid conditions +which needed only a blue sky to be as idyllic as the olive groves of +Arcady. + +The four weeks of his engagement at Farnley passed quickly. On the cliff +a new town was springing up, with red brick villas round golf links, and +a large hotel had recently been opened to cater for the summer visitors; +but Philip went there seldom. Down below, by the harbour, the little stone +houses of a past century were clustered in a delightful confusion, and the +narrow streets, climbing down steeply, had an air of antiquity which +appealed to the imagination. By the water's edge were neat cottages with +trim, tiny gardens in front of them; they were inhabited by retired +captains in the merchant service, and by mothers or widows of men who had +gained their living by the sea; and they had an appearance which was +quaint and peaceful. In the little harbour came tramps from Spain and the +Levant, ships of small tonnage; and now and then a windjammer was borne in +by the winds of romance. It reminded Philip of the dirty little harbour +with its colliers at Blackstable, and he thought that there he had first +acquired the desire, which was now an obsession, for Eastern lands and +sunlit islands in a tropic sea. But here you felt yourself closer to the +wide, deep ocean than on the shore of that North Sea which seemed always +circumscribed; here you could draw a long breath as you looked out upon +the even vastness; and the west wind, the dear soft salt wind of England, +uplifted the heart and at the same time melted it to tenderness. + +One evening, when Philip had reached his last week with Doctor South, a +child came to the surgery door while the old doctor and Philip were making +up prescriptions. It was a little ragged girl with a dirty face and bare +feet. Philip opened the door. + +"Please, sir, will you come to Mrs. Fletcher's in Ivy Lane at once?" + +"What's the matter with Mrs. Fletcher?" called out Doctor South in his +rasping voice. + +The child took no notice of him, but addressed herself again to Philip. + +"Please, sir, her little boy's had an accident and will you come at once?" + +"Tell Mrs. Fletcher I'm coming," called out Doctor South. + +The little girl hesitated for a moment, and putting a dirty finger in a +dirty mouth stood still and looked at Philip. + +"What's the matter, Kid?" said Philip, smiling. + +"Please, sir, Mrs. Fletcher says, will the new doctor come?" There was a +sound in the dispensary and Doctor South came out into the passage. + +"Isn't Mrs. Fletcher satisfied with me?" he barked. "I've attended Mrs. +Fletcher since she was born. Why aren't I good enough to attend her filthy +brat?" + +The little girl looked for a moment as though she were going to cry, then +she thought better of it; she put out her tongue deliberately at Doctor +South, and, before he could recover from his astonishment, bolted off as +fast as she could run. Philip saw that the old gentleman was annoyed. + +"You look rather fagged, and it's a goodish way to Ivy Lane," he said, by +way of giving him an excuse not to go himself. + +Doctor South gave a low snarl. + +"It's a damned sight nearer for a man who's got the use of both legs than +for a man who's only got one and a half." + +Philip reddened and stood silent for a while. + +"Do you wish me to go or will you go yourself?" he said at last frigidly. + +"What's the good of my going? They want you." + +Philip took up his hat and went to see the patient. It was hard upon eight +o'clock when he came back. Doctor South was standing in the dining-room +with his back to the fireplace. + +"You've been a long time," he said. + +"I'm sorry. Why didn't you start dinner?" + +"Because I chose to wait. Have you been all this while at Mrs. +Fletcher's?" + +"No, I'm afraid I haven't. I stopped to look at the sunset on my way back, +and I didn't think of the time." + +Doctor South did not reply, and the servant brought in some grilled +sprats. Philip ate them with an excellent appetite. Suddenly Doctor South +shot a question at him. + +"Why did you look at the sunset?" + +Philip answered with his mouth full. + +"Because I was happy." + +Doctor South gave him an odd look, and the shadow of a smile flickered +across his old, tired face. They ate the rest of the dinner in silence; +but when the maid had given them the port and left the room, the old man +leaned back and fixed his sharp eyes on Philip. + +"It stung you up a bit when I spoke of your game leg, young fellow?" he +said. + +"People always do, directly or indirectly, when they get angry with me." + +"I suppose they know it's your weak point." + +Philip faced him and looked at him steadily. + +"Are you very glad to have discovered it?" + +The doctor did not answer, but he gave a chuckle of bitter mirth. They sat +for a while staring at one another. Then Doctor South surprised Philip +extremely. + +"Why don't you stay here and I'll get rid of that damned fool with his +mumps?" + +"It's very kind of you, but I hope to get an appointment at the hospital +in the autumn. It'll help me so much in getting other work later." + +"I'm offering you a partnership," said Doctor South grumpily. + +"Why?" asked Philip, with surprise. + +"They seem to like you down here." + +"I didn't think that was a fact which altogether met with your approval," +Philip said drily. + +"D'you suppose that after forty years' practice I care a twopenny damn +whether people prefer my assistant to me? No, my friend. There's no +sentiment between my patients and me. I don't expect gratitude from them, +I expect them to pay my fees. Well, what d'you say to it?" + +Philip made no reply, not because he was thinking over the proposal, but +because he was astonished. It was evidently very unusual for someone to +offer a partnership to a newly qualified man; and he realised with wonder +that, although nothing would induce him to say so, Doctor South had taken +a fancy to him. He thought how amused the secretary at St. Luke's would be +when he told him. + +"The practice brings in about seven hundred a year. We can reckon out how +much your share would be worth, and you can pay me off by degrees. And +when I die you can succeed me. I think that's better than knocking about +hospitals for two or three years, and then taking assistantships until you +can afford to set up for yourself." + +Philip knew it was a chance that most people in his profession would jump +at; the profession was over-crowded, and half the men he knew would be +thankful to accept the certainty of even so modest a competence as that. + +"I'm awfully sorry, but I can't," he said. "It means giving up everything +I've aimed at for years. In one way and another I've had a roughish time, +but I always had that one hope before me, to get qualified so that I might +travel; and now, when I wake in the morning, my bones simply ache to get +off, I don't mind where particularly, but just away, to places I've never +been to." + +Now the goal seemed very near. He would have finished his appointment at +St. Luke's by the middle of the following year, and then he would go to +Spain; he could afford to spend several months there, rambling up and down +the land which stood to him for romance; after that he would get a ship +and go to the East. Life was before him and time of no account. He could +wander, for years if he chose, in unfrequented places, amid strange +peoples, where life was led in strange ways. He did not know what he +sought or what his journeys would bring him; but he had a feeling that he +would learn something new about life and gain some clue to the mystery +that he had solved only to find more mysterious. And even if he found +nothing he would allay the unrest which gnawed at his heart. But Doctor +South was showing him a great kindness, and it seemed ungrateful to refuse +his offer for no adequate reason; so in his shy way, trying to appear as +matter of fact as possible, he made some attempt to explain why it was so +important to him to carry out the plans he had cherished so passionately. + +Doctor South listened quietly, and a gentle look came into his shrewd old +eyes. It seemed to Philip an added kindness that he did not press him to +accept his offer. Benevolence is often very peremptory. He appeared to +look upon Philip's reasons as sound. Dropping the subject, he began to +talk of his own youth; he had been in the Royal Navy, and it was his long +connection with the sea that, when he retired, had made him settle at +Farnley. He told Philip of old days in the Pacific and of wild adventures +in China. He had taken part in an expedition against the head-hunters of +Borneo and had known Samoa when it was still an independent state. He had +touched at coral islands. Philip listened to him entranced. Little by +little he told Philip about himself. Doctor South was a widower, his wife +had died thirty years before, and his daughter had married a farmer in +Rhodesia; he had quarrelled with him, and she had not come to England for +ten years. It was just as if he had never had wife or child. He was very +lonely. His gruffness was little more than a protection which he wore to +hide a complete disillusionment; and to Philip it seemed tragic to see him +just waiting for death, not impatiently, but rather with loathing for it, +hating old age and unable to resign himself to its limitations, and yet +with the feeling that death was the only solution of the bitterness of his +life. Philip crossed his path, and the natural affection which long +separation from his daughter had killed--she had taken her husband's part +in the quarrel and her children he had never seen--settled itself upon +Philip. At first it made him angry, he told himself it was a sign of +dotage; but there was something in Philip that attracted him, and he found +himself smiling at him he knew not why. Philip did not bore him. Once or +twice he put his hand on his shoulder: it was as near a caress as he had +got since his daughter left England so many years before. When the time +came for Philip to go Doctor South accompanied him to the station: he +found himself unaccountably depressed. + +"I've had a ripping time here," said Philip. "You've been awfully kind to +me." + +"I suppose you're very glad to go?" + +"I've enjoyed myself here." + +"But you want to get out into the world? Ah, you have youth." He hesitated +a moment. "I want you to remember that if you change your mind my offer +still stands." + +"That's awfully kind of you." + +Philip shook hands with him out of the carriage window, and the train +steamed out of the station. Philip thought of the fortnight he was going +to spend in the hop-field: he was happy at the idea of seeing his friends +again, and he rejoiced because the day was fine. But Doctor South walked +slowly back to his empty house. He felt very old and very lonely. + + + +CXVIII + + +It was late in the evening when Philip arrived at Ferne. It was Mrs. +Athelny's native village, and she had been accustomed from her childhood +to pick in the hop-field to which with her husband and her children she +still went every year. Like many Kentish folk her family had gone out +regularly, glad to earn a little money, but especially regarding the +annual outing, looked forward to for months, as the best of holidays. The +work was not hard, it was done in common, in the open air, and for the +children it was a long, delightful picnic; here the young men met the +maidens; in the long evenings when work was over they wandered about the +lanes, making love; and the hopping season was generally followed by +weddings. They went out in carts with bedding, pots and pans, chairs and +tables; and Ferne while the hopping lasted was deserted. They were very +exclusive and would have resented the intrusion of foreigners, as they +called the people who came from London; they looked down upon them and +feared them too; they were a rough lot, and the respectable country folk +did not want to mix with them. In the old days the hoppers slept in barns, +but ten years ago a row of huts had been erected at the side of a meadow; +and the Athelnys, like many others, had the same hut every year. + +Athelny met Philip at the station in a cart he had borrowed from the +public-house at which he had got a room for Philip. It was a quarter of a +mile from the hop-field. They left his bag there and walked over to the +meadow in which were the huts. They were nothing more than a long, low +shed, divided into little rooms about twelve feet square. In front of each +was a fire of sticks, round which a family was grouped, eagerly watching +the cooking of supper. The sea-air and the sun had browned already the +faces of Athelny's children. Mrs. Athelny seemed a different woman in her +sun-bonnet: you felt that the long years in the city had made no real +difference to her; she was the country woman born and bred, and you could +see how much at home she found herself in the country. She was frying +bacon and at the same time keeping an eye on the younger children, but she +had a hearty handshake and a jolly smile for Philip. Athelny was +enthusiastic over the delights of a rural existence. + +"We're starved for sun and light in the cities we live in. It isn't life, +it's a long imprisonment. Let us sell all we have, Betty, and take a farm +in the country." + +"I can see you in the country," she answered with good-humoured scorn. +"Why, the first rainy day we had in the winter you'd be crying for +London." She turned to Philip. "Athelny's always like this when we come +down here. Country, I like that! Why, he don't know a swede from a +mangel-wurzel." + +"Daddy was lazy today," remarked Jane, with the frankness which +characterized her, "he didn't fill one bin." + +"I'm getting into practice, child, and tomorrow I shall fill more bins +than all of you put together." + +"Come and eat your supper, children," said Mrs. Athelny. "Where's Sally?" + +"Here I am, mother." + +She stepped out of their little hut, and the flames of the wood fire +leaped up and cast sharp colour upon her face. Of late Philip had only +seen her in the trim frocks she had taken to since she was at the +dressmaker's, and there was something very charming in the print dress she +wore now, loose and easy to work in; the sleeves were tucked up and showed +her strong, round arms. She too had a sun-bonnet. + +"You look like a milkmaid in a fairy story," said Philip, as he shook +hands with her. + +"She's the belle of the hop-fields," said Athelny. "My word, if the +Squire's son sees you he'll make you an offer of marriage before you can +say Jack Robinson." + +"The Squire hasn't got a son, father," said Sally. + +She looked about for a place to sit down in, and Philip made room for her +beside him. She looked wonderful in the night lit by wood fires. She was +like some rural goddess, and you thought of those fresh, strong girls whom +old Herrick had praised in exquisite numbers. The supper was simple, bread +and butter, crisp bacon, tea for the children, and beer for Mr. and Mrs. +Athelny and Philip. Athelny, eating hungrily, praised loudly all he ate. +He flung words of scorn at Lucullus and piled invectives upon +Brillat-Savarin. + +"There's one thing one can say for you, Athelny," said his wife, "you do +enjoy your food and no mistake!" + +"Cooked by your hand, my Betty," he said, stretching out an eloquent +forefinger. + +Philip felt himself very comfortable. He looked happily at the line of +fires, with people grouped about them, and the colour of the flames +against the night; at the end of the meadow was a line of great elms, and +above the starry sky. The children talked and laughed, and Athelny, a +child among them, made them roar by his tricks and fancies. + +"They think a rare lot of Athelny down here," said his wife. "Why, Mrs. +Bridges said to me, I don't know what we should do without Mr. Athelny +now, she said. He's always up to something, he's more like a schoolboy +than the father of a family." + +Sally sat in silence, but she attended to Philip's wants in a thoughtful +fashion that charmed him. It was pleasant to have her beside him, and now +and then he glanced at her sunburned, healthy face. Once he caught her +eyes, and she smiled quietly. When supper was over Jane and a small +brother were sent down to a brook that ran at the bottom of the meadow to +fetch a pail of water for washing up. + +"You children, show your Uncle Philip where we sleep, and then you must be +thinking of going to bed." + +Small hands seized Philip, and he was dragged towards the hut. He went in +and struck a match. There was no furniture in it; and beside a tin box, in +which clothes were kept, there was nothing but the beds; there were three +of them, one against each wall. Athelny followed Philip in and showed them +proudly. + +"That's the stuff to sleep on," he cried. "None of your spring-mattresses +and swansdown. I never sleep so soundly anywhere as here. YOU will +sleep between sheets. My dear fellow, I pity you from the bottom of my +soul." + +The beds consisted of a thick layer of hopvine, on the top of which was a +coating of straw, and this was covered with a blanket. After a day in the +open air, with the aromatic scent of the hops all round them, the happy +pickers slept like tops. By nine o'clock all was quiet in the meadow and +everyone in bed but one or two men who still lingered in the public-house +and would not come back till it was closed at ten. Athelny walked there +with Philip. But before he went Mrs. Athelny said to him: + +"We breakfast about a quarter to six, but I daresay you won't want to get +up as early as that. You see, we have to set to work at six." + +"Of course he must get up early," cried Athelny, "and he must work like +the rest of us. He's got to earn his board. No work, no dinner, my lad." + +"The children go down to bathe before breakfast, and they can give you a +call on their way back. They pass The Jolly Sailor." + +"If they'll wake me I'll come and bathe with them," said Philip. + +Jane and Harold and Edward shouted with delight at the prospect, and next +morning Philip was awakened out of a sound sleep by their bursting into +his room. The boys jumped on his bed, and he had to chase them out with +his slippers. He put on a coat and a pair of trousers and went down. The +day had only just broken, and there was a nip in the air; but the sky was +cloudless, and the sun was shining yellow. Sally, holding Connie's hand, +was standing in the middle of the road, with a towel and a bathing-dress +over her arm. He saw now that her sun-bonnet was of the colour of +lavender, and against it her face, red and brown, was like an apple. She +greeted him with her slow, sweet smile, and he noticed suddenly that her +teeth were small and regular and very white. He wondered why they had +never caught his attention before. + +"I was for letting you sleep on," she said, "but they would go up and wake +you. I said you didn't really want to come." + +"Oh, yes, I did." + +They walked down the road and then cut across the marshes. That way it was +under a mile to the sea. The water looked cold and gray, and Philip +shivered at the sight of it; but the others tore off their clothes and ran +in shouting. Sally did everything a little slowly, and she did not come +into the water till all the rest were splashing round Philip. Swimming was +his only accomplishment; he felt at home in the water; and soon he had +them all imitating him as he played at being a porpoise, and a drowning +man, and a fat lady afraid of wetting her hair. The bathe was uproarious, +and it was necessary for Sally to be very severe to induce them all to +come out. + +"You're as bad as any of them," she said to Philip, in her grave, maternal +way, which was at once comic and touching. "They're not anything like so +naughty when you're not here." + +They walked back, Sally with her bright hair streaming over one shoulder +and her sun-bonnet in her hand, but when they got to the huts Mrs. Athelny +had already started for the hop-garden. Athleny, in a pair of the oldest +trousers anyone had ever worn, his jacket buttoned up to show he had no +shirt on, and in a wide-brimmed soft hat, was frying kippers over a fire +of sticks. He was delighted with himself: he looked every inch a brigand. +As soon as he saw the party he began to shout the witches' chorus from +Macbeth over the odorous kippers. + +"You mustn't dawdle over your breakfast or mother will be angry," he said, +when they came up. + +And in a few minutes, Harold and Jane with pieces of bread and butter in +their hands, they sauntered through the meadow into the hop-field. They +were the last to leave. A hop-garden was one of the sights connected with +Philip's boyhood and the oast-houses to him the most typical feature of +the Kentish scene. It was with no sense of strangeness, but as though he +were at home, that Philip followed Sally through the long lines of the +hops. The sun was bright now and cast a sharp shadow. Philip feasted his +eyes on the richness of the green leaves. The hops were yellowing, and to +him they had the beauty and the passion which poets in Sicily have found +in the purple grape. As they walked along Philip felt himself overwhelmed +by the rich luxuriance. A sweet scent arose from the fat Kentish soil, and +the fitful September breeze was heavy with the goodly perfume of the hops. +Athelstan felt the exhilaration instinctively, for he lifted up his voice +and sang; it was the cracked voice of the boy of fifteen, and Sally turned +round. + +"You be quiet, Athelstan, or we shall have a thunderstorm." + +In a moment they heard the hum of voices, and in a moment more came upon +the pickers. They were all hard at work, talking and laughing as they +picked. They sat on chairs, on stools, on boxes, with their baskets by +their sides, and some stood by the bin throwing the hops they picked +straight into it. There were a lot of children about and a good many +babies, some in makeshift cradles, some tucked up in a rug on the soft +brown dry earth. The children picked a little and played a great deal. The +women worked busily, they had been pickers from childhood, and they could +pick twice as fast as foreigners from London. They boasted about the +number of bushels they had picked in a day, but they complained you could +not make money now as in former times: then they paid you a shilling for +five bushels, but now the rate was eight and even nine bushels to the +shilling. In the old days a good picker could earn enough in the season to +keep her for the rest of the year, but now there was nothing in it; you +got a holiday for nothing, and that was about all. Mrs. Hill had bought +herself a pianner out of what she made picking, so she said, but she was +very near, one wouldn't like to be near like that, and most people thought +it was only what she said, if the truth was known perhaps it would be +found that she had put a bit of money from the savings bank towards it. + +The hoppers were divided into bin companies of ten pickers, not counting +children, and Athelny loudly boasted of the day when he would have a +company consisting entirely of his own family. Each company had a bin-man, +whose duty it was to supply it with strings of hops at their bins (the bin +was a large sack on a wooden frame, about seven feet high, and long rows +of them were placed between the rows of hops;) and it was to this position +that Athelny aspired when his family was old enough to form a company. +Meanwhile he worked rather by encouraging others than by exertions of his +own. He sauntered up to Mrs. Athelny, who had been busy for half an hour +and had already emptied a basket into the bin, and with his cigarette +between his lips began to pick. He asserted that he was going to pick more +than anyone that day, but mother; of course no one could pick so much as +mother; that reminded him of the trials which Aphrodite put upon the +curious Psyche, and he began to tell his children the story of her love +for the unseen bridegroom. He told it very well. It seemed to Philip, +listening with a smile on his lips, that the old tale fitted in with the +scene. The sky was very blue now, and he thought it could not be more +lovely even in Greece. The children with their fair hair and rosy cheeks, +strong, healthy, and vivacious; the delicate form of the hops; the +challenging emerald of the leaves, like a blare of trumpets; the magic of +the green alley, narrowing to a point as you looked down the row, with the +pickers in their sun-bonnets: perhaps there was more of the Greek spirit +there than you could find in the books of professors or in museums. He was +thankful for the beauty of England. He thought of the winding white roads +and the hedgerows, the green meadows with their elm-trees, the delicate +line of the hills and the copses that crowned them, the flatness of the +marshes, and the melancholy of the North Sea. He was very glad that he +felt its loveliness. But presently Athelny grew restless and announced +that he would go and ask how Robert Kemp's mother was. He knew everyone in +the garden and called them all by their Christian names; he knew their +family histories and all that had happened to them from birth. With +harmless vanity he played the fine gentleman among them, and there was a +touch of condescension in his familiarity. Philip would not go with him. + +"I'm going to earn my dinner," he said. + +"Quite right, my boy," answered Athelny, with a wave of the hand, as he +strolled away. "No work, no dinner." + + + +CXIX + + +Philip had not a basket of his own, but sat with Sally. Jane thought it +monstrous that he should help her elder sister rather than herself, and he +had to promise to pick for her when Sally's basket was full. Sally was +almost as quick as her mother. + +"Won't it hurt your hands for sewing?" asked Philip. + +"Oh, no, it wants soft hands. That's why women pick better than men. If +your hands are hard and your fingers all stiff with a lot of rough work +you can't pick near so well." + +He liked to see her deft movements, and she watched him too now and then +with that maternal spirit of hers which was so amusing and yet so +charming. He was clumsy at first, and she laughed at him. When she bent +over and showed him how best to deal with a whole line their hands met. He +was surprised to see her blush. He could not persuade himself that she was +a woman; because he had known her as a flapper, he could not help looking +upon her as a child still; yet the number of her admirers showed that she +was a child no longer; and though they had only been down a few days one +of Sally's cousins was already so attentive that she had to endure a lot +of chaffing. His name was Peter Gann, and he was the son of Mrs. Athelny's +sister, who had married a farmer near Ferne. Everyone knew why he found it +necessary to walk through the hop-field every day. + +A call-off by the sounding of a horn was made for breakfast at eight, and +though Mrs. Athelny told them they had not deserved it, they ate it very +heartily. They set to work again and worked till twelve, when the horn +sounded once more for dinner. At intervals the measurer went his round +from bin to bin, accompanied by the booker, who entered first in his own +book and then in the hopper's the number of bushels picked. As each bin +was filled it was measured out in bushel baskets into a huge bag called a +poke; and this the measurer and the pole-puller carried off between them +and put on the waggon. Athelny came back now and then with stories of how +much Mrs. Heath or Mrs. Jones had picked, and he conjured his family to +beat her: he was always wanting to make records, and sometimes in his +enthusiasm picked steadily for an hour. His chief amusement in it, +however, was that it showed the beauty of his graceful hands, of which he +was excessively proud. He spent much time manicuring them. He told Philip, +as he stretched out his tapering fingers, that the Spanish grandees had +always slept in oiled gloves to preserve their whiteness. The hand that +wrung the throat of Europe, he remarked dramatically, was as shapely and +exquisite as a woman's; and he looked at his own, as he delicately picked +the hops, and sighed with self-satisfaction. When he grew tired of this he +rolled himself a cigarette and discoursed to Philip of art and literature. +In the afternoon it grew very hot. Work did not proceed so actively and +conversation halted. The incessant chatter of the morning dwindled now to +desultory remarks. Tiny beads of sweat stood on Sally's upper lip, and as +she worked her lips were slightly parted. She was like a rosebud bursting +into flower. + +Calling-off time depended on the state of the oast-house. Sometimes it was +filled early, and as many hops had been picked by three or four as could +be dried during the night. Then work was stopped. But generally the last +measuring of the day began at five. As each company had its bin measured +it gathered up its things and, chatting again now that work was over, +sauntered out of the garden. The women went back to the huts to clean up +and prepare the supper, while a good many of the men strolled down the +road to the public-house. A glass of beer was very pleasant after the +day's work. + +The Athelnys' bin was the last to be dealt with. When the measurer came +Mrs. Athelny, with a sigh of relief, stood up and stretched her arms: she +had been sitting in the same position for many hours and was stiff. + +"Now, let's go to The Jolly Sailor," said Athelny. "The rites of the day +must be duly performed, and there is none more sacred than that." + +"Take a jug with you, Athelny," said his wife, "and bring back a pint and +a half for supper." + +She gave him the money, copper by copper. The bar-parlour was already well +filled. It had a sanded floor, benches round it, and yellow pictures of +Victorian prize-fighters on the walls. The licencee knew all his customers +by name, and he leaned over his bar smiling benignly at two young men who +were throwing rings on a stick that stood up from the floor: their failure +was greeted with a good deal of hearty chaff from the rest of the company. +Room was made for the new arrivals. Philip found himself sitting between +an old labourer in corduroys, with string tied under his knees, and a +shiny-faced lad of seventeen with a love-lock neatly plastered on his red +forehead. Athelny insisted on trying his hand at the throwing of rings. He +backed himself for half a pint and won it. As he drank the loser's health +he said: + +"I would sooner have won this than won the Derby, my boy." + +He was an outlandish figure, with his wide-brimmed hat and pointed beard, +among those country folk, and it was easy to see that they thought him +very queer; but his spirits were so high, his enthusiasm so contagious, +that it was impossible not to like him. Conversation went easily. A +certain number of pleasantries were exchanged in the broad, slow accent of +the Isle of Thanet, and there was uproarious laughter at the sallies of +the local wag. A pleasant gathering! It would have been a hard-hearted +person who did not feel a glow of satisfaction in his fellows. Philip's +eyes wandered out of the window where it was bright and sunny still; there +were little white curtains in it tied up with red ribbon like those of a +cottage window, and on the sill were pots of geraniums. In due course one +by one the idlers got up and sauntered back to the meadow where supper was +cooking. + +"I expect you'll be ready for your bed," said Mrs. Athelny to Philip. +"You're not used to getting up at five and staying in the open air all +day." + +"You're coming to bathe with us, Uncle Phil, aren't you?" the boys cried. + +"Rather." + +He was tired and happy. After supper, balancing himself against the wall +of the hut on a chair without a back, he smoked his pipe and looked at the +night. Sally was busy. She passed in and out of the hut, and he lazily +watched her methodical actions. Her walk attracted his notice; it was not +particularly graceful, but it was easy and assured; she swung her legs +from the hips, and her feet seemed to tread the earth with decision. +Athelny had gone off to gossip with one of the neighbours, and presently +Philip heard his wife address the world in general. + +"There now, I'm out of tea and I wanted Athelny to go down to Mrs. Black's +and get some." A pause, and then her voice was raised: "Sally, just run +down to Mrs. Black's and get me half a pound of tea, will you? I've run +quite out of it." + +"All right, mother." + +Mrs. Black had a cottage about half a mile along the road, and she +combined the office of postmistress with that of universal provider. Sally +came out of the hut, turning down her sleeves. + +"Shall I come with you, Sally?" asked Philip. + +"Don't you trouble. I'm not afraid to go alone." + +"I didn't think you were; but it's getting near my bedtime, and I was just +thinking I'd like to stretch my legs." + +Sally did not answer, and they set out together. The road was white and +silent. There was not a sound in the summer night. They did not speak +much. + +"It's quite hot even now, isn't it?" said Philip. + +"I think it's wonderful for the time of year." + +But their silence did not seem awkward. They found it was pleasant to walk +side by side and felt no need of words. Suddenly at a stile in the +hedgerow they heard a low murmur of voices, and in the darkness they saw +the outline of two people. They were sitting very close to one another and +did not move as Philip and Sally passed. + +"I wonder who that was," said Sally. + +"They looked happy enough, didn't they?" + +"I expect they took us for lovers too." + +They saw the light of the cottage in front of them, and in a minute went +into the little shop. The glare dazzled them for a moment. + +"You are late," said Mrs. Black. "I was just going to shut up." She looked +at the clock. "Getting on for nine." + +Sally asked for her half pound of tea (Mrs. Athelny could never bring +herself to buy more than half a pound at a time), and they set off up the +road again. Now and then some beast of the night made a short, sharp +sound, but it seemed only to make the silence more marked. + +"I believe if you stood still you could hear the sea," said Sally. + +They strained their ears, and their fancy presented them with a faint +sound of little waves lapping up against the shingle. When they passed the +stile again the lovers were still there, but now they were not speaking; +they were in one another's arms, and the man's lips were pressed against +the girl's. + +"They seem busy," said Sally. + +They turned a corner, and a breath of warm wind beat for a moment against +their faces. The earth gave forth its freshness. There was something +strange in the tremulous night, and something, you knew not what, seemed +to be waiting; the silence was on a sudden pregnant with meaning. Philip +had a queer feeling in his heart, it seemed very full, it seemed to melt +(the hackneyed phrases expressed precisely the curious sensation), he felt +happy and anxious and expectant. To his memory came back those lines in +which Jessica and Lorenzo murmur melodious words to one another, capping +each other's utterance; but passion shines bright and clear through the +conceits that amuse them. He did not know what there was in the air that +made his senses so strangely alert; it seemed to him that he was pure soul +to enjoy the scents and the sounds and the savours of the earth. He had +never felt such an exquisite capacity for beauty. He was afraid that Sally +by speaking would break the spell, but she said never a word, and he +wanted to hear the sound of her voice. Its low richness was the voice of +the country night itself. + +They arrived at the field through which she had to walk to get back to the +huts. Philip went in to hold the gate open for her. + +"Well, here I think I'll say good-night." + +"Thank you for coming all that way with me." + +She gave him her hand, and as he took it, he said: + +"If you were very nice you'd kiss me good-night like the rest of the +family." + +"I don't mind," she said. + +Philip had spoken in jest. He merely wanted to kiss her, because he was +happy and he liked her and the night was so lovely. + +"Good-night then," he said, with a little laugh, drawing her towards him. + +She gave him her lips; they were warm and full and soft; he lingered a +little, they were like a flower; then, he knew not how, without meaning +it, he flung his arms round her. She yielded quite silently. Her body was +firm and strong. He felt her heart beat against his. Then he lost his +head. His senses overwhelmed him like a flood of rushing waters. He drew +her into the darker shadow of the hedge. + + + +CXX + + +Philip slept like a log and awoke with a start to find Harold tickling his +face with a feather. There was a shout of delight when he opened his eyes. +He was drunken with sleep. + +"Come on, lazybones," said Jane. "Sally says she won't wait for you unless +you hurry up." + +Then he remembered what had happened. His heart sank, and, half out of bed +already, he stopped; he did not know how he was going to face her; he was +overwhelmed with a sudden rush of self-reproach, and bitterly, bitterly, +he regretted what he had done. What would she say to him that morning? He +dreaded meeting her, and he asked himself how he could have been such a +fool. But the children gave him no time; Edward took his bathing-drawers +and his towel, Athelstan tore the bed-clothes away; and in three minutes +they all clattered down into the road. Sally gave him a smile. It was as +sweet and innocent as it had ever been. + +"You do take a time to dress yourself," she said. "I thought you was never +coming." + +There was not a particle of difference in her manner. He had expected some +change, subtle or abrupt; he fancied that there would be shame in the way +she treated him, or anger, or perhaps some increase of familiarity; but +there was nothing. She was exactly the same as before. They walked towards +the sea all together, talking and laughing; and Sally was quiet, but she +was always that, reserved, but he had never seen her otherwise, and +gentle. She neither sought conversation with him nor avoided it. Philip +was astounded. He had expected the incident of the night before to have +caused some revolution in her, but it was just as though nothing had +happened; it might have been a dream; and as he walked along, a little +girl holding on to one hand and a little boy to the other, while he +chatted as unconcernedly as he could, he sought for an explanation. He +wondered whether Sally meant the affair to be forgotten. Perhaps her +senses had run away with her just as his had, and, treating what had +occurred as an accident due to unusual circumstances, it might be that she +had decided to put the matter out of her mind. It was ascribing to her a +power of thought and a mature wisdom which fitted neither with her age nor +with her character. But he realised that he knew nothing of her. There had +been in her always something enigmatic. + +They played leap-frog in the water, and the bathe was as uproarious as on +the previous day. Sally mothered them all, keeping a watchful eye on them, +and calling to them when they went out too far. She swam staidly backwards +and forwards while the others got up to their larks, and now and then +turned on her back to float. Presently she went out and began drying +herself; she called to the others more or less peremptorily, and at last +only Philip was left in the water. He took the opportunity to have a good +hard swim. He was more used to the cold water this second morning, and he +revelled in its salt freshness; it rejoiced him to use his limbs freely, +and he covered the water with long, firm strokes. But Sally, with a towel +round her, went down to the water's edge. + +"You're to come out this minute, Philip," she called, as though he were a +small boy under her charge. + +And when, smiling with amusement at her authoritative way, he came towards +her, she upbraided him. + +"It is naughty of you to stay in so long. Your lips are quite blue, and +just look at your teeth, they're chattering." + +"All right. I'll come out." + +She had never talked to him in that manner before. It was as though what +had happened gave her a sort of right over him, and she looked upon him as +a child to be cared for. In a few minutes they were dressed, and they +started to walk back. Sally noticed his hands. + +"Just look, they're quite blue." + +"Oh, that's all right. It's only the circulation. I shall get the blood +back in a minute." + +"Give them to me." + +She took his hands in hers and rubbed them, first one and then the other, +till the colour returned. Philip, touched and puzzled, watched her. He +could not say anything to her on account of the children, and he did not +meet her eyes; but he was sure they did not avoid his purposely, it just +happened that they did not meet. And during the day there was nothing in +her behaviour to suggest a consciousness in her that anything had passed +between them. Perhaps she was a little more talkative than usual. When +they were all sitting again in the hop-field she told her mother how +naughty Philip had been in not coming out of the water till he was blue +with cold. It was incredible, and yet it seemed that the only effect of +the incident of the night before was to arouse in her a feeling of +protection towards him: she had the same instinctive desire to mother him +as she had with regard to her brothers and sisters. + +It was not till the evening that he found himself alone with her. She was +cooking the supper, and Philip was sitting on the grass by the side of the +fire. Mrs. Athelny had gone down to the village to do some shopping, and +the children were scattered in various pursuits of their own. Philip +hesitated to speak. He was very nervous. Sally attended to her business +with serene competence and she accepted placidly the silence which to him +was so embarrassing. He did not know how to begin. Sally seldom spoke +unless she was spoken to or had something particular to say. At last he +could not bear it any longer. + +"You're not angry with me, Sally?" he blurted out suddenly. + +She raised her eyes quietly and looked at him without emotion. + +"Me? No. Why should I be?" + +He was taken aback and did not reply. She took the lid off the pot, +stirred the contents, and put it on again. A savoury smell spread over the +air. She looked at him once more, with a quiet smile which barely +separated her lips; it was more a smile of the eyes. + +"I always liked you," she said. + +His heart gave a great thump against his ribs, and he felt the blood +rushing to his cheeks. He forced a faint laugh. + +"I didn't know that." + +"That's because you're a silly." + +"I don't know why you liked me." + +"I don't either." She put a little more wood on the fire. "I knew I liked +you that day you came when you'd been sleeping out and hadn't had anything +to eat, d'you remember? And me and mother, we got Thorpy's bed ready for +you." + +He flushed again, for he did not know that she was aware of that incident. +He remembered it himself with horror and shame. + +"That's why I wouldn't have anything to do with the others. You remember +that young fellow mother wanted me to have? I let him come to tea because +he bothered so, but I knew I'd say no." + +Philip was so surprised that he found nothing to say. There was a queer +feeling in his heart; he did not know what it was, unless it was +happiness. Sally stirred the pot once more. + +"I wish those children would make haste and come. I don't know where +they've got to. Supper's ready now." + +"Shall I go and see if I can find them?" said Philip. + +It was a relief to talk about practical things. + +"Well, it wouldn't be a bad idea, I must say.... There's mother coming." + +Then, as he got up, she looked at him without embarrassment. + +"Shall I come for a walk with you tonight when I've put the children to +bed?" + +"Yes." + +"Well, you wait for me down by the stile, and I'll come when I'm ready." + +He waited under the stars, sitting on the stile, and the hedges with their +ripening blackberries were high on each side of him. From the earth rose +rich scents of the night, and the air was soft and still. His heart was +beating madly. He could not understand anything of what happened to him. +He associated passion with cries and tears and vehemence, and there was +nothing of this in Sally; but he did not know what else but passion could +have caused her to give herself. But passion for him? He would not have +been surprised if she had fallen to her cousin, Peter Gann, tall, spare, +and straight, with his sunburned face and long, easy stride. Philip +wondered what she saw in him. He did not know if she loved him as he +reckoned love. And yet? He was convinced of her purity. He had a vague +inkling that many things had combined, things that she felt though was +unconscious of, the intoxication of the air and the hops and the night, +the healthy instincts of the natural woman, a tenderness that overflowed, +and an affection that had in it something maternal and something sisterly; +and she gave all she had to give because her heart was full of charity. + +He heard a step on the road, and a figure came out of the darkness. + +"Sally," he murmured. + +She stopped and came to the stile, and with her came sweet, clean odours +of the country-side. She seemed to carry with her scents of the new-mown +hay, and the savour of ripe hops, and the freshness of young grass. Her +lips were soft and full against his, and her lovely, strong body was firm +within his arms. + +"Milk and honey," he said. "You're like milk and honey." + +He made her close her eyes and kissed her eyelids, first one and then the +other. Her arm, strong and muscular, was bare to the elbow; he passed his +hand over it and wondered at its beauty; it gleamed in the darkness; she +had the skin that Rubens painted, astonishingly fair and transparent, and +on one side were little golden hairs. It was the arm of a Saxon goddess; +but no immortal had that exquisite, homely naturalness; and Philip thought +of a cottage garden with the dear flowers which bloom in all men's hearts, +of the hollyhock and the red and white rose which is called York and +Lancaster, and of love--in-a-mist and Sweet William, and honeysuckle, +larkspur, and London Pride. + +"How can you care for me?" he said. "I'm insignificant and crippled and +ordinary and ugly." + +She took his face in both her hands and kissed his lips. + +"You're an old silly, that's what you are," she said. + + + +CXXI + + +When the hops were picked, Philip with the news in his pocket that he had +got the appointment as assistant house-physician at St. Luke's, +accompanied the Athelnys back to London. He took modest rooms in +Westminster and at the beginning of October entered upon his duties. The +work was interesting and varied; every day he learned something new; he +felt himself of some consequence; and he saw a good deal of Sally. He +found life uncommonly pleasant. He was free about six, except on the days +on which he had out-patients, and then he went to the shop at which Sally +worked to meet her when she came out. There were several young men, who +hung about opposite the `trade entrance' or a little further along, at the +first corner; and the girls, coming out two and two or in little groups, +nudged one another and giggled as they recognised them. Sally in her plain +black dress looked very different from the country lass who had picked +hops side by side with him. She walked away from the shop quickly, but she +slackened her pace when they met, and greeted him with her quiet smile. +They walked together through the busy street. He talked to her of his work +at the hospital, and she told him what she had been doing in the shop that +day. He came to know the names of the girls she worked with. He found that +Sally had a restrained, but keen, sense of the ridiculous, and she made +remarks about the girls or the men who were set over them which amused him +by their unexpected drollery. She had a way of saying a thing which was +very characteristic, quite gravely, as though there were nothing funny in +it at all, and yet it was so sharp-sighted that Philip broke into +delighted laughter. Then she would give him a little glance in which the +smiling eyes showed she was not unaware of her own humour. They met with +a handshake and parted as formally. Once Philip asked her to come and have +tea with him in his rooms, but she refused. + +"No, I won't do that. It would look funny." + +Never a word of love passed between them. She seemed not to desire +anything more than the companionship of those walks. Yet Philip was +positive that she was glad to be with him. She puzzled him as much as she +had done at the beginning. He did not begin to understand her conduct; but +the more he knew her the fonder he grew of her; she was competent and self +controlled, and there was a charming honesty in her: you felt that you +could rely upon her in every circumstance. + +"You are an awfully good sort," he said to her once a propos of nothing +at all. + +"I expect I'm just the same as everyone else," she answered. + +He knew that he did not love her. It was a great affection that he felt +for her, and he liked her company; it was curiously soothing; and he had +a feeling for her which seemed to him ridiculous to entertain towards a +shop-girl of nineteen: he respected her. And he admired her magnificent +healthiness. She was a splendid animal, without defect; and physical +perfection filled him always with admiring awe. She made him feel +unworthy. + +Then, one day, about three weeks after they had come back to London as +they walked together, he noticed that she was unusually silent. The +serenity of her expression was altered by a slight line between the +eyebrows: it was the beginning of a frown. + +"What's the matter, Sally?" he asked. + +She did not look at him, but straight in front of her, and her colour +darkened. + +"I don't know." + +He understood at once what she meant. His heart gave a sudden, quick beat, +and he felt the colour leave his cheeks. + +"What d'you mean? Are you afraid that... ?" + +He stopped. He could not go on. The possibility that anything of the sort +could happen had never crossed his mind. Then he saw that her lips were +trembling, and she was trying not to cry. + +"I'm not certain yet. Perhaps it'll be all right." + +They walked on in silence till they came to the corner of Chancery Lane, +where he always left her. She held out her hand and smiled. + +"Don't worry about it yet. Let's hope for the best." + +He walked away with a tumult of thoughts in his head. What a fool he had +been! That was the first thing that struck him, an abject, miserable fool, +and he repeated it to himself a dozen times in a rush of angry feeling. He +despised himself. How could he have got into such a mess? But at the same +time, for his thoughts chased one another through his brain and yet seemed +to stand together, in a hopeless confusion, like the pieces of a jig-saw +puzzle seen in a nightmare, he asked himself what he was going to do. +Everything was so clear before him, all he had aimed at so long within +reach at last, and now his inconceivable stupidity had erected this new +obstacle. Philip had never been able to surmount what he acknowledged was +a defect in his resolute desire for a well ordered life, and that was his +passion for living in the future; and no sooner was he settled in his work +at the hospital than he had busied himself with arrangements for his +travels. In the past he had often tried not to think too circumstantially +of his plans for the future, it was only discouraging; but now that his +goal was so near he saw no harm in giving away to a longing that was so +difficult to resist. First of all he meant to go to Spain. That was the +land of his heart; and by now he was imbued with its spirit, its romance +and colour and history and grandeur; he felt that it had a message for him +in particular which no other country could give. He knew the fine old +cities already as though he had trodden their tortuous streets from +childhood. Cordova, Seville, Toledo, Leon, Tarragona, Burgos. The great +painters of Spain were the painters of his soul, and his pulse beat +quickly as he pictured his ecstasy on standing face to face with those +works which were more significant than any others to his own tortured, +restless heart. He had read the great poets, more characteristic of their +race than the poets of other lands; for they seemed to have drawn their +inspiration not at all from the general currents of the world's literature +but directly from the torrid, scented plains and the bleak mountains of +their country. A few short months now, and he would hear with his own ears +all around him the language which seemed most apt for grandeur of soul and +passion. His fine taste had given him an inkling that Andalusia was too +soft and sensuous, a little vulgar even, to satisfy his ardour; and his +imagination dwelt more willingly among the wind-swept distances of Castile +and the rugged magnificence of Aragon and Leon. He did not know quite what +those unknown contacts would give him, but he felt that he would gather +from them a strength and a purpose which would make him more capable of +affronting and comprehending the manifold wonders of places more distant +and more strange. + +For this was only a beginning. He had got into communication with the +various companies which took surgeons out on their ships, and knew exactly +what were their routes, and from men who had been on them what were the +advantages and disadvantages of each line. He put aside the Orient and the +P. & O. It was difficult to get a berth with them; and besides their +passenger traffic allowed the medical officer little freedom; but there +were other services which sent large tramps on leisurely expeditions to +the East, stopping at all sorts of ports for various periods, from a day +or two to a fortnight, so that you had plenty of time, and it was often +possible to make a trip inland. The pay was poor and the food no more than +adequate, so that there was not much demand for the posts, and a man with +a London degree was pretty sure to get one if he applied. Since there were +no passengers other than a casual man or so, shipping on business from +some out-of-the-way port to another, the life on board was friendly and +pleasant. Philip knew by heart the list of places at which they touched; +and each one called up in him visions of tropical sunshine, and magic +colour, and of a teeming, mysterious, intense life. Life! That was what he +wanted. At last he would come to close quarters with Life. And perhaps, +from Tokyo or Shanghai it would be possible to tranship into some other +line and drip down to the islands of the South Pacific. A doctor was +useful anywhere. There might be an opportunity to go up country in Burmah, +and what rich jungles in Sumatra or Borneo might he not visit? He was +young still and time was no object to him. He had no ties in England, no +friends; he could go up and down the world for years, learning the beauty +and the wonder and the variedness of life. + +Now this thing had come. He put aside the possibility that Sally was +mistaken; he felt strangely certain that she was right; after all, it was +so likely; anyone could see that Nature had built her to be the mother of +children. He knew what he ought to do. He ought not to let the incident +divert him a hair's breadth from his path. He thought of Griffiths; he +could easily imagine with what indifference that young man would have +received such a piece of news; he would have thought it an awful nuisance +and would at once have taken to his heels, like a wise fellow; he would +have left the girl to deal with her troubles as best she could. Philip +told himself that if this had happened it was because it was inevitable. +He was no more to blame than Sally; she was a girl who knew the world and +the facts of life, and she had taken the risk with her eyes open. It would +be madness to allow such an accident to disturb the whole pattern of his +life. He was one of the few people who was acutely conscious of the +transitoriness of life, and how necessary it was to make the most of it. +He would do what he could for Sally; he could afford to give her a +sufficient sum of money. A strong man would never allow himself to be +turned from his purpose. + +Philip said all this to himself, but he knew he could not do it. He simply +could not. He knew himself. + +"I'm so damned weak," he muttered despairingly. + +She had trusted him and been kind to him. He simply could not do a thing +which, notwithstanding all his reason, he felt was horrible. He knew he +would have no peace on his travels if he had the thought constantly with +him that she was wretched. Besides, there were her father and mother: they +had always treated him well; it was not possible to repay them with +ingratitude. The only thing was to marry Sally as quickly as possible. He +would write to Doctor South, tell him he was going to be married at once, +and say that if his offer still held he was willing to accept it. That +sort of practice, among poor people, was the only one possible for him; +there his deformity did not matter, and they would not sneer at the simple +manners of his wife. It was curious to think of her as his wife, it gave +him a queer, soft feeling; and a wave of emotion spread over him as he +thought of the child which was his. He had little doubt that Doctor South +would be glad to have him, and he pictured to himself the life he would +lead with Sally in the fishing village. They would have a little house +within sight of the sea, and he would watch the mighty ships passing to +the lands he would never know. Perhaps that was the wisest thing. Cronshaw +had told him that the facts of life mattered nothing to him who by the +power of fancy held in fee the twin realms of space and time. It was true. +Forever wilt thou love and she be fair! + +His wedding present to his wife would be all his high hopes. +Self-sacrifice! Philip was uplifted by its beauty, and all through the +evening he thought of it. He was so excited that he could not read. He +seemed to be driven out of his rooms into the streets, and he walked up +and down Birdcage Walk, his heart throbbing with joy. He could hardly bear +his impatience. He wanted to see Sally's happiness when he made her his +offer, and if it had not been so late he would have gone to her there and +then. He pictured to himself the long evenings he would spend with Sally +in the cosy sitting-room, the blinds undrawn so that they could watch the +sea; he with his books, while she bent over her work, and the shaded lamp +made her sweet face more fair. They would talk over the growing child, and +when she turned her eyes to his there was in them the light of love. And +the fishermen and their wives who were his patients would come to feel a +great affection for them, and they in their turn would enter into the +pleasures and pains of those simple lives. But his thoughts returned to +the son who would be his and hers. Already he felt in himself a passionate +devotion to it. He thought of passing his hands over his little perfect +limbs, he knew he would be beautiful; and he would make over to him all +his dreams of a rich and varied life. And thinking over the long +pilgrimage of his past he accepted it joyfully. He accepted the deformity +which had made life so hard for him; he knew that it had warped his +character, but now he saw also that by reason of it he had acquired that +power of introspection which had given him so much delight. Without it he +would never have had his keen appreciation of beauty, his passion for art +and literature, and his interest in the varied spectacle of life. The +ridicule and the contempt which had so often been heaped upon him had +turned his mind inward and called forth those flowers which he felt would +never lose their fragrance. Then he saw that the normal was the rarest +thing in the world. Everyone had some defect, of body or of mind: he +thought of all the people he had known (the whole world was like a +sick-house, and there was no rhyme or reason in it), he saw a long +procession, deformed in body and warped in mind, some with illness of the +flesh, weak hearts or weak lungs, and some with illness of the spirit, +languor of will, or a craving for liquor. At this moment he could feel a +holy compassion for them all. They were the helpless instruments of blind +chance. He could pardon Griffiths for his treachery and Mildred for the +pain she had caused him. They could not help themselves. The only +reasonable thing was to accept the good of men and be patient with their +faults. The words of the dying God crossed his memory: + +Forgive them, for they know not what they do. + + + +CXXII + + +He had arranged to meet Sally on Saturday in the National Gallery. She was +to come there as soon as she was released from the shop and had agreed to +lunch with him. Two days had passed since he had seen her, and his +exultation had not left him for a moment. It was because he rejoiced in +the feeling that he had not attempted to see her. He had repeated to +himself exactly what he would say to her and how he should say it. Now his +impatience was unbearable. He had written to Doctor South and had in his +pocket a telegram from him received that morning: "Sacking the mumpish +fool. When will you come?" Philip walked along Parliament Street. It was +a fine day, and there was a bright, frosty sun which made the light dance +in the street. It was crowded. There was a tenuous mist in the distance, +and it softened exquisitely the noble lines of the buildings. He crossed +Trafalgar Square. Suddenly his heart gave a sort of twist in his body; he +saw a woman in front of him who he thought was Mildred. She had the same +figure, and she walked with that slight dragging of the feet which was so +characteristic of her. Without thinking, but with a beating heart, he +hurried till he came alongside, and then, when the woman turned, he saw it +was someone unknown to him. It was the face of a much older person, with +a lined, yellow skin. He slackened his pace. He was infinitely relieved, +but it was not only relief that he felt; it was disappointment too; he was +seized with horror of himself. Would he never be free from that passion? +At the bottom of his heart, notwithstanding everything, he felt that a +strange, desperate thirst for that vile woman would always linger. That +love had caused him so much suffering that he knew he would never, never +quite be free of it. Only death could finally assuage his desire. + +But he wrenched the pang from his heart. He thought of Sally, with her +kind blue eyes; and his lips unconsciously formed themselves into a smile. +He walked up the steps of the National Gallery and sat down in the first +room, so that he should see her the moment she came in. It always +comforted him to get among pictures. He looked at none in particular, but +allowed the magnificence of their colour, the beauty of their lines, to +work upon his soul. His imagination was busy with Sally. It would be +pleasant to take her away from that London in which she seemed an unusual +figure, like a cornflower in a shop among orchids and azaleas; he had +learned in the Kentish hop-field that she did not belong to the town; and +he was sure that she would blossom under the soft skies of Dorset to a +rarer beauty. She came in, and he got up to meet her. She was in black, +with white cuffs at her wrists and a lawn collar round her neck. They +shook hands. + +"Have you been waiting long?" + +"No. Ten minutes. Are you hungry?" + +"Not very." + +"Let's sit here for a bit, shall we?" + +"If you like." + +They sat quietly, side by side, without speaking. Philip enjoyed having +her near him. He was warmed by her radiant health. A glow of life seemed +like an aureole to shine about her. + +"Well, how have you been?" he said at last, with a little smile. + +"Oh, it's all right. It was a false alarm." + +"Was it?" + +"Aren't you glad?" + +An extraordinary sensation filled him. He had felt certain that Sally's +suspicion was well-founded; it had never occurred to him for an instant +that there was a possibility of error. All his plans were suddenly +overthrown, and the existence, so elaborately pictured, was no more than +a dream which would never be realised. He was free once more. Free! He +need give up none of his projects, and life still was in his hands for him +to do what he liked with. He felt no exhilaration, but only dismay. His +heart sank. The future stretched out before him in desolate emptiness. It +was as though he had sailed for many years over a great waste of waters, +with peril and privation, and at last had come upon a fair haven, but as +he was about to enter, some contrary wind had arisen and drove him out +again into the open sea; and because he had let his mind dwell on these +soft meads and pleasant woods of the land, the vast deserts of the ocean +filled him with anguish. He could not confront again the loneliness and +the tempest. Sally looked at him with her clear eyes. + +"Aren't you glad?" she asked again. "I thought you'd be as pleased as +Punch." + +He met her gaze haggardly. "I'm not sure," he muttered. + +"You are funny. Most men would." + +He realised that he had deceived himself; it was no self-sacrifice that +had driven him to think of marrying, but the desire for a wife and a home +and love; and now that it all seemed to slip through his fingers he was +seized with despair. He wanted all that more than anything in the world. +What did he care for Spain and its cities, Cordova, Toledo, Leon; what to +him were the pagodas of Burmah and the lagoons of South Sea Islands? +America was here and now. It seemed to him that all his life he had +followed the ideals that other people, by their words or their writings, +had instilled into him, and never the desires of his own heart. Always his +course had been swayed by what he thought he should do and never by what +he wanted with his whole soul to do. He put all that aside now with a +gesture of impatience. He had lived always in the future, and the present +always, always had slipped through his fingers. His ideals? He thought of +his desire to make a design, intricate and beautiful, out of the myriad, +meaningless facts of life: had he not seen also that the simplest pattern, +that in which a man was born, worked, married, had children, and died, was +likewise the most perfect? It might be that to surrender to happiness was +to accept defeat, but it was a defeat better than many victories. + +He glanced quickly at Sally, he wondered what she was thinking, and then +looked away again. + +"I was going to ask you to marry me," he said. + +"I thought p'raps you might, but I shouldn't have liked to stand in your +way." + +"You wouldn't have done that." + +"How about your travels, Spain and all that?" + +"How d'you know I want to travel?" + +"I ought to know something about it. I've heard you and Dad talk about it +till you were blue in the face." + +"I don't care a damn about all that." He paused for an instant and then +spoke in a low, hoarse whisper. "I don't want to leave you! I can't leave +you." + +She did not answer. He could not tell what she thought. + +"I wonder if you'll marry me, Sally." + +She did not move and there was no flicker of emotion on her face, but she +did not look at him when she answered. + +"If you like." + +"Don't you want to?" + +"Oh, of course I'd like to have a house of my own, and it's about time I +was settling down." + +He smiled a little. He knew her pretty well by now, and her manner did not +surprise him. + +"But don't you want to marry ME?" + +"There's no one else I would marry." + +"Then that settles it." + +"Mother and Dad will be surprised, won't they?" + +"I'm so happy." + +"I want my lunch," she said. + +"Dear!" + +He smiled and took her hand and pressed it. They got up and walked out of +the gallery. They stood for a moment at the balustrade and looked at +Trafalgar Square. Cabs and omnibuses hurried to and fro, and crowds +passed, hastening in every direction, and the sun was shining. + + +End of Project Gutenberg Etext of "Of Human Bondage" +by W. Somerset Maugham + |