Of Human Bondage (31 page)

  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.

  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.