Of Human Bondage (32 page)

  "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.

  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.