Of Human Bondage (33 page)

  "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."

  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."