Of Human Bondage (9 page)

  "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.

  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.

  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: