Part 1 out of 15
OF HUMAN BONDAGE by W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM
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
"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.
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?"
"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."
"She's his godmother, sir. D'you think Mrs. Carey will get over it, sir?"
The doctor shook his head.
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.
"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
"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
"His mother was my greatest friend. I can't bear to think that she's
"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
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
"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
"You're going to live with me now, Philip," said Mr. Carey. "Shall you
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.
"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
"I'm going to take you down to Blackstable tomorrow," he said.
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
"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
"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
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
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
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
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.
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
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
"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?"
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
"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
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
"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
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
"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.
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
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
"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
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
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.
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
"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
"Have you had a nice little nap, William?" she asked.
"No," he answered. "Philip made so much noise that I couldn't sleep a
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
"Then what would you like to do until your uncle comes back?" she asked
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.
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
"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
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
"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
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
"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.
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
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
"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
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
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?"
"What's your father?"
"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."
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
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
"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
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.
"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.
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.
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
"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?"
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
"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.
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
"Come into my study."
The headmaster turned, and they followed him side by side Singer whispered
"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
"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."
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
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."
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