Of Human Bondage
“And will you tell me what a gentleman is?” asked Weeks.
“Oh, I don’t know; everyone knows what it is.”
“Are you a gentleman?”
No doubt had ever crossed Philip’s mind on the subject, but he knew it
was not a thing to state of oneself.
“If a man tells you he’s a gentleman you can bet your boots he isn’t,”
he retorted.
“Am I a gentleman?”
Philip’s truthfulness made it difficult for him to answer, but he was
naturally polite.
“Oh, well, you’re different,” he said. “You’re American, aren’t you?”
“I suppose we may take it that only Englishmen are gentlemen,” said
Weeks gravely.
Philip did not contradict him.
“Couldn’t you give me a few more particulars?” asked Weeks.
Philip reddened, but, growing angry, did not care if he made himself
ridiculous.
“I can give you plenty.” He remembered his uncle’s saying that it took
three generations to make a gentleman: it was a companion proverb to
the silk purse and the sow’s ear. “First of all he’s the son of a
gentleman, and he’s been to a public school, and to Oxford or
Cambridge.”
“Edinburgh wouldn’t do, I suppose?” asked Weeks.
“And he talks English like a gentleman, and he wears the right sort of
things, and if he’s a gentleman he can always tell if another chap’s a
gentleman.”
It seemed rather lame to Philip as he went on, but there it was: that
was what he meant by the word, and everyone he had ever known had meant
that too.
“It is evident to me that I am not a gentleman,” said Weeks. “I don’t
see why you should have been so surprised because I was a dissenter.”
“I don’t quite know what a Unitarian is,” said Philip.
Weeks in his odd way again put his head on one side: you almost
expected him to twitter.
“A Unitarian very earnestly disbelieves in almost everything that
anybody else believes, and he has a very lively sustaining faith in he
doesn’t quite know what.”
“I don’t see why you should make fun of me,” said Philip. “I really
want to know.”
“My dear friend, I’m not making fun of you. I have arrived at that
definition after years of great labour and the most anxious,
nerve-racking study.”
When Philip and Hayward got up to go, Weeks handed Philip a little book
in a paper cover.
“I suppose you can read French pretty well by now. I wonder if this
would amuse you.”
Philip thanked him and, taking the book, looked at the title. It was
Renan’s Vie de Jesus.
XXVIII
It occurred neither to Hayward nor to Weeks that the conversations
which helped them to pass an idle evening were being turned over
afterwards in Philip’s active brain. It had never struck him before
that religion was a matter upon which discussion was possible. To him
it meant the Church of England, and not to believe in its tenets was a
sign of wilfulness which could not fail of punishment here or
hereafter. There was some doubt in his mind about the chastisement of
unbelievers. It was possible that a merciful judge, reserving the
flames of hell for the heathen—Mahommedans, Buddhists, and the
rest—would spare Dissenters and Roman Catholics (though at the cost of
how much humiliation when they were made to realise their error!), and
it was also possible that He would be pitiful to those who had had no
chance of learning the truth,—this was reasonable enough, though such
were the activities of the Missionary Society there could not be many
in this condition—but if the chance had been theirs and they had
neglected it (in which category were obviously Roman Catholics and
Dissenters), the punishment was sure and merited. It was clear that the
miscreant was in a parlous state. Perhaps Philip had not been taught it
in so many words, but certainly the impression had been given him that
only members of the Church of England had any real hope of eternal
happiness.
One of the things that Philip had heard definitely stated was that the
unbeliever was a wicked and a vicious man; but Weeks, though he
believed in hardly anything that Philip believed, led a life of
Christian purity. Philip had received little kindness in his life, and
he was touched by the American’s desire to help him: once when a cold
kept him in bed for three days, Weeks nursed him like a mother. There
was neither vice nor wickedness in him, but only sincerity and
loving-kindness. It was evidently possible to be virtuous and
unbelieving.
Also Philip had been given to understand that people adhered to other
faiths only from obstinacy or self-interest: in their hearts they knew
they were false; they deliberately sought to deceive others. Now, for
the sake of his German he had been accustomed on Sunday mornings to
attend the Lutheran service, but when Hayward arrived he began instead
to go with him to Mass. He noticed that, whereas the Protestant church
was nearly empty and the congregation had a listless air, the Jesuit on
the other hand was crowded and the worshippers seemed to pray with all
their hearts. They had not the look of hypocrites. He was surprised at
the contrast; for he knew of course that the Lutherans, whose faith was
closer to that of the Church of England, on that account were nearer
the truth than the Roman Catholics. Most of the men—it was largely a
masculine congregation—were South Germans; and he could not help saying
to himself that if he had been born in South Germany he would certainly
have been a Roman Catholic. He might just as well have been born in a
Roman Catholic country as in England; and in England as well in a
Wesleyan, Baptist, or Methodist family as in one that fortunately
belonged to the church by law established. He was a little breathless
at the danger he had run. Philip was on friendly terms with the little
Chinaman who sat at table with him twice each day. His name was Sung.
He was always smiling, affable, and polite. It seemed strange that he
should frizzle in hell merely because he was a Chinaman; but if
salvation was possible whatever a man’s faith was, there did not seem
to be any particular advantage in belonging to the Church of England.
Philip, more puzzled than he had ever been in his life, sounded Weeks.
He had to be careful, for he was very sensitive to ridicule; and the
acidulous humour with which the American treated the Church of England
disconcerted him. Weeks only puzzled him more. He made Philip
acknowledge that those South Germans whom he saw in the Jesuit church
were every bit as firmly convinced of the truth of Roman Catholicism as
he was of that of the Church of England, and from that he led him to
admit that the Mahommedan and the Buddhist were convinced also of the
truth of their respective religions. It looked as though knowing that
you were right meant nothing; they all knew they were right. Weeks had
no intention of undermining the boy’s faith, but he was deeply
interested in religion, and found it an absorbing topic of
conversation. He had described his own views accurately when he said
that he very earnestly disbelieved in almost everything that other
people believed. Once Philip asked him a question, which he had heard
his uncle put when the conversation at the vicarage had fallen upon
some mildly rationalistic work which was then exciting discussion in
the newspapers.
“But why should you be right and all those fellows like St. Anselm and
St. Augustine be wrong?”
“You mean that they were very clever and learned men, while you have
grave doubts whether I am either?” asked Weeks.
“Yes,” answered Philip uncertainly, for put in that way his question
seemed impertinent.
“St. Augustine believed that the earth was flat and that the sun turned
round it.”
“I don’t know what that proves.”
“Why, it proves that you believe with your generation. Your saints
lived in an age of faith, when it was practically impossible to
disbelieve what to us is positively incredible.”
“Then how d’you know that we have the truth now?”
“I don’t.”
Philip thought this over for a moment, then he said:
“I don’t see why the things we believe absolutely now shouldn’t be just
as wrong as what they believed in the past.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then how can you believe anything at all?”
“I don’t know.”
Philip asked Weeks what he thought of Hayward’s religion.
“Men have always formed gods in their own image,” said Weeks. “He
believes in the picturesque.”
Philip paused for a little while, then he said:
“I don’t see why one should believe in God at all.”
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he realised that he had
ceased to do so. It took his breath away like a plunge into cold water.
He looked at Weeks with startled eyes. Suddenly he felt afraid. He left
Weeks as quickly as he could. He wanted to be alone. It was the most
startling experience that he had ever had. He tried to think it all
out; it was very exciting, since his whole life seemed concerned (he
thought his decision on this matter must profoundly affect its course)
and a mistake might lead to eternal damnation; but the more he
reflected the more convinced he was; and though during the next few
weeks he read books, aids to scepticism, with eager interest it was
only to confirm him in what he felt instinctively. The fact was that he
had ceased to believe not for this reason or the other, but because he
had not the religious temperament. Faith had been forced upon him from
the outside. It was a matter of environment and example. A new
environment and a new example gave him the opportunity to find himself.
He put off the faith of his childhood quite simply, like a cloak that
he no longer needed. At first life seemed strange and lonely without
the belief which, though he never realised it, had been an unfailing
support. He felt like a man who has leaned on a stick and finds himself
forced suddenly to walk without assistance. It really seemed as though
the days were colder and the nights more solitary. But he was upheld by
the excitement; it seemed to make life a more thrilling adventure; and
in a little while the stick which he had thrown aside, the cloak which
had fallen from his shoulders, seemed an intolerable burden of which he
had been eased. The religious exercises which for so many years had
been forced upon him were part and parcel of religion to him. He
thought of the collects and epistles which he had been made to learn by
heart, and the long services at the Cathedral through which he had sat
when every limb itched with the desire for movement; and he remembered
those walks at night through muddy roads to the parish church at
Blackstable, and the coldness of that bleak building; he sat with his
feet like ice, his fingers numb and heavy, and all around was the
sickly odour of pomatum. Oh, he had been so bored! His heart leaped
when he saw he was free from all that.
He was surprised at himself because he ceased to believe so easily,
and, not knowing that he felt as he did on account of the subtle
workings of his inmost nature, he ascribed the certainty he had reached
to his own cleverness. He was unduly pleased with himself. With youth’s
lack of sympathy for an attitude other than its own he despised not a
little Weeks and Hayward because they were content with the vague
emotion which they called God and would not take the further step which
to himself seemed so obvious. One day he went alone up a certain hill
so that he might see a view which, he knew not why, filled him always
with wild exhilaration. It was autumn now, but often the days were
cloudless still, and then the sky seemed to glow with a more splendid
light: it was as though nature consciously sought to put a fuller
vehemence into the remaining days of fair weather. He looked down upon
the plain, a-quiver with the sun, stretching vastly before him: in the
distance were the roofs of Mannheim and ever so far away the dimness of