Of Human Bondage
man’s place. He felt that no woman could ever really look upon him
without distaste for his deformity.
That reminded him of Miss Wilkinson. He thought of her without
satisfaction. Before parting they had made an arrangement that she
should write to Charing Cross Post Office till he was able to send her
an address, and when he went there he found three letters from her. She
wrote on blue paper with violet ink, and she wrote in French. Philip
wondered why she could not write in English like a sensible woman, and
her passionate expressions, because they reminded him of a French
novel, left him cold. She upbraided him for not having written, and
when he answered he excused himself by saying that he had been busy. He
did not quite know how to start the letter. He could not bring himself
to use dearest or darling, and he hated to address her as Emily, so
finally he began with the word dear. It looked odd, standing by itself,
and rather silly, but he made it do. It was the first love letter he
had ever written, and he was conscious of its tameness; he felt that he
should say all sorts of vehement things, how he thought of her every
minute of the day and how he longed to kiss her beautiful hands and how
he trembled at the thought of her red lips, but some inexplicable
modesty prevented him; and instead he told her of his new rooms and his
office. The answer came by return of post, angry, heart-broken,
reproachful: how could he be so cold? Did he not know that she hung on
his letters? She had given him all that a woman could give, and this
was her reward. Was he tired of her already? Then, because he did not
reply for several days, Miss Wilkinson bombarded him with letters. She
could not bear his unkindness, she waited for the post, and it never
brought her his letter, she cried herself to sleep night after night,
she was looking so ill that everyone remarked on it: if he did not love
her why did he not say so? She added that she could not live without
him, and the only thing was for her to commit suicide. She told him he
was cold and selfish and ungrateful. It was all in French, and Philip
knew that she wrote in that language to show off, but he was worried
all the same. He did not want to make her unhappy. In a little while
she wrote that she could not bear the separation any longer, she would
arrange to come over to London for Christmas. Philip wrote back that he
would like nothing better, only he had already an engagement to spend
Christmas with friends in the country, and he did not see how he could
break it. She answered that she did not wish to force herself on him,
it was quite evident that he did not wish to see her; she was deeply
hurt, and she never thought he would repay with such cruelty all her
kindness. Her letter was touching, and Philip thought he saw marks of
her tears on the paper; he wrote an impulsive reply saying that he was
dreadfully sorry and imploring her to come; but it was with relief that
he received her answer in which she said that she found it would be
impossible for her to get away. Presently when her letters came his
heart sank: he delayed opening them, for he knew what they would
contain, angry reproaches and pathetic appeals; they would make him
feel a perfect beast, and yet he did not see with what he had to blame
himself. He put off his answer from day to day, and then another letter
would come, saying she was ill and lonely and miserable.
“I wish to God I’d never had anything to do with her,” he said.
He admired Watson because he arranged these things so easily. The young
man had been engaged in an intrigue with a girl who played in touring
companies, and his account of the affair filled Philip with envious
amazement. But after a time Watson’s young affections changed, and one
day he described the rupture to Philip.
“I thought it was no good making any bones about it so I just told her
I’d had enough of her,” he said.
“Didn’t she make an awful scene?” asked Philip.
“The usual thing, you know, but I told her it was no good trying on
that sort of thing with me.”
“Did she cry?”
“She began to, but I can’t stand women when they cry, so I said she’d
better hook it.”
Philip’s sense of humour was growing keener with advancing years.
“And did she hook it?” he asked smiling.
“Well, there wasn’t anything else for her to do, was there?”
Meanwhile the Christmas holidays approached. Mrs. Carey had been ill
all through November, and the doctor suggested that she and the Vicar
should go to Cornwall for a couple of weeks round Christmas so that she
should get back her strength. The result was that Philip had nowhere to
go, and he spent Christmas Day in his lodgings. Under Hayward’s
influence he had persuaded himself that the festivities that attend
this season were vulgar and barbaric, and he made up his mind that he
would take no notice of the day; but when it came, the jollity of all
around affected him strangely. His landlady and her husband were
spending the day with a married daughter, and to save trouble Philip
announced that he would take his meals out. He went up to London
towards mid-day and ate a slice of turkey and some Christmas pudding by
himself at Gatti’s, and since he had nothing to do afterwards went to
Westminster Abbey for the afternoon service. The streets were almost
empty, and the people who went along had a preoccupied look; they did
not saunter but walked with some definite goal in view, and hardly
anyone was alone. To Philip they all seemed happy. He felt himself more
solitary than he had ever done in his life. His intention had been to
kill the day somehow in the streets and then dine at a restaurant, but
he could not face again the sight of cheerful people, talking,
laughing, and making merry; so he went back to Waterloo, and on his way
through the Westminster Bridge Road bought some ham and a couple of
mince pies and went back to Barnes. He ate his food in his lonely
little room and spent the evening with a book. His depression was
almost intolerable.
When he was back at the office it made him very sore to listen to
Watson’s account of the short holiday. They had had some jolly girls
staying with them, and after dinner they had cleared out the
drawing-room and had a dance.
“I didn’t get to bed till three and I don’t know how I got there then.
By George, I was squiffy.”
At last Philip asked desperately:
“How does one get to know people in London?”
Watson looked at him with surprise and with a slightly contemptuous
amusement.
“Oh, I don’t know, one just knows them. If you go to dances you soon
get to know as many people as you can do with.”
Philip hated Watson, and yet he would have given anything to change
places with him. The old feeling that he had had at school came back to
him, and he tried to throw himself into the other’s skin, imagining
what life would be if he were Watson.
XXXVIII
At the end of the year there was a great deal to do. Philip went to
various places with a clerk named Thompson and spent the day
monotonously calling out items of expenditure, which the other checked;
and sometimes he was given long pages of figures to add up. He had
never had a head for figures, and he could only do this slowly.
Thompson grew irritated at his mistakes. His fellow-clerk was a long,
lean man of forty, sallow, with black hair and a ragged moustache; he
had hollow cheeks and deep lines on each side of his nose. He took a
dislike to Philip because he was an articled clerk. Because he could
put down three hundred guineas and keep himself for five years Philip
had the chance of a career; while he, with his experience and ability,
had no possibility of ever being more than a clerk at thirty-five
shillings a week. He was a cross-grained man, oppressed by a large
family, and he resented the superciliousness which he fancied he saw in
Philip. He sneered at Philip because he was better educated than
himself, and he mocked at Philip’s pronunciation; he could not forgive
him because he spoke without a cockney accent, and when he talked to
him sarcastically exaggerated his aitches. At first his manner was
merely gruff and repellent, but as he discovered that Philip had no
gift for accountancy he took pleasure in humiliating him; his attacks
were gross and silly, but they wounded Philip, and in self-defence he
assumed an attitude of superiority which he did not feel.
“Had a bath this morning?” Thompson said when Philip came to the office
late, for his early punctuality had not lasted.
“Yes, haven’t you?”
“No, I’m not a gentleman, I’m only a clerk. I have a bath on Saturday
night.”
“I suppose that’s why you’re more than usually disagreeable on Monday.”
“Will you condescend to do a few sums in simple addition today? I’m
afraid it’s asking a great deal from a gentleman who knows Latin and
Greek.”
“Your attempts at sarcasm are not very happy.”
But Philip could not conceal from himself that the other clerks,
ill-paid and uncouth, were more useful than himself. Once or twice Mr.
Goodworthy grew impatient with him.
“You really ought to be able to do better than this by now,” he said.
“You’re not even as smart as the office-boy.”
Philip listened sulkily. He did not like being blamed, and it
humiliated him, when, having been given accounts to make fair copies
of, Mr. Goodworthy was not satisfied and gave them to another clerk to
do. At first the work had been tolerable from its novelty, but now it
grew irksome; and when he discovered that he had no aptitude for it, he
began to hate it. Often, when he should have been doing something that
was given him, he wasted his time drawing little pictures on the office
note-paper. He made sketches of Watson in every conceivable attitude,
and Watson was impressed by his talent. It occurred to him to take the
drawings home, and he came back next day with the praises of his
family.
“I wonder you didn’t become a painter,” he said. “Only of course
there’s no money in it.”
It chanced that Mr. Carter two or three days later was dining with the
Watsons, and the sketches were shown him. The following morning he sent
for Philip. Philip saw him seldom and stood in some awe of him.
“Look here, young fellow, I don’t care what you do out of office-hours,
but I’ve seen those sketches of yours and they’re on office-paper, and
Mr. Goodworthy tells me you’re slack. You won’t do any good as a
chartered accountant unless you look alive. It’s a fine profession, and
we’re getting a very good class of men in it, but it’s a profession in
which you have to…” he looked for the termination of his phrase, but
could not find exactly what he wanted, so finished rather tamely, “in
which you have to look alive.”
Perhaps Philip would have settled down but for the agreement that if he
did not like the work he could leave after a year, and get back half
the money paid for his articles. He felt that he was fit for something
better than to add up accounts, and it was humiliating that he did so
ill something which seemed contemptible. The vulgar scenes with
Thompson got on his nerves. In March Watson ended his year at the
office and Philip, though he did not care for him, saw him go with
regret. The fact that the other clerks disliked them equally, because
they belonged to a class a little higher than their own, was a bond of
union. When Philip thought that he must spend over four years more with
that dreary set of fellows his heart sank. He had expected wonderful
things from London and it had given him nothing. He hated it now. He
did not know a soul, and he had no idea how he was to get to know
anyone. He was tired of going everywhere by himself. He began to feel
that he could not stand much more of such a life. He would lie in bed