Of Human Bondage
at night and think of the joy of never seeing again that dingy office
or any of the men in it, and of getting away from those drab lodgings.
A great disappointment befell him in the spring. Hayward had announced
his intention of coming to London for the season, and Philip had looked
forward very much to seeing him again. He had read so much lately and
thought so much that his mind was full of ideas which he wanted to
discuss, and he knew nobody who was willing to interest himself in
abstract things. He was quite excited at the thought of talking his
fill with someone, and he was wretched when Hayward wrote to say that
the spring was lovelier than ever he had known it in Italy, and he
could not bear to tear himself away. He went on to ask why Philip did
not come. What was the use of squandering the days of his youth in an
office when the world was beautiful? The letter proceeded.
I wonder you can bear it. I think of Fleet Street and Lincoln’s Inn
now with a shudder of disgust. There are only two things in the world
that make life worth living, love and art. I cannot imagine you
sitting in an office over a ledger, and do you wear a tall hat and an
umbrella and a little black bag? My feeling is that one should look
upon life as an adventure, one should burn with the hard, gem-like
flame, and one should take risks, one should expose oneself to danger.
Why do you not go to Paris and study art? I always thought you had
talent.
The suggestion fell in with the possibility that Philip for some time
had been vaguely turning over in his mind. It startled him at first,
but he could not help thinking of it, and in the constant rumination
over it he found his only escape from the wretchedness of his present
state. They all thought he had talent; at Heidelberg they had admired
his water colours, Miss Wilkinson had told him over and over again that
they were chasing; even strangers like the Watsons had been struck by
his sketches. La Vie de Boheme had made a deep impression on him. He
had brought it to London and when he was most depressed he had only to
read a few pages to be transported into those chasing attics where
Rodolphe and the rest of them danced and loved and sang. He began to
think of Paris as before he had thought of London, but he had no fear
of a second disillusion; he yearned for romance and beauty and love,
and Paris seemed to offer them all. He had a passion for pictures, and
why should he not be able to paint as well as anybody else? He wrote to
Miss Wilkinson and asked her how much she thought he could live on in
Paris. She told him that he could manage easily on eighty pounds a
year, and she enthusiastically approved of his project. She told him he
was too good to be wasted in an office. Who would be a clerk when he
might be a great artist, she asked dramatically, and she besought
Philip to believe in himself: that was the great thing. But Philip had
a cautious nature. It was all very well for Hayward to talk of taking
risks, he had three hundred a year in gilt-edged securities; Philip’s
entire fortune amounted to no more than eighteen-hundred pounds. He
hesitated.
Then it chanced that one day Mr. Goodworthy asked him suddenly if he
would like to go to Paris. The firm did the accounts for a hotel in the
Faubourg St. Honore, which was owned by an English company, and twice a
year Mr. Goodworthy and a clerk went over. The clerk who generally went
happened to be ill, and a press of work prevented any of the others
from getting away. Mr. Goodworthy thought of Philip because he could
best be spared, and his articles gave him some claim upon a job which
was one of the pleasures of the business. Philip was delighted.
“You’ll ’ave to work all day,” said Mr. Goodworthy, “but we get our
evenings to ourselves, and Paris is Paris.” He smiled in a knowing way.
“They do us very well at the hotel, and they give us all our meals, so
it don’t cost one anything. That’s the way I like going to Paris, at
other people’s expense.”
When they arrived at Calais and Philip saw the crowd of gesticulating
porters his heart leaped.
“This is the real thing,” he said to himself.
He was all eyes as the train sped through the country; he adored the
sand dunes, their colour seemed to him more lovely than anything he had
ever seen; and he was enchanted with the canals and the long lines of
poplars. When they got out of the Gare du Nord, and trundled along the
cobbled streets in a ramshackle, noisy cab, it seemed to him that he
was breathing a new air so intoxicating that he could hardly restrain
himself from shouting aloud. They were met at the door of the hotel by
the manager, a stout, pleasant man, who spoke tolerable English; Mr.
Goodworthy was an old friend and he greeted them effusively; they dined
in his private room with his wife, and to Philip it seemed that he had
never eaten anything so delicious as the beefsteak aux pommes, nor
drunk such nectar as the vin ordinaire, which were set before them.
To Mr. Goodworthy, a respectable householder with excellent principles,
the capital of France was a paradise of the joyously obscene. He asked
the manager next morning what there was to be seen that was ‘thick.’ He
thoroughly enjoyed these visits of his to Paris; he said they kept you
from growing rusty. In the evenings, after their work was over and they
had dined, he took Philip to the Moulin Rouge and the Folies Bergeres.
His little eyes twinkled and his face wore a sly, sensual smile as he
sought out the pornographic. He went into all the haunts which were
specially arranged for the foreigner, and afterwards said that a nation
could come to no good which permitted that sort of thing. He nudged
Philip when at some revue a woman appeared with practically nothing on,
and pointed out to him the most strapping of the courtesans who walked
about the hall. It was a vulgar Paris that he showed Philip, but Philip
saw it with eyes blinded with illusion. In the early morning he would
rush out of the hotel and go to the Champs Elysees, and stand at the
Place de la Concorde. It was June, and Paris was silvery with the
delicacy of the air. Philip felt his heart go out to the people. Here
he thought at last was romance.
They spent the inside of a week there, leaving on Sunday, and when
Philip late at night reached his dingy rooms in Barnes his mind was
made up; he would surrender his articles, and go to Paris to study art;
but so that no one should think him unreasonable he determined to stay
at the office till his year was up. He was to have his holiday during
the last fortnight in August, and when he went away he would tell
Herbert Carter that he had no intention of returning. But though Philip
could force himself to go to the office every day he could not even
pretend to show any interest in the work. His mind was occupied with
the future. After the middle of July there was nothing much to do and
he escaped a good deal by pretending he had to go to lectures for his
first examination. The time he got in this way he spent in the National
Gallery. He read books about Paris and books about painting. He was
steeped in Ruskin. He read many of Vasari’s lives of the painters. He
liked that story of Correggio, and he fancied himself standing before
some great masterpiece and crying: Anch’ io son’ pittore. His
hesitation had left him now, and he was convinced that he had in him
the makings of a great painter.
“After all, I can only try,” he said to himself. “The great thing in
life is to take risks.”
At last came the middle of August. Mr. Carter was spending the month in
Scotland, and the managing clerk was in charge of the office. Mr.
Goodworthy had seemed pleasantly disposed to Philip since their trip to
Paris, and now that Philip knew he was so soon to be free, he could
look upon the funny little man with tolerance.
“You’re going for your holiday tomorrow, Carey?” he said to him in the
evening.
All day Philip had been telling himself that this was the last time he
would ever sit in that hateful office.
“Yes, this is the end of my year.”
“I’m afraid you’ve not done very well. Mr. Carter’s very dissatisfied
with you.”
“Not nearly so dissatisfied as I am with Mr. Carter,” returned Philip
cheerfully.
“I don’t think you should speak like that, Carey.”
“I’m not coming back. I made the arrangement that if I didn’t like
accountancy Mr. Carter would return me half the money I paid for my
articles and I could chuck it at the end of a year.”
“You shouldn’t come to such a decision hastily.”
“For ten months I’ve loathed it all, I’ve loathed the work, I’ve
loathed the office, I loathe London. I’d rather sweep a crossing than
spend my days here.”
“Well, I must say, I don’t think you’re very fitted for accountancy.”
“Good-bye,” said Philip, holding out his hand. “I want to thank you for
your kindness to me. I’m sorry if I’ve been troublesome. I knew almost
from the beginning I was no good.”
“Well, if you really do make up your mind it is good-bye. I don’t know
what you’re going to do, but if you’re in the neighbourhood at any time
come in and see us.”
Philip gave a little laugh.
“I’m afraid it sounds very rude, but I hope from the bottom of my heart
that I shall never set eyes on any of you again.”
XXXIX
The Vicar of Blackstable would have nothing to do with the scheme which
Philip laid before him. He had a great idea that one should stick to
whatever one had begun. Like all weak men he laid an exaggerated stress
on not changing one’s mind.
“You chose to be an accountant of your own free will,” he said.
“I just took that because it was the only chance I saw of getting up to
town. I hate London, I hate the work, and nothing will induce me to go
back to it.”
Mr. and Mrs. Carey were frankly shocked at Philip’s idea of being an
artist. He should not forget, they said, that his father and mother
were gentlefolk, and painting wasn’t a serious profession; it was
Bohemian, disreputable, immoral. And then Paris!
“So long as I have anything to say in the matter, I shall not allow you
to live in Paris,” said the Vicar firmly.
It was a sink of iniquity. The scarlet woman and she of Babylon
flaunted their vileness there; the cities of the plain were not more
wicked.
“You’ve been brought up like a gentleman and Christian, and I should be
false to the trust laid upon me by your dead father and mother if I
allowed you to expose yourself to such temptation.”
“Well, I know I’m not a Christian and I’m beginning to doubt whether
I’m a gentleman,” said Philip.
The dispute grew more violent. There was another year before Philip
took possession of his small inheritance, and during that time Mr.
Carey proposed only to give him an allowance if he remained at the
office. It was clear to Philip that if he meant not to continue with
accountancy he must leave it while he could still get back half the
money that had been paid for his articles. The Vicar would not listen.
Philip, losing all reserve, said things to wound and irritate.
“You’ve got no right to waste my money,” he said at last. “After all
it’s my money, isn’t it? I’m not a child. You can’t prevent me from
going to Paris if I make up my mind to. You can’t force me to go back
to London.”
“All I can do is to refuse you money unless you do what I think fit.”
“Well, I don’t care, I’ve made up my mind to go to Paris. I shall sell
my clothes, and my books, and my father’s jewellery.”
Aunt Louisa sat by in silence, anxious and unhappy. She saw that Philip
was beside himself, and anything she said then would but increase his
anger. Finally the Vicar announced that he wished to hear nothing more
about it and with dignity left the room. For the next three days