Of Human Bondage
neither Philip nor he spoke to one another. Philip wrote to Hayward for
information about Paris, and made up his mind to set out as soon as he
got a reply. Mrs. Carey turned the matter over in her mind incessantly;
she felt that Philip included her in the hatred he bore her husband,
and the thought tortured her. She loved him with all her heart. At
length she spoke to him; she listened attentively while he poured out
all his disillusionment of London and his eager ambition for the
future.
“I may be no good, but at least let me have a try. I can’t be a worse
failure than I was in that beastly office. And I feel that I can paint.
I know I’ve got it in me.”
She was not so sure as her husband that they did right in thwarting so
strong an inclination. She had read of great painters whose parents had
opposed their wish to study, the event had shown with what folly; and
after all it was just as possible for a painter to lead a virtuous life
to the glory of God as for a chartered accountant.
“I’m so afraid of your going to Paris,” she said piteously. “It
wouldn’t be so bad if you studied in London.”
“If I’m going in for painting I must do it thoroughly, and it’s only in
Paris that you can get the real thing.”
At his suggestion Mrs. Carey wrote to the solicitor, saying that Philip
was discontented with his work in London, and asking what he thought of
a change. Mr. Nixon answered as follows:
Dear Mrs. Carey,
I have seen Mr. Herbert Carter, and I am afraid I must tell you that
Philip has not done so well as one could have wished. If he is very
strongly set against the work, perhaps it is better that he should take
the opportunity there is now to break his articles. I am naturally very
disappointed, but as you know you can take a horse to the water, but
you can’t make him drink.
Yours very sincerely,
Albert Nixon.
The letter was shown to the Vicar, but served only to increase his
obstinacy. He was willing enough that Philip should take up some other
profession, he suggested his father’s calling, medicine, but nothing
would induce him to pay an allowance if Philip went to Paris.
“It’s a mere excuse for self-indulgence and sensuality,” he said.
“I’m interested to hear you blame self-indulgence in others,” retorted
Philip acidly.
But by this time an answer had come from Hayward, giving the name of a
hotel where Philip could get a room for thirty francs a month and
enclosing a note of introduction to the massiere of a school. Philip
read the letter to Mrs. Carey and told her he proposed to start on the
first of September.
“But you haven’t got any money?” she said.
“I’m going into Tercanbury this afternoon to sell the jewellery.”
He had inherited from his father a gold watch and chain, two or three
rings, some links, and two pins. One of them was a pearl and might
fetch a considerable sum.
“It’s a very different thing, what a thing’s worth and what it’ll
fetch,” said Aunt Louisa.
Philip smiled, for this was one of his uncle’s stock phrases.
“I know, but at the worst I think I can get a hundred pounds on the
lot, and that’ll keep me till I’m twenty-one.”
Mrs. Carey did not answer, but she went upstairs, put on her little
black bonnet, and went to the bank. In an hour she came back. She went
to Philip, who was reading in the drawing-room, and handed him an
envelope.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“It’s a little present for you,” she answered, smiling shyly.
He opened it and found eleven five-pound notes and a little paper sack
bulging with sovereigns.
“I couldn’t bear to let you sell your father’s jewellery. It’s the
money I had in the bank. It comes to very nearly a hundred pounds.”
Philip blushed, and, he knew not why, tears suddenly filled his eyes.
“Oh, my dear, I can’t take it,” he said. “It’s most awfully good of
you, but I couldn’t bear to take it.”
When Mrs. Carey was married she had three hundred pounds, and this
money, carefully watched, had been used by her to meet any unforeseen
expense, any urgent charity, or to buy Christmas and birthday presents
for her husband and for Philip. In the course of years it had
diminished sadly, but it was still with the Vicar a subject for
jesting. He talked of his wife as a rich woman and he constantly spoke
of the ‘nest egg.’
“Oh, please take it, Philip. I’m so sorry I’ve been extravagant, and
there’s only that left. But it’ll make me so happy if you’ll accept
it.”
“But you’ll want it,” said Philip.
“No, I don’t think I shall. I was keeping it in case your uncle died
before me. I thought it would be useful to have a little something I
could get at immediately if I wanted it, but I don’t think I shall live
very much longer now.”
“Oh, my dear, don’t say that. Why, of course you’re going to live for
ever. I can’t possibly spare you.”
“Oh, I’m not sorry.” Her voice broke and she hid her eyes, but in a
moment, drying them, she smiled bravely. “At first, I used to pray to
God that He might not take me first, because I didn’t want your uncle
to be left alone, I didn’t want him to have all the suffering, but now
I know that it wouldn’t mean so much to your uncle as it would mean to
me. He wants to live more than I do, I’ve never been the wife he
wanted, and I daresay he’d marry again if anything happened to me. So I
should like to go first. You don’t think it’s selfish of me, Philip, do
you? But I couldn’t bear it if he went.”
Philip kissed her wrinkled, thin cheek. He did not know why the sight
he had of that overwhelming love made him feel strangely ashamed. It
was incomprehensible that she should care so much for a man who was so
indifferent, so selfish, so grossly self-indulgent; and he divined
dimly that in her heart she knew his indifference and his selfishness,
knew them and loved him humbly all the same.
“You will take the money, Philip?” she said, gently stroking his hand.
“I know you can do without it, but it’ll give me so much happiness.
I’ve always wanted to do something for you. You see, I never had a
child of my own, and I’ve loved you as if you were my son. When you
were a little boy, though I knew it was wicked, I used to wish almost
that you might be ill, so that I could nurse you day and night. But you
were only ill once and then it was at school. I should so like to help
you. It’s the only chance I shall ever have. And perhaps some day when
you’re a great artist you won’t forget me, but you’ll remember that I
gave you your start.”
“It’s very good of you,” said Philip. “I’m very grateful.” A smile came
into her tired eyes, a smile of pure happiness.
“Oh, I’m so glad.”
XL
A few days later Mrs. Carey went to the station to see Philip off. She
stood at the door of the carriage, trying to keep back her tears.
Philip was restless and eager. He wanted to be gone.
“Kiss me once more,” she said.
He leaned out of the window and kissed her. The train started, and she
stood on the wooden platform of the little station, waving her
handkerchief till it was out of sight. Her heart was dreadfully heavy,
and the few hundred yards to the vicarage seemed very, very long. It
was natural enough that he should be eager to go, she thought, he was a
boy and the future beckoned to him; but she—she clenched her teeth so
that she should not cry. She uttered a little inward prayer that God
would guard him, and keep him out of temptation, and give him happiness
and good fortune.
But Philip ceased to think of her a moment after he had settled down in
his carriage. He thought only of the future. He had written to Mrs.
Otter, the massiere to whom Hayward had given him an introduction, and
had in his pocket an invitation to tea on the following day. When he
arrived in Paris he had his luggage put on a cab and trundled off
slowly through the gay streets, over the bridge, and along the narrow
ways of the Latin Quarter. He had taken a room at the Hotel des Deux
Ecoles, which was in a shabby street off the Boulevard du Montparnasse;
it was convenient for Amitrano’s School at which he was going to work.
A waiter took his box up five flights of stairs, and Philip was shown
into a tiny room, fusty from unopened windows, the greater part of
which was taken up by a large wooden bed with a canopy over it of red
rep; there were heavy curtains on the windows of the same dingy
material; the chest of drawers served also as a washing-stand; and
there was a massive wardrobe of the style which is connected with the
good King Louis Philippe. The wall-paper was discoloured with age; it
was dark gray, and there could be vaguely seen on it garlands of brown
leaves. To Philip the room seemed quaint and charming.
Though it was late he felt too excited to sleep and, going out, made
his way into the boulevard and walked towards the light. This led him
to the station; and the square in front of it, vivid with arc-lamps,
noisy with the yellow trams that seemed to cross it in all directions,
made him laugh aloud with joy. There were cafes all round, and by
chance, thirsty and eager to get a nearer sight of the crowd, Philip
installed himself at a little table outside the Cafe de Versailles.
Every other table was taken, for it was a fine night; and Philip looked
curiously at the people, here little family groups, there a knot of men
with odd-shaped hats and beards talking loudly and gesticulating; next
to him were two men who looked like painters with women who Philip
hoped were not their lawful wives; behind him he heard Americans loudly
arguing on art. His soul was thrilled. He sat till very late, tired out
but too happy to move, and when at last he went to bed he was wide
awake; he listened to the manifold noise of Paris.
Next day about tea-time he made his way to the Lion de Belfort, and in
a new street that led out of the Boulevard Raspail found Mrs. Otter.
She was an insignificant woman of thirty, with a provincial air and a
deliberately lady-like manner; she introduced him to her mother. He
discovered presently that she had been studying in Paris for three
years and later that she was separated from her husband. She had in her
small drawing-room one or two portraits which she had painted, and to
Philip’s inexperience they seemed extremely accomplished.
“I wonder if I shall ever be able to paint as well as that,” he said to
her.
“Oh, I expect so,” she replied, not without self-satisfaction. “You
can’t expect to do everything all at once, of course.”
She was very kind. She gave him the address of a shop where he could
get a portfolio, drawing-paper, and charcoal.
“I shall be going to Amitrano’s about nine tomorrow, and if you’ll be
there then I’ll see that you get a good place and all that sort of
thing.”
She asked him what he wanted to do, and Philip felt that he should not
let her see how vague he was about the whole matter.
“Well, first I want to learn to draw,” he said.
“I’m so glad to hear you say that. People always want to do things in
such a hurry. I never touched oils till I’d been here for two years,
and look at the result.”
She gave a glance at the portrait of her mother, a sticky piece of
painting that hung over the piano.
“And if I were you, I would be very careful about the people you get to
know. I wouldn’t mix myself up with any foreigners. I’m very careful
myself.”
Philip thanked her for the suggestion, but it seemed to him odd. He did
not know that he particularly wanted to be careful.
“We live just as we would if we were in England,” said Mrs. Otter’s
mother, who till then had spoken little. “When we came here we brought
all our own furniture over.”
Philip looked round the room. It was filled with a massive suite, and
at the window were the same sort of white lace curtains which Aunt
Louisa put up at the vicarage in summer. The piano was draped in