Of Human Bondage
Philip knew that on the days Foinet came to the studio he lunched at a
little restaurant in the Rue d’Odessa, and he hurried his own meal so
that he could go and wait outside till the painter came out. Philip
walked up and down the crowded street and at last saw Monsieur Foinet
walking, with bent head, towards him; Philip was very nervous, but he
forced himself to go up to him.
“Pardon, monsieur, I should like to speak to you for one moment.”
Foinet gave him a rapid glance, recognised him, but did not smile a
greeting.
“Speak,” he said.
“I’ve been working here nearly two years now under you. I wanted to ask
you to tell me frankly if you think it worth while for me to continue.”
Philip’s voice was trembling a little. Foinet walked on without looking
up. Philip, watching his face, saw no trace of expression upon it.
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m very poor. If I have no talent I would sooner do something else.”
“Don’t you know if you have talent?”
“All my friends know they have talent, but I am aware some of them are
mistaken.”
Foinet’s bitter mouth outlined the shadow of a smile, and he asked:
“Do you live near here?”
Philip told him where his studio was. Foinet turned round.
“Let us go there? You shall show me your work.”
“Now?” cried Philip.
“Why not?”
Philip had nothing to say. He walked silently by the master’s side. He
felt horribly sick. It had never struck him that Foinet would wish to
see his things there and then; he meant, so that he might have time to
prepare himself, to ask him if he would mind coming at some future date
or whether he might bring them to Foinet’s studio. He was trembling
with anxiety. In his heart he hoped that Foinet would look at his
picture, and that rare smile would come into his face, and he would
shake Philip’s hand and say: “Pas mal. Go on, my lad. You have talent,
real talent.” Philip’s heart swelled at the thought. It was such a
relief, such a joy! Now he could go on with courage; and what did
hardship matter, privation, and disappointment, if he arrived at last?
He had worked very hard, it would be too cruel if all that industry
were futile. And then with a start he remembered that he had heard
Fanny Price say just that. They arrived at the house, and Philip was
seized with fear. If he had dared he would have asked Foinet to go
away. He did not want to know the truth. They went in and the concierge
handed him a letter as they passed. He glanced at the envelope and
recognised his uncle’s handwriting. Foinet followed him up the stairs.
Philip could think of nothing to say; Foinet was mute, and the silence
got on his nerves. The professor sat down; and Philip without a word
placed before him the picture which the Salon had rejected; Foinet
nodded but did not speak; then Philip showed him the two portraits he
had made of Ruth Chalice, two or three landscapes which he had painted
at Moret, and a number of sketches.
“That’s all,” he said presently, with a nervous laugh.
Monsieur Foinet rolled himself a cigarette and lit it.
“You have very little private means?” he asked at last.
“Very little,” answered Philip, with a sudden feeling of cold at his
heart. “Not enough to live on.”
“There is nothing so degrading as the constant anxiety about one’s
means of livelihood. I have nothing but contempt for the people who
despise money. They are hypocrites or fools. Money is like a sixth
sense without which you cannot make a complete use of the other five.
Without an adequate income half the possibilities of life are shut off.
The only thing to be careful about is that you do not pay more than a
shilling for the shilling you earn. You will hear people say that
poverty is the best spur to the artist. They have never felt the iron
of it in their flesh. They do not know how mean it makes you. It
exposes you to endless humiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into
your soul like a cancer. It is not wealth one asks for, but just enough
to preserve one’s dignity, to work unhampered, to be generous, frank,
and independent. I pity with all my heart the artist, whether he writes
or paints, who is entirely dependent for subsistence upon his art.”
Philip quietly put away the various things which he had shown.
“I’m afraid that sounds as if you didn’t think I had much chance.”
Monsieur Foinet slightly shrugged his shoulders.
“You have a certain manual dexterity. With hard work and perseverance
there is no reason why you should not become a careful, not incompetent
painter. You would find hundreds who painted worse than you, hundreds
who painted as well. I see no talent in anything you have shown me. I
see industry and intelligence. You will never be anything but
mediocre.”
Philip obliged himself to answer quite steadily.
“I’m very grateful to you for having taken so much trouble. I can’t
thank you enough.”
Monsieur Foinet got up and made as if to go, but he changed his mind
and, stopping, put his hand on Philip’s shoulder.
“But if you were to ask me my advice, I should say: take your courage
in both hands and try your luck at something else. It sounds very hard,
but let me tell you this: I would give all I have in the world if
someone had given me that advice when I was your age and I had taken
it.”
Philip looked up at him with surprise. The master forced his lips into
a smile, but his eyes remained grave and sad.
“It is cruel to discover one’s mediocrity only when it is too late. It
does not improve the temper.”
He gave a little laugh as he said the last words and quickly walked out
of the room.
Philip mechanically took up the letter from his uncle. The sight of his
handwriting made him anxious, for it was his aunt who always wrote to
him. She had been ill for the last three months, and he had offered to
go over to England and see her; but she, fearing it would interfere
with his work, had refused. She did not want him to put himself to
inconvenience; she said she would wait till August and then she hoped
he would come and stay at the vicarage for two or three weeks. If by
any chance she grew worse she would let him know, since she did not
wish to die without seeing him again. If his uncle wrote to him it must
be because she was too ill to hold a pen. Philip opened the letter. It
ran as follows:
My dear Philip,
I regret to inform you that your dear Aunt departed this life early
this morning. She died very suddenly, but quite peacefully. The change
for the worse was so rapid that we had no time to send for you. She was
fully prepared for the end and entered into rest with the complete
assurance of a blessed resurrection and with resignation to the divine
will of our blessed Lord Jesus Christ. Your Aunt would have liked you
to be present at the funeral so I trust you will come as soon as you
can. There is naturally a great deal of work thrown upon my shoulders
and I am very much upset. I trust that you will be able to do
everything for me. Your affectionate uncle,
William Carey.
LII
Next day Philip arrived at Blackstable. Since the death of his mother
he had never lost anyone closely connected with him; his aunt’s death
shocked him and filled him also with a curious fear; he felt for the
first time his own mortality. He could not realise what life would be
for his uncle without the constant companionship of the woman who had
loved and tended him for forty years. He expected to find him broken
down with hopeless grief. He dreaded the first meeting; he knew that he
could say nothing which would be of use. He rehearsed to himself a
number of apposite speeches.
He entered the vicarage by the side-door and went into the dining-room.
Uncle William was reading the paper.
“Your train was late,” he said, looking up.
Philip was prepared to give way to his emotion, but the matter-of-fact
reception startled him. His uncle, subdued but calm, handed him the
paper.
“There’s a very nice little paragraph about her in The Blackstable
Times,” he said.
Philip read it mechanically.
“Would you like to come up and see her?”
Philip nodded and together they walked upstairs. Aunt Louisa was lying
in the middle of the large bed, with flowers all round her.
“Would you like to say a short prayer?” said the Vicar.
He sank on his knees, and because it was expected of him Philip
followed his example. He looked at the little shrivelled face. He was
only conscious of one emotion: what a wasted life! In a minute Mr.
Carey gave a cough, and stood up. He pointed to a wreath at the foot of
the bed.
“That’s from the Squire,” he said. He spoke in a low voice as though he
were in church, but one felt that, as a clergyman, he found himself
quite at home. “I expect tea is ready.”
They went down again to the dining-room. The drawn blinds gave a
lugubrious aspect. The Vicar sat at the end of the table at which his
wife had always sat and poured out the tea with ceremony. Philip could
not help feeling that neither of them should have been able to eat
anything, but when he saw that his uncle’s appetite was unimpaired he
fell to with his usual heartiness. They did not speak for a while.
Philip set himself to eat an excellent cake with the air of grief which
he felt was decent.
“Things have changed a great deal since I was a curate,” said the Vicar
presently. “In my young days the mourners used always to be given a
pair of black gloves and a piece of black silk for their hats. Poor
Louisa used to make the silk into dresses. She always said that twelve
funerals gave her a new dress.”
Then he told Philip who had sent wreaths; there were twenty-four of
them already; when Mrs. Rawlingson, wife of the Vicar at Ferne, had
died she had had thirty-two; but probably a good many more would come
the next day; the funeral would start at eleven o’clock from the
vicarage, and they should beat Mrs. Rawlingson easily. Louisa never
liked Mrs. Rawlingson.
“I shall take the funeral myself. I promised Louisa I would never let
anyone else bury her.”
Philip looked at his uncle with disapproval when he took a second piece
of cake. Under the circumstances he could not help thinking it greedy.
“Mary Ann certainly makes capital cakes. I’m afraid no one else will
make such good ones.”
“She’s not going?” cried Philip, with astonishment.
Mary Ann had been at the vicarage ever since he could remember. She
never forgot his birthday, but made a point always of sending him a
trifle, absurd but touching. He had a real affection for her.
“Yes,” answered Mr. Carey. “I didn’t think it would do to have a single
woman in the house.”
“But, good heavens, she must be over forty.”
“Yes, I think she is. But she’s been rather troublesome lately, she’s
been inclined to take too much on herself, and I thought this was a
very good opportunity to give her notice.”
“It’s certainly one which isn’t likely to recur,” said Philip.
He took out a cigarette, but his uncle prevented him from lighting it.
“Not till after the funeral, Philip,” he said gently.
“All right,” said Philip.
“It wouldn’t be quite respectful to smoke in the house so long as your
poor Aunt Louisa is upstairs.”
Josiah Graves, churchwarden and manager of the bank, came back to
dinner at the vicarage after the funeral. The blinds had been drawn up,
and Philip, against his will, felt a curious sensation of relief. The
body in the house had made him uncomfortable: in life the poor woman
had been all that was kind and gentle; and yet, when she lay upstairs
in her bed-room, cold and stark, it seemed as though she cast upon the
survivors a baleful influence. The thought horrified Philip.
He found himself alone for a minute or two in the dining-room with the
churchwarden.
“I hope you’ll be able to stay with your uncle a while,” he said. “I