Of Human Bondage
strange novelty, and Philip saw one or two of them furtively looking
down at his feet. He tucked them under the bench.
In the afternoon they went up to play football, but Mr. Watson stopped
Philip on the way out after dinner.
“I suppose you can’t play football, Carey?” he asked him.
Philip blushed self-consciously.
“No, sir.”
“Very well. You’d better go up to the field. You can walk as far as
that, can’t you?”
Philip had no idea where the field was, but he answered all the same.
“Yes, sir.”
The boys went in charge of Mr. Rice, who glanced at Philip and seeing
he had not changed, asked why he was not going to play.
“Mr. Watson said I needn’t, sir,” said Philip.
“Why?”
There were boys all round him, looking at him curiously, and a feeling
of shame came over Philip. He looked down without answering. Others
gave the reply.
“He’s got a club-foot, sir.”
“Oh, I see.”
Mr. Rice was quite young; he had only taken his degree a year before;
and he was suddenly embarrassed. His instinct was to beg the boy’s
pardon, but he was too shy to do so. He made his voice gruff and loud.
“Now then, you boys, what are you waiting about for? Get on with you.”
Some of them had already started and those that were left now set off,
in groups of two or three.
“You’d better come along with me, Carey,” said the master “You don’t
know the way, do you?”
Philip guessed the kindness, and a sob came to his throat.
“I can’t go very fast, sir.”
“Then I’ll go very slow,” said the master, with a smile.
Philip’s heart went out to the red-faced, commonplace young man who
said a gentle word to him. He suddenly felt less unhappy.
But at night when they went up to bed and were undressing, the boy who
was called Singer came out of his cubicle and put his head in Philip’s.
“I say, let’s look at your foot,” he said.
“No,” answered Philip.
He jumped into bed quickly.
“Don’t say no to me,” said Singer. “Come on, Mason.”
The boy in the next cubicle was looking round the corner, and at the
words he slipped in. They made for Philip and tried to tear the
bed-clothes off him, but he held them tightly.
“Why can’t you leave me alone?” he cried.
Singer seized a brush and with the back of it beat Philip’s hands
clenched on the blanket. Philip cried out.
“Why don’t you show us your foot quietly?”
“I won’t.”
In desperation Philip clenched his fist and hit the boy who tormented
him, but he was at a disadvantage, and the boy seized his arm. He began
to turn it.
“Oh, don’t, don’t,” said Philip. “You’ll break my arm.”
“Stop still then and put out your foot.”
Philip gave a sob and a gasp. The boy gave the arm another wrench. The
pain was unendurable.
“All right. I’ll do it,” said Philip.
He put out his foot. Singer still kept his hand on Philip’s wrist. He
looked curiously at the deformity.
“Isn’t it beastly?” said Mason.
Another came in and looked too.
“Ugh,” he said, in disgust.
“My word, it is rum,” said Singer, making a face. “Is it hard?”
He touched it with the tip of his forefinger, cautiously, as though it
were something that had a life of its own. Suddenly they heard Mr.
Watson’s heavy tread on the stairs. They threw the clothes back on
Philip and dashed like rabbits into their cubicles. Mr. Watson came
into the dormitory. Raising himself on tiptoe he could see over the rod
that bore the green curtain, and he looked into two or three of the
cubicles. The little boys were safely in bed. He put out the light and
went out.
Singer called out to Philip, but he did not answer. He had got his
teeth in the pillow so that his sobbing should be inaudible. He was not
crying for the pain they had caused him, nor for the humiliation he had
suffered when they looked at his foot, but with rage at himself
because, unable to stand the torture, he had put out his foot of his
own accord.
And then he felt the misery of his life. It seemed to his childish mind
that this unhappiness must go on for ever. For no particular reason he
remembered that cold morning when Emma had taken him out of bed and put
him beside his mother. He had not thought of it once since it happened,
but now he seemed to feel the warmth of his mother’s body against his
and her arms around him. Suddenly it seemed to him that his life was a
dream, his mother’s death, and the life at the vicarage, and these two
wretched days at school, and he would awake in the morning and be back
again at home. His tears dried as he thought of it. He was too unhappy,
it must be nothing but a dream, and his mother was alive, and Emma
would come up presently and go to bed. He fell asleep.
But when he awoke next morning it was to the clanging of a bell, and
the first thing his eyes saw was the green curtain of his cubicle.
XII
As time went on Philip’s deformity ceased to interest. It was accepted
like one boy’s red hair and another’s unreasonable corpulence. But
meanwhile he had grown horribly sensitive. He never ran if he could
help it, because he knew it made his limp more conspicuous, and he
adopted a peculiar walk. He stood still as much as he could, with his
club-foot behind the other, so that it should not attract notice, and
he was constantly on the look out for any reference to it. Because he
could not join in the games which other boys played, their life
remained strange to him; he only interested himself from the outside in
their doings; and it seemed to him that there was a barrier between
them and him. Sometimes they seemed to think that it was his fault if
he could not play football, and he was unable to make them understand.
He was left a good deal to himself. He had been inclined to
talkativeness, but gradually he became silent. He began to think of the
difference between himself and others.
The biggest boy in his dormitory, Singer, took a dislike to him, and
Philip, small for his age, had to put up with a good deal of hard
treatment. About half-way through the term a mania ran through the
school for a game called Nibs. It was a game for two, played on a table
or a form with steel pens. You had to push your nib with the
finger-nail so as to get the point of it over your opponent’s, while he
manoeuvred to prevent this and to get the point of his nib over the
back of yours; when this result was achieved you breathed on the ball
of your thumb, pressed it hard on the two nibs, and if you were able
then to lift them without dropping either, both nibs became yours. Soon
nothing was seen but boys playing this game, and the more skilful
acquired vast stores of nibs. But in a little while Mr. Watson made up
his mind that it was a form of gambling, forbade the game, and
confiscated all the nibs in the boys’ possession. Philip had been very
adroit, and it was with a heavy heart that he gave up his winning; but
his fingers itched to play still, and a few days later, on his way to
the football field, he went into a shop and bought a pennyworth of J
pens. He carried them loose in his pocket and enjoyed feeling them.
Presently Singer found out that he had them. Singer had given up his
nibs too, but he had kept back a very large one, called a Jumbo, which
was almost unconquerable, and he could not resist the opportunity of
getting Philip’s Js out of him. Though Philip knew that he was at a
disadvantage with his small nibs, he had an adventurous disposition and
was willing to take the risk; besides, he was aware that Singer would
not allow him to refuse. He had not played for a week and sat down to
the game now with a thrill of excitement. He lost two of his small nibs
quickly, and Singer was jubilant, but the third time by some chance the
Jumbo slipped round and Philip was able to push his J across it. He
crowed with triumph. At that moment Mr. Watson came in.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
He looked from Singer to Philip, but neither answered.
“Don’t you know that I’ve forbidden you to play that idiotic game?”
Philip’s heart beat fast. He knew what was coming and was dreadfully
frightened, but in his fright there was a certain exultation. He had
never been swished. Of course it would hurt, but it was something to
boast about afterwards.
“Come into my study.”
The headmaster turned, and they followed him side by side Singer
whispered to Philip:
“We’re in for it.”
Mr. Watson pointed to Singer.
“Bend over,” he said.
Philip, very white, saw the boy quiver at each stroke, and after the
third he heard him cry out. Three more followed.
“That’ll do. Get up.”
Singer stood up. The tears were streaming down his face. Philip stepped
forward. Mr. Watson looked at him for a moment.
“I’m not going to cane you. You’re a new boy. And I can’t hit a
cripple. Go away, both of you, and don’t be naughty again.”
When they got back into the school-room a group of boys, who had
learned in some mysterious way what was happening, were waiting for
them. They set upon Singer at once with eager questions. Singer faced
them, his face red with the pain and marks of tears still on his
cheeks. He pointed with his head at Philip, who was standing a little
behind him.
“He got off because he’s a cripple,” he said angrily.
Philip stood silent and flushed. He felt that they looked at him with
contempt.
“How many did you get?” one boy asked Singer.
But he did not answer. He was angry because he had been hurt
“Don’t ask me to play Nibs with you again,” he said to Philip. “It’s
jolly nice for you. You don’t risk anything.”
“I didn’t ask you.”
“Didn’t you!”
He quickly put out his foot and tripped Philip up. Philip was always
rather unsteady on his feet, and he fell heavily to the ground.
“Cripple,” said Singer.
For the rest of the term he tormented Philip cruelly, and, though
Philip tried to keep out of his way, the school was so small that it
was impossible; he tried being friendly and jolly with him; he abased
himself, so far as to buy him a knife; but though Singer took the knife
he was not placated. Once or twice, driven beyond endurance, he hit and
kicked the bigger boy, but Singer was so much stronger that Philip was
helpless, and he was always forced after more or less torture to beg
his pardon. It was that which rankled with Philip: he could not bear
the humiliation of apologies, which were wrung from him by pain greater
than he could bear. And what made it worse was that there seemed no end
to his wretchedness; Singer was only eleven and would not go to the
upper school till he was thirteen. Philip realised that he must live
two years with a tormentor from whom there was no escape. He was only
happy while he was working and when he got into bed. And often there
recurred to him then that queer feeling that his life with all its
misery was nothing but a dream, and that he would awake in the morning
in his own little bed in London.
XIII
Two years passed, and Philip was nearly twelve. He was in the first
form, within two or three places of the top, and after Christmas when
several boys would be leaving for the senior school he would be head
boy. He had already quite a collection of prizes, worthless books on
bad paper, but in gorgeous bindings decorated with the arms of the
school: his position had freed him from bullying, and he was not
unhappy. His fellows forgave him his success because of his deformity.
“After all, it’s jolly easy for him to get prizes,” they said, “there’s
nothing he CAN do but swat.”
He had lost his early terror of Mr. Watson. He had grown used to the
loud voice, and when the headmaster’s heavy hand was laid on his
shoulder Philip discerned vaguely the intention of a caress. He had the
good memory which is more useful for scholastic achievements than
mental power, and he knew Mr. Watson expected him to leave the