Of Human Bondage
preparatory school with a scholarship.
But he had grown very self-conscious. The new-born child does not
realise that his body is more a part of himself than surrounding
objects, and will play with his toes without any feeling that they
belong to him more than the rattle by his side; and it is only by
degrees, through pain, that he understands the fact of the body. And
experiences of the same kind are necessary for the individual to become
conscious of himself; but here there is the difference that, although
everyone becomes equally conscious of his body as a separate and
complete organism, everyone does not become equally conscious of
himself as a complete and separate personality. The feeling of
apartness from others comes to most with puberty, but it is not always
developed to such a degree as to make the difference between the
individual and his fellows noticeable to the individual. It is such as
he, as little conscious of himself as the bee in a hive, who are the
lucky in life, for they have the best chance of happiness: their
activities are shared by all, and their pleasures are only pleasures
because they are enjoyed in common; you will see them on Whit-Monday
dancing on Hampstead Heath, shouting at a football match, or from club
windows in Pall Mall cheering a royal procession. It is because of them
that man has been called a social animal.
Philip passed from the innocence of childhood to bitter consciousness
of himself by the ridicule which his club-foot had excited. The
circumstances of his case were so peculiar that he could not apply to
them the ready-made rules which acted well enough in ordinary affairs,
and he was forced to think for himself. The many books he had read
filled his mind with ideas which, because he only half understood them,
gave more scope to his imagination. Beneath his painful shyness
something was growing up within him, and obscurely he realised his
personality. But at times it gave him odd surprises; he did things, he
knew not why, and afterwards when he thought of them found himself all
at sea.
There was a boy called Luard between whom and Philip a friendship had
arisen, and one day, when they were playing together in the
school-room, Luard began to perform some trick with an ebony pen-holder
of Philip’s.
“Don’t play the giddy ox,” said Philip. “You’ll only break it.”
“I shan’t.”
But no sooner were the words out of the boy’s mouth than the pen-holder
snapped in two. Luard looked at Philip with dismay.
“Oh, I say, I’m awfully sorry.”
The tears rolled down Philip’s cheeks, but he did not answer.
“I say, what’s the matter?” said Luard, with surprise. “I’ll get you
another one exactly the same.”
“It’s not about the pen-holder I care,” said Philip, in a trembling
voice, “only it was given me by my mater, just before she died.”
“I say, I’m awfully sorry, Carey.”
“It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t your fault.”
Philip took the two pieces of the pen-holder and looked at them. He
tried to restrain his sobs. He felt utterly miserable. And yet he could
not tell why, for he knew quite well that he had bought the pen-holder
during his last holidays at Blackstable for one and twopence. He did
not know in the least what had made him invent that pathetic story, but
he was quite as unhappy as though it had been true. The pious
atmosphere of the vicarage and the religious tone of the school had
made Philip’s conscience very sensitive; he absorbed insensibly the
feeling about him that the Tempter was ever on the watch to gain his
immortal soul; and though he was not more truthful than most boys he
never told a lie without suffering from remorse. When he thought over
this incident he was very much distressed, and made up his mind that he
must go to Luard and tell him that the story was an invention. Though
he dreaded humiliation more than anything in the world, he hugged
himself for two or three days at the thought of the agonising joy of
humiliating himself to the Glory of God. But he never got any further.
He satisfied his conscience by the more comfortable method of
expressing his repentance only to the Almighty. But he could not
understand why he should have been so genuinely affected by the story
he was making up. The tears that flowed down his grubby cheeks were
real tears. Then by some accident of association there occurred to him
that scene when Emma had told him of his mother’s death, and, though he
could not speak for crying, he had insisted on going in to say good-bye
to the Misses Watkin so that they might see his grief and pity him.
XIV
Then a wave of religiosity passed through the school. Bad language was
no longer heard, and the little nastinesses of small boys were looked
upon with hostility; the bigger boys, like the lords temporal of the
Middle Ages, used the strength of their arms to persuade those weaker
than themselves to virtuous courses.
Philip, his restless mind avid for new things, became very devout. He
heard soon that it was possible to join a Bible League, and wrote to
London for particulars. These consisted in a form to be filled up with
the applicant’s name, age, and school; a solemn declaration to be
signed that he would read a set portion of Holy Scripture every night
for a year; and a request for half a crown; this, it was explained, was
demanded partly to prove the earnestness of the applicant’s desire to
become a member of the League, and partly to cover clerical expenses.
Philip duly sent the papers and the money, and in return received a
calendar worth about a penny, on which was set down the appointed
passage to be read each day, and a sheet of paper on one side of which
was a picture of the Good Shepherd and a lamb, and on the other,
decoratively framed in red lines, a short prayer which had to be said
before beginning to read.
Every evening he undressed as quickly as possible in order to have time
for his task before the gas was put out. He read industriously, as he
read always, without criticism, stories of cruelty, deceit,
ingratitude, dishonesty, and low cunning. Actions which would have
excited his horror in the life about him, in the reading passed through
his mind without comment, because they were committed under the direct
inspiration of God. The method of the League was to alternate a book of
the Old Testament with a book of the New, and one night Philip came
across these words of Jesus Christ:
If ye have faith, and doubt not, ye shall not only do this which is
done to the fig-tree, but also if ye shall say unto this mountain, Be
thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; it shall be done.
And all this, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall
receive.
They made no particular impression on him, but it happened that two or
three days later, being Sunday, the Canon in residence chose them for
the text of his sermon. Even if Philip had wanted to hear this it would
have been impossible, for the boys of King’s School sit in the choir,
and the pulpit stands at the corner of the transept so that the
preacher’s back is almost turned to them. The distance also is so great
that it needs a man with a fine voice and a knowledge of elocution to
make himself heard in the choir; and according to long usage the Canons
of Tercanbury are chosen for their learning rather than for any
qualities which might be of use in a cathedral church. But the words of
the text, perhaps because he had read them so short a while before,
came clearly enough to Philip’s ears, and they seemed on a sudden to
have a personal application. He thought about them through most of the
sermon, and that night, on getting into bed, he turned over the pages
of the Gospel and found once more the passage. Though he believed
implicitly everything he saw in print, he had learned already that in
the Bible things that said one thing quite clearly often mysteriously
meant another. There was no one he liked to ask at school, so he kept
the question he had in mind till the Christmas holidays, and then one
day he made an opportunity. It was after supper and prayers were just
finished. Mrs. Carey was counting the eggs that Mary Ann had brought in
as usual and writing on each one the date. Philip stood at the table
and pretended to turn listlessly the pages of the Bible.
“I say, Uncle William, this passage here, does it really mean that?”
He put his finger against it as though he had come across it
accidentally.
Mr. Carey looked up over his spectacles. He was holding The Blackstable
Times in front of the fire. It had come in that evening damp from the
press, and the Vicar always aired it for ten minutes before he began to
read.
“What passage is that?” he asked.
“Why, this about if you have faith you can remove mountains.”
“If it says so in the Bible it is so, Philip,” said Mrs. Carey gently,
taking up the plate-basket.
Philip looked at his uncle for an answer.
“It’s a matter of faith.”
“D’you mean to say that if you really believed you could move mountains
you could?”
“By the grace of God,” said the Vicar.
“Now, say good-night to your uncle, Philip,” said Aunt Louisa. “You’re
not wanting to move a mountain tonight, are you?”
Philip allowed himself to be kissed on the forehead by his uncle and
preceded Mrs. Carey upstairs. He had got the information he wanted. His
little room was icy, and he shivered when he put on his nightshirt. But
he always felt that his prayers were more pleasing to God when he said
them under conditions of discomfort. The coldness of his hands and feet
were an offering to the Almighty. And tonight he sank on his knees;
buried his face in his hands, and prayed to God with all his might that
He would make his club-foot whole. It was a very small thing beside the
moving of mountains. He knew that God could do it if He wished, and his
own faith was complete. Next morning, finishing his prayers with the
same request, he fixed a date for the miracle.
“Oh, God, in Thy loving mercy and goodness, if it be Thy will, please
make my foot all right on the night before I go back to school.”
He was glad to get his petition into a formula, and he repeated it
later in the dining-room during the short pause which the Vicar always
made after prayers, before he rose from his knees. He said it again in
the evening and again, shivering in his nightshirt, before he got into
bed. And he believed. For once he looked forward with eagerness to the
end of the holidays. He laughed to himself as he thought of his uncle’s
astonishment when he ran down the stairs three at a time; and after
breakfast he and Aunt Louisa would have to hurry out and buy a new pair
of boots. At school they would be astounded.
“Hulloa, Carey, what have you done with your foot?”
“Oh, it’s all right now,” he would answer casually, as though it were
the most natural thing in the world.
He would be able to play football. His heart leaped as he saw himself
running, running, faster than any of the other boys. At the end of the
Easter term there were the sports, and he would be able to go in for
the races; he rather fancied himself over the hurdles. It would be
splendid to be like everyone else, not to be stared at curiously by new
boys who did not know about his deformity, nor at the baths in summer
to need incredible precautions, while he was undressing, before he
could hide his foot in the water.
He prayed with all the power of his soul. No doubts assailed him. He
was confident in the word of God. And the night before he was to go
back to school he went up to bed tremulous with excitement. There was
snow on the ground, and Aunt Louisa had allowed herself the
unaccustomed luxury of a fire in her bed-room; but in Philip’s little
room it was so cold that his fingers were numb, and he had great