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 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.
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