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.