Chapter XIII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　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 severalboys would be leaving for the senior school he would be head boy. He hadalready quite a collection of prizes, worthless books on bad paper, but ingorgeous bindings decorated with the arms of the school: his position hadfreed him from bullying, and he was not unhappy. His fellows forgave himhis success because of his deformity."After all, it's jolly easy for him to get prizes," they said, "there'snothing he can do but swat."He had lost his early terror of Mr. Watson. He had grown used to the loudvoice, and when the headmaster's heavy hand was laid on his shoulderPhilip discerned vaguely the intention of a caress. He had the good memorywhich is more useful for scholastic achievements than mental power, and heknew Mr. Watson expected him to leave the preparatory school with ascholarship.But he had grown very self-conscious. The new-born child does not realisethat his body is more a part of himself than surrounding objects, and willplay with his toes without any feeling that they belong to him more thanthe rattle by his side; and it is only by degrees, through pain, that heunderstands the fact of the body. And experiences of the same kind arenecessary for the individual to become conscious of himself; but herethere is the difference that, although everyone becomes equally consciousof his body as a separate and complete organism, everyone does not becomeequally conscious of himself as a complete and separate personality. Thefeeling of apartness from others comes to most with puberty, but it is notalways developed to such a degree as to make the difference between theindividual 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 inlife, for they have the best chance of happiness: their activities areshared by all, and their pleasures are only pleasures because they areenjoyed in common; you will see them on Whit-Monday dancing on HampsteadHeath, shouting at a football match, or from club windows in Pall Mallcheering a royal procession. It is because of them that man has beencalled a social animal.Philip passed from the innocence of childhood to bitter consciousness ofhimself by the ridicule which his club-foot had excited. The circumstancesof his case were so peculiar that he could not apply to them theready-made rules which acted well enough in ordinary affairs, and he wasforced to think for himself. The many books he had read filled his mindwith ideas which, because he only half understood them, gave more scope tohis imagination. Beneath his painful shyness something was growing upwithin him, and obscurely he realised his personality. But at times itgave him odd surprises; he did things, he knew not why, and afterwardswhen he thought of them found himself all at sea.There was a boy called Luard between whom and Philip a friendship hadarisen, 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-holdersnapped 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 youanother 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 triedto restrain his sobs. He felt utterly miserable. And yet he could not tellwhy, for he knew quite well that he had bought the pen-holder during hislast holidays at Blackstable for one and twopence. He did not know in theleast what had made him invent that pathetic story, but he was quite asunhappy as though it had been true. The pious atmosphere of the vicarageand the religious tone of the school had made Philip's conscience verysensitive; he absorbed insensibly the feeling about him that the Tempterwas ever on the watch to gain his immortal soul; and though he was notmore truthful than most boys he never told a lie without suffering fromremorse. 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 storywas an invention. Though he dreaded humiliation more than anything in theworld, he hugged himself for two or three days at the thought of theagonising joy of humiliating himself to the Glory of God. But he never gotany further. He satisfied his conscience by the more comfortable method ofexpressing his repentance only to the Almighty. But he could notunderstand why he should have been so genuinely affected by the story hewas making up. The tears that flowed down his grubby cheeks were realtears. Then by some accident of association there occurred to him thatscene when Emma had told him of his mother's death, and, though he couldnot speak for crying, he had insisted on going in to say good-bye to theMisses Watkin so that they might see his grief and pity him.