Of Human Bondage 人性的枷锁 Chapter 67

Philip looked forward to his return to London with impatience¹. During the two months he spent at Blackstable Norah wrote to him frequently, long letters in a bold, large hand, in which with cheerful humour she described the little events of the daily round, the domestic troubles of her landlady², rich food for laughter, the comic vexations of her rehearsals—she was walking on in an important spectacle at one of the London theatres—and her odd adventures with the publishers of novelettes. Philip read a great deal, bathed, played tennis, and sailed. At the beginning of October he settled down in London to work for the Second Conjoint examination. He was eager to pass it, since that ended the drudgery³ of the curriculum; after it was done with the student became an out-patients' clerk, and was brought in contact with men and women as well as with text-books. Philip saw Norah every day.

 

Lawson had been spending the summer at Poole, and had a number of sketches⁵ to show of the harbour and of the beach. He had a couple of commissions for portraits and proposed to stay in London till the bad light drove him away. Hayward, in London too, intended to spend the winter abroad, but remained week after week from sheer inability to make up his mind to go. Hayward had run to fat during the last two or three years—it was five years since Philip first met him in Heidelberg—and he was prematurely⁶ bald. He was very sensitive about it and wore his hair long to conceal⁷ the unsightly patch on the crown of his head. His only consolation⁸ was that his brow was now very noble. His blue eyes had lost their colour; they had a listless droop¹⁰; and his mouth, losing the fulness of youth, was weak and pale. He still talked vaguely¹¹ of the things he was going to do in the future, but with less conviction; and he was conscious that his friends no longer believed in him: when he had drank two or three glasses of whiskey he was inclined to be elegiac.

 

'I'm a failure,' he murmured, 'I'm unfit for the brutality¹² of the struggle of life. All I can do is to stand aside and let the vulgar throng¹³ hustle¹⁴ by in their pursuit of the good things.'

 

He gave you the impression that to fail was a more delicate, a more exquisite¹⁵ thing, than to succeed. He insinuated¹⁶ that his aloofness¹⁷ was due to distaste for all that was common and low. He talked beautifully of Plato.

 

'I should have thought you'd got through with Plato by now,' said Philip impatiently.

 

'Would you?' he asked, raising his eyebrows¹⁸.

 

He was not inclined to pursue the subject. He had discovered of late the effective dignity of silence.

 

'I don't see the use of reading the same thing over and over again,' said Philip. 'That's only a laborious¹⁹ form of idleness.'

 

'But are you under the impression that you have so great a mind that you can understand the most profound writer at a first reading?'

 

'I don't want to understand him, I'm not a critic. I'm not interested in him for his sake but for mine.'

 

'Why d'you read then?'

 

'Partly for pleasure, because it's a habit and I'm just as uncomfortable if I don't read as if I don't smoke, and partly to know myself. When I read a book I seem to read it with my eyes only, but now and then I come across a passage, perhaps only a phrase, which has a meaning for ME, and it becomes part of me; I've got out of the book all that's any use to me, and I can't get anything more if I read it a dozen times. You see, it seems to me, one's like a closed bud, and most of what one reads and does has no effect at all; but there are certain things that have a peculiar²¹ significance for one, and they open a petal²²; and the petals²³ open one by one; and at last the flower is there.'

 

Philip was not satisfied with his metaphor²⁴, but he did not know how else to explain a thing which he felt and yet was not clear about.

 

'You want to do things, you want to become things,' said Hayward, with a shrug²⁵ of the shoulders. 'It's so vulgar.'

 

Philip knew Hayward very well by now. He was weak and vain, so vain that you had to be on the watch constantly not to hurt his feelings; he mingled²⁶ idleness and idealism so that he could not separate them. At Lawson's studio one day he met a journalist, who was charmed by his conversation, and a week later the editor of a paper wrote to suggest that he should do some criticism for him. For forty-eight hours Hayward lived in an agony of indecision. He had talked of getting occupation of this sort so long that he had not the face to refuse outright²⁷, but the thought of doing anything filled him with panic. At last he declined the offer and breathed freely.

 

'It would have interfered²⁸ with my work,' he told Philip.

 

'What work?' asked Philip brutally²⁹.

 

'My inner life,' he answered.

 

Then he went on to say beautiful things about Amiel, the professor of Geneva, whose brilliancy promised achievement which was never fulfilled; till at his death the reason of his failure and the excuse were at once manifest in the minute, wonderful journal which was found among his papers. Hayward smiled enigmatically.

 

But Hayward could still talk delightfully³⁰ about books; his taste was exquisite and his discrimination elegant; and he had a constant interest in ideas, which made him an entertaining companion. They meant nothing to him really, since they never had any effect on him; but he treated them as he might have pieces of china in an auction-room, handling them with pleasure in their shape and their glaze³¹, pricing them in his mind; and then, putting them back into their case, thought of them no more.

 

And it was Hayward who made a momentous³² discovery. One evening, after due preparation, he took Philip and Lawson to a tavern³³ situated³⁴ in Beak³⁵ Street, remarkable³⁶ not only in itself and for its history—it had memories of eighteenth-century glories which excited the romantic imagination—but for its snuff, which was the best in London, and above all for its punch. Hayward led them into a large, long room, dingily³⁷ magnificent, with huge pictures on the walls of nude³⁸ women: they were vast allegories of the school of Haydon; but smoke, gas, and the London atmosphere had given them a richness which made them look like old masters. The dark panelling, the massive, tarnished³⁹ gold of the cornice, the mahogany tables, gave the room an air of sumptuous⁴⁰ comfort, and the leather-covered seats along the wall were soft and easy. There was a ram's head on a table opposite the door, and this contained the celebrated⁴¹ snuff. They ordered punch. They drank it. It was hot rum punch. The pen falters⁴² when it attempts to treat of the excellence⁴³ thereof; the sober vocabulary, the sparse⁴⁴ epithet⁴⁵ of this narrative⁴⁶, are inadequate⁴⁷ to the task; and pompous⁴⁸ terms, jewelled, exotic phrases rise to the excited fancy. It warmed the blood and cleared the head; it filled the soul with well-being⁴⁹; it disposed the mind at once to utter wit and to appreciate the wit of others; it had the vagueness of music and the precision of mathematics. Only one of its qualities was comparable to anything else: it had the warmth of a good heart; but its taste, its smell, its feel, were not to be described in words. Charles Lamb, with his infinite tact⁴, attempting to, might have drawn⁵⁰ charming pictures of the life of his day; Lord Byron in a stanza⁵¹ of Don Juan, aiming at the impossible, might have achieved the sublime⁵²; Oscar Wilde, heaping jewels of Ispahan upon brocades of Byzantium, might have created a troubling beauty. Considering it, the mind reeled under visions of the feasts of Elagabalus; and the subtle harmonies of Debussy mingled with the musty, fragrant⁵³ romance of chests in which have been kept old clothes, ruffs, hose, doublets, of a forgotten generation, and the wan²⁰ odour of lilies of the valley and the savour of Cheddar cheese.

 

Hayward discovered the tavern at which this priceless beverage⁵⁴ was to be obtained by meeting in the street a man called Macalister who had been at Cambridge with him. He was a stockbroker⁵⁵ and a philosopher. He was accustomed to go to the tavern once a week; and soon Philip, Lawson, and Hayward got into the habit of meeting there every Tuesday evening: change of manners made it now little frequented, which was an advantage to persons who took pleasure in conversation. Macalister was a big-boned fellow, much too short for his width, with a large, fleshy face and a soft voice. He was a student of Kant and judged everything from the standpoint of pure reason. He was fond of expounding⁵⁶ his doctrines⁵⁷. Philip listened with excited interest. He had long come to the conclusion that nothing amused him more than metaphysics, but he was not so sure of their efficacy in the affairs of life. The neat little system which he had formed as the result of his meditations⁵⁸ at Blackstable had not been of conspicuous⁵⁹ use during his infatuation for Mildred. He could not be positive that reason was much help in the conduct of life. It seemed to him that life lived itself. He remembered very vividly⁶⁰ the violence of the emotion which had possessed⁶¹ him and his inability, as if he were tied down to the ground with ropes, to react against it. He read many wise things in books, but he could only judge from his own experience (he did not know whether he was different from other people); he did not calculate the pros⁶² and cons⁹ of an action, the benefits which must befall him if he did it, the harm which might result from the omission⁶³; but his whole being was urged on irresistibly⁶⁴. He did not act with a part of himself but altogether. The power that possessed him seemed to have nothing to do with reason: all that reason did was to point out the methods of obtaining what his whole soul was striving for.

 

Macalister reminded him of the Categorical Imperative⁶⁵.

 

'Act so that every action of yours should be capable of becoming a universal rule of action for all men.'

 

'That seems to me perfect nonsense,' said Philip.

 

'You're a bold man to say that of anything stated by Immanuel Kant,' retorted Macalister.

 

'Why? Reverence⁶⁶ for what somebody said is a stultifying⁶⁷ quality: there's a damned sight too much reverence in the world. Kant thought things not because they were true, but because he was Kant.'

 

'Well, what is your objection to the Categorical Imperative?' (They talked as though the fate of empires were in the balance.)

 

'It suggests that one can choose one's course by an effort of will. And it suggests that reason is the surest guide. Why should its dictates⁶⁸ be any better than those of passion? They're different. That's all.'

 

'You seem to be a contented⁶⁹ slave of your passions.'

 

'A slave because I can't help myself, but not a contented one,' laughed Philip.

 

While he spoke⁷⁰ he thought of that hot madness which had driven him in pursuit of Mildred. He remembered how he had chafed⁷¹ against it and how he had felt the degradation⁷² of it.

 

'Thank God, I'm free from all that now,' he thought.

 

And yet even as he said it he was not quite sure whether he spoke sincerely. When he was under the influence of passion he had felt a singular vigour⁷³, and his mind had worked with unwonted force. He was more alive, there was an excitement in sheer being, an eager vehemence⁷⁴ of soul, which made life now a trifle dull. For all the misery⁷⁵ he had endured there was a compensation in that sense of rushing, overwhelming existence.

 

But Philip's unlucky words engaged him in a discussion on the freedom of the will, and Macalister, with his well-stored memory, brought out argument after argument. He had a mind that delighted in dialectics, and he forced Philip to contradict himself; he pushed him into corners from which he could only escape by damaging concessions⁷⁶; he tripped him up with logic⁷⁷ and battered⁷⁸ him with authorities.

 

At last Philip said:

 

'Well, I can't say anything about other people. I can only speak for myself. The illusion of free will is so strong in my mind that I can't get away from it, but I believe it is only an illusion. But it is an illusion which is one of the strongest motives⁷⁹ of my actions. Before I do anything I feel that I have choice, and that influences what I do; but afterwards, when the thing is done, I believe that it was inevitable⁸⁰ from all eternity⁸¹.'

 

'What do you deduce from that?' asked Hayward.

 

'Why, merely the futility⁸² of regret. It's no good crying over spilt milk, because all the forces of the universe were bent⁸³ on spilling it.'

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