Of Human Bondage (41 page)

  "But if everyone thought like you things would go to
pieces at once."

  "I have nothing to do with others, I am only
concerned with myself. I take advantage of the fact that the
majority of mankind are led by certain rewards to do things which
directly or indirectly tend to my convenience."

  "It seems to me an awfully selfish way of looking at
things," said Philip.

  "But are you under the impression that men ever do
anything except for selfish reasons?"

  "Yes."

  "It is impossible that they should. You will find as
you grow older that the first thing needful to make the world a
tolerable place to live in is to recognise the inevitable
selfishness of humanity. You demand unselfishness from others,
which is a preposterous claim that they should sacrifice their
desires to yours. Why should they? When you are reconciled to the
fact that each is for himself in the world you will ask less from
your fellows. They will not disappoint you, and you will look upon
them more charitably. Men seek but one thing in life – their
pleasure."

  "No, no, no!" cried Philip.

  Cronshaw chuckled.

  "You rear like a frightened colt, because I use a
word to which your Christianity ascribes a deprecatory meaning. You
have a hierarchy of values; pleasure is at the bottom of the
ladder, and you speak with a little thrill of self-satisfaction, of
duty, charity, and truthfulness. You think pleasure is only of the
senses; the wretched slaves who manufactured your morality despised
a satisfaction which they had small means of enjoying. You would
not be so frightened if I had spoken of happiness instead of
pleasure: it sounds less shocking, and your mind wanders from the
sty of Epicurus to his garden. But I will speak of pleasure, for I
see that men aim at that, and I do not know that they aim at
happiness. It is pleasure that lurks in the practice of every one
of your virtues. Man performs actions because they are good for
him, and when they are good for other people as well they are
thought virtuous: if he finds pleasure in giving alms he is
charitable; if he finds pleasure in helping others he is
benevolent; if he finds pleasure in working for society he is
public-spirited; but it is for your private pleasure that you give
twopence to a beggar as much as it is for my private pleasure that
I drink another whiskey and soda. I, less of a humbug than you,
neither applaud myself for my pleasure nor demand your
admiration."

  "But have you never known people do things they
didn't want to instead of things they did?"

  "No. You put your question foolishly. What you mean
is that people accept an immediate pain rather than an immediate
pleasure. The objection is as foolish as your manner of putting it.
It is clear that men accept an immediate pain rather than an
immediate pleasure, but only because they expect a greater pleasure
in the future. Often the pleasure is illusory, but their error in
calculation is no refutation of the rule. You are puzzled because
you cannot get over the idea that pleasures are only of the senses;
but, child, a man who dies for his country dies because he likes it
as surely as a man eats pickled cabbage because he likes it. It is
a law of creation. If it were possible for men to prefer pain to
pleasure the human race would have long since become extinct."

  "But if all that is true," cried Philip, "what is
the use of anything? If you take away duty and goodness and beauty
why are we brought into the world?"

  "Here comes the gorgeous East to suggest an answer,"
smiled Cronshaw.

  He pointed to two persons who at that moment opened
the door of the cafe, and, with a blast of cold air, entered. They
were Levantines, itinerant vendors of cheap rugs, and each bore on
his arm a bundle. It was Sunday evening, and the cafe was very
full. They passed among the tables, and in that atmosphere heavy
and discoloured with tobacco smoke, rank with humanity, they seemed
to bring an air of mystery. They were clad in European, shabby
clothes, their thin great-coats were threadbare, but each wore a
tarbouch. Their faces were gray with cold. One was of middle age,
with a black beard, but the other was a youth of eighteen, with a
face deeply scarred by smallpox and with one eye only. They passed
by Cronshaw and Philip.

  "Allah is great, and Mahomet is his prophet," said
Cronshaw impressively.

  The elder advanced with a cringing smile, like a
mongrel used to blows. With a sidelong glance at the door and a
quick surreptitious movement he showed a pornographic picture.

  "Are you Masr-ed-Deen, the merchant of Alexandria,
or is it from far Bagdad that you bring your goods, O, my uncle;
and yonder one-eyed youth, do I see in him one of the three kings
of whom Scheherazade told stories to her lord?"

  The pedlar's smile grew more ingratiating, though he
understood no word of what Cronshaw said, and like a conjurer he
produced a sandalwood box.

  "Nay, show us the priceless web of Eastern looms,"
quoth Cronshaw. "For I would point a moral and adorn a tale."

  The Levantine unfolded a table-cloth, red and
yellow, vulgar, hideous, and grotesque.

  "Thirty-five francs," he said.

  "O, my uncle, this cloth knew not the weavers of
Samarkand, and those colours were never made in the vats of
Bokhara."

  "Twenty-five francs," smiled the pedlar
obsequiously.

  "Ultima Thule was the place of its manufacture, even
Birmingham the place of my birth."

  "Fifteen francs," cringed the bearded man.

  "Get thee gone, fellow," said Cronshaw. "May wild
asses defile the grave of thy maternal grandmother."

  Imperturbably, but smiling no more, the Levantine
passed with his wares to another table. Cronshaw turned to
Philip.

  "Have you ever been to the Cluny, the museum? There
you will see Persian carpets of the most exquisite hue and of a
pattern the beautiful intricacy of which delights and amazes the
eye. In them you will see the mystery and the sensual beauty of the
East, the roses of Hafiz and the wine-cup of Omar; but presently
you will see more. You were asking just now what was the meaning of
life. Go and look at those Persian carpets, and one of these days
the answer will come to you."

  "You are cryptic," said Philip.

  "I am drunk," answered Cronshaw.

  Philip did not find living in Paris as cheap as he
had been led to believe and by February had spent most of the money
with which he started. He was too proud to appeal to his guardian,
nor did he wish Aunt Louisa to know that his circumstances were
straitened, since he was certain she would make an effort to send
him something from her own pocket, and he knew how little she could
afford to. In three months he would attain his majority and come
into possession of his small fortune. He tided over the interval by
selling the few trinkets which he had inherited from his
father.

  At about this time Lawson suggested that they should
take a small studio which was vacant in one of the streets that led
out of the Boulevard Raspail. It was very cheap. It had a room
attached, which they could use as a bed-room; and since Philip was
at the school every morning Lawson could have the undisturbed use
of the studio then; Lawson, after wandering from school to school,
had come to the conclusion that he could work best alone, and
proposed to get a model in three or four days a week. At first
Philip hesitated on account of the expense, but they reckoned it
out; and it seemed (they were so anxious to have a studio of their
own that they calculated pragmatically) that the cost would not be
much greater than that of living in a hotel. Though the rent and
the cleaning by the concierge would come to a little more, they
would save on the petit dejeuner, which they could make themselves.
A year or two earlier Philip would have refused to share a room
with anyone, since he was so sensitive about his deformed foot, but
his morbid way of looking at it was growing less marked: in Paris
it did not seem to matter so much, and, though he never by any
chance forgot it himself, he ceased to feel that other people were
constantly noticing it.

  They moved in, bought a couple of beds, a
washing-stand, a few chairs, and felt for the first time the thrill
of possession. They were so excited that the first night they went
to bed in what they could call a home they lay awake talking till
three in the morning; and next day found lighting the fire and
making their own coffee, which they had in pyjamas, such a jolly
business that Philip did not get to Amitrano's till nearly eleven.
He was in excellent spirits. He nodded to Fanny Price.

  "How are you getting on?" he asked cheerily.

  "What does that matter to you?" she asked in
reply.

  Philip could not help laughing.

  "Don't jump down my throat. I was only trying to
make myself polite."

  "I don't want your politeness."

  "D'you think it's worth while quarrelling with me
too?" asked Philip mildly. "There are so few people you're on
speaking terms with, as it is."

  "That's my business, isn't it?"

  "Quite."

  He began to work, vaguely wondering why Fanny Price
made herself so disagreeable. He had come to the conclusion that he
thoroughly disliked her. Everyone did. People were only civil to
her at all from fear of the malice of her tongue; for to their
faces and behind their backs she said abominable things. But Philip
was feeling so happy that he did not want even Miss Price to bear
ill-feeling towards him. He used the artifice which had often
before succeeded in banishing her ill-humour.

  "I say, I wish you'd come and look at my drawing.
I've got in an awful mess."

  "Thank you very much, but I've got something better
to do with my time."

  Philip stared at her in surprise, for the one thing
she could be counted upon to do with alacrity was to give advice.
She went on quickly in a low voice, savage with fury.

  "Now that Lawson's gone you think you'll put up with
me. Thank you very much. Go and find somebody else to help you. I
don't want anybody else's leavings."

  Lawson had the pedagogic instinct; whenever he found
anything out he was eager to impart it; and because he taught with
delight he talked with profit. Philip, without thinking anything
about it, had got into the habit of sitting by his side; it never
occurred to him that Fanny Price was consumed with jealousy, and
watched his acceptance of someone else's tuition with
ever-increasing anger.

  "You were very glad to put up with me when you knew
nobody here," she said bitterly, "and as soon as you made friends
with other people you threw me aside, like an old glove" – she
repeated the stale metaphor with satisfaction – "like an old glove.
All right, I don't care, but I'm not going to be made a fool of
another time."

  There was a suspicion of truth in what she said, and
it made Philip angry enough to answer what first came into his
head.

  "Hang it all, I only asked your advice because I saw
it pleased you."

  She gave a gasp and threw him a sudden look of
anguish. Then two tears rolled down her cheeks. She looked frowsy
and grotesque. Philip, not knowing what on earth this new attitude
implied, went back to his work. He was uneasy and
conscience-stricken; but he would not go to her and say he was
sorry if he had caused her pain, because he was afraid she would
take the opportunity to snub him. For two or three weeks she did
not speak to him, and, after Philip had got over the discomfort of
being cut by her, he was somewhat relieved to be free from so
difficult a friendship. He had been a little disconcerted by the
air of proprietorship she assumed over him. She was an
extraordinary woman. She came every day to the studio at eight
o'clock, and was ready to start working when the model was in
position; she worked steadily, talking to no one, struggling hour
after hour with difficulties she could not overcome, and remained
till the clock struck twelve. Her work was hopeless. There was not
in it the smallest approach even to the mediocre achievement at
which most of the young persons were able after some months to
arrive. She wore every day the same ugly brown dress, with the mud
of the last wet day still caked on the hem and with the raggedness,
which Philip had noticed the first time he saw her, still
unmended.