Chapter 106

Philipavoidedtheplaceshehadknowninhappiertimes.ThelittlegatheringsatthetaverninBeakStreetwerebrokenup:Macalister,havingletdownhisfriends,nolongerwentthere,andHaywardwasattheCape.OnlyLawsonremained;andPhilip,feelingthatnowthepainterandhehadnothingincommon,didnotwishtoseehim;butoneSaturdayafternoon,afterdinner,havingchangedhisclotheshewalkeddownRegentStreettogotothefreelibraryinSt.Martin’sLane,meaningtospendtheafternoonthere,andsuddenlyfoundhimselffacetofacewithhim.Hisfirstinstinctwastopassonwithoutaword,butLawsondidnotgivehimtheopportunity.

“Whereonearthhaveyoubeenallthistime?”hecried.

“I?”saidPhilip.

“Iwroteyouandaskedyoutocometothestudioforabeanoandyouneverevenanswered.”

“Ididn’tgetyourletter.”

“No,Iknow.Iwenttothehospitaltoaskforyou,andIsawmyletterintherack.HaveyouchuckedtheMedical?”

Philiphesitatedforamoment.Hewasashamedtotellthetruth,buttheshamehefeltangeredhim,andheforcedhimselftospeak.Hecouldnothelpreddening.

“Yes,IlostthelittlemoneyIhad.Icouldn’taffordtogoonwithit.”

“Isay,I’mawfullysorry.Whatareyoudoing?”

“I’mashop-walker.”

ThewordschokedPhilip,buthewasdeterminednottoshirkthetruth.HekepthiseyesonLawsonandsawhisembarrassment.Philipsmiledsavagely.

“IfyouwentintoLynnandSedley,andmadeyourwayintothe‘maderobes’department,youwouldseemeinafrockcoat,walkingaboutwithadegageairanddirectingladieswhowanttobuypetticoatsorstockings.Firsttotheright,madam,andsecondontheleft.”

Lawson,seeingthatPhilipwasmakingajestofit,laughedawkwardly.Hedidnotknowwhattosay.ThepicturethatPhilipcalleduphorrifiedhim,buthewasafraidtoshowhissympathy.

“That’sabitofachangeforyou,”hesaid.

Hiswordsseemedabsurdtohim,andimmediatelyhewishedhehadnotsaidthem.Philipflusheddarkly.

“Abit,”hesaid.“Bytheway,Ioweyoufivebob.”

Heputhishandinhispocketandpulledoutsomesilver.

“Oh,itdoesn’tmatter.I’dforgottenallaboutit.”

“Goon,takeit.”

Lawsonreceivedthemoneysilently.Theystoodinthemiddleofthepavement,andpeoplejostledthemastheypassed.TherewasasardonictwinkleinPhilip’seyes,whichmadethepainterintenselyuncomfortable,andhecouldnottellthatPhilip’sheartwasheavywithdespair.Lawsonwanteddreadfullytodosomething,buthedidnotknowwhattodo.

“Isay,won’tyoucometothestudioandhaveatalk?”

“No,”saidPhilip.

“Whynot?”

“There’snothingtotalkabout.”

HesawthepaincomeintoLawson’seyes,hecouldnothelpit,hewassorry,buthehadtothinkofhimself;hecouldnotbearthethoughtofdiscussinghissituation,hecouldendureitonlybydeterminingresolutelynottothinkaboutit.Hewasafraidofhisweaknessifoncehebegantoopenhisheart.Moreover,hetookirresistibledislikestotheplaceswherehehadbeenmiserable:herememberedthehumiliationhehadenduredwhenhehadwaitedinthatstudio,ravenouswithhunger,forLawsontoofferhimameal,andthelastoccasionwhenhehadtakenthefiveshillingsoffhim.HehatedthesightofLawson,becauseherecalledthosedaysofutterabasement.

“Thenlookhere,comeanddinewithmeonenight.Chooseyourownevening.”

Philipwastouchedwiththepainter’skindness.Allsortsofpeoplewerestrangelykindtohim,hethought.

“It’sawfullygoodofyou,oldman,butI’drathernot.”Heheldouthishand.“Good-bye.”

Lawson,troubledbyabehaviourwhichseemedinexplicable,tookhishand,andPhilipquicklylimped

away.Hisheartwasheavy;and,aswasusualwithhim,hebegantoreproachhimselfforwhathehaddone:hedidnotknowwhatmadnessofpridehadmadehimrefusetheofferedfriendship.ButheheardsomeonerunningbehindhimandpresentlyLawson’svoicecallinghim;hestoppedandsuddenlythefeelingofhostilitygotthebetterofhim;hepresentedtoLawsonacold,setface.

“Whatisit?”

“IsupposeyouheardaboutHayward,didn’tyou?”

“IknowhewenttotheCape.”

“Hedied,youknow,soonafterlanding.”

ForamomentPhilipdidnotanswer.Hecouldhardlybelievehisears.

“How?”heasked.

“Oh,enteric.Hardluck,wasn’tit?Ithoughtyoumightn’tknow.GavemeabitofaturnwhenIheardit.”

Lawsonnoddedquicklyandwalkedaway.Philipfeltashiverpassthroughhisheart.Hehadneverbeforelostafriendofhisownage,forthedeathofCronshaw,amansomucholderthanhimself,hadseemedtocomeinthenormalcourseofthings.Thenewsgavehimapeculiarshock.Itremindedhimofhisownmortality,forlikeeveryoneelsePhilip,knowingperfectlythatallmenmustdie,hadnointimatefeelingthatthesamemustapplytohimself;andHayward’sdeath,thoughhehadlongceasedtohaveanywarmfeelingforhim,affectedhimdeeply.Herememberedonasuddenallthegoodtalkstheyhadhad,anditpainedhimtothinkthattheywouldnevertalkwithoneanotheragain;herememberedtheirfirstmeetingandthepleasantmonthstheyhadspenttogetherinHeidelberg.Philip’sheartsankashethoughtofthelostyears.Hewalkedonmechanically,notnoticingwherehewent,andrealisedsuddenly,withamovementofirritation,thatinsteadofturningdowntheHaymarkethehadsaunteredalong

ShaftesburyAvenue.Itboredhimtoretracehissteps;andbesides,withthatnews,hedidnotwanttoread,hewantedtositaloneandthink.HemadeuphismindtogototheBritishMuseum.Solitudewasnowhisonlyluxury.SincehehadbeenatLynn’shehadoftengonethereandsatinfrontofthegroupsfromtheParthenon;and,notdeliberatelythinking,hadallowedtheirdivinemassestoresthistroubledsoul.Butthisafternoontheyhadnothingtosaytohim,andafterafewminutes,impatiently,hewanderedoutoftheroom.Thereweretoomanypeople,provincialswithfoolishfaces,foreignersporingoverguide-books;theirhideousnessbesmirchedtheeverlastingmasterpieces,theirrestlessnesstroubledthegod’simmortalrepose.Hewentintoanotherroomandheretherewashardlyanyone.Philipsatdownwearily.Hisnerveswereonedge.Hecouldnotgetthepeopleoutofhismind.SometimesatLynn’stheyaffectedhiminthesameway,andhelookedatthemfilepasthimwithhorror;theyweresouglyandtherewassuchmeannessintheirfaces,itwasterrifying;theirfeaturesweredistortedwithpaltrydesires,andyoufelttheywerestrangetoanyideasofbeauty.Theyhadfurtiveeyesandweakchins.Therewasnowickednessinthem,butonlypettinessandvulgarity.Theirhumourwasalowfacetiousness.Sometimeshefoundhimselflookingatthemtoseewhatanimaltheyresembled(hetriednotto,foritquicklybecameanobsession,)andhesawinthemallthesheeporthehorseorthefoxorthegoat.Humanbeingsfilledhimwithdisgust.

Butpresentlytheinfluenceoftheplacedescendeduponhim.Hefeltquieter.Hebegantolookabsentlyatthetombstoneswithwhichtheroomwaslined.TheyweretheworkofAthenianstonemasonsofthefourthandfifthcenturiesbeforeChrist,andtheywereverysimple,workofnogreattalentbutwiththeexquisitespiritofAthensuponthem;timehadmellowedthemarbletothecolourofhoney,sothatunconsciously

onethoughtofthebeesofHymettus,andsoftenedtheiroutlines.Somerepresentedanudefigure,seatedonabench,somethedepartureofthedeadfromthosewholovedhim,andsomethedeadclaspinghandswithonewhoremainedbehind.Onallwasthetragicwordfarewell;thatandnothingmore.Theirsimplicitywasinfinitelytouching.Friendpartedfromfriend,thesonfromhismother,andtherestraintmadethesurvivor’sgriefmorepoignant.Itwassolong,longago,andcenturyuponcenturyhadpassedoverthatunhappiness;fortwothousandyearsthosewhowepthadbeendustasthosetheyweptfor.Yetthewoewasalivestill,anditfilledPhilip’sheartsothathefeltcompassionspringupinit,andhesaid:

“Poorthings,poorthings.”

Anditcametohimthatthegapingsight-seersandthefatstrangerswiththeirguide-books,andallthosemean,commonpeoplewhothrongedtheshop,withtheirtrivialdesiresandvulgarcares,weremortalandmustdie.Theytoolovedandmustpartfromthosetheyloved,thesonfromhismother,thewifefromherhusband;andperhapsitwasmoretragicbecausetheirliveswereuglyandsordid,andtheyknewnothingthatgavebeautytotheworld.Therewasonestonewhichwasverybeautiful,abasreliefoftwoyoungmenholdingeachother’shand;andthereticenceofline,thesimplicity,madeoneliketothinkthatthesculptorherehadbeentouchedwithagenuineemotion.Itwasanexquisitememorialtothatthanwhichtheworldoffersbutonethingmoreprecious,toafriendship;andasPhiliplookedatit,hefeltthetearscometohiseyes.HethoughtofHaywardandhiseageradmirationforhimwhenfirsttheymet,andhowdisillusionhadcomeandthenindifference,tillnothingheldthemtogetherbuthabitandoldmemories.Itwasoneofthequeerthingsoflifethatyousawapersoneverydayformonthsandweresointimatewithhimthatyoucouldnotimagineexistencewithouthim;thenseparationcame,andeverythingwentoninthesameway,andthecompanionwhohadseemedessentialprovedunnecessary.Yourlifeproceededandyoudidnotevenmisshim.PhilipthoughtofthoseearlydaysinHeidelbergwhenHayward,capableofgreatthings,hadbeenfullofenthusiasmforthefuture,andhow,littlebylittle,achievingnothing,hehadresignedhimselftofailure.Nowhewasdead.Hisdeathhadbeenasfutileashislife.Hediedingloriously,ofastupiddisease,failingoncemore,evenattheend,toaccomplishanything.Itwasjustthesamenowasifhehadneverlived.

Philipaskedhimselfdesperatelywhatwastheuseoflivingatall.Itallseemedinane.ItwasthesamewithCronshaw:itwasquiteunimportantthathehadlived;hewasdeadandforgotten,hisbookofpoemssoldinremainderbysecond-handbooksellers;hislifeseemedtohaveservednothingexcepttogiveapushingjournalistoccasiontowriteanarticleinareview.AndPhilipcriedoutinhissoul:

“Whatistheuseofit?”

Theeffortwassoincommensuratewiththeresult.Thebrighthopesofyouthhadtobepaidforatsuchabitterpriceofdisillusionment.Painanddiseaseandunhappinessweigheddownthescalesoheavily.Whatdiditallmean?Hethoughtofhisownlife,thehighhopeswithwhichhehadentereduponit,thelimitationswhichhisbodyforceduponhim,hisfriendlessness,andthelackofaffectionwhichhadsurroundedhisyouth.Hedidnotknowthathehadeverdoneanythingbutwhatseemedbesttodo,andwhatacropperhehadcome!Othermen,withnomoreadvantagesthanhe,succeeded,andothersagain,withmanymore,failed.Itseemedpurechance.Therainfellalikeuponthejustandupontheunjust,andfornothingwasthereawhyandawherefore.

ThinkingofCronshaw,PhiliprememberedthePersianrugwhichhehadgivenhim,tellinghimthat

itofferedananswertohisquestionuponthemeaningoflife;andsuddenlytheansweroccurredtohim:hechuckled:nowthathehadit,itwaslikeoneofthepuzzleswhichyouworryovertillyouareshownthesolutionandthencannotimaginehowitcouldeverhaveescapedyou.Theanswerwasobvious.Lifehadnomeaning.Ontheearth,satelliteofastarspeedingthroughspace,livingthingshadarisenundertheinfluenceofconditionswhichwerepartoftheplanet’shistory;andastherehadbeenabeginningoflifeuponitso,undertheinfluenceofotherconditions,therewouldbeanend:man,nomoresignificantthanotherformsoflife,hadcomenotastheclimaxofcreationbutasaphysicalreactiontotheenvironment.PhiliprememberedthestoryoftheEasternKingwho,desiringtoknowthehistoryofman,wasbroughtbyasagefivehundredvolumes;busywithaffairsofstate,hebadehimgoandcondenseit;intwentyyearsthesagereturnedandhishistorynowwasinnomorethanfiftyvolumes,buttheKing,toooldthentoreadsomanyponderoustomes,badehimgoandshortenitoncemore;twentyyearspassedagainandthesage,oldandgray,broughtasinglebookinwhichwastheknowledgetheKinghadsought;buttheKinglayonhisdeath-bed,andhehadnotimetoreadeventhat;andthenthesagegavehimthehistoryofmaninasingleline;itwasthis:hewasborn,hesuffered,andhedied.Therewasnomeaninginlife,andmanbylivingservednoend.Itwasimmaterialwhetherhewasbornornotborn,whetherhelivedorceasedtolive.Lifewasinsignificantanddeathwithoutconsequence.Philipexulted,ashehadexultedinhisboyhoodwhentheweightofabeliefinGodwasliftedfromhisshoulders:itseemedtohimthatthelastburdenofresponsibilitywastakenfromhim;andforthefirsttimehewasutterlyfree.Hisinsignificancewasturnedtopower,andhefelthimselfsuddenlyequalwiththecruelfatewhichhadseemedtopersecutehim;for,iflifewasmeaningless,theworldwasrobbedofitscruelty.Whathedidorleftundonedidnotmatter.Failurewasunimportantandsuccessamountedtonothing.Hewasthemostinconsideratecreatureinthatswarmingmassofmankindwhichforabriefspaceoccupiedthesurfaceoftheearth;andhewasalmightybecausehehadwrenchedfromchaosthesecretofitsnothingness.ThoughtscametumblingoveroneanotherinPhilip’seagerfancy,andhetooklongbreathsofjoyoussatisfaction.Hefeltinclinedtoleapandsing.Hehadnotbeensohappyformonths.

“Oh,life,”hecriedinhisheart,“Ohlife,whereisthysting?”

Forthesameuprushoffancywhichhadshownhimwithalltheforceofmathematicaldemonstrationthatlifehadnomeaning,broughtwithitanotheridea;andthatwaswhyCronshaw,heimagined,hadgivenhimthePersianrug.Astheweaverelaboratedhispatternfornoendbutthepleasureofhisaestheticsense,somightamanlivehislife,orifonewasforcedtobelievethathisactionswereoutsidehischoosing,somightamanlookathislife,thatitmadeapattern.Therewasaslittleneedtodothisastherewasuse.Itwasmerelysomethinghedidforhisownpleasure.Outofthemanifoldeventsofhislife,hisdeeds,hisfeelings,histhoughts,hemightmakeadesign,regular,elaborate,complicated,orbeautiful;andthoughitmightbenomorethananillusionthathehadthepowerofselection,thoughitmightbenomorethanafantasticlegerdemaininwhichappearanceswereinterwovenwithmoonbeams,thatdidnotmatter:itseemed,andsotohimitwas.Inthevastwarpoflife(ariverarisingfromnospringandflowingendlesslytonosea),withthebackgroundtohisfanciesthattherewasnomeaningandthatnothingwasimportant,amanmightgetapersonalsatisfactioninselectingthevariousstrandsthatworkedoutthepattern.Therewasonepattern,themostobvious,perfect,andbeautiful,inwhichamanwasborn,grewtomanhood,married,producedchildren,toiledforhisbread,anddied;buttherewereothers,intricateandwonderful,inwhichhappinessdidnotenterandinwhichsuccesswasnotattempted;andinthemmightbediscoveredamoretroublinggrace.Somelives,andHayward’swasamongthem,theblindindifferenceofchancecutoffwhilethedesignwasstillimperfect;andthenthesolacewascomfortablethatitdidnotmatter;otherlives,suchasCronshaw’s,offeredapatternwhichwasdifficulttofollow,thepointofviewhadtobeshiftedandoldstandardshadtobealteredbeforeonecouldunderstandthatsuchalifewasitsownjustification.Philipthoughtthatinthrowingoverthedesireforhappinesshewascastingasidethelastofhisillusions.Hislifehadseemedhorriblewhenitwasmeasuredbyitshappiness,butnowheseemedtogatherstrengthasherealisedthatitmightbemeasuredbysomethingelse.Happinessmatteredaslittleaspain.Theycamein,bothofthem,asalltheotherdetailsofhislifecamein,totheelaborationofthedesign.Heseemedforaninstanttostandabovetheaccidentsofhisexistence,andhefeltthattheycouldnotaffecthimagainastheyhaddonebefore.Whateverhappenedtohimnowwouldbeonemoremotivetoaddtothecomplexityofthepattern,andwhentheendapproachedhewouldrejoiceinitscompletion.Itwouldbeaworkofart,anditwouldbenonethelessbeautifulbecausehealoneknewofitsexistence,andwithhisdeathitwouldatonceceasetobe.

Philipwashappy.