For the rest of the term he tormented Philip cruelly,
and, though Philip tried to keep out of his way, the
school was so small that it was impossible; he tried
being friendly and jolly with him; he abased himself,
so far as to buy him a knife; but though Singer took
the knife he was not placated. Once or twice,
driven beyond endurance, he hit and kicked the bigger
boy, but Singer was so much stronger that Philip was
helpless, and he was always forced after more or less
torture to beg his pardon. It was that which
rankled with Philip: he could not bear the humiliation
of apologies, which were wrung from him by pain greater
than he could bear. And what made it worse was
that there seemed no end to his wretchedness; Singer
was only eleven and would not go to the upper school
till he was thirteen. Philip realised that he
must live two years with a tormentor from whom there
was no escape. He was only happy while he was
working and when he got into bed. And often there
recurred to him then that queer feeling that his life
with all its misery was nothing but a dream, and that
he would awake in the morning in his own little bed
in London.
XIII
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
