But Philip could not live long in the rarefied air
of the hilltops. What had happened to him when
first he was seized by the religious emotion happened
to him now. Because he felt so keenly the beauty
of faith, because the desire for self-sacrifice burned
in his heart with such a gem-like glow, his strength
seemed inadequate to his ambition. He was tired
out by the violence of his passion. His soul was
filled on a sudden with a singular aridity. He
began to forget the presence of God which had seemed
so surrounding; and his religious exercises, still
very punctually performed, grew merely formal.
At first he blamed himself for this falling away,
and the fear of hell-fire urged him to renewed vehemence;
but the passion was dead, and gradually other interests
distracted his thoughts.
Philip had few friends. His habit of reading
isolated him: it became such a need that after
being in company for some time he grew tired and restless;
he was vain of the wider knowledge he had acquired
from the perusal of so many books, his mind was alert,
and he had not the skill to hide his contempt for
his companions’ stupidity. They complained
that he was conceited; and, since he excelled only
in matters which to them were unimportant, they asked
satirically what he had to be conceited about.
He was developing a sense of humour, and found that
he had a knack of saying bitter things, which caught
people on the raw; he said them because they amused
him, hardly realising how much they hurt, and was much
offended when he found that his victims regarded him
with active dislike. The humiliations he suffered
when first he went to school had caused in him a shrinking
from his fellows which he could never entirely overcome;
he remained shy and silent. But though he did
everything to alienate the sympathy of other boys
he longed with all his heart for the popularity which
to some was so easily accorded. These from his
distance he admired extravagantly; and though he was
inclined to be more sarcastic with them than with
others, though he made little jokes at their expense,
he would have given anything to change places with
them. Indeed he would gladly have changed places
with the dullest boy in the school who was whole of
limb. He took to a singular habit. He would
imagine that he was some boy whom he had a particular
fancy for; he would throw his soul, as it were, into
the other’s body, talk with his voice and laugh
with his heart; he would imagine himself doing all
the things the other did. It was so vivid that
he seemed for a moment really to be no longer himself.
In this way he enjoyed many intervals of fantastic
happiness.
At the beginning of the Christmas term which followed
on his confirmation Philip found himself moved into
another study. One of the boys who shared it
was called Rose. He was in the same form as Philip,
and Philip had always looked upon him with envious
admiration. He was not good-looking; though his
large hands and big bones suggested that he would be
a tall man, he was clumsily made; but his eyes were
charming, and when he laughed (he was constantly laughing)
his face wrinkled all round them in a jolly way.
He was neither clever nor stupid, but good enough at
his work and better at games. He was a favourite
with masters and boys, and he in his turn liked everyone.
