In the darkness he could but vaguely see the great
mass of the Cathedral: he hated it now because
of the irksomeness of the long services which he was
forced to attend. The anthem was interminable,
and you had to stand drearily while it was being sung;
you could not hear the droning sermon, and your body
twitched because you had to sit still when you wanted
to move about. Then philip thought of the two
services every Sunday at Blackstable. The church
was bare and cold, and there was a smell all about
one of pomade and starched clothes. The curate
preached once and his uncle preached once. As
he grew up he had learned to know his uncle; Philip
was downright and intolerant, and he could not understand
that a man might sincerely say things as a clergyman
which he never acted up to as a man. The deception
outraged him. His uncle was a weak and selfish
man, whose chief desire it was to be saved trouble.
Mr. Perkins had spoken to him of the beauty of a life
dedicated to the service of God. Philip knew
what sort of lives the clergy led in the corner of
East Anglia which was his home. There was the
Vicar of Whitestone, a parish a little way from Blackstable:
he was a bachelor and to give himself something to
do had lately taken up farming: the local paper
constantly reported the cases he had in the county
court against this one and that, labourers he would
not pay their wages to or tradesmen whom he accused
of cheating him; scandal said he starved his cows,
and there was much talk about some general action
which should be taken against him. Then there
was the Vicar of Ferne, a bearded, fine figure of
a man: his wife had been forced to leave him because
of his cruelty, and she had filled the neighbourhood
with stories of his immorality. The Vicar of
Surle, a tiny hamlet by the sea, was to be seen every
evening in the public house a stone’s throw
from his vicarage; and the churchwardens had been
to Mr. Carey to ask his advice. There was not
a soul for any of them to talk to except small farmers
or fishermen; there were long winter evenings when
the wind blew, whistling drearily through the leafless
trees, and all around they saw nothing but the bare
monotony of ploughed fields; and there was poverty,
and there was lack of any work that seemed to matter;
every kink in their characters had free play; there
was nothing to restrain them; they grew narrow and
eccentric: Philip knew all this, but in his young
intolerance he did not offer it as an excuse.
He shivered at the thought of leading such a life;
he wanted to get out into the world.
XXI
Mr. Perkins soon saw that his words had had no effect
on Philip, and for the rest of the term ignored him.
He wrote a report which was vitriolic. When it
arrived and Aunt Louisa asked Philip what it was like,
he answered cheerfully.
“Rotten.”
“Is it?” said the Vicar. “I
must look at it again.”
