XVIII

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.