Teach us also not to rant too much, even in thy service; and though we do set up for prophets and the like, let us not forget occasionally to laugh at our very august selves.
Then, harking back, Jamie’s thoughts returned to the dinner of the previous evening at the Clibborns. He was the only guest, and when he arrived, found Mary and the Colonel by themselves in the drawing-room. It was an old habit of Mrs. Clibborn’s not to appear till after her visitors, thinking that so she created a greater effect. The Colonel wore a very high collar, which made his head look like some queer flower on a long white stalk; hair and eyebrows were freshly dyed, and glistened like the oiled locks of a young Jewess. He was the perfect dandy, even to his bejewelled fingers and his scented handkerchief. His manner was a happy mixture of cordiality and condescension, by the side of which Mary’s unaffected simplicity contrasted oddly. She seemed less at home in an evening dress than in the walking costume she vastly preferred; her free, rather masculine movements were ungainly in the silk frock, badly made and countrified, while lace and ribbons suited her most awkwardly. She was out of place, too, in that room, decorated with all the abominations of pseudo-fashion, with draperies and tissue-paper, uncomfortable little chairs and rickety tables. In every available place stood photographs of Mrs. Clibborn — Mrs. Clibborn sitting, standing, lying; Mrs. Clibborn full face, three-quarter face, side face; Mrs. Clibborn in this costume or in that costume — grave, gay, thoughtful, or smiling; Mrs. Clibborn showing her beautiful teeth, her rounded arms, her vast shoulders; Mrs. Clibborn dressed to the nines, and Mrs. Clibborn as undressed as she dared.
Finally, the beauty swept in with a great rustle of silk, displaying to the full her very opulent charms. Her hair was lightly powdered, and honestly she looked remarkably handsome.
“Don’t say I’ve kept you waiting,” she murmured. “I could never forgive myself.”
James made some polite reply, and they went down to dinner. The conversation was kept at the high level which one naturally expects from persons fashionable enough to dine late. They discussed Literature, by which they meant the last novel but one; Art, by which they meant the Royal Academy; and Society, by which they meant their friends who kept carriages. Mrs. Clibborn said that, of course, she could not expect James to pay any attention to her, since all his thoughts must be for Mary, and then proceeded entirely to absorb him.
“You must find it very dull here,” she moaned. “I’m afraid you’ll be bored to death.” And she looked at Mary with her most smilingly cruel expression. “Oh, Mary, why did you put on that dreadfully dowdy frock? I’ve asked you over and over again to give it away, but you never pay attention to your poor mother.”
“It’s all right,” said Mary, looking down at it, laughing and blushing a little.
Mrs. Clibborn turned again to James.
“I think it’s such a mistake for women not to dress well. I’m an old woman now, but I always try to look my best. Reggie has never seen me in a dowdy gown. Have you, Reggie?”
“Any dress would become you, my love.”
“Oh, Reggie, don’t say that before James. He looks upon his future mother as an old woman.”
Then at the end of dinner:
“Don’t sit too long over your wine. I shall be so dull with nobody but Mary to amuse me.”
Mrs. Clibborn had been fond enough of Mary when she was a little girl, who could be petted on occasion and sent away when necessary; but as she grew up and exhibited a will of her own, she found her almost an intolerable nuisance. The girl developed a conscience, and refused indignantly to tell the little fibs which her mother occasionally suggested. She put her sense of right and wrong before Mrs. Clibborn’s wishes, which that lady considered undutiful, if not entirely wicked. It seemed nothing short of an impertinence that Mary should disapprove of theatres when there was nothing to which the elder woman was more devoted. And Mrs. Clibborn felt that the girl saw through all her little tricks and artful dodges, often speaking out strongly when her mother proposed to do something particularly underhand. It was another grievance that Mary had inherited no good looks, and the faded beauty, in her vanity, was convinced that the girl spitefully observed every fresh wrinkle that appeared upon her face. But Mrs. Clibborn was also a little afraid of her daughter; such meekness and such good temper were difficult to overcome; and when she snubbed her, it was not only to chasten a proud spirit, but also to reassure herself.
When the ladies had retired, the Colonel handed James an execrable cigar.
“Now, I’m going to give you some very special port I’ve got,” he said.
He poured out a glass with extreme care, and passed it over with evident pride. James remembered Mary’s story of the doctor, and having tasted the wine, entirely sympathised with him. It was no wonder that invalids did not thrive upon it.
“Fine wine, isn’t it?” said Colonel Clibborn. “Had it in my cellar for years.” He shook it so as to inhale the aroma. “I got it from my old friend, the Duke of St. Olphert’s. ‘Reggie, my boy,’ he said— ‘Reggie, do you want some good port?’ ‘Good port, Bill!’ I cried — I always called him Bill, you know; his Christian name was William— ‘I should think I do, Billy, old boy.’ ‘Well,’ said the Duke, ‘I’ve got some I can let you have.’”
“He was a wine-merchant, was he?” asked James.
“Wine-merchant! My dear fellow, he was the Duke of St. Olphert’s. He’d bought up the cellar of an Austrian nobleman, and he had more port than he wanted.”
“And this is some of it?” asked James, gravely, holding the murky fluid to the light.
Then the Colonel stretched his legs and began to talk of the war. James, rather tired of the subject, sought to change the conversation; but Colonel Clibborn was anxious to tell one who had been through it how the thing should have been conducted; so his guest, with a mixture of astonishment and indignation, resigned himself to listen to the most pitiful inanities. He marvelled that a man should have spent his life in the service, and yet apparently be ignorant of the very elements of warfare; but having already learnt to hold his tongue, he let the Colonel talk, and was presently rewarded by a break. Something reminded the gallant cavalryman of a hoary anecdote, and he gave James that dreary round of stories which have dragged their heavy feet for thirty years from garrison to garrison. Then, naturally, he proceeded to the account of his own youthful conquests. The Colonel had evidently been a devil with the ladies, for he knew all about the forgotten ballet-dancers of the seventies, and related with gusto a number of scabrous tales.
“Ah, my boy, in my day we went the pace! I tell you in confidence, I was a deuce of a rake before I got married.”
When they returned to the drawing-room, Mrs. Clibborn was ready with her langorous smile, and made James sit beside her on the sofa. In a few minutes the Colonel, as was his habit, closed his eyes, dropped his chin, and fell comfortably asleep. Mrs. Clibborn slowly turned to Mary.
“Will you try and find me my glasses, darling,” she murmured. “They’re either in my work-basket or on the morning-room table. And if you can’t see them there, perhaps they’re in your father’s study. I want to read Jamie a letter.”
“I’ll go and look, mother.”
Mary went out, and Mrs. Clibborn put her hand on Jamie’s arm.
“Do you dislike me very much, Jamie?” she murmured softly.
“On the contrary!”
“I’m afraid your mother doesn’t care for me.”
“I’m sure she does.”
“Women have never liked me. I don’t know why. I can’t help it if I’m not exactly — plain, I’m as God made me.”
James thought that the Almighty in that case must have an unexpected familiarity with the rouge-pot and the powder-puff.
“Do you know that I did all I could to prevent your engagement to Mary?”
“You!” cried James, thunderstruck. “I never knew that.”
“I thought I had better tell you myself. You mustn’t be angry with m
e. It was for your own good. If I had had my way you would never have become engaged. I thought you were so much too young.”
“Five years ago, d’you mean — when it first happened?”
“You were only a boy — a very nice boy, Jamie. I always liked you. I don’t approve of long engagements, and I thought you’d change your mind. Most young men are a little wild; it’s right that they should be.”
James looked at her, wondering suddenly whether she knew or divined anything. It was impossible, she was too silly.
“You’re very wise.”
“Oh, don’t say that!” cried Mrs. Clibborn, with a positive groan. “It sounds so middle-aged.... I always thought Mary was too old for you. A woman should be ten years younger than her husband.”
“Tell me all about it,” insisted James.
“They wouldn’t listen to me. They said you had better be engaged. They thought it would benefit your morals. I was very much against it. I think boys are so much nicer when they haven’t got encumbrances — or morals.”
At that moment Mary came in.
“I can’t find your glasses, mamma.”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” replied Mrs. Clibborn, smiling softly; “I’ve just remembered that I sent them into Tunbridge Wells yesterday to be mended.”
VIII
James knew he would see Mary at the tea-party which Mrs. Jackson that afternoon was giving at the Vicarage. Society in Little Primpton was exclusive, with the result that the same people met each other day after day, and the only intruders were occasional visitors of irreproachable antecedents from Tunbridge Wells. Respectability is a plant which in that fashionable watering-place has been so assiduously cultivated that it flourishes now in the open air; like the yellow gorse, it is found in every corner, thriving hardily under the most unfavourable conditions; and the keener the wind, the harder the frost, the more proudly does it hold its head. But on this particular day the gathering was confined to the immediate neighbours, and when the Parsons arrived they found, beside their hosts, only the Clibborns and the inevitable curate. There was a prolonged shaking of hands, inquiries concerning the health of all present, and observations suggested by the weather; then they sat down in a circle, and set themselves to discuss the questions of the day.
“Oh, Mr. Dryland,” cried Mary, “thanks so much for that book! I am enjoying it!”
“I thought you’d like it,” replied the curate, smiling blandly. “I know you share my admiration for Miss Corelli.”
“Mr. Dryland has just lent me ‘The Master Christian,’” Mary explained, turning to Mrs. Jackson.
“Oh, I was thinking of putting it on the list for my next book.”
They had formed a club in Little Primpton of twelve persons, each buying a six-shilling book at the beginning of the year, and passing it on in return for another after a certain interval, so that at the end of twelve months all had read a dozen masterpieces of contemporary fiction.
“I thought I’d like to buy it at once,” said Mr. Dryland. “I always think one ought to possess Marie Corelli’s books. She’s the only really great novelist we have in England now.”
Mr. Dryland was a man of taste and authority, so that his literary judgments could always be relied on.
“Of course, I don’t pretend to know much about the matter,” said Mary, modestly. “There are more important things in life than books; but I do think she’s splendid. I can’t help feeling I’m wasting my time when I read most novels, but I never feel that with Marie Corelli.”
“No one would think she was a woman,” said the Vicar.
To which the curate answered: “Le genie n’a pas de sexe.”
The others, being no scholars, did not quite understand the remark, but they looked intelligent.
“I always think it’s so disgraceful the way the newspapers sneer at her,” said Mrs. Jackson. “And, I’m sure, merely because she’s a woman.”
“And because she has genius, my dear,” put in the Vicar. “Some minds are so contemptibly small that they are simply crushed by greatness. It requires an eagle to look at the sun.”
And the excellent people looked at one another with a certain self-satisfaction, for they had the fearless gaze of the king of birds in face of that brilliant orb.
“The critics are willing to do anything for money. Miss Corelli has said herself that there is a vile conspiracy to blacken her, and for my part I am quite prepared to believe it. They’re all afraid of her because she dares to show them up.”
“Besides, most of the critics are unsuccessful novelists,” added Mr. Dryland, “and they are as envious as they can be.”
“It makes one boil with indignation,” cried Mary, “to think that people can be so utterly base. Those who revile her are not worthy to unloose the latchet of her shoes.”
“It does one good to hear such whole-hearted admiration,” replied the curate, beaming. “But you must remember that genius has always been persecuted. Look at Keats and Shelley. The critics abused them just as they abuse Marie Corelli. Even Shakespeare was slandered. But time has vindicated our immortal William; time will vindicate as brightly our gentle Marie.”
“I wonder how many of us here could get through Hamlet without yawning!” meditatively said the Vicar.
“I see your point!” cried Mr. Dryland, opening his eyes. “While we could all read the ‘Sorrows of Satan’ without a break. I’ve read it three times, and each perusal leaves me more astounded. Miss Corelli has her revenge in her own hand; what can she care for the petty snarling of critics when the wreath of immortality is on her brow. I don’t hesitate to say it, I’m not ashamed of my opinion; I consider Miss Corelli every bit as great as William Shakespeare. I’ve gone into the matter carefully, and if I may say so, I’m speaking of what I know something about. My deliberate opinion is that in wit, and humour, and language, she’s every bit his equal.”
“Her language is beautiful,” said Mrs. Jackson. “When I read her I feel just as if I were listening to hymns.”
“And where, I should like to know,” continued the curate, raising his voice, “can you find in a play of Shakespeare’s such a gallery of portraits as in the ‘Master Christian’?”
“And there is one thing you must never forget,” said the Vicar, gravely, “she has a deep, religious feeling which you will find in none of Shakespeare’s plays. Every one of her books has a lofty moral purpose. That is the justification of fiction. The novelist has a high vocation, if he could only see it; he can inculcate submission to authority, hope, charity, obedience — in fact, all the higher virtues; he can become a handmaid of the Church. And now, when irreligion, and immorality, and scepticism are rampant, we must not despise the humblest instruments.”
“How true that is!” said Mrs. Jackson.
“If all novelists were like Marie Corelli, I should willingly hold them out my hand. I think every Christian ought to read ‘Barabbas.’ It gives an entirely new view of Christ. It puts the incidents of the Gospel in a way that one had never dreamed. I was never so impressed in my life.”
“But all her books are the same in that way!” cried Mary. “They all make me feel so much better and nobler, and more truly Christian.”
“I think she’s vulgar and blasphemous,” murmured Mrs. Clibborn quietly, as though she were making the simplest observation.
“Mamma!” cried Mary, deeply shocked; and among the others there was a little movement of indignation and disgust.
Mrs. Clibborn was continually mortifying her daughter by this kind of illiterate gaucherie. But the most painful part of it was that the good lady always remained perfectly unconscious of having said anything incredibly silly, and continued with perfect self-assurance:
“I’ve never been able to finish a book of hers. I began one about electricity, which I couldn’t understand, and then I tried another. I forget what it was, but there was something in it about a bed of roses, and I thought it very improper. I don’t think it was a nice book for Mary
to read, but girls seem to read everything now.”
There was a pained hush, such as naturally occurs when someone has made a very horrible faux pas. They all looked at one another awkwardly; while Mary, ashamed at her mother’s want of taste, kept her eyes glued to the carpet But Mrs. Clibborn’s folly was so notorious that presently anger was succeeded by contemptuous amusement, and the curate came to the rescue with a loud guffaw.
“Of course, you know your Marie Corelli by heart, Captain Parsons?”
“I’m afraid I’ve never read one of them.”
“Not?” they all cried in surprise.
“Oh, I’ll send them to you to Primpton House,” said Mr. Dryland. “I have them all. Why, no one’s education is complete till he’s read Marie Corelli.”
This was considered a very good hit at Mrs. Clibborn, and the dear people smiled at one another significantly. Even Mary could scarcely keep a straight face.
The tea then appeared, and was taken more or less silently. With the exception of the fashionable Mrs. Clibborn, they were all more used to making a sit-down meal of it, and the care of holding a cup, with a piece of cake unsteadily balanced in the saucer, prevented them from indulging in very brilliant conversational feats; they found one gymnastic exercise quite sufficient at a time. But when the tea-cups were safely restored to the table, Mrs. Jackson suggested a little music.
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 41