Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  “Dear Charles, — I am so glad to hear you are settled in your new house in Bath, and it is most kind to ask us down. I am devoted to Bath; one meets such nice people there, and all one’s friends whom one knew centuries ago. It is such a comfort to see how fearfully old they’re looking! I don’t know whether we can manage to accept your kind invitation, but I must say I should be glad of a change after the truly awful things that have happened here. I have been dreadfully upset all the winter, and have had several touches of rheumatism, which is a thing I never suffered from before.

  “I wrote and told you of the sudden and mysterious death of poor James Parsons, a fortnight before he was going to marry my dear Mary. He shot himself accidentally while cleaning a gun — that is to say, every one thinks it was an accident. But I am certain it was nothing of the kind. Ever since the dreadful thing happened — six months ago — it has been on my conscience, and I assure you that the whole time I have not slept a wink. My sufferings have been horrible! You will be surprised at the change in me; I am beginning to look like an old woman. I tell you this in strict confidence. I believe he committed suicide. He confessed that he loved me, Charles. Of course, I told him I was old enough to be his mother; but love is blind. When I think of the tragic end of poor Algy Turner, who poisoned himself in India for my sake, I don’t know how I shall ever forgive myself. I never gave James the least encouragement, and when he said that he loved me, I was so taken aback that I nearly fainted. I am convinced that he shot himself rather than marry a woman he did not love, and what is more, my daughter. You can imagine my feelings! I have taken care not to breathe a word of this to Reginald, whose gout is making him more irritable every day, or to anyone else. So no one suspects the truth.

  “But I shall never get over it. I could not bear to think of poor Algy Turner, and now I have on my head as well the blood of James Parsons. They were dear boys, both of them. I think I am the only one who is really sorry for him. If it had been my son who was killed I should either have gone raving mad or had hysterics for a week; but Mrs. Parsons merely said: ‘The Lord has given, and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.’ I cannot help thinking it was rather profane, and most unfeeling. I was dreadfully upset, and Mary had to sit up with me for several nights. I don’t believe Mary really loved him. I hate to say anything against my own daughter, but I feel bound to tell the truth, and my private opinion is that she loved herself better. She loved her constancy and the good opinion of Little Primpton; the fuss the Parsons have made of her I’m sure is very bad for anyone. It can’t be good for a girl to be given way to so much; and I never really liked the Parsons. They’re very good people, of course; but only infantry!

  “I am happy to say that poor Jamie’s death was almost instantaneous. When they found him he said: ‘It was an accident; I didn’t know the gun was loaded.’ (Most improbable, I think. It’s wonderful how they’ve all been taken in; but then they didn’t know his secret!) A few minutes later, just before he died, he said: ‘Tell Mary she’s to marry the curate.’

  “If my betrothed had died, nothing would have induced me to marry anybody else. I would have remained an old maid. But so few people have any really nice feeling! Mr. Dryland, the curate, had already proposed to Mary, and she had refused him. He is a pleasant-spoken young man, with a rather fine presence — not my ideal at all; but that, of course, doesn’t matter! Well, a month after the funeral, Mary told me that he had asked her again, and she had declined. I think it was very bad taste on his part, but Mary said she thought it most noble.

  “It appears that Colonel and Mrs. Parsons both pressed her very much to accept the curate. They said it was Jamie’s dying wish, and that his last thought had been for her happiness. There is no doubt that Mr. Dryland is an excellent young man, but if the Parsons had really loved their son, they would never have advised Mary to get married. I think it was most heartless.

  “Well, a few days ago, Mr. Dryland came and told us that he had been appointed vicar of Stone Fairley, in Kent. I went to see Mrs. Jackson, the wife of our Vicar, and she looked it out in the clergy list. The stipend is £300 a year, and I am told that there is a good house. Of course, it’s not very much, but better than nothing. This morning Mr. Dryland called and asked for a private interview with Mary. He said he must, of course, leave Little Primpton, and his vicarage would sadly want a mistress; and finally, for the third time, begged her on his bended knees to marry her. He had previously been to the Parsons, and the Colonel sent for Mary, and told her that he hoped she would not refuse Mr. Dryland for their sake, and that they thought it was her duty to marry. The result is that Mary accepted him, and is to be married very quietly by special license in a month. The widow of the late incumbent of Stone Fairley moves out in six weeks, so this will give them time for a fortnight’s honeymoon before settling down. They think of spending it in Paris.

  “I think, on the whole, it is as good a match as poor Mary could expect to make. The stipend is paid by the Ecclesiastical Commissioners, which, of course, is much safer than glebe. She is no longer a young girl, and I think it was her last chance. Although she is my own daughter, I cannot help confessing that she is not the sort of girl that wears well; she has always been plain — (no one would think she was my daughter) — and as time goes on, she will grow plainer. When I was eighteen my mother’s maid used to say: ‘Why, miss, there’s many a married woman of thirty who would be proud to have your bust.’ But our poor, dear Mary has no figure. She will do excellently for the wife of a country vicar. She’s so fond of giving people advice, and of looking after the poor, and it won’t matter that she’s dowdy. She has no idea of dressing herself, although I’ve always done my best for her.

  “Mr. Dryland is, of course, in the seventh heaven of delight. He has gone into Tunbridge Wells to get a ring, and as an engagement present has just sent round a complete edition of the works of Mr. Hall Caine. He is evidently generous. I think they will suit one another very well, and I am glad to get my only daughter married. She was always rather a tie on Reginald and me. We are so devoted to one another that a third person has often seemed a little in the way. Although you would not believe it, and we have been married for nearly thirty years, nothing gives us more happiness than to sit holding one another’s hands. I have always been sentimental, and I am not ashamed to own it. Reggie is sometimes afraid that I shall get an attack of my rheumatism when we sit out together at night; but I always take care to wrap myself up well, and I invariably make him put a muffler on.

  “Give my kindest regards to your wife, and tell her I hope to see her soon. — Yours very sincerely,

  “Clara de Tulleville Clibborn.”

  THE END

  MRS CRADDOCK

  This novel was one of several works that Maugham struggled to find a publisher for; in this case, because the author’s growing reputation for depicting risqué themes with gritty realism was making some publishers shy away from him. Having been rejected by Hodder and Stoughton, it was passed to the slightly less cautious Heinemann, who agreed to publish on condition that some of the most explicit scenes were removed. It is little wonder that some publishers would be reluctant to take this on — the themes of adultery, female sexuality, sexual passion, marrying out of one’s class and an older woman having an affair with a teenager were an explosive combination for the times, especially when combined with a frank depiction of a woman disappointed in her physical relationships. The lead female character, Bertha Craddock, has been compared to Madame Bovary (written by Flaubert) with her passions and turbulent love life.

  The novel was written in 1900 but not published until the end of 1902; it was not released in America until 1920. In one way the story is an appropriate one to remember the Edwardian era by, with its honest depiction of sexual liberty contrasting with the traditional view of Victorian prudishness, but it may have alienated more conservative readers for whom it consolidated Maugham’s reputation as a no-holds-barred author. Despite all this,
Mrs Craddock was another success for Maugham. A restored version of the novel was released in 1938.

  Bertha Ley is eighteen years old at the start of the story, an independent young woman who, following the death of her father, who lives with her emotionally repressed spinster aunt. They have settled in Blackstable (a fictional portrait of Whitstable, Kent, that Maugham was to use again in later works) and life has settled into a routine – until Bertha develops an infatuation for local man and a tenant of the Ley estate, Edward Craddock. Although he is her social inferior, Bertha is fascinated and excited by his masculinity and straightforward manner, and in fact, “She had made up her mind firmly that Craddock should lead her to the altar.” On the eve of her twenty-first birthday, Bertha tells Craddock that she is about to inherit her own money, and can marry whomever she chooses – namely, him. Her one desire is to live with him simply and joyfully, as a farmer’s wife.

  Bertha’s announcement is received locally with a mixture of hostility, bemusement and indifference. Miss Ley is sanguine; she realises she cannot change her niece’s mind. Bertha concocts all manner of “reasons” for her choice of husband, including the need to bring more vigorous new blood into the Ley family tree, to save it from the genealogical doldrums of intermarriage within the gentry. A very small wedding is followed by a honeymoon in London – Craddock refuses to leave the farm for long enough to warrant the trip to Italy that Bertha desires – and the couple are reluctantly accepted into local “society”, although initially there is derisory gossip behind their backs. In addition, things are not working out as well as Bertha had hoped. She cannot fault her husband as a hard working, dutiful husband, but privately she finds his lack of knowledge of high culture frustrating, and she is disappointed that he is not more attentive towards her. The community, however, comes to revere Craddock for his equable temperament, fairness and hard work, and eventually even the local gentry accept him as one of their own – he “has won golden opinions all round.”

  Within the first year of marriage, Bertha becomes pregnant. Her unease about the impending confinement is shrugged off by her husband, but Bertha’s premonition comes to pass — her baby is stillborn. Once Bertha has recovered, what she views as her husband’s indifference towards her becomes intolerable, and she decides to go to her Aunt’s home in London, in order to take stock of her life. Will her marriage survive the crisis that Bertha’s husband is not even aware has happened?

  There are some interesting aspects of social context in the novel. Miss Ley tells Bertha that she herself had no need to marry as she had a private income of £500 per annum, reinforcing that in 1900 many women only married for financial security (although following the Married Women’s Property Act of 1883, a woman was entitled to keep her own money on marriage). In fact, Miss Ley is depicted as something of an oddity to her peers for choosing not to marry rather than being a spinster from bereavement or jilting. There is also something of the Victorian “New Woman” (the term for an early feminist) in Miss Ley through her disdain of women that become “mere shadows of their lords”, her determination to live alone and her refusal to be upset about her niece’s relationship - in fact the local doctor, Dr Ramsay, scornfully accuses her of being a feminist. The stifling nature of small minded, small scale gentry life and social circles at the turn of the twentieth century is depicted with a clarity that can make one feel uneasy.

  Bertha and Edward Craddock are superbly well presented as characters. She is passionate and sophisticated, but as the story unfolds it is clear that there is a dysfunctional side to her that makes her all the more interesting – but not necessarily any more likeable. Edward is what he is – a well-built, straightforward man, who has no interest in the cultural pursuits that his wife adores, but he is a good farmer, a stolid character, and well-liked. Where Bertha has made her mistake was in romanticising a very ordinary man and making him, in her mind, a person he could never be. It is a strong, gripping narrative, with touches of cynicism that Maugham was so gifted at feeding into a narrative.

  The first edition

  CONTENTS

  EPISTLE DEDICATORY

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  Chapter XXXV

  Chapter XXXVI

  Maugham, close to the time of publication

  EPISTLE DEDICATORY

  Dear Miss Ley, — You will not consider it unflattering if I ask myself when exactly it was that I had the good fortune to make your acquaintance; for, though I am well aware the date is not far distant, I seem to have known you all my life. Was it really during the summer before last, at Naples? (I forget why you go habitually to winter resorts in the middle of August; the reasons you gave were ingenious but inconclusive — surely it is not to avoid your fellow-countrymen?) I was in the Gallery of Masterpieces, looking at the wonderful portrait-statue of Agrippina, when you, sitting beside me, asked some question. We began to talk — by the way, we never inquired if our respective families were desirable; you took my reputability for granted — and since then we have passed a good deal of time together; indeed, you have been seldom absent from my thoughts.

  Now that we stand at a parting of ways (the phrase is hackneyed and you would loathe it), you must permit me to tell you what pleasure your regard has given me and how thoroughly I have enjoyed our intercourse, regretting always that inevitable circumstances made it so rare. I confess I stand in awe of you — this you will not believe, for you have often accused me of flippancy (I am not half so flippant as you); but your thin and mocking smile, after some remark of mine, continually makes me feel that I have said a foolish thing, than which in your eyes I know there is no greater crime.... You have told me that when an acquaintance has left a pleasant recollection, one should resist the temptation to renew it; altered time and surroundings create new impressions which cannot rival with the old, doubly idealised by novelty and absence. The maxim is hard, but therefore, perhaps, more likely to be true. Still, I cannot wish that the future may bring us nothing better than forgetfulness. It is certain that our paths are different, I shall be occupied with other work and you will be lost to me in the labyrinth of Italian hotels, wherein it pleases you, perversely, to hide your lights. I see no prospect of reunion (this sounds quite sentimental and you hate effusiveness. My letter is certainly over-full of parentheses); but I wish, notwithstanding and with all my heart, that some day you may consent to risk the experiment. What say you? I am, dear Miss Ley, very truly (don’t laugh at me, I should like to say — affectionately), — Yours,

  W. M.

  Chapter I

  THIS book might be called also The Triumph of Love. Bertha was looking out of window, at the bleakness of the day. The sky was sombre and the clouds heavy and low; the neglected carriage-drive was swept by the bitter wind, and the elm-trees that bordered it were bare of leaf, their naked branches shivering with horror of the cold. It was the end of November, and the day was utterly cheerless. The dying year seemed to have cast over all Nature the terror of death; the imagination would not bring to the wearied mind thoughts of the merciful sunshine, thoughts of the Spring coming as a
maiden to scatter from her baskets the flowers and the green leaves.

  Bertha turned round and looked at her aunt, cutting the leaves of a new Spectator. Wondering what books to get down from Mudie’s, Miss Ley read the autumn lists and the laudatory expressions which the adroitness of publishers extracts from unfavourable reviews.

  “You’re very restless this afternoon, Bertha,” she remarked, in answer to the girl’s steady gaze.

  “I think I shall walk down to the gate.”

  “You’ve already visited the gate twice in the last hour. Do you find in it something alarmingly novel?”

  Bertha did not reply, but turned again to the window: the scene in the last two hours had fixed itself upon her mind with monotonous accuracy.

  “What are you thinking about, Aunt Polly?” she asked suddenly, turning back to her aunt and catching the eyes fixed upon her.

  “I was thinking that one must be very penetrative to discover a woman’s emotions from the view of her back hair.”

  Bertha laughed: “I don’t think I have any emotions to discover. I feel ...” she sought for some way of expressing the sensation— “I feel as if I should like to take my hair down.”

  Miss Ley made no rejoinder, but looked again at her paper. She hardly wondered what her niece meant, having long ceased to be astonished at Bertha’s ways and doings; indeed, her only surprise was that they never sufficiently corroborated the common opinion that Bertha was an independent young woman from whom anything might be expected. In the three years they had spent together since the death of Bertha’s father the two women had learned to tolerate one another extremely well. Their mutual affection was mild and perfectly respectable, in every way becoming to fastidious persons bound together by ties of convenience and decorum.... Miss Ley, called to the deathbed of her brother in Italy, made Bertha’s acquaintance over the dead man’s grave, and the girl was then too old and of too independent character to accept a stranger’s authority; nor had Miss Ley the smallest desire to exert authority over any one. She was a very indolent woman, who wished nothing more than to leave people alone and be left alone by them. But if it was obviously her duty to take charge of an orphan niece, it was also an advantage that Bertha was eighteen, and, but for the conventions of decent society, could very well take charge of herself. Miss Ley was not unthankful to a merciful Providence on the discovery that her ward had every intention of going her own way, and none whatever of hanging about the skirts of a maiden aunt who was passionately devoted to her liberty.