Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  “The bishop suggested that total abstinence in the clergy served as an example,” said Lionel, mildly.

  “As an example it has been a dismal failure. For many years I have searched for some successful results, for one man who would prove to me that, being a drunkard, he was so much impressed by the example of his clergyman, who for his sake and imitation ceased to drink his glass of beer at luncheon, his glass of port at dinner, or his glass of whisky and water at night, that he broke away from his vicious indulgence and became a sober man.”

  Ponsonby stood at the Canon’s elbow, patiently waiting for the end of this harangue.

  “Hock, sir?” said he, in sepulchral tones.

  “Certainly, Ponsonby, certainly!” replied the Canon, so vigorously that the butler was not a little disconcerted. “What do you think of this hock, Thomas? Not bad, I flatter myself.”

  He raised the glass to his nose and inhaled the pleasant odour. He drank his wine and smiled. An expression of placid satisfaction came over his face. He favoured the company with a Latin quotation:

  “O quam bonum est,

  O quam jucundum est,

  Poculis fraternis gaudere.”

  II

  IT was one of Canon Spratte’s peculiarities that he liked to read his Times before any other member of his family. He found a peculiar delight in opening it himself, and likened the perusal of a newspaper which some one else had read, to the drinking of milk from which a dishonest dairyman had skimmed the cream. Next morning, running his eye down the list of contents, he discovered that the Bishop of Barchester was dead.

  “Poor Andover is no more, Sophia,” he remarked, with a decent solemnity.

  He ate his kidney absently, and it was not till he passed his coffee-cup to Lady Sophia to be refilled that he made any observation.

  “It’s really almost providential that the poor old man should depart this life on the very day I am to meet Lord Stonehenge at dinner. I’d better have the pair to-night, Sophia.”

  “Where are you dining?”

  “At the Hollingtons,” he answered. “Last time a bishopric was vacant, the Prime Minister practically assured me that I should have the next.”

  “He’s probably done the same to half the school-masters in England.”

  “Nonsense! Who is there that could take it? They’ve none of them half the claims that I have.”

  Theodore Spratte never concealed from the world that he rated himself highly. He esteemed bashfulness a sign of bad manners, and was used to say that a man who pretended not to know his own value was a possing fool.

  “It’s a ridiculous system altogether to give a bishopric to Tom Noddy because he’s taught Latin verses to a parcel of stupid school-boys. And besides, as the youngest son of the late Lord Chancellor, I think I may expect something from my country.”

  “Pray pass me the toast,” said Lady Sophia.

  “I’m not a vain man, but I honestly think I have the right to some recognition. As my father, the late Lord Chancellor of England, often said....”

  “I wish to goodness you wouldn’t talk of him as if he were your father only, Theodore,” interrupted Lady Sophia, not without irritation. “I have just as much right to him as you.”

  “I think you asked for the toast, my dear.”

  Presently Canon Spratte, taking the paper with him, retired to his study. He was a man of regular habits, knowing that to acquire such is the first step to greatness, episcopal and otherwise; and after breakfast he was used to smoke his pipe, meditate, and read the Times. But this morning, somewhat agitated by the news of Bishop Andover’s demise, he took from the shelves that book which at present was his only contribution to the great literature of England. On the death of his father, laden with years and with honours, Canon Spratte had begun immediately to gather materials for a biography. This was eventually published under the title: Life and Letters of Josiah Spratte, Lord Chancellor of England. It was in two volumes, magnificently bound in calf, with the family arms, a blaze of gold, on the side.

  When the Canon set about this great work he went to his sister and begged her to make notes of her recollections.

  “You can help me a great deal, Sophia,” he said. “With your woman’s intelligence, you will have noticed a good many points which have escaped me. The masculine intellect takes in the important main lines, whereas women observe only the frivolous details. But I recognize that it is just these frivolous details, properly sorted, which will give life and variety to that grand career absorbed by affairs of State and the advantage of the nation.”

  Lady Sophia, accustomed to these tirades, smiled dryly and said: “Shall I tell you the very first thing I remember, Theodore? I can’t have been more than six years old, but I have never forgotten it.”

  “That is very interesting. Let me put it down at once.”

  He took from his pocket the little book, which he carried with him always to jot down the thoughts that periodically occurred to him.

  “Now, Sophia.”

  “Father and mother were having a conversation, and suddenly father beat his fist on the table so that the whole room shook.”

  “Yes, he had that energetic, effective way of expressing himself,” said the Canon. “He was a man of really forceful character. That is a point upon which I mean to lay great stress.”

  “He beat his fist on the table and he roared out at the top of his voice: ‘Your father’s a damned fool, Maria; and your mother’s a damned fool, Maria; but, by gad, you’re a bigger damned fool than both of them put together.’”

  The Canon sprang up and throwing back his head with a gesture habitual to him, drew to his full, imposing height.

  “You shock and surprise me, Sophia. If these are your recollections, I advise you to forget them as quickly as you possibly can.”

  Nor had he better success with his brother.

  “I wonder whether you can give me no anecdotes, no interesting side-lights on our father’s character? I am determined to make my biography as complete as possible.”

  “I’ll give you an anecdote by all means,” said Lord Spratte. “You remember that the old ‘un very much objected to potatoes baked in their skins.”

  “A very pardonable and interesting idiosyncrasy of genius,” interposed the biographer.

  “Well, one Sunday night when we had people to supper, by some accident they were brought in. The servant handed the dish to father. Father looked at him and slowly rose to his feet. ‘Don’t you know, you idiot,’ he bellowed, ‘that I don’t like potatoes baked in their skins?’ He took them out of the dish, one by one, while the servant stood petrified, and threw them with all his might at the pictures on the walls. Each picture had its potato till the dish was empty. Then he sat down again calmly and began to eat his supper.”

  “I shall certainly put down nothing in my biography which tends to cast ridicule or odium on the memory of a great man,” said Canon Spratte, frigidly. “My motto is: De mortuis nil nisi bonum.”

  On this principle the Life and Letters was written. To testify to filial admiration there were in St. Gregory’s Vicarage no less than three portraits of the first Earl Spratte, but the most characteristic was a copy of that which the Chancellor himself, with due regard to his fame and importance, had bequeathed to the National Portrait Gallery. It showed the great man seated, his hands grasping the arms of his chair with the savage vigour that was customary with him. They were strong, large hands, and the tendons stood out from the brutal force wherewith he held them. He looked the spectator full in the face, sitting very squarely, bent forward in the despotic attitude which all who had appeared before him knew so well. He wore the full-bottomed wig of his office and the gorgeous robes, edged with gold. His head was thrust out and he stared from under his shaggy brows with an expression of ruthless violence; his strong features were set in a villainous scowl; his hard, cruel mouth was clenched as though he were determined that nothing should affect his will. And the idea which the fine portrait ga
ve, was borne out by the memoirs of the time.

  Springing, notwithstanding the Canon’s grandiloquence, from the dregs of commercial life, Josiah Spratte had fought his way to the greatest prize of his calling by an indomitable will and a truculent savagery that spared neither enemies nor friends. Though endowed by nature with no great subtlety of mind, he had a gift of fluent speech, an imperturbable self-confidence, and a physique of extraordinary vigour. He was unhampered by any thought for the susceptibilities of others, and he was regardless of good manners. He bullied his way to the Woolsack by the weight of his personality and the harsh roar of his voice. From the outset of his career, as a junior, he treated his leaders with unhidden contempt. He used the solicitors who gave him briefs like vermin, dealing with them as might a harsh master with a set of ignorant and rebellious school-boys. They hated him, but were impressed withal, and quickly brought him more work than he could do. Then, beginning to feel his power, he browbeat the court so that weak judges were like wax in his hands and juries trembled at his ferocious glance. He went into Parliament and trampled impartially upon his associates and his opponents. He excited more hatred than any one of his generation, for he was insolent, overbearing, and impatient of contradiction; but in a short while the Government was forced to make him Attorney-General. From the beginning his mind had been set on the ultimate goal, and he waited till the Chancellor of that time died. This was the most critical point of his life, for all concerned understood perfectly at what Josiah Spratte aimed; but now all the bitterness, anger, and loathing he had so wilfully aroused, were banded against him; and he had to fight as well against the rivalry of some and the bitterness of others. But like a lion at bay, with magnificent self-confidence, he squared himself to bear down all obstacles. The Government was undecided. A certain eminent lawyer, Sir Robert Parkleigh, had claims upon it which were undeniable. Having held office in a previous administration he had waived his right to promotion on the understanding that his reward should be great thereafter: he was a man of vigorous understanding, learned, urbane and of great family. The appointment would be very popular. But the Attorney-General was not a man to be trifled with, and a go-between was sent unofficially to learn his views.

  “I suppose Parkleigh will get the Chancellorship,” said this person, in the course of an amiable conversation.

  “You suppose nothing of the sort,” shouted Josiah Spratte. His face grew red with passion and his scowl deepened as the veins of his forehead stood out like knotted cords. He fixed on the man those piercing eyes which seemed to read into the soul, discovering shameful secrets. “You’ve been sent to find out what I thought about the Chancellorship? It’s what I suspected. Don’t deny it!”

  Beads of sweat stood on the other’s brow as the Attorney-General towered over him, threatening and peremptory. He vowed he had received no such mission.

  “Don’t deny it, I tell you,” cried Josiah Spratte. Then, furiously, he walked up and down the room. “Tell them,” he hissed at length, with undescribable venom, “Tell them that if Parkleigh is made Chancellor, I’ll kick the Government out. By God, they shan’t stay in a month!”

  While the appointment was pending, a great lady, suffering under some brutal affront, sought to beard the lion.

  “Do you know what people are saying about you, Mr. Attorney? They’re wondering who this sprat is that we are asked to swallow.”

  Sir Josiah looked at her.

  “Tell your friends, Madam, to be thankful the sprat is not a whale, because even if he were, by God they’d have to swallow him. And what’s more, they’d have to pretend they liked him!”

  Shortly afterwards the Prime Minister wrote a very civil note to his subordinate offering him the much-coveted place. Josiah Spratte was raised to the Peerage. A second term of office was rewarded by new honour, and he became Earl Spratte of Beachcombe and Viscount Rallington.

  But the great lawyer carried also into private life the tones with which he cowed juries and sent witnesses fainting from the box. He never spoke but to command and gave no order without a string of oaths. When he fell into a temper, which happened several times a day, he could be heard from top to bottom of the house. His wife, his servants, trembled before him; his children in his presence spoke in whispers, and he took pleasure in humiliating them with brutal raillery. He met his match but twice. The first time was at his club when he was playing whist. This was his favourite relaxation, and he was always to be found in the card-room about six o’clock waiting for a rubber. One day by chance a fourth could not be found, and the Chancellor himself went into the smoking-room to look for a player. It was a sunny afternoon in July, and the place was deserted, except for a young guardsman who sat comfortably sleeping in an arm-chair. Without hesitation Lord Spratte shook him violently till he was wide awake, and asked if he knew the game. He answered that he played very badly and would much sooner resume his nap; but Lord Spratte declined to hear excuses, and dragged him by sheer force into the card-room. The soldier had only spoken the truth when he described himself as a bad player, and since he was the Chancellor’s partner, things did not go very smoothly. The elder man took no trouble to hide his annoyance when the other made a mistake, and expressed his opinion of the subaltern’s intelligence with more bluntness than civility.

  “Oh, confound you, shut up!” cried the guardsman at last. “How d’you expect a fellow to play if you go on ragging him like a fish-wife?”

  “I don’t think you know who I am, sir,” answered the Chancellor, with frowning brows.

  “Oh yes, I do! You’re the Lord Chancellor, aren’t you? But you might mind your manners for all that. You’re not in your dirty police-court now.”

  For the rest of that rubber the distinguished lawyer never opened his mouth.

  But next time he was worsted in debate the results were more serious. Lord Spratte, still restless after the attainment of his ambition, was seized with the desire to found a great family; and on this account wished his eldest son, who had assumed the title of Viscount Rallington, to marry a certain heiress of important connections. The lady was not unwilling, but Rallington stubbornly refused. At first, white with rage, Lord Spratte asked how he dared to cross him; and he showered upon his son that abundant vituperation of which he was the finest master in England. But without effect. The Chancellor was so astounded at this display of spirit that for once in his life he condescended to argue. His son stood firm. Then the old man burst out again with violent temper.

  “And who the devil are you?” he cried. “Haven’t I raised you from the gutter? What would you be without me? By God, you shall do whatever I tell you.”

  Rallington lost all patience. He put off the timidity with which for years he had endured so much and went up to his father.

  “Look here, don’t talk to me like that. I’ll marry a barmaid if I choose, and be damned to you!”

  The Chancellor’s hair stood on end with wrath, and he gasped for breath. His passion was such that for a minute he could not speak. Then his son, driven at length to open rebellion, poured out the hatred which had so long accumulated. He reminded him of the tyranny with which he had used his whole family, and the terror in which he had held them. He had robbed them of all freedom, so that they were slaves to his every whim. To his angry violence and to his selfishness all their happiness had been sacrificed.

  “You’ve been a bullying ruffian all your life, and no one has had the pluck to stand up to you. I’m sick of it, and I won’t stand it any more. D’you hear?”

  At last the Chancellor found words, and beset his son with a torrent of blasphemy, and with foul-mouthed abuse.

  “Be quiet!” said the other, standing up to him. “How dare you speak to me like that! It’s no good trying to bully me now.”

  “By God, I’ll knock you down.”

  Rallington thrust his face close to his father’s, and for a moment fear seized the old man. Here at length was some one whom he could not cow, and he hated his son.

&
nbsp; “You’d better not touch me. You can’t thrash me now as you could when I was a boy. I recommend you to take great care.”

  Lord Spratte raised his hands, but a trembling came suddenly upon him, so that he could not move.

  “Get out of my house,” he screamed. “Get out of my house.”

  “I’m only too glad to go.”

  The arteries beat in the old man’s head so that he thought some horrible thing would happen to him. He poured out brandy and drank it, but it tasted like water. He sat for hours with clenched fists and scowling brow; and at last with a savage laugh he took his will and with his own hand wrote a codicil in which he deprived his eldest son of every penny he could. This relieved him and he breathed more freely. Presently he called his family together and told them without a word of explanation that Rallington was his son no longer.

  “If any of you mention his name, or if I hear that you have had any communication with him, you shall go as he went.”

  The pair never met again, for Rallington went abroad and died, unmarried, one month before his father. Thomas, the next son, who had been known all his life as Tommy Tiddler, succeeded the Chancellor as second Earl Spratte of Beachcombe.

  But the excellent Theodore, with proper devotion, took care in his biography not even to hint at this characteristic violence. He wrote with a flowing, somewhat pompous style; and the moral pointed by these two handsome volumes was that with uprightness, sobriety, and due allegiance to the Church by law established, it was possible to reach the highest honours. The learned Canon traced the ancestry of his family to very remote periods. He had no difficulty in convincing himself that the plebeian surname was but a vulgar error for des Prats; and to the outspoken ridicule of his elder brother, was able after much study to announce that a member of the English branch of the Montmorencys had assumed the name in the seventeenth century upon his marriage with a French heiress. With these distinguished antecedents it was no wonder that Josiah Spratte should appear a benevolent old gentleman of mild temper and pious disposition, apt to express himself in well-balanced periods. He would have made an excellent churchwarden or a secretary to charitable institutions, but why precisely he should have become Lord Chancellor of England nowhere appeared. In short, the eloquent divine, with the best intentions in the world, wrote a life of his father which was not only perfectly untrue, but also exceedingly tedious.