Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  Winnie sighed.

  “I’m so glad to hear you say that.”

  “Do you care for me at all?” he insisted, doubting still.

  “Yes, I love you with my whole soul.”

  When they reached St. Gregory’s Vicarage, the Canon greeted Railing with effusion.

  “My dear Mr. Railing, it’s so kind of you to come. Permit me to introduce you to my sister. Mr. Railing is the author of that admirable and much-discussed book, The Future of Socialism.”

  “And what is the future of Socialism?” asked Lady Sophia, politely.

  “It took me three hundred pages to answer that question,” he replied, with a smile.

  “Then you must allow me to give you some tea at once.”

  Winnie went up to her uncle, who had been lunching quietly with his sister, but he put out a deprecating hand.

  “You’d better not kiss me after being at a temperance meeting,” he said. “I’m awfully afraid of catchin’ things. I always think it’s such a mercy there are no poor people at St. Gregory’s.”

  “D’you think they’re all infectious?” smiled Railing.

  “One can never tell, you know. I always recommend Theodore to sprinkle himself with Keating’s Powder when he’s been marrying the lower classes.”

  Railing tightened his lips at the flippant remark, and Winnie, watching him, was ashamed of the frivolous atmosphere into which she had brought him. It seemed to her suddenly that these people among whom till now she had lived contentedly, were but play-actors repeating carelessly the words they had learnt by rote. That drawing-room, with its smart chintzes and fashionable Sheraton, was a stuffy prison in which she could not breathe. She knew a hundred parlours which differed from this one hardly at all: the same flowers were on the same tables, arranged in the same way, the same books lay here and there, the same periodicals. In one and all the same life was led; and it was artificial, conventional, untrue. She and her friends were performing an elaborate but trivial play, some of the scenes whereof took place in a dining-room, some in a ball-room, others in the park, and some in fashionable shops. But round this vast theatre was a great stone wall, and outside it men and women and children swarmed in vast numbers, and lived and loved and starved and worked and died.

  Bertram turned to Canon Spratte.

  “I see that one of our most ardent champions in the cause of temperance has just died,” he said.

  “Bishop Andover?” exclaimed the Canon. “Very sad, very sad! I knew him well. Sophia is of opinion that he was the most learned of our bishops.”

  “He’ll be a great loss.”

  “Oh, a great loss!” cried the Canon, with conviction. “I was terribly distressed when I heard of the sad event.”

  “Are there any golf-links at Barchester?” asked Lord Spratte, with a glance at his brother.

  Railing looked at him with surprise, naturally not catching the purport of this question.

  “I really don’t know.” Then he gave Canon Spratte a smile. “I hear it’s being suggested that you may go there.”

  Canon Spratte received the suggestion without embarrassment.

  “It would require a great deal to tear me away from St. Gregory’s,” he answered, gravely. “I’m thoroughly attached to the parish.”

  “I don’t know what they would do without you here.”

  “Of course no man is indispensable in this world; but I don’t know that I should consider myself fit to take so large and important a See as that of Barchester.”

  Winnie took her uncle some tea and sat down beside him.

  “What d’you think of Mr. Railing?” she asked, abruptly.

  “Smells of public spirit, don’t he? He’s the sort of chap that has statistics scribbled all over his shirt-cuffs.” His jaw dropped. “And his shirt-cuffs take off.”

  “Why shouldn’t they?” asked Winnie, flushing.

  “My dear, there’s no reason at all. Nor have I ever been able to discover why you shouldn’t eat peas with a knife or assassinate your grandmother. But I notice there is a prejudice against these things.”

  “I think he’s the most wonderful man I’ve ever seen in my life.”

  “Do you, by Jove!” cried Lord Spratte. “Have you told your father?”

  Winnie gave him a defiant look.

  “No, but I mean to. You all think I’m still a child. You none of you understand that I’m a woman.”

  “I notice your sex generally claims to be misunderstood when it has a mind to do something particularly foolish.”

  “I wish you had heard him speak. I could hardly control myself.”

  “Because he dropped his aitches?”

  “Of course not. Can’t you see he’s a gentleman?”

  “I’m so short-sighted,” replied Lord Spratte, dryly. “And I haven’t my opera-glasses with me.”

  Winnie rose impatiently and walked over to her father.

  Lord Spratte watched her with some curiosity, and he caught Railing’s glance as she came up. His lips formed themselves into a whistle. He chuckled as he thought of Theodore’s consternation if what he suspected proved true.

  “I’m so sorry that a perfectly unavoidable engagement prevented me from coming to hear you speak,” the Canon said, in his politest way.

  “It was splendid,” cried Winnie, enthusiastically, forgetting already her uncle’s sneer. “I’m never going to touch alcohol again.”

  Railing looked at her gratefully, and his eyes were full of passionate admiration.

  “Capital, capital!” burst out the Canon, patting his friend on the back. “You’re an orator, Railing.”

  “You should have seen the audience,” said Winnie. “While Mr. Railing spoke you could have heard a pin drop. And when he finished they broke into such a storm of applause that I thought the roof was coming down.”

  “They were all very kind and very appreciative,” said Railing, modestly.

  Lady Sophia, raising her eyebrows, looked with astonishment at her niece, than whom generally no one could be more composed. Winnie was very apt to think enthusiasm a mark of ill-breeding, and the display of genuine feeling proof of the worst possible taste. But now she was too happy to care what her aunt thought, and seeing the look, answered it boldly.

  “You should have seen the people, Aunt Sophia. They crowded round him and wouldn’t let him go. Every one wanted to shake hands with him.”

  “It’s wonderful how people are carried away by real eloquence,” said the Canon, in his impressive fashion. “You must really come and hear me preach, Mr. Railing. Of course I don’t pretend to have any gifts comparable to yours, but I’m preparing a course of sermons on Christian Socialism which may conceivably interest you.”

  “I should like to hear you,” answered the other, putting as usual his whole soul into the casual conversation. To Lady Sophia his strenuous way rang out of tune with the rest of the company, but Winnie thought him the only real man she had ever known. “The clergy ought to be in the forefront of every movement.”

  “Yes,” said the Canon, with that glance at the ancestral portrait which so often preluded a flourish of oratory. “Advance and progress have ever been my watchwords. I think I can truthfully say that my family has always been in the vanguard of any movement for the advantage of the working-classes.”

  “From the days of the Montmorencys down to our father, the late Lord Chancellor of England,” put in Lord Spratte, gravely.

  Theodore gave the head of his house a look of some vexation, but drew himself to his full height.

  “As my brother amiably reminds me, my ancestor, Aubrey de Montmorency, was killed while fighting for the freedom of the people, in the year 1642. And his second son, from whom we are directly descended....” Lady Sophia gave a significant cough, but the Canon went on firmly, “was beheaded by James II for resisting the tyranny of that Popish and despotic sovereign.”

  None could deny that the sentence was rhythmical. The delivery was perfect.

  Pr
esently Railing got up.

  “What, must you go already?” cried the Canon. “Well, well, I daresay you’re busy. You must come and see us again, soon; I want to have a long talk with you. And don’t forget to come and hear me preach.”

  When Railing took Winnie’s hand, she felt it almost impossible to command herself.

  “I shall see you again to-morrow?” she whispered.

  “I shan’t think of anything else till then,” he said.

  His dark eyes, so passionately tender, burnt like fire in her heart. Railing went out.

  “Intelligent fellow!” said Canon Spratte, as the door closed behind him. “I like him very much. Remarkably brilliant, isn’t he, Sophia?”

  “My dear Theodore, how could I judge?” she answered, somewhat irritably. “You never let him get a word in. He seemed an intelligent listener.”

  “My dear Sophia, I may have faults,” laughed the Canon. “We all have faults — even you, my dear. But no one has ever accused me of usurping more than my fair share of the conversation. I daresay he was a little shy.”

  “I daresay!” said Lady Sophia, dryly.

  V

  THE same evening, before going to his room to dress for dinner at the Hollingtons, Canon Spratte wrote to an acquaintance who was clerical correspondent for an important paper.

  My Dear Mr. Wilson,

  I wish you would announce in your admirable Journal that there is no truth whatever in the rumour that I have been offered the vacant bishopric of Barchester. This, however, gives me an opportunity to say how thoroughly I condemn the modern practice of assigning this and that post, in the wildest, most improbable fashion, to all sorts and conditions of men. In these days of self-advertisement, I suppose it is too much to ask that people should keep silent on the positions to which they expect themselves or their friends to be elevated, but I cannot help thinking such a proceeding would be at once more decorous and more discreet.

  Yours most faithfully,

  Theodore Spratte.

  While changing, he remembered that flippant, disparaging remark which Lady Sophia had made the day before about his calves. He looked at himself in the glass and smiled with good-humoured scorn.

  “They think I couldn’t wear gaiters,” he murmured. “I fancy there are few bishops who’ve got better legs than I have.”

  They were indeed well-shaped and muscular, for Canon Spratte, wisely, took abundant exercise.

  “I think it’s rather chilly to-night, Ponsonby,” he said. “Will you bring me my fur coat.”

  He put it on, and holding himself with a sort of dashing serenity, looked again in the glass. It would have been absurd not to recognize that he was a person of handsome and attractive presence. Few men can wear very elaborate garments without being ridiculous, but Canon Spratte was made for pompous, magnificent habiliments.

  “A man in a fur coat is a noble animal,” he said, with deep conviction. “Is the carriage there?”

  Canon Spratte was at his best in feminine society. He used women with a charming urbanity which reminded you of a past age when good manners were still cultivated by the great ones of the earth. There was a polite suppleness about his backbone, a caressing intonation of his voice, which captivated the least susceptible. He was an ornament to any party, for he never failed to say a clever thing at the necessary moment. He could flatter the young by his courtliness and amuse the old by his repartee. The triumphant air with which he entered the Hollingtons’ drawing-room sufficed to impress you with his powers. It was certainly an odd contrast between the flamboyant style of the Canon of Tercanbury and the clumsy shuffling of Lord Stonehenge, ill-dressed and untidy, who immediately followed.

  To his great good fortune Canon Spratte found he was to take down to dinner Lady Patricia, the Prime Minister’s daughter. He could be brilliant and talkative, but on occasion he could be also a witty listener; and this useful art he employed now to the best advantage. None knew what self-restraint it needed for Canon Spratte to seem a little dull, but he was aware that Lady Patricia shared her father’s predilection for undangerous mediocrity. He heard what she said with grave interest. He asked intelligent questions. He went so far as to demand her advice on a matter wherein he had no intention of following any opinion but his own. Lady Patricia gained the impression that there was no one in the world at that moment whom he wanted to see more than herself, and she talked with a fluency that was as unusual as it was pleasing. She was a woman who found topics of conversation with difficulty, and so felt uncommonly pleased with herself. She could not help thinking the Canon a man of considerable ability. And the contrast between him and her other neighbour was altogether to Canon Spratte’s advantage. Lady Hollington had the fashionable craze for asking literary and artistic persons to her parties. They take the place in a democratic age of the buffoons whom princes formerly kept in their houses, and are a luxury which the most economical can afford. But the novelist who now claimed Lady Patricia’s attention, entertained her with his theories upon art and literature; and since she knew nothing of either, and cared less, the poor lady was immoderately bored.

  The Canon was delighted to find on his left an old friend of his. Mrs. Fitzherbert was a handsome widow of five-and-forty, with singularly fine teeth, and these a charming smile gave her an opportunity of displaying with some frequency. None knew whether her keen sense of humour was due to the excellence of her teeth, or whether her teeth were so noticeable on account of this acute perception of the ridiculous.

  “I’m doubly favoured by the gods this evening,” said Canon Spratte. “If I were a Papist I would offer a candle of gratitude to my patron saint. I didn’t know I should be so fortunate as to meet you nor so lucky as to sit by your side.”

  “It’s taken you some time to avail yourself of the privilege of speaking to me,” she answered, glancing at the menu.

  “I wanted to appease the pangs of my hunger first, so that I could devote myself to the pleasure of your conversation with an undistracted mind.”

  “Then you agree with me, that a man is only quite human when he’s eaten his dinner?” she smiled.

  “My thoughts are never so ethereal as when my body is occupied with the process of digestion,” the Canon replied, ironically.

  He thought that Mrs. Fitzherbert wore uncommonly well. She had always been a fine creature, but he had never guessed that the girl of somewhat overwhelming physique whom he had known a quarter of a century before, would turn into this stately woman. The years only increased her attractiveness, and she had reason to look upon the common foes of mankind as her particular friends. She held herself with the assurance of a woman who has enjoyed masculine admiration. The Canon’s eyes rested with approval on the gown which displayed to advantage her beautiful figure.

  These flattering reflections were, perhaps, obvious on his face, for the lady smiled.

  “You may make it,” she said, with a flash of her exquisite teeth.

  “What?” asked the Canon, innocently opening his eyes.

  “The compliment that’s on the tip of your tongue.”

  “I think you grow handsomer every day,” he answered, without hesitation.

  “Thank you. And now tell me about Sophia and the children.”

  “I’d much sooner talk about you,” said the Canon, gallantly.

  “My dear friend, we’ve known one another too long. For flattery to be pleasing one must be convinced, at least for a moment, that it’s sincere, and you know I’ve never concealed from you my belief that you’re the most desperate humbug I’ve ever known.”

  “You put me at my ease at once,” he retorted, smiling and not in the least disconcerted. “But I’m sorry you’re so vain.”

  “Do you think I’m that?”

  “Certainly. It’s only because your inner consciousness tells you such agreeable things that you won’t listen to my timid observations.”

  Mrs. Fitzherbert looked at him quickly and wondered if his memory was as bad as he pretended. She d
id not feel it necessary to recall exactly how many years it was since first they met, but she was a girl then, and Theodore the handsomest man she had ever seen. Her maiden fancy was speedily captured, and for a season they danced together, philandered, and sauntered in the park. Unwisely, she took him with all seriousness. She remembered still a certain afternoon in July when they met in Kensington Gardens; the sunshine and the careful trees, the dainty flowers, gave the scene all the graceful elegance of a picture by the adorable Watteau. She was going into the country next day, and her young heart beat in the most romantic fashion because she thought Theodore would seize the opportunity to declare his passion. But instead, he asked if she could keep a secret, and told her he had just become engaged to Dorothy Frampstone. She had not forgotten the smile with which she congratulated him and the lightness wherewith she hid the terrible anguish that consumed her. For six weeks she saw the world through a mist of tears, but pride forbade her to refuse Dorothy’s invitation to be bridesmaid at the wedding, and here she met Captain Fitzherbert. He fell in love with her at first sight and she married him out of pique, only to discover that he was a perfectly charming fellow. She soon grew devoted to him and never ceased to thank Heaven for her escape from Theodore. The only emotion that touched her then was curiosity. She would have given much to learn the reason of his behaviour. But she never knew whether the handsome curate had really cared, and thrown her over only because a more eligible bride presented herself; or whether, blinded by her own devotion, she had mistaken for love attentions which were due merely to a vivacious temperament. She did not meet Theodore Spratte again till she had been for some time a widow. Captain Fitzherbert was stationed in various parts of the world, and his wife came rarely to England. Then he fell ill, and for several years she nursed him on the Riviera and in Italy. But when at last his death released her, Mrs. Fitzherbert sought to regain her calmness of mind after the long exhaustion of his illness, by distant journeys to those places where she had spent her happy married life. It was not till she took a house in London, three years before this, that she ran against Canon Spratte casually at a dinner-party. She was pleased to see him, but noted with amusement that the sight did not agitate her in the smallest degree. She could scarcely believe that once his appearance in a room sufficed to make her pulse beat at double its normal rate, while the touch of his hand sent the blood rushing to her cheeks.