Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  “A bishop must be a man who can wear his gaiters with dignity,” smiled Mrs, Fitzherbert.

  “But has Theodore the legs?”

  “If not, he can pad,” replied Lady Sophia. “Most of them do, and those that don’t certainly should. A bishop must evidently be a man who can wear lawn sleeves without feeling dressed up. He’s a Prince of the Church, and he should carry himself becomingly. I don’t know if you’ve noticed it, but few of them can help purring with gratification when they hear themselves addressed by obsequious clergy as, my lord. Theodore at least will carry his honours with a dash. We may be parvenus....”

  “We certainly are, Sophia,” cried Lord Spratte.

  “But Theodore is clever enough to forget it. He honestly feels that his ancestors fought in coats-of-mail at Agincourt and Crecy.”

  “Heaven save me from the candid criticism of relations,” exclaimed Mrs. Fitzherbert. “They’re like a bad looking-glass which gives you an atrocious squint and a crooked nose.”

  “We shall have to eat the dust, Sophia,” muttered Lord Spratte.

  “The whole diocese will have to eat the dust,” she answered, smiling. “Theodore will stand no nonsense from his clergy; they’ll have to do as he tells them or there’ll be ructions. Theodore is not soft-handed, and he’ll get his own way by hook or by crook. You’ll see, in five years it’ll be the best-managed bishopric in England, and an invitation to dinner at the Palace will be considered by every one a sufficient reward for the labours of Hercules.”

  Mrs. Fitzherbert laughed, and at that moment the subject of the conversation appeared. He greeted Mrs. Fitzherbert with extreme cordiality, but to his brother, not forgetful of the terms upon which they had parted, he held out a very frigid hand.

  “I must congratulate you on Winnie’s engagement,” said Lord Spratte.

  Canon Spratte looked at him coolly and passed his handsome hand through his hair.

  “I’m sorry to see that your levity grows more marked every day, Thomas. It seems that increasing years bring you no sense of your responsibilities. I used to hope that your flippancy was due chiefly to the exuberance of youth.”

  “It shows what a charmin’ character I have to stand bein’ ragged by my younger brother,” murmured Lord Spratte, calmly. He turned to Mrs. Fitzherbert. “I hate far more the relations who think it their duty to say unpleasant things to your very face.”

  “You forget that it’s my name as well as yours that you drag through the dust.”

  “The name of Spratte?”

  “It was held by the late Lord Chancellor of England,” retorted the Canon, icily.

  “Oh, Theodore, don’t bring him in again. I’m just about sick of him. It’s been the curse of my life to be the son of an eminent man. After all it was a beastly job that they stuck him on that silly Woolsack.”

  “Have you never heard the saying: ‘De mortuis nil nisi bonum’?”

  “That means: don’t pull an old buffer’s leg when he’s kicked the bucket,” explained Lord Spratte to the two ladies.

  The Canon shrugged his shoulders.

  “You have no sense of decorum, no seemliness, no dignity.”

  “Good heavens, what can you expect? I don’t feel important enough to strike attitudes. I’m just Tommy Tiddler, and I can’t forget it. I might have done something if I’d had any name but Spratte. If it had been just Sprat it would have been vulgar, but those two last letters make it pretentious as well. And that’s what our honours are — vulgar and pretentious! I can’t make out why the old buffer stuck to that beastly monosyllable.”

  “I always wish we could change with our butler, Theodore,” said Lady Sophia. “Don’t you think it’s very hard that he should be called Ponsonby, and we — Spratte?”

  “I’m not ashamed of it,” said the Canon.

  “You’re ashamed of nothing, Theodore,” retorted his brother. “Now, I’m different; I’m a modest sort of chap, and I can’t stand all these gewgaws. I don’t want the silly title with its sham coat-of-arms, and it’s bogus pedigree. And those ridiculous ermine robes! The very thought of them makes my flesh creep. I should have been right enough if I’d just been plain Tom Sprat. I might have made a fairly good horse-dealer, and if I hadn’t brains enough for that I could always have gone into Parliament. I’d have been a capital First Lord of the Admiralty, because I can’t tell a man-o’-war from a coal barge, and the mere sight of the briny ocean makes me feel sick.”

  “It’s such as you who bring the Upper House into discredit,” exclaimed Theodore.

  “Such as I, my dear brother? Why, I’m the saving of the place, because I have a sense of humour. I know we’re no good. No one cares two straws about us. And they just leave us there because we do no harm and they’ve forgotten all about us.”

  “I should like you to compare yourself with Harry Wroxham,” said Canon Spratte. “Though he’s quite a young man, he has acquired a respected and assured position in the House of Lords.”

  “Yes, I know,” replied the peer, with much scorn. “He fusses about, and he’s a County Councillor, and he speaks at Church Congresses.”

  “It’s greatly to his credit that he’s a steadfast champion of the Church of England.”

  “I daresay. All I know is that if there were a hundred fellows in the House of Lords as enthusiastic as he is, the House of Lords would tumble down. The British public leaves us there as long as we don’t interfere with it, but if ever we put on airs and try to stand on our hind legs, the British public will just take us by the scruff of the neck and out we shall go. If we all took ourselves in earnest like Wroxham, we should just get the hoof, brother Theodore.”

  “And do you ever go to the House of Lords, which you support by your sense of ridicule?” asked Mrs. Fitzherbert, her lips trembling into laughter.

  “Certainly; I was there the other day.”

  “Dear me!”

  “Oh, it was quite accidental,” he hastened to explain, apologetically. “I had to go to Westminster on business.”

  “On business!” repeated the Canon, full of contempt.

  “Yes, to see a terrier that a man wanted to sell. Well, I had a new topper and no umbrella, an’ of course it began to rain. ‘By Jove,’ I said, ‘I’m hanged if I won’t go and legislate for ten minutes.’ I saw it was only a shower. Well, I walked in and somebody asked who the dickens I was. Upon my word, I was almost ashamed to say; I look too bogus, Theodore.”

  “It’s not the name that makes the man,” said the Canon, sententiously. “A rose by any other appellation would smell as sweet.”

  “There you’re wrong, but I won’t argue it out. Well, I went in and found twenty old buffers lying about on red benches. Half of them were asleep, and one was mumblin’ away in his beard. ‘Good Lord,’ I said, ‘who are their tailors?’ Then I said to myself: ‘Shall I stay here and listen to their twaddle or shall I get my hat wet?’ Suddenly I had an inspiration. ‘By Jove,’ I thought, ‘I’ll take a cab.’”

  “And that, Sophia, is the head of our house!” said the Canon, in icy tones. “Thomas, second Earl Spratte of Beachcombe.”

  But these words were hardly out of his mouth, when there was a noisy ring at the bell of the front-door.

  Canon Spratte started nervously. He collected himself to receive the expected messenger. Then came the sound of voices in the hall, and the Canon put up his hand to request silence.

  “Who can that be?” he asked.

  Some one was heard running up the stairs and the door was burst open by Lionel, for once in his life hurried and disturbed.

  “Oh, it’s only you!” said Canon Spratte, unable to conceal his disappointment. “I don’t know why on earth you ring the bell as though the house were on fire.”

  But Lionel waited to make no excuses.

  “I say, father, is it true about Barchester?”

  “Is what true?” he asked, uncertain whether to be triumphant or dismayed.

  “It’s announced that Dr. Gray, the
headmaster of Harbin, has been appointed.”

  “Impossible!” exclaimed the Canon, incredulously. “A trumpery headmaster who teaches ignorant school-boys their A B C.”

  “It’s in the evening paper.”

  “Oh, it’s ridiculous; it can’t be true. I make the best of my fellow men, and I cannot bring myself to believe that Lord Stonehenge can be so foolish and wicked.”

  “The Westminster Gazette says it’s a capital appointment.”

  “The Westminster is a Radical paper, Lionel, and will say anything. For all I know Gray may be a Radical too. I tell you it’s preposterous. He’s little better than an imbecile and a man of no family. A fool, a school-master! I know innumerable things against him but nothing in his favour — except that he was once tutor to one of Stonehenge’s ill-mannered brats. I cannot think the Government could be so grossly idiotic as to give an important bishopric to a man of Gray’s powers. Powers? They’re not powers; he’s the most ordinary and stupid man I’ve ever known. He’s stupider than a churchwarden.”

  “I confess I think it rather bad taste of Lord Stonehenge, considering that you dined with him only the other day,” murmured Lady Sophia.

  “I thank Heaven that I’m not a vain man,” said the Canon, somewhat oratorically. “I may have faults; we all have faults. But I don’t think any one has ever accused me of vanity. When it was suggested that I should be offered the bishopric of Barchester, the thought came upon me as a surprise; but this I will confess, I don’t think I should have been out of place in that position. I have been mixed up with public affairs all my life, and I am used to authority. Nor can I help thinking that I deserve something of my country.”

  At this moment Ponsonby passed through the drawing-room to the little terrace outside the window. He bore on a silver tray of imposing dimensions a kettle and a tea-pot.

  “I told them to put tea outside,” said Lady Sophia. “I thought it would be pleasanter.”

  Lord Spratte and Lionel got up and with Lady Sophia passed through the large French window; but Mrs, Fitzherbert, seeing that the Canon made no sign of following, stopped at the threshold.

  “Won’t you come and have tea, Canon?” she asked.

  “Ah, my dear lady, at this moment I cannot think of tea. I could almost say that I shall never drink tea again.”

  “Poor Canon Spratte, I feel so sorry for you,” she smiled, half amused at his vexation, half tender because he was so like a spoiled child.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “It’s not for myself that I feel sorry, it’s for the people who have done this thing. It’s charming of you to sympathise with me.” He took her hand and pressed it. “I’ve often felt that you really understand me. It’s a dreadful thing to live surrounded by persons who don’t appreciate you. They say that no man is a prophet in his own country, and I have experienced that too. I’m glad you were here this afternoon, for you’ve seen how I’m surrounded by cynical laughter and by flippant vulgarity. They don’t understand me.” He sighed and smiled and patted the hand he held. “I don’t want to say anything against Sophia. I daresay she does her best, and in this world we must be thankful for small mercies, but she hasn’t the delicacy of sentiment necessary to understand a character like mine. Do you remember my wife, Mrs. Fitzherbert? She was an angel, wasn’t she? Loving, obedient, respectful, self-effacing! She was all that a wife should be. But she was taken from me. I shall never quite get over it.”

  “Now come and have tea,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert, disengaging her hand. “I know it’ll pull you together.”

  “Oh, I could touch nothing,” he cried, with a gesture of distaste. “I wouldn’t venture to say it to any one else, but to you who really understand me, I can say that if any man was fitted to be Bishop of Barchester I am he. Any one who knows me must be quite sure that it’s not for my own sake that I wanted it; but think of the wonderful opportunities for doing good that such a position affords! And they’ve given it to Gray!”

  He ended with a wrathful shrug of the shoulders. When he spoke again there was a tremor in his voice, partly of righteous indignation, partly of despair at the folly of mankind.

  “I speak entirely without prejudice, but honestly, do you think Dr. Gray fitted for such responsibilities?”

  “I certainly don’t,” replied Mrs. Fitzherbert, who till that day had never even heard of the distinguished pedagogue.

  “I can’t see that he has any claim at all. He’s not a man of influence, he’s not even a man of birth. Nobody ever heard of his father, while mine will be celebrated as long as English history is read.”

  “I can’t tell you how sorry and disappointed I am.”

  Canon Spratte paused in his indignant promenade and waved his hand picturesquely towards the open window.

  “Ah, my dear friend, don’t trouble yourself with my small annoyances. Go and have tea now; it will be bad for you if you keep it standing.”

  “And you, dear Canon?”

  “I will face the disappointment in the privacy of my own apartment.”

  Mrs. Fitzherbert left him, and with a despondent sigh he turned to go into his study. His glance fell on his father’s portrait, and a thought came to him which in a layman might have expressed itself in the words:

  “By Jove, if he were alive, he’d make ’em skip.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, and passing a looking-glass, paused to observe himself. Meditatively he ran his fingers through his curly, abundant hair; and then, almost without thinking what he was about, took from his pocket a little comb and passed it through the disarranged locks.

  “I suppose I must go to Savile Row to-morrow, and tell them they can set to work on those trousers,” he muttered.

  IX

  IT was almost with a sense of disillusion that Winnie realized the fight was won. Feeling very truly that opposition would only have increased her determination to marry Bertram Railing, she would have been pleased, in heroic mood, to do more desperate battle for her love. She was like a man who puts out all his strength to lift an iron weight and finds it of cardboard, light and hollow, so that he is sent sprawling on the ground. Winnie had braced herself to strenuous efforts, and since they were unneeded, the affair gained somewhat the look of a tragedy turned to farce. The conditions which the Canon had set were precise, but easy; he gave no sanction to the engagement but offered no hostility. Only, for a year nothing must be said about it to any one.

  Railing was invited to luncheon at St. Gregory’s Vicarage. Canon Spratte, though making no more than a passing, facetious reference to the connection with Winnie, behaved very politely. He was friendly and even cordial. The girl knew that both he and Lady Sophia examined her lover critically, and though she thought herself detestable, she could not help watching him also, nervously, in case he committed a solecism. But he was so frank, so natural, that everything he did gained a peculiar charm, and his good looks made Winnie love him each moment more devotedly. She was curious to know her aunt’s opinion; but that the elderly lady took care neither by word nor manner to give, till she was asked outright.

  “My dear, if you love him, and your father approves, I don’t think there’s anything more to be said,” she smiled. “I suppose he’ll go into Parliament when you’re married, and I dare say it’s not a bad thing that he’s a Radical. The Liberals want clever young men with good connections, and doubtless your father will be able to get him made something or other.”

  “He wouldn’t consent to be made anything,” said Winnie, with scornful pride.

  “After he’s been married a few years he’ll no doubt take anything he can get,” answered Lady Sophia, mildly.

  “Ah, but you don’t understand, we don’t want to think of ourselves, we want to think of others.”

  “Have you ever faced the fact that people will ask you to their parties, but won’t dream of asking him?”

  “D’you think I should go anywhere without my husband?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll be rat
her bored,” suggested Lady Sophia.

  Winnie reflected over this for a moment; then, chasing away a frown of indecision from her face, glanced happily at her aunt.

  “At all events, you’ll allow that he’s very handsome.”

  “Certainly,” said Lady Sophia. “I have only one fault to find with him. Aren’t his legs a little short? I wonder if he can wear a frock-coat without looking stumpy.”

  “Fortunately, he’s absolutely indifferent to what he wears,” laughed Winnie.

  “Yes, I’ve noticed that; his clothes look as if they were bought ready-made. You must really take him to a good tailor.”

  Canon Spratte would much have liked to inspect Mrs. Railing and her daughter, but feared to excite Winnie’s suspicion. He contented himself with urging Bertram to take her to Peckham; and when he made the suggestion, watched the youth keenly for signs of disinclination to produce his people. He saw nothing.

  “I can’t make out if the boy is simple or crafty,” he said to himself irritably.

  It never struck him that Railing could have so great an affection for his mother as to be indifferent to her defects.

  “She’s done everything for me,” he told Winnie, when they were in the train, on their way to visit her. “My father died when I was a lad, and it’s only by her strength of will and sheer hard work that I’ve done anything at all.”

  Winnie, overflowing with love for the handsome fellow, was prepared to look upon his mother with favourable eyes. Her imagination presented to her a Roman matron, toiling with silent patience to fit her son for a great work. There was something heroic in the thought of this unassuming person, educated in the hard school of poverty, preparing with inflexible courage the instrument for the regeneration of a people. She expected to find a powerful, stern woman whom, if it was impossible to love, she might at least admire. Winnie was sure that Mrs. Railing had a thousand interesting things to say about Bertram.