Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  X

  CANON SPRATTE was dispirited. Certain words which Lady Sophia had used in a discussion upon Winnie’s engagement dwelt in his mind with discomforting persistence. The deliberate fashion with which she spoke gave a peculiar authority to her sayings; and though he roundly scoffed at them, the Canon could not help the feeling of uneasiness they left behind.

  “After all, you can say what you like, Theodore, but in point of fact we belong to just the same class as Bertram Railing. Are you sure that Winnie is not merely sinking to our proper level? It’s a tendency with families like ours, that have come up in the world; and with most of us, to keep up our nobility is just swimming against the stream.”

  “You’re mixing your metaphors, Sophia, and I haven’t an idea what you mean.”

  “Well, in our heart of hearts we’re bourgeois, we’re desperately bourgeois. But I suspect it’s just the same with others as it is with us. In the last fifty years so many tinkers, tailors, and spectacle-makers have pitchforked themselves into the upper classes; and very few of them are quite at home. Some are continually on the alert to uphold their dignity, trying to hide by the stupid pretentiousness of a bogus genealogy in Burke, the grandfather who was a country attorney, or a plate-layer, or a groom. Some, with the energy still in them of all those ancestors who were honest shopkeepers or artisans, throw themselves from sheer boredom into every kind of dissipation.”

  “You talk like a Radical tub-thumper,” said Canon Spratte, with disdain.

  Lady Sophia shrugged her shoulders.

  “And after all, however much they struggle, the majority, sooner or later, sink back into the ranks of the middle classes. And, once there, with what a comfortable ease they wallow!”

  “Facilis descensus Averni,” he murmured.

  “Lord Stonehenge can make earldoms and baronies galore, but what’s the good when the instincts of these new noblemen, their habits and virtues and vices, are bourgeois to the very marrow!”

  Lady Sophia looked at her brother for an indignant denial of these statements, but to her surprise he answered nothing. He was very thoughtful.

  “Don’t you know shoals of them?” she said. “Young men who would make quite passable doctors or fairly honest lawyers, and who wear their hereditary honours like clothes several sizes too large for them? They meander through life aimlessly, like fish out of water. Look at Sir Peter Mason, whose father was President of some medical body at the Jubilee, and managed with difficulty to scrape up the needful thirty thousand pounds to accept a baronetcy. Peter was then a medical student whose ambition it was to buy a little practice in the country and marry his cousin Bertha. Well, now he’s a baronet and Bertha thinks it bad form that he should drive about in a dog-cart to see patients at five shillings a visit. So they live in Essex because it’s cheap, and try to keep up their dignity on a thousand a year, and they’re desperately bored. Have you never met rather dowdy girls who’ve spent their lives in Bayswater or in some small dull terrace at South Kensington, till their father in the see-saw of politics was made a peer? How clumsily they bear their twopenny titles, how self-consciously! And with what relief they marry some obscure young man in the City!”

  Canon Spratte looked at his sister for a moment, and when he answered, it was only by a visible effort that his voice remained firm.

  “Sophia, if Winnie marries beneath her it will break my heart.”

  “Yes, you’re the other sort of nouvelle noblesse, Theodore: you’re the sort that’s always struggling to get on equal terms with the old.”

  “Sophia, Sophia!”

  “What do you suppose Lady Wroxham said when Harry told her he wanted to marry Winnie?”

  “She’s a charming woman and she has a deeply religious spirit, Sophia.”

  “Yes, but all the same I have an idea that she raised those thin eyebrows of hers and in that quiet, meek voice, asked: ‘Winnie Spratte, Harry? Do you think the Sprattes are quite up to your form?’”

  “I should think it extremely snobbish if she said anything of the sort,” retorted the Canon, with all his old fire.

  The conversation dropped, but he could not help it if some of these observations rankled. Lionel, on whom depended the future of the stock, proposed to marry a brewer’s daughter, and Winnie was positively engaged to a man of no family. It looked indeed as though his children were sinking back into the ranks whence with so much trouble his father had emerged. Nor did the second Earl conceal his scorn for the family honours. His coronet, with the strawberry leaves and the lifted pearls, he kicked hither and thither, verbally, like a football; and the ermine cloak was a scarlet rag which never ceased to excite his derision.

  “I’m the only member of the family who has a proper sense of his dignity,” sighed the Canon.

  But when he heard that Winnie, on her return from Peckham Rye, had gone to her room with a headache, he chased away these gloomy thoughts. Even paternal affection could not prevent him from rubbing his hands with satisfaction.

  “I thought she wouldn’t be very well after a visit to Mr. Railing’s mamma,” he said.

  When she entered the drawing-room he went towards her with outstretched hands.

  “Ah, my love, I see you’ve returned safely from the wilds of Peckham. I hope you encountered no savage beasts in those unfrequented parts.”

  Winnie, with a little groan of exhaustion, sank into a chair. Her head was aching still and her eyes were red with many tears. Canon Spratte assumed his most affable manner. His voice was a marvel of kindly solicitude, and only in a note here and there was perceptible a suspicion of banter.

  “I hope you enjoyed yourself, my pet. You know the only wish I have in the world is to make you happy. And did your prospective mother-in-law take you to her capacious bosom?”

  “She was very kind, father.”

  “I imagine that she was not exactly polished?”

  “I didn’t expect her to be,” answered Winnie, in so dejected a tone that it would have melted the heart of any one less inflexible than Theodore Spratte.

  “But I suppose you didn’t really mind that much, did you? True disinterestedness is such a beautiful thing, and in this world, alas! so rare.”

  A sullen, defiant look came into Winnie’s face.

  “I mean to marry Bertram in spite of everything, papa.”

  “My darling, whoever suggested that you shouldn’t? By the way, do they call him Bertie?”

  “Yes, they call him Bertie.”

  “I thought they would,” answered the Canon, with the triumphant air of a man who has found some important hypothesis verified by fact. “And Mrs. Railing’s husband I think you said was connected with the sea?”

  “He was first mate on a collier.”

  “Oh, yes. And does she smack of the briny or does she smack of Peckham Rye?”

  The Canon burst into song, facetiously, with a seaman’s roll, hoisting his slacks. His singing voice was melodious and full of spirit.

  “For I’m no sailor bold,

  And I’ve never been upon the sea;

  And if I fall therein, it’s a fact I couldn’t swim,

  And quickly at the bottom I should be.”

  He threw back his head gaily.

  “My dear, how uncommunicative you are, and I’m dying with curiosity. Tell me all about Mrs. Railing. Aitchless, I presume?”

  “Oh, papa, how can you, how can you!” cried Winnie, hardly keeping back the tears.

  “My dear, I have no doubt they are rough diamonds, but you mustn’t be discouraged at that. You must make the best of things. Remember that externals are not everything — even in this world. I’m sure the Railings are thoroughly worthy people. It is doubtless possible to eat peas with a knife, and yet to have an excellent heart. One of the most saintly women I ever knew, the old Marquise de Surennes, used invariably to wipe her knife and fork with a table-napkin before eating.”

  His words, notwithstanding the tone of great tenderness, were bitter stabs; and Canon Sp
ratte, as he spoke, really could not help admiring his own cleverness.

  “I should imagine that your fiancé was devoted to his mother and sister. People of that class always are. You will naturally be a good deal together. In fact, I think it probable that they will make you long and frequent visits. One’s less desirable relations are such patterns of affection; they’re always talking of the beauty of a united family. But I’m quite sure that you’ll soon accustom yourself to their slight eccentricities of diction, to their little vulgarities of manner. Remember always that ‘kind hearts are more than coronets and simple faith than Norman blood.’”

  But Winnie could hold herself in no longer.

  “Oh, they were awful,” she cried, putting her hands to her eyes. “What shall I do? What shall I do?”

  Canon Spratte, still in the swing of his rhetoric, stood in front of her. A faint smile was outlined on his lips. Was this the critical moment when the final blow might be effectively delivered? Should he suggest that it was the easiest thing in the world to break off the engagement with Bertram? He hesitated. After all, there was no need to take things hurriedly, and Providence notoriously sided with discretion and the large battalions. If Winnie suffered, it was for her good, and it was a cherished maxim with Canon Spratte that suffering was salutary. He had said in the pulpit frequently, (he was too clever a man to hesitate to repeat himself,) that the human soul was brought to its highest perfection only through distress, mental or bodily.

  “Man is ennobled by pain,” he said, looking so handsome that it must have been a cynic indeed who doubted that he spoke sense. “Our character is refined to pure gold. The gross lusts of the flesh, the commonness which is in all of us, the pettiness of spirit, disappear in these profitable afflictions. From a bed of sickness may spring the most delicate flowers of unselfishness, of devotion, and of true saintliness. Do not seek to avoid pain, but accept it as the surest guide to all that is in you of beauty, of heavenliness, and of truth.”

  For his own part, when forced to visit his dentist for the extraction of a tooth, he took good care to have gas properly administered.

  In the present instance he looked upon himself as a surgeon who applies irritation that the ragged edges of an ulcer may inflame and heal. Possibly there was also in his determination to strike no sudden blow, a certain human weakness from which Canon Spratte often confessed he was not exempt. He had not the heart to interrupt the scheme which he had so ingeniously devised. He was like a debater who has convinced his adversary by the first section of an argument, but for his own pleasure, and in the interests of truth, duly exposes the rest of his contention.

  He sat down at the little writing-table which was in the drawing-room and scribbled a note. He took out an envelope.

  “By the way, my love, what is the address of dear Mrs. Railing?”

  Winnie looked up with astonishment.

  “What do you want it for?”

  “Come, my darling, it’s nothing improper, I hope.”

  “Balmoral, Rosebery Gardens, Gladstone Road.”

  “It sounds quite aristocratic,” he said, suavely. “Their Liberalism is evidently a family tradition.”

  He fastened the envelope, and, blotting it, rose from the desk.

  “I consider it my duty to be as cordial as possible to your future relations, Winnie, and I have a natural curiosity to make their acquaintance. I have asked Mrs. Railing to bring her daughter to tea, and I shall ask your uncle to meet them.”

  “Oh, father, you don’t know what they’re like!”

  “My dear, I don’t expect to find them highly educated. I take it they are rough diamonds with hearts of gold. I’m prepared to like Mrs. Railing.”

  “Papa, don’t ask any one else — she drinks.”

  “Well, well, we all have our little failings in this world,” returned the Canon, blandly.

  He had gone too far. Winnie gave him a long, keen look, and the old note of defiance came back to her face.

  “I hope you don’t think I can ever break my engagement with Bertram. Nothing on earth shall induce me to do that. I’ve given him my solemn promise and I’d sooner die than break it.”

  The Canon raised his eyebrows in a very good imitation of complete amazement.

  “My dear, I have not the least intention of thwarting you in any way. I think it wrong and even wicked for a father to attempt to influence his children’s matrimonial choice. Their youth and inexperience naturally make them so much more capable of judging for themselves.”

  XI

  ONE evening, to his sister’s amazement, Canon Spratte volunteered to accompany Winnie to a party. The Vicar of St. Gregory’s was at his best in smaller gatherings, where his personality could more easily make itself felt. He liked an attentive audience; and even one careless pair, more anxious to talk with one another than to hear his sage words, was apt to disconcert him. When he found himself in a crowd, jostled and pushed, able to speak with but one person at a time, and reduced even then to social commonplace, he quickly grew bored. He could only suffer a multitude when from the safe eminence of the pulpit, the first in place as well as in dignity of oratorial machines, he was lifted above the press of mankind. He was assured then of their attentiveness and protected from their interruption.

  Winnie was very simply dressed. Her pallor was unusual, but in the soft light of shaded electricity she gained thereby a peculiar delicacy. The pose of her head was a little wearied. The blue eyes were filled with melancholy. The Canon thought her frail beauty had never been seen to greater advantage; and when, alert for all that was proceeding, he saw Wroxham coming towards them, he quickly vanished from her side. He smiled as he noticed the singular way in which the young man held his nose in the air. Wroxham was very short-sighted, and his prominent blue eyes had an odd helplessness of expression. Winnie did not see him. She was watching the throng of dancers, taking a new delight in the gaiety of those many people gathered there in lightness of heart to enjoy the fleeting moments. Never before had she found such satisfaction in the magnificence of the ball-room, hung with red roses, nor in the charming dresses of the women. She could not crush a pang that entered her breast when she thought that all this must be given up, and in sudden contrast she saw the little sordid parlour in Rosebery Gardens. Before her eyes arose the High Street at Peckham with its gaudy shops. It was hideous, hideous, and she shuddered.

  Suddenly she heard in her ear a well-known voice.

  “Winnie!”

  Her pallor gave way before a blush that made her ten times prettier. She did not answer, but looked at Harry. In his eyes, herself quickened by suffering, she thought there was a new sadness, and a great sympathy filled her. If he lacked good looks he had at all events the kindly face of an old friend. And he was admirably dressed. Discovering for the first time that his clothes had never before attracted her attention, she observed now with what an incomparable ease he bore them. The cruel advice of Lady Sophia to get Bertram a good tailor recurred to her, and she remembered the suggestion that he could not wear a frock coat becomingly.

  “I wonder if he knows it,” passed through her mind. “Perhaps that’s why he always wears a jacket.”

  It was an unwelcome thought that Bertram could be influenced by vain notions, and she upbraided herself for the pettiness of the suspicion. Wroxham, without fear of ridicule and with simplicity, could wear any clothes he chose.

  “I knew I should find you here,” he was saying. “You’re not angry with me for coming? I wanted to see you so badly.”

  “Good heavens, why should I be angry?” smiled Winnie. “You have just as much right to come as I.”

  She could not help being flattered by the passionate love which coloured every word he spoke, and her own voice gained a sweeter tenderness.

  “I can’t keep away from you, Winnie. I didn’t know I loved you so much.”

  “Oh, don’t, please,” she murmured, “we’ve been friends for ages. It would be absurd if we never saw one another
again because — because of the other day. You know I’m always glad to see you.”

  “I couldn’t take your answer as final. Oh, I don’t want to bother you and make you miserable, but don’t you care for me at all? Don’t you think that after a time you may get to like me?”

  His humility touched Winnie so much that it made her answer very difficult.

  “I told you the other day it was impossible.”

  “Oh, I know. But then I couldn’t say what I wanted. I couldn’t understand. Like a fool, I thought you cared for me. I loved you so passionately that it seemed impossible I should be nothing to you at all.”

  “Please don’t say anything more, Harry,” she said, very gently. “It’s awfully kind of you, and I don’t know how to thank you. But I can’t marry you.”

  Wroxham, with a little instinctive motion, set the glasses more firmly on his nose, and looked at her sadly. She smiled.

  “Won’t you dance with me?” she said.

  His face lit up as he placed his arm round her waist and they began to waltz. The rhythm of the haunting melody carried Winnie’s soul away. She knew that she was giving great happiness, and it filled her with pleasure. The music stopped, and with a sigh of delight she sank into a chair.

  “I want to tell you something,” he said presently, with much seriousness. “If ever you change your mind I shall be waiting for you. I can never love any one else. I don’t want you to make any promise or to give me any encouragement. But I shall wait for you. And if ever the time comes that you think you can care for me, you will find me ready and eager to be — your very humble servant.”

  “I didn’t know you were so kind,” said she, with tears in her eyes. “I misjudged you, I thought you treated me like a fool. I’m sorry, I want you to be happy. But don’t be wretched because I can’t marry you; I’m not worth troubling about.”

  He looked at her fixedly, divining from her tone that something was troubling her.