Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  “And what the Dickens is that?” asked Frank, smiling.

  Miss Ley looked at him with laughing eyes, holding out the roses, her cheeks flushed.

  “Why, beauty, you dolt,” she cried gaily. “Beauty.”

  THE END

  THE BISHOP’S APRON

  CONTENTS

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  I

  THE world takes people very willingly at the estimate in which they hold themselves. With a fashionable bias for expression in a foreign tongue it calls modesty mauvaise honte; and the impudent are thought merely to have a proper opinion of their merit. But Ponsonby was really an imposing personage. His movements were measured and noiseless; and he wore the sombre garb of a gentleman’s butler with impressive dignity. He was a large man, flabby and corpulent, with a loose, smooth skin. His face, undisturbed by the rapid play of expression, which he would have thought indecorous, had a look of placid respectability; his eyes, with their puffy lower lids, rested on surrounding objects heavily; and his earnest, obsequious voice gave an impression of such overwhelming piety that your glance, involuntarily, fell to his rotund calves for the gaiters episcopal.

  He looked gravely at the table set out for luncheon, while Alfred, the footman, walked round it, placing bread in each napkin.

  “Is Tommy Tiddler coming to-day, Mr. Ponsonby?” he asked.

  “His lordship is expected,” returned the butler, with a frigid stare.

  He emphasised the aspirate to mark his disapproval of the flippancy wherewith his colleague referred to a person who was not only the brother of his master, but a member of the aristocracy.

  “Here he is!” said Alfred, unabashed, looking out of the window. “He’s just drove up in a cab.”

  Lord Spratte walked up the steps and rang the bell. Though Ponsonby had seen him two or three times a week for ten years, he gave no sign of recognition.

  “Am I expected to luncheon to-day, Ponsonby?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Lord Spratte was middle-aged, of fresh complexion notwithstanding his grey hair; and his manner was quick and breezy. He carried his years and the increasing girth which accompanied them, with a graceful light-heartedness; and was apt to flatter himself that with the light behind he might still pass for five-and-thirty. He had neither the wish nor the intention to grow old. But the man of fifty, seeking to make the most of himself, must use many careful adjustments. Not for him are the loose, ill-fitting clothes that become a stripling of eighteen; his tailor needs a world of skill to counteract the slackening of muscle and to minimize the excess of avoirdupois. On his toilet-table are numerous pots and jars and bottles, and each is a device to persuade himself that the troublesome years are not marching on. He takes more care of his hands than a professional beauty. Above all, his hair is a source of anxiety. Lord Spratte by many experiments had learnt exactly how to dress it so that no unbecoming baldness was displayed; but he never seized a brush and comb without thinking, like Achilles stalking melancholy through the fields of death, that he would much sooner be a crossing-sweeper of fifteen than a peer of the realm at fifty.

  “Do you insist on leading me upstairs like a ewe-lamb, Ponsonby?” he asked.

  The butler’s face outlined the merest shadow of a smile as, silently, he preceded Lord Spratte to the drawing-room. For nothing in the world would he have omitted the customary ceremonies of polite society.

  “Lord Spratte,” he announced.

  The guest advanced and saw his sister Sophia, his brother Theodore, his nephew and his niece. Lady Sophia, a handsome and self-assured woman of five-and-fifty, the eldest of the family, put aside her book and rose to kiss him. Canon Spratte extended two fingers.

  “Good heavens, have you invited me to a family party!”

  “Than which, I venture to think, there can be nothing more charming, nothing more beautiful, and nothing more entertaining,” replied the Canon, gaily.

  “Theodore is cultivating domesticity,” retorted the peer, with a look at his younger brother. “I believe he wants to be made a bishop.”

  “You take nothing seriously, Thomas. It is a failing of which I cannot but recommend you to correct yourself.”

  “Stow it, Theodore,” replied the other, unmoved.

  Theodore Spratte, Vicar of St. Gregory’s, South Kensington, and Canon of Tercanbury, was the youngest son of the first Earl Spratte, Lord Chancellor of England. He was a handsome man, tall and erect; and his presence was commanding. His comely looks had been to him through life a source of abiding pleasure. He preserved the slenderness, the brisk carriage of youth; and though but little younger than his brother, his fair hair, turning now to grey, remained profuse and curling. His fine blue eyes looked out upon the world with a happy self-confidence, and his mobile, shapely mouth was ever ready to break into a smile. The heartiness of his laughter sufficed to make all and sundry his particular friends. It was pleasant to meet a man who was so clean and fresh, always so admirably dressed, and whose appearance was so prepossessing. But he was nowhere more imposing than in the pulpit; for he wore his cassock and surplice, his scarlet hood, with a reassuring dash which convinced you that here was a pilot in whom you need not hesitate to set your trust. He had a certain gift for oratory. His voice was resonant and well modulated. The charm of his active personality was such that though, in those flowing periods and that wealth of metaphor, amid these sounding, forcible adjectives, the matter of his discourse often escaped you, you felt notwithstanding exhilarated and content. If his sermons redounded to his own honour rather than to the honour of God, it was not Canon Spratte who suffered.

  When he was left a widower with two young children, his sister Sophia, who had remained unmarried, came to live with him. In course of time Lionel, his son, grew up, entered the Church, and became his curate. His daughter Winnie was twenty-one, and in her fragile, delicate way as pretty as a shepherdess of Dresden china. She had all the charm of innocence, and such knowledge of the world as three seasons in London and the daily example of her father could give her.

  “By the way, Lionel, I suppose you took that wedding at 2.30 yesterday?”

  “Yes,” answered the curate.

  But the curtness of his reply was almost injurious contrasted with his father’s florid delivery; it seemed barely decent to treat in monosyllables with the Vicar of St. Gregory’s. His lightest observations were coloured by that rich baritone so that they gained a power and a significance which other men, less happily gifted, have only in treating of grave affairs.

  “I often wonder it’s worth your while to marry quite poor people,” suggested Lord Spratte. “Why don’t you send them down to the East End?”

  “Our duty, my dear Thomas, we have to do our duty,” replied Canon Spratte.

  Ponsonby, entering the room to intimate that luncheon was ready, looked significantly at Lady Sophia, without speaking, and silently withdrew.

  “I see that the Bishop of Barchester is dangerously ill,” said Lionel, when they were seated.

  Lionel was as tall and fair as his father, but lacked his energy and his force of character. He was dressed as little like a clergyman as possible.

  “I’m told he’s dying,” answered the Canon, gravely. “He’s been out of health for a long time, and I cannot help thinking that when the end comes it will be a happy release.”

  “I met him once and thought him a very brilliant man,” remarked Lady Sophia.

  “Andover?” cried the Canon, with surprise, throwing himself back in his chair. “My dear Sophia! I know he had a certain reputation for learning, but I never had any great opinion of it.”
>
  Lady Sophia for all reply pursed her lips. She exchanged a glance with Lord Spratte.

  “Of course I am the last person to say anything against a man who stands on the threshold of eternity,” added the Canon. “But between ourselves, if the truth must be told — he was nothing more than a doddering old idiot. And a man of no family.”

  Than this, in Theodore Spratte’s judgment, nothing could be said more utterly disparaging.

  “I wonder who’ll succeed him,” said Lionel, thoughtfully.

  “I really don’t know who there is with any great claim upon the Government.” He met his brother’s bantering smile, and quick to catch its meaning, answered without hesitation. “To tell you the truth, Thomas, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Lord Stonehenge offered the bishopric to me.”

  “You’d look rather a toff in leggings,” observed the other. “Wouldn’t he, Sophia?”

  Lady Sophia gave the Canon an inquiring stare.

  “My dear Tommy, I’ve not seen his legs for forty years.”

  “I think this is hardly a matter upon which you should exercise your humour, my dear,” retorted the Canon, with a twinkle in his eye.

  “Well, I hope you will accept no bishopric until you’ve made quite sure that the golf-links are beyond reproach,” said Lord Spratte.

  “I’ll tell Lord Stonehenge that an eighteen-hole course is a sine qua non of my elevation to the Episcopacy,” retorted the Canon, ironically.

  Between Lord Spratte and his sister on the one hand and Theodore on the other, was an unceasing duel, in which the parson fought for the respect due to his place and dignity, while the others were determined to suffer no nonsense. They attacked his pretension with flouting and battered his pomposity with ridicule. To anything in the nature of rhodomontade they were merciless, and in their presence he found it needful to observe a certain measure. He knew that no society was august enough to abash them into silence, and so took care not to expose himself under very public circumstances to the irony of the one or to the brutal mocking of the other. But the struggle was not altogether unpleasant. He could hit back with a good deal of vigour, and never hesitated to make plain statements in plain language. His position gave him the advantage that he could marshal on his side the forces of morality and religion; and when they had dealt so good a blow that he could not conceal his discomfiture, he was able to regain his self-esteem by calling them blasphemous or vulgar.

  The Canon turned to his daughter with an affectionate smile.

  “And what have you been doing this morning, Winnie?”

  “I went to see the model dwellings that Mr. Railing is interested in.”

  “By Jove, you’re not goin’ in for district visitin’, Winnie?” cried her uncle, putting up his eye-glass. “I hope you won’t catch anything.”

  Winnie blushed a little under his stare.

  “The condition of the poor is awfully bad. I think one ought to do something.”

  “Who is Mr. Railing?” inquired Lionel. “One of the Worcestershire Railings?”

  “No, just a common or garden Railing,” said the Canon.

  He rubbed his hands and looked round the table for appreciation of this mild jest, but only his curate was civil enough to smile.

  “He’s a mighty clever young man, and I think he’ll be very useful to me,” he added.

  “I notice that your actions are always governed by unselfish motives,” murmured Lady Sophia.

  “God helps those who help themselves. Mr. Railing is a Christian Socialist and writes for the Radical papers. I think he has a future, and I feel it my duty to give him some encouragement.” His voice assumed those rolling, grandiloquent tones which rang so effectively in St. Gregory’s Church. “Now-a-days, when Socialism is rapidly becoming a power in the land, when it is spreading branches into every stratum of society, it behoves us to rally it to the Church. Christianity is Socialism.”

  Lady Sophia gave a deprecating smile: “My dear Theodore, remember that only your family is present.”

  But it was not easy to stem the flood of Canon Spratte’s eloquence. He threw back his handsome head and looked at the full-length portrait of his father, in robes of office, which adorned the wall.

  “I pride myself above all things upon being abreast of the times. Every movement that savours of advance will find in me an enthusiastic supporter. My father, the late Lord Chancellor, was one of the first to perceive the coming strength of the people. And I am proud to know that my family has always identified itself with the future. Advance,” again the thrilling voice rang out. “Advance has always been our watchword, advance and progress.”

  Lord Spratte gave a low chuckle, for his brother was delivered into his hand.

  “You speak as if we’d come over with the Conquest, Theodore.”

  Canon Spratte turned to him coolly.

  “Have you never looked out the name of Spratte in Debrett?”

  “Frequently. I find the peerage excellent readin’ to fall back on when there’s nothin’ in the sportin’ papers. But it’s no bloomin’ good, Theodore; the family tree’s all bogus. A man with the name of Spratte didn’t have ancestors at the battle of Hastings.”

  “I wish to goodness you would express yourself in grammatical English,” answered the Canon, irritably. “I detest slang, and I deplore this habit of yours of omitting the terminal letter of certain words.”

  “You digress, my dear Theodore.”

  “Not at all! I don’t deny that the family has had its vicissitudes; you will find it difficult to discover one in the peerage that has not. At all events my father implicitly believed in the family tree.”

  “Well, he must have been a pretty innocent old buffer to do that. I never found any one else who would. Upon my word, I don’t see why a man called Spratte should have ancestors called Montmorency.”

  “I should have thought that even in your brief stay at Oxford you learnt enough natural history to know that every man must have a father,” retorted the Canon, ironically.

  Lord Spratte had been sent down from the ‘Varsity for some escapade of his early youth, and for thirty years his brother had never hesitated to remind him of it.

  “All I can say is that if a man called Spratte had a father called Montmorency, the less said about it the better,” he answered. “I may be particular, but it don’t sound moral to me.”

  “Your facetiousness is misplaced, Thomas, and considering that Winnie is present, the taste of it is more than doubtful. The connection at which you are pleased to sneer is perfectly clear and perfectly honourable. In 1631, Aubrey de Montmorency married....”

  But Lady Sophia, in tones of entreaty, interrupted: “Oh, Theodore, Theodore, not again!”

  He gave her a glance of some vexation, but held his tongue.

  “The first millionaire I meet who’s lookin’ out for a family tree, I’ll sell him mine for fifty quid,” said Lord Spratte. “And I’m blowed if it wouldn’t be cheap at the price, considerin’ that it’s chock full of Howards and Talbots and de Veres — to say nothin’ of a whole string of Montmorencys.”

  “You don’t know Sir John Durant, the brewer, do you, father?” asked Lionel. “He told me that since they gave him a baronetcy people have been regularly sending him a new and original family tree once a week.”

  “He must have quite a forest by now,” answered Lord Spratte. “What does he use ’em for — hop-poles?”

  “I should have thought they would make admirable Christmas presents for his poor relations,” suggested the Canon, who could not resist his little joke even on subjects dear to him. He turned again to his daughter. “By the way, Winnie, I find I shall be unable to go to Mr. Railing’s meeting to-morrow.”

  “He’ll be awfully disappointed. He was expecting you to make a speech.”

  “I’ve promised Lady Vizard to lunch with her to meet the Princess of Wartburg-Hochstein. I shouldn’t be able to get away early enough. A clergyman’s time is really never his own, and the Pr
incess wishes particularly to meet me.”

  “People so often forget that even Royal Personages have spiritual difficulties,” murmured Lady Sophia.

  “I shall write a little note to Mr. Railing wishing him luck, and with your permission, Sophia, I’ll ask him to tea afterwards.”

  “Is he presentable?”

  “He’s a gentleman, Aunt Sophia,” cried Winnie. “And he’s as beautiful as a Greek god.”

  Winnie flushed as she said this, and dropped her eyes. They were pleasant and blue like her father’s, but instead of his bold friendliness had a plaintiveness of expression which was rather charming. They seemed to appeal for confidence and for affection.

  “Shall I come and address your meeting, Winnie?” asked Lord Spratte, amused at her enthusiasm. “What is it about?”

  “Teetotalism!” she smiled.

  “Most of the London clergy go in for that now, don’t they?” remarked Lionel. “The bishop asked me the other day whether I was an abstainer.”

  “The bishop is a man of no family, Lionel,” retorted his father. “Personally I make no secret of the fact that I do not approve of teetotalism. Temperance, yes! But how can you be temperate if you abstain entirely? Corn and wine, the wheat, the barley, the vine, are ubiquitous; the corn strengthens, the wine gladdens man’s heart, as at the marriage feast in Cana of Galilee.”

  Lord Spratte opened his mouth to speak.

  “I wish you wouldn’t continually interrupt me, Thomas,” cried the Canon, before his brother could utter a word. “He who has solemnly pledged himself to total abstinence has surrendered to a society of human and modern institution his liberty to choose. Now what is it you wished to say, Thomas?”

  “I merely wanted to ask Ponsonby for more potatoes.”

  “I knew it was some flippant observation,” retorted the Canon.