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Introduction Copyright © 2014, Nick Lyons
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
ISBN: 978-1-62873-784-4
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
INTRODUCTION by Nick Lyons
SHORT STORIES
Mackintosh
Rain
The Pool
Red
The Fall of Edward Barnard
NOVELS
The Moon and Sixpence
The Magician
Liza of Lambeth
Introduction
W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM (1874–1965) is one of the most readable of all twentieth-century authors. Late in life he viewed himself as sitting “in the very first row of the second-raters,” and his work, for all of its immense popularity, has been scored by many literary critics for blandness of style, flatness of characters. But he is much more than that. Popular he was and surely remains, and the simple reason for this has always been the genuine interest and pleasure a huge number of readers have always taken in his work. This ample collection of three early novels and five short stories (his favorite form) is bound to be widely enjoyed.
Liza of Lambeth, his first novel and probably the one drawn most closely from his life experiences as a medical student and fledgling doctor, is still striking in its cold-eyed depiction of poverty, illness, and despair. It was greatly popular when it was first published in Maugham’s early twenties and remains stark and blistering today in its realistic depiction of the tense, tragic life of a young woman in a London slum. The Magician, with its nasty depictions of contemporary writers like Hugh Walpole, a close friend of Maugham’s, followed ten years later, in 1908, and by the time Of Human Bondage was published in 1915, Maugham was one of the most popular writers in the world. He had become a playwright, too, and at that time had four plays on the London stage simultaneously—though his plays, except in clever cinematic adaptations like Being Julia, are rarely seen today.
The Moon and Sixpence, roughly taking the bolder frame of Paul Gauguin’s life, remakes the French artist as a contemporary Englishman and uses Maugham himself as narrator—a role he felt comfortable using and makes excellent use of again in The Razor’s Edge and other works. Charles Strickland, a British stockbroker, abandons his wife and children, and goes to Paris where he plunges fully into the life of a painter. He is monotonic in his commitment to his painting, indifferent to the lives of others, often brutally cold and cruel. And then, like Gauguin, he leaves the West and takes up life in Tahiti. Throughout, Maugham’s voice is patient and curious and nonjudgmental, and he serves as foil for the moral, social, and even aesthetic extravagances of Strickland’s life, making them more believable.
The Trembling of a Leaf, Maugham’s second collection of stories, grew from his travels and fascination with the South Sea islands. It was published in 1921, two years after The Moon and Sixpence, which looked so closely at Strickland’s removal from Western life to a totally different life on a Pacific island. You’ll find five of the best stories from that collection here: “Red,” “Mackintosh,” “The Pool,” about a couple that return from the islands to live in Scotland; “The Fall of Edward Barnard,” who has left life in the West for a new life with the islanders; and the enduring classic, “Rain.” All contain contrasts of the presumably simpler life of the islanders with life in the West.
“Rain” depicts a particularly tenacious missionary who passionately proselytizes Sadie Thompson, trying to redeem her from her life as a prostitute. Sadie’s position is simple. “Why couldn’t you leave me be?” she asks. “I wasn’t doin’ you no harm.” But he persists and persists and finally his efforts lead to raw tragedy. The story has been a perennial favorite—first as the story, then as a popular play by Maugham, and then as a spate of successful movies with Gloria Swanson, Joan Crawford, and even Rita Hayworth. It presumably earned its author, in all its forms, more than a million dollars.
This collection offers an excellent sampling of Maugham’s work, with its clear prose, shrewd plotting, and story-telling strengths. They reveal most of his seminal themes—his dislike of hypocrisy, hokum of all kinds, cruelty, and the many ironies of life, and also some of his own cold cynicism. Chiefly, though, these novels and stories are wonderfully readable, memorable, and enormously engaging.
—Nick Lyons
SHORT STORIES
Mackintosh
HE SPLASHED ABOUT for a few minutes in the sea; it was too shallow to swim in and for fear of sharks he could not go out of his depth; then he got out and went into the bath-house for a shower. The coldness of the fresh water was grateful after the heavy stickiness of the salt Pacific, so warm, though it was only just after seven, that to bathe in it did not brace you but rather increased your languor; and when he had dried himself, slipping into a bath-gown, he called out to the Chinese cook that he would be ready for breakfast in five minutes. He walked barefoot across the patch of coarse grass which Walker, the administrator, proudly thought was a lawn, to his own quarters and dressed. This did not take long, for he put on nothing but a shirt and a pair of duck trousers and then went over to his chief’s house on the other side of the compound. The two men had their meals together, but the Chinese cook told him that Walker had set out on horseback at five and would not be back for another hour.
Mackintosh had slept badly and he looked with distaste at the paw-paw and the eggs and bacon which were set before him. The mosquitoes had been maddening that night; they flew about the net under which he slept in such numbers that their humming, pitiless and menacing, had the effect of a note, infinitely drawn out, played on a distant organ, and whenever he dozed off he awoke with a start in the belief that one had found its way inside his curtains. It was so hot that he lay naked. He turned from side to side. And gradually the dull roar of the breakers on the reef, so unceasing and so regular that generally you did not hear it, grew distinct on his consciousness, its rhythm hammered on his tired nerves and he held himself with clenched hands in the effort to bear it. The thought that nothing could stop that sound, for it would continue to all eternity, was almost impossible to bear, and, as though his strength were a match for the ruthless forces of nature, he had an insane impulse to do some violent thing. He felt he must cling to his self-control or he would go mad. And now, looking out of the window at the lagoon and the strip of foam which marked the reef, he shuddered with hatred of the brilliant scene. The cloudless sky was like an inverted bowl that hemmed it in. He lit his pipe and turned over the pile of Auckland papers that had come over from Apia a few days before. The newest of them was three weeks old. They gave an impression of incredible du
llness.
Then he went into the office. It was a large, bare room with two desks in it and a bench along one side. A number of natives were seated on this, and a couple of women. They gossiped while they waited for the administrator, and when Mackintosh came in they greeted him.
“Talofa li.”
He returned their greeting and sat down at his desk. He began to write, working on a report which the governor of Samoa had been clamouring for and which Walker, with his usual dilatoriness, had neglected to prepare. Mackintosh as he made his notes reflected vindictively that Walker was late with his report because he was so illiterate that he had an invincible distaste for anything to do with pens and paper; and now when it was at last ready, concise and neatly official, he would accept his subordinate’s work without a word of appreciation, with a sneer rather or a gibe, and send it on to his own superior as though it were his own composition. He could not have written a word of it. Mackintosh thought with rage that if his chief pencilled in some insertion it would be childish in expression and faulty in language. If he remonstrated or sought to put his meaning into an intelligible phrase, Walker would fly into a passion and cry:
“What the hell do I care about grammar? That’s what I want to say and that’s how I want to say it.”
At last Walker came in. The natives surrounded him as he entered, trying to get his immediate attention, but he turned on them roughly and told them to sit down and hold their tongues. He threatened that if they were not quiet he would have them all turned out and see none of them that day. He nodded to Mackintosh.
“Hulloa, Mac; up at last? I don’t know how you can waste the best part of the day in bed. You ought to have been up before dawn like me. Lazy beggar.”
He threw himself heavily into his chair and wiped his face with a large bandana.
“By heaven, I’ve got a thirst.”
He turned to the policeman who stood at the door, a picturesque figure in his white jacket and lava-lava, the loin cloth of the Samoan, and told him to bring kava. The kava bowl stood on the floor in the corner of the room, and the policeman filled a half coconut shell and brought it to Walker. He poured a few drops on the ground, murmured the customary words to the company, and drank with relish. Then he told the policeman to serve the waiting natives, and the shell was handed to each one in order of birth or importance and emptied with the same ceremonies.
Then he set about the day’s work. He was a little man, considerably less than of middle height, and enormously stout; he had a large, fleshy face, clean-shaven, with the cheeks hanging on each side in great dew-laps, and three vast chins; his small features were all dissolved in fat; and, but for a crescent of white hair at the back of his head, he was completely bald. He reminded you of Mr Pickwick. He was grotesque, a figure of fun, and yet, strangely enough, not without dignity. His blue eyes, behind large gold-rimmed spectacles, were shrewd and vivacious, and there was a great deal of determination in his face. He was sixty, but his native vitality triumphed over advancing years. Notwithstanding his corpulence his movements were quick, and he walked with a heavy, resolute tread as though he sought to impress his weight upon the earth. He spoke in a loud, gruff voice.
It was two years now since Mackintosh had been appointed Walker’s assistant. Walker, who had been for a quarter of a century administrator of Talua, one of the larger islands in the Samoan group, was a man known in person or by report through the length and breadth of the South Seas; and it was with lively curiosity that Mackintosh looked forward to his first meeting with him. For one reason or another he stayed a couple of weeks at Apia before he took up his post and both at Chaplin’s hotel and at the English club he heard innumerable stories about the administrator. He thought now with irony of his interest in them. Since then he had heard them a hundred times from Walker himself. Walker knew that he was a character, and, proud of his reputation, deliberately acted up to it. He was jealous of his “legend” and anxious that you should know the exact details of any of the celebrated stories that were told of him. He was ludicrously angry with anyone who had told them to the stranger incorrectly.
There was a rough cordiality about Walker which Mackintosh at first found not unattractive, and Walker, glad to have a listener to whom all he said was fresh, gave of his best. He was good-humoured, hearty, and considerate. To Mackintosh, who had lived the sheltered life of a government official in London till at the age of thirty-four an attack of pneumonia, leaving him with the threat of tuberculosis, had forced him to seek a post in the Pacific, Walker’s existence seemed extraordinarily romantic. The adventure with which he started on his conquest of circumstance was typical of the man. He ran away to sea when he was fifteen and for over a year was employed in shovelling coal on a collier. He was an undersized boy and both men and mates were kind to him, but the captain for some reason conceived a savage dislike of him. He used the lad cruelly so that, beaten and kicked, he often could not sleep for the pain that racked his limbs. He loathed the captain with all his soul. Then he was given a tip for some race and managed to borrow twenty-five pounds from a friend he had picked up in Belfast. He put it on the horse, an outsider, at long odds. He had no means of repaying the money if he lost, but it never occurred to him that he could lose. He felt himself in luck. The horse won and he found himself with something over a thousand pounds in hard cash. Now his chance had come. He found out who was the best solicitor in the town—the collier lay then somewhere on the Irish coast—went to him, and, telling him that he heard the ship was for sale, asked him to arrange the purchase for him. The solicitor was amused at his small client, he was only sixteen and did not look so old, and, moved perhaps by sympathy, promised not only to arrange the matter for him but to see that he made a good bargain. After a little while Walker found himself the owner of the ship. He went back to her and had what he described as the most glorious moment of his life when he gave the skipper notice and told him that he must get off his ship in half an hour. He made the mate captain and sailed on the collier for another nine months, at the end of which he sold her at a profit.
He came out to the islands at the age of twenty-six as a planter. He was one of the few white men settled in Talua at the time of the German occupation and had then already some influence with the natives. The Germans made him administrator, a position which he occupied for twenty years, and when the island was seized by the British he was confirmed in his post. He ruled the island despotically, but with complete success. The prestige of this success was another reason for the interest that Mackintosh took in him.
But the two men were not made to get on. Mackintosh was an ugly man, with ungainly gestures, a tall thin fellow, with a narrow chest and bowed shoulders. He had sallow, sunken cheeks, and his eyes were large and sombre. He was a great reader, and when his books arrived and were unpacked Walker came over to his quarters and looked at them. Then he turned to Mackintosh with a coarse laugh.
“What in Hell have you brought all this muck for?” he asked.
Mackintosh flushed darkly.
“I’m sorry you think it muck. I brought my books because I want to read them.”
“When you said you’d got a lot of books coming I thought there’d be something for me to read. Haven’t you got any detective stories?”
“Detective stories don’t interest me.”
“You’re a damned fool then.”
“I’m content that you should think so.”
Every mail brought Walker a mass of periodical literature, papers from New Zealand and magazines from America, and it exasperated him that Mackintosh showed his contempt for these ephemeral publications. He had no patience with the books that absorbed Mackintosh’s leisure and thought it only a pose that he read Gibbon’s Decline and Fall or Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy. And since he had never learned to put any restraint on his tongue, he expressed his opinion of his assistant freely. Mackintosh began to see the real man, and under the boisterous good-humour he discerned a vulgar cunning which was hateful;
he was vain and domineering, and it was strange that he had notwithstanding a shyness which made him dislike people who were not quite of his kidney. He judged others, naïvely, by their language, and if it was free from the oaths and the obscenity which made up the greater part of his own conversation, he looked upon them with suspicion. In the evening the two men played piquet. He played badly but vaingloriously, crowing over his opponent when he won and losing his temper when he lost. On rare occasions a couple of planters or traders would drive over to play bridge, and then Walker showed himself in what Mackintosh considered a characteristic light. He played regardless of his partner, calling up in his desire to play the hand, and argued interminably, beating down opposition by the loudness of his voice. He constantly revoked, and when he did so said with an ingratiating whine: “Oh, you wouldn’t count it against an old man who can hardly see.” Did he know that his opponents thought it as well to keep on the right side of him and hesitated to insist on the rigour of the game? Mackintosh watched him with an icy contempt. When the game was over, while they smoked their pipes and drank whisky, they would begin telling stories. Walker told with gusto the story of his marriage. He had got so drunk at the wedding feast that the bride had fled and he had never seen her since. He had had numberless adventures, commonplace and sordid, with the women of the island and he described them with a pride in his own prowess which was an offence to Mackintosh’s fastidious ears. He was a gross, sensual old man. He thought Mackintosh a poor fellow because he would not share his promiscuous amours and remained sober when the company was drunk.
He despised him also for the orderliness with which he did his official work. Mackintosh liked to do everything just so. His desk was always tidy, his papers were always neatly docketed, he could put his hand on any document that was needed, and he had at his fingers’ ends all the regulations that were required for the business of their administration.