Somerset Maugham - The Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (33 Works in One Edition)

“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.”