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

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 Princess 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.

“The bishop suggested that total abstinence in the clergy served as an example,” said Lionel, mildly.

“As an example it has been a dismal failure. For many years I have searched for some successful results, for one man who would prove to me that, being a drunkard, he was so much impressed by the example of his clergyman, who for his sake and imitation ceased to drink his glass of beer at luncheon, his glass of port at dinner, or his glass of whisky and water at night, that he broke away from his vicious indulgence and became a sober man.”

Ponsonby stood at the Canon’s elbow, patiently waiting for the end of this harangue.

“Hock, sir?” said he, in sepulchral tones.

“Certainly, Ponsonby, certainly!” replied the Canon, so vigorously that the butler was not a little disconcerted. “What do you think of this hock, Thomas? Not bad, I flatter myself.”

He raised the glass to his nose and inhaled the pleasant odour. He drank his wine and smiled. An expression of placid satisfaction came over his face. He favoured the company with a Latin quotation:

“ O quam bonum est, O quam jucundum est, Poculis fraternis gaudere .”

Table of Contents

It was one of Canon Spratte’s peculiarities that he liked to read his Times before any other member of his family. He found a peculiar delight in opening it himself, and likened the perusal of a newspaper which some one else had read, to the drinking of milk from which a dishonest dairyman had skimmed the cream. Next morning, running his eye down the list of contents, he discovered that the Bishop of Barchester was dead.

“Poor Andover is no more, Sophia,” he remarked, with a decent solemnity.

He ate his kidney absently, and it was not till he passed his coffee-cup to Lady Sophia to be refilled that he made any observation.