The Essential Somerset Maugham: 33 Books in One Edition. Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

his prejudices no longer amusing but contemptible. She was indignant at having humbled herself so abjectly before a man of such narrowness of mind, of such insignificant character. She could not conceive how she had ever passionately loved him. He was bound in by the stupidest routine. It irritated her beyond measure to see the regularity with which he went through the varying processes of his toilet. She was indignant with his presumption, and self-satisfaction, and conscious rectitude. Edward’s taste was contemptible in books, in pictures, and in music; and his pretentions to judge upon such matters filled Bertha with scorn. At first his deficiencies had not affected her, and later she consoled herself with the obvious truism that a man may be ignorant of all the arts, and yet have every virtue under the sun. But now she was less charitable. Bertha wondered that because her husband could read and write as well as most board-scholars, he should feel himself competent to judge books—even without reading them. Of course it was most unreasonable to blame the poor man for a foible common to the vast majority of mankind. Every one who can hold a pen is confident of his ability to criticise, and to criticise superciliously. It never occurs to the average citizen that, to speak modestly, almost as much art is needed to write a book as to adulterate a pound of tea; nor that the author has busied himself with style and contrast, characterisation, light and shade, and many other things to which the practice of haberdashery, greengrocery, company-promotion, or pork-butchery, is no great key.

      One day, Edward, coming in, caught sight of the yellow paper-cover of a French book that Bertha was reading.

      “What, at it again?” said he. “You read too much; it’s not good for people to be always reading.”

      “Is that your opinion?”

      “My idea is that a woman oughtn’t to stuff her head with books. You’d be much better out in the open air or doing something useful.”

      “Is that your opinion?”

      “Well, I should like to know why you’re always reading?”

      “Sometimes to instruct myself; always to amuse myself.”

      “Much instruction you’ll get out of an indecent French novel.”

      Bertha without answering handed him the book and showed the title; they were the letters of Madame de Sévigné.

      “Well?” he said.

      “You’re no wiser, dear Edward?” she asked, with a smile: such a question in such a tone, revenged her for much. “You’re none the wiser? I’m afraid you’re very ignorant. You see I’m not reading a novel, and it is not indecent. They are the letters of a mother to her daughter, models of epistolary style and feminine wisdom.”

      Bertha purposely spoke in rather formal and elaborate a manner.

      “Oh,” said Edward, somewhat mystified; feeling that he had been confounded, but certain, none the less, that he was in the right. Bertha smiled provokingly.

      “Of course,” he said, “I’ve got no objection to your reading if it amuses you.”

      “It’s very good of you to say so.”

      “I don’t pretend to have any book-learning; I’m a practical man, and it’s not required. In my business you find that the man who reads books, comes a mucker!”

      “You seem to think that ignorance is creditable.”

      “It’s better to have a good and pure heart, Bertha, and a clean mind, than any amount of learning.”

      “It’s better to have a grain of wit than a collection of moral saws.”

      “I don’t know what you mean by that, but I’m quite content to be as I am, and I don’t want to know a single foreign language. English is quite good enough for me.”

      “So long as you’re a good sportsman and wash yourself regularly, you think you’ve performed the whole duty of man.”

      “If there’s one chap I can’t stick, it’s a measly bookworm.”

      “I prefer him to the hybrid of a professional cricketer and a Turkish-bath man.”

      “Does that mean me?”

      “You can take it to yourself if you like,” said Bertha, smiling, “or apply it to a whole class.... Do you mind if I go on reading?”

      Bertha took up her book; but Edward was the more argumentatively inclined since he saw he had not so far got the better of the contest.

      “Well, what I must say is, if you want to read, why can’t you read English books? Surely there are enough. I think English people ought to stick to their own country. I don’t pretend to have read any French books, but I’ve never heard anybody deny, that at all events the great majority are indecent, and not the sort of thing a woman should read.”

      “It’s always incautious to judge from common report,” answered Bertha, without looking up.

      “And now that the French are always behaving so badly to us, I should like to see every French book in the kingdom put into a huge bonfire. I’m sure it would be all the better for we English people. What we want now is purity and reconstitution of the national life. I’m in favour of English morals, and English homes, English mothers, and English habits.”

      “What always astounds me, dear, is that though you invariably read the Standard you always talk like the Family Herald!”

      Bertha paid no further attention to Edward, who thereupon began to talk with his dogs. Like most frivolous persons he found silence onerous, and Bertha thought it disconcerted him by rendering evident even to himself, the vacuity of his mind. He talked with every animate thing, with the servants, with his pets, with the cat and the birds; he could not read even a newspaper without making a running commentary upon it.

      It was only a substantial meal that could induce even a passing taciturnity. Sometimes his unceasing chatter irritated Bertha so intensely that she was obliged to beg him, for heaven’s sake, to hold his tongue. Then he would look up, with a good-natured laugh.

      “Was I making a row? Sorry; I didn’t know it.”

      He remained quiet for ten minutes and then began to hum some obvious melody, than which there is no more detestable habit.

      Indeed the points of divergence between the pair were innumerable. Edward was a person who had the courage of his opinions, and these he held with a firmness equal to his lack of knowledge. He disliked also whatever was not clear to his somewhat narrow intelligence, and was inclined to think it immoral. Music, for instance, in his opinion was an English art, carried to the highest pitch in certain very simple melodies of his childhood. Bertha played the piano well and sang with a cultivated voice, but Edward objected to her performances because, whether she sang or whether she played, there was never a rollicking tune that a fellow could get his teeth into. It must be confessed that Bertha exaggerated, and that when a dull musical afternoon was given in the neighbourhood, she took a malicious pleasure in playing some long recitative form of a Wagner opera, which no one could make head or tail of.

      On such an occasion at the Glovers, the eldest Miss Hancock turned to Edward and remarked upon his wife’s admirable playing. Edward was a little annoyed, because every one had vigorously applauded, and to him the sounds had been quite meaningless.

      “Well, I’m a plain man,” he said, “and I don’t mind confessing that I never can understand the stuff Bertha plays.”

      “Oh, Mr. Craddock, not even Wagner?” said Miss Hancock, who had been as bored as Edward, but would not for worlds have confessed it; holding the contrary modest opinion, that the only really admirable things are those you can’t understand.

      Bertha looked at him, remembering her dream that they should sit at the piano together in the evening and play for hour after hour: as a matter of fact, he had always refused to budge from his chair and had gone to sleep regularly.

      “My idea of music is like Dr. Johnson’s,” said Edward, looking round for approval.