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

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 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