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

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      II

       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.

      “It’s really almost providential that the poor old man should depart this life on the very day I am to meet Lord Stonehenge at dinner. I’d better have the pair to-night, Sophia.”

      “Where are you dining?”

      “At the Hollingtons,” he answered. “Last time a bishopric was vacant, the Prime Minister practically assured me that I should have the next.”

      “He’s probably done the same to half the school-masters in England.”

      “Nonsense! Who is there that could take it? They’ve none of them half the claims that I have.”

      Theodore Spratte never concealed from the world that he rated himself highly. He esteemed bashfulness a sign of bad manners, and was used to say that a man who pretended not to know his own value was a possing fool.

      “It’s a ridiculous system altogether to give a bishopric to Tom Noddy because he’s taught Latin verses to a parcel of stupid school-boys. And besides, as the youngest son of the late Lord Chancellor, I think I may expect something from my country.”

      “Pray pass me the toast,” said Lady Sophia.

      “I’m not a vain man, but I honestly think I have the right to some recognition. As my father, the late Lord Chancellor of England, often said....”

      “I wish to goodness you wouldn’t talk of him as if he were your father only, Theodore,” interrupted Lady Sophia, not without irritation. “I have just as much right to him as you.”

      “I think you asked for the toast, my dear.”

      Presently Canon Spratte, taking the paper with him, retired to his study. He was a man of regular habits, knowing that to acquire such is the first step to greatness, episcopal and otherwise; and after breakfast he was used to smoke his pipe, meditate, and read the Times. But this morning, somewhat agitated by the news of Bishop Andover’s demise, he took from the shelves that book which at present was his only contribution to the great literature of England. On the death of his father, laden with years and with honours, Canon Spratte had begun immediately to gather materials for a biography. This was eventually published under the title: Life and Letters of Josiah Spratte, Lord Chancellor of England. It was in two volumes, magnificently bound in calf, with the family arms, a blaze of gold, on the side.

      When the Canon set about this great work he went to his sister and begged her to make notes of her recollections.

      “You can help me a great deal, Sophia,” he said. “With your woman’s intelligence, you will have noticed a good many points which have escaped me. The masculine intellect takes in the important main lines, whereas women observe only the frivolous details. But I recognize that it is just these frivolous details, properly sorted, which will give life and variety to that grand career absorbed by affairs of State and the advantage of the nation.”

      Lady Sophia, accustomed to these tirades, smiled dryly and said: “Shall I tell you the very first thing I remember, Theodore? I can’t have been more than six years old, but I have never forgotten it.”

      “That is very interesting. Let me put it down at once.”

      He took from his pocket the little book, which he carried with him always to jot down the thoughts that periodically occurred to him.

      “Now, Sophia.”

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