The Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (33 Works in One Edition). Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

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      VIII

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       James knew he would see Mary at the tea-party which Mrs. Jackson that afternoon was giving at the Vicarage. Society in Little Primpton was exclusive, with the result that the same people met each other day after day, and the only intruders were occasional visitors of irreproachable antecedents from Tunbridge Wells. Respectability is a plant which in that fashionable watering-place has been so assiduously cultivated that it flourishes now in the open air; like the yellow gorse, it is found in every corner, thriving hardily under the most unfavourable conditions; and the keener the wind, the harder the frost, the more proudly does it hold its head. But on this particular day the gathering was confined to the immediate neighbours, and when the Parsons arrived they found, beside their hosts, only the Clibborns and the inevitable curate. There was a prolonged shaking of hands, inquiries concerning the health of all present, and observations suggested by the weather; then they sat down in a circle, and set themselves to discuss the questions of the day.

      "Oh, Mr. Dryland," cried Mary, "thanks so much for that book! I am enjoying it!"

      "I thought you'd like it," replied the curate, smiling blandly. "I know you share my admiration for Miss Corelli."

      "Mr. Dryland has just lent me 'The Master Christian,'" Mary explained, turning to Mrs. Jackson.

      "Oh, I was thinking of putting it on the list for my next book."

      They had formed a club in Little Primpton of twelve persons, each buying a six-shilling book at the beginning of the year, and passing it on in return for another after a certain interval, so that at the end of twelve months all had read a dozen masterpieces of contemporary fiction.

      "I thought I'd like to buy it at once," said Mr. Dryland. "I always think one ought to possess Marie Corelli's books. She's the only really great novelist we have in England now."

      Mr. Dryland was a man of taste and authority, so that his literary judgments could always be relied on.

      "Of course, I don't pretend to know much about the matter," said Mary, modestly. "There are more important things in life than books; but I do think she's splendid. I can't help feeling I'm wasting my time when I read most novels, but I never feel that with Marie Corelli."

      "No one would think she was a woman," said the Vicar.

      To which the curate answered: "Le genie n'a pas de sexe."

      The others, being no scholars, did not quite understand the remark, but they looked intelligent.

      "I always think it's so disgraceful the way the newspapers sneer at her," said Mrs. Jackson. "And, I'm sure, merely because she's a woman."

      "And because she has genius, my dear," put in the Vicar. "Some minds are so contemptibly small that they are simply crushed by greatness. It requires an eagle to look at the sun."

      And the excellent people looked at one another with a certain self-satisfaction, for they had the fearless gaze of the king of birds in face of that brilliant orb.

      "The critics are willing to do anything for money. Miss Corelli has said herself that there is a vile conspiracy to blacken her, and for my part I am quite prepared to believe it. They're all afraid of her because she dares to show them up."

      "Besides, most of the critics are unsuccessful novelists," added Mr. Dryland, "and they are as envious as they can be."

      "It makes one boil with indignation," cried Mary, "to think that people can be so utterly base. Those who revile her are not worthy to unloose the latchet of her shoes."

      "It does one good to hear such whole-hearted admiration," replied the curate, beaming. "But you must remember that genius has always been persecuted. Look at Keats and Shelley. The critics abused them just as they abuse Marie Corelli. Even Shakespeare was slandered. But time has vindicated our immortal William; time will vindicate as brightly our gentle Marie."

      "I wonder how many of us here could get through Hamlet without yawning!" meditatively said the Vicar.

      "I see your point!" cried Mr. Dryland, opening his eyes. "While we could all read the 'Sorrows of Satan' without a break. I've read it three times, and each perusal leaves me more astounded. Miss Corelli has her revenge in her own hand; what can she care for the petty snarling of critics when the wreath of immortality is on her brow. I don't hesitate to say it, I'm not ashamed of my opinion; I consider Miss Corelli every bit as great as William Shakespeare. I've gone into the matter carefully, and if I may say so, I'm speaking of what I know something about. My deliberate opinion is that in wit, and humour, and language, she's every bit his equal."

      "Her language is beautiful," said Mrs. Jackson. "When I read her I feel just as if I were listening to hymns."

      "And where, I should like to know," continued the curate, raising his voice, "can you find in a play of Shakespeare's such a gallery of portraits as in the 'Master Christian'?"

      "And there is one thing you must never forget," said the Vicar, gravely, "she has a deep, religious feeling which you will find in none of Shakespeare's plays. Every one of her books has a lofty moral purpose. That is the justification of fiction. The novelist has a high vocation, if he could only see it; he can inculcate submission to authority, hope, charity, obedience—in fact, all the higher virtues; he can become a handmaid of the Church. And now, when irreligion, and immorality, and scepticism are rampant, we must not despise the humblest instruments."

      "How true that is!" said Mrs. Jackson.

      "If all novelists were like Marie Corelli, I should willingly hold them out my hand. I think every Christian ought to read 'Barabbas.' It gives an entirely new view of Christ. It puts the incidents of the Gospel in a way that one had never dreamed. I was never so impressed in my life."

      "But all her books are the same in that way!" cried Mary. "They all make me feel so much better and nobler, and more truly Christian."

      "I think she's vulgar and blasphemous," murmured Mrs. Clibborn quietly, as though she were making the simplest observation.

      "Mamma!" cried Mary, deeply shocked; and among the others there was a little movement of indignation and disgust.

      Mrs. Clibborn was continually mortifying her daughter by this kind of illiterate gaucherie. But the most painful part of it was that the good lady always remained perfectly unconscious of having said anything incredibly silly, and continued with perfect self-assurance:

      "I've never been able to finish a book of hers. I began one about electricity, which I couldn't understand, and then I tried another. I forget what it was, but there was something in it about a bed of roses, and I thought it very improper. I don't think it was a nice book for Mary to read, but girls seem to read everything now."

      There was a pained hush, such as naturally occurs when someone has made a very horrible faux pas. They all looked at one another awkwardly; while Mary, ashamed at her mother's СКАЧАТЬ