“The Painted Veil” by W. Somerset Maugham

“The Painted Veil” can be justly tagged a love story, but it’s not quite a usual one. It goes much deeper into the psychology of everyone involved than it’s usually done in love stories – and it has, unfortunately, no happy end.

Kitty marries Walter; Kitty meets Charlie; Kitty commits an adultery – how trivial it might seem, and yet the angle at which Somerset Maugham looks at the whole thing is somewhat unusual. I usually feel sympathy for love – even forbidden love – but I can’t sympathise with Kitty’s love, knowing it for what it is – a mere silly infatuation. Charlie Townsend – selfish, vain and incapable of caring for anyone but himself – represents exactly the type of a man I wouldn’t look twice at, and Walter – intelligent, thoughtful and shy – or “boring”, as Kitty puts it – is exactly my type. I remember reading the book for the first time – many years ago now – and blaming Kitty remorselessly for her inability to appreciate the treasure she was given by Fate – her husband, Walter. How carelessly she has wasted this remarkable man’s life – and for whom!

I’ve re-read the book to review it – and now I’m finding out that I no longer blame Kitty for anything. Probably because I’m older, I no longer judge her – I’ve grown to understand, to see things from her point of view. She couldn’t bring herself to love Walter for his virtues; well, if she couldn’t, she couldn’t. She’s never had proper guidance, and she was alone in Hong Kong, alone save for her husband, whose presence was a trial to her. No wonder that mature and experienced woman-hunter Charlie Townsend found it so easy to get hold of her.

I’ve accepted the fact that Kitty is not me. I’ve even learned to admire her for what she is – but oh! I still feel so sorry for Walter! It still feels so unfair that such a wonderful man should die so young – die from “broken heart”, in Kitty’s words.

I’m glad that she – though way too late – learned to appreciate him, if not love him. But the most fascinating part of the book to me – just like the first time – is still the story of Kitty’s experiences in the French convent in Mei-tan-fu, a cholera-stricken Chinese town where she finds herself, a victim of Charlie’s treachery and Walter’s bitterness. The nuns show her the new way – their faith and self-sacrifice of the kind she’d never encountered before open for her new horizons. She reforms under their influence – she becomes a new woman, a person with new, more refined, higher values. Too bad Walter was too proud to forgive her; I’m sure they could have been happy – through newly acquired mutual respect, which has been known to grow into love, a different, more mature sort of love… but the author decides otherwise. Walter has to die; Kitty has to rediscover herself more than once yet (and some of those discoveries are quite unpleasant to her), but she finds her peace of mind, after all. She is pregnant – and full of expectations for the new life. I can only wish her well.

It was pleasant for me to follow Kitty’s reformation, especially when she grew from regarding Chinese children as ugly and repulsive to feeling affectionate towards them. It proves that prejudices forced upon us during our early life through social stereotypes are never too late to overcome. It gives me hope…

Would I have offered those nuns my help if I had ever been put in Kitty’s situation? I don’t know. Maybe; and maybe not. But the book has definitely opened new horizons to me, like the nuns did to Kitty. It’s given me new ideas about life; new ideas of how one could be tolerant of others’ imperfections and of how one could find joy in sacrifice. The Mother Superior at the convent seems almost a saint – she is, as we now say, a perfect role model, except that few of us are strong enough to follow that amazing example. But if we can’t follow it, it still should help to think about it from time to time.

It did make my day to re-read the book, at any rate, and I definitely do recommend it. You’ll find it beautifully written, too – and, despite the certain grimness of the background, refreshing. Somerset Maugham was, I believe, a genius; he definitely knew human nature more than most writers do – and he loved people, despite knowing them so well. A rare gift.

Was that nice, witty and cynical Mr Waddington (with whom I’m almost in love) in a way Somerset Maugham’s avatar? I wonder…