Foreign Reader Says » Love Stories

“Up at the Villa” by W. Somerset Maugham

Foreign Reader — Sat, 20 Mar 2010 08:54:45 +0000

Mary is very fond of Sir Edgar Swift. When she was a girl of nineteen and he a man of forty-three, he seemed an old man, but now when she is thirty and he is fifty-four, the difference doesn’t look so great. So when he proposes to her, she doesn’t say no at once.

A widow disappointed in love and marriage, an orphan without a soul in the whole world to take care of her, she longs for support, for stability. Sir Edgar is about to be made a Governor of Bengal. He is rich, and Mary has only the remnants of her late husband’s fortune to live on, and since her husband was a drunkard and a gambler, there wasn’t much to inherit when he died. But Sir Edgar has to go away for two or three days to settle some matters related to his new appointment, so they arrange that Mary gives him her final answer upon his return. She is almost sure she’ll say yes.

While Sir Edgar is away, young and rich, but thorougly disreputable Rowley Flint proposes to her too. She rejects him indignantly: this young man has already divorced several wives, and wherever he goes, scandal follows him. Marrying him would be madness; she is now more determined than ever to marry Sir Edgar and as soon as possible. But on her way back home she meets a desperately poor Austrian refugee…

She decides to do this poor guy a kindness. It starts with taking him to her home and giving him food to eat; then they walk in the garden… and then, in a moment of the utmost excitement, unable to control herself, Mary decides to make poor Karl even happier. She gives him the most precious gift – herself.

At first all is well, and Karl is indeed very happy, but as the morning approaches, the fairy tale has to end, and she blurts out the truth to him: it’s not love but pity that made her do what she did. Hurt and humiliated, Karl at first tries to murder her, and when that fails, shoots himself with the revolver Mary takes out of her bag. Sir Edgar’s revolver.

The scandal that is now awaiting Mary is horrible to imagine. And she has no-one but Rowley to call for help.

That night she rediscovers Rowley. Cynical and disreputable as he is, he shares the risks with her, though he doesn’t have to, and helps her dispose of the body. He keeps his head when she can’t and pulls her out of the most unpleasant situation. Of course, in taking Karl’s body away and hiding it in the woods they commit an offence, but the scandal is averted. Mary can carry on further with her plans. If only she had taken Rowley’s advice not to tell anything to Sir Edgar!

But being naturally honest she tells him everything. Sir Edgar is a noble person; he forgives her – or says so – but now marrying her would mean he will have to ruin his career: becoming a Governor now would mean living in a constant fear that the scandal will surface. Mary, who has ruined one life already, can’t ruin another. She refuses to marry Sir Edgar. He goes away, outwardly indignant – but deep in his heart, she knows it, very much relieved. And she has nothing to do now but to marry Rowley, which no longer seems as bad an idea as it seemed a day ago.

After all, who is she to judge him? Not a woman of an impeccable reputation as she thought, but a huge sinner and, in her own words, a fool. She looks differently at herself now – and at Rowley also. Even though she doubts very much that he will ever be able to be faithful to her, she is prepared to take that risk.

Once again, Somerset Maugham proves his immensely deep knowledge of human psychology, instinctively knowing how all his characters will act in these very uncommon circumstances. Of course, if Mary hadn’t given Karl a lift that night, she would have married Sir Edgar, and her life would have been very common; there would have been no excuse to write a book about her, though. Would she have been happier? Hard to say, but I don’t think so. With Rowley she will never be bored, and if there’s ever any danger, he is going to be pretty capable of pulling himself and Mary out of it; he has proven it. He will probably even settle finally, though such men seldom settle until they get really old. It’s up to the reader to decide what is going to happen to all these people now.

It’s not Mary I feel sorry for – it’s Karl. And Sir Edgar, too, but mainly Karl. A young life cut short for nothing – but, after all, there were so many of them, victims of the Nazis. In the years to come there would be millions (judging by the known historical dates, the events in the book must have happened between the end of 1938 and the beginning of 1939, though the book itself was first published in 1953). Karl had little hope anyway – he might have died from starvation, or in the war. At least, Mary made him happy for a few short hours. And Rowley was right about this boy – he was unstable.

The book is quite short – just 94 pages – but it makes me think about so many things! I’ve read 400+-page novels that don’t come even close to this book in depth and literary value. I recommend it to everyone. You’ll find the language beautiful too – it’s easy to read, but it sings.

It’s a library book, and I know I’ll be sorry to part with it when the time comes to return it.

“The Painted Veil” by W. Somerset Maugham

Foreign Reader — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 18:26:01 +0000

“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…

“Jane Eyre” by Charlotte Brontë

Foreign Reader — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 15:30:38 +0000

“Jane Eyre” was the joy of my childhood – the book that supported me when I was sad and inspired my imagination when I was feeling creative. Needless to say, in those days I read it in Russian – the original came later, much later. But the translation was good.

Despite all the differences in time, environment and nationality, I’ve always felt a weird similarity between my personality and Jane’s. It can’t even be undone by the fact that Jane was deeply religious and I have always been a hardcore atheist. I saw myself in Jane at once – especially when she rebelled against abuse. Then I proceeded to find the prototypes for other characters: Mrs Reed, her son John, Helen Burns and others. I just couldn’t find anyone to represent Mr Rochester when I was a child. Well, that, perhaps, is a good thing, otherwise I would have got stuck and, probably, never found my sweetheart. He has something in common with Mr Rochester in appearance, to be honest, but not in character, of which I’m glad.

Granted, my life has so far been much happier than Jane’s (except the part in which she inherits a fortune and marries her love, of course). But it doesn’t reduce our likeness.

I’ve heard the opinion that Charlotte Brontë’s English is harder to understand than Shakespeare’s. I don’t know – I didn’t notice that with “Jane Eyre”, probably, because I still remembered the Russian version of the book quite well at the time I was re-reading it in English. I thought it very beautifully written, but I could be biased, given my love for the book.

Today, at the beginning of the 21st century it’s not easy to believe that in its time the novel was considered rebellious. Today it all looks and sounds rather quaint. I should also note that the author has taken care not to hurt the reader unnecessarily, despite the horrors of having to encounter the first Mrs Rochester or, even before that, the abuse little Jane was subjected to by Mrs Reed or Mr Brocklehurst. I’m extremely sensitive, and often put aside the books that make a point of hurting the reader – but I’ve never felt the slightest urge to put “Jane Eyre” aside.

The book sings to me – I can re-read it over and over again as I grow older, and the charm I felt as a girl never goes away. Nor does the strange similarity between me and an imaginary character of the book, a character belonging a different century and a different place. I still firmly associate myself with Jane.

In a nutshell, the novel has everything to be a great read: a lot of passionate love, a bit of fun, a bit of mysticism and many social problems raised – the impossibility of divorce, the position of the woman in society, the poverty and many more. No wonder it’s been filmed so many times – not as many times as The Hound of the Baskervilles, of course, but not far behind. Still, I’m a book person rather than a movie person, so it’s the book my heart is given to. All the adaptations of all books I’ve seen so far – Jane Eyre included – pay too much attention to the plot and visual effects at the cost of losing much of the underlying meaning of things.