NB. The quotes are arranged in chronological order by collections. Within these sections, the titles of the stories and other relevant details are given in square brackets. The titles from Ashenden refer not to the shortish “chapters” of this book, but to the much better known pieces from The Complete Short Stories (1951). Up at the Villa, inhabiting the no man’s land between novel and short story, is included by way of bonus.
The Trembling of a Leaf (1921)
The Pacific is inconstant and uncertain like the soul of man. Sometimes it is grey like the English Channel off
Beachy Head, with a heavy
swell, and sometimes it is rough, capped with white crests, and boisterous. It
is not so often that it is calm and blue. Then, indeed, the blue is arrogant.
The sun shines fiercely from an unclouded sky. The trade wind gets into your
blood and you are filled with an impatience for the unknown. The billows,
magnificently rolling, stretch widely on all sides of you, and you forget your
vanished youth, with its memories, cruel and sweet, in a restless, intolerable
desire for life. On such a sea as this Ulysses sailed when he sought the Happy
Isles. But there are days also when the Pacific is like a lake. The sea is flat
and shining. The flying fish, a gleam of shadow on the brightness of a mirror,
make little fountains of sparkling drops when they dip. There are fleecy clouds
on the horizon, and at sunset they take strange shapes so that it is impossible
not to believe that you see a range of lofty mountains. They are the mountains
of the country of your dreams. You sail through an unimaginable silence upon a
magic sea. Now and then a few gulls suggest that land is not far off, a
forgotten island hidden in a wilderness of waters; but the gulls, the melancholy
gulls, are the only sign you have of it. You see never a tramp, with its
friendly smoke, no stately bark or trim schooner, not a fishing boat even: it
is an empty desert; and presently the emptiness fills you with a vague
[The Fall of Edward Barnard]
''Do you know that conversation is one of the greatest pleasures in life? But it wants leisure.''
Self-sacrifice appealed so keenly to his imagination that the inability to exercise it gave him a sense of disillusion. He was like the philanthropist who with altruistic motives builds model dwellings for the poor and finds that he has made a lucrative investment. He cannot prevent the satisfaction he feels in the ten per cent which rewards the bread that he had cast upon the waters, but he has an awkward feeling that it detracts somewhat from the savour of his virtue.
''The tragedy of love is not death or separation. [...] The tragedy of love is indifference.''
''We are foolish and sentimental and melodramatic at twenty-five, but if we weren't perhaps we should be less wise at fifty.''
''Do we not know that the essential element of love is a belief in its own eternity?''
''...passion has in it always a shade of sadness, a touch of bitterness or anguish...''
''...when sentimentality is joined with scepticism there is often the devil to pay.''
''There is always a pain in the contemplation of perfect beauty.''
''A soul is a troublesome possession and when man developed it he lost the Garden of Eden.''
Ashenden admired goodness, but was not outraged by wickedness. People sometimes thought him heartless because he was more often interested in others than attached to them, and even the few to whom he was attached his eyes saw with equal clearness the merits and the defects. When he liked people it was not because he was blind to their faults, he did not mind their faults but accepted them with a tolerant shrug of shoulders, or because he ascribed to them excellencies that they did not possess; and since he judged his friends with candour they never disappointed him and he seldom lost one. He asked from none more than he could give.
How much easier life would be if people were all black or all white and how much simpler it would be to act in regard to them! Was Caypor a good man who loved evil or a bad man who loved good? And how could such unreconcilable elements exist side by side and in harmony within the same heart?
She was no fool. She had read much, in several languages, and she could talk of the books she had read with good sense. She had a knowledge of modern painting and modern music that not a little impressed Ashenden. It was amusing once to hear her before luncheon play one of those silvery little pieces of Debussy; she played it disdainfully because it was French and so light, but with an angry appreciation of its grace and gaiety.
When Ashenden congratulated her she shrugged her shoulders.
‘The decadent music of a decadent nation,’ she said. Then with powerful hands she struck the first resounding chords of a sonata by Beethoven; but she stopped. ‘I cannot play, I am out of practice, and you English, what do you know of music? You have not produced a composer since Purcell!’
[Mr Harrington's Washing]
Though he [Ashenden] had both esteem and admiration for the sensibility of the human race, he had little respect for their intelligence: man has always found it easier to sacrifice his life than to learn the multiplication table.
Ashenden was in the habit of asserting that he was never bored. It was one of his notions that only such persons were as had no resources in themselves and it was but the stupid that depended on the outside world for their amusement. Ashenden had no illusions about himself and such success in current letters as had come to him had left his head unturned. He distinguished acutely between fame and the notoriety that rewards the author of a successful novel or a popular play; and he was indifferent to this except in so far as it was attended with tangible benefits. He was perfectly ready to take advantage of his familiar name to get a better state-room in a ship than he had paid for, and if a Customs-house officer passed his luggage unopened because he had read his short stories Ashenden was pleased to admit that the pursuit of literature had its compensations. He sighed when eager young students of the drama sought to discuss its technique with him, and when gushing ladies tremulously whispered in his ear their admiration of his books he often wished he was dead. But he thought himself intelligent and so it was absurd that he should be bored. It was a fact that he could talk with interest to persons commonly thought so excruciatingly dull that their fellows fled from them as though they owed them money. It may be that here he was but indulging the professional instinct that was seldom dormant in him; they, his raw material, did not bore him any more than fossils bore the geologist. And now he had everything that a reasonable man could want for his entertainment. He had pleasant rooms in a good hotel and
Geneva is one of the most agreeable cities in Europe to live in. He hired a boat and rowed on the lake
or hired a horse and trotted sedately, for in that neat and orderly canton it
is difficult to find a stretch of turf where you can have a good gallop, along
the macadamized roads in the environs of the town. He wandered on foot about
its old streets, trying among those grey stone houses, so quiet and dignified,
to recapture the spirit of a past age. He read again with delight Rousseau's Confessions, and for the second or third
time tried in vain to get on with La
Nouvelle Héloïse. He wrote. He knew few people, for it was his business to
keep in the background, but he had picked up a chatting acquaintance with
several persons living in his hotel and he was not lonely. His life was
sufficiently filled, it was varied, and when he had nothing else to do he could
enjoy his own reflections; it was absurd to think that under these
circumstances he could possibly be bored, and yet, like a little lonely cloud
in the sky, he did see in the offing the possibility of boredom. There is a
story that Louis XIV, having summoned a courtier to attend him on a ceremonial
occasion, found himself ready to go as the courtier appeared; he turned to him
and with icy majesty said, J'ai failli
attendre, of which the only translation I can give, but a poor one, is, I
have but just escaped waiting: so Ashenden might have admitted that he now but
just escaped being bored.
Ashenden reflected that this was the mistake the amateur humorist, as opposed to the professional, so often made; when he made a joke he harped on it. The relations of the joker to his joke should be as quick and desultory as those of a bee to its flower. He should make his joke and pass on. There is of course no harm if, like the bee approaching the flower, he buzzes a little; for it is just as well to announce to a thick-headed world that a joke is intended. But Ashenden, unlike most professional humorists, had a kindly tolerance for other people's humour and now he answered R. on his own lines.
Luxury is dangerous to people who have never known it and to whom its temptations are held out too suddenly. R., that shrewd, cynical man, was captured by the vulgar glamour and the shoddy brilliance of the scene before him. Just as the advantage of culture is that it enables you to talk nonsense with distinction, so the habit of luxury allows you to regard its frills and furbelows with a proper contumely.
''I am not sure if a man isn't wiser to do what he wants very much to do and let the consequences take care of themselves.''
''There is always something a little absurd in success.''
''All sensible people know that vanity is the most devastating, the most universal, and the most ineradicable of the passions that afflict the soul of man, and it is only vanity that makes him deny its power. It is more consuming than love. With advancing years, mercifully, you can snap your fingers at the terror and the servitude of love, but age cannot free you from the thraldom of vanity. Time can assuage the pangs of love, but only death can still the anguish of wounded vanity. Love is simple and seeks no subterfuge, but vanity cozens you with a hundred disguises. It is part and parcel of every virtue: it is mainspring of courage and the strength of ambition; it gives constancy to the lover and endurance to the stoic; it adds fuel to the fire of the artist's desire for fame and is at once the support and the compensation of the honest man's integrity; it leers even cynically in the humility of the saint. You cannot escape it, and should you take pains to guard against it, it will make use of those very pains to trip you up. You are defenceless against its onslaught because you know not on what unprotected side it will attack you. Sincerity cannot protect you from its snare nor humour from its mockery.''
'What was the concert like?' asked Sir Herbert.
'Oh, not bad at all. They gave a Brahms Concerto and the Fire-music from the Walküre, and some Hungarian dances of Dvorak. I thought them rather showy.' She turned to Ashenden. 'I hope you haven't been bored all alone with my husband. What
have you been talking about? Art and Literature?'
'No, its raw material,' said Ashenden.
He took his leave.
First Person Singular (1931)
There are few things better than a good
When I was young and very poor and smoked a cigar only when somebody gave me
one, I determined that if ever I had money I would smoke a cigar every day
after luncheon and after dinner. This is the only resolution of my youth that I
have kept. It is the only ambition I have achieved that has never been
embittered by disillusion. I like a cigar that is mild, but full–flavoured,
neither so small that it is finished before you have become aware of it nor so
large as to be irksome, rolled so that it draws without consciousness of effort
on your part, with a leaf so firm that it doesn’t become messy on your lips,
and in such condition that it keeps its savour to the very end. But when you
have taken the last pull and put down the shapeless stump and watched the final
cloud of smoke dwindle blue in the surrounding air it is impossible, if you
have a sensitive nature, not to feel a certain melancholy at the thought of all
the labour, the care and pains that have gone, the thought, the trouble, the
complicated organization that have been required to provide you with half an
hour’s delight. For this men have sweltered long years under tropical suns and
ships have scoured the seven seas. These reflections become more poignant still
when you are eating a dozen oysters (with half a bottle of dry white wine), and
they become almost unbearable when it comes to a lamb cutlet. For these are
animals and there is something that inspires awe in the thought that since the
surface of the earth became capable of supporting life from generation to
generation for millions upon millions of years creatures have come into
existence to end at last upon a plate of crushed ice or on a silver grill. It
may be that a sluggish fancy cannot grasp the dreadful solemnity of eating an
oyster and evolution has taught us that the bivalve has through the ages kept
itself to itself in a manner that inevitably alienates sympathy. There is an
aloofness in it that is offensive to the aspiring spirit of man and a
self-complacency that is obnoxious to his vanity. But I do not know how anyone
can look upon a lamb cutlet without thoughts too deep for tears: here man
himself has taken a hand and the history of the race is bound up with the
tender morsel on your plate. Havana
And sometimes even the fate of human beings is curious to consider. It is strange to look upon this man or that, the quiet ordinary persons of every day, the bank clerk, the dustman, the middle-aged girl in the second row of the chorus, and think of the interminable history behind them and of the long, long series of hazards by which from the primeval slime the course of events has brought them at this moment to such and such a place. When such tremendous vicissitudes have been needed to get them here at all one would have thought some huge significance must be attached to them; one would have thought that what befell them must matter a little to the Life Spirit or whatever else it is that has produced them. An accident befalls them. The thread is broken. The story that began with the world is finished abruptly and it looks as though it meant nothing at all. A tale told by an idiot. And is it not odd that this event, of an importance so dramatic, may be brought about by a cause so trivial?
An incident of no moment, that might easily not have happened, has consequences that are incalculable. It looks as though blind chance ruled all things. Our smallest actions may affect profoundly the whole lives of people who have nothing to do with us. The story I have to tell would never have happened if one day I had not walked across the street. Life is really very fantastic and one has to have a peculiar sense of humour to see the fun of it.
[The first-person narrator:]
''I prefer a loose woman to a selfish one and a wanton to a fool.''
[The first-person narrator:]
...but if the folly of men made one angry one would pass one's life in a state of chronic ire.
''Good gracious, she could have remained faithful to him in spirit while she was being unfaithful to him in the flesh. That is a feat of legerdemain that women find it easy to accomplish.''
''What an odious cynic you are.''
''If it's cynical to look truth in the face and exercise common sense in the affairs of life, then certainly I'm a cynic and odious if you like.''
[The Human Element]
People are always a little disconcerted when you don't recognize them, they are so important to themselves, it is a shock to discover of what small importance they are to others.
The worst of having so much tact was that you never quite knew whether other people were acting naturally or being tactful too.
So it has been said that it was not jealousy that caused Othello to kill Desdemona, but an agony that the creature that he believed angelic should be proved impure and worthless. What broke his noble heart was that virtue should so fall.
I have always found the Bright Young People extremely tedious. The gay life seems dull and stupid to the onlooker, but the moralist is unwise to judge it harshly. It is as absurd to be angry with the young things who lead it as with a litter of puppies scampering aimlessly around, rolling one another over and chasing their tails. It is well to bear with fortitude if they cause havoc in the flower beds or break a piece of china. Some of them will be drowned because their points are not up to the mark, and the rest will grow up into well-behaved dogs. Their unruliness is due only to the vitality of youth.
She managed (as so few people do) to look exactly what she was.
When anyone is very positive in an opinion it is only human nature to wish him proved wrong.
When anyone is very positive in an opinion it is only human nature to wish him proved wrong.
''You know, when I married Gilbert and settled in London and people began to laugh at what I said no one was more surprised than I was. I'd said the same things for thirty years and no one ever saw anything to laugh at. I thought it must be my clothes or my bobbed hair or my eyeglass. Then I discovered it was because I spoke the truth. It was so unusual that people thought it humorous. One of these days someone else will discover the secret, and when people habitually tell the truth of course there'll be nothing funny in it.''
''And why am I the only person not to think it funny?'' asked Mrs. Tower.
Jane hesitated a little as though she were honestly searching for a satisfactory explanation.
''Perhaps you don't know the truth when you see it,
dear,'' she answered in her mild good-natured way. Marion
It certainly gave her the last word. I felt that Jane would always have the last word. She was priceless.
[The Alien Corn]
I know very little of music and that is one of the reasons for which I have found this story difficult to write. When I go to a concert at the Queen's Hall and in the intervals read the programme it is all Greek to me. I know nothing of harmony and counterpoint. I shall never forget how humiliated I felt once when, having come to
for a Wagner Festival, I went to a wonderful performance of Tristan und Isolde and never heard a
note of it. The first few bars sent me off and I began to think of what I was
writing, my characters leapt into life and I heard their long conversations, I
suffered their pains and was a party to their joy; the years swept by and all
sorts of things happened to me, the spring brought me its rapture and in the winter
I was cold and hungry; and I loved and I hated and I died. I suppose there were
intervals in which I walked round and round the garden and probably ate Schinken-Brödchen and drank beer, but I
have no recollection of them. The only thing I know is that when the curtain
for the last time fell I woke with a start. I had had a wonderful time, but I
could not help thinking it was very stupid of me to come such a long way and
spend so much money if I couldn't pay attention to what I heard and saw. Munich
I permit myself a trite remark. It is strange that men, inhabitants for so short a while of an alien and inhuman world, should go out of their way to cause themselves so much unhappiness.
Then he played Beethoven's Appassionata. I used to play it myself when I played the piano (very badly) in my far distant youth and I still knew every note of it. Of course it is a classic and a great work, it would be foolish to deny it, but I confess that at this time of day it leaves me cold. It is like
splendid, but a trifle stolid.
He played Chopin. He played two waltzes that were familiar to me, a polonaise and an etude. He played with a great deal of brio. I wish I knew music well enough to give an exact description of his playing. It had strength, and a youthful exuberance, but I felt that he missed what to me is the peculiar charm of Chopin, the tenderness, the nervous melancholy, the wistful gaiety and the slightly faded romance that reminds me always of an Early Victorian keepsake.
She got up and went to the piano. She took off the rings with which her fingers were laden. She played Bach. I do not know the names of the pieces, but I recognized the stiff ceremonial of the frenchified little German courts and the sober, thrifty comfort of the burghers, and the dancing on the village green, the green trees that looked like Christmas trees, and the sunlight on the wide German country, and a tender cosiness; and in my nostrils there was a warm scent of the soil and I was conscious of a sturdy strength that seemed to have its roots deep in mother earth, and of an elemental power that was timeless and had no home in space. She played beautifully, with a soft brilliance that made you think of the full moon shining at dusk in the summer sky. With another part of me I watched the others and I saw how intensely they were conscious of the experience. They were rapt. I wished with all my heart that I could get from music the wonderful exaltation that possessed them.
'Do you feel at home in
'No,' I said, 'but then I don't feel at home anywhere else.'
But he was quite naturally not interested in me.
Ah King (1933)
[Footprints in the Jungle]
''I'll tell you what, there's one job I shouldn't like,'' he said.
''What is that?''
''God's, at the Judgment day,'' said Gaze. ''No, sir''
Some people read for instruction, which is praiseworthy, and some for pleasure, which is innocent, but not a few read from habit, and I suppose that this is neither innocent nor praiseworthy. Of that lamentable company am I. Conversation after a time bores me, games tire me, and my own thoughts, which we are told are the unfailing resource of a sensible man, have a tendency to run dry. Then I fly to my book as the opium-smoker to his pipe. I would sooner read the catalogue of the Army and Navy stores or Bradshaw's Guide than nothing at all, and indeed I have spent many delightful hours over both these works.
But the human beings are incalculable and he is a fool who tells himself that he knows what a man is capable of.
'Oh, the Life of Byron?' I said breezily. 'Have you read it already?'
'A good deal of it. I read till three.'
'I've heard it's very well done. I'm not sure that Byron interests me so much as all that. There was so much in him that was so frightfully second-rate. It makes one rather uncomfortable.'
'What do you think is the real truth of that story about him and his sister?'
'Augusta Leigh? I don't know very much about it. I've never read Astarte.'
'Do you think they were really in love with one another?'
'I suppose so. Isn't it generally believed that she was the only woman he ever genuinely loved?'
'Can you understand it?'
'I can't really. It doesn't particularly shock me. It just seems to me very unnatural. Perhaps "unnatural" isn't the right word. It's incomprehensible to me. I can't throw myself into the state of feeling in which such a thing seems possible. You know, that's how a writer gets to know the people he writes about, by standing himself in their shoes and feeling with their hearts.'
I know I did not make myself very clear, but I was trying to describe a sensation, an action of the subconscious, which from experience was perfectly familiar to me, but which no words I knew could precisely indicate. I went on:
'Of course she was only his half-sister, but just as habit kills love I should have thought habit would prevent its arising. When two persons have known one another all their lives and lived together in close contact I can't imagine how or why that sudden spark should flash that results in love. The probabilities are that they would be joined by mutual affection and I don't know anything that is more contrary to love than affection.'
I could just see in the dimness the outline of a smile flicker for a moment on my host's heavy, and it seemed to me then, somewhat saturnine face.
'You only believe in love at first sight?'
'Well, I suppose I do, but with the proviso that people may have met twenty times before seeing one another. "Seeing" has an active side and a passive one. Most people we run across mean so little to us that we never bestir ourselves to look at them. We just suffer the impression they make on us.'
'Oh, but one's often heard of couples who've known one another for years and it's never occurred to one they cared two straws for each other and suddenly they go and get married. How do you explain that?'
'Well, if you're going to bully me into being logical and consistent, I should suggest that their love is of a different kind. After all, passion isn't the only reason for marriage. It may not even be the best one. Two people may marry because they're lonely or because they're good friends or for convenience sake. Though I said that affection was the greatest enemy of love, I would never deny that it's a very good substitute. I'm not sure that a marriage founded on it isn't the happiest.'
[The Back of Beyond]
''Is one's honour really concerned because one's wife hops into bed with another man?''
''Oh, my dear boy, one mustn't expect gratitude. It's a thing that no one has a right to. After all, you do good because it gives you pleasure. It's the purest form of happiness there is. To expect thanks for it is really asking too much. If you get it, well, it's like a bonus on shares on which you've already received a dividend; it's grand, but you mustn't look upon it as your due.''
''You're behaving generously, old boy, and, you know, one needs a devil of a lot of tact to get people to forgive one one's generosity. Fortunately women are frivolous and they very quickly forget the benefits conferred upon them. Otherwise, of course, there'd be no living with them.''
''I haven't deeply considered the matter [...] but if to look truth in the face and not resent it when it's unpalatable, and take human nature as you find it, smiling when it's absurd and grieved without exaggeration when it's pitiful, is to be cynical, then I suppose I'm a cynic. Mostly human nature is both absurd and pitiful, but if life has taught you tolerance you find in it more to smile at than to weep.''
''Have you been happy too?''
''I think I can say I've been a success.''
''Oh, well, that's probably all the happiness you were capable of.''
[The Door of
''Courage is the obvious virtue of the stupid.''
[A Friend in Need]
For thirty years now I have been studying my fellow-men. I do not know very much about them. I should certainly hesitate to engage a servant on his face, and yet I suppose it is on the face that for the most part we judge the persons we meet. We draw our conclusions from the shape of the jaw, the look in the eyes, the contour of the mouth. I wonder if we are more often right than wrong. Why novels and plays are so often untrue to life is because their authors, perhaps of necessity, make their characters all of a piece. They cannot afford to make them self-contradictory, for then they become incomprehensible, and yet self-contradictory is what most of us are. We are a haphazard bundle of inconsistent qualities. In books on logic they will tell you that it is absurd to say that yellow is tubular or gratitude heavier than air; but in that mixture of incongruities that makes up the self yellow may very well be a horse and cart and gratitude the middle of the week. I shrug my shoulders when people tell me that their first impressions of a person are always right. I think they must have small insight or great vanity. For my own part I find that the longer I know people the more they puzzled me: my oldest friends are just these of whom I can say that I don't know the first thing about them.
One afternoon I was sitting in the lounge of the Grand Hotel [in
]. This was before the earthquake
and they had leather arm-chairs there. From the windows you had a spacious view
of the harbour with its crowded traffic. There were great liners on their way
to Yokohama Vancouver and San
Francisco or to Europe by way of Shanghai,
Hong-Kong, and ;
there were tramps of all nations, battered and sea-worn, junks with their high
stems and great coloured sails, and innumerable sampans. It was a busy,
exhilarating scene, and yet, I know not why, restful to the spirit. Here was
romance and it seemed that you had but to stretch out your hand to touch it. Singapore
I didn’t say anything for a moment or two. I was a trifle shocked. Then I asked
a question. Burton
''When you made him that offer of a job, did you know he’d be drowned?''
He gave a little mild chuckle and he looked at me with those kind and candid blue eyes of his. He rubbed his chin with his hand.
''Well, I hadn’t got a vacancy in my office at the moment.''
[The Happy Man]
It is a dangerous thing to order the lives of others and I have often wondered at the self-confidence of politicians, reformers and such like who are prepared to force upon their fellows measures that must alter their manners, habits and points of view. I have always hesitated to give advice, for how can one advise another how to act unless one knows that other as well as one knows oneself? Heaven knows, I know little enough of myself: I know nothing of others. We can only guess at the thoughts and emotions of our neighbours. Each one of us is a prisoner in a solitary tower and he communicates with the other prisoners, who form mankind, by conventional signs that have not quite the same meaning for them as for himself. And life, unfortunately, is something that you can lead but once; mistakes are often irreparable, and who am I that should tell this one and that how he should lead it? Life is a difficult business and I have found it hard enough to make my own a complete and rounded thing; I have not been tempted to teach my neighbour what he should do with his.
''Life is full of compensations…''
I wonder if I can do it.
I started by saying that I wondered if I could do it and now I must tell you what it is that I have tried to do. I wanted to see whether I could hold your attention for a few pages while I drew for you the portrait of a man, just an ordinary fisherman who possessed nothing in the world except a quality which is the rarest, the most precious and the loveliest that anyone can have. Heaven only knows why he should so strangely and unexpectedly have possessed it. All I know is that it shone in him with a radiance that, if it had not been so unconscious and so humble, would have been to the common run of men hardly bearable. And in case you have not guessed what the quality was, I will tell you. Goodness, just goodness.
[The Judgement Seat]
They awaited their turn patiently, but patience was no new thing to them; they had practised it, all three of them, with grim determination, for thirty years. Their lives had been a long preparation for this moment and they looked forward to the issue now, if not with self-confidence, for that on so awful an occasion would have been misplaced, at all events with hope and courage. They had taken the strait and narrow path when the flowery meads of sin stretched all too invitingly before them; with heads held high, though with breaking hearts, they had resisted temptation ; and now, their arduous journey done, they expected their reward. There was no need for them to speak, since each knew the others' thoughts, and they felt that in all three of them the same emotion of relief filled their bodiless souls with thanksgiving. With what anguish now would they have been wrung if they had yielded to the passion which then had seemed so nearly irresistible and what a madness it would have been if for a few short years of bliss they had sacrificed that Life Everlasting which with so bright a light at long last shone before them!
At last their angels took them by the hand and led them to the Presence. For a little while the Eternal took not the slightest notice of them. If the truth must be told he was in a bad humour. A moment before there had come up for judgement a philosopher, deceased full of years and honours, who had told the Eternal to his face that he did not believe in him. It was not this that would have disturbed the serenity of the Kings of Kings, this could only have made him smile; but the philosopher, taking perhaps an unfair advantage of the regrettable happenings just then upon Earth, had asked him how, considering them dispassionately, it was possible to reconcile his All-Power with his All-Goodness.
''No one can deny the fact of Evil,'' said the philosopher, sententiously. ''Now, if God cannot prevent Evil he is not all-powerful, and if he can prevent it and will not, he is not all-good.''
This argument was of course not new to the Omniscient, but he had always refused to consider the matter; for the fact is, though he knew everything, he did not know the answer to this. Even God cannot make two and two five. But the philosopher, pressing his advantage, and, as philosophers often will, drawing from a reasonable premise an unjustifiable inference – the philosopher had finished with a statement that in the circumstances was surely preposterous.
'I will not believe,' he said, 'in a God who is not All-Powerful and All-Good.'
'I will not believe,' he said, 'in a God who is not All-Powerful and All-Good.'
They finished and there was silence. There was silence in all the courts of heaven. Go to hell were the words that came to the Eternal's lips, but he did not utter them, for they had a colloquial association that he rightly thought unfitting to the solemnity of the occasion. Nor indeed would such a decree' have met the merits of the case. But his brows darkened. He asked himself if it was for this that he had made the rising sun shine on the boundless sea and the snow glitter on the mountain tops; was it for this that the brooks sang blithely as they hastened down the hillsides and the golden corn waved in the evening breeze?
'I sometimes think,' said the Eternal, 'that the stars never shine more brightly than when reflected in the muddy waters of a wayside ditch.'
But the three shades stood before him and now that they had unfolded their unhappy story they could not but feel a certain satisfaction. It had been a bitter struggle, but they had done their duty. The Eternal blew lightly, he blew as a man might blow out a lighted match, and, behold! where the three poor souls had stood – was nothing. The Eternal annihilated them.
'I have often wondered why men think I attach so much importance to sexual irregularity,' he said. 'If they read my works more attentively they would see that I have always been sympathetic to that particular form of human frailty.'
Then he turned to the philosopher, who was still waiting for a reply to his remarks.
'You cannot but allow,' said the Eternal, ' that on this occasion I have very happily combined my All-Power with my All-Goodness.'
I do not like these painted faces that look all alike; and I think women are foolish to dull their expression and obscure their personality with powder, rouge and lipstick. But Elizabeth Vernon painted not to imitate nature, but to improve it; you did not question the means but applauded the result.
She smiled and nodded and turned away. I watched her walk up
Davies Street. The
air was still bland and springlike, and above the roofs little white clouds
were sailing leisurely in a blue sky. She held herself very erect and the poise
of her head was gallant. She was a slim and lovely figure so that people looked
at her as they passed. I saw her bow graciously to some acquaintance who raised
his hat, and I thought that never in a thousand years would it occur to him
that she had a breaking heart. I repeat, she was a very honest woman.
The lives of most men are determined by their environment. They accept the circumstances amid which fate has thrown them not only with resignation but even with good will. They are like streetcars running contentedly on their rails and they despise the sprightly flivver that dashes in and out of the traffic and speeds so jauntily across the open country. I respect them; they are good citizens, good husbands, and good fathers, and of course somebody has to pay the taxes; but I do not find them exciting. I am fascinated by the men, few enough in all conscience, who take life in their own hands and seem to mould it to their own liking. It may be that we have no such thing as free will, but at all events we have the illusion of it. At a cross-road it does seem to us that we might go either to the right or the left and, the choice once made, it is difficult to see that the whole course of the world's history obliged us to take the turning we did.
That vast accumulation of knowledge is lost for ever. Vain was that ambition, surely not an ignoble one, to set his name beside those of Gibbon and Mommsen. His memory is treasured in the hearts of a few friends, fewer, alas! as the years pass on, and to the world he is unknown in death as he was in life.
And yet to me his life was a success. The pattern is good and complete. He did what he wanted, and he died when his goal was in sight and never knew the bitterness of an end achieved.
[In a Strange Land]
I am of a roving disposition; but I travel not to see imposing monuments, which indeed somewhat bore me, nor beautiful scenery, of which I soon tire; I travel to see men. I avoid the great. I would not cross the road to meet a president or a king; I am content to know the writer in the pages of his book and the painter in his picture; but I have journeyed a hundred leagues to see a missionary of whom I had heard a strange story and I have spent a fortnight in a vile hotel in order to improve my acquaintance with a billiard-marker.
I could never understand why Louise bothered with me. She disliked me and I knew that behind my back, in that gentle way of hers, she seldom lost the opportunity of saying a disagreeable thing about me. She had too much delicacy ever to make a direct statement, but with a hint and a sigh and a little flutter of her beautiful hands she was able to make her meaning plain. She was a mistress of cold praise. It was true that we had known one another almost intimately for five-and-twenty years, but it was impossible for me to believe that she could be affected by the claims of old association. She thought me a coarse, brutal, cynical, and vulgar fellow. I was puzzled at her not taking the obvious course and dropping me. She did nothing of the kind; indeed, she would not leave me alone; she was constantly asking me to lunch and dine with her and once or twice a year invited me to spend a week-end at her house in the country. At last I thought that I had discovered her motive. She had an uneasy suspicion that I did not believe in her; and if that was why she did not like me, it was also why she sought my acquaintance: it galled her that I alone should look upon her as a comic figure and she could not rest till I acknowledged myself mistaken and defeated. Perhaps she had an inkling that I saw the face behind the mask and because I alone held out was determined that sooner or later I too should take the mask for the face. I was never quite certain that she was a complete humbug. I wondered whether she fooled herself as thoroughly as she fooled the world or whether there was some spark of humour at the bottom of her heart. If there was it might be that she was attracted to me, as a pair of crooks might be attracted to one another, by the knowledge that we shared a secret that was hidden from everybody else.
The farm lay in a hollow among the Somersetshire hills, an old-fashioned stone house surrounded by barns and pens and outhouses. Over the doorway the date when it was built had been carved in the elegant figures of the period, 1673, and the house, grey and weather-beaten, looked as much a part of the landscape as the trees that sheltered it. An avenue of splendid elms that would have been the pride of many a squire's mansion led from the road to the trim garden. The people who lived here were as stolid, sturdy, and unpretentious as the house; their only boast was that ever since it was built from father to son in one unbroken line they had been born and died in it. For three hundred years they had farmed the surrounding land. George Meadows was now a man of fifty, and his wife was a year or two younger. They were both fine, upstanding people in the prime of life; and their children, two sons and three girls, were handsome and strong. They had no new-fangled notions about being gentlemen and ladies; they knew their place and were proud of it. I have never seen a more united household. They were merry, industrious, and kindly. Their life was patriarchal. It had a completeness that gave it a beauty as definite as that of a symphony by Beethoven or a picture by Titian. They were happy and they deserved their happiness.
The Mixture as Before (1940)
Now it is a funny thing about life, if you refuse to accept anything but the best you very often get it.
[The Lotus Eater]
Most people, the vast majority in fact, lead the lives that circumstances have thrust upon them, and though some repine, looking upon themselves as round pegs in square holes, and think that if things had been different they might have made a much better showing, the greater part accept their lot, if not with serenity, at all events with resignation. They are like tram-cars travelling for ever on the selfsame rails. They go backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, inevitably, till they can go no longer and then are sold as scrap-iron. It is not often that you find a man who has boldly taken the course of his life into his own hands. When you do, it is worth while having a good look at him.
Very few people know where to look for happiness; fewer still find it.
There is a terrace that overlooks the
Bay of Naples, and when the sun sinks slowly into the sea
the is silhouetted against a blaze of
splendour. It is one of the most lovely sights in the world. island of Ischia
The instant of overwhelming beauty had passed and the sun, like the top of an orange, was dipping into a wine-red sea. We turned round and leaning our backs against the parapet looked at the people who were sauntering to and fro. They were all talking their heads off and the cheerful noise was exhilarating. Then the church bell, rather cracked, but with a fine resonant note, began to ring. The Piazza at
Capri, with its clock tower over the
footpath that leads up from the harbour, with the church up a flight of steps,
is a perfect setting for an opera by Donizetti, and you felt that the voluble
crowd might at any moment break out into a rattling chorus. It was charming and
And what had he not seen of human nature during the fifteen years that patients had been coming to his dingy back room in
Street? The revelations that had been poured into
his ears, sometimes only too willingly, sometimes with shame, with
reservations, with anger, had long ceased to surprise him. Nothing could shock
him any longer. He knew by now that men were liars, he knew how extravagant was
their vanity; he knew far worse than that about them; but he knew that it was
not for him to judge or to condemn. But year by year as these terrible
confidences were imparted to him his face grew a little greyer, its lines a little
more marked and his pale eyes more weary. He seldom laughed, but now and again
when for relaxation he read a novel he smiled. Did their authors really think
the men and women they wrote of were like that? If they only knew how much more
complicated they were, how much more unexpected, what irreconcilable elements
coexisted within their souls and what dark and sinister contentions afflicted
...after all the years during which Dr. Audlin had been treating the diseased souls of men he knew how thin a line divides those whom we call sane from those whom we call insane. He knew how often in men who to all appearance were healthy and normal, who were seemingly devoid of imagination, and who fulfilled the duties of common life with credit to themselves and with benefit to their fellows, when you gained their confidence, when you tore away the mask they wore to the world, you found not only hideous abnormality, but kinks so strange, mental extravagances so fantastic, that in that respect you could only call them lunatic. If you put them in an asylum not all the asylums in the world would be large enough.
[Gigolo and Gigolette]
It was his duty to be civil to the rich and great. Mrs. Chaloner Barrett was an American widow of vast wealth; she not only entertained expensively, but also gambled.
''Got a good table for me, Paco?'' said Eva Barrett.
''The best.'' His eyes, fine, dark Argentine eyes, expressed his admiration of Mrs. Barrett's opulent, ageing charms. This also was business.
Mrs. Barrett paused at the top of the steps that led down to the terrace long enough for the press representative, a little haggard woman with an untidy head, to come up with her notebook.
whispered the names of the guests. It was a representative Sandy party. There was an English lord and
his lady, long and lean both of them, who were prepared to dine with anyone who
would give them a free meal. They were certain to be as tight as drums before
midnight. There was a gaunt Scotch woman, with a face like a Peruvian mask that
has been battered by the storms of ten centuries, and her English husband.
Though a broker by profession, he was bluff, military and hearty. He gave you
an impression of such integrity that you were almost more sorry for him than
for yourself when the good thing he had put you onto as a special favour turned
out to be a dud. There was an Italian countess who was neither Italian nor a
countess, but played a beautiful game of bridge, and there was a Russian prince
who was ready to make Mrs. Barrett a princess and in the meantime sold
champagne, motor cars and Old Masters on commission. Riviera
[The Voice of the Turtle]
Her passion for music was complete bunkum. Once at a concert to which I went with her she slept all through the Fifth Symphony, and I was charmed to hear her during the interval telling people that Beethoven stirred her so much that she hesitated to come and hear him, for with those glorious themes singing through her head, it meant that she wouldn't sleep a wink all night. I could well believe she would lie awake, for she had had so sound a nap during the Symphony that it could not but interfere with her night's rest.
The prima donna was standing in the window, with her back to the lighted room, and she looked out at the darkly shining sea. The cedar made a lovely pattern against the sky. The night was soft and balmy. Miss Glaser played a couple of bars. A cold shiver ran down my spine. La Falterona gave a little start as she recognized the music, and I felt her gather herself together.
Mild und leise wie er lächelt
Wie das Auge hold er öffnet.
It was Isolde's death song... It did not matter now that instead of an orchestral accompaniment she had only the thin tinkle of a piano. The notes of the heavenly melody fell upon the still air and travelled over the water. In that too-romantic scene, in that lovely night, the effect was shattering. La Falterona's voice, even now, was exquisite in its quality, mellow and crystalline; and she sang with wonderful emotion, so tenderly, with such tragic, beautiful anguish that my heart melted within me. I had a most awkward lump in my throat when she finished, and looking at her I saw that tears were streaming down her face. I did not want to speak. She stood quite still, looking out at the ageless sea.
What a strange woman! I thought then that I would sooner have her as she was, with her monstrous faults, than as Peter Melrose saw her, a pattern of all the virtues. But then people blame me because I rather like people who are a little worse than is reasonable. She was hateful, of course, but she was irresistible.
Up at the Villa (1941)
''So now what?''
''Well, if you insist on marrying me... But it's an awful risk we're taking!''
''Darling, that's what life's for – to take risks.''
Creatures of Circumstance (1947)
People often said he had a low opinion for human nature. It was because he did not always judge fellows by the usual standards. He accepted, with a smile, a tear, or a shrug of the shoulders, much that filled others with dismay.
There are some people who say that suffering ennobles. It is not true. As a general rule it makes man petty, querulous, and selfish;
''You're not the first rake who's fallen to innocence. It's merely the sentimentality of middle age.''
 Cf. A Writer’s Notebook (1949), “1916”, “The Pacific”, pp. 89-90 in the Mandarin edition (1991):
The Pacific. On some days it offers all your fancy pictured. The sea is calm and under the blue sky brilliantly blue. On the horizon are fleecy clouds, and at sunset they take strange shapes so that it is almost impossible not to believe you see a range of mountains. The nights then are lovely, the stars very bright, and later, when the moon rises, it is dazzling in its brilliancy. But more often than you would have expected the sea is rough, capped with white crests, and sometimes it is as grey as the
There is a heavy swell. The most wonderful thing about the Pacific is its
solitariness. You pass day after day without seeing a ship. Now and then a few
seagulls suggest that land is not far distant, one of those islands lost in a
wilderness of waters; but not a tramp, not a sailing vessel, not a
fishing-boat. It is an empty desert, and presently the emptiness fills you with
a vague foreboding. There is something frightening about the vast, silent
 Cf. The Circle, written in 1919, first produced and published in 1921; Act 3:
Lady Kitty: Are you shocked? One sacrifices one’s life for love and then one finds that love doesn’t last. The tragedy of love isn’t death or separation. One gets over them. The tragedy of love is indifference.
 There are, of course, no “Hungarian dances of Dvorak”. There are Slavonic dances by him and Hungarian ones by Brahms. I wonder if this was a mistake on Maugham’s part or yet another fine touch of characterisation. His Excellency’s wife is not only a musical snob, but apparently careless of memory too.
 Cf. The Circle, Act 3:
C.-C.: I'm neither, my dear boy; I'm merely a very truthful man. But people are so unused to the truth that they're apt to mistake it for a joke or a sneer.
 Cf. The Summing Up (1938), chapter 77: “People are very hypocritical in this matter and will not face the truth. They so deceive themselves that they can accept it with complacency when their love dwindles into what they describe as a solid and enduring affection. As if affection had anything to do with love!”
 Evidently the 1923 Great Kantō earthquake.
 Cf. “Person – To – Person” (1955) by
It is a lonely idea, a lonely condition so terrifying to think of that we usually don't. And so we talk to each other, write and wire each other, call each other short and long distances across land and sea, clasp hands with each other at meeting and at parting, fight each other and even destroy each other because of this always somewhat thwarted effort to break through walls to each other. As a character in a play once said, "We all of us are sentenced to solitary confinement inside our own skins."
The character alluded to is Val from
play Orpheus Descending. Tennessee
Cf. also “A Fragment: Could I remount the river of my years” (1816) by Lord Byron:
The ashes of a thousand ages spread
Wherever Man has trodden or shall tread?
Or do they in their silent cities dwell
Each in his incommunicative cell?
 Cf. The Summing Up (1938), chapter 15: “The spirit is often most free when the body is satiated with pleasure; indeed, sometimes the stars shine more brightly seen from the gutter than from the hilltop.”
Cf. also Dumby in Oscar Wilde’s Lady Windermere’s Fan (1893): “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars?”
 Cf. the opening paragraph of “The Lotus Eater” from The Mixture as Before (1940). Cf. also the Preface to vol. 3 of The Complete Short Stories, Heinemann, 1951:
There is one more point I want to make. Most of these stories are on the tragic side. But the reader must not suppose that the incidents I have narrated were of common occurrence. The vast majority of these people, government servants, planters, and traders, who spent their working lives in
were ordinary people ordinarily satisfied with their station of life. They did
the jobs they were paid to do more or less competently. They were as happy with
their wives as are most married couples. They led humdrum lives and did very
much the same things every day. Sometimes by way of a change they got a little
shooting; but as a rule, after they had done their day's work, they played
tennis if there were people to play with, went to the club at sundown if there
was a club in the vicinity, drank in moderation, and played bridge. They had
their little tiffs, their little jealousies, their little flirtations, their
little celebrations. They were good, decent, normal people.
I respect, and even admire, such people, but they are not the sort of people I can write stories about. I write stories about people who have some singularity of character which suggests to me that they may be capable of behaving in such a way to give me an idea that I can make use of, or about people who by some accident or another, accident of temperament, accident of environment, have been involved in unusual contingencies. But, I repeat, they are the exception.