THE VERGER

(W. Somerset Maugham)

The early life of W. Somerset Maugham (1874 - 1965) was unhappy. He

was born in France of English parents who both died when he still a boy. He went
to England to live in the cold, stern atmosphere of his uncle’s home. This setting
appears in Maugham‘s novel Cakes and Ale, in which he describes a boy like
himself: shy, uncertain, afflicted with a stammer, but also imaginative and
responsive. Maugham studied in English schools and at the university of
Heidelberg. He wanted to be a writer but instead studied medicine at the insistence
of his uncle. After a year’s internship in the Lambeth slums of London, he suffered
an attack of tuberculosis and soon left to travel on the Continent, where he began
writing. He worked steadily for years; success did not come easily. In his most
famous novel, Of Human Bondage, he tells the moving story of a young medical
student much like himself.

Somerset Maugham has become perhaps the most accomplished storyteller

of our time. He has traveled the world over and gathered tales along the way –
stories and novels and plays with strange incidents, odd characters, often exotic
settings. Possibly one secret of his popularity lies in his stated purpose in his
writing – entertainment. “Pleasure”, he says, “is in itself good”. Yet Maugham
writes of neither the pleasant nor the pretty. While he does not make a special
pleading for the poor and underprivileged, he depicted the upper classes with an
irony that is often malicious.

The Verger is one of Maugham’s best – known stories; it has been filmed
with two more under the title Trio. Four other stories make up a film entitled
Quartet. Maugham’s stories have also been presented on television, where they
have been introduced by the author himself. A conscious artist who is interested in
the sources as well as the forms of storytelling, Maugham has told much about his
modes of working in A Writer’s Notebook, begun when he was eighteen and
published when he was seventy – five.

The Verger
(W. Somerset Maugham)

There had been a christening that afternoon at St. Peter's, Neville Square,
and Albert Edward Foreman still wore his verger's gown. He kept his new one, its
folds as full and stiff though it were made not of alpaca but of perennial bronze, for
funerals and weddings (St. Peter's, Neville Square, was a church much favoured by
the fashionable for these ceremonies) and now he wore only his second-best. He
wore it with complacence for it was the dignified symbol of his office, and without
it (when he took it off to go home) he had the disconcerting sensation of being
somewhat insufficiently clad. He took pains with it; he pressed it and ironed it
himself. During the sixteen years he had been verger of this church he had had a
succession of such gowns, but he had never been able to throw them away when
they were worn out and the complete series, neatly wrapped up in brown paper, lay
in the bottom drawers of the wardrobe in his bedroom.
The verger busied himself quietly, replacing the painted wooden cover on
the marble font, taking away a chair that had been brought for an infirm old lady,
and waited for the vicar to have finished in the vestry so that he could tidy up in
there and go home. Presently he saw him walk across the chancel, genuflect in
front of the high altar and come down the aisle; but he still wore his cassock.
"What's he 'anging about for?" the verger said to himself "Don't 'e know
I want my tea?"
 The vicar had been but recently appointed, a red-faced energetic man in the early
forties, and Albert Edward still regretted his predecessor, a clergyman of the old
school who preached leisurely sermons in a silvery voice and dined out a great deal
with his more aristocratic parishioners. He liked things in church to be just so, but
he never fussed; he was not like this new man who wanted to have his finger in
every pie. But Albert Edward was tolerant. St. Peter's was in a very good
neighbourhood and the parishioners were a very nice class of people. The new
vicar had come from the East End and he couldn't be expected to fall in all at once
with the discreet ways of his fashionable congregation.
"All this 'ustle," said Albert Edward. "But give 'im time, he'll learn."
When the vicar had walked down the aisle so far that he could address the
verger without raising his voice more than was becoming in a place of worship he
stopped.
"Foreman, will you come into the vestry for a minute. I have something to
say to you."
"Very good, sir."
The vicar waited for him to come up and they walked up the church
together.
"A very nice christening, I thought sir. Funny 'ow the baby stopped cryin'
the moment you took him."
"I've noticed they very often do," said the vicar, with a little smile.
"After all I've had a good deal of practice with them."
It was a source of subdued pride to him that he could nearly always quiet a
whimpering infant by the manner in which he held it and he was not unconscious
of the amused admiration with which mothers and nurses watched him settle the
baby in the crook of his surpliced arm. The verger knew that it pleased him to be
complimented on his talent.
The vicar preceded Albert Edward into the vestry. Albert Edward was a
trifle surprised to find the two churchwardens there. He had not seen them come in.
They gave him pleasant nods.
"Good afternoon, my lord. Good afternoon, sir," he said to one after the
other.
They were elderly men, both of them and they had been churchwardens
almost as long as Albert Edward had been verger. They were sitting now at a
handsome refectory table that the old vicar had brought many years before from
Italy and the vicar sat down in the vacant chair between them. Albert Edward faced
them, the table between him and them and wondered with slight uneasiness what
was the matter. He remembered still the occasion on which the organist had got in
trouble and the bother they had all had to hush things up. In a church like St.
Peter's, Neville Square, they couldn't afford scandal. On the vicar's red face was a
look of resolute benignity but the others bore an expression that was slightly
troubled.
"He's been naggin' them he 'as," said the verger to himself. "He's jockeyed
them into doin' something, but they don't like it. That's what it is, you mark my
words."
But his thoughts did not appear on Albert Edward's clean cut and
distinguished features. He stood in a respectful but not obsequious attitude. He had
been in service before he was appointed to his ecclesiastical office, but only in very
good houses, and his deportment was irreproachable. Starting as a page-boy in the
household of a merchant-prince he had risen by due degrees from the position of
fourth to first footman, for a year he had been single-handed butler to a widowed
peeress and, till the vacancy occurred at St. Peter's, butler with two men under him
in the house of a retired ambassador. He was tall, spare, grave and dignified. He
looked, if not like a duke, at least like an actor of the old school who specialised in
dukes' parts. He had tact, firmness and self-assurance. His character was
unimpeachable.
The vicar began briskly.
"Foreman, we've got something rather unpleasant to say to you. You've
been here a great many years and I think his lordship and the general agree with
me that you've fulfilled the duties of your office to the satisfaction of everybody
concerned."
The two churchwardens nodded.
"But a most extraordinary circumstance came to my knowledge the other
day and I felt it my duty to impart it to the churchwardens. I discovered to my
astonishment that you could neither read nor write."
The verger's face betrayed no sign of embarrassment.
"The last vicar knew that, sir," he replied. "He said it didn't make no
difference. He always said there was a great deal too much education in the world
for 'is taste."
"It's the most amazing thing I ever heard," cried the general. "Do you mean
to say that you've been verger of this church for sixteen years and never learned to
read or write?"
"I went into service when I was twelve sir. The cook in the first place tried
to teach me once, but I didn't seem to 'ave the knack for it, and then what with one
thing and another I never seemed to 'ave the time. I've never really found the want
of it. I think a lot of these young fellows waste a rare lot of time readin' when they
might be doin' something useful."
"But don't you want to know the news?" said the other churchwarden.
"Don't you ever want to write a letter?"
 "No, me lord, I seem to manage very well without. And of late years now
they've all these pictures in the papers I get to know what's goin' on pretty well. Me
wife's quite a scholar and if I want to write a letter she writes it for me. It's not as if
I was a bettin' man."
The two churchwardens gave the vicar a troubled glance and then looked
down at the table.
"Well, Foreman, I've talked the matter over with these gentlemen and they
quite agree with me that the situation is impossible. At a church like St. Peter's
Neville Square, we cannot have a verger who can neither read nor write."
Albert Edward's thin, sallow face reddened and he moved uneasily on his
feet, but he made no reply.
"Understand me, Foreman, I have no complaint to make against you. You
do your work quite satisfactorily; I have the highest opinion both of your character
and of your capacity; but we haven't the right to take the risk of some accident that
might happen owing to your lamentable ignorance. It's a matter of prudence as well
as of principle."
"But couldn't you learn, Foreman?" asked the general.
"No, sir, I'm afraid I couldn't, not now. You see, I'm not as young as I was
and if I couldn't seem able to get the letters in me 'ead when I was a nipper I don't
think there's much chance of it now."
"We don't want to be harsh with you, Foreman," said the vicar. "But the
churchwardens and I have quite made up our minds. We'll give you three months
and if at the end of that time you cannot read and write I'm afraid you'll have to
go."
Albert Edward had never liked the new vicar. He'd said from the beginning
that they'd made a mistake when they gave him St. Peter's. He wasn't the type of
man they wanted with a classy congregation like that. And now he straightened
himself a little. He knew his value and he wasn't going to allow himself to be put
upon.
"I'm very sorry sir, I'm afraid it's no good. I'm too old a dog to learn new
tricks. I've lived a good many years without knowin' 'ow to read and write, and
without wishin' to praise myself, self-praise is no recommendation, I don't mind
sayin' I've done my duty in that state of life in which it 'as pleased a merciful
providence to place me, and if I could learn now I don't know as I'd want to."
"In that case, Foreman, I'm afraid you must go."
"Yes sir, I quite understand. I shall be 'appy to 'and in my resignation as
soon as you've found somebody to take my place."
But when Albert Edward with his usual politeness had closed the church
door behind the vicar and the two churchwardens he could not sustain the air of
unruffled dignity with which he bad borne the blow inflicted upon him and his lips
quivered. He walked slowly back to the vestry and hung up on its proper peg his
verger's gown. He sighed as he thought of all the grand funerals and smart
weddings it had seen. He tidied everything up, put on his coat, and hat in hand
walked down the aisle. He locked the church door behind him. He strolled across
the square, but deep in his sad thoughts he did not take the street that led him
home, where a nice strong cup of tea awaited; he took the wrong turning. He
walked slowly along. His heart was heavy. He did not know what he should do
with himself. He did not fancy the notion of going back to domestic service; after
being his own master for so many years, for the vicar and churchwardens could say
what they liked, it was he that had run St. Peter's, Neville Square, he could scarcely
demean himself by accepting a situation. He had saved a tidy sum, but not enough
to live on without doing something, and life seemed to cost more every year. He
had never thought to be troubled with such questions. The vergers of St. Peter's,
like the popes Rome, were there for life. He had often thought of the pleasant
reference the vicar would make in his sermon at evensong the first Sunday after his
death to the long and faithful service, and the exemplary character of their late
verger, Albert Edward Foreman. He sighed deeply. Albert Edward was a non-
smoker and a total abstainer, but with a certain latitude; that is to say he liked a
glass of beer with his dinner and when he was tired he enjoyed a cigarette. It
occurred to him now that one would comfort him and since he did not carry them
he looked about him for a shop where he could buy a packet of Gold Flakes. He
did not at once see one and walked on a little. It was a long street with all sorts of
shops
in it, but there was not a single one where you could buy cigarettes.
"That's strange," said Albert Edward.
To make sure he walked right up the street again. No, there was no doubt
about it. He stopped and looked reflectively up and down.
"I can't be the only man as walks along this street and wants a fag," he
said. "I shouldn't wonder but what a fellow might do very well with a little shop
here. Tobacco and sweets, you know."
He gave a sudden start.
"That's an idea," he said. "Strange 'ow things come to you when you least
expect it."
He turned, walked home, and had his tea.
"You're very silent this afternoon, Albert," his wife remarked.
"I'm thinkin'," he said.
He considered the matter from every point of view and next day he went
along the street and by good luck found a little shop to let that looked as though it
would exactly suit him. Twenty-four hours later he had taken it and when a month
after that he left St. Peter's, Neville Square, for ever, Albert Edward Foreman set
up in business as a tobacconist and newsagent. His wife said it was a dreadful
come-down after being verger of St. Peter's, but he answered that you had to move
with the times, the church wasn't what it was, and 'enceforward he was going to
render unto Caesar what was Caesar's. Albert Edward did very well. He did so well
that in a year or so it struck him that he might take a second shop and put a
manager in. He looked for another long street that hadn't got a tobacconist in it and
when he found it and a shop to let, took it and stocked it. This was a success too.
Then it occurred to him that if he could run two he could run half a dozen, so he
began walking about London, and whenever he found a long street that had no
tobacconist and a shop to let he took it. In the course of ten years he had acquired
no less than ten shops and he was making money hand over fist. He went round to
all of them himself every Monday, collected the week's takings and took them to
the bank.
One morning when he was there paying in a bundle of notes and a heavy
bag of silver the cashier told him that the manager would like to see him. He was
shown into an office and the manager shook hands with him.
"Mr. Foreman, I wanted to have a talk to you about the money you've got
on deposit with us. D'you know exactly how much it is?"
"Not within a pound or two, sir; but I've got a pretty rough idea."
"Apart from what you paid in this morning it's a little over thirty thousand
pounds. That's a very large sum to have on deposit and I should have thought you'd
do better to invest it."
"I wouldn't want to take no risk, sir. I know it's safe in the bank."
"You needn't have the least anxiety. We'll make you out a list of absolutely
gilt-edged securities. They'll bring you in a better rate of interest than we can
possibly afford to give you."
A troubled look settled on Mr. Foreman's distinguished face. "I've never
'ad anything to do with stocks and shares and I'd 'ave to leave it all in your 'ands,"
he said.
The manager smiled. "We'll do everything. All you'll have to do next time
you come in is just to sign the transfers."
"I could do that all right, said Albert uncertainly. "But 'ow should I know
what I was signin'?"
"I suppose you can read," said the manager a trifle sharply.
Mr. Foreman gave him a disarming smile.
"Well, sir, that's just it. I can't. I know it sounds funny-like but there it is, I
can't read or write, only me name, an' I only learnt to do that when I went into
business."
The manager was so surprised that he jumped up from his chair.
"That's the most extraordinary thing I ever heard."
 "You see it's like this, sir, I never 'ad the opportunity until it was too late
and then some'ow I wouldn't. I got obstinate-like."
The manager stared at him as though he were a prehistoric monster.
"And do you mean to say that you've built up this important business and
amassed a fortune of thirty thousand pounds without being able to read or write?
Good God, man, what would you be now if you had been able to?"
"I can tell you that sir," said Mr. Foreman, a little smile on his still
aristocratic features. "I'd be verger of St. Peter's, Neville Square."

Questions for analysis

1. What are some characteristics of the verger
2. Why did the new vicar want to fire the verger
3. How did the verger feel after being sacked?
4. How did the verger become successful
5. What is the message of the story?