The Force of Circumstance (1924) – W. Somerset Maugham

If you enjoy dabbling in books feel free to join me on Goodreads [here] as I ease back into my reading journey after a bit of time away.

Picking up the Wednesday literature segment where I last left off with Collected Stories (1983) – Gabriel García Márquez, today I bring you a short story from my current read – The Penguin Book of Short Stories. This anthology features some of the most celebrated names in literature, including Dickens, Huxley, Joyce, Maugham, Wells, and Woolf. Its themes span the supernatural, colonialism, cultural and societal tensions, and madness – to name just a few.

It’s an enjoyable read if you’re into the classics of English literature. Naturally, I connected more with some stories than others, but the one I’ve found most compelling and relatable so far is today’s feature by W. Somerset Maugham (image inset) – The Force of Circumstance. By the end, this profound story led me to dive deep into the murky waters of my own soul, confronting my battles with loneliness and reassessing my priorities in relationships. It struck a painful chord – heartbreakingly true. That, to me, is what the greatest literature does: it holds a mirror up to the soul, and what it reflects back isn’t always easy to face.

The Force of Circumstance is a story about Doris, a young Englishwoman, who marries Guy, a colonial officer stationed in the remote outpost of Sembulu. Despite their love and her efforts to make their home pleasant, Doris discovers the presence of a Malay woman and child. Who is this woman and child lurking by their home? Anyway, I’ll keep the rest under wraps and spoiler-free for those wanting to read it (or listen to the audio version at the end of this post) for the first time.

Maugham is so effective in holding out weaknesses and contradictions in front of us…illustrating the obvious dichotomies in moral positions. Someone mentioned he is a little abstract… that is why. He is dangling the different perspectives without telling us which is the correct one. It’s also a masterclass in characterisation. He sketches each with a deft hand, gradually building story lines and adding plot twists- until he just sits back, and lets his characters speak.

That’s enough of the introduction – so if you’re inclined, go pour yourself a cup of coffee and get nice and cosy for an hour-long, embittered tale of lies, love, and jealousy. Without further ado, I present The Force of Circumstance below – or the audio version just beneath that.

The Force of Circumstance (1924)

She was sitting on the veranda waiting for her husband to come in for luncheon. The Malay boy had drawn the blinds when the morning lost its freshness, but she had partly raised one of them so that she could look at the river. Under the breathless sun of midday it had the white pallor of death. A native was paddling along in a dug-out so small that it hardly showed above the surface of the water. The colours of the day were ashy and wan. They were but the various tones of the heat. (It was like an Eastern melody, in the minor key, which exacerbates the nerves by its ambiguous monotony; and the ear awaits impatiently a resolution, but waits in vain.) The cicadas sang their grating song with a frenzied energy; it was as continual and monotonous as the rustling of a brook over the stones; but on a sudden it was drowned by the loud singing of a bird, mellifluous and rich; and for an instant, with a catch at her heart, she thought of the English blackbird.

Then she heard her husband’s step on the gravel path behind the bungalow, the path that led to the court-house in which he had been working, and she rose from her chair to greet him. He ran up the short flight of steps, for the bungalow was built on piles, and at the door the boy was waiting to take his topee. He came into the room which served them as a dining-room and parlour, and his eyes lit up with pleasure as he saw her.

‘Hulloa, Doris. Hungry?’

‘Ravenous.’

‘It’ll only take me a minute to have a bath and then I’m ready.’

‘Be quick,’ she smiled.

He disappeared into his dressing-room and she heard him whistling cheerily while, with the carelessness with which she was always remonstrating, he tore off his clothes and flung them on the floor. He was twenty-nine, but he was still a school-boy; he would never grow up. That was why she had fallen in love with him, perhaps, for no amount of affection could persuade her that he was good-looking. He was a little round man, with a red face like the full moon, and blue eyes. He was rather pimply. She had examined him carefully and had been forced to confess to him that he had not a single feature which she could praise. She had told him often that he wasn’t her type at all.

‘I never said I was a beauty,’ he laughed.

‘I can’t think what it is I see in you.’

But of course she knew perfectly well. He was a gay, jolly little man, who took nothing very solemnly, and he was constantly laughing. He made her laugh too. He found life an amusing rather than a serious business, and he had a charming smile. When she was with him she felt happy and good-tempered. And the deep affection which she saw in those merry blue eyes of his touched her. It was very satisfactory to be loved like that. Once, sitting on his knees, during their honeymoon she had taken his face in her hands and said to him:

‘You’re an ugly, little fat man, Guy, but you’ve got charm. I can’t help loving you.’

Read the remainder here or go to the audio below. Cheers.