Thursday, December 14, 2006

Siena mi fe’, disfecemi Maremma

The Painted Veil
W. Somerset Maugham
Vintage International

When The Painted Veil cried out to me at the bookshop the other day, I had no idea that the novel was inspired by a few lines from The Purgatorio. While studying in Italy as a young man, Maugham's imagination was ensnared by Dante's Pia and the account of her grisly death. Apparently, it wasn't until he visited China some years later that he finally found a setting appropriate to the story.

The Painted Veil takes place in London and Hong Kong during the 1920s. The novel opens with the beautiful and somewhat empty-headed Kitty Fane crying out in alarm to her lover -- someone has just tried the door to her room and she is afraid that her husband Walter, a bacteriologist for the colonial government, has come home early. As it turns out, she is correct -- the affair is discovered and as punishment, she is forced to accompany Walter to the cholera-infested mainland. At first, Kitty is numb to everything around her except her husband's anger. She understands that their mission is tantamount to suicide and she comes to regret having the power to hurt Walter so deeply. Of all the characters in the novel, she is the only one who isn't flat -- the harsh, unfamiliar reality of the disease-ridden Chinese forces her to grow and it is a very different Kitty that eventually returns to England.

The Painted Veil is a beautifully crafted story. It has been a long time since I have read any of his work and I had forgotten how precise Maugham's prose can be. Such a clever man to include a reference Shelley's sonnet in the title -- I can't help but think that we are to read the book within the context of the poem. As for a rating ... hmmm, tough one. Let's just say I loved it and leave it at that.

1 comment:

dog-eared soul said...

okay, for those of you who may be interested, i thought i'd give you the text to shelley's sonnet. geeky, i know, but at least you don't have to look it up!

Lift not the painted veil which those who live
Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,
And it but mimic all we would believe
With colours idly spread,—behind, lurk Fear
And Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave
Their shadows, o’er the chasm, sightless and drear.
I knew one who had lifted it—he sought,
For his lost heart was tender, things to love,
But found them not, alas! nor was there aught
The world contains, the which he could approve.
Through the unheeding many he did move,
A splendour among shadows, a bright blot
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove
For truth, and like the Preacher found it not.