Hello there,
It's Mandy here.
Thanks very much for joining me.
I'm going to be reading you a story,
A quite light-hearted story,
By W.
Somerset Maugham.
Somerset Maugham was a writer who was very well known in his day and his writings have lasted the test of time.
He wrote short stories and novels and he also had a knack for writing popular drawing-room comedies for the theatre.
At one time,
When he was in his thirties,
He had four plays running simultaneously in London's West End.
Emotionally,
Though,
Things were more complicated for him.
It's questionable whether he ever really found happiness in his life.
But J.
B.
Priestley says,
In what Somerset Maugham has written,
Readers have found fascinating tales,
Sharply revealed characters,
A fine narrative craft,
And an author who has always been completely,
Honestly himself.
The story I'm going to read to you this evening is called Raw Material.
Before I begin,
Please go ahead and make yourself really comfortable.
That's lovely.
I'll begin.
I have long had in mind a novel in which a card-sharper was the principal character and going up and down the world,
I have kept my eyes open for members of this profession.
Because the idea is prevalent that it is a slightly dishonourable one,
The persons who follow it do not openly acknowledge the fact.
Their reticence is such that it's often not until you have become quite closely acquainted with them,
Or even have played cards with them two or three times,
That you discover in what fashion they earn their living.
But even then,
They have a disinclination to enlarge upon the mysteries of their craft.
They have a weakness for passing themselves off as cavalrymen,
Commercial agents,
Or landed proprietors.
This attitude makes them the most difficult class in the world for the novelist to study.
It has been my good fortune to meet a number of these gentlemen,
And although I found them affable,
Obliging,
And debonair,
I have no sooner hinted,
However discreetly,
At my curiosity – after all,
Purely professional in the technique of their calling – than they have grown shy and uncommunicative.
An airy reference on my part to stacking the cards has made them assume immediately the appearance of a clam.
I am not easily discouraged,
And learning by experience that I could hope for no good results from a direct method,
I have adopted the oblique.
I have been childlike with them,
And bland.
I have found that they gave me their attention and even their sympathy.
Though they confessed honestly that they had never read a word I had written,
They were interested by the fact that I was a writer.
I suppose they felt obscurely that I too followed a calling that people regarded without indulgence.
But I have been forced to gather my facts by a bold surmise.
It has needed patience and industry.
It may be imagined with what enthusiasm I made the acquaintance a little while ago of two gentlemen who seemed likely to add appreciably to my small store of information.
I was travelling from Haiphong on a French liner going east,
And they joined the ship at Hong Kong.
They had gone there for the races,
And were now on their way back to Shanghai.
I was going there too,
And thence to Peking.
I soon learnt that they had come from New York for a trip,
Were bound for Peking also,
And by a happy coincidence meant to return to America in the ship in which I had myself booked a passage.
I was naturally attracted to them,
For they were pleasant fellows,
But it was not until a fellow passenger warned me that they were professional gamblers that I settled down to complete enjoyment of their acquaintance.
I had no hope that they would ever discuss with frankness their interesting occupation,
But I expected a hint here,
A casual remark there,
So that I could learn some very useful things.
One,
Campbell was his name,
Was a man in the late thirties,
Small,
But so well built as not to look short,
Slender,
With large melancholy eyes and beautiful hands.
But for a premature baldness he would have been more than commonly good looking.
He was neatly dressed,
He spoke slowly in a low voice and his movements were deliberate.
The other was made on a different pattern.
He was a big burly man with a red face and crisp black hair of powerful appearance,
Strong in the arm and pugnacious.
His name was Peterson.
The merits of the combination were obvious.
The elegant,
Exquisite Campbell had the subtle brain,
The knowledge of character and the deft hands.
But the hazards of the card-sharper's life are many,
And when it came to a scrap,
Peterson's ready fist must often have proved invaluable.
I do not know how it spread through the ship so quickly that a blow of Peterson's would stretch any man out.
But during the short voyage from Hong Kong to Shanghai,
They never even suggested a game of cards.
Perhaps they had done well during the race week and felt entitled to a holiday.
They were certainly enjoying the advantages of not living for the time in a dry country,
And I do not think I do them an injustice if I say that for the most part they were far from sober.
Each one taught little of himself,
But willingly of the other.
Campbell informed me that Peterson was one of the most distinguished mining engineers in New York,
And Peterson assured me that Campbell was an eminent banker.
He said his wealth was fabulous.
And who was I not to accept ingenuously all that was told me?
But I thought it negligent of Campbell not to wear jewellery of a more expensive character.
It seemed to me that to use an ordinary cigarette case was rather careless.
I stayed but a day in Shanghai,
And though I met the pair again in Peking,
I was then so much engaged that I saw little of them.
I thought it a little odd that Campbell should spend his entire time in the hotel.
I do not think he even went to see the Temple of Heaven,
But I could quite understand that from his point of view,
Peking was unsatisfactory,
And I was not surprised when the pair returned to Shanghai,
Where I knew the wealthy merchants played for big money.
I met them again in the ship that was to take us across the Pacific,
And I couldn't but sympathise with my friends when I saw that the passengers were little inclined to gamble.
There were no rich people among them.
It was a dull crowd.
Campbell indeed suggested a game of poker,
But no one would play more than twenty dollar table stakes,
And Peterson,
Evidently not thinking it worth his while,
Would not join.
Although we played afternoon and evening through the journey,
He sat down with us only on the last day.
I suppose he thought he might just as well make his bar chits,
And this he did very satisfactorily in a single sitting.
But Campbell evidently loved the game for itself.
Of course,
It is only if you have a passion for the business by which you earn your living that you can make a success of it.
The stakes were nothing to him,
And he played all day,
Every day.
It fascinated me to see the way in which he dealt the cards,
Very slowly,
With his delicate hands.
His eyes seemed to bore through the back of each one.
He drank heavily,
But remained quiet and self-controlled.
His face was expressionless.
I judged him to be a perfect card player,
And I wished that I could see him at work.
It increased my esteem for him,
To see that he could take what was only a relaxation so seriously.
When I arrived in New York,
I found an invitation to luncheon at the Ritz with an old friend of mine.
When I went,
She said to me,
It's quite a small party.
A man is coming,
Who I think you'll like.
He's a prominent banker.
He's bringing a friend with him.
The words were hardly out of her mouth when I saw coming up to us Campbell and Peterson.
The truth flashed across me.
Campbell really was an opulent banker.
Peterson really was a distinguished engineer.
They were not card sharpers at all.
I flattered myself,
I kept my face,
But as I blandly shook hands with them,
I muttered under my breath furiously,
Imposters!
