The Painted Veil

PREFACE

THIS story was suggested by the lines of Dante that run as follows:Deh, quando tu sarai tornato al mondo,E riposato della lunga via,Seguito il terzo spirito al secondo,Ricorditi di me, che son la Pia:Siena mi fè; disfecemi Maremma:Salsi colui, che, innanellata priaDisposando m'avea con la sua gemma."Pray, when you are returned to the world, and rested from the longjourney," followed the third spirit on the second, "remember me, who amPia. Siena made me, Maremma unmade me: this he knows who afterbetrothal espoused me with his ring."I was a student at St. Thomas's Hospital and the Easter vacation gave me sixweeks to myself. With my clothes in a gladstone bag and twenty pounds in mypocket I set out. I was twenty. I went to Genoa and Pisa and then to Florence. HereI took a room in the via Laura, from the window of which I could see the lovelydome of the Cathedral, in the apartment of a widow lady, with a daughter, whooffered me board and lodging (after a good deal of haggling) for four lire a day. I amafraid that she did not make a very good thing out of it, since my appetite wasenormous, and I could devour a mountain of macaroni without inconvenience. Shehad a vineyard on the Tuscan hills, and my recollection is that the Chianti she gotfrom it was the best I have ever drunk in Italy. Her daughter gave me an Italianlesson every day. She seemed to me then of mature age, but I do not suppose thatshe was more than twenty-six. She had had trouble. Her betrothed, an officer, hadbeen killed in Abyssinia and she was consecrated to virginity. It was an understoodthing that on her mother's death (a buxom, grey-haired, jovial lady who did notmean to die a day before the dear Lord saw fit) Ersilia would enter religion. But shelooked forward to this with cheerfulness. She loved a good laugh. We were very gayat luncheon and dinner, but she took her lessons seriously, and when I was stupid orinattentive rapped me over the knuckles with a black ruler. I should have beenindignant at being treated like a child if it had not reminded me of the old-fashionedpedagogues I had read of in books and so made me laugh.I lived laborious days. I started each one by translating a few pages of one ofIbsen's plays so that I might acquire mastery of technique and ease in writingdialogue; then, with Ruskin in my hand, I examined the sights of Florence. I admiredaccording to instructions the tower of Giotto and the bronze doors of Ghiberti. I wasproperly enthusiastic over the Botticellis in the Uffizi and I turned the scornfulshoulder of extreme youth on what the master disapproved of. After luncheon I hadmy Italian lesson and then going out once more I visited the churches and wanderedday-dreaming along the Arno. When dinner was done I went out to look foradventure, but such was my innocence, or at least my shyness, I always came homeas virtuous as I had gone out. The Signora, though she had given me a key, sighedwith relief when she heard me come in and bolt the door, for she was always afraid Ishould forget to do this, and I returned to my perusal of the history of the Guelphsand Ghibellines. I was bitterly conscious that not thus behaved the writers of theromantic era, though I doubt whether any of them managed to spend six weeks inItaly on twenty pounds, and I much enjoyed my sober and industrious life.I had already read the Inferno (with the help of a translation, but conscientiouslylooking out in a dictionary the words I did not know), so with Ersilia started on thePurgatorio. When we came to the passage I have quoted above she told me that Piawas a gentlewoman of Siena whose husband, suspecting her of adultery and afraidon account of her family to put her to death, took her down to his castle in theMaremma the noxious vapours of which he was confident would do the trick; butshe took so long to die that he grew impatient and had her thrown out of thewindow. I do not know where Ersilia learnt all this, the note in my own Dante wasless circumstantial, but the story for some reason caught my imagination. I turned itover in my mind and for many years from time to time would brood over it for twoor three days. I used to repeat to myself the line: Siena mi fè; disfecemi Maremma.But it was one among many subjects that occupied my fancy and for long periods Iforgot it. Of course I saw it as a modern story, and I could not think of a setting inthe world of to-day in which such events might plausibly happen. It was not till Imade a long journey in China that I found this.I think this is the only novel I have written in which I started from a story ratherthan from a character. It is difficult to explain the relation between character and plot.You cannot very well think of a character in the void; the moment you think of him,you think of him in some situation, doing something; so that the character and at leasthis principle action seem to be the result of a simultaneous act of the imagination. Butin this case the characters were chosen to fit the story I gradually evolved; they wereconstructed from persons I had long known in different circumstances.I had with this book some of the difficulties that are apt to befall an author. I hadoriginally called my hero and heroine Lane, a common enough name, but it appearedthat there were people of that name in Hong-Kong. They brought an action, whichthe proprietors of the magazine in which my novel was serialised, settled for twohundred and fifty pounds, and I changed the name to Fane. Then the AssistantColonial Secretary, thinking himself libelled, threatened to institute proceedings. Iwas surprised, since in England we can put a Prime Minister on the stage or use himas the character of a novel, an Archbishop of Canterbury or a Lord Chancellor, andthe tenants of these exalted offices do not turn a hair. It seemed to me strange thatthe temporary occupant ofso insignificant a post should think himself aimed at, but inorder to save trouble I changed Hong-Kong to an imaginary colony of Tching-Yen.The book had already been published when the incident arose and was recalled. Acertain number of astute reviewers who had received it did not on one pretext andanother return their copies. These have now acquired a bibliographical value; I thinkthere are about sixty of them in existence, and are bought by collectors at a highprice.