Another Maugham story, like The Human Element, in which a clueless male narrator pines for a beautiful woman occupied with things he can't quite see. I liked its economical vagueness, and speedy path to tragedy. I laughed at the bluntness with which Maugham moves from the teller of the tale back to the framing device narrator at the end:
"I, the writer of this, hadn't spoken in a long time."
Just what is needed to distinguish between the two I's. The love of reading as a set-up is great, it's the small detail that teases out this big story, and which one would think would be inspired by Maugham's own reading habits, just as some of his scandalous tales come from life. But that could be a mistaken perception. (It is similar to his praise of nautical mapbooks at the start of The Vessel of Wrath.)
Unusually Featherstone and the Hardys are without a specific moment of villainy or transgression, the nature of the siblings' relationship left unclear. (Though thinking on what I just read, Sally must have heard from Tim something that was beyond the pale, leading to her leaving her lover immediately.) Featherstone outside of being blind exists mostly to suffer in the future over the past.
I liked the doomed sense of it all, and the detail that a harsh childhood bound the Hardys together. Trauma bonding. You feel great sorrow for Olive. As always, Maugham, with the social club that must always be visited, the various station agents and bridge games, makes colonialism sound quaint. Here on the page, without the attendant terror of being colonized, it can be.
(And with the tragedy being just words.)