W. Somerset Maugham

Karsh, Yousuf, 1908-2002 · 1950

The face of Somerset Maugham - a deeply lined, wise, and almost ageless face - is as familiar to the world as are the writer's teeming works. Yet the man I discovered as in the grand suite of a New York hotel in 1950 entirely surprised me. He was quite unlike the man I had expected from reading his stories and many articles about him. ~ Apparently he had kept his appointment with me by interrupting his customary afternoon nap. The black eye-shield he wears at such times still dangled from his hand. Though he obviously would have preferred to rest (for he is now an 'old party' as he is always telling reporters), he gave me his whole attention and almost charmed me away from the business of the sitting. ~ To begin with, his face is arresting-not handsome, of course, in any conventional sense but impressive, rather like the carved, wooden image of some tribal god in the South Seas where he has roamed so often. The eyes are penetrating, almost hypnotic and intensely alive. That well-known expression of starkness (often taken for cynicism) breaks frequently into the most engaging smile. To my surprise Maugham, the realist, the hard-boiled sceptic, possessed an irresistible warmth. This made the work of the camera easy but did not help my other purpose. I wanted to ask him a thousand questions about his methods, his life, and his views, but after half an hour I realized that I, not he, was being interviewed. Out of long habit, I suppose, he automatically begins to draw a stranger out. His curiosity about human nature is insatiable in his old age. He finds in everybody, even the chance passer-by, the possibility of some quirk or anecdote that has in it the making of a tale after passing through the alchemy of his imagination. I had the sudden vivid feeling that he viewed the human comedy with the objectivity of my camera. ~ At any rate, Mr. Maugham talked little and I am afraid that I have talked much, simply because I could not resist a man who appeared to with no interest in the world just then but me. Doubtless that is his custom with everyone who crosses his path and the result is known to just about everyone who reads his stories. ~ Mr. Maugham was not in a talking mood that day, but I have heard that in this respect his mood can change. A friend of his remarked to me, later on, that Maugham 'when he gets going is an extraordinarily interesting talker and talks as well as he writes. Yes, and he reads his stories aloud as well as any actor could.' ~ I remember Somerset Maugham, then, rather as a polished, elegant, and sympathetic listener, with an immense cunning in penetrating another man's innermost thoughts (Karsh, 1959).