W. Somerset Maugham’s The Painted Veil is a bit like finding a deceptively lovely flower in a poisoned Chinese river. Ostensibly a story of love, betrayal, and redemption, it teases the reader with a delicate veneer of romance, only to plunge us headfirst into a cynical, uncomfortably reflective look at the human soul. If you thought you were getting a classic love triangle, brace yourself – Maugham’s here to take your assumptions and smash them, all with a knowing smile.
Let’s start with our protagonist, Kitty Fane, a heroine in free-fall. At first glance, she seems to fit snugly into that frivolous socialite archetype: all lace, fluff, and a touch of petulance. Yet, as we quickly realise, Maugham has no intentions of letting her stay in this role, not when there’s a cholera epidemic waiting to fling her into existential turmoil. Kitty is, for the most part, gloriously insufferable – spoiled, vain, and shallow. Her moral compass spins wildly, guided more by social climbing and attraction than by any discernible principles. Yet in her flaws lies Maugham’s genius, as Kitty’s journey towards self-awareness – belated, begrudging, and sometimes laughably naive – ends up being strangely compelling. You want to shake her, yes, but you also want her to make it out the other side of her absurd life choices, possibly alive, and perhaps with a few less illusions.
Then there’s Walter, Kitty’s cuckolded, stony-faced bacteriologist husband. If ever there were an argument for not crossing the quiet ones, it’s Walter Fane. Maugham gives us a portrait of a man who, in his own twisted way, uses passive aggression as if it were an Olympic sport. Spurned by Kitty, he retaliates with a move that’s both brilliantly poetic and almost hilariously over the top: he forces her to accompany him to the cholera-ridden Chinese countryside. If Kitty is naïve in her ignorance, Walter is almost fanatically committed to proving her wrong. He embodies the quintessential British reserve and is equally the embodiment of that peculiarly Maugham-esque sentiment: people aren’t always what they seem, and their vengeance might just come gift-wrapped with a cholera outbreak. It’s petty revenge wrapped in the noblest of causes – public health – and it’s as petty as it is deliciously dark.
Every good love triangle needs a cad, and Charlie Townsend, the dashing disappointment, Kitty’s lover, is as silky as they come. In Charlie, Maugham concocts the ultimate too good to be true character. He’s charming, he’s handsome, he’s irresistibly self-assured, and he’s about as morally deficient as a wet sponge. Kitty falls for him in a flash, despite everyone else’s evident disdain, and in doing so she reveals both the vulnerability and blindness of her own character. But as we see through Maugham’s glinting wit, Charlie is less a person than a prototype: the kind of shallow, glossy disappointment that lurks beneath so many ideal romances. Kitty is drawn to his supposed sophistication, yet the cruel joke Maugham plays is that his sophistication is about as genuine as a costume jewellery tiara. In other words, Kitty’s lover is a dud, and Maugham can’t help but smirk every time he reminds us.
The novel’s setting is less an exotic backdrop than an atmospheric accomplice in Kitty’s emotional torture. Maugham’s China is a vividly uncomfortable place, a dangerous, disease-ridden landscape where Kitty’s illusions of security and glamour dissolve faster than her British tea. The cholera epidemic isn’t just a plot device; it’s Maugham’s acidic commentary on the fragility of Western superiority and the delusions of British colonialism. Maugham doesn’t try to sell us any noble fantasies about his English characters’ work in China; instead, he highlights the uncomfortable hypocrisy and alienation of it all. With Maugham, China isn’t about beauty or mystery – it’s a place where pretense and privilege go to die, and where people like Kitty are left raw, exposed, and feverishly scratching at the painted veil of their illusions.
One of the true joys of The Painted Veil is Maugham’s prose – withering wit meets quiet empathy. His style is sharp, sardonic, and packed with the kind of scathing little observations that make you wonder if he was just a little too perceptive. But it’s also rich in pathos. For all his cynicism, Maugham doesn’t seem to despise his characters as much as he understands them. Kitty may be ridiculous, but Maugham lets us glimpse the reasons for her vanity and fear. Walter may be cruel in his revenge, but Maugham subtly hints at the emotional iceberg beneath his stony façade. And even Charlie, the hopeless rogue, gets off with just enough rope to let him hang himself (and isn’t that satisfying?).
If you’re waiting for a grand redemption, or for Kitty to fall madly back in love with her husband, you’re out of luck. Maugham isn’t interested in tidy endings. Kitty’s transformation is quiet, almost understated, and her growth is realistically incremental. She doesn’t emerge from her trials as a saint, but rather as someone who’s a bit less self-centred, a bit more awake, and a touch more grounded. It’s the kind of transformation that feels more relatable than romantic, which is precisely why it hits home. Maugham rejects the Hollywood ending in favour of something far richer: a story that acknowledges the complexity of self-discovery, the inevitability of disappointment, and the quiet resilience that carries us forward.
Ultimately, The Painted Veil is a brilliant, wicked little novel that invites readers to peel back the layers of human vanity, self-deception, and growth, one by one. Maugham’s genius lies in his ability to critique his characters while remaining deeply invested in their journey. Kitty, Walter, and even Charlie are all walking contradictions, delightfully messy and, at times, downright baffling. Maugham may chuckle at his characters’ flaws, but he never dismisses them. And that’s where the magic happens: by the end, we’re left not just entertained, but also a bit more forgiving of our own blunders.
So if you fancy a love story that isn’t quite a love story, laced with just the right amount of venom, tragedy, and dry humour, Maugham’s The Painted Veil is the perfect tonic. And unlike Kitty, you won’t need a cholera outbreak to appreciate it.
Beware the quiet husband; behind every silent nod is a meticulously plotted vendetta.
Wording 