THE HOUSE OF DOORS by Tan Twan Eng

This remarkable novel, based on real events, is set in 1921, and is a fictionalized account of “Willie” Somerset Maugham, whose life is rapidly unraveling. Maugham has lost his savings, his extraordinary literary career is flagging, and he’s deeply unhappy in his expensive marriage, which is nothing but a mask, meant to hide his bisexuality. What Maugham wants, more than anything, is to have enough money to travel the world with his secretary and lover, Gerald, who is much younger than him, and to find an exciting premise for his next book.

In this troubled state, Maugham visits his old friend, Robert Hamlin and his wife, Lesley, for an extended visit at their home, Cassowary House, on the Straits Settlement of Penang. As it happens, Lesley is suffering in her loveless marriage to a man who is eighteen years older than her and chronically ill.

Initially, Lesley is disturbed by Maugham’s homosexual relationship with Gerald, but, over time, the two become friends. Maugham learns of Lesley’s relationship with Ethel Proudlock, who was charged with murder. Ethel alleges her neighbor, William Steward, visited her at her home while her husband was out, assaulted her and she shot him. Lesley visited Ethel in prison and was called to be a witness for the defense. The trial, which occurred in 1910, resulted in Ethel being sentenced to death.

Eng’s fictional treatment of this true historical event, involves Ethel revealing to Lesley that she was having an affair with Steward. Ethel claims she wrote a letter to Steward, breaking off the affair. But Steward wouldn’t accept the end of the relationship, visited Ethel’s home in a rage, and she shot him in self defense. This incident becomes the heart of Maugham’s story, “The Letter,” in which he further fictionalizes the alleged encounter, by imagining Ethel writing to Steward, and begging him to come see her.

The opening to this novel contains some of the most lyrical writing I’ve ever come across. Here is an excerpt:

A story, like a bird of the mountain, can carry a name beyond the clouds, beyond even time itself.

Willie Maugham said that to me, many years ago.

He has not appeared in my thoughts in a long time, but as I gaze at the mountains from my stoep

on this autumn morning I can hear his thin, dry voice, his diction precise, correct, like everything else

about him. In my memory I see him again, on his last night in our old house on the other side of

the world, the two of us on the verandah behind the house, talking quietly, the full moon a coracle

of light adrift above the sea. Everyone else in the house had already retired to bed. When morning

came he sailed from Penang, and I never saw him again.”

From The House of Doors by Tan Twan Eng