The story of a Verger

 

Once in a while, one comes across a story that creates an impact. I recently came across one such story from my professor Dr. Natarajan. It is "The Verger", a short story written by Somerset Maugham which I reproduce below in my own words:

In the heart of bustling London, amidst the maze of streets and the shadows of towering buildings, there lived a humble verger. This was no ordinary occupation for him; it was a legacy passed down through generations, a sacred duty intertwined with his family's history. Each day dawned with the solemn rhythm of church bells, calling the faithful to their prayers. And with each toll, the verger arose, donning his worn cleaning robe like a cloak of duty. His task was simple yet essential: to ascend the ladder, his faithful companion, and polish the gleaming chandeliers that adorned the sacred space.

But one day, change swept through the hallowed halls of the church like a gust of wind. New management assumed control, decreeing that all who laboured within the church's embrace must possess the ability to read and write. This mandate spelt doom for our verger, for he possessed neither of these skills. With a heavy heart, he beseeched the higher powers, pleading for mercy and understanding. "Generations of my kin have served this sanctuary," he implored. "I am but a humble verger, devoted to this sacred duty. Spare me from this fate, I beg of you." In response, a glimmer of hope emerged from the darkness of despair. The higher authorities offered a lifeline: a year to learn the elusive arts of reading and writing. But to the verger, it seemed an insurmountable task, akin to rolling a boulder up an endless hill.

Time passed like grains of sand slipping through an hourglass, relentless and unforgiving. The fateful day arrived, casting a shadow over the verger's spirit as he donned his robe for what he feared would be the final time. And true to his fears, the verdict was delivered: his tenure as a verger was at an end.

With a heavy purse of coins, his wages for years of faithful service slung over his shoulder, he departed the church, the weight of uncertainty bearing down upon him like a burden too heavy to bear. As he stepped out of the church, he craved a smoke to soothe his troubled soul. Seeking solace, he wandered the streets of London, in search of respite.

After what felt like an eternity of wandering, he finally chanced upon a corner shop selling tobacco. With a sigh of relief, he stepped inside and bought a cigarette. As he savoured the warmth of the cigarette between his fingers, a fleeting thought flickered in his mind, igniting a spark of inspiration that would alter the course of his destiny. "Why not cater to the needs of others like myself?" he mused. "Those who seek respite in the comfort of a cigarette after partaking in their devotions."

The next day, true to his newfound vision, he opened a corner shop near the church, fulfilling a need he had keenly felt. With each passing day, the steady stream of patrons grew, drawn by the convenience of his offerings. Within a matter of days, the verger witnessed a notable uptick in revenue. Encouraged by this initial success, he expanded his venture, opening a second shop, then a third, until a constellation of storefronts adorned the streets of London.

One day, the verger made a decision to visit a bank and deposit his hard-earned wealth. Upon entering, he was greeted by the bank authority, who promptly handed him a form detailing the process of opening a bank account. At that time, the verger confessed, "I don't know how to read. Can you please tell me what is written in that?" Without missing a beat, the bank authority graciously read aloud the contents of the form, ensuring the verger understood every detail. Next, as the authority handed him a blank form to fill, the verger's expression grew vacant. "I don't know how to write," he confessed. Wondering, the bank authority took up the task, deftly filling in the required details on behalf of the verger. Finally, as the verger was asked to affix his signature to the document, he confessed, "I don't know how to sign.” The bank authority, taken aback by this revelation, questioned the verger's paradoxical existence—how could one so seemingly disadvantaged amass such wealth?

Hearing this, the verger shook his head and said, “Had I known how to read and write, I would have been a verger.”

*****