Vain, flighty socialite Kitty cheats on her husband, bacteriologist Walter, soon after they are married--one of those colossally stupid pairings, fueled by unmanageable lust on his end and fear of spinsterhood on hers. Walter, bless his heart, is the kind of rational scientist by day who falls to pieces over a pretty lady, reduced to cringe-worthy puerility by his infatuation. Kitty can't take Walter seriously as a lover; having given himself so helplessly, Walter is wounded beyond reason by Kitty's transgressions. He comes up with the melodramatic plan to cart her off to a cholera-infested rural Chinese village as punishment.

This is where Maugham's vivid novel and the Hollywood movie version part ways. Do you expect Maugham to have any illusions about two such utterly mismatched individuals? It's all missed opportunities and inability to forgive and snubbing of tentative offerings, and the only silver lining is Kitty's spiritual awakening and growth, which unfold quite convincingly. Both husband and wife's pain is (separately) channeled into their acceptance of a higher calling, service to others and the greater good.

Embarrassed as I am to admit it, there's something that really tugs at my heart about the frothy Hollywood interpretation: of course, love conquers all. But I know deep down that this reaction shares something with those mice who keep after the serotonin spikes no matter the consequences, and what Maugham has to say about people--their potential as well as their limitations--is something truer and wiser, however comparatively medicinal the taste.

(By the way, if it seems like I've given away the entire plot, I assure you that I haven't. The novel is well worth reading.)