“If you’d had any pride, if you’d had any sense of decency, you’d have thrown his presents in his face.”
“You’ve profited by them, haven’t you?”
“Never. Never.”
“It’s a lie and you know it. You’ve refused to eat the cheese he brought and the butter and the sardines. But the soup you’ve eaten, you know I put the meat in it that he brought; and the salad you ate tonight, if you didn’t have to eat it dry, it’s because he brought me oil.”
Annette sighed deeply. She passed her hand over her eyes.
“I know. I tried not to, I couldn’t help myself, I was so hungry. Yes, I knew his meat went into the soup and I ate it. I knew the salad was made with his oil. I wanted to refuse it; I had such a longing for it, it wasn’t I that ate it, it was a ravenous beast within me.”
“That’s neither here nor there. You ate it.”
“With shame. With despair. They broke our strength first with their tanks and their planes, and now when we’re defenceless they’re breaking our spirit by starving us.”
“You get nowhere by being theatrical, my girl. For an educated woman you have really no sense. Forget the past and give a father to your child, to say nothing of a good workman for the farm who’ll be worth two hired men. That is sense.”
Annette shrugged her shoulders wearily and they lapsed into silence. Next day Hans came. Annette gave him a sullen look, but neither spoke nor moved. Hans smiled.
“Thank you for not running away,” he said.
“My parents asked you to come and they’ve gone down to the village. It suits me because I want to have a definite talk with you. Sit down.”
He took off his coat and his helmet and drew a chair to the table.
“My parents want me to marry you. You’ve been clever; with your presents, with your promises, you’ve got round them. They believe all they read in the papers you bring them. I want to tell you that I will never marry you. I wouldn’t have thought it possible that I could hate a human being as I hate you.”
“Let me speak in German. You understand enough to know what I’m saying.”
“I ought to. I taught it. For two years I was governess to two little girls in Stuttgart.”
He broke into German, but she went on speaking French.
“It’s not only that I love you, I admire you. I admire your distinction and your grace. There’s something about you I don’t understand. I respect you. Oh, I can see that you don’t want to marry me now even if it were possible. But Pierre is dead.”
“Don’t speak of him,” she cried violently. “That would be the last straw.”
“I only want to tell you that for your sake I’m sorry he died.”
“Shot in cold blood by his German jailers.”
“Perhaps in time you’ll grieve for him less. You know, when someone you love dies, you think you’ll never get over it, but you do. Won’t it be better then to have a father for your child?”
“Even if there were nothing else do you think I could ever forget that you are a German and I’m a Frenchwoman? If you weren’t as stupid as only a German can be you’d see that that child must be a reproach to me as long as I live. Do you think I have no friends? How could I ever look them in the face with the child I had with a German soldier? There’s only one thing I ask you; leave me alone with my disgrace. Go, go-for God’s sake go and never come again.”
“But he’s my child too. I want him.”
“You?” she cried in astonishment. “What can a by-blow that you got in a moment of savage drunkenness mean to you?”
“You don’t understand. I’m so proud and so happy. It was when I knew you were going to have a baby that I knew I loved you. At first I couldn’t believe it; it was such a surprise to me. Don’t you see what I mean? That child that’s going to be born means everything in the world to me. Oh, I don’t know how to put it; it’s put feelings in my heart that I don’t understand myself.”
She looked at him intently and there was a strange gleam in her eyes. You would have said it was a look of triumph. She gave a short laugh.
“I don’t know whether I more loathe the brutality of you Germans or despise your sentimentality.”
He seemed not to have heard what she said.
“I think of him all the time.”
“You’ve made up your mind it’ll be a boy?”
“I know it’ll be a boy. I want to hold him in my arms and I want to teach him to walk. And then when he grows older I’ll teach him all I know. I’ll teach him to ride and I’ll teach him to shoot. Are there fish in your brook? I’ll teach him to fish. I’m going to be the proudest father in the world.”
She stared at him with hard, hard eyes. Her face was set and stern. An idea, a terrible idea was forming itself in her mind. He gave her a disarming smile.
“Perhaps when you see how much I love our boy, you’ll come to love me too. I’ll make you a good husband, my pretty.”
She said nothing. She merely kept on gazing at him sullenly.
“Haven’t you one kind word for me?” he said.
She flushed. She clasped her hands tightly together.
“Others may despise me. I will never do anything that can make me despise myself. You are my enemy and you will always be my enemy. I only live to see the deliverance of France. It’ll come, perhaps not next year or the year after, perhaps not for thirty years, but it’ll come. The rest of them can do what they like, I will never come to terms with the invaders of my country. I hate you and I hate this child that you’ve given me. Yes, we’ve been defeated. Before the end comes you’ll see that we haven’t been conquered. Now go. My mind’s made up and nothing on God’s earth can change it.”
He was silent for a minute or two.
“Have you made arrangements for a doctor? I’ll pay all the expenses.”
“Do you suppose we want to spread our shame through the whole countryside? My mother will do all that’s necessary.”
“But supposing there’s an accident?”
“And supposing you mind your own business!”
He sighed and rose to his feet. When he closed the door behind him she watched him walk down the pathway that led to the road. She realized with rage that some of the things he said had aroused in her heart a feeling that she had never felt for him before.
“O God, give me strength,” she cried.
Then, as he walked along, the dog, an old dog they’d had for years, ran up to him barking angrily. He had tried for months to make friends with the dog, but it had never responded to his advances; when he tried to pat it, it backed away growling and showing its teeth. And now as the dog ran towards him, irritably giving way to his feeling of frustration, Hans gave it a savage brutal kick and the dog was flung into the bushes and limped yelping away.
“The beast,” she cried. “Lies, lies, lies. And I was weak enough to be almost sorry for him.”
There was a looking-glass hanging by the side of the door and she looked at herself in it. She drew herself up and smiled at her reflection. But rather than a smile it was a fiendish grimace.
It was now March. There was a bustle of activity in the garrison at Soissons. There were inspections and there was intensive training. Rumour was rife. There was no doubt they were going somewhere, but the rank and file could only guess where. Some thought they were being got ready at last for the invasion of England, others were of opinion that they would be sent to the Balkans, and others again talked of the Ukraine. Hans was kept busy. It was not till the second Sunday afternoon that he was able to get out to the farm. It was a cold grey day, with sleet that looked as though it might turn to snow falling in sudden windy flurries. The country was grim and cheerless.
“You!” cried Madame Périer when he went in. “We thought you were dead.”
“I couldn’t come before. We’re off any day now. We don’t know when.”
“The baby was born this morning. It’s a boy.”
Hans’s heart gave a great le
ap in his breast. He hung his arms round the old woman and kissed her on both cheeks.
“A Sunday child, he ought to be lucky. Let’s open the bottle of champagne. How’s Annette?”
“She’s as well as can be expected. She had a very easy time. She began to have pains last night and by five o’clock this morning it was all over.”
Old Périer was smoking his pipe sitting as near the stove as he could get. He smiled quietly at the boy’s enthusiasm.
“One’s first child, it has an effect on one,” he said.
“He has quite a lot of hair and it’s as fair as yours; and blue eyes just like you said he’d have,” said Madame Périer. “I’ve never seen a lovelier baby. He’ll be just like his papa.”
“Oh, my God, I’m so happy,” cried Hans. “How beautiful the world is! I want to see Annette.”
“I don’t know if she’ll see you. I don’t want to upset her on account of the milk.”
“No, no, don’t upset her on my account. If she doesn’t want to see me it doesn’t matter. But let me see the baby just for a minute.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll try to bring it down.”
Madame Périer went out and they heard her heavy tread clumping up the stairs. But in a moment they heard her clattering down again. She burst into the kitchen.
“They’re not there. She isn’t in her room. The baby’s gone.”
Périer and Hans cried out and without thinking what they were doing all three of them scampered upstairs. The harsh light of the winter afternoon cast over the shabby furniture, the iron bed, the cheap wardrobe, the chest of drawers, a dismal squalor. There was no one in the room.
“Where is she?” screamed Madame Périer. She ran into the narrow passage, opening doors, and called the girl’s name. “Annette, Annette. Oh, what madness!”
“Perhaps in the sitting-room.”
They ran downstairs to the unused parlour. An icy air met them as they opened the door. They opened the door of a storeroom.
“She’s gone out. Something awful has happened.”
“How could she have got out?” asked Hans sick with anxiety.
“Through the front door, you fool.”
Périer went up to it and looked.
“That’s right. The bolt’s drawn back.”
“Oh, my God, my God, what madness,” cried Madame Périer. “It’ll kill her.”
“We must look for her,” said Hans. Instinctively, because that was the way he always went in and out, he ran back into the kitchen and the others followed him. “Which way?”
“The brook,” the old woman gasped.
He stopped as though turned to stone with horror. He stared at the old woman aghast.
“I’m frightened,” she cried. “I’m frightened.”
Hans flung open the door, and as he did so Annette walked in. She had nothing on but her nightdress and a flimsy rayon dressing-gown. It was pink, with pale blue flowers. She was soaked, and her hair, dishevelled, clung damply to her head and hung down her shoulders in bedraggled wisps. She was deathly white. Madame Périer sprang towards her and took her in her arms.
“Where have you been? Oh, my poor child, you’re wet through. What madness!”
But Annette pushed her away. She looked at Hans.
“You’ve come at the right moment, you.”
“Where’s the baby?” cried Madame Périer.
“I had to do it at once. I was afraid if I waited I shouldn’t have the courage.”
“Annette, what have you done?”
“I’ve done what I had to do. I took it down to the brook and held it under water till it was dead.”
Hans gave a great cry, the cry of an animal wounded to death; he covered his face with his hands, and staggering like a drunken man flung out of the door. Annette sank into a chair, and leaning her forehead on her two fists burst into passionate weeping.
THE ANT AND THE GRASSHOPPER
WHEN I was a very small boy I was made to learn by heart certain of the fables of La Fontaine, and the moral of each was carefully explained to me. Among those I learnt was The Ant and The Grasshopper which is devised to bring home to the young the useful lesson that in an imperfect world industry is rewarded and giddiness punished. In this admirable fable (I apologize for telling something which everyone is politely, but inexactly, supposed to know) the ant spends a laborious summer gathering its winter store, while the grasshopper sits on a blade of grass singing to the sun. Winter comes and the ant is comfortably provided for, but the grasshopper has an empty larder: he goes to the ant and begs for a little food. Then the ant gives him her classic answer:
“What were you doing in the summer time?”
“Saving your presence, I sang, I sang all day, all night.”
“You sang. Why, then go and dance.”
I do not ascribe it to perversity on my part, but rather to the inconsequence of childhood, which is deficient in moral sense, that I could never quite reconcile myself to the lesson. My sympathies were with the grasshopper and for some time I never saw an ant without putting my foot on it. In this summary (and as I have discovered since, entirely human) fashion I sought to express my disapproval of prudence and common sense.
I could not help thinking of this fable when the other day I saw George Ramsay lunching by himself in a restaurant. I never saw anyone wear an expression of such deep gloom. He was staring into space. He looked as though the burden of the whole world sat on his shoulders. I was sorry for him: I suspected at once that his unfortunate brother had been causing trouble again. I went up to him and held out my hand.
“How are you?” I asked.
“I’m not in hilarious spirits,” he answered.
“Is it Tom again?”
He sighed.
“Yes, it’s Tom again.”
“Why don’t you chuck him? You’ve done everything in the world for him. You must know by now that he’s quite hopeless.”
I suppose every family has a black sheep. Tom had been a sore trial to his for twenty years. He had begun life decently enough: he went into business, married, and had two children. The Ramsays were perfectly respectable people and there was every reason to suppose that Tom Ramsay would have a useful and honourable career. But one day, without warning, he announced that he didn’t like work and that he wasn’t suited for marriage. He wanted to enjoy himself. He would listen to no expostulations. He left his wife and his office. He had a little money and he spent two happy years in the various capitals of Europe. Rumours of his doings reached his relations from time to time and they were profoundly shocked. He certainly had a very good time. They shook their heads and asked what would happen when his money was spent. They soon found out: he borrowed. He was charming and unscrupulous. I have never met anyone to whom it was more difficult to refuse a loan. He made a steady income from his friends and he made friends easily. But he always said that the money you spent on necessities was boring; the money that was amusing to spend was the money you spent on luxuries. For this he depended on his brother George. He did not waste his charm on him. George was a serious man and insensible to such enticements. George was respectable. Once or twice he fell to Tom’s promises of amendment and gave him considerable sums in order that he might make a fresh start. On these Tom bought a motor-car and some very nice jewellery. But when circumstances forced George to realize that his brother would never settle down and he washed his hands of him, Tom, without a qualm, began to blackmail him. It was not very nice for a respectable lawyer to find his brother shaking cocktails behind the bar of his favourite restaurant or to see him waiting on the box-seat of a taxi outside his club. Tom said that to serve in a bar or to drive a taxi was a perfectly decent occupation, but if George could oblige him with a couple of hundred pounds he didn’t mind for the honour of the family giving it up. George paid.
Once Tom nearly went to prison. George was terribly upset. He went into the whole discreditable affair. Really Tom had gone too far. He had been wild, thoug
htless, and selfish, but he had never before done anything dishonest, by which George meant illegal; and if he were prosecuted he would assuredly be convicted. But you cannot allow your only brother to go to gaol. The man Tom had cheated, a man called Cronshaw, was vindictive. He was determined to take the matter into court; he said Tom was a scoundrel and should be punished. It cost George an infinite deal of trouble and five hundred pounds to settle the affair. I have never seen him in such a rage as when he heard that Tom and Cronshaw had gone off together to Monte Carlo the moment they cashed the cheque. They spent a happy month there.
For twenty years Tom raced and gambled, philandered with the prettiest girls, danced, ate in the most expensive restaurants, and dressed beautifully. He always looked as if he had just stepped out of a bandbox. Though he was forty-six you would never have taken him for more than thirty-five. He was a most amusing companion and though you knew he was perfectly worthless you could not but enjoy his society. He had high spirits, an unfailing gaiety, and incredible charm. I never grudged the contributions he regularly levied on me for the necessities of his existence. I never lent him fifty pounds without feeling that I was in his debt. Tom Ramsay knew everyone and everyone knew Tom Ramsay. You could not approve of him, but you could not help liking him.
Poor George, only a year older than his scapegrace brother, looked sixty. He had never taken more than a fortnight’s holiday in the year for a quarter of a century. He was in his office every morning at nine-thirty and never left it till six. He was honest, industrious, and worthy. He had a good wife, to whom he had never been unfaithful even in thought, and four daughters to whom he was the best of fathers. He made a point of saving a third of his income and his plan was to retire at fifty-five to a little house in the country where he proposed to cultivate his garden and play golf. His life was blameless. He was glad that he was growing old because Tom was growing old too. He rubbed his hands and said:
The Complete Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham - II - The World Over Page 57