Sixty-Five Short Stories

by Somerset William Maugham

  Saffary had presumably said what he had come to say and the Resident wondered why he did not get up and go. He sat heaped up in his chair oddly, so that it gave you the feeling that his skeleton had ceased to support him and his considerable mass of flesh was falling in on him. He looked dully at the desk that separated him from the Resident. He sighed deeply.

  'You must try not to take it too hard, Saffary,' said George Moon. 'You know how uncertain life is in the East. One has to resign oneself to losing people one's fond of.'

  Saffary's eyes slowly moved from the desk, and he fixed them on George Moon's. They stared unwinking. George Moon liked people to look him in the eyes. Perhaps he felt that when he thus held their vision he held them in his power. Presently two tears formed themselves in Saffary's blue eyes and slowly ran down his cheeks. He had a strangely puzzled look. Something had frightened him. Was it death? No. Something that he thought worse. He looked cowed. His mien was cringing so that he made you think of a dog unjustly beaten.

  'It's not that,' he faltered. 'I could have borne that.'

  George Moon did not answer. He held that big, powerful man with his cold level gaze and waited. He was pleasantly conscious of his absolute indifference. Saffary gave a harassed glance at the papers on the desk.

  'I'm afraid I'm taking up too much of your time.'

  'No, I have nothing to do at the moment.'

  Saffary looked out of the window. A little shudder passed between his shoulders. He seemed to hesitate.

  'I wonder if I might ask your advice,' he said at last.

  'Of course,' said the Resident, with the shadow of a smile, 'that's one of the things I'm here for.'

  'It's a purely private matter.'

  'You may be quite sure that I shan't betray any confidence you place in me.'

  'No, I know you wouldn't do that, but it's rather an awkward thing to speak about, and I shouldn't feel very comfortable meeting you afterwards. But you're going away tomorrow, and that makes it easier, if you understand what I mean.'

  'Quite.'

  Saffary began to speak, in a low voice, sulkily, as though he were ashamed, and he spoke with the awkwardness of a man unused to words. He went back and said the same thing over again. He got mixed up. He started a long, elaborate sentence and then broke off abruptly because he did not know how to finish it. George Moon listened in silence, his face a mask, smoking, and he only took his eyes off Saffary's face to reach for another cigarette from the box in front of him and light it from the stub of that which he was just finishing. And while he listened he saw, as it were a background, the monotonous round of the planter's life. It was like an accompaniment of muted strings that threw into sharper relief the calculated dissonances of an unexpected melody.

  With rubber at so low a price every economy had to be exercised and Tom Saffary, notwithstanding the size of the estate, had to do work which in better times he had had an assistant for. He rose before dawn and went down to the lines where the coolies were assembled. When there was just enough light to see he read out the names, ticking them off according to the answers, and assigned the various squads to their work. Some tapped, some weeded, and others tended the ditches. Saffary went back to his solid breakfast, lit his pipe, and sallied forth again to inspect the coolies' quarters. Children were playing and babies sprawling here and there. On the sidewalks Tamil women cooked their rice. Their black skins shone with oil. They were draped about in dull red cotton and wore gold ornaments in their hair. There were handsome creatures among them, upright of carriage, with delicate features and small, exquisite hands; but Saffary looked upon them only with distaste. He set out on his rounds. On his well-grown estate the trees planted in rows gave one a charming feeling of the prim forest of a German fairy-tale. The ground was thick with dead leaves. He was accompanied by a Tamil overseer, his long black hair done in a chignon, barefooted, in sarong and baju, with a showy ring on his finger. Saffary walked hard, jumping the ditches when he came to them, and soon he dripped with sweat. He examined the trees to see that they were properly tapped, and when he came across a coolie at work looked at the shavings and if they were too thick swore at him and docked him half a day's pay. When a tree was not to be tapped any more he told the overseer to take away the cup and the wire that held it to the trunk. The weeders worked in gangs.

  At noon Saffary returned to the bungalow and had a drink of beer which, because there was no ice, was hike-warm. He stripped off the khaki shorts, the flannel shirt, the heavy boots and stockings in which he had been walking, and shaved and bathed. He lunched in a sarong and baju. He lay off for half an hour, and then went down to his office and worked till five; he had tea and went to the club. About eight he started back for the bungalow, dined, and half an hour after went to bed.

  But last night he went home immediately he had finished his match. Violet had not accompanied him that day. When the Clarkes were there they had met at the club every afternoon, but now they had gone home she came less often. She said there was no one there who much amused her and she had heard everything everyone had to say till she was fed to the teeth. She did not play bridge and it was dull for her to wait about while he played. She told Tom he need not mind leaving her alone. She had plenty of things to do in the house.

  As soon as she saw him back so early she guessed that he had come to tell her that he had won his match. He was like a child in his self-satisfaction over one of these small triumphs. He was a kindly, simple creature and she knew that his pleasure at winning was not only on his own account, but because he thought it must give her pleasure too. It was rather sweet of him to hurry home in order to tell her all about it without delay.

  'Well, how did your match go?' she said as soon as he came lumbering into the sitting-room.

  'I won.'

  'Easily?'

  'Well, not as easily as I should have. I was a bit ahead, and then I stuck, I couldn't do a thing, and you know what Douglas is, not at all showy, but steady, and he pulled up with me. Then I said to myself, well, if I don't buck up I shall get a licking. I had a bit of luck here and there, and then, to cut a long story short, I beat him by seven.'

  'Isn't that splendid? You ought to win the cup now, oughtn't you?'

  'Well, I've got three matches more. If I can get into the semi-finals I ought to have a chance.'

  Violet smiled. She was anxious to show him that she was as much interested as he expected her to be.

  'What made you go to pieces when you did?'

  His face sagged.

  'That's why I came back at once. I'd have scratched only I thought it wasn't fair on the fellows who'd backed me. I don't know how to tell you, Violet.'

  She gave him a questioning look.

  'Why, what's the matter? Not bad news?'

  'Rotten. Knobby's dead.'

  For a full minute she stared at him, and her face, her neat friendly little face, grew haggard with horror. At first it seemed as though she could not understand.

  'What do you mean?' she cried.

  'It was in the paper. He died on board. They buried him at sea.'

  Suddenly she gave a piercing cry and fell headlong to the floor. She had fainted dead away.

  'Violet,' he cried, and threw himself down on his knees and took her head in his arms. 'Boy, boy.'

  A boy, startled by the terror in his master's voice, rushed in, and Saffary shouted him to bring brandy. He forced a little between Violet's lips. She opened her eyes, and as she remembered they grew dark with anguish. Her face was screwed up like a little child's when it is just going to burst into tears. He lifted her up in his arms and laid her on the sofa. She turned her head away.

  'Oh, Tom, it isn't true. It can't be true.'

  'I'm afraid it is.'

  'No, no, no.'

  She burst into tears. She wept convulsively. It was dreadful to hear her. Saffary did not know what to do. He knelt beside her and tried to soothe her. He sought to take her in his arms, but with a sudden gesture she repelled him. />
  'Don't touch me,' she cried, and she said it so sharply that he was startled.

  He rose to his feet.

  'Try not to take it too hard, sweetie,' he said. 'I know it's been an awful shock. He was one of the best.'

  She buried her face in the cushions and wept despairingly. It tortured him to see her body shaken by those uncontrollable sobs. She was beside herself. He put his hand gently on her shoulder.

  'Darling, don't give way like that. It's so bad for you.'

  She shook herself free from his hand.

  'For God's sake leave me alone,' she cried. 'Oh, Hal, Hal.' He had never heard her call the dead man that before. Of course his name was Harold, but everyone called him Knobby. 'What shall I do?' she wailed. 'I can't bear it. I can't bear it.'

  Saffary began to grow a trifle impatient. So much grief did seem to him exaggerated. Violet was not normally so emotional. He supposed it was the damned climate. It made women nervous and high-strung. Violet hadn't been home for four years. She was not hiding her face now. She lay, almost falling off the sofa, her mouth open in the extremity of her pain, and the tears streamed from her staring eyes. She was distraught.

  'Have a little more brandy,' he said. 'Try to pull yourself together, darling. You can't do Knobby any good by getting in such a state.'

  With a sudden gesture she sprang to her feet and pushed him aside. She gave him a look of hatred.

  'Go away, Tom. I don't want your sympathy. I want to be left alone.'

  She walked swiftly over to an arm-chair and threw herself down in it. She flung back her head and her poor white face was wrenched into a grimace of agony.

  'Oh, it's not fair,' she moaned. 'What's to become of me now? Oh, God, I wish I were dead.'

  'Violet.'

  His voice quavered with pain. He was very nearly crying too. She stamped her foot impatiently.

  'Go away, I tell you. Go away.'

  He started. He stared at her and suddenly gasped. A shudder passed through his great bulk. He took a step towards her and stopped, but his eyes never left her white, tortured face; he stared as though he saw in it something that appalled him. Then he dropped his head and without a word walked out of the room. He went into a little sitting-room they had at the back, but seldom used, and sank heavily into a chair. He thought. Presently the gong sounded for dinner. He had not had his bath. He gave his hands a glance. He could not be bothered to wash them. He walked slowly into the dining-room. He told the boy to go and tell Violet that dinner was ready. The boy came back and said she did not want any.

  'All right. Let me have mine then,' said Saffary.

  He sent Violet in a plate of soup and a piece of toast, and when the fish was served he put some on a plate for her and gave it to the boy. But the boy came back with it at once.

  'Mem, she say no wantchee,' he said.

  Saffary ate his dinner alone. He ate from habit, solidly, through the familiar courses. He drank a bottle of beer. When he had finished the boy brought him a cup of coffee and he lit a cheroot. Saffary sat still till he had finished it. He thought. At last he got up and went back into the large veranda which was where they always sat. Violet was still huddled in the chair in which he had left her. Her eyes were closed, but she opened them when she heard him come. He took a light chair and sat down in front of her.

  'What was Knobby to you, Violet?' he said.

  She gave a slight start. She turned away her eyes, but did not speak.

  'I can't quite make out why you should have been so frightfully upset by the news of his death.'

  'It was an awful shock.'

  'Of course. But it seems very strange that anyone should go simply to pieces over the death of a friend.'

  'I don't understand what you mean,' she said.

  She could hardly speak the words and he saw that her lips were trembling.

  'I've never heard you call him Hal. Even his wife called him Knobby.'

  She did not say anything. Her eyes, heavy with grief, were fixed on vacancy.

  'Look at me, Violet.'

  She turned her head slightly and listlessly gazed at him.

  'Was he your lover?'

  She closed her eyes and tears flowed from them. Her mouth was strangely twisted.

  'Haven't you got anything to say at all?'

  She shook her head.

  'You must answer me, Violet.'

  'I'm not fit to talk to you now,' she moaned. 'How can you be so heartless?'

  'I'm afraid I don't feel very sympathetic at the moment. We must get this straight now. Would you like a drink of water?'

  'I don't want anything.'

  'Then answer my question.'

  'You have no right to ask it. It's insulting.'

  'Do you ask me to believe that a woman like you who hears of the death of someone she knew is going to faint dead away and then, when she comes to, is going to cry like that? Why, one wouldn't be so upset over the death of one's only child. When we heard of your mother's death you cried of course, anyone would, and I know you were utterly miserable, but you came to me for comfort and you said you didn't know what you'd have done without me.'

  'This was so frightfully sudden.'

  'Your mother's death was sudden, too.'

  'Naturally I was very fond of Knobby.'

  'How fond? So fond that when you heard he was dead you didn't know and you didn't care what you said? Why did you say it wasn't fair? Why did you say, "What's going to become of me now?"?'

  She sighed deeply. She turned her head this way and that like a sheep trying to avoid the hands of the butcher.

  'You musn't take me for an utter fool, Violet. I tell you it's impossible that you should be so shattered by the blow if there hadn't been something between you.'

  'Well, if you think that, why do you torture me with questions?'

  'My dear, it's no good shilly-shallying. We can't go on like this. What d'you think I'm feeling?'

  She looked at him when he said this. She hadn't thought of him at all. She had been too much absorbed in her own misery to be concerned with his.

  'I'm so tired,' she sighed.

  He leaned forward and roughly seized her wrist.

  'Speak,' he cried.

  'You're hurting me.'

  'And what about me? D'you think you're not hurting me? How can you have the heart to let me suffer like this?'

  He let go of her arm and sprang to his feet. He walked to the end of the room and back again. It looked as though the movement had suddenly roused him to fury. He caught her by the shoulders and dragged her to her feet. He shook her.

  'If you don't tell me the truth I'll kill you,' he cried.

  'I wish you would,' she said.

  'He was your lover?'

  'Yes.'

  'You swine.'

  With one hand still on her shoulder so that she could not move he swung back his other arm and with a flat palm struck her repeatedly, with all his strength, on the side of her face. She quivered under the blows, but did not flinch or cry out. He struck her again and again. All at once he felt her strangely inert, he let go of her and she sank unconscious to the floor. Fear seized him. He bent down and touched her, calling her name. She did not move. He lifted her up and put her back into the chair from which a little while before he had pulled her. The brandy that had been brought when first she fainted was still in the room and he fetched it and tried to force it down her throat. She choked and it spilt over her chin and neck. One side of her pale face was livid from the blows of his heavy hand. She sighed a little and opened her eyes. He held the glass again to her lips, supporting her head, and she sipped a little of the neat spirit. He looked at her with penitent, anxious eyes.

  'I'm sorry, Violet. I didn't mean to do that. I'm dreadfully ashamed of myself. I never thought I could sink so low as to hit a woman.'

  Though she was feeling very weak and her face was hurting, the flicker of a smile crossed her lips. Poor Tom. He did say things like that. He felt like that. And how sc
andalized he would be if you asked him why a man shouldn't hit a woman. But Saffary, seeing the wan smile, put it down to her indomitable courage. By God, she's a plucky little woman, he thought. Game isn't the word.

  'Give me a cigarette,' she said.

  He took one out of his case and put it in her mouth. He made two or three ineffectual attempts to strike his lighter. It would not work.

  'Hadn't you better get a match?' she said.

  For the moment she had forgotten her heart-rending grief and was faintly amused at the situation. He took a box from the table and held the lighted match to her cigarette. She inhaled the first puff with a sense of infinite relief.

  'I can't tell you how ashamed I am, Violet,' he said. 'I'm disgusted with myself. I don't know what came over me.'

  'Oh, that's all right. It was very natural. Why don't you have a drink? It'll do you good.'

  Without a word, his shoulders all hunched up as though the burden that oppressed him were material, he helped himself to a brandy and soda. Then, still silent, he sat down. She watched the blue smoke curl into the air.

  'What are you going to do?' she said at last.

  He gave a weary gesture of despair.

  'We'll talk about that tomorrow. You're not in a fit state tonight. As soon as you've finished your cigarette you'd better go to bed.'

  'You know so much, you'd better know everything.'

  'Not now, Violet.'

  'Yes, now.'

  She began to speak. He heard her words, but could hardly make sense of them. He felt like a man who has built himself a house with loving care and thought to live in it all his life, and then, he does not understand why, sees the housebreakers come and with their picks and heavy hammers destroy it room by room, till what was a fair dwelling-place is only a heap of rubble. What made it so awful was that it was Knobby Clarke who had done this thing. They had come to the F.M.S. on the same ship and had worked at first on the same estate. They call the young planter a creeper and you can tell him in the streets of Singapore by his double felt hat and his khaki coat turned up at the wrists. Callow youths who saunter about staring and are inveigled by wily Chinese into buying worthless truck from Birmingham which they send home as Eastern curios, sit in the lounges of cheap hotels drinking innumerable stengahs, and after an evening at the pictures get into rickshaws and finish the night in the Chinese quarter. Tom and Knobby were inseparable. Tom, a big, powerful fellow, simple, very honest, hard-working; and Knobby, ungainly, but curiously attractive, with his deep-set eyes, hollow cheeks, and large humorous mouth. It was Knobby who made the jokes and Tom who laughed at them. Tom married first. He met Violet when he went on leave. The daughter of a doctor killed in the war, she was governess in the house of some people who lived in the same place as his father. He fell in love with her because she was alone in the world, and his tender heart was touched by the thought of the drab life that lay before her. But Knobby married, because Tom had and he felt lost without him, a girl who had come East to spend the winter with relations. Enid Clarke had been very pretty then in her blonde way, and full-face she was pretty still, though her skin, once so clear and fresh, was already faded; but she had a very weak, small, insignificant chin and in profile reminded you of a sheep. She had pretty flaxen hair, straight, because in the heat it would not keep its wave, and china-blue eyes. Though but twenty-six, she had already a tired look. A year after marriage she had a baby, but it died when only two years old. It was after this that Tom Saffary managed to get Knobby the post of manager of the estate next his own. The two men pleasantly resumed their old familiarity, and their wives, who till then had not known one another very well, soon made friends. They copied one another's frocks and lent one another servants and crockery when they gave a party. The four of them met every day. They went everywhere together. Tom Saffary thought it grand.