Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  That is not precisely what she said, but it is impossible always to give the exact unexpurgated words of Liza and the other personages of the story, the reader is therefore entreated with his thoughts to piece out the necessary imperfections of the dialogue.

  ‘It’s too bloomin’ slow,’ she said again; ‘it gives me the sick. Let’s ‘ave somethin’ a bit more lively than this ‘ere waltz. You stand over there, Sally, an’ we’ll show ’em ‘ow ter skirt dance.’

  They all stopped waltzing.

  ‘Talk of the ballet at the Canterbury and South London. You just wite till you see the ballet at Vere Street, Lambeth — we’ll knock ’em!’

  She went up to the organ-grinder.

  ‘Na then, Italiano,’ she said to him, ‘you buck up; give us a tune that’s got some guts in it! See?’

  She caught hold of his big hat and squashed it down over his eyes. The man grinned from ear to ear, and, touching the little catch at the side, began to play a lively tune such as Liza had asked for.

  The men had fallen out, but several girls had put themselves in position, in couples, standing face to face; and immediately the music struck up, they began. They held up their skirts on each side, so as to show their feet, and proceeded to go through the difficult steps and motions of the dance. Liza was right; they could not have done it better in a trained ballet. But the best dancer of them all was Liza; she threw her whole soul into it; forgetting the stiff bearing which she had thought proper to the waltz, and casting off its elaborate graces, she gave herself up entirely to the present pleasure. Gradually the other couples stood aside, so that Liza and Sally were left alone. They paced it carefully, watching each other’s steps, and as if by instinct performing corresponding movements, so as to make the whole a thing of symmetry.

  ‘I’m abaht done,’ said Sally, blowing and puffing. ‘I’ve ‘ad enough of it.’

  ‘Go on, Liza!’ cried out a dozen voices when Sally stopped.

  She gave no sign of having heard them other than calmly to continue her dance. She glided through the steps, and swayed about, and manipulated her skirt, all with the most charming grace imaginable, then, the music altering, she changed the style of her dancing, her feet moved more quickly, and did not keep so strictly to the ground. She was getting excited at the admiration of the onlookers, and her dance grew wilder and more daring. She lifted her skirts higher, brought in new and more difficult movements into her improvisation, kicking up her legs she did the wonderful twist, backwards and forwards, of which the dancer is proud.

  ‘Look at ‘er legs!’ cried one of the men.

  ‘Look at ‘er stockin’s!’ shouted another; and indeed they were remarkable, for Liza had chosen them of the same brilliant hue as her dress, and was herself most proud of the harmony.

  Her dance became gayer: her feet scarcely touched the ground, she whirled round madly.

  ‘Take care yer don’t split!’ cried out one of the wags, at a very audacious kick.

  The words were hardly out of his mouth when Liza, with a gigantic effort, raised her foot and kicked off his hat. The feat was greeted with applause, and she went on, making turns and twists, flourishing her skirts, kicking higher and higher, and finally, among a volley of shouts, fell on her hands and turned head over heels in a magnificent catharine-wheel; then scrambling to her feet again, she tumbled into the arms of a young man standing in the front of the ring.

  ‘That’s right, Liza,’ he said. ‘Give us a kiss, now,’ and promptly tried to take one.

  ‘Git aht!’ said Liza, pushing him away, not too gently.

  ‘Yus, give us a kiss,’ cried another, running up to her.

  ‘I’ll smack yer in the fice!’ said Liza, elegantly, as she dodged him.

  ‘Ketch ‘old on ‘er, Bill,’ cried out a third, ‘an’ we’ll all kiss her.’

  ‘Na, you won’t!’ shrieked Liza, beginning to run.

  ‘Come on,’ they cried, ‘we’ll ketch ‘er.’

  She dodged in and out, between their legs, under their arms, and then, getting clear of the little crowd, caught up her skirts so that they might not hinder her, and took to her heels along the street. A score of men set in chase, whistling, shouting, yelling; the people at the doors looked up to see the fun, and cried out to her as she dashed past; she ran like the wind. Suddenly a man from the side darted into the middle of the road, stood straight in her way, and before she knew where she was, she had jumped shrieking into his arms, and he, lifting her up to him, had imprinted two sounding kisses on her cheeks.

  ‘Oh, you —— !’ she said. Her expression was quite unprintable; nor can it be euphemized.

  There was a shout of laughter from the bystanders, and the young men in chase of her, and Liza, looking up, saw a big, bearded man whom she had never seen before. She blushed to the very roots of her hair, quickly extricated herself from his arms, and, amid the jeers and laughter of everyone, slid into the door of the nearest house and was lost to view.

  2

  Liza and her mother were having supper. Mrs. Kemp was an elderly woman, short, and rather stout, with a red face, and grey hair brushed tight back over her forehead. She had been a widow for many years, and since her husband’s death had lived with Liza in the ground-floor front room in which they were now sitting. Her husband had been a soldier, and from a grateful country she received a pension large enough to keep her from starvation, and by charring and doing such odd jobs as she could get she earned a little extra to supply herself with liquor. Liza was able to make her own living by working at a factory.

  Mrs. Kemp was rather sulky this evening.

  ‘Wot was yer doin’ this afternoon, Liza?’ she asked.

  ‘I was in the street.’

  ‘You’re always in the street when I want yer.’

  ‘I didn’t know as ‘ow yer wanted me, mother,’ answered Liza.

  ‘Well, yer might ‘ave come ter see! I might ‘ave been dead, for all you knew.’

  Liza said nothing.

  ‘My rheumatics was thet bad to-dy, thet I didn’t know wot ter do with myself. The doctor said I was to be rubbed with that stuff ‘e give me, but yer won’t never do nothin’ for me.’

  ‘Well, mother,’ said Liza, ‘your rheumatics was all right yesterday.’

  ‘I know wot you was doin’; you was showin’ off thet new dress of yours. Pretty waste of money thet is, instead of givin’ it me ter sive up. An’ for the matter of thet, I wanted a new dress far worse than you did. But, of course, I don’t matter.’

  Liza did not answer, and Mrs. Kemp, having nothing more to say, continued her supper in silence.

  It was Liza who spoke next.

  ‘There’s some new people moved in the street. ‘Ave you seen ’em?’ she asked.

  ‘No, wot are they?’

  ‘I dunno; I’ve seen a chap, a big chap with a beard. I think ‘e lives up at the other end.’

  She felt herself blushing a little.

  ‘No one any good you be sure,’ said Mrs. Kemp. ‘I can’t swaller these new people as are comin’ in; the street ain’t wot it was when I fust come.’

  When they had done, Mrs. Kemp got up, and having finished her half-pint of beer, said to her daughter:

  ‘Put the things awy, Liza. I’m just goin’ round to see Mrs. Clayton; she’s just ‘ad twins, and she ‘ad nine before these come. It’s a pity the Lord don’t see fit ter tike some on ’em — thet’s wot I say.’

  After which pious remark Mrs. Kemp went out of the house and turned into another a few doors up.

  Liza did not clear the supper things away as she was told, but opened the window and drew her chair to it. She leant on the sill, looking out into the street. The sun had set, and it was twilight, the sky was growing dark, bringing to view the twinkling stars; there was no breeze, but it was pleasantly and restfully cool. The good folk still sat at their doorsteps, talking as before on the same inexhaustible subjects, but a little subdued with the approach of night. The boys were still playing cr
icket, but they were mostly at the other end of the street, and their shouts were muffled before they reached Liza’s ears.

  She sat, leaning her head on her hands, breathing in the fresh air and feeling a certain exquisite sense of peacefulness which she was not used to. It was Saturday evening, and she thankfully remembered that there would be no factory on the morrow; she was glad to rest. Somehow she felt a little tired, perhaps it was through the excitement of the afternoon, and she enjoyed the quietness of the evening. It seemed so tranquil and still; the silence filled her with a strange delight, she felt as if she could sit there all through the night looking out into the cool, dark street, and up heavenwards at the stars. She was very happy, but yet at the same time experienced a strange new sensation of melancholy, and she almost wished to cry.

  Suddenly a dark form stepped in front of the open window. She gave a little shriek.

  ‘‘Oo’s thet?’ she asked, for it was quite dark, and she did not recognize the man standing in front of her.

  ‘Me, Liza,’ was the answer.

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Yus!’

  It was a young man with light yellow hair and a little fair moustache, which made him appear almost boyish; he was light-complexioned and blue-eyed, and had a frank and pleasant look mingled with a curious bashfulness that made him blush when people spoke to him.

  ‘Wot’s up?’ asked Liza.

  ‘Come aht for a walk, Liza, will yer?’

  ‘No!’ she answered decisively.

  ‘You promised ter yesterday, Liza.’

  ‘Yesterday an’ ter-day’s two different things,’ was her wise reply.

  ‘Yus, come on, Liza.’

  ‘Na, I tell yer, I won’t.’

  ‘I want ter talk ter yer, Liza.’ Her hand was resting on the window-sill, and he put his upon it. She quickly drew it back.

  ‘Well, I don’t want yer ter talk ter me.’

  But she did, for it was she who broke the silence.

  ‘Say, Tom, ‘oo are them new folk as ‘as come into the street? It’s a big chap with a brown beard.’

  ‘D’you mean the bloke as kissed yer this afternoon?’

  Liza blushed again.

  ‘Well, why shouldn’t ‘e kiss me?’ she said, with some inconsequence.

  ‘I never said as ‘ow ‘e shouldn’t; I only arst yer if it was the sime.’

  ‘Yea, thet’s ‘oo I mean.’

  ‘‘Is nime is Blakeston — Jim Blakeston. I’ve only spoke to ‘im once; he’s took the two top rooms at No. 19 ‘ouse.’

  ‘Wot’s ‘e want two top rooms for?’

  ‘‘Im? Oh, ‘e’s got a big family — five kids. Ain’t yer seen ‘is wife abaht the street? She’s a big, fat woman, as does ‘er ‘air funny.’

  ‘I didn’t know ‘e ‘ad a wife.’

  There was another silence; Liza sat thinking, and Tom stood at the window, looking at her.

  ‘Won’t yer come aht with me, Liza?’ he asked, at last.

  ‘Na, Tom,’ she said, a little more gently, ‘it’s too lite.’

  ‘Liza,’ he said, blushing to the roots of his hair.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Liza’ — he couldn’t go on, and stuttered in his shyness— ‘Liza, I — I — I loves yer, Liza.’

  ‘Garn awy!’

  He was quite brave now, and took hold of her hand.

  ‘Yer know, Liza, I’m earnin’ twenty-three shillin’s at the works now, an’ I’ve got some furniture as mother left me when she was took.’

  The girl said nothing.

  ‘Liza, will you ‘ave me? I’ll make yer a good ‘usband, Liza, swop me bob, I will; an’ yer know I’m not a drinkin’ sort. Liza, will yer marry me?’

  ‘Na, Tom,’ she answered quietly.

  ‘Oh, Liza, won’t you ‘ave me?’

  ‘Na, Tom, I can’t.’

  ‘Why not? You’ve come aht walkin’ with me ever since Whitsun.’

  ‘Ah, things is different now.’

  ‘You’re not walkin’ aht with anybody else, are you, Liza?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘Na, not that.’

  ‘Well, why won’t yer, Liza? Oh Liza, I do love yer, I’ve never loved anybody as I love you!’

  ‘Oh, I can’t, Tom!’

  ‘There ain’t no one else?’

  ‘Na.’

  ‘Then why not?’

  ‘I’m very sorry, Tom, but I don’t love yer so as ter marry yer.’

  ‘Oh, Liza!’

  She could not see the look upon his face, but she heard the agony in his voice; and, moved with sudden pity, she bent out, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him on both cheeks.

  ‘Never mind old chap!’ she said. ‘I’m not worth troublin’ abaht.’

  And quickly drawing back, she slammed the window to, and moved into the further part of the room.

  3

  The following day was Sunday. Liza when she was dressing herself in the morning, felt the hardness of fate in the impossibility of eating one’s cake and having it; she wished she had reserved her new dress, and had still before her the sensation of a first appearance in it. With a sigh she put on her ordinary everyday working dress, and proceeded to get the breakfast ready, for her mother had been out late the previous night, celebrating the new arrivals in the street, and had the ‘rheumatics’ this morning.

  ‘Oo, my ‘ead!’ she was saying, as she pressed her hands on each side of her forehead. ‘I’ve got the neuralgy again, wot shall I do? I dunno ‘ow it is, but it always comes on Sunday mornings. Oo, an’ my rheumatics, they give me sich a doin’ in the night!’

  ‘You’d better go to the ‘orspital mother.’

  ‘Not I!’ answered the worthy lady, with great decision. ‘You ‘as a dozen young chaps messin’ you abaht, and lookin’ at yer, and then they tells yer ter leave off beer and spirrits. Well, wot I says, I says I can’t do withaht my glass of beer.’ She thumped her pillow to emphasize the statement.

  ‘Wot with the work I ‘ave ter do, lookin’ after you and the cookin’ and gettin’ everythin’ ready and doin’ all the ‘ouse-work, and goin’ aht charring besides — well, I says, if I don’t ‘ave a drop of beer, I says, ter pull me together, I should be under the turf in no time.’

  She munched her bread-and-butter and drank her tea.

  ‘When you’ve done breakfast, Liza,’ she said, ‘you can give the grate a cleanin’, an’ my boots’d do with a bit of polishin’. Mrs. Tike, in the next ‘ouse, ‘ll give yer some blackin’.’

  She remained silent for a bit, then said:

  ‘I don’t think I shall get up ter-day. Liza. My rheumatics is bad. You can put the room straight and cook the dinner.’

  ‘Arright, mother, you stay where you are, an’ I’ll do everythin’ for yer.’

  ‘Well, it’s only wot yer ought to do, considerin’ all the trouble you’ve been ter me when you was young, and considerin’ thet when you was born the doctor thought I never should get through it. Wot ‘ave you done with your week’s money, Liza?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve put it awy,’ answered Liza quietly.

  ‘Where?’ asked her mother.

  ‘Where it’ll be safe.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  Liza was driven into a corner.

  ‘Why d’you want ter know?’ she asked.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I know; d’you think I want ter steal it from yer?’

  ‘Na, not thet.’

  ‘Well, why won’t you tell me?’

  ‘Oh, a thing’s sifer when only one person knows where it is.’

  This was a very discreet remark, but it set Mrs. Kemp in a whirlwind of passion. She raised herself and sat up in the bed, flourishing her clenched fist at her daughter.

  ‘I know wot yer mean, you —— you!’ Her language was emphatic, her epithets picturesque, but too forcible for reproduction. ‘You think I’d steal it,’ she went on. ‘I know yer! D’yer think I’d go an’ tike yer dirty money?’

  ‘Well, mother,’ sai
d Liza, ‘when I’ve told yer before, the money’s perspired like.’

  ‘Wot d’yer mean?’

  ‘It got less.’

  ‘Well, I can’t ‘elp thet, can I? Anyone can come in ‘ere and tike the money.’

  ‘If it’s ‘idden awy, they can’t, can they, mother?’ said Liza.

  Mrs. Kemp shook her fist.

  ‘You dirty slut, you,’ she said, ‘yer think I tike yer money! Why, you ought ter give it me every week instead of savin’ it up and spendin’ it on all sorts of muck, while I ‘ave ter grind my very bones down to keep yer.’

  ‘Yer know, mother, if I didn’t ‘ave a little bit saved up, we should be rather short when you’re dahn in yer luck.’

  Mrs. Kemp’s money always ran out on Tuesday, and Liza had to keep things going till the following Saturday.

  ‘Oh, don’t talk ter me!’ proceeded Mrs. Kemp. ‘When I was a girl I give all my money ter my mother. She never ‘ad ter ask me for nothin’. On Saturday when I come ‘ome with my wiges, I give it ‘er every farthin’. That’s wot a daughter ought ter do. I can say this for myself, I be’aved by my mother like a gal should. None of your prodigal sons for me! She didn’t ‘ave ter ask me for three ‘apence ter get a drop of beer.’

  Liza was wise in her generation; she held her tongue, and put on her hat.

  ‘Now, you’re goin’ aht, and leavin’ me; I dunno wot you get up to in the street with all those men. No good, I’ll be bound. An’ ‘ere am I left alone, an’ I might die for all you care.’

  In her sorrow at herself the old lady began to cry, and Liza slipped out of the room and into the street.

  Leaning against the wall of the opposite house was Tom; he came towards her.

  ‘‘Ulloa!’ she said, as she saw him. ‘Wot are you doin’ ‘ere?’

  ‘I was waitin’ for you ter come aht, Liza,’ he answered.

  She looked at him quickly.

  ‘I ain’t comin’ aht with yer ter-day, if thet’s wot yer mean,’ she said.

  ‘I never thought of arskin’ yer, Liza — after wot you said ter me last night.’

  His voice was a little sad, and she felt so sorry for him.