Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  “Will you open the proceedings, Mary?”

  The curate went up to Miss Clibborn with a bow, gallantly offering his arm to escort her to the piano. Mary had thoughtfully brought her music, and began to play a ‘Song Without Words,’ by Mendelssohn. She was considered a fine pianist in Little Primpton. She attacked the notes with marked resolution, keeping the loud pedal down throughout; her eyes were fixed on the music with an intense, determined air, in which you saw an eagerness to perform a social duty, and her lips moved as conscientiously she counted time. Mary played the whole piece without making a single mistake, and at the end was much applauded.

  “There’s nothing like classical music, is there?” cried the curate enthusiastically, as Mary stopped, rather out of breath, for she played, as she did everything else, with energy and thoroughness.

  “It’s the only music I really love.”

  “And those ‘Songs Without Words’ are beautiful,” said Colonel Parsons, who was standing on Mary’s other side.

  “Mendelssohn is my favourite composer,” she replied. “He’s so full of soul.”

  “Ah, yes,” murmured Mr. Dryland. “His heart seems to throb through all his music. It’s strange that he should have been a Jew.”

  “But then Our Lord was a Jew, wasn’t He?” said Mary.

  “Yes, one is so apt to forget that.”

  Mary turned the leaves, and finding another piece which was familiar to her, set about it. It was a satisfactory thing to listen to her performance. In Mary’s decided touch one felt all the strength of her character, with its simple, unaffected candour and its eminent sense of propriety. In her execution one perceived the high purpose which animated her whole conduct; it was pure and wholesome, and thoroughly English. And her piano-playing served also as a moral lesson, for none could listen without remembering that life was not an affair to be taken lightly, but a strenuous endeavour: the world was a battlefield (this one realised more particularly when Mary forgot for a page or so to take her foot off the pedal); each one of us had a mission to perform, a duty to do, a function to fulfil.

  Meanwhile, James was trying to make conversation with Mrs. Clibborn.

  “How well Mary plays!”

  “D’you think so? I can’t bear amateurs. I wish they wouldn’t play.”

  James looked at Mrs. Clibborn quickly. It rather surprised him that she, the very silliest woman he had ever known, should say the only sensible things he had heard that day. Nor could he forget that she had done her best to prevent his engagement.

  “I think you’re a very wonderful woman,” he said.

  “Oh, Jamie!”

  Mrs. Clibborn smiled and sighed, slipping forward her hand for him to take; but James was too preoccupied to notice the movement.

  “I’m beginning to think you really like me,” murmured Mrs. Clibborn, cooing like an amorous dove.

  Then James was invited to sing, and refused.

  “Please do, Jamie!” cried Mary, smiling. “For my sake. You used to sing so nicely!”

  He still tried to excuse himself, but finding everyone insistent, went at last, with very bad grace, to the piano. He not only sang badly, but knew it, and was irritated that he should be forced to make a fool of himself. Mr. Dryland sang badly, but perfectly satisfied with himself, needed no pressing when his turn came. He made a speciality of old English songs, and thundered out in his most ecclesiastical manner a jovial ditty entitled, “Down Among the Dead Men.”

  The afternoon was concluded by an adjournment to the dining-room to play bagatelle, the most inane of games, to which the billiard-player goes with contempt, changed quickly to wrath when he cannot put the balls into absurd little holes. Mary was an adept, and took pleasure in showing James how the thing should be done. He noticed that she and the curate managed the whole affair between them, arranging partners and advising freely. Mrs. Clibborn alone refused to play, saying frankly it was too idiotic a pastime.

  At last the party broke up, and in a group bade their farewells.

  “I’ll walk home with you, Mary, if you don’t mind,” said James, “and smoke a pipe.”

  Mary suddenly became radiant, and Colonel Parsons gave her a happy little smile and a friendly nod.... At last James had his opportunity. He lingered while Mary gathered together her music, and waited again to light his pipe, so that when they came out of the Vicarage gates the rest of the company were no longer in sight. The day had become overcast and sombre; on the even surface of the sky floated little ragged black clouds, like the fragments cast to the wind of some widowed, ample garment. It had grown cold, and James, accustomed to a warmer air, shivered a little. The country suddenly appeared cramped and circumscribed; in the fading light a dulness of colour came over tree and hedgerow which was singularly depressing. They walked in silence, while James looked for words. All day he had been trying to find some manner to express himself, but his mind, perplexed and weary, refused to help him. The walk to Mary’s house could not take more than five minutes, and he saw the distance slipping away rapidly. If he meant to say anything it must be said at once; and his mouth was dry, he felt almost a physical inability to speak. He did not know how to prepare the way, how to approach the subject; and he was doubly tormented by the absolute necessity of breaking the silence.

  But it was Mary who spoke first.

  “D’you know, I’ve been worrying a little about you, Jamie.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m afraid I hurt your feelings yesterday. Don’t you remember, when we were visiting my patients — I think I spoke rather harshly. I didn’t mean to. I’m very sorry.”

  “I had forgotten all about it,” he said, looking at her. “I have no notion what you said to offend me.”

  “I’m glad of that,” she answered, smiling, “but it does me good to apologise. Will you think me very silly if I say something to you?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Well, I want to say that if I ever do anything you don’t like, or don’t approve of, I wish you would tell me.”

  After that, how could he say immediately that he no longer loved her, and wished to be released from his engagement?

  “I’m afraid you think I’m a very terrifying person,” answered James.

  Her words had made his announcement impossible; another day had gone, and weakly he had let it pass.

  “What shall I do?” he murmured under his breath. “What a coward I am!”

  They came to the door of the Clibborns’ house and Mary turned to say good-bye. She bent forward, smiling and blushing, and he quickly kissed her.

  In the evening, James was sitting by the fire in the dining-room, thinking of that one subject which occupied all his thoughts. Colonel Parsons and his wife were at the table, engaged upon the game of backgammon which invariably filled the interval between supper and prayers. The rattle of dice came to James indistinctly, as in a dream, and he imagined fantastically that unseen powers were playing for his life. He sat with his head between his hands, staring at the flames as though to find in them a solution to his difficulty; but mockingly they spoke only of Mrs. Wallace and the caress of her limpid eyes. He turned away with a gesture of impatience. The game was just finished, and Mrs. Parsons, catching the expression on his face, asked:

  “What are you thinking of, Jamie?”

  “I?” he answered, looking up quickly, as though afraid that his secret had been divined. “Nothing!”

  Mrs. Parsons put the backgammon board away, making up her mind to speak, for she too suffered from a shyness which made the subjects she had nearest at heart precisely those that she could least bear to talk about.

  “When do you think of getting married, Jamie?”

  James started.

  “Why, you asked me that yesterday,” He tried to make a joke of it. “Upon my word, you’re very anxious to get rid of me.”

  “I wonder if it’s occurred to you that you’re making Mary a little unhappy?”

  James stood up and leaned
against the mantelpiece, his face upon his hand.

  “I should be sorry to do that, mother.”

  “You’ve been home four days, and you’ve not said a word to show you love her.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not very demonstrative.”

  “That’s what I said!” cried the Colonel, triumphantly.

  “Can’t you try to say a word or two to prove you care for her, Jamie? She is so fond of you,” continued his mother. “I don’t want to interfere with your private concerns, but I think it’s only thoughtlessness on your part; and I’m sure you don’t wish to make Mary miserable. Poor thing, she’s so unhappy at home; she yearns for a little affection.... Won’t you say something to her about your marriage?”

  “Has she asked you to speak to me?” inquired James.

  “No, dear. You know that she would never do anything of the kind. She would hate to think that I had said anything.”

  James paused a moment.

  “I will speak to her to-morrow, mother.”

  “That’s right!” said the Colonel, cheerfully. “I know she’s going to be in all the morning. Colonel and Mrs. Clibborn are going into Tunbridge Wells.”

  “It will be a good opportunity.”

  IX

  In the morning Mrs. Parsons was in the hall, arranging flowers, when James passed through to get his hat.

  “Are you going to see Mary now?”

  “Yes, mother.”

  “That’s a good boy.”

  She did not notice that her son’s usual gravity was intensified, or that his very lips were pallid, and his eyes careworn and lustreless.

  It was raining. The young fresh leaves, in the colourless day, had lost their verdure, and the massive shapes of the elm trees were obscured in the mist. The sky had so melancholy a tone that it seemed a work of man — a lifeless hue of infinite sorrow, dreary and cheerless.

  James arrived at the Clibborns’ house.

  “Miss Mary is in the drawing-room,” he was told by a servant, who smiled on him, the accepted lover, with obtrusive friendliness.

  He went in and found her seated at the piano, industriously playing scales. She wore the weather-beaten straw hat without which she never seemed comfortable.

  “Oh, I’m glad you’ve come,” she said. “I’m alone in the house, and I was taking the opportunity to have a good practice.” She turned round on the music-stool, and ran one hand chromatically up the piano, smiling the while with pleasure at Jamie’s visit. “Would you like to go for a walk?” she asked. “I don’t mind the rain a bit.”

  “I would rather stay here, if you don’t mind.”

  James sat down and began playing with a paper-knife. Still he did not know how to express himself. He was torn asunder by rival emotions; he felt absolutely bound to speak, and yet could not bear the thought of the agony he must cause. He was very tender-hearted; he had never in his life consciously given pain to any living creature, and would far rather have inflicted hurt upon himself.

  “I’ve been wanting to have a long talk with you alone ever since I came back.”

  “Have you? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because what I want to say is very difficult, Mary; and I’m afraid it must be very — distressing to both of us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mary suddenly became grave, James glanced at her, and hesitated; but there was no room for hesitation now. Somehow he must get to the end of what he had to say, attempting only to be as gentle as possible. He stood up and leant against the mantelpiece, still toying with the paper-knife; Mary also changed her seat, and took a chair by the table.

  “Do you know that we’ve been engaged for over five years now, Mary?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked at him steadily, and he dropped his eyes.

  “I want to thank you for all you’ve done for my sake, Mary. I know how good you have been to my people; it was very kind of you. I cannot think how they would have got along without you.”

  “I love them as I love my own father and mother, Jamie. I tried to act towards them as though I was indeed their daughter.”

  He was silent for a while.

  “We were both very young when we became engaged,” he said at last.

  He looked up quickly, but she did not answer. She stared with frightened eyes, as if already she understood. It was harder even than he thought. James asked himself desperately whether he could not stop there, taking back what he had said. The cup was too bitter! But what was the alternative? He could not go on pretending one thing when he felt another; he could not live a constant, horrible lie. He felt there was only one course open to him. Like a man with an ill that must be fatal unless instantly treated, he was bound to undergo everything, however great the torture.

  “And it’s a very bad return I’m making you for all your kindness. You have done everything for me, Mary. You’ve waited for me patiently and lovingly; you’ve sacrificed yourself in every way; and I’m afraid I must make you very unhappy — Oh, don’t think I’m not grateful to you; I can never thank you sufficiently.”

  He wished Mary would say something to help him, but she kept silent. She merely dropped her eyes, and now her face seemed quite expressionless.

  “I have asked myself day and night what I ought to do, and I can see no way clear before me. I’ve tried to say this to you before, but I’ve funked it. You think I’m brave — I’m not; I’m a pitiful coward! Sometimes I can only loathe and despise myself. I want to do my duty, but I can’t tell what my duty is. If I only knew for sure which way I ought to take, I should have strength to take it; but it is all so uncertain.”

  James gave Mary a look of supplication, but she did not see it; her glance was still riveted to the ground.

  “I think it’s better to tell you the whole truth, Mary; I’m afraid I’m speaking awfully priggishly. I feel I’m acting like a cad, and yet I don’t know how else to act. God help me!”

  “I’ve known almost from the beginning that you no longer cared for me,” said Mary quietly, her face showing no expression, her voice hushed till it was only a whisper.

  “Forgive me, Mary; I’ve tried to love you. Oh, how humiliating that must sound! I hardly know what I’m saying. Try to understand me. If my words are harsh and ugly, it’s because I don’t know how to express myself. But I must tell you the whole truth. The chief thing is that I should be honest with you. It’s the only return I can make for all you’ve done for me.”

  Mary bent her head a little lower, and heavy tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “Oh, Mary, don’t cry!” said James, his voice breaking; and he stepped forward, with outstretched arms, as though to comfort her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said; “I didn’t mean to.”

  She took out her handkerchief and dried her eyes, trying to smile. Her courageous self-command was like a stab in Jamie’s heart.

  “I am an absolute cad!” he said, hoarsely.

  Mary made no gesture; she sat perfectly still, rigid, not seeking to hide her emotion, but merely to master it. One could see the effort she made.

  “I’m awfully sorry, Mary! Please forgive me — I don’t ask you to release me. All I want to do is to explain exactly what I feel, and then leave you to decide.”

  “Are you — are you in love with anyone else?”

  “No!”

  The smile of Mrs. Wallace flashed scornfully across his mind, but he set his teeth. He hated and despised her; he would not love her.

  “Is there anything in me that you don’t like which I might be able to correct?”

  Her humility was more than he could bear.

  “No, no, no!” he cried. “I can never make you understand. You must think me simply brutal. You have all that a man could wish for. I know how kind you are, and how good you are. I think you have every quality which a good woman should have. I respect you entirely; I can never help feeling for you the most intense gratitude and affection.”

  In his own ears the words
he spoke rang hollow, awkward, even impertinent. He could say nothing which did not seem hideously supercilious; and yet he wanted to abase himself! He knew that Mary’s humiliation must be very, very bitter.

  “I’m afraid that I am distressing you frightfully, and I don’t see how I can make things easier.”

  “Oh, I knew you didn’t love me! I felt it. D’you think I could talk to you for five minutes without seeing the constraint in your manner? They told me I was foolish and fanciful, but I knew better.”

  “I must have caused you very great unhappiness?”

  Mary did not answer, and James looked at her with pity and remorse. At last he broke out passionately:

  “I can’t command my love! It’s not a thing I have at my beck and call. If it were, do you think I should give you this pain? Love is outside all calculation. You think love can be tamed, and led about on a chain like a dog. You think it’s a gentle sentiment that one can subject to considerations of propriety and decorum, and God knows what. Oh, you don’t know! Love is a madness that seizes one and shakes one like a leaf in the wind. I can’t counterfeit love; I can’t pretend to have it. I can’t command the nerves of my body.”

  “Do you think I don’t know what love is, James? How little you know me.”

  James sank on a chair and hid his face.

  “We none of us understand one another. We’re all alike, and yet so different. I don’t even know myself. Don’t think I’m a prig when I say that I’ve tried with all my might to love you. I would have given worlds to feel as I felt five years ago. But I can’t. God help me!... Oh, you must hate and despise me, Mary!”

  “I, my dear?” she shook her head sadly. “I shall never do that. I want you to speak frankly. It is much better that we should try to understand one another.”

  “That is what I felt. I did not think it honest to marry you with a lie in my heart. I don’t know whether we can ever be happy; but our only chance is to speak the whole truth.”

  Mary looked helplessly at him, cowed by her grief.

  “I knew it was coming. Every day I dreaded it.”

  The pain in her eyes was more than James could bear; it was cruel to make her suffer so much. He could not do it. He felt an intense pity, and the idea came to him that there might be a middle way, which would lessen the difficulty. He hesitated a moment, and then, looking down, spoke in a low voice: