Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  “I didn’t know you loved him so much as all that,” said Philip.

  He understood Griffiths’ love well enough, for he put himself in Griffiths’ place and saw with his eyes, touched with his hands; he was able to think himself in Griffiths’ body, and he kissed her with his lips, smiled at her with his smiling blue eyes. It was her emotion that surprised him. He had never thought her capable of passion, and this was passion: there was no mistaking it. Something seemed to give way in his heart; it really felt to him as though something were breaking, and he felt strangely weak.

  “I don’t want to make you unhappy. You needn’t come away with me if you don’t want to. I’ll give you the money all the same.”

  She shook her head.

  “No, I said I’d come, and I’ll come.”

  “What’s the good, if you’re sick with love for him?”

  “Yes, that’s the word. I’m sick with love. I know it won’t last, just as well as he does, but just now…”

  She paused and shut her eyes as though she were going to faint. A strange idea came to Philip, and he spoke it as it came, without stopping to think it out.

  “Why don’t you go away with him?”

  “How can I? You know we haven’t got the money.”

  “I’ll give you the money.”

  “You?”

  She sat up and looked at him. Her eyes began to shine, and the colour came into her cheeks.

  “Perhaps the best thing would be to get it over, and then you’d come back to me.”

  Now that he had made the suggestion he was sick with anguish, and yet the torture of it gave him a strange, subtle sensation. She stared at him with open eyes.

  “Oh, how could we, on your money? Harry wouldn’t think of it.”

  “Oh yes, he would, if you persuaded him.”

  Her objections made him insist, and yet he wanted her with all his heart to refuse vehemently.

  “I’ll give you a fiver, and you can go away from Saturday to Monday. You could easily do that. On Monday he’s going home till he takes up his appointment at the North London.”

  “Oh, Philip, do you mean that?” she cried, clasping her hands. “If you could only let us go — I would love you so much afterwards, I’d do anything for you. I’m sure I shall get over it if you’ll only do that. Would you really give us the money?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  She was entirely changed now. She began to laugh. He could see that she was insanely happy. She got up and knelt down by Philip’s side, taking his hands.

  “You are a brick, Philip. You’re the best fellow I’ve ever known. Won’t you be angry with me afterwards?”

  He shook his head, smiling, but with what agony in his heart!

  “May I go and tell Harry now? And can I say to him that you don’t mind? He

  won’t consent unless you promise it doesn’t matter. Oh, you don’t know how

  I love him! And afterwards I’ll do anything you like. I’ll come over to

  Paris with you or anywhere on Monday.”

  She got up and put on her hat.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to ask him if he’ll take me.”

  “Already?”

  “D’you want me to stay? I’ll stay if you like.”

  She sat down, but he gave a little laugh.

  “No, it doesn’t matter, you’d better go at once. There’s only one thing:

  I can’t bear to see Griffiths just now, it would hurt me too awfully. Say

  I have no ill-feeling towards him or anything like that, but ask him to

  keep out of my way.”

  “All right.” She sprang up and put on her gloves. “I’ll let you know what he says.”

  “You’d better dine with me tonight.”

  “Very well.”

  She put up her face for him to kiss her, and when he pressed his lips to hers she threw her arms round his neck.

  “You are a darling, Philip.”

  She sent him a note a couple of hours later to say that she had a headache and could not dine with him. Philip had almost expected it. He knew that she was dining with Griffiths. He was horribly jealous, but the sudden passion which had seized the pair of them seemed like something that had come from the outside, as though a god had visited them with it, and he felt himself helpless. It seemed so natural that they should love one another. He saw all the advantages that Griffiths had over himself and confessed that in Mildred’s place he would have done as Mildred did. What hurt him most was Griffiths’ treachery; they had been such good friends, and Griffiths knew how passionately devoted he was to Mildred: he might have spared him.

  He did not see Mildred again till Friday; he was sick for a sight of her by then; but when she came and he realised that he had gone out of her thoughts entirely, for they were engrossed in Griffiths, he suddenly hated her. He saw now why she and Griffiths loved one another, Griffiths was stupid, oh so stupid! he had known that all along, but had shut his eyes to it, stupid and empty-headed: that charm of his concealed an utter selfishness; he was willing to sacrifice anyone to his appetites. And how inane was the life he led, lounging about bars and drinking in music halls, wandering from one light amour to another! He never read a book, he was blind to everything that was not frivolous and vulgar; he had never a thought that was fine: the word most common on his lips was smart; that was his highest praise for man or woman. Smart! It was no wonder he pleased Mildred. They suited one another.

  Philip talked to Mildred of things that mattered to neither of them. He knew she wanted to speak of Griffiths, but he gave her no opportunity. He did not refer to the fact that two evenings before she had put off dining with him on a trivial excuse. He was casual with her, trying to make her think he was suddenly grown indifferent; and he exercised peculiar skill in saying little things which he knew would wound her; but which were so indefinite, so delicately cruel, that she could not take exception to them. At last she got up.

  “I think I must be going off now,” she said.

  “I daresay you’ve got a lot to do,” he answered.

  She held out her hand, he took it, said good-bye, and opened the door for her. He knew what she wanted to speak about, and he knew also that his cold, ironical air intimidated her. Often his shyness made him seem so frigid that unintentionally he frightened people, and, having discovered this, he was able when occasion arose to assume the same manner.

  “You haven’t forgotten what you promised?” she said at last, as he held open the door.

  “What is that?”

  “About the money.”

  “How much d’you want?”

  He spoke with an icy deliberation which made his words peculiarly offensive. Mildred flushed. He knew she hated him at that moment, and he wondered at the self-control by which she prevented herself from flying out at him. He wanted to make her suffer.

  “There’s the dress and the book tomorrow. That’s all. Harry won’t come, so we shan’t want money for that.”

  Philip’s heart gave a great thud against his ribs, and he let the door handle go. The door swung to.

  “Why not?”

  “He says we couldn’t, not on your money.”

  A devil seized Philip, a devil of self-torture which was always lurking within him, and, though with all his soul he wished that Griffiths and Mildred should not go away together, he could not help himself; he set himself to persuade Griffiths through her.

  “I don’t see why not, if I’m willing,” he said.

  “That’s what I told him.”

  “I should have thought if he really wanted to go he wouldn’t hesitate.”

  “Oh, it’s not that, he wants to all right. He’d go at once if he had the money.”

  “If he’s squeamish about it I’ll give YOU the money.”

  “I said you’d lend it if he liked, and we’d pay it back as soon as we could.”

  “It’s rather a change for you going on your knees to get a man to ta
ke you away for a week-end.”

  “It is rather, isn’t it?” she said, with a shameless little laugh. It sent a cold shudder down Philip’s spine.

  “What are you going to do then?” he asked.

  “Nothing. He’s going home tomorrow. He must.”

  That would be Philip’s salvation. With Griffiths out of the way he could get Mildred back. She knew no one in London, she would be thrown on to his society, and when they were alone together he could soon make her forget this infatuation. If he said nothing more he was safe. But he had a fiendish desire to break down their scruples, he wanted to know how abominably they could behave towards him; if he tempted them a little more they would yield, and he took a fierce joy at the thought of their dishonour. Though every word he spoke tortured him, he found in the torture a horrible delight.

  “It looks as if it were now or never.”

  “That’s what I told him,” she said.

  There was a passionate note in her voice which struck Philip. He was biting his nails in his nervousness.

  “Where were you thinking of going?”

  “Oh, to Oxford. He was at the ‘Varsity there, you know. He said he’d show me the colleges.”

  Philip remembered that once he had suggested going to Oxford for the day, and she had expressed firmly the boredom she felt at the thought of sights.

  “And it looks as if you’d have fine weather. It ought to be very jolly there just now.”

  “I’ve done all I could to persuade him.”

  “Why don’t you have another try?”

  “Shall I say you want us to go?”

  “I don’t think you must go as far as that,” said Philip.

  She paused for a minute or two, looking at him. Philip forced himself to look at her in a friendly way. He hated her, he despised her, he loved her with all his heart.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll go and see if he can’t arrange it. And then, if he says yes, I’ll come and fetch the money tomorrow. When shall you be in?”

  “I’ll come back here after luncheon and wait.”

  “All right.”

  “I’ll give you the money for your dress and your room now.”

  He went to his desk and took out what money he had. The dress was six guineas; there was besides her rent and her food, and the baby’s keep for a week. He gave her eight pounds ten.

  “Thanks very much,” she said.

  She left him.

  LXXVII

  After lunching in the basement of the Medical School Philip went back to his rooms. It was Saturday afternoon, and the landlady was cleaning the stairs.

  “Is Mr. Griffiths in?” he asked.

  “No, sir. He went away this morning, soon after you went out.”

  “Isn’t he coming back?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. He’s taken his luggage.”

  Philip wondered what this could mean. He took a book and began to read. It was Burton’s Journey to Meccah, which he had just got out of the Westminster Public Library; and he read the first page, but could make no sense of it, for his mind was elsewhere; he was listening all the time for a ring at the bell. He dared not hope that Griffiths had gone away already, without Mildred, to his home in Cumberland. Mildred would be coming presently for the money. He set his teeth and read on; he tried desperately to concentrate his attention; the sentences etched themselves in his brain by the force of his effort, but they were distorted by the agony he was enduring. He wished with all his heart that he had not made the horrible proposition to give them money; but now that he had made it he lacked the strength to go back on it, not on Mildred’s account, but on his own. There was a morbid obstinacy in him which forced him to do the thing he had determined. He discovered that the three pages he had read had made no impression on him at all; and he went back and started from the beginning: he found himself reading one sentence over and over again; and now it weaved itself in with his thoughts, horribly, like some formula in a nightmare. One thing he could do was to go out and keep away till midnight; they could not go then; and he saw them calling at the house every hour to ask if he was in. He enjoyed the thought of their disappointment. He repeated that sentence to himself mechanically. But he could not do that. Let them come and take the money, and he would know then to what depths of infamy it was possible for men to descend. He could not read any more now. He simply could not see the words. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, and, numb with misery, waited for Mildred.

  The landlady came in.

  “Will you see Mrs. Miller, sir?”

  “Show her in.”

  Philip pulled himself together to receive her without any sign of what he was feeling. He had an impulse to throw himself on his knees and seize her hands and beg her not to go; but he knew there was no way of moving her; she would tell Griffiths what he had said and how he acted. He was ashamed.

  “Well, how about the little jaunt?” he said gaily.

  “We’re going. Harry’s outside. I told him you didn’t want to see him, so he’s kept out of your way. But he wants to know if he can come in just for a minute to say good-bye to you.”

  “No, I won’t see him,” said Philip.

  He could see she did not care if he saw Griffiths or not. Now that she was there he wanted her to go quickly.

  “Look here, here’s the fiver. I’d like you to go now.”

  She took it and thanked him. She turned to leave the room.

  “When are you coming back?” he asked.

  “Oh, on Monday. Harry must go home then.”

  He knew what he was going to say was humiliating, but he was broken down with jealousy and desire.

  “Then I shall see you, shan’t I?”

  He could not help the note of appeal in his voice.

  “Of course. I’ll let you know the moment I’m back.”

  He shook hands with her. Through the curtains he watched her jump into a four-wheeler that stood at the door. It rolled away. Then he threw himself on his bed and hid his face in his hands. He felt tears coming to his eyes, and he was angry with himself; he clenched his hands and screwed up his body to prevent them; but he could not; and great painful sobs were forced from him.

  He got up at last, exhausted and ashamed, and washed his face. He mixed himself a strong whiskey and soda. It made him feel a little better. Then he caught sight of the tickets to Paris, which were on the chimney-piece, and, seizing them, with an impulse of rage he flung them in the fire. He knew he could have got the money back on them, but it relieved him to destroy them. Then he went out in search of someone to be with. The club was empty. He felt he would go mad unless he found someone to talk to; but Lawson was abroad; he went on to Hayward’s rooms: the maid who opened the door told him that he had gone down to Brighton for the week-end. Then Philip went to a gallery and found it was just closing. He did not know what to do. He was distracted. And he thought of Griffiths and Mildred going to Oxford, sitting opposite one another in the train, happy. He went back to his rooms, but they filled him with horror, he had been so wretched in them; he tried once more to read Burton’s book, but, as he read, he told himself again and again what a fool he had been; it was he who had made the suggestion that they should go away, he had offered the money, he had forced it upon them; he might have known what would happen when he introduced Griffiths to Mildred; his own vehement passion was enough to arouse the other’s desire. By this time they had reached Oxford. They would put up in one of the lodging-houses in John Street; Philip had never been to Oxford, but Griffiths had talked to him about it so much that he knew exactly where they would go; and they would dine at the Clarendon: Griffiths had been in the habit of dining there when he went on the spree. Philip got himself something to eat in a restaurant near Charing Cross; he had made up his mind to go to a play, and afterwards he fought his way into the pit of a theatre at which one of Oscar Wilde’s pieces was being performed. He wondered if Mildred and Griffiths would go to a play that evening: they must kil
l the evening somehow; they were too stupid, both of them to content themselves with conversation: he got a fierce delight in reminding himself of the vulgarity of their minds which suited them so exactly to one another. He watched the play with an abstracted mind, trying to give himself gaiety by drinking whiskey in each interval; he was unused to alcohol, and it affected him quickly, but his drunkenness was savage and morose. When the play was over he had another drink. He could not go to bed, he knew he would not sleep, and he dreaded the pictures which his vivid imagination would place before him. He tried not to think of them. He knew he had drunk too much. Now he was seized with a desire to do horrible, sordid things; he wanted to roll himself in gutters; his whole being yearned for beastliness; he wanted to grovel.

  He walked up Piccadilly, dragging his club-foot, sombrely drunk, with rage and misery clawing at his heart. He was stopped by a painted harlot, who put her hand on his arm; he pushed her violently away with brutal words. He walked on a few steps and then stopped. She would do as well as another. He was sorry he had spoken so roughly to her. He went up to her.

  “I say,” he began.

  “Go to hell,” she said.

  Philip laughed.

  “I merely wanted to ask if you’d do me the honour of supping with me tonight.”

  She looked at him with amazement, and hesitated for a while. She saw he was drunk.

  “I don’t mind.”

  He was amused that she should use a phrase he had heard so often on Mildred’s lips. He took her to one of the restaurants he had been in the habit of going to with Mildred. He noticed as they walked along that she looked down at his limb.

  “I’ve got a club-foot,” he said. “Have you any objection?”

  “You are a cure,” she laughed.

  When he got home his bones were aching, and in his head there was a hammering that made him nearly scream. He took another whiskey and soda to steady himself, and going to bed sank into a dreamless sleep till mid-day.