Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  VII

  One day Mrs Clinton was talking to a neighbour in the bedroom, the patient was so quiet that they thought him asleep.

  ‘Yes, I’ve ‘ad a time with ’im, I can tell you,’ said Mrs Clinton. ‘No one knows what I’ve gone through.’

  ‘Well, I must say,’ said the friend, ‘you haven’t spared yourself; you’ve nursed him like a professional nurse.’

  Mrs Clinton crossed her hands over her stomach and looked at her husband with self-satisfaction. But Mr Clinton was awake, staring in front of him with wide-open, fixed eyes; various thoughts confusedly ran through his head.

  ‘Isn’t ’e looking strange?’ whispered Mrs Clinton.

  The two women kept silence, watching him.

  ‘Amy, are you there?’ asked Mr Clinton, suddenly, without turning his eyes.

  ‘Yes, dear. Is there anything you want?’

  Mr Clinton did not reply for several minutes; the women waited in silence.

  ‘Bring me a Bible, Amy,’ he said at last.

  ‘A Bible, Jimmy?’ asked Mrs Clinton, in astonishment.

  ‘Yes, dear!’

  She looked anxiously at her friend.

  ‘Oh, I do ‘ope the delirium isn’t coming on again,’ she whispered, and, pretending to smooth his pillow, she passed her hand over his forehead to see if it was hot. ‘Are you quite comfortable, dear?’ she asked, without further allusion to the Bible.

  ‘Yes, Amy, quite!’

  ‘Don’t you think you could go to sleep for a little while?’

  ‘I don’t feel sleepy, I want to read; will you bring me the Bible?’

  Mrs Clinton looked helplessly at her friend; she feared something was wrong, and she didn’t know what to do. But the neighbour, with a significant look, pointed to the Daily Telegraph, which was lying on a chair. Mrs Clinton brightened up and took it to her husband.

  ‘Here’s the paper, dear.’ Mr Clinton made a slight movement of irritation.

  ‘I don’t want it; I want the Bible.’ Mrs Clinton looked at her friend more helplessly than ever.

  ‘I’ve never known ’im ask for such a thing before,’ she whispered, ‘and ‘e’s never missed reading the Telegraph a single day since we was married.’

  ‘I don’t think you ought to read,’ she said aloud to her husband. ‘But the doctor’ll be here soon, and I’ll ask ’im then.’

  The doctor stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think there’d be any harm in letting him have a Bible,’ he said, ‘but you’d better keep an eye on him.... I suppose there’s no insanity in the family?’

  ‘No, doctor, not as far as I know. I’ve always ‘eard that my mother’s uncle was very eccentric, but that wouldn’t account for this, because we wasn’t related before we married.’

  Mr Clinton took the Bible, and, turning to the New Testament, began to read. He read chapter after chapter, pausing now and again to meditate, or reading a second time some striking passage, till at last he finished the first gospel. Then he turned to his wife.

  ‘Amy, d’you know, I think I should like to do something for my feller-creatures. I don’t think we’re meant to live for ourselves alone in this world.’

  Mrs Clinton was quite overcome; she turned away to hide the tears which suddenly filled her eyes, but the shock was too much for her, and she had to leave the room so that her husband might not see her emotion; she immediately sent for the doctor.

  ‘Oh, doctor,’ she said, her voice broken with sobs, ‘I’m afraid — I’m afraid my poor ‘usband’s going off ’is ‘ead.’

  And she told him of the incessant reading and the remark Mr Clinton had just made. The doctor looked grave, and began thinking.

  ‘You’re quite sure there’s no insanity in the family?’ he asked again.

  ‘Not to the best of my belief, doctor.’

  ‘And you’ve noticed nothing strange in him? His mind hasn’t been running on money or clothes?’

  ‘No, doctor; I wish it ‘ad. I shouldn’t ‘ave thought anything of that; there’s something natural in a man talking about stocks and shares and trousers, but I’ve never ‘eard ’im say anything like this before. He was always a wonderfully steady man.’

  VIII

  Mr Clinton became daily stronger, and soon he was quite well. He resumed his work at the office, and in every way seemed to have regained his old self. He gave utterance to no more startling theories, and the casual observer might have noticed no difference between him and the model clerk of six months back. But Mrs Clinton had received too great a shock to look upon her husband with casual eyes, and she noticed in his manner an alteration which disquieted her. He was much more silent than before; he would take his supper without speaking a word, without making the slightest sign to show that he had heard some remark of Mrs Clinton’s. He did not read the paper in the evening as he had been used to do, but would go upstairs to the top of the house, and stand by an open window looking at the stars. He had an enigmatical way of smiling which Mrs Clinton could not understand. Then he had lost his old punctuality — he would come home at all sorts of hours, and, when his wife questioned him, would merely shrug his shoulders and smile strangely. Once he told her that he had been wandering about looking at men’s lives.

  Mrs Clinton thought that a very unsatisfactory explanation of his unpunctuality, and after a long consultation with the cautious doctor came to the conclusion that it was her duty to discover what her husband did during the long time that elasped between his leaving the office and returning home.

  So one day, at about six, she stationed herself at the door of the big building in which were Mr Clinton’s offices, and waited. Presently he appeared in the doorway, and after standing for a minute or two on the threshold, ever with the enigmatical smile hovering on his lips, came down the steps and walked slowly along the crowded street. His wife walked behind him; and he was not difficult to follow, for he had lost his old, quick, business-like step, and sauntered along, looking to the right and to the left, carelessly, as if he had not awaiting him at home his duties as the father of a family.... After a while he turned down a side street, and his wife followed with growing astonishment; she could not imagine where he was going. Just then a little flower-girl passed by and offered him a yellow rose. He stopped and looked at her; Mrs Clinton could see that she was a grimy little girl, with a shock of unkempt brown hair and a very dirty apron; but Mr Clinton put his hand on her head and looked into her eyes; then he gave her a penny, and, stooping down, lightly kissed her hair.

  ‘Bless you, my dear!’ he said, and passed on.

  ‘Well, I never!’ said Mrs Clinton, quite aghast; and as she walked by the flower girl, snorted at her and looked so savagely that the poor little maiden quite started. Mr Clinton walked very slowly, stopping now and then to look at a couple of women seated on a doorstep, or the children round an ice-cream stall. Mrs Clinton saw him pay a penny and give an ice to a little child who was looking with longing eyes at its more fortunate companions as they licked out the little glass cups. He remained quite a long while watching half a dozen young girls dancing to the music of a barrel organ, and again, to his wife’s disgust, Mr Clinton gave money.

  ‘We shall end in the work’ouse if this goes on,’ muttered Mrs Clinton, and she pursed up her lips more tightly than ever, thinking of the explanation she meant to have when her mate came home.

  At last Mr Clinton came to a narrow slum, down which he turned, and so filthy was it that the lady almost feared to follow. But indignation, curiosity, and a stern sense of duty prevailed. She went along with up-turned nose, making her way carefully between cabbages and other vegetable refuse, sidling up against a house to avoid a dead cat which lay huddled up in the middle of the way, with a great red wound in its head.

  Mrs Clinton was disgusted to see her husband enter a public-house.

  ’Is this where he gets to?’ she said to herself, and, looking through the door, saw him talk with two or three rough men who were standing at the bar,
drinking ‘four ‘arf.’

  But she waited determinedly. She had made up her mind to see the matter to the end, come what might; she was willing to wait all night.

  After a time he came out, and, going through a narrow passage made his way into an alley. Then he went straight up to a big-boned, coarse-featured woman in a white apron, who was standing at an open door, and when he had said a few words to her, the two entered the house and the door was closed behind them.

  Mrs Clinton suddenly saw it all.

  ‘I am deceived!’ she said tragically, and she crackled with virtuous indignation.

  Her first impulse was to knock furiously at the door and force her way in to bear her James away from the clutches of the big-boned siren. But she feared that her rival would meet her with brute force, and the possibility of defeat made her see the unladylikeness of the proceeding. So she turned on her heel, holding up her skirts and her nose against the moral contamination and made her way out of the low place. She walked tempestuously down to Fleet Street, jumped fiercely on a ‘bus, frantically caught the train to Camberwell, and, having reached her house in the Adonis Road, flung herself furiously down on a chair and gasped, —

  ‘Oh!’

  Then she got ready for her husband’s return.

  ‘Well?’ she said, when he came in; and she looked daggers.... ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m later than usual, my dear.’ It was, in fact, past nine o’clock.

  ‘Don’t talk to me!’ she replied, with a vigorous jerk of her head. ‘I know what you’ve been up to.’

  ‘What do you mean, my love?’ he gently asked.

  She positively snorted with indignation; she had rolled her handkerchief into a ball, and nervously dabbed the palms of her hands with it. ‘I followed you this afternoon, and I saw you go into that ‘ouse with that low woman. What now? Eh?’ She spoke with the greatest possible emphasis.

  ‘Woman!’ said Mr Clinton, with a smile, ‘What are you to me?’

  ‘Don’t call me woman!’ said Mrs Clinton, very angrily. ‘What am I to you? I’m your wife, and I’ve got the marriage certificate in my pocket at this moment.’ She slapped her pocket loudly. ‘I’m your wife, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

  ‘Wife! You are no more to me than any other woman!’

  ‘And you ‘ave the audacity to tell me that to my face! Oh, you — you villain! I won’t stand it, I tell you; I won’t stand it. I know I can’t get a divorce — the laws of England are scandalous — but I’ll ‘ave a judicious separation.... I might have known it, you’re all alike, every one of you; that’s ‘ow you men treat women. You take advantage of their youth and beauty, and then.... Oh, you villain! Here ‘ave I worked myself to the bone for you and brought up your children, and I don’t know what I ‘aven’t done, and now you go and take on with some woman, and leave me. Oh!’ She burst into tears. Mr Clinton still smiled, and there was a curious look in his eyes.

  ‘Woman! woman!’ he said, ‘you know not what you say!’ He went up to his wife and laid his hand on her shoulder. ‘Dry your tears,’ he said, ‘and I will tell you of these things.’

  Mrs Clinton shook herself angrily, keeping her face buried in her pocket handkerchief, but he turned away without paying more attention to her; then, standing in front of the glass, he looked at himself earnestly and began to speak.

  ‘It was during my illness that my eyes were opened. Lying in bed through those long hours I thought of the poor souls whose tale I ‘ad ‘eard in the coroner’s court. And all night I saw their dead faces. I thought of the misery of mankind and of the ‘ardness of men’s ‘earts.... Then a ray of light came to me, and I called for a Bible, and I read, and read; and the light grew into a great glow, and I saw that man was not meant to live for ‘imself alone; that there was something else in life, that it was man’s duty to ‘elp his fellers; and I resolved, when I was well, to do all that in me lay to ‘elp the poor and the wretched, and faithfully to carry out those precepts which the Book ‘ad taught me.’

  ‘Oh, dear! oh, dear!’ sobbed Mrs Clinton, who had looked up and listened with astonishment to her husband’s speech. ‘Oh, dear! oh, dear! what is he talking about?’

  Mr Clinton turned towards her and again put his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘And that is ‘ow I spend my time, Amy. I go into the most miserable ‘ouses, into the dirtiest ‘oles, the foulest alleys, and I seek to make men ‘appier. I do what I can to ‘elp them in their distress, and to show them that brilliant light which I see so gloriously lighting the way before me. And now good-night!’ He stretched out his arm, and for a moment let his hand rest above her head; then, turning on his heel, he left the room.

  Next day Mrs Clinton called on the doctor, and told him of her husband’s strange behaviour. The doctor slowly and meditatively nodded, then he raised his eyebrows, and with his finger significantly tapped his head....

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I think you’d better wait a while and see how things go on. I’ll just write out a prescription, and you can give him the medicine three times a day after meals,’ and he ordered the unhappy Mr Clinton another tonic, which, if it had no effect on that gentleman, considerably reassured his wife.

  IX

  Mr Clinton, in fact, became worse. He came home later and later every night, and his wife was disgusted at the state of uncleanness which his curious wanderings brought about. He refused to take the baths which Mrs Clinton prepared for him. He was more silent than ever, but when he spoke it was in biblical language; and always hovered on his lips the enigmatical smile, and his eyes always had the strange, disconcerting look. Mrs Clinton perseveringly made him take his medicine, but she lost faith in its power when, one night at twelve, Mr Clinton brought home with him a very dirty, ragged man, who looked half-starved and smelt distinctly alcoholic.

  ‘Jim,’ she said, on seeing the miserable object slinking in behind her husband, ‘Jim, what’s that?’

  ‘That, Amy? That is your brother!’

  ‘My brother? What d’you mean?’ cried Mrs Clinton, firing up. ‘That’s no brother of mine. I ‘aven’t got a brother.’

  ‘It’s your brother and my brother. Be good to him.’

  ‘I tell you it isn’t my brother,’ repeated Mrs Clinton; ‘my brother Adolphus died when he was two years old, and that’s the only brother I ever ‘ad.’

  Mr Clinton merely looked at her with his usual gentle expression, and she asked angrily, —

  ‘What ‘ave you brought ’im ’ere for?’

  ‘’E is ‘ungry, and I am going to give ’im food; ’e is ‘omeless, and I am going to give ’im shelter.’

  ‘Shelter? Where?’

  ‘Here, in my ‘ouse, in my bed.’

  ‘In my bed!’ screamed Mrs Clinton. ‘Not if I know it! ’Ere, you,’ she said, addressing the man, and pushing past her husband. ‘Out you get! I’m not going to ‘ave tramps and loafers in my ‘ouse. Get out!’ Mrs Clinton was an energetic woman, and a strong one. Catching hold of her husband’s stick, and flourishing it, she opened the front door.

  ‘Amy! Amy!’ expostulated Mr Clinton.

  ‘Now, then, you be quiet. I’ve ‘ad about enough of you! Get on out, will you?’

  The man made a rush for the door, and as he scrambled down the steps she caught him a smart blow on the back, and slammed the door behind him. Then, returning to the sitting-room, she sank panting on a chair. Mr Clinton slowly recovered from his surprise.

  ‘Woman,’ he said, this being now his usual mode of address — he spoke solemnly and sadly— ‘you ‘ave cast out your brother, you ‘ave cast out your husband, you ‘ave cast out yourself.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me!’ said Mrs Clinton, very wrathfully. ‘It’s bed time now; come along upstairs.’

  ‘I will not come to your bed again. You ‘ave refused it to one who was better than I; and why should I ‘ave it? Go, woman; go and leave me.’

  ‘Now, then, don’t come trying your airs on me,’ said Mrs Clint
on. ‘They won’t wash. Come up to bed.’

  ‘I tell you I will not,’ replied Mr Clinton, decisively. ‘Go, woman, and leave me!’

  ‘Well, if I do, I sha’n’t leave the light; so there!’ she said spitefully, and, taking the lamp, left Mr Clinton in darkness.

  Mrs Clinton was not henceforth on the very best of terms with her husband, but he always treated her with his accustomed gentleness, though he insisted on spending his nights on the dining-room sofa.

  But perhaps the most objectionable to Mrs Clinton of all her good man’s eccentricities, was that he no longer gave her his week’s money every Saturday afternoon as he had been accustomed to do; the coldness between them made her unwilling to say anything about it, but the approach of quarter day forced her to pocket her dignity and ask for the money.

  ‘Oh, James!’ — she no longer called him Jimmy— ‘will you give me the money for the rent?’

  ‘Money?’ he answered with the usual smile on his lips. ‘I ‘ave no money.’

  ‘What d’you mean? You’ve not given me a farthing for ten weeks.’

  ‘I ‘ave given it to those who want it more than I.’

  ‘You don’t mean to tell me that you’ve given your salary away?’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  Mrs Clinton groaned.

  ‘Oh, you’re dotty!... I can understand giving a threepenny bit, or even sixpence, at the offertory on Sunday at church, and of course one ‘as to give Christmas-boxes to the tradesmen; but to give your whole salary away! ‘Aven’t you got anything left?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You — you aggravating fool! And I’ll be bound you gave it to lazy loafers and tramps and Lord knows what!’

  Mr Clinton did not answer; his wife walked rapidly backwards and forwards, wringing her hands.

  ‘Well, look here, James,’ she said at last. ‘It’s no use crying over spilt milk; but from this day you just give me your salary the moment you receive it. D’you hear? I tell you I will not ‘ave any more of your nonsense.’