Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  Here she stopped, and they all sighed deeply.

  ‘We searched high and low, but in vain, and he has not been found to this day. So we took his will, and having broken the seal, read the following,— “My daughters, I know by my wisdom that the time will come when I shall be lost to you; then you will live alone enjoying the riches and the pleasures which I have put at your disposal; but I foresee that at the end of many years a youth will find his way to this your palace. And though my magic arts have been able to build this paradise for your habitation, though they have endowed you with perpetual youth and loveliness, and, greatest deed of all, have banished hence the dark shadow of Death, yet have they not the power to make four maidens live in happiness and unity with but one man! Therefore, I have given unto each of you certain gifts, and of you four the youth shall choose one to be his love; and to him and her shall belong this palace, and all my riches, and all my power; while the remaining three shall leave everything here to these two, and depart hence for ever.”

  ‘Now, gentle youth, it is with you to choose which of us four you will have remain.’

  Amyntas looked at the four damsels standing before him, and his heart beat violently.

  ‘I,’ resumed the speaker— ‘I am the eldest of the four, and it is my right to speak first.’

  She stepped forward and stood alone in front of Amyntas; her aspect was most queenly, her features beautiful and clear, her eyes proud and fiery; and masses of raven hair contrasted with the red flaming of her garments. With an imperious gesture she flung back her hair, and spoke thus, —

  ‘Know, youth, that the gift which my father gave me was the gift of war, and I have the power to make a great warrior of him whose love I am. I will make you a king, youth; you shall command mighty armies, and you shall lead them to battle on a prancing horse; your enemies shall quail before your face, and at last you shall die no sluggard’s death, but pierced by honourable wounds, and the field of battle shall be your deathbed; a nation shall mourn your loss, and your name shall go down famous to after ages.’

  ‘You are very beautiful,’ said Amyntas, ‘but I am not so eager for warlike exploits as when I wandered through the green lanes of my native land. Let me hear the others.’

  A second stepped forward. She was clad most gorgeously of all; a crown of diamonds was on her head, and her robes were of cloth of gold sewn with rubies and emeralds and sapphires.

  ‘The gift I have to give is wealth, riches — riches innumerable, riches greater than man can dream of. Do you want to be a king, the riches I can give will make you one; do you want armies, riches can procure them; do you want victory, riches can buy it — all these that my sister offers you can I with my riches give you; and more than that, for everything in the world can be got with riches, and you shall be all-powerful. Take me to be your love and I will make you the Lord of Gold.’

  Amyntas smiled.

  ‘You forget, lady, that I am but twenty.’

  The third stepped forward. She was beautiful and pale and thoughtful. Her hair was yellow, like corn when the sun is shining on it; and her dress was green, like the young grass of the spring. She spoke without the animation of the others, mournfully rather than proudly, and she looked at Amyntas with melancholy eyes.

  ‘I am the Lady of Art; all that is beautiful and good and wise is in my province. Live with me; I will make you a poet, and you shall sing beautiful songs. You shall be wise; and in perfect wisdom, oh youth! is perfect happiness.’

  ‘The poet has said that wisdom is weariness, oh lady!’ said Amyntas. ‘My father is a poet; he has written ten thousand Latin hexameters, and a large number of Greek iambics.’...

  Then came forward the last. As she stood before Amyntas a cry burst from him; he had never in his life seen anyone so ravishingly beautiful. She was looking down, and her long eyelashes prevented her eyes from being seen, but her lips were like a perfect rose, and her skin was like a peach; her hair fell to her waist in great masses of curls, and their sparkling auburn, many-hued and indescribable, changed in the sunbeams from richest brown to gold, tinged with deep red. She wore a simple tunic of thin silk, clasped at her waist with a jewelled belt of gold.

  She stood before Amyntas, letting him gaze; then suddenly she lifted her eyes to his. Amyntas’s heart gave a mighty beat against his chest. Her eyes, her eyes were the very lights of love, carrying passionate kisses on their beams. A sob of ecstasy choked the youth, and he felt that he could kneel down and worship before them.

  Slowly her lips broke into a smile, and her voice was soft and low.

  ‘I am the Lady of Love,’ she said. ‘Look!’ She raised her arms, and the thin, loose sleeves falling back displayed their roundness and exquisite shape; she lifted her head, and Amyntas thrilled to cover her neck with kisses. At last she loosened her girdle, and when the silken tunic fell to her feet she stood before him in perfect loveliness.

  ‘I cannot give you fame, or riches, or wisdom; I can only give you Love, Love, Love.... Oh, what an eternity of delight shall we enjoy in one another’s arms! Come, my beloved, come!’

  ‘Yes, I come, my darling!’ Amyntas stepped forward with outstretched arms, and took her hands in his. ‘I take you for my love; I want not wealth nor great renown, but only you. You will give me love-alluring kisses, and we will live in never-ending bliss.’

  He drew her to him, and, with his arms around her, pressed back her head and covered her lips with kisses.

  XIV

  And while Amyntas lost his soul in the eyes of his beloved, the three sisters went sadly away. They ascended the stately barge which awaited them, and the water bore them down the long avenue of columns into the darkness. After a long time they reached the entrance of the cavern, and having placed a great stone against it, that none might enter more, they separated, wandering in different directions.

  The Lady of War passed through Spain, finding none there worthy of her. She crossed the mountains, and presently she fell in love with a little artillery officer, and raised him to dignity and power; and together they ran through the lands, wasting and burning, making women widows and children orphans, ruthless, unsparing, caring for naught but the voluptuousness of blood. But she sickened of the man at last and left him; then the blood he had spilt rose up against him, and he was cast down and died an exile on a lonely isle. And now they say she dwells in the palaces of a youth with a withered hand; together they rule a mighty empire, and their people cry out at the oppression, but the ruler heeds nothing but the burning kisses of his love.

  The Lady of Riches, too, passed out of Spain. But she was not content with one love, nor with a hundred. She gave her favours to the first comer, and everyone was welcome; she wandered carelessly through the world, but chiefly she loved an island in the north; and in its capital she has her palace, and the inhabitants of the isle have given themselves over, body and soul, to her domination; they pander and lie and cheat, and forswear themselves; to gain her smile they will shrink from no base deed, no meanness; and she, too, makes women widows and children orphans.... But her subjects care not; they are fat and well-content; the goddess smiles on them, and they are the richest in the world.

  The Lady of Art has not found an emperor nor a mighty people to be her lovers. She wanders lonely through the world; now and then a youthful dreamer sees her in his sleep and devotes his life to her pursuit; but the way is hard, very hard; so he turns aside to worship at the throne of her sister of Riches, and she repays him for the neglect he has suffered; she showers gold upon him and makes him one of her knights. But sometimes the youth remains faithful, and goes through his life in the endless search; and at last, when his end has come, she comes down to the garret in which he lies cold and dead, and stooping down, kisses him gently — and lo! he is immortal.

  But as for Amyntas, when the sisters had retired, he again took his bride in his arms, and covered her lips with kisses; and she, putting her arms round his neck, said with a smile, —

  ‘I have
waited for you so long, my love, so long!’

  And here it is fit that we should follow the example of the three sisters, and retire also.

  The moral of this story is, that if your godfathers and godmothers at your baptism give you a pretty name, you will probably marry the most beautiful woman in the world and live happily ever afterwards.... And the platitudinous philosopher may marvel at the tremendous effects of the most insignificant causes, for if Amyntas had been called Peter or John, as his mother wished, William II. might be eating sauerkraut as peacefully as his ancestors, the Lord Mayor of London might not drive about in a gilded carriage, and possibly even — Mr Alfred Austin might not be Poet Laureate....

  DAISY

  I

  It was Sunday morning — a damp, warm November morning, with the sky overhead grey and low. Miss Reed stopped a little to take breath before climbing the hill, at the top of which, in the middle of the churchyard, was Blackstable Church. Miss Reed panted, and the sultriness made her loosen her jacket. She stood at the junction of the two roads which led to the church, one from the harbour end of the town and the other from the station. Behind her lay the houses of Blackstable, the wind-beaten houses with slate roofs of the old fishing village and the red brick villas of the seaside resort which Blackstable was fast becoming; in the harbour were the masts of the ships, colliers that brought coal from the north; and beyond, the grey sea, very motionless, mingling in the distance with the sky.... The peal of the church bells ceased, and was replaced by a single bell, ringing a little hurriedly, querulously, which denoted that there were only ten minutes before the beginning of the service. Miss Reed walked on; she looked curiously at the people who passed her, wondering....

  ‘Good-morning, Mr Golding!’ she said to a fisherman who pounded by her, ungainly in his Sunday clothes.

  ‘Good-morning, Miss Reed!’ he replied. ‘Warm this morning.’

  She wondered whether he knew anything of the subject which made her heart beat with excitement whenever she thought of it, and for thinking of it she hadn’t slept a wink all night.

  ‘Have you seen Mr Griffith this morning?’ she asked, watching his face.

  ‘No; I saw Mrs Griffith and George as I was walking up.’

  ‘Oh! they are coming to church, then!’ Miss Reed cried with the utmost surprise.

  Mr Golding looked at her stupidly, not understanding her agitation. But they had reached the church. Miss Reed stopped in the porch to wipe her boots and pass an arranging hand over her hair. Then, gathering herself together, she walked down the aisle to her pew.

  She arranged the hassock and knelt down, clasping her hands and closing her eyes; she said the Lord’s Prayer; and being a religious woman, she did not immediately rise, but remained a certain time in the same position of worship to cultivate a proper frame of mind, her long, sallow face upraised, her mouth firmly closed, and her eyelids quivering a little from the devotional force with which she kept her eyes shut; her thin bust, very erect, was encased in a black jacket as in a coat of steel. But when Miss Reed considered that a due period had elapsed, she opened her eyes, and, as she rose from her knees, bent over to a lady sitting just in front of her.

  ‘Have you heard about the Griffiths, Mrs Howlett?’

  ‘No!... What is it?’ answered Mrs Howlett, half turning round, intensely curious.

  Miss Reed waited a moment to heighten the effect of her statement.

  ‘Daisy Griffith has eloped — with an officer from the dépôt at Tercanbury.’

  Mrs Howlett gave a little gasp.

  ‘You don’t say so!’

  ‘It’s all they could expect,’ whispered Miss Reed. ‘They ought to have known something was the matter when she went into Tercanbury three or four times a week.’

  Blackstable is six miles from Tercanbury, which is a cathedral city and has a cavalry dépôt.

  ‘I’ve seen her hanging about the barracks with my own eyes,’ said Mrs Howlett, ‘but I never suspected anything.’

  ‘Shocking! isn’t it?’ said Miss Reed, with suppressed delight.

  ‘But how did you find out?’ asked Mrs Howlett.

  ‘Ssh!’ whispered Miss Reed — the widow, in her excitement, had raised her voice a little and Miss Reed could never suffer the least irreverence in church.... ‘She never came back last night, and George Browning saw them get into the London train at Tercanbury.’

  ‘Well, I never!’ exclaimed Mrs Howlett.

  ‘D’you think the Griffiths’ll have the face to come to church?’

  ‘I shouldn’t if I was them,’ said Miss Reed.

  But at that moment the vestry door was opened and the organ began to play the hymn.

  ‘I’ll see you afterwards,’ Miss Reed whispered hurriedly; and rising from their seats, both ladies began to sing, —

  O Jesu, thou art standing

  Outside the fast closed door,

  In lowly patience waiting

  To pass the threshold o’er;

  We bear the name of Christians....

  Miss Reed held the book rather close to her face, being shortsighted; but, without even lifting her eyes, she had become aware of the entrance of Mrs Griffith and George. She glanced significantly at Mrs Howlett. Mr Griffith hadn’t come, although he was churchwarden, and Mrs Howlett gave an answering look which meant that it was then evidently quite true. But they both gathered themselves together for the last verse, taking breath.

  O Jesus, thou art pleading

  In accents meek and low....

  A — A — men! The congregation fell to its knees, and the curate, rolling his eyes to see who was in church, began gabbling the morning prayers— ‘Dearly beloved brethren.’...

  II

  At the Sunday dinner, the vacant place of Daisy Griffith stared at them. Her father sat at the head of the table, looking down at his plate, in silence; every now and then, without raising his head, he glanced up at the empty space, filled with a madness of grief.... He had gone into Tercanbury in the morning, inquiring at the houses of all Daisy’s friends, imagining that she had spent the night with one of them. He could not believe that George Browning’s story was true, he could so easily have been mistaken in the semi-darkness of the station. And even he had gone to the barracks — his cheeks still burned with the humiliation — asking if they knew a Daisy Griffith.

  He pushed his plate away with a groan. He wished passionately that it were Monday, so that he could work. And the post would surely bring a letter, explaining.

  ‘The vicar asked where you were,’ said Mrs Griffith.

  Robert, the father, looked at her with his pained eyes, but her eyes were hard and shining, her lips almost disappeared in the tight closing of the mouth. She was willing to believe the worst. He looked at his son; he was frowning; he looked as coldly angry as the mother. He, too, was willing to believe everything, and they neither seemed very sorry.... Perhaps they were even glad.

  ‘I was the only one who loved her,’ he muttered to himself, and pushing back his chair he got up and left the room. He almost tottered; he had aged twenty years in the night.

  ‘Aren’t you going to have any pudding?’ asked his wife.

  He made no answer.

  He walked out into the courtyard quite aimlessly, but the force of habit took him to the workshop, where, every Sunday afternoon, he was used to going after dinner to see that everything was in order, and to-day also he opened the window, put away a tool which the men had left about, examined the Saturday’s work....

  Mrs Griffith and George, stiff and ill at ease in his clumsy Sunday clothes, went on with their dinner.

  ‘D’you think the vicar knew?’ he asked as soon as the father had closed the door.

  ‘I don’t think he’d have asked if he had. Mrs Gray might, but he’s too simple — unless she put him up to it.’

  ‘I thought I should never get round with the plate,’ said George. Mr Griffith, being a carpenter, which is respectable and well-to-do, which is honourable, had b
een made churchwarden, and part of his duty was to take round the offertory plate. This duty George performed in his father’s occasional absences, as when a coffin was very urgently required.

  ‘I wasn’t going to let them get anything out of me,’ said Mrs Griffith, defiantly.

  All through the service a number of eyes had been fixed on them, eager to catch some sign of emotion, full of horrible curiosity to know what the Griffiths felt and thought; but Mrs Griffith had been inscrutable.

  III

  Next day the Griffiths lay in wait for the postman; George sat by the parlour window, peeping through the muslin curtains.

  ‘Fanning’s just coming up the street,’ he said at last. Until the post had come old Griffith could not work; in the courtyard at the back was heard the sound of hammering.

  There was a rat-tat at the door, the sound of a letter falling on the mat, and Fanning the postman passed on. George leaned back quickly so that he might not see him. Mr Griffith fetched the letter, opened it with trembling hands.... He gave a little gasp of relief.

  ‘She’s got a situation in London.’

  ’Is that all she says?’ asked Mrs Griffith. ‘Give me the letter,’ and she almost tore it from her husband’s hand.

  She read it through and uttered a little ejaculation of contempt — almost of triumph. ‘You don’t mean to say you believe that?’ she cried.

  ‘Let’s look, mother,’ said George. He read the letter and he too gave a snort of contempt.