Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  Monsieur Leir packed the Watteau with his own hands, and despatched it without delay. He wrote a discreet little letter to his son-in-law announcing its immediate arrival, and suggesting that they should share the profits of its sale. It was growing late, so he went to his café and drank the absinthe with which he invariably prepared for the evening meal. Then, with a chuckle, he wrote the following note:

  To the Chief Officer, U.S.A. Customs, New York.

  Sir,

  An attempt will shortly be made to pass through the Customs a copy of a picture by Watteau. It is signed Charles Bartle. If, moreover, you scrape away the name, you will find the signature of the French painter. I leave you to make what inferences you choose.

  Yours faithfully,

  AN HONEST MAN

  Less than this was necessary to excite the suspicions of the least trusting section of mankind. It was scarcely to be wondered at, therefore, that when Rudolf Kuhn went to the Customs House at New York to pass the picture that had been sent him, he was received with incredulity. He asserted with conviction that it was only a copy, and produced the receipt which Monsieur Leir had been so cautious as to send him. But the official who saw him merely laughed in his face. He was quite accustomed to the tricks whereby astute dealers in works of art sought to evade the duty.

  “I suppose you’d be surprised if I told you that the picture was signed by Antoine Watteau,” he said, with a dry smile.

  “More than that. I should be amazed beyond words,” answered Rudolf Kuhn, confidently.

  Silently the customs officer took a palette-knife, scraped away the name of Charles Bartle, and there, sure enough, was the French artist’s signature.

  “What have you got to say now?” he asked in triumph.

  A curious light passed through the dealer’s eyes as he stared at the canvas, but he made no other sign that Monsieur Leir’s astuteness had suddenly flashed across him.

  “Nothing,” he replied.

  With meekness he paid duty on the estimated value of an original Watteau, and a very heavy fine into the bargain for his attempt to defraud the customs. He took the picture away. But when he reached home that night he kissed his wife on both cheeks with unusual warmth.

  “Your father’s still the smartest dealer in Europe, Rachel,” he said. But when she asked for some explanation of his words, he merely shook his head and smiled.

  In New York the newspapers learn everything, and perhaps it was not strange that within four and twenty hours of these events, an important journal had an amusing account of how Rudolf Kuhn, the well-known dealer, had been foiled in his attempt to pass through the customs, as a copy by some obscure painter, a very perfect example of the art of Watteau. It was a triumph for the officials, and the newspaper gibed freely because they had got the better of a wily Hebrew. Now Rudolph Kuhn had a client who chose to spend much of his vast wealth in the acquisition of Old Masters; and no sooner had he read these entertaining paragraphs than he hurried to the dealer’s shop. When he saw the picture he burst out laughing.

  “I like your darned impudence, trying to pass that off as a copy.”

  “I showed them the receipt,” smiled Rudolph, with a deprecating shrug of the shoulders. “I propose to sell it as a copy. It was sold to my representative in Paris as such.”

  The millionaire looked at the dealer and chuckled. “Well, Uncle Sam’s customs are good enough guarantee for me. I’ll give you fifty thousand dollars for it.”

  “I’ll take sixty,” answered the other, quietly.

  “Not bad for a copy,” smiled the buyer. “I’ll have it at that.”

  He carried the picture off, and with it the various documents which the Customs House had delivered to Rudolf Kuhn in proof that he had paid both duty and fine. In face of these it would have been a sceptic indeed who doubted the authenticity of so delightful a work.

  * * * * *

  Some weeks later Monsieur Leir again knocked at Charlie Bartle’s door. He advanced into the middle of the studio, and without a word counted out fifty English bank-notes of a hundred pounds each.

  “What the dickens are you doing?” cried Bartle, who thought he had suddenly taken leave of his senses.

  “Five thousand pounds,” said the old man. “I thought you’d like to see the money actually before you, so I changed it into these notes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s your share of the profit on the sale of your pictures, and you may marry your Rosie whenever you choose.”

  Bartle stared at Monsieur Leir, helplessly. He thought it must be some heartless jest, but the old man’s eyes gleamed with their usual kindliness. He rubbed his hands joyfully as he gloated over the painter’s utter consternation. At last he vouchsafed to explain. Bartle understood vaguely that a California millionaire had bought his picture, all his pictures, and this money was the result. He wanted to write to this amiable and discerning patron, but Monsieur Leir hastily told him that was impossible. The Californian had bought the pictures and taken them away without leaving his address. Monsieur Leir assured him that the American millionaires were notoriously eccentric. Bartle drew a long breath and looked at the pile of notes.

  “Take them to the bank, my boy,” said the old dealer, enchanted with the young man’s pleasure, “and send a wire to a certain lady.”

  He made the notes into a bundle, and put them in Bartle’s pocket, and led him out of the house. The painter walked as though he were in a dream. But when Monsieur Leir had seen the young man safely on his way to the bank, he went to his own apartment. He took out Charlie’s pictures, which had remained in the safe obscurity of a well-locked cupboard. One by one he ripped them off their stretchers, and one by one he put them in the fire.

  He laughed as he saw them crackle in the flames. Then he took a hatchet and cut up the stretchers neatly.

  “Here is some excellent firewood,” he chuckled, as he gave the bundle to his maid.

  He rubbed his hands when he thought that thus he saved several coppers. It had slipped his memory completely that he had just made his friend a present of five thousand pounds.

  A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE (1906 VERSION)

  I don’t know why the desire seized me once, in my youth, to take a voyage on a Spanish cargo-boat. I was staying at Cadiz, with nothing in the world to do — O most delectable condition! — and, going down one day to the harbour, saw a rather shabby steamer loading vast bales of merchandise. I began to talk with a sailor-man who lounged idly on the quay, and learned that she was bound for Valencia, Tarragona, and Tunis. The blue of the sea was as deep as the blue of the heavens, and Romance, that jade of flattering insincerity, put out a beckoning finger. Before I knew what had happened my soul was aflame with the desire for unknown lands, and when the second mate — for such I discovered was the garrulous seaman — told me they sometimes took passangers, I made up my mind to take the journey. My traps were soon gathered together, my passage booked, and next morning we started on our leisurely tour of the Spanish coast. For some time things went well enough. I spent the day reading such books as I had, and the evening playing cards with the skipper. We stopped at one port after another, loading and unloading with truly Spanish deliberation. Presently, leaving the shores of Spain, we crossed to Africa, and one morning, very early, when I got up I found that we had cast anchor in the harbour of an island off the coast of Tunis. The sun shone with dazzling brilliancy upon the white houses of a little town, and here and there tall palm-trees rose into the air. We were to stay but a few hours, for the place was not on the steamer’s route; and the captain called there only by chance, to execute some commission. I had determined not to go on shore, but I know not what there was in the smiling, sunny town that exerted on me an odd fascination; the more I looked at it the greater was my desire not only to visit it, but to stay there. In all probability the immortal gods would never again bring me to that island, and I dared not risk the regrets which must be mine if I missed the present opportunity. I discu
ssed the matter with the captain, who assured me I should only be disappointed: the town had nothing to attract travellers, and the only Europeans were the French Consul with his wife, a sergeant, and a dozen soldiers. I looked across the harbour once more, and the white houses seemed to whisper a welcome to me; I felt on a sudden that I was transported to the Arabian Nights, and this was a magic isle from which wonderful things might be expected. Hitherto my journey had been very barren of the romance I sought, for nothing could be more matter-of-fact than the cargo-boat in which for three weeks I had lived; but here surely was the real thing: here lived enchanted damsels singing sadly to their lutes, and the very beggars were kings fallen from their high estate. I shut my ears to the skipper’s admonitions, packed my things hastily, and summoned a boat from the shore. My friends on board, thinking me mad, shook my hand, with solemn warnings that I should regret my folly, and in a quarter-of-an-hour I found myself landed, with all my belongings, on the beach.

  I was at once surrounded by a score of swarthy Arabs, who apparently discussed me and my concerns with considerable interest, and one, who spoke broken French, asked if I wished to see the consul.

  “No,” I said; “I want to go to the hotel.”

  I confess I was a little dismayed when he answered that there was no such thing in the place, but now I would not for worlds have returned, crest-fallen, to the steamer; and I asked if I could nowhere get lodgings. The Arab, with much gesticulation, talked the matter over with his friends, and presently suggested the house of a certain lady whose name I have forgotten. He shouldered my bag, and I followed him down one winding, narrow street after another till we arrived at a little white house at which he stopped. He knocked repeatedly, and at last a woman opened. When he explained what I wanted, she looked at me curiously, but in due course agreed to let me have a room. I bargained for the price and entered.

  Having made myself as comfortable as possible — which was not much — I sauntered down to the shore and watched my good cargo-boat set out to sea. I was alone on a foreign island, where I knew no soul, and the weekly packet that ran between the little town and the mainland was not due for five days. Presently, while I watched the sea, smoking a cigarette, I saw my friend of the morning in conversation with a Frenchman, who, I surmised at once, was the sergeant of whom I had heard. They came up to me, and the sergeant, saluting politely, began to talk. Somewhat to my amusement, I found that he regarded me with considerable suspicion, and he asked me question after question. I did not gather the general drift of his inquiries, but answered everything readily enough.

  “But frankly,” he asked for the tenth time, “why have you come here at all?”

  “A mere whim, cher monsieur,” I answered. “Curiosity, nothing else.”

  He evidently found my explanations unsatisfactory, and I cannot say that I took much trouble to make my motives clear. He informed me at last that he would report my presence to Monsieur le Consul.

  “By all means,” said I. “And pray add that I shall give myself the pleasure of calling on him tomorrow if my throat is not cut tonight in the unsavoury den which appears to be your only substitute for a hotel.”

  He left me, and I spent the rest of the day in wandering about the Arab streets, looking at the people, and feeling, indeed, something of that thrill I had expected. At night my hostess provided me with food, of which it could only be said that it performed the first office of edible substances — it allayed the pangs of hunger. But beside it the dinners on the cargo-boat, and they had seemed bad enough in all conscience, were toothsome and sumptuous. I was very tired, and, going to my little dark room, surveyed, not without misgiving, the bed on which I was to spend five nights. I was just beginning to undress when I heard a great knocking at the street door. In a moment my room was burst violently into, and before I had realised what on earth was happening, I found myself seized by two soldiers, while the sergeant, so friendly and polite in the day, looked upon me with triumph. I was really so taken aback that for a moment I had nothing to say; then with some irritation I asked him what in Heaven’s name he was up to.

  “Monsieur le Consul has ordered me to arrest you. You will be lodged in the goal to-night, and to-morrow morning he will examine you himself.”

  “But it’s absurd,” I answered, and I could not help laughing at my ridiculous situation.

  “It’s no laughing matter, monsieur,” he said sternly.

  “You need not be disagreeable about it,” I remarked. “Tell these men to let go of me and I will accompany you wherever you like. I am quite willing to spend the night in your prison if it amuses you, and I feel sure the bed with which you intend to provide me will be no more objectionable than this.”

  The sergeant hesitated for an instant, and then seemed to make up his mind that I did not look a very dangerous ruffian.

  “Very well,” he said. “Take your hands off Monsieur. Follow me.”

  There was no one about to see the edifying spectacle which I presented as I marched through the streets, thus escorted, to the local gaol. They put me in quite an agreeable little cell, locked the door ponderously, and so left me to my own reflections. I admit that the night seemed endless. It was very dark, and I felt that horrible things were crawling over me. There was a fetid, oppressive smell. I sought in vain for the diverting side of the incident, but I was too uncomfortable, and I freely cursed my craving for the romantic, which had driven me to this inhospitable place. I cared no longer for the lovely damsels whom my fancy had presented plaiting their long black tresses or darkening their eyes with kohl; and if there were any in the neighbourhood I only wished they would free me from the cruel beasts that were biting, biting. But in the morning a soldier brought me some excellent coffee, and I induced him to get me also the wherewithal to wash and a barber to shave me. These things performed, feeling fresher and more contented, I looked forward to my interview with the consul with curiosity and interest. I was told this official would see me at half-past ten, and then I should discover for what monstrous crime I was thus evilly entreated.

  In due course the sergeant came with two soldiers and told me I must now go to the consulate. Between them, doing my best to look accustomed to the process, I stalked through the winding alleys till we came to a long, low, handsome building with a verandah, neat iron railings, and a charming garden. At the gate stood a sentry, and above waved the tricolour; upon my word, except for the Arab gardener busily at work, I might have been suddenly transported to France. I was taken into a large, cool room, barely furnished, but with masses of flowers everywhere. They suggested a woman’s taste and forethought. At a desk, littered with papers, sat a little man with grey hair, cut very short, and a large grey moustache, excessively fierce and bristling; he was dressed in white, dapperly, and his figure was trim and neat. I found afterwards that his eyes were very alert, and he gesticulated in conversation with much vivacity. He was writing as I entered, and did not look up when the sergeant duly announced me. He passed his hands impatiently through the many papers, looking for the sergeant’s official account of my arrival and arrest.

  “Approchezhe said, then glanced at me quickly. But the glance lengthened into a stare, his face fell; and then, recovering himself, his eyes began to twinkle.

  “But Monsieur isn’t a spy, sergeant,” he cried.

  “Is that it?” I said, and began to chuckle.

  I don’t know why my amusement should have had such an effect on the consul, but immediately he burst into a roar of laughter; he threw himself back in his chair and held his sides. But though he evidently found it a huge joke, the sergeant’s face grew longer and longer. “Monsieur’s conduct has been most suspicious,” he said. “He walked round the town yesterday and was seen to make notes of all he saw.”

  The sergeant produced my note-book and gravely handed it to the consul.

  “Will you allow me to look at it?” asked he politely.

  “By all means,” I answered, somewhat surprised that he understood
English.

  And while he turned over the pages the sergeant repeated every one of my movements on the preceding day. It was unheard of that an Englishman should arrive in a Spanish ship and come on the island to stay. What could be my motives except to discover whether it was fortified and if men-o’-war could enter the harbour with safety. Without the shadow of a doubt I was a spy of the most dangerous class, and Monsieur le Consul would regret that he had not listened to the sergeant when the British fleet bombarded the town.

  “But, Sergeant,” answered the consul, “it will not assist the English admiral in the least to learn from this gentleman’s notes that the women here have magnificent eyes and that the Jews are as picturesque as they are dirty.”

  “Monsieur has, no doubt, written his observations in cypher,” said the sergeant.

  The consul turned to me.

  “Would you be so obliging as to tell me your name?”

  I said it, and he repeated it thoughtfully.

  “I wonder where I’ve heard that? Ah!” He gave a cry and seized a number of the Journal des Débats which lay on the table. “Is this you?” He passed over the paper, and, to my great joy, I saw an article on a little book of mine.

  I acknowledged that I was the blushing author of that work, and, with a bound, the consul sprang up, dashed round the table, and, seizing both my hands, wrung them violently.

  “But I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. My wife is devoted to English novels — she’s Swiss, you know, she comes from Geneva — the best place in the world to find a wife, a hive of young ladies, my dear fellow — and she loves your English novels because they’re so pure. She will be charmed to see you and you shall talk English to her. My wife is a linguist, monsieur, a wonderful linguist. And there is the luncheon bell. Excellent! Come to luncheon.”