Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  ‘I never break a promise,’ he said in his dignified way. ‘But even without it, can you imagine that while you are going through so much, I should do anything to increase your troubles?’

  Joan was born. Millicent stayed at the Resident’s, and Mrs Gray, his wife, a kindly creature of middle age, was very good to her. The two women had little to do during the long hours they were alone but to talk, and in course of time Millicent learnt everything there was to know of her husband’s alcoholic past. The fact which she found most difficult to reconcile herself to was that Harold had been told that the only condition upon which he would be allowed to keep his post was that he should bring back a wife. It caused in her a dull feeling of resentment. And when she discovered what a persistent drunkard he had been, she felt vaguely uneasy. She had a horrid fear that during her absence he would not have been able to resist the craving. She went home with her baby and a nurse. She spent a night at the mouth of the river and sent a messenger in a canoe to announce her arrival. She scanned the landing–stage anxiously as the launch approached it. Harold and Mr Simpson were standing there. The trim little soldiers were lined up. Her heart sank, for Harold was swaying slightly, like a man who seeks to keep his balance on a rolling ship, and she knew he was drunk.

  It wasn’t a very pleasant home–coming. She had almost forgotten her mother and father and her sister who sat there silently listening to her. Now she roused herself and became once more aware of their presence. All that she spoke of seemed very far away.

  ‘I knew that I hated him then,’ she said. ‘I could have killed him.’

  ‘Oh, Millicent, don’t say that,’ cried her mother. ‘Don’t forget that he’s dead, poor man.’

  Millicent looked at her mother, and for a moment a scowl darkened her impassive face. Mr Skinner moved uneasily.

  ‘Go on,’ said Kathleen.

  ‘When he found out that I knew all about him he didn’t bother very much more. In three months he had another attack of D.T.s.’

  ‘Why didn’t you leave him?’ said Kathleen.

  ‘What would have been the good of that? He would have been dismissed from the service in a fortnight. Who was to keep me and Joan? I had to stay. And when he was sober I had nothing to complain of. He wasn’t in the least in love with me, but he was fond of me; I hadn’t married him because I was in love with him, but because I wanted to be married. I did everything I could to keep liquor from him; I managed to get Mr Gray to prevent whisky being sent from Kuala Solor, but he got it from the Chinese. I watched him as a cat watches a mouse. He was too cunning for me. In a little while he had another outbreak. He neglected his duties. I was afraid complaints would be made. We were two days from Kuala Solor and that was our safeguard, but I suppose something was said, for Mr Gray wrote a private letter of warning to me. I showed it to Harold. He stormed and blustered, but I saw he was frightened, and for two or three months he was quite sober. Then he began again. And so it went on till our leave became due.

  ‘Before we came to stay here I begged and prayed him to be careful. I didn’t want any of you to know what sort of a man I had married. All the time he was in England he was all right and before we sailed I warned him. He’d grown to be very fond of Joan, and very proud of her, and she was devoted to him. She always liked him better than she liked me. I asked him if he wanted to have his child grow up, knowing that he was a drunkard, and I found out that at last I’d got a hold on him. The thought terrified him. I told him that I wouldn’t allow it, and if he ever let Joan see him drunk I’d take her away from him at once. Do you know, he grew quite pale when I said it. I fell on my knees that night and thanked God, because I’d found a way of saving my husband.

  ‘He told me that if I would stand by him he would have another try. We made up our minds to fight the thing together. And he tried so hard. When he felt as though he must drink he came to me. You know he was inclined to be rather pompous; with me he was so humble, he was like a child; he depended on me. Perhaps he didn’t love me when he married me, but he loved me then, me and Joan. I’d hated him, because of the humiliation, because when he was drunk and tried to be dignified and impressive he was loathsome; but now I got a strange feeling in my heart. It wasn’t love, but it was a queer, shy tenderness. He was something more than my husband, he was like a child that I’d carried under my heart for long and weary months. He was so proud of me and, you know, I was proud too. His long speeches didn’t irritate me any more, and I only thought his stately ways rather funny and charming. At last we won. For two years he never touched a drop. He lost his craving entirely. He was even able to joke about it.

  ‘Mr Simpson had left us then and we had another young man called Francis.

  ‘“I’m a reformed drunkard, you know, Francis,” Harold said to him once. “If it hadn’t been for my wife I’d have been sacked long ago. I’ve got the best wife in the world, Francis.”

  ‘You don’t know what it meant to me to hear him say that. I felt that all I’d gone through was worth while. I was so happy.’

  She was silent. She thought of the broad, yellow and turbid river on whose banks she had lived so long. The egrets, white and gleaming in the tremulous sunset, flew down the stream in a flock, flew low and swift, and scattered. They were like a ripple of snowy notes, sweet and pure and spring–like, which an unseen hand drew forth, a divine arpeggio, from an unseen harp. They fluttered along between the green banks, wrapped in the shadows of evening, like the happy thoughts of a contented mind.

  ‘Then Joan fell ill. For three weeks we were very anxious. There was no doctor nearer than Kuala Solor and we had to put up with the treatment of a native dispenser. When she grew well again I took her down to the mouth of the river in order to give her a breath of sea air. We stayed there a week. It was the first time I had been separated from Harold since I went away to have Joan. There was a fishing village, on piles, not far from us, but really we were quite alone. I thought a great deal about Harold, so tenderly, and all at once I knew that I loved him. I was so glad when the prahu came to fetch us back, because I wanted to tell him. I thought it would mean a good deal to him. I can’t tell you how happy I was. As we rowed up–stream the headman told me that Mr Francis had had to go up–country to arrest a woman who had murdered her husband. He had been gone a couple of days.

  ‘I was surprised that Harold was not on the landing–stage to meet me; he was always very punctilious about that sort of thing; he used to say that husband and wife should treat one another as politely as they treated acquaintances; and I could not imagine what business had prevented him. I walked up the little hill on which the bungalow stood. The ayah brought Joan behind me. The bungalow was strangely silent. There seemed to be no servants about, and I could not make it out; I wondered if Harold hadn’t expected me so soon and was out. I went up the steps. Joan was thirsty and the ayah took her to the servants’ quarters to give her something to drink. Harold was not in the sitting–room. I called him, but there was no answer. I was disappointed because I should have liked him to be there. I went into our bedroom. Harold wasn’t out after all; he was lying on the bed asleep. I was really very much amused, because he always pretended he never slept in the afternoon. He said it was an unnecessary habit that we white people got into. I went up to the bed softly. I thought I would have a joke with him. I opened the mosquito curtains. He was lying on his back, with nothing on but a sarong, and there was an empty whisky bottle by his side. He was drunk.

  ‘It had begun again. All my struggles for so many years were wasted. My dream was shattered. It was all hopeless. I was seized with rage.’

  Millicent’s face grew once again darkly red and she clenched the arms of the chair she sat in.

  ‘I took him by the shoulders and shook him with all my might. “You beast,” I cried, “you beast.” I was so angry I don’t know what I did, I don’t know what I said. I kept on shaking him. You don’t know how loathsome he looked, that large fat man, half naked; he hadn’t shaved for da
ys, and his face was bloated and purple. He was breathing heavily. I shouted at him, but he took no notice. I tried to drag him out of bed, but he was too heavy. He lay there like a log. “Open your eyes,” I screamed. I shook him again. I hated him. I hated him all the more because for a week I’d loved him with all my heart. He’d let me down. He’d let me down. I wanted to tell him what a filthy beast he was. I could make no impression on him. “You shall open your eyes,” I cried. I was determined to make him look at me.’

  The widow licked her dry lips. Her breath seemed hurried. She was silent.

  ‘If he was in that state I should have thought it best to have let him go on sleeping,’ said Kathleen.

  ‘There was a parang on the wall by the side of the bed. You know how fond Harold was of curios.’

  ‘What’s a parang?’ said Mrs Skinner.

  ‘Don’t be silly, mother,’ her husband replied irritably. ‘There’s one on the wall immediately behind you.’

  He pointed to the Malay sword on which for some reason his eyes had been unconsciously resting. Mrs Skinner drew quickly into the corner of the sofa, with a little frightened gesture, as though she had been told that a snake lay curled up beside her.

  ‘Suddenly the blood spurted out from Harold’s throat. There was a great red gash right across it.’

  ‘Millicent,’ cried Kathleen, springing up and almost leaping towards her, ‘what in God’s name do you mean?’

  Mrs Skinner stood staring at her with wide startled eyes, her mouth open.

  ‘The parang wasn’t on the wall any more. It was on the bed. Then Harold opened his eyes. They were just like Joan’s.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Mr Skinner. ‘How could he have committed suicide if he was in the state you describe?’

  Kathleen took her sister’s arm and shook her angrily.

  ‘Millicent, for God’s sake explain.’

  Millicent released herself.

  ‘The parang was on the wall, I told you. I don’t know what happened. There was all the blood, and Harold opened his eyes. He died almost at once. He never spoke, but he gave a sort of gasp.’

  At last Mr Skinner found his voice.

  ‘But, you wretched woman, it was murder.’

  Millicent, her face mottled with red, gave him such a look of scornful hatred that he shrank back. Mrs Skinner cried out.

  ‘Millicent, you didn’t do it, did you?’

  Then Millicent did something that made them all feel as though their blood were turned to ice in their veins. She chuckled.

  ‘I don’t know who else did,’ she said.

  ‘My God,’ muttered Mr Skinner.

  Kathleen had been standing bolt upright with her hands to her heart, as though its beating were intolerable.

  ‘And what happened then?’ she said.

  ‘I screamed. I went to the window and flung it open. I called for the ayah. She came across the compound with Joan. “Not Joan,” I cried. “Don’t let her come.” She called the cook and told him to take the child. I cried to her to hurry. And when she came I showed her Harold. “The Tuan’s killed himself!” I cried. She gave a scream and ran out of the house.

  ‘No one would come near. They were all frightened out of their wits. I wrote a letter to Mr Francis, telling him what had happened and asking him to come at once.’

  ‘How do you mean you told him what had happened?’

  ‘I said, on my return from the mouth of the river, I’d found Harold with his throat cut. You know, in the tropics you have to bury people quickly. I got a Chinese coffin, and the soldiers dug a grave behind the Fort. When Mr Francis came, Harold had been buried for nearly two days. He was only a boy. I could do anything I wanted with him. I told him I’d found the parang in Harold’s hand and there was no doubt he’d killed himself in an attack of delirium tremens. I showed him the empty bottle. The servants said he’d been drinking hard ever since I left to go to the sea. I told the same story at Kuala Solor. Everyone was very kind to me, and the government granted me a pension.’

  For a little while nobody spoke. At last Mr Skinner gathered himself together.

  ‘I am a member of the legal profession. I’m a solicitor. I have certain duties. We’ve always had a most respectable practice. You’ve put me in a monstrous position.’

  He fumbled, searching for the phrases that played at hide and seek in his scattered wits. Millicent looked at him with scorn.

  ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘It was murder, that’s what it was; do you think I can possibly connive at it?’

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense, father,’ said Kathleen sharply. ‘You can’t give up your own daughter.’

  ‘You’ve put me in a monstrous position,’ he repeated.

  Millicent shrugged her shoulders again.

  ‘You made me tell you. And I’ve borne it long enough by myself. It was time that all of you bore it too.’

  At that moment the door was opened by the maid.

  ‘Davis has brought the car round, sir,’ she said.

  Kathleen had the presence of mind to say something, and the maid withdrew.

  ‘We’d better be starting,’ said Millicent.

  ‘I can’t go to the party now,’ cried Mrs Skinner, with horror. ‘I’m far too upset. How can we face the Heywoods? And the Bishop will want to be introduced to you.’

  Millicent made a gesture of indifference. Her eyes held their ironical expression.

  ‘We must go, mother,’ said Kathleen. ‘It would look so funny if we stayed away.’ She turned on Millicent furiously. ‘Oh, I think the whole thing is such frightfully bad form.’

  Mrs Skinner looked helplessly at her husband. He went to her and gave her his hand to help her up from the sofa.

  ‘I’m afraid we must go, mother,’ he said.

  ‘And me with the ospreys in my toque that Harold gave me with his own hands,’ she moaned.

  He led her out of the room, Kathleen followed close on their heels, and a step or two behind came Millicent.

  ‘You’ll get used to it, you know,’ she said quietly. ‘At first I thought of it all the time, but now I forget it for two or three days together. It’s not as if there was any danger.’

  They did not answer. They walked through the hall and out of the front door. The three ladies got into the back of the car and Mr Skinner seated himself beside the driver. They had no self–starter; it was an old car, and Davis went to the bonnet to crank it up. Mr Skinner turned round and looked petulantly at Millicent.

  ‘I ought never to have been told,’ he said. ‘I think it was most selfish of you.’

  Davis took his seat and they drove off to the Canon’s garden–party.

  THE TAIPAN

  No one knew better than he that he was an important person. He was number one in not the least important branch of the most important English firm in China. He had worked his way up through solid ability and he looked back with a faint smile at the callow clerk who had come out to China thirty years before. When he remembered the modest home he had come from, a little red house in a long row of little red houses, in Barnes, a suburb which, aiming desperately at the genteel, achieves only a sordid melancholy, and compared it with the magnificent stone mansion, with its wide verandas and spacious rooms, which was at once the office of the company and his own residence, he chuckled with satisfaction. He had come a long way since then. He thought of the high tea to which he sat down when he came home from school (he was at St Paul’s), with his father and mother and his two sisters, a slice of cold meat, a great deal of bread and butter and plenty of milk in his tea, everybody helping himself, and then he thought of the state in which now he ate his evening meal. He always dressed and whether he was alone or not he expected the three boys to wait at table. His number one boy knew exactly what he liked and he never had to bother himself with the details of housekeeping; but he always had a set dinner with soup and fish, entree, roast, sweet, and savoury, so that if he wanted to ask anyone in at
the last moment he could. He liked his food and he did not see why when he was alone he should have less good a dinner than when he had a guest.

  He had indeed gone far. That was why he did not care to go home now, he had not been to England for ten years, and he took his leave in Japan or Vancouver, where he was sure of meeting old friends from the China coast. He knew no one at home. His sisters had married in their own station, their husbands were clerks and their sons were clerks; there was nothing between him and them; they bored him. He satisfied the claims of relationship by sending them every Christmas a piece of fine silk, some elaborate embroidery, or a case of tea. He was not a mean man and as long as his mother lived he had made her an allowance. But when the time came for him to retire he had no intention of going back to England, he had seen too many men do that and he knew how often it was a failure; he meant to take a house near the racecourse in Shanghai: what with bridge and his ponies and golf he expected to get through the rest of his life very comfortably. But he had a good many years before he need think of retiring. In another five or six Higgins would be going home and then he would take charge of the head office in Shanghai. Meanwhile he was very happy where he was, he could save money, which you couldn’t do in Shanghai, and have a good time into the bargain. This place had another advantage over Shanghai: he was the most prominent man in the community and what he said went. Even the consul took care to keep on the right side of him. Once a consul and he had been at loggerheads and it was not he who had gone to the wall. The taipan thrust out his jaw pugnaciously as he thought of the incident.

  But he smiled, for he felt in an excellent humour. He was walking back to his office from a capital luncheon at the Hong–Kong and Shanghai Bank. They did you very well there. The food was first–rate and there was plenty of liquor. He had started with a couple of cocktails, then he had some excellent sauterne and he had finished up with two glasses of port and some fine old brandy. He felt good. And when he left he did a thing that was rare with him; he walked. His bearers with his chair kept a few paces behind him in case he felt inclined to slip into it, but he enjoyed stretching his legs. He did not get enough exercise these days. Now that he was too heavy to ride it was difficult to get exercise. But if he was too heavy to ride he could still keep ponies, and as he strolled along in the balmy air he thought of the spring meeting. He had a couple of griffins that he had hopes of and one of the lads in his office had turned out a fine jockey (he must see they didn’t sneak him away, old Higgins in Shanghai would give a pot of money to get him over there) and he ought to pull off two or three races. He flattered himself that he had the finest stable in the city. He pouted his broad chest like a pigeon. It was a beautiful day, and it was good to be alive.