Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  D’you know what Jimmie says you are?

  Basil.

  I don’t vastly care. But if it pleases you very much you may tell me.

  Jenny.

  [Flushing angrily.] He says you’re a damned snob.

  Basil.

  Is that all? I could have invented far worse things than that to say of myself.... [With a change of tone.] You know, Jenny, it’s not worth while to worry ourselves about such trifles. One can’t force oneself to like people. I’m very sorry that I can’t stand your relations. Why on earth don’t you resign yourself and make the best of it?

  Jenny.

  [Vindictively.] You don’t think they’re good enough for you to associate with because they’re not in swell positions.

  Basil.

  My dear Jenny, I don’t in the least object to their being grocers and haberdashers. I only wish they’d sell us things at cost price.

  Jenny.

  Jimmie isn’t a grocer or a haberdasher. He’s an auctioneer’s clerk.

  Basil.

  [Ironically.] I humbly apologise. I thought he was a grocer, because last time he did us the honour of visiting us he asked how much a pound we paid for our tea and offered to sell us some at the same price.... But then he also offered to insure our house against fire and to sell me a gold mine in Australia.

  Jenny.

  Well, it’s better to make a bit as best one can than to.... [She stops.]

  Basil.

  [Smiling.] Go on. Pray don’t hesitate for fear of hurting my feelings.

  Jenny.

  [Defiantly.] Well, then, it’s better to do that than moon about like you do.

  Basil.

  [Shrugging his shoulders.] Really, even to please you, I’m afraid I can’t go about with little samples of tea in my pocket and sell my friends a pound or two when I call on them. Besides, I don’t believe they’d ever pay me.

  Jenny.

  [Scornfully.] Oh no, you’re a gentleman and a barrister and an author, and you couldn’t do anything to dirty those white hands that you’re so careful about, could you?

  Basil.

  [Looking at his hands, then up at Jenny.] And what is it precisely you want me to do?

  Jenny.

  Well, you’ve been at the Bar for five years. I should have thought you could make something after all that time.

  Basil.

  I can’t force the wily solicitor to give me briefs.

  Jenny.

  How do other fellows manage it?

  Basil.

  [With a laugh.] The simplest way, I believe, is to marry the wily solicitor’s daughter.

  Jenny.

  Instead of a barmaid?

  Basil.

  [Gravely.] I didn’t say that, Jenny.

  Jenny.

  [Passionately.] Oh no. You didn’t say it, but you hinted it. You never say anything, but you’re always hinting and insinuating — till you drive me out of my senses.

  Basil.

  [After a moment’s pause, gravely.] I’m very sorry if I hurt your feelings. I promise you I don’t mean to. I always try to be kind to you.

  [He looks at Jenny, expecting her to say something

  in forgiveness or in apology. But

  she, shrugging her shoulders, looks down

  sullenly at her work, without a word, and

  begins again to sew. Then Basil, tightening

  his lips, picks up writing materials and

  goes towards the door.

  Jenny.

  [Looking up quickly.] Where are you going?

  Basil.

  [Stopping.] I have some letters to write.

  Jenny.

  Can’t you write them here?

  Basil.

  Certainly — if it pleases you.

  Jenny.

  Don’t you want me to see who you’re writing to?

  Basil.

  I haven’t the least objection to your knowing all about my correspondence.... And that’s fortunate, since you invariably make yourself acquainted with it.

  Jenny.

  Accuse me of reading your letters now.

  Basil.

  [With a smile.] You always leave my papers in such disorder after you’ve been to my desk.

  Jenny.

  You’ve got no right to say that.

  [Basil pauses and looks at her steadily.

  Basil.

  Are you willing to swear that you don’t go to my desk when I’m away to read my letters? Come, Jenny, answer that question.

  Jenny.

  [Disturbed but forced by his glance to reply.] Well, I’m you’re wife, I have a right to know.

  Basil.

  [Bitterly.] You have such odd ideas about the duties of a wife, Jenny. They include reading my letters and following me in the street. But tolerance and charity and forbearance don’t seem to come in your scheme of things.

  Jenny.

  [Sullenly.] Why d’you want to write your letters elsewhere?

  Basil.

  [Shrugging his shoulders.] I thought I should be quieter.

  Jenny.

  I suppose I disturb you?

  Basil.

  It’s a little difficult to write when you’re talking.

  Jenny.

  Why shouldn’t I talk? D’you think I’m not good enough, eh? I should have thought I was more important than your letters.

  [Basil does not answer.

  Jenny.

  [Angrily.] Am I your wife or not?

  Basil.

  [Ironically.] You have your marriage lines carefully locked up to prove it.

  Jenny.

  Then why don’t you treat me as your wife? You seem to think I’m only fit to see after the house and order the dinner and mend your clothes. And after that I can go and sit in the kitchen with the servant.

  Basil.

  [Moving again towards the door.] D’you think it’s worth while making a scene? We seem to have said all this before so many times.

  Jenny.

  [Interrupting him.] I want to have it out.

  Basil.

  [Bored.] We’ve been having it out twice a week for the last six months — and we’ve never got anywhere yet.

  Jenny.

  I’m not going to be always put upon, I’m your wife and I’m as good as you are.

  Basil.

  [With a thin smile.] Oh, my dear, if you’re going in for women’s rights, you may have my vote by all means. And you can plump for all the candidates at once if you choose.

  Jenny.

  You seem to think it’s a joke.

  Basil.

  [Bitterly.] Oh no, I promise you I don’t do that. It’s lasted too long. And God knows where it’ll end.... They say the first year of marriage is the worst; ours has been bad enough in all conscience.

  Jenny.

  [Aggressively.] And I suppose you think it’s my fault?

  Basil.

  Don’t you think we’re both more or less to blame?

  Jenny.

  [With a laugh.] Oh, I’m glad you acknowledge that you have something to do with it.

  Basil.

  I tried to make you happy.

  Jenny.

  Well, you haven’t succeeded very well. Did you think I was likely to be happy — when you leave me alone all day and half the night for your swell friends that I’m not good enough for?

  Basil.

  That’s not true. I hardly ever see any of my old friends.

  Jenny.

  Except Mrs. Murray, eh?

  Basil.

  I’ve seen Mrs. Murray perhaps a dozen times in the last year.

  Jenny.

  Oh, you needn’t tell me that. I know it. She’s a lady, isn’t she?

  Basil.

  [Ignoring the charge.] And my work takes me away from you. I can’t always be down here. Think how bored you’d be.

  Jenny.

  A precious lot of good your work does. You can’t earn enough money to keep us out of debt.

&
nbsp; Basil.

  [Good-humouredly.] We are in debt. But we share that very respectable condition with half the nobility and gentry in the kingdom. We’re neither of us good managers, and we’ve lived a bit beyond our means this year. But in future we’ll be more economical.

  Jenny.

  [Sullenly.] All the neighbours know that we’ve got bills with the tradesmen.

  Basil.

  [Acidly.] I’m sorry that you shouldn’t have made so good a bargain as you expected when you married me.

  Jenny.

  I wonder what you do succeed in? Your book was very successful, wasn’t it? You thought you were going to set the Thames on fire, and the book fell flat, flat, flat.

  Basil.

  [Recovering his good temper.] That is a fate which has befallen better books than mine.

  Jenny.

  It deserved it.

  Basil.

  Oh, I didn’t expect you to appreciate it. It isn’t given to all of us to write about wicked earls and beautiful duchesses.

  Jenny.

  Well, I wasn’t the only one. The papers praised it, didn’t they?

  Basil.

  The unanimity of their blame was the only thing that consoled me.

  Jenny.

  And one of them advised you to study an English grammar. And you’re the fine gentleman who looks down on poor things like us!

  Basil.

  I often wonder if the reviewer who abuses you for a printer’s error realises what pleasure he causes the wife of your bosom.

  Jenny.

  Oh, I’ve learnt to know you so well this last six months — since the baby died. You’ve got no cause to set yourself up on a pedestal.

  Basil.

  [With a laugh.] My dear Jenny, I never pretended to be a golden idol.

  Jenny.

  I know what you are now. And I was such a fool as to think you a hero. You’re merely a failure. In everything you try you’re a miserable failure.

  Basil.

  [With a slight sigh.] Perhaps you’re right, Jenny.

  [Basil walks up and down; and then, stopping,

  looks at her for a moment meditatively.

  Basil.

  I sometimes wonder whether we shouldn’t be happier — if we lived apart.

  Jenny.

  [With a start.] What d’you mean?

  Basil.

  We don’t seem able to get on very well. And I see no chance of things going any better.

  Jenny.

  [With staring eyes.] D’you mean to say you want to separate?

  Basil.

  I think it might be better for both of us — at least for a time. Perhaps later on we might try again.

  Jenny.

  And what’ll you do?

  Basil.

  I should go abroad for a while.

  Jenny.

  With Mrs. Murray. Is that it? You want to go away with her.

  Basil.

  [Impatiently.] No. Of course not.

  Jenny.

  I don’t believe it. You’re in love with her.

  Basil.

  You’ve got no right to say that.

  Jenny.

  Haven’t I? I suppose I must shut my eyes and say nothing. You’re in love with her. D’you think I’ve not seen it in these months? That’s why you want to leave me.

  Basil.

  It’s impossible for us to live together. We shall never agree, and we shall never be happy. For God’s sake let us separate and have done with it.

  Jenny.

  You’re sick of me. You’ve had all you want out of me, and now I can go. The fine lady comes along, and you send me away like a housemaid. D’you think I can’t see that you’re in love with her? You’d sacrifice me without a thought to save her a moment’s unpleasantness. And because you love her you hate me.

  Basil.

  It’s not true.

  Jenny.

  Can you deny that you’re in love with her?

  Basil.

  You’re simply mad. Good heavens, I’ve done nothing that could give you the least cause to be jealous.

  Jenny.

  [Passionately.] Will you swear that you’re not in love with her? Swear it on your honour?

  Basil.

  You’re mad.

  Jenny.

  [With growing excitement.] Swear it. You can’t. You’re simply madly in love with her.

  Basil.

  Nonsense.

  Jenny.

  Swear it. Swear it on your honour. Swear you don’t care for her.

  Basil.

  [Shrugging his shoulders.] I swear it ... on my honour.

  Jenny.

  [Scornfully.] It’s a lie!... And she’s just as much in love with you as you are with her.

  Basil.

  [Seizing her wrists.] What d’you mean?

  Jenny.

  D’you think I haven’t got eyes in my head? I saw it that day she came here. D’you suppose she came to see me? She despises me. I’m not a lady. She came here to please you. She was polite to me to please you. She asked me to go and see her to please you.

  Basil.

  [Trying to compose himself.] It’s absurd. She was an old friend of mine. Of course she came.

  Jenny.

  I know that sort of friend. D’you think I didn’t see the way she looked at you, and how she followed you with her eyes? She simply hung on every word you said. When you smiled, she smiled. When you laughed, she laughed. Oh, I should think she was in love with you; I know what love is, and I felt it. And when she looked at me I know she hated me because I’d robbed her of you.

  Basil.

  [Unable to contain himself.] Oh, what a dog’s life it is we lead! We’ve been both utterly wretched. It can’t go on — and I only see one way out.

  Jenny.

  That’s what you’ve been brooding over this last week, is it? Separation! I knew there was something, and I couldn’t find out what it was.

  Basil.

  I do my best to hold myself in, but sometimes I feel it’s impossible. I shall be led to saying things that we shall both regret. For Heaven’s sake let us part.

  Jenny.

  No.

  Basil.

  We can’t go on having these awful quarrels. It’s too degrading. It was a horrible mistake that we ever married.

  Jenny.

  [Horror-stricken.] Basil!

  Basil.

  Oh, you must see that as well as I. We’re utterly unsuited to one another. And the baby’s death removed the only necessity that held us together.

  Jenny.

  You talk as if we only remained together because it was convenient.

  Basil.

  [Passionately.] Let me go, Jenny. I can’t stand it any more. I feel as if I shall go mad.

  Jenny.

  [Full of pain and anguish.] It’s nothing at all to you.

  Basil.

  Jenny, I did my best for you a year ago. I gave you all I had to give. It was little enough in all conscience. Now I ask you to give me back my freedom.

  Jenny.

  [Distracted.] You only think of yourself. What is to become of me?

  Basil.

  You’ll be much happier. It’s the best thing for both of us. I’ll do all I can for you, and you can have your mother and sister to live here.

  Jenny.

  [With a cry of grief and passion.] But I love you, Basil.

  Basil.

  You!! Why, you’ve tortured me for six months beyond all endurance. You’ve made all my days a burden to me. You’ve made my life a perfect hell.

  Jenny.

  [Gives a long groan of horror and dismay.] Oh!

  [They stand facing one another, when the

  housemaid, Fanny, comes in.

  Fanny.

  Mr. Halliwell.

  [John comes in. Jenny, after taking his hand,

  sinks down on a chair, paying no attention

  to the following conversation; she stares in

&nbs
p; front of her, quite distraught. Basil tries

  with all his might to appear calm and

  natural.

  Basil.

  Hulloa, what are you doing in these parts?

  John.

  How d’you do, Mrs. Kent? I’ve been having an early lunch at Richmond, and I thought I’d just drop in on my way back. As it was Saturday afternoon I thought I might find you.

  Basil.

  I’m sure we’re delighted to see you. [John gives a side-glance at Jenny, and slightly raises his eyebrows.] But you’ve only just come in time, because I’ve got to go up to town. We might travel up together.

  John.

  Certainly.

  Jenny.

  Where are you going, Basil?

  Basil.

  To Chancery Lane, to see my agent on business.

  Jenny.

  [Suspiciously.] On Saturday afternoon? Why, he won’t be there.

  Basil.

  I have an appointment with him.

  [Jenny does not answer, but is obviously unconvinced.

  John, somewhat embarrassed, exerts

  himself to make conversation.

  John.

  I was thinking as I came along that one must lead quite an idyllic existence in the suburbs — with the river — and one’s little garden.

  Basil.

  [Ironically.] And the spectacle of the fifty little houses opposite all exactly like one another.

  John.

  And the quiet is perfectly enchanting.

  Basil.

  Oh, yes. The only vehicles that disturb the peaceful seclusion are the milk-cart and the barrel-organs. It’s quite idyllic.

  Jenny.

  I think it’s a very nice neighbourhood. And you get such a superior class of people here.

  Basil.

  I’ll just go and change. [Looking at his watch. There’s a train at 4.15.

  John.

  All right, hurry up.

  [Basil goes out of the room. Jenny at once

  springs to her feet and goes towards John.

  She is distracted and hardly knows what

  she says.

  Jenny.

  Can I trust you?

  John.

  What d’you mean?

  [She stares into his eyes, doubting, trying to see

  whether he will be willing to help her.

  Jenny.

  You used to be a good sort. You never looked down on me because I was a barmaid. Tell me I can trust you, John. There’s no one I can speak to, and I feel if I don’t speak I shall go off my head.

  John.

  What is the matter?

  Jenny.

  Will you tell me the truth if I ask you something?

  John.

  Of course.

  Jenny.

  On your oath?

  John.

  On my oath.

  Jenny.