Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)
Page 316
[After a momentary pause.] Is there anything between Basil and Mrs. Murray?
John.
[Aghast.] No. Certainly not.
Jenny.
How d’you know? Are you sure? You wouldn’t tell me, if there was. You’re all against me because I’m not a lady.... Oh, I’m so unhappy.
[She tries to restrain her tears, she is half-hysterical.
John stares at her, surprised,
at a loss for words.
Jenny.
If you only knew what a life we lead! He calls it a dog’s life, and he’s right.
John.
I thought you got on so well.
Jenny.
Oh, before you we’ve always kept up appearances. He’s ashamed to let you know he regrets he ever married me. He wants to separate.
John.
What!
Jenny.
[Impatiently.] Oh, don’t look so surprised. You’re not an utter fool, are you? He proposed it to-day before you came in. We’d been having one of our rows.
John.
But what on earth is it all about?
Jenny.
God knows!
John.
It’s nonsense. It can only be a little passing quarrel. You must expect to have those.
Jenny.
No, it isn’t. No, it isn’t. He doesn’t love me. He’s in love with your sister-in-law.
John.
It’s impossible.
Jenny.
He’s always there. He was there twice last week and twice the week before.
John.
How d’you know?
Jenny.
I’ve followed him.
John.
You followed him in the street, Jenny?
Jenny.
[Defiantly.] Yes. If I’m not ladylike enough for him, I needn’t play the lady there. You’re shocked now, I suppose?
John.
I wouldn’t presume to judge you, Jenny.
Jenny.
And I’ve read his letters, too — because I wanted to know what he was doing. I steamed one open, and he saw it, and he never said a word.
John.
Good heavens, why did you do it?
Jenny.
Because I can’t live unless I know the truth. I thought it was Mrs. Murray’s handwriting.
John.
Was it from her?
Jenny.
No. It was a receipt from the coal merchant. I could see how he despised me when he looked at the envelope — I didn’t stick it down again very well. And I saw him smile when he found it was only a receipt.
John.
Upon my word, I don’t think you’ve got much cause to be jealous.
Jenny.
Oh, you don’t know. Last Tuesday he was dining there, and you should have seen the state he was in. He was so restless he couldn’t sit still. He looked at his watch every minute. His eyes simply glittered with excitement, and I could almost hear his heart beating.
John.
It can’t be true.
Jenny.
He never loved me. He married me because he thought it was his duty. And then when the baby died — he thought I’d entrapped him.
John.
He didn’t say so.
Jenny.
No. He never says anything — but I saw it in his eyes. [Passionately clasping her hands.] Oh, you don’t know what our life is. For days he doesn’t say a word except to answer my questions. And the silence simply drives me mad. I shouldn’t mind if he blackguarded me. I’d rather he hit me than simply look and look. I can see he’s keeping himself in. He’s said more to-day than he’s ever said before. I knew it was getting towards the end.
John.
[With a helpless gesture.] I’m very sorry.
Jenny.
Oh, don’t you pity me, too. I’ve had a great deal too much pity. I don’t want it. Basil married me from pity. Oh, I wish he hadn’t. I can’t stand the unhappiness.
John.
[Gravely.] You know, Jenny, he’s a man of honour.
Jenny.
Oh, I know he’s a man of honour. I wish he had a little less of it. One doesn’t want a lot of fine sentiments in married life. They don’t work.... Oh, why couldn’t I fall in love with a man of my own class? I should have been so much happier. I used to be so proud that Basil wasn’t a clerk, or something in the City. He’s right, we shall never be happy.
John.
[Trying to calm her.] Oh, yes, you will. You mustn’t take things too seriously.
Jenny.
It isn’t a matter of yesterday, or to-day, or to-morrow. I can’t alter myself. He knew I wasn’t a lady when he married me. My father had to bring up five children on two-ten a week. You can’t expect a man to send his daughters to a boarding-school at Brighton on that, and have them finished in Paris.... He doesn’t say a word when I do something or say something a lady wouldn’t — but he purses up his lips, and looks.... Then I get so mad that I do things just to aggravate him. Sometimes I try to be vulgar. One learns a good deal in a bar in the City, and I know so well the things to say that’ll make Basil curl up. I want to get a bit of revenge out of him sometimes, and I know exactly where he’s raw and where I can hurt him. [With a laugh of scorn.] You should see the way he looks when I don’t eat properly, or when I call a man a Johnny.
John.
[Drily.] It opens up endless possibilities of domestic unhappiness.
Jenny.
Oh, I know it isn’t fair to him, but I lose my head. I can’t always be refined. Sometimes I can’t help breaking out. I feel I must let myself go.
John.
Why don’t you separate, then?
Jenny.
Because I love him. Oh, John, you don’t know how I love him. I’d do anything to make him happy. I’d give my life if he wanted it. Oh, I can’t say it, but when I think of him my heart burns so that sometimes I can hardly breathe. I can never show him that he’s all in the world to me; I try to make him love me, and I only make him hate me. What can I do to show him? Ah, if he only knew, I’m sure he’d not regret that he married me. I feel — I feel as if my heart was full of music, and yet something prevents me from ever bringing it out.
John.
D’you think he means it seriously when he talks of separation?
Jenny.
He’s been brooding over it. I know him so well, I knew there was something he was thinking over. Oh, John, I couldn’t live without him. I’d rather die. If he leaves me, I swear I’ll kill myself.
John.
[Walking up and down.] I wish I could help you. I don’t see anything I can do.
Jenny.
Oh, yes, there is. Speak to your sister-in-law. Ask her to have mercy on me. Perhaps she doesn’t know what she’s doing. Tell her I love him.... Take care. There’s Basil. If he knew what I’d said he’d never speak to me again.
[Basil comes in, dressed in a frock-coat; with a
tall hat in his hand.
Basil.
I’m ready. We’ve just got time to catch the train.
John.
All right. Good-bye, Mrs. Kent.
Jenny.
[Keeping her eyes fixed on Basil.] Good-bye.
[The two men go out. Jenny runs to the door
and calls out.
Jenny.
Basil, I want you a moment, Basil!
[Basil appears at the door.
Jenny.
Are you really going to Chancery Lane?
[Basil makes a movement of impatience and
goes out again without answering.
Jenny.
[Alone.] Oh, well, I’m going to see that for myself. [Calling to the Maid.] Fanny!... Bring my hat and my jacket. Quick!
[She runs to the window and looks out at Basil
and John going away. Fanny appears
with the clothes. Jenny hurriedly puts
them on.
Jenny.
[As Fann
y is helping her.] What time is it?
Fanny.
[Looking up at the clock.] Five minutes past four.
Jenny.
I think I can catch it. He said 4.15.
Fanny.
Will you be in to tea, mum?
Jenny.
I don’t know. [She runs to the door and rushes out.]
THE THIRD ACT
The Same Afternoon.
[A luxuriously furnished drawing-room at Mrs. Murray’s house in Charles Street, Mayfair. Everything in it is beautiful, but suggests in the owner good taste rather than originality.]
[Hilda is seated near a tea-table, elaborately gowned, and with her is Mabel. Mr. Robert Brackley is sitting down, a stout, round-faced man, clean-shaven and very bald; about forty; he is attired in the height of fashion, in a frock-coat, patent-leather boots and an eye-glass. He talks very quickly, in a careless frivolous fashion, and is always much amused at what he says.]
Mabel.
What is the time, Mr. Brackley?
Brackley.
I shan’t tell you again.
Mabel.
How brutal of you!
Brackley.
There’s something unhealthy in your passion for information. I’ve already told you five times.
Hilda.
It’s very unflattering to us who’ve been doing our little best to amuse you.
Mabel.
I can’t imagine what’s happened to John. He promised to fetch me here.
Hilda.
He’s sure to come if you’ll only wait patiently.
Mabel.
But I hate waiting patiently.
Hilda.
You shouldn’t have let him out of your sight.
Mabel.
He went to Putney after luncheon to see your friend Mr. Kent. Have you seen him lately?
Hilda.
John? I saw him at the Martins yesterday.
Mabel.
[Slyly.] I meant Mr. Kent.
Hilda.
[Indifferently.] Yes. He called the other day. [To change the conversation.] You’re unusually silent, Mr. Brackley.
Brackley.
[Smiling.] I have nothing whatever to say.
Mabel.
That’s usually when clever people talk most.
Hilda.
Are you doing anything now?
Brackley.
Oh yes, I’m writing a play in blank verse.
Hilda.
You brave man. What is it about?
Brackley.
Cleopatra.
Hilda.
Dear me! Shakespeare wrote a play about Cleopatra, didn’t he?
Brackley.
I daresay. I haven’t read it. Shakespeare bores me. He lived so long ago.
Mabel.
Of course there are people who read him.
Brackley.
Are there? What do they look like?
Hilda.
[Smiling.] They bear no distinctive mark of their eccentricity.
Brackley.
The English are so original.
Mabel.
I think I shall go and ring up the flat. I wonder if John has gone straight home.
Brackley.
Do. I’m growing very uneasy about him.
Mabel.
[Laughing.] You absurd creature.
[She goes out.
Hilda.
You talk more nonsense than anyone I ever met.
Brackley.
That’s my stock in trade. You don’t imagine people would read my poems if they knew that I was sober, industrious, and economical. As a matter of fact I lead the virtuous life of a clergyman’s daughter, but not a reviewer would notice me if he knew it.
Hilda.
And the little things that the indiscreet read of in the papers....
Brackley.
Are merely another proof of my passion for duty. The British public wants its poets to lead romantic lives.
Hilda.
Are you ever serious?
Brackley.
May I come to lunch with you on Thursday?
Hilda.
[A little surprised.] Certainly. But why on Thursday?
Brackley.
Because on that day I intend to ask you to marry me.
Hilda.
[With a smile.] I’m sorry, I’ve just remembered that I’m lunching out.
Brackley.
You break my heart.
Hilda.
On the contrary, I provide you with the materials for a sonnet.
Brackley.
Won’t you marry me?
Hilda.
No.
Brackley.
Why not?
Hilda.
[Amused.] I’m not in the least in love with you.
Brackley.
People who propose to marry should ask themselves if they can look forward with equanimity to breakfasting opposite one another for an indefinite number of years.
Hilda.
You’re very unromantic.
Brackley.
My dear lady, if you want romance I’ll send you my complete works bound in vellum. I’ve ground out ten volumes of romance to Phyllis and Chloe and heaven knows who. The Lord save me from a romantic wife.
Hilda.
But I’m afraid I’m hopelessly romantic.
Brackley.
Well, six months of marriage with a poet will cure you.
Hilda.
I’d rather not be cured.
Brackley.
Won’t you be in to luncheon on Thursday?
Hilda.
No.
[The Butler comes in.
Butler.
Mr. Halliwell, Mr. Kent.
[Basil and John appear, and at the same
moment Mabel comes in from the room in
which she has been telephoning.
Mabel.
[To John.] Wretched creature! I’ve been trying to ring you up.
John.
Have I kept you waiting? I went down to Chancery Lane with Basil.
[John turns to shake hands with Hilda and
Brackley, while Basil, who has said how
d’you do to Hilda, comes down to speak to
Mabel. The conversation between Mabel
and Basil is in an undertone.
Basil.
How d’you do. You must scold me for keeping John so long.
Mabel.
I didn’t really want him, you know.
Basil.
[Pointing with his head to Brackley.] I say, who is that?
Mabel.
Robert Brackley. Don’t you know him?
Basil.
The poet?
Mabel.
Of course. They say he’d have been given the Laureateship if it hadn’t been abolished at Tennyson’s death.
Basil.
[Tightening his lips.] He’s rather a low blackguard, isn’t he?
Mabel.
Heavens, what’s the matter with him, poor man? He’s Hilda’s latest celebrity. He pretends to adore her.
Basil.
Don’t you remember the Grange case that he was mixed up in?
Mabel.
[In tones of surprise.] But, my dear Mr. Kent, that was two years ago.
Hilda.
Mr. Kent, I want to introduce you to Mr. Brackley.
Basil.
[Going up.] How d’you do.
[John comes down to his wife.
Mabel.
Wretched creature!
John.
I say, Mabel, is Basil often here?
Mabel.
I don’t know. I met him here last week.
John.
Why the Dickens does he come? He’s got no business to.
Mabel.
You brought him yourself to-day.
John.
I didn’t. He insisted on coming — when I said I had to fetch you.
Mabel.
Perhaps he came
to see me.
John.
Fiddledidee! I think you ought to speak to Hilda about it.
Mabel.
My dear John, are you mad? She’d jump down my throat.
John.
Why does she let him hang about her? She must know she’s turning his silly head.
Mabel.
I daresay she wants to prove to him that he showed very bad taste a year ago. It is rather annoying when you’re attached to a young man that he should go and marry somebody else.
John.
Well, I don’t think she’s playing the game, and I shall tell her so.
Mabel.
She’ll snub you awfully.
John.
I don’t care.... Look here, you make a diversion so that I can get hold of her.
Mabel.
How?
John.
[Dryly.] I don’t know. Exercise your invention.
Mabel.
[Going towards the others.] Hilda, John is clamouring for some tea.
Hilda.
[Coming down.] Why on earth can’t he help himself?
John.
My native modesty prevents.
Hilda.
That’s quite a new trait in you.
[Hilda sits down and pours out tea for John.
He looks at her silently.
Hilda.
You’ve been lunching at Richmond?
John.
Yes.... Then I went on to Putney.
Hilda.
You’ve been making quite a day of it.
John.
[Taking the cup.] I say, old gal — you’re not going to make a fool of yourself, are you?
Hilda.
[Opening her eyes.] Oh, I hope not. Why?
John.
I thought it might have slipped your memory that Basil was married about a year ago.
Hilda.
[Freezing.] What on earth d’you mean? [Calling] Mabel.
John.
One moment.... You can give me a little conversation, can’t you?
Hilda.
I’m afraid you’re going to bore me.
John.
[Good-humouredly.] I assure you I’m not.... Isn’t Basil here rather often?
Hilda.
I wonder you haven’t learnt to mind your own business, John.
John.
Don’t you think it’s rather rough on that poor little woman in Putney?
Hilda.
[With a suspicion of contempt.] I went down to see her. I thought she was vulgar and pretentious. I’m afraid I can’t arouse any interest in her.
John.
[Gently.] She may be vulgar, but she told me her love was like music in her heart. Don’t you think she must have suffered awfully to get hold of a thought like that?
Hilda.
[After a pause, changing suddenly both voice and manner.] And d’you think I’ve not suffered, John? I’m so unhappy.