Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  Well, I feel certain that during some of the many leisure moments you have enjoyed in my service, you have cast an eye upon that page in Burke upon which my name figures — insignificantly.

  Charles.

  Begging your pardon, sir, I looked you up in the Peerage before I accepted the situation.

  Gerald.

  It rejoices me to learn that your investigations were satisfactory.

  Charles.

  Well, sir, always having lived before with titled gentlemen, I felt I owed it to myself to be careful.

  Gerald.

  I am overpowered by your condescension, Charles. It never occurred to me that you were taking my character while I was taking yours.

  Charles.

  If servants wanted as good characters from masters as masters want from servants, I ‘ave an idea that many gentlemen would ‘ave to clean their own boots.

  Gerald.

  You scintillate, Charles, but I deplore your tendency to digress.

  Charles.

  I beg pardon, sir. As you was the second son of an honourable and very well connected, I didn’t mind stretching a point. If I may say so, your father was almost a nobleman.

  Gerald.

  The consequence is, however, that I was brought up without in the least knowing how to earn my living. I belong to that vast army of younger sons whose sole means of livelihood is a connection with a peer of the realm and such mother-wit as Dame Nature has provided them with.

  [A ring is heard.

  Charles.

  There’s some one at the door, sir. Are you at home?

  Gerald.

  No, I expect two ladies to tea in half an hour, but you must admit no one else. These gentlemen will be forced to deprive me of their society in twenty-five minutes.

  Blenkinsop.

  Not at all. Not at all.

  Gerald.

  I repeat with considerable firmness that these gentlemen will be compelled by a previous engagement to leave me in twenty minutes.

  Blenkinsop.

  It’ll be difficult after that to make our departure seem perfectly natural, won’t it?

  [A second ring is heard.

  Gerald.

  Nobody’s to come in.

  Charles.

  Very good, sir.

  [He goes out.

  Blenkinsop.

  I say, old man, I’m awfully sorry to hear this bad news of yours. Can’t I do anything to help you?

  Gerald.

  No, thanks.

  [The bell is rung continuously, with the greatest impatience.

  Freddie.

  By Jove, whoever your visitor is, he doesn’t like being kept waiting.

  Mrs. Dot.

  [Outside.] Is Mr. Halstane at home?

  Freddie.

  [Softly.] Why, it’s my aunt.

  Blenkinsop.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Gerald.

  Ssh!

  Charles.

  Not at home, madam.

  Mrs. Dot.

  [Outside.] Nonsense. I want to see him very particularly.

  Charles.

  I’m very sorry, madam. Mr. Halstane went out not five minutes ago. I almost wonder you didn’t meet him on the stairs.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Yes, I know all about that.

  [Mrs. Worthley comes in. She is a pretty little woman, very wonderfully gowned. She is frank, open and full of spirits. Charles follows her into the room.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Oh! Three of you. Charles, how can you tell such stories?

  Charles.

  [Very gravely.] Mr. Halstane is not at home, madam.

  Gerald.

  [Coming forward and taking her hand.] Charles is shocked at your lack of decorum.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Run away, Charles. And don’t do it again.... I suppose you think this sort of thing isn’t done in the best families?

  Charles.

  [Stiffly.] No, madam.

  Mrs. Dot.

  I saw one of my drays outside, so I thought I’d just look in to see how you liked it.

  Charles.

  [Icily.] I beg your pardon, madam?

  Mrs. Dot.

  The beer, my good man, the beer! Don’t you know that I’m Worthley’s Entire?

  Charles.

  I never gave the subject a thought, madam.

  Mrs. Dot.

  And very good our half-crown family ale is, although I say it as shouldn’t.

  Gerald.

  You may go, Charles.

  [Without a word, much on his dignity Charles departs.

  Gerald.

  [Gaily.] It’s fortunate I’ve just given him notice, because Charles would certainly never stay in a house where he’d been so grossly insulted.

  Mrs. Dot.

  I love shocking Charles. He’s so genteel. Whenever I come here I see him obviously trying not to show that he’s perfectly well aware that I have anything to do with trade.

  Blenkinsop.

  The world is so degenerate that it’s only among domestic servants that you find any respect for landed gentry and any contempt for commerce.

  Mrs. Dot.

  [To Freddie.] I’m glad to see that you’re not ruining your health by working too hard as my secretary.

  Freddie.

  I’ve been lunching with Blenkinsop. I answered about fifty begging letters before I came out this morning.

  Mrs. Dot.

  [To Gerald.] You’ve not said you’re glad to see me yet.

  Gerald.

  I’m not sure that I am, very.

  Mrs. Dot.

  [Not at all disconcerted.] Then say you like my frock.

  Gerald.

  Yes, it’s very nice.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Very nice! I should think it was very nice. There’s no one in London who’d venture to wear anything half so outrageous. And as for the hat....

  Blenkinsop.

  The hat’s hideous. But I suppose it’s fashionable.

  Mrs. Dot.

  My dear James, where were you educated?

  Blenkinsop.

  At Eton.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Well, they taught you nothing about clothes.

  Blenkinsop.

  I wish sometimes that nice women wouldn’t get themselves up as if they were no better than they should be.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Don’t be so absurd. The ideal of a woman who takes any pains about her frocks is to look as like an abandoned hussy as she possibly can.

  [Mrs. Dot chooses the most comfortable chair in the room.

  Gerald.

  I’m afraid I can’t ask you to sit down.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Oh, don’t trouble. I’m perfectly capable of doing that of my own accord.... If you think I’m going before you’ve answered a hundred and fifty questions you’re very much mistaken. First, I want to know why you’ve not been near me for the last week? Then why you try to keep me out of the place? And lastly, why you show every desire to get rid of me when I’m here?

  Gerald.

  I’ve not seen you because I’ve been uncommonly busy. I said I was not at home because I’m in the worst possible temper. And I want to get rid of you because I’m expecting somebody else.

  Mrs. Dot.

  I suppose if I were a thoroughly tactful person I should now ring for my carriage?

  Gerald.

  I daresay you would ask me to ring for it.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Well, I shall neither do the one nor the other. In the first place your answers are all nonsense and in the second I want to know who’s coming? If it’s some one I know, I shall stop and say, How d’you do, and if it isn’t I want to see what it’s like.

  Gerald.

  I suppose you know I’m perfectly capable of turning you out by main force.

  Mrs. Dot.

  If you touch me I shall scream.

  [She looks quickly at Freddie and Blenkinsop, then gives a smile.

  Mrs. Dot.<
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  Oh, Freddie, I quite forgot. I’ve got a pile of letters that I found on my way out this afternoon. There are three poor clergymen who can’t pay their bills, and there are five elderly spinsters who don’t know which way to turn for their quarter’s rent, and there are seven deserving ladies with a starving husband each and sixteen children.

  Blenkinsop.

  How very immoral!

  Mrs. Dot.

  It would be much more immoral if they had a starving child each and sixteen husbands.

  Blenkinsop.

  I suppose it’s never occurred to you that you do a great deal more harm than good by your indiscriminate charity?

  Mrs. Dot.

  Don’t be such an old frump. If it gives me a certain amount of pleasure to give money away, why on earth shouldn’t I? I daresay that nineteen out of every twenty people I help are thoroughly worthless, but it’s only by doing something for them all that I can be quite certain of not missing the twentieth.

  Freddie.

  D’you want me to write to them at once?

  Mrs. Dot.

  This very minute.

  Freddie.

  [With a smile.] But that’ll only get rid of me, you know. Blenkinsop will still be here.

  Mrs. Dot.

  [Coolly.] James, do go and see that Freddie writes his letters nicely. He’s only just come down from Oxford, and his spelling is rather shaky.

  Blenkinsop.

  [With a grunt.] You can give us a shout when you’ve had your talk.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Now mind, Freddie. I before E except after C.

  [They go out.

  Gerald.

  [Laughing.] You’re a very bold woman, Mrs. Dot.

  Mrs. Dot.

  [With a change of tone.] What’s the matter, Gerald?

  Gerald.

  [Surprised.] With me?

  Mrs. Dot.

  Won’t you tell an old friend?

  Gerald.

  [After a very short pause.] Nothing that you can help me in, Mrs. Dot.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Won’t you leave the Mrs. out? It makes me feel so five and thirtyish.

  Gerald.

  You’re a ripping good sort, and we’ve had some charming times together. I’m glad that you came to-day, because it’s given me an opportunity to thank you for all your kindness to me.

  Mrs. Dot.

  My dear boy, what are you talking about?

  Gerald.

  Well, the fact is, I’ve been spending a good deal of money lately, and I’m rather broke.

  Mrs. Dot.

  How stupid of me! I’ve always had such lots myself it never occurs to me that any one else may be hard up. And I’ve let you pay all sorts of things for me, theatres and dinners and heaven knows what. I must owe you a perfect fortune.

  Gerald.

  Nonsense! You don’t owe me a penny.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Well then, in future I insist on paying for everything. I’m not going to give up our little dinners at the Savoy and our suppers and all the rest of it. Don’t be so silly. You know I have ten times more money than I know what to do with.

  Gerald.

  Yes, I can see you furtively slipping your purse into my hand so that I should pay for a luncheon, and giving me a shilling over for the cab. No, thank you.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Then we’ll economise together. It only means going to the pit of a theatre instead of taking a box. Well, I like the pit much better. You see all the women come in and you criticise their back hair. And you suck delicious oranges all the time. It makes my mouth water to think of it. And we’ll go on a bus instead of taking cabs. They’re much safer, and I like sitting on the front seat and talking to the driver. Bus-drivers are always such handsome men.

  Gerald.

  It’s not a question of driving in buses, but of walking on my flat feet.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Very well. You shall walk on your flat feet, and I’ll trip along by your side on my arched instep.

  Gerald.

  Things have come to such a pass that I must either beg, steal, or work.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Then tell me exactly how matters stand.

  Gerald.

  It would only bore you, and besides you wouldn’t understand.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Now you’re talking through your hat, my friend. You’re simply talking through your hat. I flatter myself there are few men who have a better head for business than I have. Why, since my husband died I’ve almost doubled our profits. The brewery has never been so flourishing. I’ve told the British People on fifty thousand hoardings to drink Worthley’s Half-crown Family Ale, and by Jove, the British People do.

  Gerald.

  You funny little thing.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Well, now tell me all about it, and let’s see if things can’t be put straight.

  Gerald.

  Oh, my dear, I’m afraid they’re in a most awful mess. I never had much money to start with, and I got into debt. Then I tried a flutter on the Stock Exchange, and the confounded shares went down steadily from the day I bought.

  Mrs. Dot.

  It’s a way shares have when fools buy them.

  Gerald.

  But I daresay I could have weathered that, only a pal of mine got into a hole, and I backed a bill for him.

  Mrs. Dot.

  You don’t mean to say you did that?

  Gerald.

  I was obliged to. I couldn’t let him go under without trying to do something.

  Mrs. Dot.

  You donkey, you perfect donkey!

  Gerald.

  He swore he’d be able to pay the money.

  Mrs. Dot.

  I never knew a man yet, or a woman either for that matter, who’d stick at a thundering lie when he wanted money. And what’s the result?

  Gerald.

  Well, the result is that after I’ve paid everything up, I shall have about five hundred pounds left. I’m proposing to go out to America and rough it a bit.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Pardon my asking, but do you think a handsome face, a talent for small talk, and a certain charm of manner will enable you to earn your daily bread?

  Gerald.

  [Laughing.] I don’t want to seem vain, but although I’ve done my best to conceal them, I fancy I have two or three other qualifications which will be of more service.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Then the long and the short of it is that you’re ruined.

  Gerald.

  Absolutely.

  Mrs. Dot.

  I’m delighted to hear it.

  Gerald.

  Dot!

  Mrs. Dot.

  I am. I can’t help it. But I think your plan of going to the States is simply foolish.

  Gerald.

  What else can I do? The Cape’s entirely played out.

  Mrs. Dot.

  You stupid creature.

  Gerald.

  I beg your pardon!

  Mrs. Dot.

  You belong to a class whose chief resource when it has squandered its money is a rich marriage. The custom is so well recognised that when a man of good family emigrates rather than have recourse to it, society is outraged and suspicious.

  Gerald.

  Thanks. I don’t think I can see myself marrying for money.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Don’t be so absurd. I never heard that the course of true love ran any less smoothly because a charming widow had sixty thousand a year.

  Gerald.

  What do you mean?

  Mrs. Dot.

  My dear boy, I’m not a perfect fool. A man thinks a woman never sees anything unless she looks at it with both eyes at once wide open. Don’t you know that she can see things through the back of her head with a stone wall in between?

  Gerald.

  What have you seen, then?

  Mrs. Dot.

  I’ve seen a thousand things. I’ve seen your eyes light up when I ca
me into the room, I’ve seen you watch me when you thought I wasn’t looking. I’ve seen you scowl at any young fool who paid me an outrageous compliment. I’ve seen the pleasure it gave you to do me any trifling service. I’ve seen you watch for the opportunity of putting my cloak on my shoulders after the play. And — I’m sorry — but I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re in love with me. I dare say the fact has escaped your notice, but that’s only because men are so deplorably stupid.

  Gerald.

  [Gravely.] D’you think it’s quite kind to laugh at me now?

  Mrs. Dot.

  But I’m not laughing at you, my dear. I’m so pleased, and so flattered and so touched. At first I thought I was only a fool, and that I saw those things only because I wanted to. And when your hand trembled a little as it took mine, I was afraid it was only my hand that was trembling. And at last when I was certain that you were just as much in love with me as I was with you, I was so glad that I cried for two hours. And I had to use a whole box of powder before I could make myself presentable again.

  Gerald.

  [Grimly.] I’m afraid you’ll think me an utter brute. I ought to have told you long ago that I’m engaged to be married.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Gerald!

  Gerald.

  I’ve been engaged to Nellie Sellenger for the last three years.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Why didn’t you tell me?

  Gerald.

  No one was supposed to know anything about it. And — I was afraid of losing you. Oh, Dot, Dot, I love you with all my heart. And I’m so glad to be forced to tell you at last.

  Mrs. Dot.

  But I don’t understand in the least.

  Gerald.

  You know Nellie Sellenger is an old friend of mine.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Yes, it was at the Sellengers’ I first met you.

  Gerald.

  Well, three years ago we were staying at the same place in the country, and I was a young fool.

  Mrs. Dot.

  You mean that there was no other girl there, and so you flirted with her. But you need not have asked her to marry you.

  Gerald.

  [Apologetically.] It was the merest accident. It came to pieces in my ‘ands, so to speak.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Really?

  Gerald.

  We were taking a walk in the garden after dinner, and a perfectly absurd moon was shining. It seemed the obvious thing to do.

  Mrs. Dot.

  And of course she accepted. The girl of eighteen always does.

  Gerald.

  But Lady Sellenger refused to hear of it. She thought me most ineligible.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Lady Sellenger’s a sensible woman. She was quite right.

  Gerald.

  I’m not so sure. If she’d given us her blessing and told us to do as we liked, we should probably have broken it off in three weeks. But she was really rather offensive about it. She refused to let Nellie see me, and the result was that we were always running across one another in Bond Street tea-shops.