Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  Mrs. Dot.

  What d’you mean by that?

  Gerald.

  Nellie accepted me when I was poor and of no account. Now that I’m well off I can’t go to her and say: I’ve changed my mind and don’t want to marry you.

  Mrs. Dot.

  What d’you mean by being well off?

  Gerald.

  I believe I shall have six or seven thousand a year.

  Mrs. Dot.

  But you can’t live on that. It’s absurd.

  Gerald.

  [With a smile.] There are people who live on much less, you know.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Besides, she doesn’t care for you in the least. I could see that at a glance.

  Gerald.

  How?

  Mrs. Dot.

  A girl who loved you wouldn’t have a skirt cut like that.

  Gerald.

  I can’t draw back now, Dot. You must see that I can’t.

  Mrs. Dot.

  If you cared for me, you’d easily find some way out of the difficulty.

  Gerald.

  I must be honest, Dot.... I don’t want to seem a snob, but I’ve got an ancient name, and it’s rather honourable. I’m by way of being the head of the family now. I don’t want to begin by acting like a cad.

  Mrs. Dot.

  You know, I’m much nicer than Nellie. I’m more amusing, and I’m better dressed, and I’ve got five motor cars. It’s true she’s younger than I am, but I don’t feel a day more than seventeen. [With a little look at him.] And if you had any sense of decency at all you’d say I looked it. You said you loved me just now. Say it again, Gerald. It’s so good to hear.

  Gerald.

  I don’t see how we can help ourselves.

  Mrs. Dot.

  [Beginning to lose her temper.] I suppose you just want to finish an awkward scene? I don’t want to harrow you. Why don’t you go to the War Office?

  Gerald.

  You must see it’s not my fault. If we must part, let us part friends.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Now, I declare he wants to sentimentalise. Isn’t it enough that you’ve made me frightfully unhappy? D’you want me to say it doesn’t matter at all, as if you’d spilt a cup of tea on me? D’you think I like being utterly wretched?

  Gerald.

  For heaven’s sake, don’t talk like that. You’re tearing my heart to pieces.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Your heart? I should like to bang it on the floor and stamp on it. You must expect to suffer a little. You can’t put it all on me.

  Gerald.

  I don’t want you to suffer.

  Mrs. Dot.

  [In a temper.] You were willing enough to marry me when you hadn’t got sixpence to bless yourself with. How fortunate your cousin didn’t die a week later!

  Gerald.

  Do you think I was proposing to marry you for your money?

  Mrs. Dot.

  Yes.

  Gerald.

  Really?

  Mrs. Dot.

  No, of course not.

  Gerald.

  Thanks.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Oh, you needn’t take it as a compliment. I’d much sooner have to deal with a clever knave than an honest fool.

  Gerald.

  Won’t you say that you bear me no ill-will?

  Mrs. Dot.

  No.

  Gerald.

  I really must go to the War Office.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Very well, you can go.

  Gerald.

  Won’t you come with me?

  Mrs. Dot.

  No.

  Gerald.

  I’m afraid you’ll get rather bored here.

  [He rings the bell, and Charles comes in.

  Charles.

  Yes, my lord.

  Gerald.

  I want my hat and coat.

  [Charles goes out.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Do you care for Nellie Sellenger?

  Gerald.

  If you don’t mind, I won’t answer that question. Unless she asks for her freedom, I propose to marry her.

  [Charles brings in the hat and coat. Mrs. Dot watches him while he puts them on.

  Gerald.

  Good-bye.

  [He goes out. Mrs. Dot turns round and faces Charles.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Charles, have you ever been married?

  Charles.

  Twice, madam.

  Mrs. Dot.

  And has experience taught you that when a woman wants a thing she generally gets it?

  Charles.

  [With a sigh.] It has, madam.

  Mrs. Dot.

  That is my opinion, too, Charles.

  [She goes out. Charles begins to clear the tea things away.

  END OF THE FIRST ACT

  THE SECOND ACT

  The terrace of Mrs. Dot’s house on the River. There are masses of rose trees in full flower. At the back is the house, covered with creepers.

  A table is set out for luncheon, with four chairs.

  Miss MacGregor is sitting in a garden chair, sewing. She is an elderly, quiet woman, thin, somewhat angular, good-humoured and amiable.

  Mrs. Dot is walking up and down impatiently.

  Aunt Eliza.

  My dear, why don’t you sit down and rest yourself? I’m sure you’ve walked at least ten miles up and down this terrace.

  Mrs. Dot.

  I’m in a temper.

  Aunt Eliza.

  That must be obvious to the meanest intelligence.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Have you read the paper to-day?

  Aunt Eliza.

  I’ve tried to, but as you’ve spent most of the morning in stamping on it, I haven’t had much success.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Then I beg you to listen to this: [Taking up a “Morning Post” and reading it.] A marriage has been arranged between Lord Hollington and Eleanor, only daughter of the late General Sir Robert Sellenger.

  [She crumples up the paper and stamps on it.

  Aunt Eliza.

  That’s the twenty-third time you’ve read this announcement to me. I assure you that it’s beginning to lose its novelty.

  Mrs. Dot.

  You can’t deny that it’s rather annoying to take up your paper in the morning and discover an official announcement that the man you’ve made up your mind to marry is taking serious steps to marry somebody else.

  Aunt Eliza.

  But would you tell me why you want to marry him?

  Mrs. Dot.

  Why does anybody ever want to marry anybody?

  Aunt Eliza.

  That is a question to which during the fifty-five years of my life I’ve been totally unable to discover an answer.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Well, because he’s clever, and handsome, and amusing.

  Aunt Eliza.

  He’s not really very clever, you know.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Of course he isn’t. He’s as stupid as an owl. I’ve told him so till I’m blue in the face.

  Aunt Eliza.

  And he’s not really very good-looking, is he?

  Mrs. Dot.

  On the contrary, I think he’s rather plain.

  Aunt Eliza.

  I suppose you find him amusing?

  Mrs. Dot.

  Not at all. I find him dull.

  Aunt Eliza.

  Then, perhaps, you can find me some other explanation.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Well, I’m head over ears in love with him.

  Aunt Eliza.

  But why, my dear? Why?

  Mrs. Dot.

  Because I am. That’s the most conclusive reason possible. And I’ve set my heart on marrying him. And the more obstacles there are the more I mean to marry him.

  Aunt Eliza.

  I can’t imagine why you hadn’t the sense to fall in love with one of the various eligible persons who want to marry you.

  Mrs. Dot.

  B
ut he does want to marry me. He’s desperately in love with me.

  Aunt Eliza.

  I should have thought he could find a better way of showing it than by getting engaged to somebody else.

  Mrs. Dot.

  He’s a sentimentalist, like all his sex. Good heavens, what a mess the world would get into if it weren’t for the practical common sense of the average women.

  Aunt Eliza.

  And what do you propose to do?

  Mrs. Dot.

  That’s just it. I don’t in the least know. They’ll all be here in half an hour, and I haven’t the shadow of a scheme. I lie awake all night racking my brains, and I can’t think of anything.

  Aunt Eliza.

  Why did you ask them to come here?

  Mrs. Dot.

  I thought I might hit upon something if they were under my eyes. Gerald had promised to spend Whitsun with me and, so that he shouldn’t put me off, I asked the Sellengers, too. Lady Sellenger was only too glad to get a week’s board and lodging for nothing. [The sound is heard of a motor stopping.] There’s Jimmie Blenkinsop. I told you he was going to motor down in time for luncheon, didn’t I? [Blenkinsop comes in with Freddie. Freddie has on a gay tweed suit.] Jimmie!

  Blenkinsop.

  How d’you do?

  [He shakes hands with Mrs. Dot and Aunt Eliza.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Now we’ll have luncheon. You must be starving with hunger.

  Blenkinsop.

  You must let me wash first.

  Mrs. Dot.

  No, we’re all far too hungry. Freddie will go and wash his hands for you.

  [She rings half a dozen times quickly on a little bell on the table.

  Freddie.

  I shall be back in one minute.

  [He goes out.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Now sit down. I’m perfectly ravenous.

  [The Butler and the Footman bring in luncheon, which is eaten during the next scene.

  Aunt Eliza.

  I perceive that the tender passion hasn’t in the least interfered with your appetite.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Oh, my dear James, I’m so unhappy.

  Blenkinsop.

  You look it.

  Mrs. Dot.

  By the way, how do I look?

  Blenkinsop.

  All right. You’ve changed your cook.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Hang my cook.

  Blenkinsop.

  I wouldn’t if I were you. She’s very good.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Of course you’ll drink the family ale?

  Blenkinsop.

  Of course I’ll do nothing of the kind.

  Mrs. Dot.

  You know it’s one of my principles to have it on the table.

  Blenkinsop.

  Yes, but it’s one of my principles not to drink it. I seem to remember that you have some particularly fine hock.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Jimmie, have you never been in love?

  Blenkinsop.

  Never, thank God.

  Mrs. Dot.

  I don’t believe it. Every one’s in love. I’m in love.

  Blenkinsop.

  Not with me, I trust.

  Mrs. Dot.

  You perfect idiot.

  Blenkinsop.

  Not at all. I should think it very natural.

  Mrs. Dot.

  I wonder why you never married, James.

  Blenkinsop.

  Because I have a considerable gift for repartee. I discovered in my early youth that men propose not because they want to marry, but because on certain occasions they are entirely at a loss for topics of conversation.

  Aunt Eliza.

  [Smiling.] It was a momentous discovery.

  Blenkinsop.

  No sooner had I made it than I began to cultivate my power of small talk. I felt that my only chance was to be ready with appropriate subjects at the shortest notice, and I spent a considerable part of my last year at Oxford in studying the best masters.

  Mrs. Dot.

  I never noticed that you were particularly brilliant.

  Blenkinsop.

  I never played for brilliancy. I played for safety. I flatter myself that when prattle was needed I have never been found wanting. I have met the ingenuity of sweet seventeen with a few observations on Free Trade, while the haggard efforts of thirty have struggled in vain against a brief exposition of the higher philosophy. The skittish widow of uncertain age has retired in disorder before a complete acquaintance with the restoration dramatists, and I have routed the serious spinster with religious leanings by my remarkable knowledge of the results of missionary endeavour in Central Africa. Once a dowager sought to ask me my intentions, but I flung at her astonished head an entire article from the “Encyclopædia Britannica.” These are only my serious efforts. I need not tell you how often I have evaded a flash of the eyes by an epigram or ignored a sigh by an apt quotation from the poets.

  Mrs. Dot.

  I don’t believe a word you say. I believe you never married for the simple reason that nobody would have you.

  Blenkinsop.

  Do me the justice to acknowledge that I’m the only man who’s known you ten days without being tempted by your preposterous income to offer you his hand and heart.

  Mrs. Dot.

  I don’t believe my income has anything to do with it. I put it down entirely to my very considerable personal attractions.

  Aunt Eliza.

  Here is Freddie, at last. What has he been doing?

  [Freddie comes in, having changed into flannels.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Why on earth have you changed your clothes?

  Freddie.

  [Sitting down at table.] I regard it as part of my duties as your secretary to look nice.

  Mrs. Dot.

  I don’t know that I think it essential for you to put on seven different suits a day.

  Freddie.

  I thought Miss Sellenger would probably like to go on the river before tea.

  Aunt Eliza.

  If she does, it’s more likely to be with Lord Hollington than with you.

  Freddie.

  Oh, that’s rot. Gerald’s an awfully good sort, but he’s not the sort of chap a girl’s desperately fond of.

  Mrs. Dot.

  You think that, do you?

  Freddie.

  Well, you can’t see yourself falling in love with him can you?

  Mrs. Dot.

  No. No.

  Aunt Eliza.

  And what is the sort of man a girl’s desperately fond of?

  Freddie.

  Oh, I don’t know. [Taking up a spoon and looking at himself, twisting an infinitesimal moustache.] I should think some one a bit younger than Gerald.

  Mrs. Dot.

  [With a little shriek.] You!

  Freddie.

  You needn’t be so surprised. One might do worse, you know.

  Mrs. Dot.

  [To Aunt Eliza pointing with a scornful finger at Freddie.] Do you think any one could possibly fall in love with that?

  Aunt Eliza.

  Of course not.

  Freddie.

  I say, come now. That’s a bit thick.

  Mrs. Dot.

  [To Blenkinsop.] If you were a young and lovely maiden would you fall in love with Freddie?

  Blenkinsop.

  [Looking at him doubtfully.] Well, if you ask me point blank I don’t think I should.

  Freddie.

  You’re all of you jolly supercilious.

  Mrs. Dot.

  He’s not positively plain, is he?

  Blenkinsop.

  Not positively.

  Freddie.

  Look here, you shut up. I bet I could cut you out with any girl you like to mention.

  Blenkinsop.

  Rubbish!

  Mrs. Dot.

  I daresay he can whisper nonsense in a woman’s ear as well as any one else.

  Aunt Eliza.

 
; It’s born in them, the brutes.

  Blenkinsop.

  Pooh! I wouldn’t waste my time on whispering nonsense. I’d just send my pass-book round by a messenger boy.

  Freddie.

  Well, I flatter myself Miss Sellenger will be much more pleased to see me than to see anybody else down here.

  Blenkinsop.

  You’ve only seen her once.

  Freddie.

  She’s a jolly nice girl, I can tell you that.

  Blenkinsop.

  [Ironically.] I suppose she squeezed your hand when you went away?

  Freddie.

  Well, it so happens, she did.

  Blenkinsop.

  You needn’t be set up about it, because she squeezed mine, too. It’s evidently a habit.

  Freddie.

  Yours! What rot!

  [Mrs. Dot has been staring at him, with both elbows on the table. A servant is standing at her side with a tray on which is the coffee.

  Aunt Eliza.

  Thompson is offering you some coffee, my dear.

  Mrs. Dot.

  [Absently.] Take it away.

  Freddie.

  What on earth are you staring at? Isn’t my tie all right?

  Mrs. Dot.

  You certainly are rather good-looking. I’ve never noticed it before.

  Freddie.

  It’s no good, you know. You’re my aunt, and the prayer book wouldn’t let you marry me.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Now I come to think of it, I daresay you’re quite grown up to any one who didn’t know you in Etons.

  Freddie.

  I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.

  Mrs. Dot.

  I suppose a girl might quite easily fall in love with you. It had never occurred to me.

  Blenkinsop.

  Which means that you’ve found him a wife, and you’re going to marry him to some one whether he likes it or not.

  Mrs. Dot.

  [Suddenly.] Freddie.

  Freddie.

  Hulloa!

  Mrs. Dot.

  Go away and play.

  Freddie.

  Hang it all, I want to drink my coffee.

  Mrs. Dot.

  Go and make a mud pie in the garden. There’s a dear.

  [A bell is heard ringing loudly.

  Aunt Eliza.

  There they are!

  Mrs. Dot.

  Come on!

  [They all get up. Mrs. Dot and Aunt Eliza go out. Freddie and Blenkinsop light cigarettes.

  Freddie.

  What’s the matter with my virtuous aunt?

  Blenkinsop.

  How old are you, dear boy?

  Freddie.

  Twenty-two. Why?

  Blenkinsop.

  The delightful age when it’s still possible to feel desperately wicked. But you are old enough to have learnt that the moods of women are inscrutable.