Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)
Page 346
Oh, that’s our telephone number, and I just put decimal instead of Gerrard.
Golightly.
I thought the figures were strangely familiar.
Penelope.
And there you are, you see.
Barlow.
[Chuckling.] I think it’s a capital idea. And she just flung the words six and eightpence at you, Beadsworth, and knew she’d fetch the lawyer.
Penelope.
[To Beadsworth.] You’re not cross with me, are you?
[He shakes his head, smiling.
Barlow.
And now, my dear, that you’ve disposed of them, tell me all about the Archduchess Anastasia.
Penelope.
[Looking at him blankly.] The Archduchess Anastasia? But I invented her.
Barlow.
What d’you mean, you invented her? I know her well, I’ve known her for years. I know her whole family.
Penelope.
[Rather embarrassed, but trying not to laugh.] Well, you see — I wanted you to come, too. And....
Barlow.
I don’t understand what you mean at all, Penelope. You mention one of my most intimate friends, and then you tell me you invented her.
Penelope.
I’m awfully sorry. I really didn’t know there was such a person, and I thought I’d made her up out of my own head.... [With a chuckle.] I think it was rather clever of me to hit upon some one you know so well.
Barlow.
I don’t know why you should think the mere mention of the Archduchess’s name would make me come here.
Penelope.
Well, you see, I know that you go out a great deal, and you know such crowds of people. I felt quite sure that if there were an Archduchess Anastasia you’d know her, and [with a wave of the hand] well, there it is you see.
[Barlow fumes silently, but does not answer.
Mrs. Golightly.
Now, Penelope, tell us what you really do want.
Penelope.
[In matter-of-fact tones.] I want to divorce Dickie.
Mrs. Golightly.
What!
Golightly.
My dear child.
Barlow.
Good gracious!
[These three speeches are said simultaneously.
Penelope.
[Ruefully.] I intended to make such a scene, and now you’ve made me blurt it all out in three words.
Mrs. Golightly.
But I don’t understand.
Penelope.
I’ll say it again, shall I? I want to divorce Dickie.
Beadsworth.
You don’t really mean it, do you?
Penelope.
[Indignantly.] Of course I mean it. I’m never going to speak to him again. That’s to say, I shall have a scene with him first. I’m quite determined to have a scene with somebody.
Golightly.
And where is Dickie now?
Penelope.
He’s on his way home with the usual story. [With a sudden break in her voice.] Oh, if you only knew how utterably miserable I am.
Mrs. Golightly.
My darling, is it really serious?
Penelope.
[Desperately.] Oh, what can I do to make you all understand?
Golightly.
The best way would be to begin at the beginning, and tell us all about it coherently.
Barlow.
[Pompously.] My dear Charles, this is not the kind of matter in which you can be of any use. You’re a mathematician, and you’re not expected to know anything about practical affairs.
Golightly.
[Faintly ironic.] I apologise profusely.
Mrs. Golightly.
[To Penelope, to ask her to speak.] Darling?
Penelope.
Well, the first thing is that I simply dote upon Dickie. I’ve never loved any one else, and I never shall.
Beadsworth.
That’s a very satisfactory confession after four years of matrimony.
Penelope.
Five years, three months, and two days. And every day I’ve loved Dickie more.
Beadsworth.
I’ve never seen a more devoted couple.
Penelope.
We’ve never had a quarrel. We’ve never even been cross with one another. It’s been a honeymoon that’s never come to an end.
Mrs. Golightly.
Well?
Penelope.
And now I’ve discovered that he’s been lying to me for the last month. He’s been coming home dreadfully late, and when I’ve asked him where he’s been, he’s said that he had to see a patient who was very ill — such an interesting case — and it worried him so much that he was obliged to go to his club and have a rubber to settle his nerves. And the interesting case and the rubber of bridge are Ada Fergusson.
Barlow.
[Pompously.] But who is Ada Fergusson? I’ve never heard of her.
Penelope.
Ada Fergusson’s a great friend of mine. And I hate her. I always knew she was a cat. For the last four weeks Dickie’s been spending every afternoon with her from four till seven.
Golightly.
[Raising his eyebrows.] But do you always ask your husband where he’s been when he comes in?
Penelope.
[Impatiently.] My dear papa, what has that got to do with it? We all know that you’re an old dear, and the greatest mathematician in the world, but you know nothing about life at all.
Golightly.
I apologise again.
Mrs. Golightly.
Give him a sheet of paper and a pencil, Penelope, and he’ll amuse himself by doing sums while we talk the matter out.
Penelope.
[Pushing writing materials over to him.] There you are, papa.
Beadsworth.
But how did you find out?
Penelope.
[Impatiently.] Oh, what does it matter how I found out! I’ve got all sorts of proofs.
Mrs. Golightly.
You could knock me down with a feather.
Golightly.
[With a smile.] My dear!
Barlow.
I am not in the least surprised.
Penelope.
Uncle Davenport!
Barlow.
I have expected it all along. You will remember, Isabel, that I was against the marriage from the beginning. I said, one doesn’t marry a doctor. One sometimes meets them in society when they’ve had their angles rubbed off a little and perhaps have been knighted, but one never meets their wives. We suppose they do marry, but they don’t marry any one we know. I may be old-fashioned, but I stick to my opinion that there are only three possible professions for a gentleman, the law, the army, and the church.
Penelope.
My dear Uncle Davenport, you’re talking nonsense.
Barlow.
[Huffily.] You ask me for my opinion, and I give it you. I regret that you should think it nonsense.
Beadsworth.
And what are you proposing to do now?
Penelope.
[With great determination.] I’m never going to live with Dickie again. As soon as I’ve seen him I shall leave this house for ever.
Beadsworth.
You’re proposing to have a few words with him?
Penelope.
Several. I’m going to tell him that I despise him, and that I hate him; I’m going to throw my wedding ring in his face, and then I shall sweep out of the room.
Beadsworth.
Have you really made up your mind that you won’t forgive him?
Penelope.
Nothing would induce me ever to speak to him again if it weren’t that I want to tell him exactly what I think of him.
Barlow.
Besides, you’ve got your family to think of. Of course you must leave him. You see, that is what I say, you’re not safe with people of no birth. I look upon all this as a blessing in disguise.
Beadsworth.
Do you wish to bri
ng an action for judicial separation?
Penelope.
My dear Mr. Beadsworth, what are you talking about! I’m going to divorce him. I’m going to make an awful scandal.
Beadsworth.
Well, I suppose we could arrange that at a pinch with the help of the newspapers. Has he ever been cruel to you?
Penelope.
Good heavens, no! That’s what makes me so angry. The last month he’s been more perfectly charming and delightful than ever. Oh, I wish I could do something really unpleasant to Ada Fergusson. Something with boiling oil in it.
Mrs. Golightly.
I am shocked, frankly shocked. I would never have thought that Dickie could be so wicked.
Barlow.
Family life in England is going to the dogs. That is the long and short of it.
[Suddenly Penelope catches sight of what Golightly has been diligently writing. She gives the paper a startled look and then turns round.
Penelope.
Mother, a dreadful thing has happened. Papa has suddenly become a drivelling lunatic.
Mrs. Golightly.
My dear, what are you saying?
Penelope.
He’s been adding two and two together all over that piece of paper, and he makes it five every time.
Mrs. Golightly.
Charles!
[Penelope hands the sheet to Barlow.
Penelope.
Look.
Barlow.
Two and two are five. Two and two are five.
[He passes it on to Beadsworth.
Beadsworth.
Two and two are five. Two and two are five.
Barlow.
I knew this would happen. I’ve been expecting it for years.
Mrs. Golightly.
Charles, pull yourself together.
Penelope.
Papa, you don’t really think that two and two are five?
Golightly.
On the contrary, I’m convinced that two and two are four.
Penelope.
Then why on earth have you made it five?
Golightly.
Do you know why you buy Pears’ soap?
Penelope.
I expect you’ve been working too hard, father dear. Why don’t you go and lie down for half an hour? And when Dickie comes in he’ll give you a tonic.
Golightly.
You buy Pears’ soap because you’re told on fifty thousand hoardings that it’s matchless for the complexion.
Penelope.
That’s not funny, papa, that’s silly.
Golightly.
You’ve only got to say a thing often enough, and all the world will believe it. And when the world believes it, it’s very hard to say if it’s true or not.
Penelope.
What has that got to do with two and two?
Golightly.
I thought if I wrote “two and two are five” often enough I might come to think it true.
Penelope.
But if you wrote it a million times it wouldn’t be any truer.
Golightly.
That is the conclusion I’m regretfully forced to.
Penelope.
Well?
Golightly.
The whole of life is merely a matter of adding two and two together and getting the right answer.
Barlow.
My dear Charles, if you’re going to discuss life I think there’s no need for me to stay. I’ve told you for twenty years that you’re a scholar and a recluse. I have lived in the world, and I’m a practical man. If Penelope wants to consult me, I am at her service; if not....
Penelope.
Hold your tongue, Uncle Davenport.
Barlow.
Really, Penelope.
Golightly.
During the last five years I’ve seen you adding two and two together and making them about seventy-nine.
Mrs. Golightly.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, Charles. Dickie’s behaviour is abominable, and there are no excuses for him. It’s a mere matter of common morality.
Golightly.
My dear, I have no objection to you talking common morality if you’ll let me talk common sense.
Mrs. Golightly.
My dear Charles, they’re the same thing.
Penelope.
If you think you can make me forgive Dickie by telling me that you were a wicked old thing yourself in your youth, I may as well tell you at once that it won’t wash.
Mrs. Golightly.
[Outraged.] What are you talking about, my dear?
Penelope.
Well, I’ve noticed that when a woman discovers that her husband has been unfaithful, her male relations invariably try to console her by telling her how shockingly they’ve treated their own wives.
Golightly.
My dear, I was going to confess nothing of the sort. I never confess.
Penelope.
Of course, if it were the other way about, and mamma had kicked over the traces a little....
Mrs. Golightly.
Darling, can you see me performing an acrobatic feat of that character?
Penelope.
Go on, papa.
Golightly.
I think you’ve treated Dickie shamefully.
Penelope.
[Astounded.] I?
Golightly.
If your mother had behaved to me as you’ve behaved to Dickie, I should certainly have taken to drink.
Penelope.
But I’ve been a perfect angel. I’ve simply worshipped the ground he walked on. I’ve loved him as no man was ever loved before.
Golightly.
No man could stand it.
Penelope.
Papa, what do you mean?
Golightly.
My dear, you’ve loved him morning, noon, and night. You’ve loved him when he talked, and you’ve loved him when he was silent. You’ve loved him walking, you’ve loved him eating, you’ve loved him sleeping. He’s never been able to escape from your love.
Penelope.
But I couldn’t help it.
Golightly.
You need not have shown it.
Penelope.
And do you mean to say that justifies him in philandering with Ada Fergusson?
Golightly.
It excuses him.
Penelope.
What beasts men must be!
Golightly.
No; but strange as it may seem to you, they’re human beings. When you were a child you doted on strawberry ices.
Penelope.
I dote on them still.
Golightly.
Would you like to eat strawberry ice for breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner every day for a month?
Penelope.
Good heavens! the thought fills me with horror.
Golightly.
Poor Dickie has lived on strawberry ice for five years. It’s been his only means of sustenance.
Penelope.
[With consternation.] Oh!
Golightly.
You’ve never let him go out without coming into the hall to put on his hat and kiss him good-bye; he’s never come into the house without you running down to help him off with his coat and kiss him welcome. When he sat down after breakfast in the morning to read his paper and smoke his pipe, I’ve seen you sit down on the arm of his chair and put your arm round his neck.
Barlow.
[Outraged.] Penelope!
Penelope.
Do you think it was very awful?
Barlow.
My dear child!
Penelope.
[To Beadsworth.] Did Mrs. Beadsworth never sit on the arm of your chair when you were smoking your pipe?
Beadsworth.
I must confess I’m thankful my wife occupied those moments in attending to her household duties.
Penelope.
You are a lot of horrid old things. I ask you to come here to sympathise with me, and you’re p
erfectly brutal to me.
Barlow.
My dear Penelope, there are limits.
Penelope.
Well, I don’t care; I’m going to divorce him.
Golightly.
Let’s do another little simple addition, shall we? Perhaps two and two will make four a second time.
Penelope.
I don’t know that I much like being a mathematician’s daughter.
Golightly.
Don’t you think, instead of divorcing your husband, it would be better to win back his affection?
Penelope.
I don’t want his affection.
Golightly.
[Smiling.] Are you sure you wouldn’t if you could get it?
[Penelope looks at her father for a moment, then goes up to him quickly.
Penelope.
[With tears in her voice.] Papa, d’you think I ever could win back his love? You say I’ve lost it through my own fault. Oh, I don’t know what to do without him. I’ve been so wretched since I knew. I’ve tried to put a cheerful face on it, but if you knew what I feel in my heart.... Oh, the brutes, why didn’t they hide it from me?
Barlow.
My dear Penelope, I expected you to have more spirit. He’s a person of no family. I should have thought you were well rid of him.
Penelope.
Uncle Davenport, if you say a word against him, I will immediately have an attack of hysterics.
Barlow.
What you expect your father to be able to tell you I can’t imagine.
Golightly.
[Smiling.] Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings, Davenport....
Barlow.
I shouldn’t have thought one could describe you as either. But, in any case, I can stay no longer.
Penelope.
Oh, no, don’t go yet, Uncle Davenport.
Barlow.
It appears that my advice is not wanted, and I promised to look in on dear Lady Hollington before dinner.
Penelope.
Do telephone to her that you can’t come. You’ll find a telephone in my sitting-room.
Barlow.
[Shrugging his shoulders.] I’m too indulgent. People don’t rate me at my proper value.
[He goes out.
Penelope.
Papa, say you’ll get Dickie back for me. I want him. I want him.
Golightly.
My dear, it’s very simple. It merely requires a great deal of tact, a great deal of courage, and a great deal of self-control.
Penelope.
[Ironically.] Nothing else?
Golightly.
A good deal. You must never let yourself out of hand; you must keep guard on your tongue and your eyes and your smiles — and your temper.
Penelope.
I think you said it was very simple.
Golightly.
Is Ada Fergusson pretty?